Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [46]
The shoppie turns on him. 'Finally! Look what your dog has done while you were dicking around in the toilet!'
'Excuse me? You can't talk to an officer like that.'
'Look at this! This is scaring away my customers!'
'You want I should fine you for verbal abuse? Hey, you, girlie, get away from that kid. You don't want to interfere.'
'His arm is broken.'
'I can see that, lady. But this is police business.' He softens this with a sugary smirk. 'Don't worry your little head, sweetness, he'll get the medical attention he needs.'
'Hey, she was taking photos!' The shoppie, seeing his opportunity to worm out of the hot spot, flings an accusatory finger. All the attention is now diverted to me, no one is paying the slightest heed to the kid sobbing through his teeth.
'Was she now?' The cop saunters over, so I can smell his sweat and the cinnamon of his gum, the pink chewed lump lurking in the back of his mouth. 'I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it. Né, cherie?'
'I'll delete them. I'm sorry.' I'm furious with myself for apologising, for the instant wave of guilt.
'What's with this hair? One colour not good enough?' He moves to touch my hair and I twitch away, which makes him laugh. 'What's your name, meisiekind?'
'Kendra.'
'Ag, don't worry, Kendra. I'm not going to take your camera or even put in a log on your unauthorised activity. This time. But I'll be watching out for you.' For an awful moment, by the way he's leaning in, I think he's going to ask me for a kiss. 'Now shoo, we're busy here.'
I turn on my heel, burning with humiliation, in the opposite direction to the Aito, which is standing guard over the once-again subdued homeless woman. I walk briskly away from the howling child and the burly cop and the snickering shoppie. And into the first spaza I can find, for a Ghost.
Lerato
Zama calls. And it's not even my birthday. Of all of us, Siphokazi is the only one who cares enough to try to hold the family together, and naturally, that's what Zama's calling about.
'You've forgotten, haven't you?' says my sister, her tone dripping accusation.
'No,' I say, 'of course not.' But I have. Who has time to keep track of these things? And it's morbid, dredging it up year after year. The past only holds you back. It's like a drift net. The kind you get tangled in and drown.
'It's important to her.'
'Yeah, yeah, I know. Which day is it again?'
We tried to do a pilgrimage a few years ago, at Sipho's behest, to visit the clinic where they died, because we don't have a clue where the graves are. But two days before we were set to leave, government inc. announced a new round of quarantines, which made travelling into the Ciskei impossible. When Zama and I pulled out, she tried to go anyway, on her own, without a car, with some of her Buddhist buddies tagging along. You can guess how far she got. Turned around at the first checkpoint.
She nagged for a year after that, but there was always an excellent excuse not to go, and I didn't fabricate all of them either. I've been doing a lot of travelling lately. For the moment, she's content to settle for the memorial ceremony, but I live in dread of her suggesting another attempt at our own personal hajj.
Zama gives me the day and the time we're going to meet at Cape Point for the 'ceremony'. She guilt-trips me into agreeing to host dinner as well, although she's horrified when I suggest using Communique's chefs.
'We have to cook a meal together, it's traditional.'
'I don't cook.'
'Fine. Sipho and I will cook. You do have a kitchen, right?' I have to think about that one, about when last we used the hob. I manage to convince her we should just go to a restaurant, maybe the one at Cape Point, because if Sipho cooks, we'll be eating some vegan lentil glob that you have to chew for ages. This is my idea of family, actually, a sticky morass you can't chew your way out of. We wrap up, but I try and spin the conversation out a little. I can tell Zama is secretly pleased and flattered,