And so we sat at Babalwa’s pine kitchen table and talked about nothing. About Joburg and PE and work and advertising and call centres and lovers and salaries and mothers and jealous aunts – our stories overlapping hopelessly, both of us embellishing to ensure we travelled as far away as possible, for as long as possible.
Babalwa Busuku was born and raised in PE, on the southern edge of the New Brighton township, into the same compressed poverty as everyone else. Her mother was a maid/manager at a B&B on the beachfront, her father a shop steward at the Volkswagen plant. Her grandmother worked as a maid for the headmistress of Erica Girls Primary School. ‘I got to go to Erica for primary, hence the accent, the coconut vibe and the call-centre gig,’ she offered sarcastically. ‘Of course, Gogo got too old to clean just before I hit high school and the head lady moved to Cape Town so back I went – ekasi.’
The call centre was her third job after school, her university applications terminated by money. And the rest, as she told it, was typical. Too many responsibilities, not enough money. So many dreams, not enough hours in the day to add them up.
She was sparing, letting each sentence out carefully, but the words flew free once released. I thought suddenly of Angie and her verbal violence, the way her words attacked a room, any room. I thought also of the agency people, the theatricality with which they delivered the simplest sentences.
Humility, I thought. Maybe that was all it was. Nonetheless, it made her pretty. Her face shone from the inside, a glimmer rising from below the surface. The fuck against the grill rushed sneakily across the my brain, the urgency of her fingers on the elastic of my boxer shorts.
She stopped.
‘You can’t keep looking at me like that, please. You’re scaring me.’
‘Jesus.’ I jumped a little in my chair. ‘Fuck. Sorry. I can imagine. You’ve got a strange-smelling gorilla in your kitchen giving you the eye. Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. Listen, should we get out of here? What’s the friendly city of PE got to offer?’
She deflated at my apology and I realised just how wound up she had been. ‘Um, shit, I don’t know. I mean… we can do anything we want. Anything. That’s what’s so horrible.’ Tears flowed down her face. She held her hands in her lap, her gnawed fingers flipping the splinter of wood over and over.
‘Excellent!’ I said, a few of my own tears also making a break. ‘Goddam. You just don’t know how great it is to see someone else’s pain.’ I grabbed her hand and pulled her from the table. ‘Let’s go to the beach.’
We drove down to the beach in the van and I was suddenly very aware of the chaos that reigned inside my vehicle. The shotguns piled up in the back, the stench of sweat and lingering piss and petrol, the hosepipe curled like a snake, the scattered Simba packets and baked bean cans.
‘Seriously, Roy. When we get back I’m gonna run you a proper bath. For shiza. Then we need to clean this pit or trade it out for something else. It’s disgusting. You’ve let yourself go.’ Babalwa clipped her seat belt in and glared at me. ‘You stink. Sies.’
She directed us down to Kings Beach in embarrassed silence. Ours was the only car in the parking lot. ‘Only car here,’ I offered pointlessly.
‘Race you!’ Babalwa leaped from the cesspit and ran down the footpath to the beach, disappearing over a small dune. I ran after her to see her pulling her clothes off at the shoreline and jumping into the waves in underwear she must have snuck on at some stage.
The water was flat. Tiny waves rolled in and released themselves humbly onto the shoreline. The beach was about three-quarters of a kilometre wide, sandwiched between a small harbour wall, where the loading cranes hung limp in the evening breeze, and the entertainment zone, where the fast-food outlets sat waiting. After my swim I lay wet in the sand, watching Babalwa bodysurf. I thought of a hot bath while I pondered the girl in the waves, already an inscrutable force in my life.
‘Look,’ she said, eventually flopping down on the sand next to me. ‘It’s too much. I’m gonna help you run a bath and then you and I are going to retire to our corners. May I suggest, before your bath, you find a mattress or something to sleep on. I need space. I haven’t spoken to a human being for over a month.’
She was gone when I woke on the minuscule lounge couch the next morning. There was a note on the kitchen table.
Roy
Gone for a walk. See you later.
Tea and long-life in the cupboard.
The rest is up to you.
Me
I made myself a cup on the tiny back stoep and eventually found the bread bin tucked away in the far corner of the kitchen, under a shelf with four mugs dangling off it. I carved two slices off the crumpled home-made loaf, which was surprisingly fresh, given its almost total lack of form. I opened the unplugged fridge in instinctive hope, looking for butter or some such. Inside there was simply a collection of durables. A blizzard of jams from Jenny’s Farm Stall, Bovril, Marmite and then spreads and spices. Oregano. Mixed herbs. Woolworths spicy dessert crumble. An open carton of long-life milk. I considered the Bovril, decided against it, and went out onto the front porch to eat my dry bread and drink my tea.
The morning cast a benevolent light. I could see why Babalwa the child had fallen so heavily for this particular cottage. The sheer drop down into the city on the left created a panoramic view of the bay, a view of the world really. The blue world. The sea air was fresh and clean, light ripples of wind creating a salty texture on the tongue. Directly across from the porch was the Donkin Reserve, a chunk of lawn, maybe a hundred square metres, with a large triangular monument and what looked like a small white lighthouse perched off to the right.
I sat on a small, rickety fold-out chair on the porch – a chair I was pretty sure wasn’t there the day before. Had she put it out for me?
The bread was good, peppered with herbs and fresh spices. I sipped the tea and wished that long-life milk tasted less like a school camping trip.
The reserve lawn was scrappy, scattered palm trees holding their form against thick, rising clusters of harsh Eastern Cape grass. Soon, I thought, the grass would win.
Babalwa’s head appeared to the left, rising quickly up the slope.
‘You found the bread. Good.’
‘Ja, morning, thanks.’ I raised my tea mug in mock salute.
She was wearing white shorts, a white Castle Lager T-shirt and slip-slops. She leaned carefully against the white picket fence.
‘Look, sorry, I’ve been thinking and there are a few things I need to clear up.’ Her eyes were fiery.
‘Sure. Shoot.’
‘First, what happened yesterday.’
‘What, on the van?’
‘Yes, that.’ Her eyebrows arched. ‘What you—’
‘Ay, no, you mean what we—’
‘Oh fuck, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine. The situation and everything. All I’m saying is, it won’t happen again. Please. Just stay away from me physically. Try not to touch me. I mean, not touching, eish, not that kind of touching. You know what I mean. Yes?’
‘Well, fuck. I mean, Jesus. It takes two to—’
‘Oh please. It takes one. It takes you.’
‘OK. OK.’ I fell into the furthest corner of my chair and raised defensive palms. ‘I stay away. Totally away.’
‘Thanks.’ Babalwa folded her arms, looking ludicrously serious in her cricket clothes. ‘The other thing is, I would appreciate it if you moved in next door. Made a place of your own and all that. I would… I would just feel easier. You know?’