Thirteen Cents. K. Sello Duiker

alone, they get all the choice parking spots in the centre of town. It’s like that. I don’t ask questions.

      I help people park cars and wash them if the owners let me. If you wash their car before you ask them most times they just swear at you because you’re a laaitie and they are big. You see it’s like that. That’s how it works here. You must always act like a grown-up. You must speak like them. That means when you speak to a grown-up in town you must look at them in the eyes and use a loud voice because if you speak softly they will swear at you. You must also be clean because grown-ups are always clean. And you must never talk to them like you talk to a laaitie. Like I can’t talk to them the way I talk to Bafana. I must always say “Sir” or “Madam”. It’s like saying “Magents” except it’s for grown-ups. And when I can remember I say “please” and “thank you”. Those two words are like magic, my secret. They’ve made me nice money every time I used them with a smile.

      I work near a takeaway shop called Subway. On a good day I can make enough money to buy half a loaf of white bread with chips and Coke and still have two rands left over to buy a stop from Liesel who stays under the bridge.

      She’s the only grown-up I trust because she asks me for money and always pays me back a week later. I also like her because she let me see how a woman looks like naked. She doesn’t tell lies, Liesel, not like the other people who stay under the bridge. All the skollies, gangsters and drunks with phuza-face also stay there.

      Poor Liesel. I know what she does to make money. It’s not easy. That’s why I never ask her about it. And when she has a bruise or a cut under her lip I don’t say anything. I just pretend that things are like always, the same. We talk about kwaito and whether the Rasta who brings her stop will get good stuff like Malawi gold or Mpondo and we talk about other things. I like her a lot but she’s not my cherrie. She’s got her own outie. I don’t like him much. He’s a member of the Hard Livings gang.

      2

      Morning creeps in slowly. Bafana sleeps curled in a half-moon beside me. I get up to take a pee. I rub my eyes and let out a yawn as I piss. We sleep at the far corner of the beach. Above us is the swimming pool. It is too early for the public toilets to be open so I go a little further up the beach and do my business near a drain. Deep orange clouds cover the sky. Seagulls fly by and cry.

      “Bafana, son, get up, we need to get breakfast.” I poke him. “Bafana . . . Bafana.”

      I go on like this for about five minutes before he gets up.

      “Wena, you must stop taking those stupid drugs. They are fucking you up. Look at you, you can’t even get up. You’re lucky it’s me. Somebody will think you’re dead.”

      He moans and looks at me with a skew face.

      “I’m hungry,” he mumbles.

      “Ja, shuddup, you know what you have to do.”

      “Wena, and your stupid rules.”

      I slap the back of his head and he clicks his tongue at me.

      “The sun is already out, hurry up. I’m also hungry.”

      We take off our clothes and go towards the water only dressed in our shorts.

      “Don’t make me drag you in there, son, we go through this every morning.”

      “Yessus! Who said I have to wash every day?”

      “Hey voetsek! Don’t give me shit. You know my rules. If you want to stay with me you have to wash. Now fuck off,” I say and push him into the water.

      He shrieks.

      “Thula, man. People are still sleeping. This isn’t town.”

      I only go in up to my ankles and watch him scrubbing with a cloth.

      “Do it properly,” I warn him.

      “Eish maar, wena.”

      After a while I let him go out and rinse off at the tap. He sits on a rock and dries off in the sun while I bathe. I think about all the things I plan to do today while I wash. My eyes sting from the salt water.

      After washing we get dressed and go up Main Road. I know a woman who works at a restaurant called La Perla. She usually leaves leftovers for us near a bush. I’m the only one who gets the food because I don’t trust Bafana. He’s still a laaitie and sometimes he gets desperate when he’s on his stupid drugs. I’ve worked too hard to see someone mess up a regular meal for me. She’s nice, the auntie who gets the food for me. Her name is Joyce but she likes me to call her Auntie. She says I remind her of her son in Lichtenburg. Anyway, in exchange for the meal she sends me to the shop to do her small groceries. Or sometimes she sends me to the Post Office or she gives me money to buy her Die Burger. There’s nothing for mahala with grown-ups. You always have to do something in return. But I don’t mind because Joyce is nice.

      We sit on a balcony overlooking the pool and eat. Joyce always packs the food into those McDonald’s plastic things and gives us spoons. We watch the morning swimmers do their lengths. As always the pool is a clear blue-sky colour. I love to swim and I’m dying to swim in that pool. But six bucks is a lot of money and you have to have a towel.

      “We need to make some baksheesh today,” Bafana finally says after he’s had enough to eat.

      “Ja, ja. What do you plan on doing?”

      “But I thought we’re a team.”

      “Voetsek! Don’t talk rubbish. You do this every day. When are you going to get it into your head that I’m not your mother? I’m only doing you a favour by letting you sleep by me. You know what would happen to you otherwise. You and your stupid drugs. Now you want me to work with you so you can buy your stupid drugs. You’re full of kak. Fuck off!” I push him and walk off towards the park and leave him to fend for himself.

      I’m not his father, I say to myself. That laaitie is getting under my armpit, under my soft spot. I mustn’t let that happen, I tell myself. I’ve seen too many kids die and disappear. There’s no point in getting too close. Just now he gets an overdose from his stupid drugs. And then what? Now I must walk around crying because this stupid boy who has a home ran away to kill himself with drugs. I’m not stupid, man. If he wants to do grown-up things then I must leave him. He wants to play with fire, let him.

      I walk towards a fountain near some toilets. Grown-ups are strange people. How can they put a fountain for drinking water outside a toilet? And I mean right outside the Men’s toilet. I drink some water and fill a plastic container, one of those fancy ones that sell fancy water. I wonder if that water tastes any different.

      I walk further along the beach till I come to the moffie part of the beach. I sit on a bench and wait for a trick. I sit a long while before I hear someone whistling. Soon I’m walking back with a white man to his flat. When we get inside the lift he tells me to take off my shoes. I know the routine. Once inside his flat he will expect me to strip off at the door. We go in and I begin to take off my clothes at the kitchen door.

      “What’s your name?” he asks as he stares at my nakedness.

      “Azure.”

      “Interesting name,” he says drawn by my blue eyes.

      I grin while he strokes my face. He leads me through the house and we make our way to the bathroom. The house is clean and warm. I walk carefully as though careless footsteps might disrupt the cleanliness. He takes off his clothes and his piel bounces in front. I shudder to look at it and wait for him to lead me into the shower. But I know his type, he probably just wants to play, nothing else.

      “Why are you so quiet?” he says while the water runs.

      “I’m just listening.”

      “To what?”

      “Your house. It’s so quiet.”

      “Oh that. Do you want me to put on some music?”

      “No, I like it like this. Please.”