{"id":7674,"date":"2017-07-21T09:34:28","date_gmt":"2017-07-21T08:34:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7674"},"modified":"2017-07-21T09:51:21","modified_gmt":"2017-07-21T08:51:21","slug":"shame","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7674","title":{"rendered":"Shame"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u201cIt\u2019s a dead dog, for Christ\u2019s sake, Thulani. I don\u2019t know why \u2013\u201d
\n          Thulani brings the car to a halt far too fast for the gravel road, and we slew sideways as we come to a standstill. I can tell he\u2019s being stubborn from the way he juts out his chin. Mulish, I\u2019ve called him, but I know better than to try engage him when he\u2019s got his mind set on something.
\n          With a sigh I follow him out of the car. I\u2019ll get into worse shit if I don\u2019t at least show that I\u2019m making an effort to be supportive. And, ugh, I don\u2019t want to handle a dead anything. I\u2019ve seen enough road kill at close quarters during the two years I\u2019ve been dating Thulani. Every bloody time he encounters some unfortunate next to the side of any road, he insists we do the honourable thing and move the creature to the side so the cars don\u2019t drive over it repeatedly.
\n          You can tell a lot about people from how they treat their dead.
\n          How about having some concern for the living first? I\u2019ve retorted, only to be met by a scowl.
\n          But in a way I have to admit he\u2019s right. That dead cat or dog must\u2019ve been someone\u2019s cherished pet that would be missed.
\n          The sun\u2019s just past noon and beats down on us on this dirt road branching off the N1. Pienaarsvlakte is halfway between Hanover and Beaufort West, about sixty kilometres into the Great Karoo, and this time of day nothing living wants to venture out from the shade. The life has been bleached from what scrub remains.
\n          No sheep in sight, though. Only this dog Thulani\u2019s examining. What the hell is a dog doing out here? This couldn\u2019t possibly be someone\u2019s pet.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s still alive,\u201d Thulani says.
\n          A sick feeling wriggles in my stomach and I allow myself to look closer.
\n          It\u2019s a typical hound, a township special, all long limbs, pointed muzzle and short tan coat. The creature\u2019s lying on its side, one eye socket pecked clean and teeth pulled back in silent snarl. But it\u2019s twitching, the ribcage shuddering with sporadic breaths. As my shadow slides over it, the dog emits a faint growl.
\n          \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d I step back.
\n          Thulani crouches, reaching out.
\n          \u201cDon\u2019t touch it!\u201d I tell him.
\n          He\u2019s already resting his big hand on the animal\u2019s head. The compassion in his gaze undoes me. Every time. He mutters some benediction in Zulu and carefully picks up the dog. I can\u2019t help but notice how its hindquarters seem curiously detached as the body flops. Thulani places the animal down in the shadow of a small thorn bush and remains crouched next to it.
\n          \u201cWe can\u2019t leave it like this,\u201d he says.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s dying anyway.\u201d Already I can feel my too-pale skin reddening in the glare. My lips are parched and even a mouthful of the tepid spring water I\u2019ve left in the bottle in the car won\u2019t do much to remove the traces of dust from the back of my throat. I bat helplessly at the flies that buzz around my head. There are always flies out here that tickle over lips or obscure vision.
\n          When Thulani reaches for a rock the size of his fist, I know immediately what he means to do \u2013 a coup de gr\u00e2ce. Left hand on the animal\u2019s flank, he raises his makeshift weapon in his right, and I hide my face in my hands and half-turn away. This is not the first time he\u2019s had to offer mercy by dashing out some unfortunate critter\u2019s brains; I know what to expect. But the sickening thud of stone on flesh doesn\u2019t come.
\n          The dog growls, Thulani swears, and I dare to peek between my fingers.
\n          He\u2019s jumped back, the rock discarded as he clutches his left hand to his stomach. Bright blood blossoms on his white t-shirt.
\n          \u201cWhat happened?\u201d I ask though I know it\u2019s not necessary.
\n          \u201cDamn bastard\u2019s bit me.\u201d
\n          Thulani glares at the dog, but the thing lies completely still, as if this last action on its part pushed it past its limits. Not even the slightest movement of the ribs betrays life. Odd that no flies are buzzing around it \u2013 I\u2019d have thought that they\u2019d find the dog far tastier than me.
\n          Now\u2019s not the time to worry about that. Thulani\u2019s been hurt and all the determination to do the right thing has left him; he allows me to lead him back to the car where I dig in my bag for a plaster.
\n          \u201cMa\u2019ll have antiseptic,\u201d I tell him, but I don\u2019t like the look of the wound. A canine sank into the soft flesh of the ball of this thumb. Not quite a case for stitches, but he\u2019ll definitely have to go for a rabies shot. And soon. I want to groan and curse, but bite my tongue. There\u2019s no way we\u2019re going to find a doctor open in Pienaarsvlakte on a Saturday afternoon. That\u2019s if they even still have a doctor I can drag away from the rugby on TV. I don\u2019t even know if the neighbouring township has a clinic.
\n          \u201cI honestly didn\u2019t expect it had the strength to bite me.\u201d Thulani glances warily over my shoulder at the still dog.
\n          \u201cLeave it now,\u201d I warn him. I don\u2019t want to remind him of the half dozen other times he\u2019s been bitten before. Thulani has a simple faith that it won\u2019t happen again, that he\u2019ll be fast enough the next time he plays Good Samaritan.
\n          He doesn\u2019t argue with me and, miracles of miracles, allows me to drive the last ten kilometres to the town.
\n          I never wanted to do this \u2013 return to my roots. Ma en Pa \u2013 I can\u2019t call them anything else but that, in Afrikaans \u2013 decided to retire in the Karoo dorpie where Pa grew up and his father once owned a general store.
\n          They know about me and Thulani. It doesn\u2019t mean they approve, but I\u2019d hoped to keep my past separate from my future.
\n          They can\u2019t keep hankering after the fleshpots of the previous regime, Thulani has said many times. Are you ashamed of me? I took you to meet my parents. Surely yours can welcome me as a son.
