On his way out, his tickertape blinks with a news update. A minister has been fired for having a secret swimming pool. The NANC is contrite and apologetic; they don’t know how this could have happened. They have hard lines for mouths and use words like ‘shocking,’ ‘unacceptable,’ ‘unconscionable,’ and say they will certainly press charges. The journalist reporting the story looks familiar: a young, uncommonly attractive woman in cornrows and a tank top; leather bottoms. Biker? A white lace tattoo covers her shoulder; she has kohl eyes and an attitude. Just his type.
He thinks of the swimming pool and remembers a sunblock-slathered childhood of running in the sprinklers, drinking from the hose, water fights with pistols and super-soakers. Having long showers and deep bubble baths. Flushing the toilet with drinking water. Chlorine-scented nostalgia: kidney-shaped pools, dive-bombing, playing Marco Polo. The feeling of lying on the hot brick paving to warm up goose-pimpled skin. Then one day they weren’t allowed to water the garden, then domestic pools were banned, then all pools were illegal, then, then, then. It had been so long, he’d do anything for a swim. For a tumble-turn in drinking water. How decadent that all seems to him now.
He shrugs off his lab-coat, replaces his eyebrow ring and snaps on a silver-spiked leather wrist cuff. He puts his black hoodie on, squeezes the gun in his pocket. Applies some Smudge to his eyes, ruffles his hair into bed-head and checks his appearance in the glass door on the way out. His mood starts climbing; he can feel the beginning of the slow-release high.
The Algaetrees detect his movement and flicker on. The back street smells like tar and trash. A rat scurries out in front of him, but he doesn’t flinch. He takes it as a good sign. He expects the drug to peak in 2 hours, maybe 3. Optimism in a bottle. He clicks his earbutton and all of a sudden his life has a soundtrack. He’s ready for a bright night.
Journal entry
3 March 1987
Westville
In the news: a guerrilla is shot dead by Gugulethu police after firing at them with an AK47.
What I’m listening to: The new Compact Disc (CD) of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ by the Beatles
What I’m reading: ‘Watchers’ by Dean R Koontz. It’s about two creatures that emerge from a secret government laboratory, one to spread love, the other doom.
What I’m watching: Nightmare on Elm Street 3. Totally gnarly. Usually I enjoy scary movies but I had to walk out of the cinema. Life is grisly enough.
I went in for my abortion (hate that word!) today. I felt so trapped and alone but it seemed like the only solution. I got up really early, I had to be at the ‘family planning clinic’ at 7 and after waiting for a while in a grubby room with two other girls with shame-flamed cheeks they gave me a depressing pink gown to change into. Had to take off all make-up and jewellery, even my new nail polish. There was a mirror in the fluorescent room and I just looked at my face and I was so pale and looked so terrible. I kept thinking ‘what have I become? What have I become?’
I am NOT the kind of person who sleeps with married men, and definitely not the kind of person who has an abortion! And once these things are done they can never be undone. I will be forever bruised. My soul will be dented. I was looking into that mirror thinking that I didn’t even recognise myself, and I just started crying. Weeping, really. That hyperventilating ugly-cry.
Shame, the nurse was so kind to me, she could see that I was really shaken up. She held my hand. Told me if I didn’t want the baby then I was doing the right thing. That the world doesn’t need another unwanted child. It would be best for everyone, if I was sure that I didn’t want it. It’s not that I don’t ‘want it’ I wanted to say to her. It’s that I can’t have it. Look at me, I may be 24 but I’m just a child myself.
So I was on the operating table after taking the pre-med and feeling totally woozy and my legs were in stirrups when something just happened, like a bolt of lightning. All of a sudden the abstract idea of pregnancy became a real idea of a little baby (a little baby!) instead of an ‘it,’ and the thought was there as clear as day that there was no way I could go through with the termination. Mine and P’s baby!! A little pink gurgly precious baby! The anxiety fell away (I blame the drugs) and revealed my true wish, even if it was clouded by conflicted emotions.
I felt so embarrassed telling the doctor but he didn’t mind. Usually I absolutely hate doctors but he was really nice: said it was better to be sure, and that I still had another 3 weeks to change my mind if I wanted to, said he’d take care of me. But I won’t. Something happened to me on that table and it totally wasn’t what I planned.
The nurse squeezed my arm and gave me her number in case I wanted to talk. I started crying again – something about the unexpected kindness of strangers in hard times. Also, the meds! I am going to have to tell P about the baby. I’m sure he will be angry and end things. I will probably have to find a new job, a new town. My parents will, like, never speak to me again! No duh. My life as I know it is over. Never felt so lonely before!
All that said I can’t help feeling a tiny jab of excitement (stress?) when I think of the baby. Eeeek! An actual baby. What was I thinking? I’m totally terrified.
Bon Jovi’s song is constantly playing on every radio and in my head. I’m living on a prayer!!
A BIG RED BLOOM OVER HIS HEART
4
Johannesburg, 2021
Kirsten gasps, clutches her chest.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘I’ve been called worse,’ says the dark figure. The overhead lights flicker back on.
‘The fuck are you doing here?’
‘Hai wena. Is that the way you would greet the son of God Almighty?’
‘As far as I know, the son of God doesn’t skulk in dark corridors with inflatable motorbike helmets.’
‘And how would you know, being the infidel that you are?’ asks Kekeletso, arms akimbo. ‘And, bless you, sista, still such a filthy mouth.’
She holds up a black bag. ‘Is it okay if I shoot up in your place?’
Kirsten leans forward and hugs her, smells nutmeg in her cornrows, and warm leather. She loves the way Keke dresses. She seems to pull off a look that is sexy, hardcore, and feminine, all at the same time. Kirsten always feels like a tomboy in her company, in her uniform of tee, denim and kicks. She swipes her card and opens the door.
While Keke is dosing herself with insulin in the lounge, Kirsten opens the door of her antique aqua Smeg and roots around for a couple of craft beers. The idea of needles makes her gril, so she’s never been able to watch Keke do it. Just hearing the beeping of Keke’s SugarApp on her superphone makes her shudder. There is the zip of the black bag (Squid Sable), which means she’s finished, and when Keke comes through to the kitchen her nano-ink tattoo is already fading. The white ink is sensitive to blood sugar: when Keke’s level is normal the tattoo is a faded grey; antique-looking. When she needs a shot it turns white, and the dramatic contrast with her dark skin quite unsettling.