Bom Boy Page 3

  ‘I've spent a lot of money converting the garage into a room and now you want to turn it back into a garage?’

  But she'd agreed.

  Red had been Jane's car. Leke remembered learning the word.

  ‘Red,’ Jane would say, and point to the car.

  ‘Red,’ Leke would say back.

  The name stuck.

  When Jane died, Marcus parked it in a corner of the garage and it stayed there. Leke couldn't forget Red. The car conjured Jane in his memory, driving out to the flower farms and crowding the boot with pots of Clivias and Orchids. Back home they would transfer the plants into the garden while Marcus complained that Jane was using a luxurious car as if it were a pick-up truck.

  At eighteen Leke began the task of reviving Red. Marcus protested initially but stopped when Leke ignored him. It took him a year, mostly due to having to save in order to buy the parts. Each month Marcus noted an added shiny piece, a dead part that now operated, or a strong engine. When Leke moved out Marcus didn't stop him from taking Red – he couldn't recognise the car since Leke had started restoring it. Although the restored car resembled exactly what Jane had driven, Marcus had become used to the dejected looking shadow he'd banished to the back of the garage, speckled with dust and dying. It gave a pain to see it when he walked past but he got accustomed to the pain, it was familiar. The restored car pulled nothing in Marcus. It wasn't the same and so was not worth keeping; one of a series of realisations over the many years that Jane was really gone.

  The stuio had a second garage door fitted, which opened directly onto the street; this was Red's entrance. When Leke returned after a Sunday drive with Red, he reversed her in so her nose always faced outwards. To maximise space he pulled her up right against the back wall.

  When he left for work in the mornings, on foot, he opened the left-hand-side doors so that, on arriving home, he felt as though she was reaching out to him with a welcoming hug.

  Against the wall on the left, on the side of his studio which faced the street, was a small shower, a toilet and a sink. Immediately to the right of the front door was his mattress and a small fridge. Inside the fridge was a sachet of salt. On top of the fridge were three boxes of rusks, a stash of rooibos teabags, and a kettle. A small heap of his clothing lay on the floor by his bed.

  He kicked off his shoes and socks, enjoying the cold grit and crunch of dirt under his soles. The wind squeezed through a gap under the doors bringing in debris that collected in the corners of the room, which he never worried to sweep. The springs in his naked mattress creaked as he settled his bulk on them, lying on his back to watch the heavy wooden beams that crossed the short length of his house and the overlapping corrugated roof sheets above. It started to rain and he could hear the water hitting the roof, tinkling against the metal. Leke closed his eyes. When he opened them the rain had stopped and darkness had arrived outside his window, it was after 9pm. He shoved his feet back into his shoes and walked out onto the quiet street.

  Monday 20th July 1992

  The baby was shifting again. Despite the coolness of the steel toilet seat Elaine's upper lip was perspiring. She planted her feet on the floor and grabbed onto a bar to lift up her body. The cramps had been going since morning – intermittent – someone wringing out her intestines, and then suddenly stopping. She counted the days in her head, too early by almost a month. Should she call her doctor? Leave her post for a few minutes and use the public phones on the main road – Ursula could stand in for her and cash up. She checked, just enough coins in her pocket for the call. She washed her hands and ran her fingers over her forehead and cheeks.

  ‘Need you out here, Elaine,’ Ursula cracked open the locker room door. ‘Long queue. Bus just pulled in. Boss says if you’re not giving birth right this moment get back to your post.’

  ‘Coming,’ Elaine said but she stood studying her face in the mirror for a few seconds.

  Vanguard Superette, owned by the Haddads, a Lebanese family, was situated off the R300 along a major taxi route. It stood opposite a petrol station where several minibus taxi drivers heading out of the Western Cape along the N2 stopped to fill up their tanks and the passengers walked across to the Superette to buy provisions for the road. At certain times of the day the Superette would crowd with urgent queues at the check-out counters. Bus drivers would hoot from the carpark, sending an injection of panic through the Superette.

