Poor boys — she signalled a hand and went back into the kitchen; didn’t want strangers drinking out of one of Jabu’s good glasses, filled a plastic mug and hurried, slopping water a little, to the gate. As she handed the mug between bars it was dashed from her hand, the key chain dragged from her wrist tearing the skin over knuckles and twisting fingers. Panic knows no pace. At once, the two men were in the yard, she screamed and a fist was half in her mouth, she gagged and was thrust arms pinned behind her back, to the kitchen door, thrown into the house. — Where they keep the money, the guns — One was pushing her into the passage, a smooth strong young arm tight round her neck against the chin, the other man legs wide prancing backward—Checha wena!
You know! Money and guns! — She struggled her head free, gasping a shout — Don’t know! How can I see they put… — There was a hefty canvas boot tramping on her belly, she was screaming and suddenly saw the youth’s face as it came up in the moment before he hit her — I can be your grandmother!—
As it was still too cold for the pool to keep him on form one of the Dolphins working out on his bicycle and making for home in half-dark after completing four kilo metres he’d set himself, heard screams coming from the direction of Steve’s house. The Suburb’s not a squatter settlement or sleazy Hillbrow where domestic quarrels and gang rivalries mean this is normal; but sometimes the children of these straight comrades play games that raise alarms. Once home, he thought he better call the Steve and Jabu house anyway, to see if all was well. When the phone rang and rang, not picked up, he hitched the mountain bike out of its stand again, thought he’d go round. No one came when he shouted at the front gate against the screams and gabble for help coming from the house, the back gate was open and light was a path from the open kitchen door. Kitchen empty. In what must be Steve and Jabu’s bedroom the woman who’s some sort of relative of Jabu lay sobbing and calling, tied up, in the midst of wardrobe doors gaping, desk drawers spilled to the floor, a dressing table with mirrors pushed wildly away, reflecting make-up, purses, a rifling search, bedside tables overturned — that’s where there’d be a gun…
The Dolphins were wonderfully efficient; more than could be expected even of comrade neighbours. They summoned police and watchfully accompanied them in the search of the house — these days some of them might be light-fingered — helped hysterical Wethu with her statement, made coherent her familiarity with what she could tell had been taken, the widescreen she had been enjoying, the machines — didn’t know what a word-processor, fax, photocopier, were called — all was gone along with clothes, DVD player. Cut loose of her bonds she went frantically from room to room taking stock — even Sindi’s TV shame, shame, they should be ashamed of themselves — She had Steve or was it Jabu’s cell number but for some reason it made no connection, Wethu knew they’d gone to look at animals but didn’t remember the name of the place. The comrades from the Gereformeerde Kerk transformed in the time of the country’s freedom and their genders also, took Wethu home with them for the night, calmed and cared for her. As if she had been their grandmother.
Steve, Jabu, Sindiswa and Gary Elias arrived back in the Suburb on Monday afternoon of the weekend apart.
That was what was happening while we were reconciling with Africa in the bush. He doesn’t say it. As if it could be heard as some contribution to justification for the approach of November.
The house: it was not there. He was seeing it, deserted, displaced. She is with Sindi and Gary Elias at the Dolphins’ being cared for in shock along with Wethu.
The house.
Things were gone — material things, don’t matter: order is gone. In advance. What’s been taken? Perhaps that’s relief, fewer things, less stuff to be packed up with what’s stacked already.
Jabu took Wethu for an extensive examination at the family doctor. She was badly bruised, trampled purplish the brown pigment of her flesh, fortunately no ribs cracked or vertebrae damaged. While describing over and over under the doctor’s attention to her body, what the attackers had done to her she included or perhaps his hands released recollection — one of the men was someone among the out-of-work she’d seen often hanging about the garage where she’d come to know a petrol-pump attendant, he gave them odd jobs in return for some bread or a couple of cigarettes.
This alerted Jabu professionally, away from the guilt she was struggling with, in herself acknowledging to Baba that she had left helpless Wethu alone in the city climate of savage lawlessness in which — yes, there’s no racism, Wethu’s black as you are while you kick and hit her.
Jabu stops Wethu’s monologue. — You are sure. You’d recognise him? We’ll go to that garage and you’ll point him out. Show me. If you are sure, quite sure. — There’ll be a warrant for his arrest. Grounds for bodily harm as well as house-breaking, robbery. — To the doctor, fellow professional — I need a detailed report on her condition as result of the attack on a woman her age, physical and psychological.—
— Yes, blood pressure’s high, that could be stress. I suppose you don’t know what her level was, before — at her age…blood pressure problems quite common.—
Wethu is weaving her head as if being accused of the crime of age. And Jabu as if deftly discarding a piece of evidence likely to be negative. — I don’t think back home she will have had blood pressure check-ups…—
Several visits to the petrol station with Wethu bring no possibility of arrest, of finding the attacker among the people-within-the-people, potential burglars and hijackers, street muggers. The young man whose face was recognised as he hit her was not to be seen. Eish, she was sure, Wethu was sure. She talked with her petrol attendant friend, they exchanged description of eyes, dreadlocks, scars, nose and ears; the man was no longer among the layabouts at the filling station. Did he, streetwise, know she might remember him? And the other attendants didn’t want to be connected with any trouble, have the police questioning them, a presence alarming to clients — where the police are there’s suspicion that crime is a risk to your person and your car — better drive on and fill up somewhere else.
Sindiswa has moved Wethu into the house: her room. Sindi did not ask permission. With Gary Elias’s help simply carried Wethu’s bed from the outhouse cottage while Steve and Jabu were at the Dolphins’ in one of their many needs to thank them for what there were no adequate thanks. The move was discovered only when already accomplished.
The daughter gave the order.
— She can’t live there alone in the yard any more. — Sindi has a dependency of attachment to the member of Baba’s extended family she doesn’t have to — whom? Her mother, her father? She is a member of the extended KwaZulu family now.
It’s something unexpected; to be understood. Sindiswa’s in a way more affected than Wethu herself. Whenever they can be alone, away from the laboratory, the Centre, Gary Elias — Wethu — Sindi — they must try to reason about this. Sindiswa’s disturbed by everything that’s happening — it’s not only the awful travesty of Wethu, the Wethu she loves — at that school (it’s what we wanted for her) the seniors are made aware, they’re kept informed, there’s no privileged shelter from facts that there are schools without electric light or desks, no libraries or laboratories, the kids live in cardboard and tin shacks, this winter a candle or paraffin lamp fell and children were burned, died…And what about us? We adults, we’re always talking strikes, the rights of workers — some of the kids on scholarships at her school come from slum townships, the father isn’t paid enough to provide decent food, back in their homes.