His latrine is more of a gesture than a necessity. It’s a political project, I realize, and in reality a lot less functional than the toilets that insult him. The residents on his block have developed an efficient ecosystem with the Portaloos, and, when Bhut’ Vuyo leaves for Blouberg, I try one out for myself. The formaldehyde has turned a brownish green, meaning it’s stopped neutralizing the odor, and it smells like the combined waste of eight households. I hold my breath as much as I can before I give up. It’s a public toilet, after all, I tell myself. I rub one of Bhut’ Vuyo’s papers soft between my knuckles and wipe myself. I’ve been told by the neighbors that my uncle’s family makes use of the toilets, too, and that he’s a fool for putting up that zinc wreck in his yard. I listen to this with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. Here, no one else seems to bother with gestures any more. Perhaps this counts for something, I think.
Later, we share a quart outside the container. They should be burned, Bhut’ Vuyo says.
Standing and facing Bhengu Street, the two of us wait for our turn with the water. I follow his gaze, tracing it to the blue and gray plastic toilets that line the narrow street. They’re built wide and tall, and from where I’m standing I can see the marks defacing one of them. Like Bhut’ Vuyo wants, someone has held a fire to it. This must’ve been a weak flame, however.
We aren’t wealthy people, Nathi, he says, you know that.
I nod that I do.
We cross the road to the communal tap, which stands on a concrete square in a barren field. Goalposts made from carved branches have been erected at each end, but no one has any interest in playing games in Du Noon any more. Bhut’ Vuyo lets the water run into a bucket and we go back to the house and pour Omo washing powder over our palms. When we sit back down and face the street again, another woman has taken her place at the tap. She fills a yellow enamel basin without handles. Two small children hang on her legs and she keeps kicking them away. They laugh at her scolding and run towards the goalposts. The water feels cool in the heat. Bhut’ Vuyo says the Sunlight soap is only used for washing our bodies. We scoop up more washing powder for our palms.
They should be burned, he repeats, before shifting on his crate. We aren’t wealthy, Nathi, but we aren’t prisoners, he says.
I dry my hands against my pants. It smells like a clothesline under my fingernails.
I know things can be worse, Bhut’ Vuyo says. In Khayelitsha? The toilets don’t have walls. This is a place a man’s wife must relieve herself. There, with men and children watching. He shakes his head and spits into the ground.
In town, Cissie once told us about an artist named Adrian Blackwell. He’d created a portable toilet with a one-way mirror and installed it on a pavement in Toronto and Ottawa. While the door of the cube was reflective on the outside, the person on the bowl could see out into the traffic. I guess Cissie would’ve called this the collective unconscious. Adrian Blackwell never gave any indication of having heard of Khayelitsha, but in his way, he’d recreated it. I doubt Bhut’ Vuyo would find any of this of interest, however, so I decide to terminate the thought.
I take a look around us instead.
Despite the temperament of our conversation, Du Noon is filled with warmth and sunshine today. It’s a Saturday, which means the routine is mild and the commute is halved. Taxis play loud house music as they wheel about, picking up passengers dressed in their best Saturday clothes. The women’s figures are fit snugly into white slim jeans and some of them have sprayed their weaves, making them gleam in the morning light. Their lips are painted red and sometimes hot pink, and a strong air of confidence radiates from them. They stroll towards a taxi if it doesn’t stop at their feet. One woman walks by wearing a pair of hoop earrings. Each circle glimmers in the sunlight.
I turn to Bhut’ Vuyo. I say, at least people are still alive, here.
I must sound bored or unconvinced, because Bhut’ Vuyo just laughs in response. The laugh itself sounds sparse and cold. I can’t trace humor in the eyes or enjoyment around the mouth. Thankfully, it passes quickly. He claps his hands together.
That’s not living, he says.
Then he looks at my face and smiles. My uncle pats the side of my leg. Tell me about your studies, he says. Tell me about life at the university. One day you’re going to change all of this, aren’t you? He lets out another laugh and his smile stays on his face for a long time. You and your whites, he says.
Sis’ Nosizi, Bhut’ Vuyo’s wife, is due to return to us in Du Noon on the Sunday, just a day after we finish up with the latrine, bringing the two younger children with her. In preparation for her arrival, we do what we can for the container. I put up more Daily Voice spreads on the walls, more shootings and tik dens, and replace the ones I wiped with and soaked in the pools of formaldehyde. For his part, Bhut’ Vuyo arrives back early from his work in Blouberg with two packs of beef shanks. He rips the plastic between his teeth and whistles as he rinses the meat in the water bucket. I cut a square of Holsum and watch it melt in the frying pan. The Primus stove is broken, parked outside by the crates, so we use a gas two-plate for our cooking. Bhut’ Vuyo busies himself with his specialty.
There is a reason I called you here, Nathi, he says to me.
I listen.
My wife, he says. You mustn’t be scared.
I nod. I’ve always known Sis’ Nosizi is a diviner. What she does for a living doesn’t intimidate me. I look forward to hearing her stories.
Then Bhut’ Vuyo changes his tone and licks his fingers. He whistles over the pan and reaches for the salt shaker. Pass me the stock, he tells me. You know nothing, my boy.
I pass it. We laugh and prepare just enough for us to eat.
When Sis’ Nosizi returns, she looks at me for a long time. Then she embraces me and tears find their way down both our necks.
My circumcision is discussed only once. We set a date for late December. It’s decided that I’ll go in with their eldest son, Luvuyo. He arrives in Du Noon a week early. I let him greet his parents and siblings for about an hour, and then we walk down to Magasela’s to buy a crate of quarts. We drink until we turn half-blind, and then we roar our way home. We’ll have a small ceremony, they’ve told us, and the next morning our hair is shaved off by our neighbor. Ta Kader lives in a blue container opposite Bhut’ Vuyo’s. He crosses the road with a bowl of water and a pack of Lion razor blades. Taking sips from a warm Black Label dumpy, he tells us jokes under the blinding sun.
We head out to Cape Town Station after that. Outside the bus terminal, Luvuyo and I prepare to board a coach heading to eMthatha. Bhut’ Vuyo has business in town, he tells us, looking out of place in front of the station’s modern blue signage. We had a moment to talk just before we left Du Noon. He asked me to pass his gratitude on to my family back home, and I said to him that I would. His family had worn too thin to carry Luvuyo through initiation, he explained, and I nodded to indicate my understanding of their circumstances.
Now I get ready to leave Cape Town. I think of my friends as Luvuyo and I board the beeping Intercape bus outside. I think about where Ruan and Cecelia could be on a day like today — a day in which I finally take my leave of this city. We never made it out to the Eastern Cape to grow khat in our idyll like we wanted to; but we still have many years left before the end of our paths. I board the bus before I get ensnared in the thought, finding an empty seat near the back. Then I shrug and wish the two of them the best.