FRIDAY

 Old John Mabizela was sitting on his wooden chair when he first heard the news. It came from his neighbour, and before Old John Mabizela could get any further details, the woman had skimped away from his sight. Quickly, and not wanting to be told of what was happening, (which had been happening for a couple of times now) he stood up from his favourite old wooden stool, and limped slowly out of his small yard. Just outside of it, he could barely make out a crowd that was gathering in the dusty road. Something ha happened, and a group of people had already gathered around the fiasco. Old John Mabizela increased his pace, his almost deaf left ear catching the array of voices in front of him; and behind him. He felt a little bit strange as he walked out, because he had been trying to fight a feeling off his old mind, and could swear that he had forgotten to do something important he had been supposed to have done. He brushed the idea aside, put on the hat in his hand, and trudged slowly. If he did not move any faster, then he could risk not getting the front row space, and besides, the distance to the scene was a bit long.

Twenty houses in all.

 Two teenagers rushed in front of him, and he stopped the taller one.

   “What is happening on that road, young man?” he asked with a quivering voice, his long finger pointing in the direction of the gathering people.

 The boy did not reply. He glared at the old man, and then increased his pace. The other youth, who looked quite unaffected by his companion’s statement turned his face and looked at him.

  “There’s been an accident, Old John Mabizela.” The boy said. “It seems one of the cars belongs to the Councilor.”

 But before Old John Mabizela could say out anything, the boy had gone. Old John Mabizela shook his head. This boy was the last born son of his friend, who had not been feeling well of late. Nineteen years old, the boy was Malaba’s jewel because he had conceived him with a woman with whom he was almost forty years older. Rumour was that he had used some potion with the woman, because no woman in her right mind could have opted to share the same blankets with a man old enough to be her father. Some people even thought that he had raped the young man, but were mesmerised when the woman told them that Malaba was indeed the father, and that his key was still as strong as any other man’s. The boy was coping well with his father’s sickness, because before the unfortunate sickness, he had been a rude son, and had been involved in a spate of robberies that his father had crudely denied. But the sickness of his father had somewhat lessened him closer to his family, and to most of his father’s friends, and that also included Old John Mabizela. The only sad thing was that most of the boy’s antics had even derailed to other litanies within the townships. Litanies that accused Malaba (for that was the name of the boy’s father) of being in cahoots with his callous son, whom some energetic gossipmongers in the township could be seen whispering in their little groups.

   “My son swears he saw a shadow of Malaba from their bedroom window yesterday.” The gossipmongers would say.

  “Was it him?” another woman asked, craning her long neck.

   “Was it him!” the first woman exclaimed. “Who else wanders by the township streets after 11pm?

   “It’s that boy, and his father again!” chipped in another woman. “No wonder he is suffering from that strange illness!”

 

So Old John Mabizela pondered silently about his friend’s sudden illness along the way. The man had been drinking too much alcohol in his days, but now he had become too sick to even go with him to the local beer hall, even outside his bedroom, except when he went out on a wheelbarrow to visit the clinic twice a week. Old John Mabizela would ask on numerous occasions what was bothering his friend’s mind when he visited him every night. But Malaba had remained too quiet. Such was the man.

 Old John Mabizela moved on, his sojourn continuing along with him. In front, he could still make out the gathering crowd, and the rushing people around him.

   “There’s been an accident, Old John Mabizela!” chirruped one woman whom Old John Mabizela recognised as being from the township market. “You know I hate to be told when I could have seen it for myself!”

   “Run along then!” Old John Mabizela said, barely audible. Not that it would have mattered anyway, because the woman was out of earshot when he replied. He had still had along way to go before he arrived at the scene. Two more women rushed past him, their long skirts swishing balls of dust on the road.