\n          Are you ashamed of me?<\/em> That\u2019s the crux of the matter. I love this man truly, madly and deeply, with all the clich\u00e9s all rolled into one. I can\u2019t explain it. When I was younger I always imagined I\u2019d date some blond surfer-boy ideal, but Thulani with his quiet dignity caught me by surprise. Love will meet you where you least expect it.
\n          While the rest of the country has moved on, Pienaarsvlakte stubbornly clings to a bygone era. Most of the redbrick houses are squat, blockish structures that follow the curve of the railway line. Pa grew up with the metallic shudders of the trains shunting in the wee hours and the lonely, piercing horn of the locomotives resonating through the emptiness.
\n          Now most cargo is freighted by road, and the railway is abandoned, but the people are tenacious, like the Karoo vegetation, and their roots run deep. Like the parched century plants they endure the extremes.
\n          Ma and Pa live on the outskirts of the town. There isn\u2019t much of a garden \u2013 the borehole water\u2019s too brackish for that \u2013 but the two giant Peruvian peppers weep their green boughs over the porch in the front. The curtains are drawn. They\u2019re always drawn, so far as I can remember. My parents dwell in a murky twilight.
\n          \u201cDoesn\u2019t look too welcoming,\u201d I say to Thulani.
\n          He shrugs. \u201cI\u2019m sure you\u2019re just making things worse by having a negative attitude. C\u2019mon.\u201d
\n          He gets out the car and quickly changes into a clean t-shirt, but I sit for a few heartbeats, clenching the steering wheel while I try to pinpoint the source of my discomfort. I\u2019d rather be anywhere than here. Mercifully we\u2019re only staying one night \u2013 I\u2019ve booked a room in the local hotel. I didn\u2019t presume to ask whether Thulani and I could spend the night in the parental home.
\n          The front door remains obstinately closed and I gather my bag and get out. What, was I expecting my father to stand there with a shotgun to run daardie kaffir<\/em> off his doorstep? Ugly words, as taboo as saying nigger.
\n          Thulani gives no appearance that he\u2019s even the least bit aware of my misgivings. Instead he offers me a smile and squeezes my hand with his uninjured one, and we make our way to the front door.
\n          The squeak of the aluminium gate swinging shut behind us feels like a gunshot.
\n          Pa opens the door just as I\u2019m about to knock the second time.
\n          \u201cPa!\u201d I say. \u201cHow are you?\u201d
\n          His smile is tight and the hug and kiss he gives me is perfunctory.
\n          Thulani holds out his hand. \u201cMeneer Coetzee.\u201d His Afrikaans is flawless. Very few of the older generation expect that when he opens his mouth.
\n          Pa eyes Thulani but doesn\u2019t accept his hand. \u201cCome inside,\u201d he says in Afrikaans.
\n          We follow his shuffling form into the lounge. How is it that in the three years since I was last here he\u2019s grown so stooped, shrunken in on himself? Ma bustles out of the kitchen as we come in and there is much hugging and kissing.
\n          While Pa is aloof, Ma\u2019s at least trying with Thulani. She takes his hand, gingerly, but it\u2019s a start.
\n          And Thulani is full of compliments for the lovely mother of such a beautiful daughter. Ma eats the words up like chocolate drops while Pa glowers from his armchair. He\u2019s a troll king, gripping the armrests while he watches us with angry eyes.
\n          Thulani winces slightly as he takes his seat, and I recall the bite.
\n          \u201cMa, Thulani got bitten by a dog on the way here. Do you have any bandages and antiseptic?\u201d
\n          What a way to start an already tense first meeting. Pa stays in his chair while Ma flutters ahead of us down the passageway, her hands quick like flicking sparrow wings as she jabbers away. Thulani makes her nervous. This is probably the first time a black man has entered her home, as a guest, and she\u2019s too polite to say as much.
\n          Framed black-and-white photos of long-deceased family members glare down at us from the walls. I can\u2019t even imagine what they\u2019d think of our arrival in their midst. Thulani sits on the edge of the bath while Ma reaches into the cabinet under the sink for the first aid kit. I don\u2019t like the way he clutches his left hand, and a thin film of sweat beads his upper lip.
\n          \u201cAre you okay?\u201d I ask him.
\n          He nods. \u201cJust my phobia of medical stuff.\u201d He manages a small laugh.
\n          \u201cThis will only hurt a little,\u201d Ma says but then she pauses, her expression growing unreadable as she looks at Thulani. She thrusts the box into my hands. \u201cHere, Marietjie, you do it. Then come help me in the kitchen with the tea things when you\u2019re done.\u201d
\n          She all but dashes out of the room.
\n          \u201cWell, that was weird,\u201d I comment.
\n          \u201cHow so?\u201d
\n          \u201cMy ma\u2019s normally the first to dive in and take control when anyone\u2019s gotten hurt. Wonder what \u2013\u201d
\n          \u201cShe probably doesn\u2019t want to make you feel uncomfortable,\u201d he answers.
\n          \u201cNo, that\u2019s not it.\u201d I don\u2019t want to tell him that I think she didn\u2019t want to touch him.
\n          The skin around the bite wound is swollen to twice its normal size and Thulani hisses when I dab at it with mercurochrome.
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t like the look of that,\u201d I tell him as I apply further antiseptic on the wound. \u201cWe really need to see a doctor.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019m sure we can hold out until Monday.\u201d
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t know about that.\u201d
\n          \u201cWe can stop by the medi-clinic\u2019s emergency unit when we get back tomorrow afternoon,\u201d he tells me.
\n          \u201cThat\u2019d be for the best.\u201d I wrap the wound with fresh dressing, and help myself to enough supplies to last for tonight and tomorrow morning. I\u2019m sure Ma won\u2019t mind.
\n          He declines a painkiller, but I\u2019m satisfied that I\u2019ve done the best I can under circumstances. Thulani goes to the lounge to speak with Pa, and I join Ma in the kitchen.