  The excited energy of people starting or ending a journey irritated Elaine – their often brusque manner at the check-out counter always falling short of what she considered appropriate etiquette. People are rude, was her grandmother's recurring lament. But maybe it wasn't that. Maybe she, Elaine, was jealous of the people because they were travelling. Where had she ever been – born in Worcester, raised in Salt River. The baby shifted again and she laid her hand on her belly, ‘Shoo.’

  Outside the locker room, the glare of the fluorescent lights hurt her eyes. She could feel the hot stare of Bashir Haddad, the manager, on her neck as she sat back on her stool and started serving the customers that had gathered in her absence. She rang up the goods, not bothering to look into the people's faces. The cramping had eased, now it was just the mindless work.

  She pulled the items across the counter. A roll of toilet paper. Two Maggie cubes. Tins of tomato puree.

  ‘Wait. How much so far?’

  Elaine looked up at her; skinny with a pink checkered pinafore, the belt in a tight knot dangling on the side, she wore a dirty white scarf. She wasn't a traveller; Elaine recognised her from the township nearby.

  ‘Ten-forty-two,’ she replied and the woman slowly took her hand off the rest of the contents in the basket.

  A whole chicken. As Elaine pushed it through, a small tear in the packaging widened and a pink trickle of chicken-juice trailed on the counter.

  ‘Ag!’ Elaine said as the blood dripped.

  ‘Sorry,’ the customer said.

  ‘It's not you. Look, use this, Ursh,’ she yanked a bag from the box and shoved it at Ursula who, standing inspecting her nails, glared in response.

  ‘Use a plastic first,’ Elaine added.

  Ursula pulled a cellophane bag off the roll and eased the chicken into it. Then she placed it in the bright green grocery bag. Elaine continued ringing up the produce. Tinned corn – no name brand. The customer paid, taking a while as she counted out change from a plastic bank packet. She avoided looking at Elaine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the bag from Ursula and walking out of the store.

  ‘Five kids. No husband,’ Ursula said, watching her go, then she went back to her nails.

  At nine o'clock, the security guard shut the sliding doors and the last teller rang off.

  In the locker room there was a line for the toilet, Elaine walked past to her assigned locker.

  She pulled a grey sweater on over her uniform, didn't feel cold but outside she could hear the wind blowing – even the short walk to the bus-stop would be unbearable without warm clothing.

  Elaine put on her blue coat, it was the warmest thing she owned and at one point it had been the brightest – a deep-sea blue the sight of which always made her feel happy. She loved the over-sized cuffs and the collar she could pull up and button to keep the cold off her neck. Over the years the blue felt had faded, it was still blue but dull and the fabric was worn. She'd mended the lining several times but every few weeks the flannel-backed lining loosened at the seams.

  Elaine checked for Oscar's letter, finding it in the left pocket, folded tight and held with a rubber band.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the locker-room smell of shoe polish and corned beef. The strong odour pervaded everything including Elaine's coat which transferred the smell to her room when she hung it on the back of her bedroom door. At night she turned in her sleep and, catching the scent, frowned.

  ‘You in tomorrow?’ Ursula asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘When's it coming?’

  Ursula gesture
d and one of the new girls handed her a lighter. Her cigarette lit, she threw the lighter into her handbag. The new girl frowned but didn't protest.

  Elaine watched the smoke rings form and disappear. In her time working at the store she'd never seen anyone obey the “No-smoking” sign on the wall.

  Ursula's cheek bones sharpened when she puckered her lips to send rings in the air. Rumours circulated that she was coloured passing for white but Ursula wielded enough power to kill off the gossip.

  Elaine hung her straw bag on her shoulder and held her bulging stomach.

  ‘It's a boy. One month still.’

  ‘I don't know how you cope. Met die pa in die tronk.’

  Elaine winced, We'll be fine.’

  ‘I mean,’ Ursula continued, stubbing out the cigarette and sticking it behind her ear, ‘who's going to play rugby with the laatjie? I've seen you, you can't throw. It's a shame Elaine, man,’ and she sucked her teeth.

