Way Back Home. Niq Mhlongo

Engen garage and McDonald’s. The asphalt ahead of him shone, the headlights reflecting off the water on the road. The area exuded wealth and exclusivity during the day, but became something different at night because of the prostitutes. Kimathi watched with keen interest as his headlights picked up some women running towards the 14th Avenue bus shelter. He hungrily ogled one lady wearing a tiny dress as she tried to flag down a car coming from the opposite direction, savouring the shaking of her enormous behind.

      Oxford Road was the only street in the country where Kimathi got an erection every time he drove along it. Just reading the graffiti got him horny. Good Lord, she looks younger than the Glenfiddich single malt Scotch in my bar, he thought as the sight of the lady’s huge ass brought on an erection. He put his left hand inside his trousers and twiddled the short hairs around his pubic space.

      He was still admiring the lady’s assets when a car behind him hooted. Only then did Kimathi realise that the Bolton Road traffic lights were not working. As he drove slowly across the intersection, he saw what looked like an owl flying in front of him. It was as if the bird was guiding him home.

      On the side of the road just before Cotswold Street, some prostitutes waved at Kimathi. They were standing at the bus stop next to the Nelson Mandela Children’s Foundation building. Although he was a regular customer, Kimathi had told himself that he would fight the temptation to buy an hour of passion with one of them. The previous night’s encounter with the two policemen and Lakeisha was still fresh in his mind. However, from his many emergency visits to Oxford Road, he knew that there were women there to suit every taste. He’d had unforgettable hours of passion with Zimbabwean, Swazi and Tanzanian goddesses. Tonight, he chose to look only at the familiar graffiti on the white wall of a law firm near 3rd Avenue. He read the words to himself as if they were new to him:

      THE STREET OF 1000 WHORES

      and below it:

      WELCOME TO HORNYWOOD

      and:

      DRESSED TO FCUK

      As Kimathi crossed Riviera Road, there was a roar of thunder, and blinding lightning interrupted his fantasies. However, that did not stop him from synchronising his lips to Branford Marsalis’s saxophone.

      Immediately after joining the M1 South freeway, Kimathi heard a thump on the bonnet of the car. Thinking he had run something over, he reduced speed and was surprised and terrified to see a dead owl on the bonnet. Instinctively, he swerved the car over the yellow line, came to a stop and put on the hazard lights. His heart was pounding in his chest. Moments later the car’s headlamps brought a faceless, blurry figure into view. He could see the raindrops hitting the figure’s body and Kimathi watched as the figure looked up as if wondering why the rain was falling.

      As the figure approached the car, Kimathi thought it was an old woman because of what looked like a walking stick in its hand.

      Threads of lightning flashed across the sky as the figure knocked on the misted passenger window. Kimathi sat frozen inside the car, his lower lip quivering. Sud­denly there was complete darkness. Kimathi blinked for several seconds then tried to open his eyes as wide as possible to accustom them to the lack of light. As he did so, he heard the passenger door open and someone sat down on the seat beside him. The lights came on, and, to Kimathi’s utter astonishment, the owl flew off as if the lights had just resuscitated it. Slowly, the figure took off the white cloth that covered its head and part of its face. As it did this Kimathi noticed two owl feathers in its plaited hair and fear engulfed him. When he looked at the figure again he saw that it didn’t have a left eye. He fainted for a few seconds.

      When Kimathi opened his eyes, there was a beautiful young woman sitting next to him. She wore a tight pink T-shirt and blue jeans that were completely dry, as if she hadn’t been out in the rain. Although his hands were shaking, her beauty immediately dispelled Kimathi’s fear. He smiled. Maybe I’m just drunk, he thought to himself as he read the inscription on her T-shirt: MR CHICKEN: GORGEOUS THIGHS & THICK JUICY BREASTS. The air in the car was suddenly laced with an expensive perfume. He was familiar with the smell – Anele’s favourite, Lancôme Trésor Midnight Rose, he thought.

      “Why are you . . .?” He didn’t finish his sentence. “Sorry, never mind. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink and was imagining things.”

      The woman smiled, but let the moment pass without responding to him. It was as if she had looked into his heart and read what was written on it – fear. Kima­thi rubbed his eyes to drive out the intoxication running riot in his brain. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t taken his medication. While the woman watched him, he opened the cooler in the armrest and took out a Red Bull. Then he took three pills from a side pocket in the door and popped them into his mouth. He washed them down with the Red Bull and belched loudly.

      “Eish! You gave me a hell of a fright,” he said, speaking like a man who had just bounced back from the brink of a nervous breakdown. “I thought I was witnessing a true vision of the apocalypse, the real Armageddon.”

      “Sorry,” the woman said in a smooth voice.

      “Where is a beautiful lady like you going in this rain and thunder? Or are you Indira the goddess of thunder and rain herself?”

      “I’m on my way back home.”

      “Way back home?” There was surprise in Kimathi’s voice. “Where are you coming from, beautiful lady?”

      “Work.”

      “Work?” he repeated, sounding irritated. “Show me that insensitive white bastard who is exploiting our black people at this time of our freedom by turning our hard-fought democracy into prison.”

      Without a word, the woman pointed at the small print on her pink T-shirt. It read Malusi Nyoka Business Initiative.

      “Oh, I see. Is Mr Nyoka your boss?”

      The woman nodded.

      “Mr Nyoka is a great man, isn’t he? I know him from exile,” Kimathi said in a more upbeat tone. “But why are you here on the freeway?”

      “My transport didn’t fetch me and I was hoping to get a lift home.”

      “Why are you not wet? I mean, you’ve been standing in the rain.”

      When she didn’t reply, Kimathi glanced uncomfortably at the dashboard clock. It was already seventeen minutes past midnight. He started the engine.

      “By the way, I’m Kimathi,” he said, giving her his hand to shake before withdrawing it quickly.

      “I’m Senami.”

      “So, were you planning to walk in the weather at this time of the night until you got a lift?” He paused and cleared his throat. “It’s not safe, you know that. Criminals will take advantage of you.”

      “Well, I was just trying my luck.”

      “Trying your luck?” he repeated. “Are you sure you’re not from Oxford Road?” Kimathi laughed at his own joke, but Senami didn’t join in. Embarrassed, Ki­ma­thi turned up the music to give himself time to recover from what he had just said.

      “Where do you live, Senami?” Kimathi said eventually, having recovered from his embarrassment.

      “Soweto. Protea North,” she answered without looking at him.

      “Do you like jazz?”

      “I don’t hate it.”

      “The guy that is playing here is called Branford Marsalis and the album is called The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born.” He paused, trying to choose his next words carefully. “You know, Senami, ever since my wife and I divorced I have told myself that there are no more beautiful ladies around. But today I’m thinking differently.”

      “What are you thinking?”

      “That if some women were not as beautiful as you are, then the world would not go round.”

      Kimathi opened the glove compartment and took out a box