Noria learnt the skills of brewing from the old woman. Even though her mother had been an expert brewer, Noria had never been taught the art at home. Her mother had never made her work. She, according to Xesibe, treated her daughter like an egg that would break. But in the city she worked hard. Some people from the village said that the old woman worked her like a slave. Right up until the time that she set up her own shack after the death of the old lady, she was not paid a penny, but was given food and a place to sleep instead.
Most of the people who came to drink at the old woman’s shebeen were from the village. From them Noria learnt that Napu had come to the city with Vutha. As soon as her hopes were raised that at last she was going to see her son again, they looked at her with eyes that were full of pity. ‘Don’t you know, poor child, of the things that happened? Your son does not live anymore.’ Immediately these fateful words were uttered, Noria wailed in a voice that pierced the hearts of the drinkers. The old woman was angry with them for revealing the sad news in such a tactless manner. ‘Why do you think I kept quiet about it all the time? It was because I wanted to tell her myself when the time was ripe.’ The drinkers apologised, explaining that they were not aware that Noria was in the dark about her son’s death.
Noria learnt that Napu came to the city with Vutha. But they stayed away from everyone from the village. The home-boys and homegirls heard that Vutha was crying for his mother every day. Noria, they gossiped, had deserted her family, leaving the poor man to raise the child alone. Napu had no job, and would spend the whole day begging for money from passers-by in the city. He would sit with Vutha at a street corner, and people would throw coins into a small can that Vutha held. Most people gave money because they pitied the little boy in rags, who was pitch black with the layers and layers of filth that had accumulated on his body. Napu knew that if he went on a begging spree with Vutha, he would get a lot of money.
However, he did not spend any of this money on Vutha. When he got home — he had established a rough cardboard shelter under a lonely bridge on a disused road outside the city — he chained Vutha to a pole, and went off drinking. He went all the way to those shanty towns where he knew people from his village did not live, and crawled from shebeen to shebeen drinking, until the money was finished. Vutha would cry for Noria and for food. But Napu would only go back to unchain him and take him to the city for more begging. The only time they had anything to eat was when some kindly people would give them scraps of food, instead of money.
One day Napu had scored a lot of money from begging. As usual, he chained Vutha to the pole under the bridge and went drinking. He was gone for many days, and forgot all about the boy. During all this time he remained in a drunken stupor, and when fellow-drinkers asked where his son was, he said he had forgotten where he had left him. The shebeen queens laughed.
‘How can you forget where you have left your child?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t have time for children. His mother will take care of him.’
‘Which mother, now? Didn’t you tell us that your wife died in a flood, leaving you to take care of the boy alone?’
‘It’s not my business. His mother will take care of him.’
The shebeen queens laughed again. They knew that the boy didn’t have a mother. But they praised themselves for brewing beer that was so potent that it made Napu delirious about a wife who did not exist.
When Napu finally returned to the bridge, it was to a horrific sight. Vutha was dead, and scavenging dogs were fighting over his corpse. They had already eaten more than half of it. Napu bolted away screaming, ‘They have killed my son! They have killed my son!’
He ran for many miles, without even stopping to catch his breath. He did not know where he was going. He kept on repeating that they had killed his son, and he was going to chase them until he caught them. He was going to kill them and feed them to the dogs as they had done to his son. He had taken his son away, he howled, to get even with cruel Noria. But she and her wicked mother had now murdered the poor boy. People gave way hastily as he approached. He ran until he reached the big storage dam that was part of the sewerage works of the city. He dived into the dam, and drowned.
There is a long silence after Noria has told this dreadful tale. They sit lost in sad thoughts, but Noria’s eyes remain dry. Toloki remembers something from earlier days.
‘You know, Noria. I used to see a dirty beggar with a small child. It was when I had just started my business grilling meat in the city. I did not know they were your husband and your son.’
‘I cannot speak about my troubles any longer. Did you hear about Shadrack?’
‘No.’
‘He is in hospital.’
‘What is he doing there?’
‘I heard he was injured by the police. He is in a very serious condition. We must go and see him this afternoon.’
7
Shadrack lies on a hospital bed. There are all sorts of tubes and other contraptions jutting out of his body. He is also on a drip. Noria and Toloki stand beside the bed. He opens his eyes, and smiles wanly at them. They greet him, and tell him that they have come to see how he is doing. They have brought him some oranges and apples, since you do not go to a hospital to see a sick person without taking him or her something to eat. He thanks Noria for her kindness, but tells her that unfortunately he cannot eat any solid food. His body gets all its nourishment from the drip. He suggests, however, that they give the fruit to the old man in a neighbouring bed.
Toloki cannot help noticing that not once does Shadrack look at him. All the time he addresses himself to Noria. It is as if Toloki does not exist.
The ward is overcrowded. There are twenty beds packed into a small room, which is really meant to take only ten or so beds. Some patients are sleeping on thin mattresses under the beds. Most of those sleeping in the beds are strapped to contraptions like Shadrack’s. Those who are sleeping under the beds have their legs and arms in plaster casts. All these people are casualties of the war that is raging in the land. Those who are fortunate enough to have some movement left hobble around on crutches. They silently curse the war-lords, the police and the army, or even the various political organizations, depending on whom they view as responsible for their fate. The smell of infection and methylated spirits chokes them, and leaves much of their anger unarticulated.
‘What happened, Bhut’Shaddy?’
‘The boers got me, Noria. They almost killed me.’
Shadrack tells them that he was ranking in his taxi last night when he was assaulted by three white men who were driving a police van. They wore khaki uniform with insignia and carried the flag of a well-known right-wing supremacist organization. This confirmed what people always said, that the right-wing supremacists have strong links with the police. The government has always denied this.
Shadrack’s ordeal began when he received a message to pick up some passengers at the railway station, minutes before midnight. At the pick-up point, he parked his kombi next to the kerb, and waited. Soon after that, a police van pulled up next to him, blocking his way. The three men climbed out and rushed to his door. They jerked it open, showed him their flag, and aggressively asked if he knew what it was. He told them he was not interested. They then attacked him.