\n          \u201cDid you clean up properly after you were done?\u201d she asks me, almost angrily.
\n          \u201cOf course, Ma.\u201d I try not to roll my eyes. I\u2019m not twelve anymore. Amazing how my ma will save a completely different face to show in the inner sanctum of her kitchen.
\n          She approaches me and takes hold of my shoulders, her gaze stormy grey. \u201cHas he been tested?\u201d she whispers.
\n          \u201cWhat?\u201d Okay, now she\u2019s confusing me.
\n          \u201cFor Aids. You know how they like to sleep around.\u201d
\n          \u201cMa!\u201d I almost shout and the word comes out all choked.
\n          \u201cYou can\u2019t be sure enough in this day and age.\u201d
\n          I pull away from her. \u201cYou can\u2019t make generalisations like that anymore. Thulani is not some tsotsi<\/em> off the street. I\u2019m more worried that he\u2019s going to get rabies from that dog bite.\u201d
\n          \u201cI hope you understand that it is very difficult for Schalk and me to accept your decision. I\u2019m sure he\u2019s a nice boy otherwise you wouldn\u2019t have…\u201d Ma evidently can\u2019t find the right words.
\n          \u201cI love him. Is that not enough? And he\u2019s good for me.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat about Adrian? He was studying to be a doctor,\u201d Ma asks.
\n          \u201cAdrian cheated on me. He went on behind my back.\u201d No matter how often I\u2019ve told Ma that my ex had been a shit, she always brings up the fact that Adrian was going to have a Dr and not a Mr in front of his name. Not that it made him a better person than the next.
\n          Ma evidently has more concerns to raise, but I am grateful that she keeps her mouth shut and instead orders me about the kitchen. It is almost like old days. Everything has to be just so: a tray with a crocheted cloth; the good coffee cups; milk in a jug; and a little doily on the sugar pot. Even staid milk tart. I can\u2019t help but notice that a chipped tin mug and plate set still stands among the crockery. Ma must still give the gardener his meals using those utensils.
\n          By the time we bring the tea things into the lounge, the old man has even unbent enough to not sit like the troll king anymore. In fact he leans forward, his hands loose in his lap and some of the grimness fled from his expression. Thulani relates a little about the work he does for an NGO that aids the city in facilitating the allocation of RDP houses in the townships.
\n          Dad used to handle PR for one of the country\u2019s big construction companies. Thulani\u2019s talking a language he understands. I try not to let my relief show too much while I help dole out tea and slices of milk tart.
\n          Occasionally Ma drops a few clunkers like \u201cyou people\u201d when referring to black South Africans. I cringe, but Thulani\u2019s all smiles and smooth words, and I relax for now. He might have a few choice comments for my ears only later. This entire afternoon could have gone much, much worse. Thank goodness my brother isn\u2019t here to use the K-word. He still won\u2019t talk to me since I took up with Thulani. And he sure as hell won\u2019t let me see my nieces.
\n          I\u2019m comfortable enough to hold Thulani\u2019s hand, and he squeezes my fingers gently while telling of the time he rescued an abandoned baby out of a stormwater drain. I don\u2019t like how cold and clammy his skin is, but when I glance at his face I don\u2019t see anything untoward in his expression to betray that he is unwell. Is that a slight tremor I feel? I\u2019m not sure.
\n          The inevitable happens. We run out of words. Ma and Pa\u2019s world has shrunk. They know only what they read in the papers and glean from the radio and television. Cellphone reception let alone internet access here in Pienaarsvlakte is patchy at best. Ma goes to her bible study each Thursday and attends church. Pa occasionally goes on hunting trips with his retired friends. They speak of the world outside their town in terms of a country that has become hostile to them, and the farthest they\u2019ve travelled recently has been to Beaufort West so Pa could go have some tests done at the hospital.
\n          We leave shortly before supper. I\u2019d hoped that they\u2019d invite us to stay, but they don\u2019t; Ma complains that she\u2019s got a headache coming on. I don\u2019t know if she\u2019s faking it and I don\u2019t want to confront her. I\u2019m still annoyed with what she\u2019d said in the kitchen.
\n          \u201cThat went better than I expected,\u201d says Thulani once we\u2019re in the car. He puffs out a deep breath and sags into the driver\u2019s seat.
\n          I place a hand on his shoulder and feel a tremor pass through the muscle. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d
\n          \u201cThroat\u2019s a bit sore.\u201d
\n          I look back at the front door, but neither Ma nor Pa stands there. The message is clear: You\u2019ve visited. Now you can go.<\/em>
\n          I sigh and bite my lip. Yes, this was a lot for them to take in over one afternoon. Maybe there\u2019ll be a next time. Meanwhile Thulani\u2019s not feeling too hot and we\u2019re in the middle of bloody nowhere.
\n          \u201cLet me drive. We can go back to Cape Town tonight. I\u2019ll stop at the service station and stock up on strong coffee. I\u2019ll be fine.\u201d
\n          I don\u2019t want to talk about this afternoon, at least not yet.
\n          He shakes his head and flashes me that disarming smile. \u201cWe\u2019ve been on the road all day, sweets. Let\u2019s get some rest at the hotel then leave first thing, okay? I\u2019m sure my hand won\u2019t fall off overnight.\u201d
\n          \u201cHow is your hand?\u201d I try to reach for the injured limb, but he pulls away.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s okay. A bit numb. But I\u2019ll be fine.\u201d He turns the key in the ignition, a clear sign that he won\u2019t brook any argument from me on the matter, though I can\u2019t help but notice that he winces when he handles the steering wheel.
\n          Every Karoo town has a Royal Hotel, it would seem, and Pienaarsvlakte is no exception. The building\u2019s walls are sheathed in slasto and several trucks are parked outside. From what I can tell, this is the only bar in town too \u2013 unless one ventures into the township to visit one of the shebeens. But there\u2019s no way in hell any of the local whites would do that.