   “Morning Old John Mabizela! How is your friend Malaba today?” they said, clearly not wanting his reply. Old John Mabizela smiled to himself. He was used to everyone greeting him. People knew the rich history that the two had shared together, and it did not come as a surprise when they saw Old John Mabizela beside Malaba’s son who would be pushing his father to the clinic on every Friday morning. And for Old John Mabizela, there was no other way that he could show his support for his great friend. Every Friday, he woke up quite early, and prepared to help his friend to the clinic. He would accompany him, hobbling along the wheelbarrow and to the clinic on every morning of the weekly day, slow as he was. For the township people, it had become a weekly spectacle. And they would stand; especially the women sweeping their yards in the morning, to watch as the trio slowly made their way along the dusty road, with Malaba’s son struggling to balance the wheelbarrow around the huge potholes of the road. And when the women encouraged Malaba to get better, he would sometimes, if his strength was better that day, put up a limp hand at the onlookers, and curl it into a tight fist. And this was always received by a series of cheers, loud claps and ‘get better soons’ from the onlookers. On such occasions, Old John Mabizela would suddenly feel honoured to be amongst such kind of people, and relinquish it cheerfully. He and Malaba had come such a long way, and if Malaba were to succumb to his perilous affliction, he would become the oldest inhabitant of the township.

 He had come to the township when the heat of the war had been too hot to be sat upon. Seeking refuge from a war torn rural area that had been ravaged by tribal differences, Old John Mabizela had, secretly, after witnessing an army of trained soldiers wipe out his entire family a one night, collected some of his meager possessions, and stolen away into the dark ominous night. And in his mind that perilous night, as he dodged howling hyenas and hooting owls, he had vowed never to return to a land that had persecuted him in such a precarious manner. For him, the land had denied him what was his and he did not have the means to fight back. Then he had been an innocent boy, smelling of pure adolescent scent. And to him, the townships in the city had been the only place that would be a haven for all his bitterness.

 And one of the people who had welcomed him into its vicious circle had been Malaba, who, through an act of sheer kindness had let him use a spare room whilst he looked for a job in the city mines. Both had been of the same age, although Malaba was older with a mere month. With his taste for the cheap women of the township who laboured around the dirty and battered walls of shebeen queens’ homes, Malaba, within a short while, had managed to convert a devout traditional Mabizela into the ‘ways of the township’, as he himself aptly named them.

   “It the only way to survive here.” He stressed, as Mabizela struggled with a cigarette lighter that was flickering dangerously close to his lips. “The woman are ours, and we are theirs. No one is a wife or husband to anyone.” And so that same night, Malaba had brought two women to his house, and Mabizela had lost his virginity to one of them.

Old John Mabizela slowed down, and wiped his wet brow with his hat. The crowd was still there, but if he did not walk a little bit faster, then he would get there a bit too late. He looked at the walking stick in his hand, and almost cursed out aloud. Then he turned his head, as his right ear caught the sound of an ambulance that was coming from behind him. Behind it, he could hear another sound, the sound that he had heard for more than he could take it in his life. Old John Mabizela faced forward, as the cars sped past him, their sirens almost deafening his good ear.

   “It’s the Police, and the Ambulance!” he heard some small boys screaming as they whizzed past him, running behind the two vehicles.

 Old John Mabizela increased his pace again, and he felt the bones in his ailing legs gaining a momentum. Maybe the Councilor had been injured, or worse still, maybe one of the township’s children had been hit. The children always had the habit of playing with their plastic soccer ball inside the road. As he made his way slowly again, another grey Police vehicle whizzed past him. And Old John Mabizela thought about the number of times he and Malaba had been involved in Police skirmishes.

And how many times he had sat behind it.

That night, the first time he would taste the fruit of the law on, had been one cold night, and Mabizela, who had now moved to the next door house, had been just about to go to the beerhall when he met Malaba’s son outside of his door.

  “Is there a problem, son?” he asked, a look of concern on his face.

   “My father says you must come to his house this instant.” The boy replied in short gasps, and then ran back towards the gate without even waiting for his answer. Mabizela quickly locked the door of his room, and hurried towards Malaba’s house. As he entered the yard, his alert eyes did not miss the two blue and yellow painted Police bicycles balanced along the red brick walls of Malaba’s house. His heart missed a beat, and then, collecting himself, he knocked on the door. A voice, belonging to Malaba, answered promptly.

   “Come in, come in, Mabizela!”

 He entered. Malaba was already in handcuffs.

