Cokcraco. Paul Williams

scoop the books off the floor to make a quick exit. But it is too late. The man has seen. ‘Shakespeare? Chaucer?’

      ‘I’m teaching Shakespeare, yes. And Chaucer.’

      ‘Dead white males? To African students who are trying their hardest to throw off the shackles of colonialism?’

      How do you respond to a loaded question? Point the gun away from yourself. You indicate the closed door at the end of the corridor. ‘Professor Zimmerlie …’

      ‘Zimmerlie!’ The man uses the word as an expletive.

      ‘Yes, Zimmerlie. And Mpofu.’

      ‘Mpofu! I should have guessed.’

      ‘And you are … ?’

      The man ignores your outstretched hand and shoulders his way down the corridor. His footsteps echo past the series of dark office doors, and at the end of the hallway, framed by a halo of light, he turns and squints back into the darkness, sunlight setting his red hair on fire. ‘Bastards.’

      It looks, on your first day, as if you have inadvertently made an enemy.

      COCKROACH INTERVIEWER: Why do you not like humans?

      COCKROACH: Humans are nasty pests, known for their insatiable greed. These parasites will feed on other animals as well as their own kind. Once they colonise a territory, it can be a real challenge to eliminate them. Humans carry many toxic diseases and leave a trail of destruction wherever they go. Their love of turning pristine wildernesses into sterile concrete nests and burrows is well documented.

      – Sizwe Bantu, The Cockroach Whisperer, 2010

2. Supella longipalpa

      Brown-banded cockroach

      Often found in bedrooms and living rooms, brown-banded cockroaches (Supella longipalpa) are hardy creatures that shun the light, lay their eggs under furniture, and scavenge off humans. These creatures are the most common cockroaches found around the world. A popular misconception is that cockroaches are dirty creatures that carry disease: nothing could be further from the truth. Cockroaches are the garbage collectors of society and if allowed to go about their business, will keep a house clean and free of food waste. Toxic when eaten raw, they nevertheless are a popular culinary delicacy in certain parts of the world.

1 eSikamanga is off the beaten track, a beautiful town with kilometres of unspoiled beaches, and has the air of not having being ‘discovered’ yet, as well as a laid-back lifestyle enjoyed by residents distrustful of change in any form. But, surprisingly, Zululand’s most idyllic coastal hideaway is off the grid. Residents voted to exclude it from tourist listings, block all advertising on the internet and to discourage large-scale tourist activities. There are no hotels or bed and breakfasts, and residents do not encourage visitors.

The road to eSikamanga1 is lined kilometre after kilometre with good intentions—Zulu goods for sale: beads, carvings, grass mats, hats, bangles. Vendors crowd every dusty intersection. You would stop, but of course you don’t. It’s also lined with carjackers.

      As the car crests the hill, your heart lifts to see the sparkling Indian Ocean, the sweep of enormous sand dunes, the gold beaches.

      You have dreamed of this moment.

      Careful not to slow down at intersections or give anyone rides, doors locked, windows down, you cruise along vacant streets and parks until you reach the eSikamanga Mall, a stretch of low buildings with large verandas, boasting a SPAR Supermarket, Chemist, Zulu Souvenirs and Curio Shop, Estate Agent, and Mrs K’s Take-Aways. You are also pleased to see a police station in the prominent centre of the square, a hunched building bristling with aerials, completely enmeshed in barbed wire fencing. Amazing how theoretical one’s anarchism can be.

      You pull back a strongly sprung front door and plunge into the ice-cold air of the dimly lit estate agency. A woman with red bifocals pushes back tired grey-blonde hair from her eyes.

      ‘And what can I do for you?’ Her eyes are narrow, her lips pursed.

      ‘Timothy Turner, from the University of eSikamanga.’

      ‘Oh! Professor Zimmerlie called me with the good news. Said to expect you. Thank god. They’ve found someone to replace that dreadful man. I hope for your sake you never have to meet him.’

      ‘I’ll do my best.’

      ‘Mrs Steyn.’ She thrusts out a hand. ‘So, Dr Turner—it’s Dr is it, or Professor?—I have exactly what you’re looking for.’ She taps a long red fingernail on the glass counter top. Under the glass is a map of eSikamanga, a grid of streets sandwiched between two snaking rivers and a large blue estuary. ‘We have a nice town house for you here—going for four thousand a month: three bedroom, two bathroom, one ensuite … very clean, modern. … Electronic security. … Neighbourhood Watch.’

      ‘I … I was looking for something more … modest. I … don’t know how long I’ll be staying, you see.’

      ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ She crouches over the counter in a confidential invasion of personal space.

      Some people occupy more space than others, see their bodies as missiles or blockades, and colonise your space, extend themselves in an aura that radiates far beyond their body space. They squash you into a little corner and thrust their physicality at you to make you acquiesce. Mrs Steyn, intentionally or not, thrusts out her breasts at you in some territorial display of aggression. You could be wrong—this would be a ghastly error of cultural judgement—but you feel she is challenging you to a battle with the world, one she has to win at all costs.

      ‘Those are only rumours about his reinstatement. You’ll be here a long time … a year’s lease to start? Professor Zimmerlie told me you have a twelve-month contract.’

      It is all to do with bodies. We pretend we are rational beings, con­­­sciousnesses, and drag these bodies apologetically (as a white man, you speak for yourself here) but there is another language we speak all the time, the language of the body. And women, you are told, have sex organs just about everywhere. Mrs Steyn’s relation to you is … in a broad sense … physical, sexual, through the body, not through the mind.

      You loosen your tie, that ghastly British invention designed to choke and pinch your neck. In fact, you now realise, the suit is a way of denying the body altogether, bracketing it off from everyday discourse. ‘I just need a one-bedroom. I don’t mind an older place. Nearer the sea, perhaps? And a shorter lease to start.’

      ‘Do you have family here?’

      ‘No …’

      ‘And you’re from Australia?’

      ‘This is a smaller town than I thought.’

      ‘Everyone knows everyone’s business here, Dr Turner. And that’s a good thing: we look after each other. Australia, hey? Why come here?’

      ‘Call me Tim.’

      ‘My sister moved to Perth a few years back. Refuses to come back here to visit. Lovely place. You know Perth?’

      ‘I’m from the other side, actually. Never been to Western Australia.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      You browse the photos of houses for sale on the adjacent wall. ‘Haven’t you got anything cheaper … smaller?’

      ‘Most single professors live in the block of flats called Strandloper. They pay from six to ten thousand Rand a month. They’re large apartments, safe, secure …’

      ‘This for instance.’ Your finger hovers over a picture of a thatched cottage standing on its own in the midst of a wild garden. In the background, a misty