MARGARET LAMB WRITING TO THE RIGHT-HAND MARGIN/FICTION
3
American Africans By KRIAN SINGH Prize Runner-Up
“SOWETO has gone to the dogs.” “You think everything’s gone to the dogs, uwesilima,” Kabelo said, using his sleeve to wipe the froth out of his beard. “The city, the ANC, the president ¬-” “I named my dog after the president.” “The young people, the old people...” He went on, and nodded over the counter, to where a picture of Miriam Makeba hung between the bottles. There was a 20 Rand note pinned to the frame. She had been the shebeen’s first customer. “The women.” “So that’s where they’ve gone.” Nipho was staring into space, as high as the Hillbrow tower. “They certainly haven’t been coming to me, I know that much.” “The food, the weather, the drink - the Umqombothi.” “Now the drink I have nothing against,” I said, drumming my fingers on the neck of my bottle. “There’s your problem.” The light changed, as sunset tumbled in through the shebeen’s open door, blushing and bruised as a mineworker after a long day. Three teenagers walked in, laughing and slapping their hands together. “We can agree on the young people, at least.” “Look at those sneakers. They’ve been customized more than a car with Durban plates.” “Those Indian kids will pimp their ride. But a bafana will pimp his shoes.” Nipho wheeled around on his stool, squinting like a man trying to spot cheetahs in the savannah. “Biza amaphoyisa – Call the police, these boys are trouble.” “These boys wish they were trouble.” “Why haven’t they taken the stickers off of those caps?” “Never mind the stickers. They need to straighten out their hats.” Kabelo glared at the boys, his eyes as yellow as the n’anga’s rolling bones. “And pull their pants up while they’re at it.” “Unkulunkulu, belts are not supposed to go around your thighs.” “My nigga, my nigga.” One of the boys reached a hand out to the bartender, and slipped a 200 Rand note into his palm as their fingers locked together. “Pour until you kill us, brother.” “Americans?” “No, just a bad impression. The one in the back is Mama Nomsa’s boy: Wandile. He should not be drinking.” Kabelo sat up straight, and made his voice like a father’s again. “Haibo!” You knew you were old when speaking like a father made you sound young. “Wandile!” “That’s Wandile Tha Young God to you, boss,” The boy said, beating his chest once, twice and then a third time as he walked over. It looked like he was limping. “Respect the name.” “Shit, don’t even waste your time. Those old soldiers can’t hear you now. They’re up to their ears in sorghum beer.” The first boy swung his leg up, and for a moment I thought he was going to piss on the bar like a dog. But he just slumped into one of the stools, heavy as a corpse. “Come on, I’m getting thirsty here, brother.” The bartender poured them three glasses of Jack Daniels, and my lips felt dry as I watched the liquor quiver in the neon light. It had been a long time since I could afford that kind of medicine. Sorghum beer made your belly swell, and your breath stink, and it was only for the whiskey that white men ever came into the bar. But these were not white men. These were not foremen from the mines, or tourists from the suburbs that were hiding behind the city’s skirts. These were township boys: boys that I hadn’t seen working since they’re heads were at my chest. Wandile used to pull scrap metal from the dump. And the other two once sold little wire lions to the Americans, as if they themselves had asked the animals to pose. I knew their families. I knew that they should not have this kind of money. Now, the third boy, whose hat was so low that I couldn’t see his eyes, set his knuckles on the counter. He was as black as the labels on the lager, and in his swollen jacket and ragged jeans, he looked like a gorilla. The three of them might have broken out of the Johannesburg zoo, but as they choked down their whiskey and howled, I didn’t think they had the brains between them.
“Soweto is ours tonight.” The first boy stood up, swinging his leg wide as if to piss on the entire township. “Last time I checked: I was the man in these streets.” “Why not the country, Prince? If you’re so hot, why not the whole fucking country, huh?” The other boys snickered over their drinks. “Shit, this nigga wouldn’t even point a finger at Zuma!” “Well, I’d point more than a finger at his new wife: Number six.” The boys clinked their glasses together, and swallowed up their whiskey. “Word is bond; I’d point a lot more than that.” “That woman is old enough to be your mother.” Kabelo had his arms crossed over the counter, and his head hung so low that he was staring out at them as if from inside a cave. “And Zuma was a horny enough bastard to be my father, so what?” “Show some respect. Without men like that, Soweto would still be a cage. You like going out into the city? You like going to those European malls, dressed up like Americans? Then you should be grateful. Twenty years ago, the furthest you could get from this township was by going three kilometers underground, and scratching at the walls for gold.” “Zuma’s no hero,” I said, trying to start up an argument of our own, and shut the boys out. It didn’t work. “We don’t dress American,” The one called Prince said, spreading his arms as wide as Christ. “This is black, my brother. And black is beautiful.” Prince leaned on the bar, and pointed a finger up at the television that was blinking down at us. “Hand me the remote for this thing.” The bartender moved to hide it, but Wandile snatched up the remote as if it were a weapon, and slid it down the counter. Prince cruised through the channels, stopping whenever he found a face he knew: a black face. “See that?” He said, snapping his fingers at the President of the United States. “That’s black.” Click. Click. “That?” Now it was a man in shorts, too tall to stand up straight inside any house in the townships. He and the boy were wearing the same sneakers. “That’s black.” Click. Click. Click. Now a woman, wearing pants that were so tight they folded in her gut, bent over as if to pick up a coin. “Mhm mhm. That...” A man in sunglasses was walking around her, moving his hands like a translator for the deaf, as something like music played. “That’s black.” Click. He turned the television off, and jabbed the remote at me of all people. “So what are you?” “Sibusiso Radebe knows what he is.” Kabelo made a fist, though I could not tell if it was out of anger, or pride. “You’re just a confused kid.” “A Prince.” He and Wandile ground their knuckles together. “Respect the name.” Kabelo shook his head. “Bafana… when’s the last time you saw a black Prince?” The boy turned up his chin, but kept quiet, and the smiles of his friends’ faces began to droop. “All those people you see on the television – all those black people – do you know where they came from? Where their father’s father’s grandfathers came from?” The boys just stood there, dumbly. Kabelo had made schoolchildren out of them. “Africa. They were taken from Africa.” Kabelo stayed seated, but we were all leaning in a little closer, as if around a storyteller on a quiet night, or a fire on a cold one. “And do you know what they see, when they look back to where they came from?” This time, the boys shook their heads. “Death, Famine, Pestilence and War. Africa to them is where the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse come to graze in the grass.” The man rolled his great, weary shoulders. “What about history, then? Their roots? … Cha.” His tongue clicked. “Looking back, they do not see Great Zimbabwe. They don’t know Shaka Zulu. Instead they are fooled by tourist traps set by the English. Places like Sun City – that big, plastic African palace.” “I bet they saw Zuma dancing through the streets in his leopard-print loincloth,” I said, as my thought bubbles were being smoothened out by the sorghum beer. Still, they ignored me. “You are here, Bafana.” Kabelo pressed his finger into the bar, and twisted it as if snubbing out a fat, black cigar. “You are living it.” The old son of a bitch actually stood up then, while Nipho and I gaped like two men watching a cripple get out of his wheelchair. “You are African.” Kabelo put a hand to the boy’s head as if to bless him, and then took off his cap. “Let them see you.”
COURTESY OF KRIAN SINGH