\n          We grab our overnight bags, lock the car and make our way into the reception area. More slasto. The walls are painted a pale mint green straight out of the 1970s, and the orange frosted glass panels in the doors are equally retro. A fern that\u2019s lost most of its withered leaves crouches in a corner and a moth-eaten buffalo head grimaces at us from above the front desk.
\n          The noise from the bar room at the other end of the foyer tells me there\u2019s a bunch of men enjoying the beery interior and, from the sound of a televised commentator\u2019s tinny voice, there\u2019s still a rugby match on. A sudden, drunken cheer reverberates through the building. No one\u2019s manning the desk, however, so we end up standing like fools for a bit.
\n          Presently Thulani slumps into one of the aluminium-and-vinyl chairs. \u201cThis is like something out of the Twilight Zone<\/em>,\u201d he says.
\n          \u201cI\u2019ll go into the bar and find out if there\u2019s someone who can help us,\u201d I offer.
\n          \u201cYou do that.\u201d He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose, and I make a mental note to ask the manager if they\u2019ve got some painkillers. Thulani\u2019s not going to win the argument about taking medicine this time, and he\u2019s doing a shit job of pretending that everything\u2019s okay.
\n          The bar room is filled with a thick miasma of smoke and stale beer, and the dozen or so bleary-eyed men are focused on the television screen over the counter. I\u2019m a woman in their territory, and they ignore me. The barman\u2019s just as engrossed in the game as his mates.
\n          \u201cExcuse me, sir,\u201d I say at least three times before he deigns to notice me.
\n          \u201cCan I help you?\u201d He doesn\u2019t sound as if he\u2019d want to.
\n          \u201cUm, do you know where the manager is?\u201d
\n          \u201cYou can talk to me.\u201d
\n          I swallow hard, unaccountably nervous. \u201cUm, I made a booking under the name Coetzee. There\u2019s two of us.\u201d
\n          \u201cOh. Right.\u201d He stubs his cigarette out and walks out from behind the counter.
\n          Gee, could he be any more enthusiastic? I bite back the smart retort that plays on the tip of my tongue and trot after the man. Oh, how I\u2019d love to say something. All I want right now is for us to get into our room and have a bath so that I can check up on Thulani\u2019s hand.
\n          The barman comes to a dead stop when he sees Thulani in the foyer. \u201cCan I help you?\u201d The hostility in his tone is obvious.
\n          Thulani rises with a tired smile. \u201cI\u2019m with this lady here.\u201d He gestures to me.
\n          \u201cOh.\u201d The barman\u2019s hands twitch then he grunts and goes behind the desk where he flips open a diary and makes a show of reading the cramped scrawl noted under today\u2019s date.
\n          The man squints up at me. \u201cI don\u2019t see any booking under Coetzee.\u201d
\n          \u201cUm, but I confirmed with a deposit.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d He doesn\u2019t sound sorry at all. \u201cAnd we\u2019ve no vacancies.\u201d
\n          \u201cThis is bullshit!\u201d I yell and lean across the counter. There, barely legible, I can read my surname. \u201cMy name.\u201d I point at the word.
\n          He slams the book shut. \u201cI don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about.\u201d
\n          Thulani holds up his hands. \u201cNow I\u2019m sure there\u2019s a perfectly \u2013\u201d
\n          \u201cI suggest you both leave,\u201d the barman says. \u201cWe don\u2019t want your sort here. Go now, before I call the cops.\u201d
\n          Then it sinks in and I\u2019d have lurched forward to grab the man\u2019s t-shirt in both hands and shake him if it weren\u2019t for Thulani, who snakes his arm around my waist.
\n          \u201cI understand how it is then,\u201d he tells the man with so much scorn in his smile I\u2019m surprised the barman doesn\u2019t wither on the spot.
\n          \u201cThulani!\u201d I protest.
\n          \u201cHush, baby cheeks.\u201d
\n          How is it that he\u2019s so calm? Tears burn at the corners of my eyes and I struggle once, half-heartedly, then allow Thulani to steer me back to our bags.
\n          \u201cWhat are we going to do?\u201d I can feel how my face is aflame with both anger and embarrassment at our treatment. \u201cWe can\u2019t just let this man be like this. It\u2019s not right.\u201d
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t want trouble.\u201d Thulani winces as he hefts his bag but he keeps a firm hold on my wrist and guides me out the door.
\n          \u201cYou can\u2019t just let him walk all over us like this.\u201d
\n          \u201cRelax,\u201d he murmurs. \u201cLet\u2019s just go.\u201d
\n          My tears do start but I\u2019m in no mood to argue with him. Thulani\u2019s always the voice of reason in these situations. I\u2019ve learnt to trust his judgment and we get in the car.
\n          He lies back in his seat for a few minutes, his breathing slow and deep then he gathers himself and starts the car.
\n          \u201cOn Monday,\u201d he begins, \u201cI\u2019ll talk to Ziyanda. This sort of story is right up her alley. I\u2019m sure she and Chris will be absolutely delighted to do a little stirring of their own and run a story in their paper. And it\u2019ll explode all over social media too. So don\u2019t you worry.\u201d
\n          \u201cOh,\u201d I say, and feel the first stirrings of glee. I wipe away my tears. \u201cBut that still doesn\u2019t help our situation now. What are we going to do?\u201d
\n          \u201cWe\u2019re going to take a drive out to the township. I\u2019m sure someone will be able to direct us to a home where we may spend the night.\u201d
\n          \u201cBut we don\u2019t know anyone here.\u201d
\n          \u201cDon\u2019t worry. My people are your people too now, don\u2019t you forget that.\u201d
\n          The township is on the outskirts of Pienaarsvlakte, across the road. No pepper trees grow here and the streetlights cast everything in a garish orange glow so it\u2019s never really dark after sunset. Row upon row of cinderblock houses march in the grid pattern; many have attendant tin shacks clustering in their small yards.
