After Tears. Niq Mhlongo

mabhebeza,” said Zero, grabbing his crotch, “we must get together soon.”

      “Go jack off,” said the lady and took another deep drag on her cigarette.

      The robots went green and the lady sped off again.

      By half past nine I was at the Housing Department’s offices in New-gate Centre. As I entered, I saw that the corridor was already full of people. The majority had come to register for the low-cost RDP houses that the government was building. There was no way I was going to stand in that queue, so I went straight to the door on which was written Transfer & Conveyances. I knocked loudly at the door, just once.

      “Come in,” said the voice of a woman inside.

      I opened the door gently and stepped into the office where two women were busy chatting. The moment I entered the office, the lady sitting behind the table started laughing at a joke her friend had made and I saw that her front tooth was slightly crossed over the one beside it. Her friend, who had slender, long-fingered hands, was holding a white mug of coffee.

      “Dumelang,” I greeted them in Sotho, as I had heard them speaking the language.

      “Dumela, abuti. How can we help you?” said the one with the crooked tooth.

      “I was wondering if you could help me by checking if a certain house in Chiawelo, Extension Two, in Soweto, belongs to one Mr Kuzwayo.”

      The long-fingered lady shook her head and lifted her coffee mug to her lips. She sipped her coffee as she eyed me sharply with the superiority that government office workers show to anybody who’s not from parliament.

      “What does the title deed say?” she asked, her voice betraying her lack of interest.

      “Well, it says it belongs to Mr Sbusiso Kuzwayo.”

      “Then what’s the problem?” asked the one with the crooked tooth.

      “I wanted to verify the details because my mother wants to sell it.”

      The woman with the crooked tooth rubbed the back of her one hand across her eyes.

      “Actually, we no longer deal with the transfers of deeds in this office. That stuff must be done privately by the lawyers,” her eyes implored me to understand, “so I suggest that you go to your lawyers.”

      The two ladies immediately returned their attention to their conversation as I walked out of the office. I don’t think they even heard me when I thanked them.

      As Zero had already returned to Soweto with another load of passengers, I decided to kill time by going to listen to a case at the Johannesburg Magistrate’s Court in West Street.

      I tiptoed into the back row of Court 5A. The magistrate was reading the indictment in which a lady, Maru Kgama, aged twenty-seven, was accused of having shoplifted some Lil-lets and perfume at one of the Clicks stores in the city centre. Next to the accused was her lawyer who was wearing a black gown and a bib on top of his white shirt. I listened with great curiosity and envy as Mr Charismatic Lawyer convinced the court with ease that it was in the interests of justice that his client did not remain in jail until the date of the trial.

      When I left the court about an hour later, my mind was occupied with the depressing thought that I had let my chance to become an advocate slip away.

      EIGHT

      Friday, December 3

      The next day I finished trimming the lawn just before midday. On the grass I put four two-litre plastic bottles, all filled with water. My uncle had suggested that if I did that the township dogs, including Verwoerd, would be too afraid to come and shit on our lawn at night. This was not some township myth, he insisted, it really worked. And I believed him.

      As I was busy doing this I saw the postman arrive on his bicycle. He stopped at our gateless driveway and handed me five letters. All of them looked like account letters – I could tell from their cellophane-windowed envelopes even before I opened them. Two of the letters were addressed to me and I immediately opened the one with the UCT stamp on it. Inside the envelope were my official results, which were confirmation of my provisional results. I had failed. The other letter was from the National Student Financial Aid Scheme, and it reminded me that I owed the government R56 000. They had been sponsoring my university studies for four years and now they wanted me to start repaying them. Together with the loan statement was a form that I had to fill in to let them know how much I was going to pay them and the addresses of where I was working and staying.