 And they spent two hungry days behind a police holding cell, having decided to boycott the terrible food they were being given. When Malaba asked why they were being retained, an officer looked at him fiercely, and said rudely. “We are not a beer bottling company.”

 The two men looked at each other, and said nothing.

   “So you know that one, heh?” the said, man sneering obnoxiously at them.

   “And under what charge are we being arrested?” Mabizela asked defiantly.  “It is our right to know!”

 The officer looked at him, laughed, and then said quite sternly. “You have no rights here, young man! Just spend your time and then go home and behave yourself next time.”

 And Mabizela would soon know enough about life in the holding cells, because after Malaba introduced him to alcohol, he found out that he could not control himself under its spell and his first marriage to a township woman soon disintegrated into a life of chaos and bitterness. When he remarried, ten years later, he soon learnt with acute sadness that his wife would not bear him any children, and so he married yet another woman. For the barren woman had decided to go back to her family. And this next woman, she bore him two sons, and for years Mabizela lived happily, although with the memories of his sordid past still haunting him deep in his sleep. The woman had died ten years later, and Mabizela had lived in the darkest of his times, inebriating himself almost to bitter death. For him, there was always the sweet taste of alcohol, and it would set his mind at ease from whatever problem that tried to cling to his back.

 Old John Mabizela stopped under a tree, and came to the present. Letting the shade of the tree cover around him would renew his strength. By now, there were a few people passing him and going towards the scene of the accident. Most had already arrived there. He put his stick to the ground, and then leaned across the tree trunk, the sojourn continuing.

 When he had married, Malaba had not followed suit. His adage was still as solid as ever. “

 He had not married anyone, but at the tender age of sixteen, he had messed up an eighteen year old virgin girl from another township by telling her that they needed to do a ‘practical experiment’ that he had been reading from a science book on the topic of sexual reproduction. And nine months later, the girl’s father had retaliated by leaving the infant by his doorstep as soon as she came back from the local clinic. After that, Malaba had never heard from her again.

 One day, he had told Mabizela some shocking news. “There are two women that I slept with last month, and they are both pregnant!” he said, delivering the news as if it was an achievement.

  “Two women? At the same time?” Mabizela asked, wide-eyed beyond comprehension.

 Malaba smiled contentedly. “Yes. Two, my friend.” He said putting up two fingers in the air. “And both pregnant. My good friend, as you can see, the axe is still quite s!” He praised himself, and pointed between his loins. “But I’m not going to marry either of them.”

 And, to Mabizela’s disbelief, Malaba had stayed true to his word, and the two children, being born almost on the same day, had also been dumped at his doorstep whilst he was busy drinking himself to inebriety. The next day, he had called Mabizela, whom he had been drinking with, and they had strode angrily to each of the mothers of the infants, and then after making careful threats, had left all of Malaba’s progeny with their mothers. Later that night, they had gone to the beerhall, and made merry and had ended up behind the police cells with splitting headaches and bruises all over their bodies.

 

Old John Mabizela put on the hat, and then he moved away from the shade. The people were still there, but some were beginning to move away from the scene, and they went in silent groups, and were speaking in hushed up tones. Old John Mabizela hobbled on. This was one story he would not be told by someone when he was just a few metres from the scene. Hearing things from people had taught him otherwise.

 Just seven years ago, he had been told that Malaba was saying things about him that most people thought were quite strange. And Mabizela had also approached Malaba, asking why he was going around spreading rumours that he owed him some money was refusing to pay the debt. On Mabizela’s side, the rumour had been a simple one, and it entailed on how Malaba was telling people that his best friend Mabizela and him were no longer friends because they had fallen out over a woman that they both wanted. Whilst this had pained Mabizela, he had decided not to listen to the people, and one night, he had decided to go over to Malaba’s house to get the version of the story for himself.

 And that night, the two of them had fought over a lot of things that they bottled over their long friendship years, and the fight had left a lot of people wondering what could have sparked such a flame between the men.

  “It happens with friendship.” The other men said. “People always have some skeletons in their cupboards, especially if they are friends.”