\n          While the neighbouring Pienaarsvlakte appears deserted already, Zingisa township is overflowing with activity. Children run around playing games while adults walk about. Lights blaze from old shipping containers that have been converted into spaza shops.
\n          Our smart little green Toyota Yaris draws stares, but Thulani drives slowly, rolls down the window and soon he\u2019s engaging a group of young men outside one of the houses.
\n          I understand only one in every ten words, but the gist of the conversation is clear. Thulani\u2019s summed up our entire experience at the hotel in the matter of a few sentences \u2013 much to the general amusement of his rapt audience \u2013 and they are equally quick to give directions to a home a few blocks down where we can inquire by a lady named Nosipho Dladla, who might have a room to spare.
\n          \u201cYou don\u2019t have to worry, my dear little umlungu<\/em>,\u201d he tells me as we drive to our destination. \u201cYou\u2019ll have a warm welcome.\u201d
\n          Nosipho turns out to be an older lady deep in her seventies, and she\u2019s only too happy to take Thulani\u2019s money and get her brood of grandchildren to share her bed for the night. We wait in the cramped space that is their lounge, dining room and kitchen, all rolled into one, while much activity ensues.
\n          The interior of the home smells of floor polish, and belying the home\u2019s humble exterior, a large flat-screen TV dominates a wall. As always, I\u2019m struck by how these small houses always look bigger on the inside. The children, whose names I don\u2019t quite catch, appear quite taken with me, and their curious fingers often stray to my hair which they play with until Nosipho shouts at them to leave me alone.
\n          Only once we are in the room, does Thulani collapse with a stifled groan. \u201cI feel like hell,\u201d he mumbles into the linen.
\n          I sit next to him on the narrow bed we\u2019re going to share and stroke his shoulder. His t-shirt is soaked through with sweat and he\u2019s shaking.
\n          \u201cMaybe we should drive to Cape Town tonight.\u201d
\n          \u201cNo. I can\u2019t face another moment in that car. Let me rest, woman. Tomorrow is another day.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re sick,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI don\u2019t particularly fancy spending the night in a strange place while you\u2019re obviously not well.\u201d
\n          I get no response. Thulani\u2019s fallen into fitful slumber and I do what I can to arrange his limbs on the bed so he\u2019s comfortable. He takes up most of the space, and he\u2019s so warm I can\u2019t bear to touch him. The interior is muggy and I can\u2019t get the window to open \u2013 it\u2019s been welded shut. The family go about their preparations for the night, and I toy briefly with the idea of asking Nosipho for water, but the language barrier is too daunting.
\n          Here we are, strangers in their home, and on top of things, I\u2019ve brought a sick man with me. Once things settle down, Nosipho does knock on the door to check in on us.
\n          I murmur in my broken Xhosa that Thulani\u2019s sleeping already, and thank her before turning out the bedside light.
\n          So I sit in the worn armchair, wide-eyed and unable to sleep, while Thulani twists and turns on the bed. There\u2019s a shebeen a few houses down that\u2019s playing kwaito. Men talk and laugh while they walk down the road. A dog begins howling, only to have its vocalisations taken up by canines nearby until an almost unholy chorus tears at my soul. The ululating shrieks make me shiver, and I can\u2019t help but recall a quotation from Dracula<\/em>, about the children of the night and what beautiful music they make. Not quite music to my ears, that\u2019s for sure.
\n          Then a man shouts and a lull descends, punctuated only by the throb of two competing sound systems. How do people sleep through this? Or is it only on weekends? I\u2019m all too aware of the incidental noises from the family in the room next to ours. The partition does little to insulate sound.
\n          Thulani moans quietly. His injured hand rests on top of the covers and I turn on the bedside light briefly so I can examine the dressing. A greyish liquid stains the gauze and a distinctly rotten-meat odour hangs about the affected limb. Oh god I hope this isn\u2019t gangrene. He didn\u2019t give me a chance to change the bandage and clean the wound before he passed out, and I don\u2019t want to disturb him now while he\u2019s resting.
\n          Though I should.
\n          But then he\u2019ll wake, and he\u2019ll wake the Dladlas.
\n          I swear under my breath. I should have insisted on taking Thulani straight to Cape Town without allowing him to overrule my decision. Should have, but didn\u2019t. And now I am in this predicament.
\n          I can hear my mother\u2019s voice in the back of my head, It\u2019s not right for you to put your hosts in this spot. You don\u2019t make your problems strangers\u2019 problems. That\u2019s not how I raised you.<\/em>
\n          Of course there\u2019s nothing I can do about it right now.
\n          Stupid, stupid, stupid.
\n          I switch off the light, close my eyes. Breathe. Try a few visualisation exercises in the vain hope that I can get to sleep. My bladder is uncomfortably full. Shit. I should have gone to the bathroom before I settled in the room with Thulani. Of course I didn\u2019t.
\n          All these should haves.
\n          My cellphone informs me that it\u2019s five to twelve. Fuck. At least another six hours before I can politely stir and get my show on the road. I am so not going to manage to pinch for six whole hours. I need to pee. I\u2019m also thirsty.
\n          Thank goodness these RDP homes have a small inside bathroom. Because if I had to go outside now to use a long drop… As it is, I have to summon all my courage to get up from the armchair and press myself past the bed so I can get to the door. I stand there for what feels like half a century, just listening, but I hear only Nosipho\u2019s soft snores and the tick-tick-tick<\/em> of the wall-mounted clock in the lounge.
\n          The bathroom is across the passageway. The door is ajar and I cringe when it shrieks in protest as I push it open. So I halt, waiting, but apart from Thulani noisily turning over, no one gives the appearance of being disturbed by my visit to the bathroom.
\n          I flip the switch for the light and close the door behind me.
\n          The room has space only for the bath, basin and a toilet. Children\u2019s toys line the side of the bath \u2013 dolls with missing limbs, as well as brightly coloured plastic balls and rings.
