Affluenza. Niq Mhlongo

of you will be appearing before the magistrate in room four in about thirty minutes,” said Counsellor Dube. “I had thought that this was only about maintenance, but it is obviously more complex than that. I don’t have the authority to order a paternity test, but the magistrate has. Oh …” She paused as if trying to soften the blow that was to come. “The unfortunate part of it is that all five of you … I mean you and your three children, will all have to undergo the test. We want to compare all your DNA and make sure that the outcome of the test is a hundred per cent correct. Are there any questions that either of you would like to ask?”

      Thuli shook her head. “No. I am sorry, but I can’t subject my children to this torture because he has some crazy idea that our last born is not his.”

      “Unfortunately,” said Counsellor Dube, “the matter is now in the hands of this court. And this court is required by law to resolve any matters brought before it.”

      Thirty minutes later Thami and Thuli appeared in front of the magistrate. The hearing lasted only ten minutes as Thami maintained his original position. A court order was issued by the magistrate requiring Thami and Thuli, as well as their three children, to go to the nearest laboratory and have their blood taken. The next court date was in two weeks’ time.

      24HOURS

      Thami tried to catch the waitress’s attention by waving his right hand. He was thirsty for another beer. As soon as the waitress came, he gave her a fifty-rand note and ordered two Castle Lager quarts. Most people were watching the derby between Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates.

      “Pirates have to win this game if they are serious about winning the league this year,” said Thami.

      “I think today is Pirates’ day, man. They are playing well.”

      The waitress came with two beers and put them on their table. Vusi opened one of the bottles with his teeth. “The next round will be on me,” he said as he poured beer into his glass.

      “Thanks, man,” said Thami and laughed sadly. “Very soon I’ll not be able to afford to buy you a beer, my friend. All my money will be going on maintenance.”

      “When are you going to know the outcome of all of this?” asked Vusi.

      “The day after tomorrow.”

      “What are you going to do if it turns out that all the children are yours?”

      “I’m ready for any result, man. Whatever comes, I’ll have to act like a man.”

      Friday morning

      Magistrate Zodwa Khumalo was to preside over the court proceedings. Their case was due to start at nine o’clock, but both Thami and Thuli arrived early. Thuli was accompanied by her mother and her best friend. Thami had come with Vusi. There were already about twenty people seated on the benches inside the courtroom. Everybody remained quiet.

      “This is the case of paternity between Thami and Thuli Maphela,” said Magistrate Khumalo after clearing her throat. “May the two parties step forward, please.”

      Vusi gave his friend a big wink and raised his thumb.

      “We will start with Leleti Maphela, a female, born on 17 July 1997. For the case of paternity you brought before this court, you are excused. You are not the father,” said the magistrate, looking at her files.

      Thami’s palms began to sweat as he took in what the magistrate was saying.

      “The second child, Zolani Maphela, a male, born on 10 October 2000. For the case of paternity, the court excuses you as the father.”

      Thami swallowed deeply.

      “The third child is Zandi Maphela, a female, born on 2 January 2003. For the case of paternity, you are the father. You are therefore required by this court to maintain your child by paying the amount of seven hundred and fifty rand every month.”

      24HOURS

      The shebeen was crowded. It was Friday evening. Thami and Vusi were seated in a corner, next to a large speaker that was blaring out Kamazu’s classic “Korobela”.

      African woman, why give me korobela?

      Oh, korobela.

      Thami sang along to the song, his head moving rhythmically to the music.

      “This song speaks to me, man. I think Thuli gave me a love potion to blind me. How else is it possible that I didn’t see that she was cheating on me all along?” asked Thami as the song ended.

      “Don’t blame yourself, man,” said Vusi. “I’ve heard that most women use it on their men. My father told me that they apply it to their arms, thighs and genitals before sex. When a man is busy dancing between his woman’s legs and enjoying it, the potion is transferred.”

      “You see me married again, you cut my throat. I have had enough of women,” said Thami drunkenly.

      THE DARK END OF OUR STREET

      “Do you recognise the handwriting?” Detective Nkosi asked Sipho.

      Detective Nkosi was one of three police officers in what had until very recently been Sbu’s Leo Marquard Residence room. The second police officer, Detective Nhlapo, and Uncle George (Sbu’s uncle) were busy packing Sbu’s belongings into two large cardboard boxes. The third officer, Detective Sithole, was standing on the balcony. He was busy making some measurements from where they thought Sbu had jumped to his death the previous night.

      Sipho looked at the piece of paper that had been handed to him by Detective Nkosi. He was convinced that the writing belonged to his friend. They had almost everything in common: they had started at the University of Cape Town in the same year, attended the same courses and stayed at the same residence. They had often compared lecture notes, but when Sipho looked at the words in front of him, it was as if the person who had written them was drunk or under the influence of some drug.

      “Well …” Sipho started in a stammering voice. “I think it is Sbu’s writing.”

      “Are you sure?”

      He looked at the paper again.

      “Yes …”

      “What makes you so sure?”

      “Because we used to lend each other our lecture notes every Friday, and I’m quite used to the way he writes.”

      At that moment Sipho was struck by the fact that 13 November, that very day, was supposed to have been the day they celebrated Sbu’s twenty-third birthday. He was convinced that his friend hadn’t expected to die. It had to be a mistake. The previous afternoon, Sbu had even proposed a party to celebrate his birthday and the end of exams. If he knew that he was going to commit suicide, why then would he invite all of his friends to come to his birthday party the following day?

      “Did your friend have any enemies?” asked Detective Nkosi.

      “I don’t think so. Why?”

      “Was your friend suffering from depression?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “Was he expecting any visitors after you?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “What about his girlfriend? Do you know her, by any chance?”

      “Yes,” Sipho said doubtfully, “but as far as I know they were no longer going out. They broke up last month.”

      “Aha, is that so?”

      “Yes, as far as I know.”

      “Did you know that she was here yesterday?”

      “Who, Zanele? Was she?”

      “By looking at his suicide note, do you suspect that Sbu was under some form of pressure when he wrote it?”

      “Well,