Dog Eat Dog. Niq Mhlongo

a judge in a court of law, Dr Winterburn turned and faced me. “And why did you refuse to follow those procedural orders?”

      “Dr Winterburn, I know all about the procedures here.” I paused. “For me to make an appointment to see you in this office all I need to do is sign a form which is inside those files.” I paused again and pointed at the files, which had been picked up off the floor by one of the security guards. “And not to stand in the queue with the other students.”

      I paused and looked at Dr Winterburn. She was nodding in agreement.

      “I was coming to do just that when these two ladies here tried to embarrass me in front of all these students. This one even took the piss out of me by asking me what I was doing at university if I could not read the signs.” I pointed at Rachel. “She said that without even greeting me properly, let alone asking me what I wanted like any civilised person would. That is not the way to treat people. They are here to help the students, not to insult us.”

      “He’s lying. Ask the officers. He’s the one who swore in this office!” shouted Rachel.

      None of the security officers came to her rescue. Maybe they were siding with their black brother.

      Rachel was breathing hard and her eyes were beginning to mist over with tears. Dr Winterburn turned and faced the two officers who were leaning on the counter, listening to everything that was being said. “Gentlemen, I think I can handle this little misunderstanding on my own.”

      As soon as the two officers had left, Dr Winterburn invited Ms Steenkamp, Rachel, and myself into her office. She ushered us into the chairs and the three of us sat nervously in anticipation of her verdict, while secretly observing each other.

      “Sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Dr Winterburn said, trying to address me in a conciliatory tone.

      “I’m Dingamanzi Makhedama Njomane,” I answered.

      My two enemies remained anxious and silent.

      “Mr Njomane, as you might have heard I am the one in charge here.” She paused. “It’s against the policy of this institution as a whole to insult people, or rather to make people feel insulted. I take this opportunity to apologise to you on behalf of this office, and I hope my staff will do the same.”

      The breath whooshed out of me in disbelief. I did not expect the matter to be concluded with such simplicity. Both my enemies looked at Dr Winterburn in disbelief and tried to mask their disappointment by remaining silent. But with a look that no one was likely to disobey, Dr Winterburn turned to the two ladies to elicit their apologies.

      “I’m sorry if you took my words to imply what you thought. It was not my intention to insult you,” said Ms Steenkamp reluctantly.

      “I’m also sorry for the misunderstanding that happened between us. I hope you did not take it that bad. I did not mean what you imply,” muttered Rachel quickly.

      “Okay. Thank you. You two can leave us now,” ordered Dr Winterburn.

      I watched my enemies leave the office with glee. But I knew that a mammoth battle was still ahead of me.

      Without a word Dr Winterburn opened the top drawer in her desk and took out a diary. She hunched forward and removed her glasses, pushed her long bushy red hair backwards with her right hand, and then began to page through the diary with her long fingers. Groping in the same drawer again, she took out a small brown bottle, from which she took two pills. She poured a glass of water from a carafe on the table, put the pills in her mouth and swallowed them with some water.

      For about a minute Dr Winterburn scrawled something in her diary. I became mesmerised by the trick that age had played on her once fresh flesh. Although her body showed that she was still young, her face revealed wrinkles that were the result of the unstoppable wheel of time. I started to wonder if she still dated at her age. In my perverted thoughts I began asking myself if she enjoyed spreading her legs for ambitious gigolos to dance between. Looking at the thick make-up on her face, I concluded that she was that type who would share her nakedness with young white men, under the illusion that their pace between her thighs would keep her forever young.

      I didn’t notice that Dr Winterburn had finished scrawling in her diary. I was stroking my chin in deep erotic thought when she closed it and spoke to me.

      “Okay, Mr Njomane, what is it that you came to see me about?”

      “About the status of my bursary application.”

      “Do you have your student card with you?” she asked as she reset her PC.

      I reached for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans, took out the card and gave it to her. She typed something into her PC and drew back, waiting for the information to appear. By that time I had begun to sweat. Dr Winterburn leaned forward and folded her arms. She exhaled heavily and leaned backwards again.

      “I thought that you already knew the outcome of your appeal, Mr Njomane. I wrote to you early last week. Haven’t you received my letter yet?”

      “Yes, I received your letter, but the grounds on which I was refused the bursary are Greek to me. I came here to make an appointment to talk to you about it.”

      “What do you mean?” she asked, her face flushing with astonishment. “Are you here to tell us what to do and what not to do?” She looked at me and hunched forward again as if she was talking to a deaf person. “Look here, Mr Njomane; in this office we have our own criteria for selecting students for bursaries. Remember we would love to sponsor everyone who asks for help, but we are circumscribed by the funds we have at our disposal. There are quite a number of students whose situation is really pathetic and we have decided that in your case at least it is not that bad.”

      Dr Winterburn hunched forward again and looked at me. She balanced her elbows on the table. I did not say a word.

      “What I suggest you do is to apply for outside donors. You can get a list of addresses from Rachel, our secretary.”

      I bit my lip in disappointment. “To begin with, Dr Winterburn, I came here to understand what you actually mean by saying that my situation is not that bad. It seems that you people in this office have got the wrong end of the stick about my situation and –”

      “What’s your point, Mr Njomane?” she interrupted.

      “My point is this. I got an exemption two years ago and I have been sitting at home since then waiting for the opportunity to study at this institution. I applied to the Faculty of Arts and got admitted to do my BA. It’s my wish that this office grant me a bursary so that I can study, graduate, get a better job and assist my poverty-stricken family. My father has passed away and my mother is a pensioner and single-handedly supports nine members of our family. There’s nowhere I can go for help except this office.”

      I took out my brown envelope. It contained my father’s death certificate and my mother’s pension slip as well as the three affidavits.

      “This is the second time that I have submitted this evidence and I wonder if the committee took any notice of it when it reached its decision,” I added as I pushed the documents towards her.

      Dr Winterburn took the documents and a pause followed as she pretended to be studying them closely.

      “That affidavit shows that twelve family members live crammed into a four-roomed matchbox house in Soweto.”

      She started looking for something in the bottom drawer. Her other hand was rubbing at the corners of her bloodshot eyes. I knew she was looking for her glasses. From where I was sitting I could see them; they were buried under an avalanche of documents that were lying on her desk, including some of my own. She found them without too much effort, put them on and began to study my documents.

      “Mmm, so how does your family survive on your mother’s three hundred and fifty rand pension?” she asked, pushing my documents away.

      “It’s really difficult. Our electricity and water have been cut off because the bills have not been paid for the past