  A woman sitting further down the bench crouched frozen over her laces, absorbing information for future gossip. Another lady washing her hands by the basin attempted to disguise her laughter.

  ‘But you know, my nana always warned me about African men, nê?’

  Elaine walked out.

  The coat pulled tight around her chest but it no longer covered her stomach. Over the five years she'd worn the coat one button had popped off after another. She'd always meant to replace them, but never did. Maybe this winter. As she walked a cold wind blew the smell of roasting boerewors under her nose. Her stomach chirped. She reached into her pocket to see how much change she had. Ag, forgot about the doctor. But there was nothing to call about now – the cramps had stopped. If they started again she'd call.

  ‘How much?’ she shouted at the trader as she studied her coins, leaning into the light from the lamp he'd strung up.

  ‘You big, lady!’

  ‘How much for the boerie?’ she repeated.

  The trader moved and pointed at his sign behind him.

  Elaine looked at the inflated price, said, ‘Forget it.’

  She wasn't really hungry anyway. Although she'd heard pregnant women talk about a voracious appetite, during this last stage of her pregnancy she often felt as if she'd swallowed a football – already bloated before any meal.

  By the time Elaine reached home the temperature had dropped, her toes were numb despite the heavy winter boots she was wearing. A light drizzle had started and the baby was shifting again. She'd always imagined that babies in their mothers’ wombs kicked but this one didn't, all he did was shift. It was different to kicking although she was sure of it she couldn't explain how. The only person she'd tried to explain it to was Oscar and he seemed to understand.

  ‘Sh, sh,’ she hushed as she laid a hand on her stomach and unhooked the rusted gate latch with her other hand.

  Stepping to avoid upsetting the rodent traps her landlady had set on the paving, Elaine made her way to the front door. She could barely feel her fingers, they were so cold, and it took a while to fish the house keys from her bag. The door opened easily after she turned the key and placed her weight against its wooden frame. A week's dishes jostled in the sink, fighting with cockroaches for space. The landlady had left a note with instructions on the kitchen counter. Elaine took off her coat, she placed her hands on her lower back and stretched, looking up at patches of the ceiling board sagging with brown crumbling pieces where the rain had come through.

  She calculated how much time all the cleaning would take. There was the floor to mop and the cat had vomited a brown mush onto the carpet. She'd try to get all the washing and ironing from last week done, aim for 1am and then sleep in a little. Her body was sore but it was a sensation to which she'd become accustomed.

  Elaine tilted the blue bottle and as the milky liquid splashed into the bucket of water a clean hospital smell filled the bathroom. She dug the balding mop in and, pushing the bucket along with her bare feet, she let it stand in the corner by the door. She took in a breath, swam her hands with a cloth down to the bottom of the full tub and yanked the plug It burped and farted as the body of water began to drain. Every few minutes Elaine used the plunger to unblock the drain, pushing through caked dirt and chunks of hair. When the bath had emptied completely there was a timeline of parallel brownish streaks along the sides. Elaine scrubbed them off.

  He was shifting again.

  ‘Sh, sh,’ she said and it came out hoarse and scratchy. A cockroach in the corner of the bathroom seemed to hear her and crawled away.

  Elaine opened her eyes and closed them again. Already morning. Through the night the wooden bed-frame had creaked at the joints as she'd moved, shifting her weight in search of a comfortable position.

  She'd struggled to fall asleep and was still awake at 3am when her landlady came in. The sound of high heels and heavier footsteps in the passageway. Elaine had drifted off and woke to a sharp ache in her stomach, the skin over her belly had felt as if it were stretching ready to burst. She'd gotten up to go to the toilet and heard grunts coming from her landlady's bedroom. She'd stepped over a pair of jeans and a hefty leather belt on the bathroom floor and perched on the toilet seat long enough to feel cold and wish she'd worn a sweater.

  It was getting light outside, an early winter morning only the sound of tyres on the road and the low moan of traffic on the nearby highway told her it was probably past 6am.