\n          After I\u2019ve relieved myself, I fill the basin with warm water, take off my jersey, and soak part of the garment so I can use it as a makeshift washcloth. I might not be one hundred percent fresh tomorrow when I leave but I want to at least get the worst of the day\u2019s sweat and grime off my face and from under my arms.
\n          The warm water goes a long way to making me feel that little bit better, as though I could wash away the stilted agony of tea with my folks and the nasty turn of events at the hotel. The face that stares back at me from the mirror is drawn, and my cheeks are flushed as if I in some way sympathetically experience Thulani\u2019s fever.
\n          No. I\u2019m imagining things. I\u2019m not the one who was bitten.
\n          It\u2019s when I pull the plug out and water gurgles down the drain that I hear the front door rattle then slam open. Sudden fear has me freeze. Has someone broken in?
\n          I straighten my clothes and pause, undecided. I hate this. Hate not knowing how to behave and what to say. My pulse hammers in my throat and I try to draw a steadying breath. If only I could blink and make all of this just some bad dream. I could puke right now but I gulp in air.
\n          \u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d Nosipho calls.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m in the bathroom,\u201d I respond.
\n          Muttering follows and I can hear Nosipho moving about in her room. Children complain. We both end up in the passageway at the same time, trading wary glances. The front door gapes open yet there\u2019s no intruder.
\n          \u201cHayibo<\/em>! I thought I locked up tight,\u201d Nosipho says even as she stumps to the door.
\n          I watch and wait while she peers outside then pulls the door shut and double-checks the lock.
\n          \u201cThat is strange,\u201d I say.
\n          \u201cThe key was still on the inside,\u201d Nosipho says, shaking her head.
\n          That\u2019s when it hits me hard. \u201cThulani!\u201d His name is a choked cry as I spin around to the spare room.
\n          The bedding is all churned up and Thulani\u2019s gone. I stand motionless, unbelieving. What the hell? What\u2019s possessed him to run out like this? Dogs bark like crazy in the distance. A woman starts yelling at someone.
\n          \u201cMaybe he\u2019s gone to a shebeen?\u201d Nosipho asks.
\n          \u201cAt this time of the night?\u201d I ask, incredulous. I want to add that Thulani barely drinks at all, but keep my mouth shut.
\n          She shrugs then returns to her room, leaving me to the now-empty bed. This entire situation is wrong on so many counts. Why would he just get up and walk out the door when he was half-dead with exhaustion and sickness earlier? He\u2019s never left me in the dwang before.
\n          By all rights I should be pulling on a jacket and shoes and go looking for him but yikes…Me alone. In a township. In the wee hours of Sunday morning when there are guaranteed to be folks still out and about who might be inebriated?
\n          Nosipho is no help whatsoever and, besides, what can I expect her to do? I briefly envision the two of us wandering between the houses calling after Thulani. Ridiculous.
\n          I grab fistfuls of my top and scrunch it hard while I rock from side to side on the bed. What the hell am I to do now? I can\u2019t exactly call the cops. They\u2019ll laugh at me. I can hear them now, talking to each other, about \u201cthat crazy white woman with a black boyfriend\u201d.
\n          Yet he\u2019s out there. No doubt delirious.
\n          \u201cFuck,\u201d I mutter then start packing, my mind made up. I might not be able to walk between the houses, but I can sure as hell take the car.
\n          When I find him he\u2019s not going to argue with me. We are getting the hell out of this place and driving straight through to Cape Town.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/center> <\/p>\n

It\u2019s no use. The sky to the east has gone pale like a dove\u2019s wing and roosters have been crowing for an hour already. Thulani remains missing. Twice I\u2019ve driven past police patrol vans, their blue lights painting the surroundings in a flood of sapphire. I don\u2019t even want to know what they\u2019ve been investigating.
\n          Perhaps a domestic disturbance or a murder. Or both. What if Thulani is involved? My fear rises in me like choking mist and keeps me from approaching the cops. Paralysis. I am a ghost skirting the edges.
\n          Silly white woman, what are you doing here in this place?<\/em>
\n          I can\u2019t go on like this. At six, when the sun is just nibbling over the eastern horizon, I give up this venture and plan my next move. I go home. To my parents.
\n          This was never my true home, but I visited often enough over the years that Ma set up the spare room with fresh bedding in case I should drop by. The place is familiar: the same grandfather clock ticking in the lounge; the Oriental carpets I recall from the old house in Sea Point grace the dining room. So it is home or the closest approximation thereof that I can find in this wasteland.
\n          Pa is surprised to see me. He\u2019s sweeping imaginary leaves from the front garden \u2013 his particular morning meditation to get out of the house \u2013 and halts his labours immediately when I pull up outside the gate.
\n          He hurries to the fence. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d
\n          Here things become hazy. Up until now I\u2019ve done such a good job holding things together, waiting and watching, dry-eyed. Now the tears come as I babble my story.
\n          Pa, in a rare display of affection, pulls me close to him and lets me cry. His clothes smell faintly of naphthalene mothballs, but mostly of him, and it\u2019s like I\u2019m five again and fallen off my bike. By this time Ma has come outside and she hurries us into the kitchen where she gets me to sip sweet tea.
\n          I relay my story for a second time, slower now.
\n          Ma shakes her head. \u201cYou should have come to us. You should never have gone crawling into that place. They gang-raped a teenager there last month.\u201d
\n          They gang-rape teenagers everywhere, I want to say, but instead I respond, \u201cWe didn\u2019t want to be any trouble.\u201d Besides, I know how you and Pa feel about blacks.
\n          \u201cWell, this is a big mess now,\u201d Pa says.
\n          \u201cWhat are we going to do, Schalk?\u201d Ma asks.
\n          He shakes his head. \u201cWe can\u2019t really go to the police. I\u2019ll call Bertus and see if he can\u2019t get his garden boy to ask around. I don\u2019t want any of us to go into that place.\u201d
\n          That place has a name, I want to say. Zingisa.
\n          So we wait. Pa makes phone calls, but then they get ready for church, and Ma gives me something to help me sleep once I\u2019ve had a bath.