   “This will test the friendship,” said another man. “And if they don’t become even stronger friends, then perhaps they were never really true friends.” The man continued, passing the container of beer to the other men in the beer-hall.

 Then there came the time when Old John Mabizela and Malaba became enemies, and the hatred was so immense that the two men would simply ignore each other. And if they met along the road and if they decided to speak, then each of them would spit as soon as he saw the other one approach, or he would simply change his direction. And the whole township was aware of the rivalry between the two friends. It was only with profound wonder that they asked themselves why the two men should suddenly turn their backs toward each other just when they were beginning to reach their ripe ages. The gossipmongers were at it again.

  “I hear they are fighting for a girlfriend.” The women said amongst themselves, as they hung their washing on their yards’ fences and hedges. 

   “Old John Mabizela owes him some huge amounts of money!”

   “He had him arrested because of the debt.” Went on another one.

  “And at such an old age!” continued another. “It’s such a shame!”

 And so, it went on like this for some time. Seven years to be exact.

 Until one night…

 Old John Mabizela had decided to visit one of his favourite shebeen, and unbeknown to him, Malaba was also on his way to the same spot. When the two of them met, the only thing that they had exchanged were a series of cold, hard insulting stares at each other, and then each one had disappeared to a dark corner. Two hours later, a hand tugged at Old John Mabizela.

  “It’s the Police!” The man who tugged him said. “They’ve come to raid the place!”

 And before Old John Mabizela could even lift his feet, the Policemen had stormed the house, and a scuffle had ensured. A few minutes later, Old John Mabizela found himself braving the cold wind as one of the two open Police vans he was in sped towards the Police station. They carefully disembarked from the van a few minutes later. In a single, they were marched towards the reception area.

  “It’s you again!” one of the women Old John Mabizela could not identify exclaimed at once, referring to him. “Your friend just arrived in the other van. And I hear you two scoundrels are not talking to each other.”

 When she had locked the other revelers in the other cell, she called Mabizela. “I have a surprise for you.” She said.

 Old John Mabizela gritted his teeth as she led him towards the cell where he knew there was one person inside he did not want to meet. When she had opened the creaking door, she shouted at the top of his voice. “Malaba, I think there is a person who wants to talk to you.” She said, pushing Mabizela into the cell.

   “You have the whole night, old gentlemen. Use it wisely” She said, clanging the metal door and smiling as she put the keys in her Police uniform.

 And that night the two men sorted out their differences.

 And a few days later, the strange illness had attacked Malaba’s body.

 Old John Mabizela now looked at the disappearing crowd. The people were beginning to move away from the scene. He walked further, moving off the road as the ambulance and the Police car sped past him again, raising balls of dust. Old John Mabizela choked. Was it over yet?

 He walked on again, and then asked a young man who was coming from the scene of the accident. “What happened there? I saw the ambulance and the Police van.”

The young man looked at him slowly. “I think you better go and see for yourself, old man.” He replied. ‘That ambulance couldn’t carry the dead body. The coroner is on its way.”

 Old John Mabizela’s heart skipped a beat. A death? Who was it? He hoped it was not one of the children.

    “Who is it?” he managed to ask. But the young man had moved off, out of earshot.

 With renewed strength, he hobbled even faster, until finally, he arrived at the scene. The people were still there, and they gave him strange looks. In the middle, he saw the bizarre form of a now lifeless human, covered only by a red blanket, and sprawled grotesquely.

  “We thought you were never coming, Old John Mabizela.” He heard one of the gossip women in the crowd say. There was a note of strangeness lined with her voice.

 A strange feeling passed over Old John Mabizela, and almost shaking, he moved toward the human form on the dusty road. He moved slowly, until he was in the centre of the circumscribing crowd. Then with shaking hands, it seemed an eternity before he finally pulled off the red blanket. The face underneath was almost smiling back at him. Old John Mabizela smiled back, a stream of tears slowly forming on his wrinkled face.

 As he covered up the face, he looked up at the blue sky, and then at the upturned wheelbarrow and the boy standing quietly close to it. And the sudden realisation slowly hit him.

It was Friday.

- END-

(2007)

Mbonisi P. Ncube©