  Knowing she'd never get back to sleep, Elaine rolled out of the bed. On contact with the chilled floor she curled her toes and tiptoed to where she'd left her coat – the familiar bump of the folded letter in the crease of her jacket pocket.

  My dear Elaine

  It's so loud here, I can hardly think. Sometimes I can't feel myself. I mean I can't hear myself. I don't know if I'm making sense. The sound of this place is ugly and crude and grating. I can't sleep at night.

  I'm fine though, don't get me wrong. Nobody bothers me. Instead one of the gangs is making use of me for information. Somehow they must have found out that I'm from the university, a learned man. They want information on their cases, they come to me with complaints, and they want ideas on how to decrease their sentences, the right words to use at their reviews. I don't dare tell them I'm not a lawyer and that I work in a chemistry lab. I can recite the periodic table backwards but my knowledge of the legal system is probably less impressive than theirs. I think on my feet though. They call me “The Professor”. The scar helps too. Did I ever tell you how I got the scar? Flying down Road 9 with my BMX. I remember tearing down the hill on a dare, realising the breaks were bust and zooming head first into the stop sign. I'm lucky to have survived that with just a keloid scar spoiling my good looks. Don't laugh!

  Did you get the money I arranged? How are you doing? How's that Bom Boy in your stomach?

  I dreamt he was born. You had him strapped to your back and you were humming. I couldn't see your face, you were doing something at the sink. I could hear water and glass bumping against glass. I put my hand on your shoulder and when you turned around I woke up.

  I must show you how to do that by the way – tie him to your back. I spent most of my childhood on my mother's back. The other women used to smile but my mother said it was the most sensible thing she'd been taught since she arrived in Ife. That, and how to make cornrows. She let my hair grow long as a baby and then she plaited cornrows all along my scalp. Women wanted to carry me, saying her daughter was cute; they argued with my mother when she said I was a boy!

  Please continue writing to me. I want to know how you’re doing. Send me a picture of yourself. And don't worry about me. I'm fine.

  I'm sorry about all this.

  I love you.

  Oscar

  Elaine read the letter through two more times, enjoying the soft feel of the paper between her fingers. She tore a piece of lined paper from an exam pad.

  Dearest Oscar,

  I don't know how I'll wait for two years to see you.

  You know, with all that has happen
ed that seems the worst.

  I know I'm selfish to think of me. How are you? I loved your letter, your stories.

  I'm fine, yes I got the money, thank you.

  You can stop worrying about me, I can take care of myself.

  Any more ideas for a name? I'm worried, I think he'll come early. I have an ache that keeps coming back more and more. Maybe it's normal I don't know. I'll call the doctor.

  I miss you. I miss seeing your face – your frown when you’re working – and I miss our arguments. I even miss you telling me to sit down and rest.

  Love,

  Elaine

  She always felt stupid writing to Oscar, as if she was whining. She read over her words and corrected some spelling. She pulled the last envelope from the pack she'd bought and wrote the now familiar words.

  Oscar Ogunde

  1992-48110-45663

  Cell 25-v

  Section C

  Medium 2b

  Joubert Prison

  Meadows 7001

  Cape Town

  The shower was cold, the geyser needed fixing and her landlady had a stream of excuses for why it couldn't be done immediately. Shivering, Elaine got dressed. It took long, every now and then she had to stop, hold onto the edge of her bed, doubled-over, until the pain subsided.

  Her room was bare, Oscar's desk was the only piece of furniture she owned. The built-in-cupboard housed her modest array of clothes. She put on a wide smock-frock she'd bought at a flea market; it was the one thing she felt comfortable in these days.

  Oscar's desk had a flap that opened up like the desk she remembered from primary school. Inside she kept a copy of the Bible, Oscar's letters, a photograph of herself when she was five with her grandmother at the Grand Parade, and another photograph Oscar had taken of her just before his arrest. She took out the photograph remembering how she'd protested when he retrieved his hefty Canon camera from its case.