\n          \u201cGet some rest. Pa will sort everything out.\u201d
\n          I believe her, and swallow that little white pill that softens my world\u2019s jagged edges. Sleep, when it comes, is sweet bliss. Everything will be better once I\u2019ve had some rest.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/center><\/p>\n

My parents\u2019 muted discussion rouses me and I sit up slowly. Sirens ululate in the distance. For a moment I can\u2019t quite figure out how and why I\u2019m here, in the spare bedroom, but then every horrible event over the past twenty-four hours comes crashing down so hard I can barely breathe.
\n          Thulani!
\n          I rush through to the lounge where my folks are standing by the window, the heavy curtains parted slightly so they can peer out.
\n          \u201cHow are you feeling, my dear?\u201d Ma turns and asks; she\u2019s all sugar and sweetness while she guides me to the couch.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m okay. Have you heard anything about Thulani yet?\u201d I want to look out the window, but my head\u2019s all muggy from the pill. It\u2019s easier to let Ma take charge.
\n          Pa drops the drape and shakes his head. \u201cLooks bad.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat?\u201d
\n          The wail of sirens is barely audible, but it\u2019s there, and the sound ices my veins with the stark reminder that all is not as it should be, and Thulani\u2019s out there, somewhere, hurt and possibly dying.
\n          \u201cZingisa township\u2019s burning,\u201d Pa says, matter of fact.
\n          \u201cThere\u2019s been a lot of unrest today,\u201d Ma adds. \u201cIt\u2019s the youth league, I tell you. They\u2019re protesting because of that whole thing with the clinic. Ungrateful people. Things were never like this in the old days.\u201d
\n          It\u2019s not protests. Can\u2019t be. The mood was so normal, ordinary when I left. People there just want to get on with their lives. I make my way to the window where the thick pall of black smoke drifting to the sky confirms that the worst has indeed happened. We\u2019re not so far away that we can\u2019t hear the periodic explosion of gas canisters.
\n          Those are homes going up in flames.
\n          \u201cBut you said you\u2019d phone Bertus,\u201d I say.
\n          \u201cBertus tried to get hold of Jaco, but says no one answered.\u201d
\n          Oh hell. That does so not sound good.
\n          A police van with its blue lights flashing cruises slowly up the road, and we watch in silent trepidation as it passes.
\n          Then we go outside. This is no doubt more excitement Pienaarsvlakte\u2019s seen in months, though definitely not the kind that I\u2019d wish to be privy to. Oh please God let Thulani be all right.
\n          We watch as two police officers make their way up the road, one on each side. They knock on the doors of every house to have subdued conversations with whoever\u2019s home.
\n          \u201cGo inside, both of you,\u201d Pa tells us.
\n          \u201cI want to hear what the man says,\u201d I tell him.
\n          Ma tugs on my wrist. \u201cCome, Marietjie. Listen to Pa.\u201d
\n          For a moment I want to resist, but realise that if I complain about not being treated like an adult, I am indeed behaving like a child, so I give in and play the role of obedient daughter.
\n          My ears are burning, and I contrive to be in the lounge when the policeman arrives. I can\u2019t make out much of the conversation, but the man\u2019s twitchy expression, and the way his hand keeps straying to his holster are enough to tell me something has gone more than seriously wrong.
\n          \u201cWhat did he say?\u201d I ask Pa the moment he steps back inside the house.
\n          \u201cBig problems. Very big problems.\u201d He slams shut the security gate with such a violent clang that the whole house shudders.
\n          Ma comes down the passage. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d
\n          \u201cThere\u2019s unrest in the township. They\u2019ve called for reinforcements from Beaufort West,\u201d Pa says then wavers, as though further words and actions fail him.
\n          \u201cWhat now?\u201d I ask.
\n          \u201cWe\u2019re going to sit tight until then,\u201d Pa tells us after he\u2019s had a few moments to consider our situation. \u201cWe\u2019re not to go outside for any reason until we\u2019re told it\u2019s all right.\u201d He marches past us and vanishes into the bedroom.
\n          Ma and I stare at each other with wide eyes as we hear him unlock the safe. When we investigate, we\u2019re just in time to see Pa sight down the barrel of his shotgun.
\n          \u201cThis should stop any kaffirs<\/em> that come here looking for trouble,\u201d Pa says.
\n          \u201cYou can\u2019t say that word!\u201d I tell him.
\n          The scowl he casts in my direction is so ugly I immediately wish I\u2019d bitten my tongue. \u201cThis is my house and I\u2019ll say anything I please. Don\u2019t you think coming here with your citified kaffir<\/em>-loving ways is going to change the truth of the matter.\u201d
\n          \u201cSchalk!\u201d Ma says.
\n          \u201cGo check that the garage door is bolted, woman.\u201d
\n          Ma wilts out of the room and I elect to do the same.
\n          Cold now, I go back to my room and pull on my jacket then return to the TV lounge. At least I can see whether there\u2019s anything about this being televised. Nothing. I flip through the meagre channels available out here. My folks don\u2019t believe in DStv and whatever SABC stations we pick up are so snow-filled I wonder why my parents even bother.
\n          Desperate, I try my cellphone\u2019s internet browser, but can\u2019t pick up a strong enough signal for Google to be my friend. Communication blackout. The not-knowing is in a way worse. I\u2019m trapped in this house while the world goes to shit outside. A fresh wail of sirens, closer now, has me pause.
\n          Pa comes in to check the windows, but barely glances in my direction as he goes through the motions. Like a shotgun\u2019s going to do any good against a determined mob. I\u2019ve seen protests get ugly in Cape Town. I\u2019ve been there. You can\u2019t do anything when a seething mass of angry people pours through the streets, but make sure you\u2019re not in their way.
\n          Night falls. Ma calls me to the kitchen and I draw some comfort from helping her prepare supper: toast, cheese, defrosted vegetable soup \u2013 the tastes of home that I associate with any other normal Sunday evening with the folks.
\n          Only it\u2019s not a normal night, and Thulani\u2019s absence is a gaping black hole in my chest sucking out all my joy. Pa sets the shotgun down on the kitchen counter behind him. The weapon gleams a dull, oily black, and I can\u2019t help but think of a mamba, ready to strike. Pa\u2019s jersey is hiked up slightly to reveal the pistol holstered at his hip. He\u2019s ready for any trouble. I should feel safe.
\n          Why don\u2019t I?
\n          We\u2019ve barely said grace when a muted crash of broken glass has all three of us jerk and cast nervous glances toward the window.
\n          \u201cThat was from next door, at Stevie\u2019s,\u201d Pa says.
\n          Ma says nothing, but her lips are slightly parted. I wonder if my eyes are as round as hers.
\n          He rises and shoves his chair back so hard so it grates on the linoleum. \u201cI\u2019m going to go take a look.\u201d
\n          \u201cDon\u2019t!\u201d Ma says. \u201cThe police…\u201d
\n          \u201cThe police are worse than useless, and you know that,\u201d he retorts.
\n          I follow him as he strides down the passage, the gun held at the ready, like the enemy\u2019s already on the doorstep.
\n          I remember all the times when I was little and I\u2019d watched him take his pistol out of the safe each night. He\u2019d always slept with the gun within reach by the bed. In case there was a break-in. I don\u2019t think I\u2019d ever seen him handle the shotgun indoors, until now, and the sight alarms me more than I can say.
\n          \u201cStay with your mother,\u201d he tells me when I follow him outside. \u201cLock the door behind me and don\u2019t open it for anyone. Do not \u2013\u201d He pauses meaningfully. \u201cDo not under any circumstances come outside. No matter what you hear. Do you understand?\u201d
\n          I can only nod, and my heart feels like it\u2019s beating so hard it\u2019s going to explode.
\n          Pa has so much determination about him, but he\u2019s old. I can see that now. When I was little, he used to carry me on his shoulders, but now I\u2019m almost as tall as him.
\n          The last glimpse I catch of him is when he flips on the torch he must\u2019ve had in his pocket all along, and the wobbly beam of light frames his silhouette as he opens the front gate and vanishes towards the neighbour\u2019s house.
\n          I dare to stand a few moments longer than I should, listening, straining my senses to try garner some idea of what\u2019s going on out there in the inky night. The stench of burning plastic rides the air and the hellish glow from Zingisa scares me on a much deeper level.
\n          Oh god let Thulani be all right.
\n          Reason tells me there\u2019s a more than fair chance that he\u2019s anything but all right.
\n          I don\u2019t want to listen to that voice. So long as I don\u2019t know the truth, I can pretend otherwise.
\n          A dog three houses away starts yammering like it\u2019s the end of the world, so I slam the security gate, shut the door and make damned sure the key is turned in the lock.
\n          Then the lights go out, and Ma screams from the kitchen.
\n          \u201cMa!\u201d I yell as I start running down the passage. I slam into a wall as I take the corner into the kitchen too fast and all the breath is knocked from me.
\n          \u201cThe power!\u201d Ma sobs.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s okay, it\u2019s okay. Just a power failure. Are you up to date with your electricity credits?\u201d
\n          \u201cWe got on Friday,\u201d she says.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s probably just a temporary thing.\u201d I take out my cellphone and use the flashlight app to see whether any switches have tripped on the board. Everything\u2019s fine. \u201cMust be at the substation, Ma. We\u2019ll have to be patient.\u201d
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t like this,\u201d she says.
\n          \u201cNeither do I. But let\u2019s get the candles, okay?\u201d I don\u2019t want to admit that I absolutely hate the choking dark that feels like it\u2019s going to crawl down my throat and press me to the floor with its heaviness.
\n          Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Marietjie.<\/em>
\n          My hands shake when I strike the match and that brief flare of fire is a welcome sight. Shadows leap from the candle and our faces are painted in ghoulish contours.
\n          \u201cI hope your father\u2019s all right,\u201d Ma says.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m sure he\u2019s fine. He\u2019s got the shotgun.\u201d
\n          The pressure of silence in the house is so apparent, I realise how much I miss the constant purr of the fridge. The only other sign of activity is from the grandfather clock that will tick in perpetuity so long as someone is there to wind it.
\n          Ma wants to go to the lounge so we can keep watch outside the window. I put the candleholder down on the mantelpiece and help Ma pull back the curtain. It takes my vision about five heartbeats to adjust to the darkness outside. The entire block\u2019s electricity appears to be shut off.
\n          That\u2019s when I notice the movement in the road. Five figures lurch along drunkenly, and I dash over to the candle so I can extinguish it. I don\u2019t quite know what impulse has me do this, but there\u2019s something not right about the way those people move.
\n          \u201cWhy did you blow out the candle?\u201d Ma asks.
\n          \u201cShhh<\/em>.\u201d I gesture out the window. \u201cThere are people there. I don\u2019t like this.\u201d
\n          Ma doesn\u2019t say another word, and I\u2019m grateful for her solid presence pressed against me as we continue standing by the window, even if she\u2019s shaking as much as I am.
\n          The explosion of a shotgun right next door causes us to jerk.
\n          Pa!
\n          Ma gives a small squeak, and I pull her to me and hug her tightly. \u201cIt will be all right,\u201d I whisper into her hair. \u201cEverything will be all right.\u201d I\u2019m glad she can\u2019t see the tears that wet my cheeks.
\n          A man rages incoherently, but we can\u2019t hear his exact words through the walls. Glass breaks. Another shot goes off.
\n          Those shambling figures in the road veer from their course and make toward our neighbour\u2019s home, where Pa\u2019s gone. Where it sounds as if he\u2019s shot someone. I make as if to move to the front door, but Ma holds onto me.
\n          \u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d she says. \u201cYou know your father wants you to stay safe.\u201d
\n          \u201cBut Stevie? Pa? What\u2019s happening there?\u201d I ask. \u201cI need to go look.\u201d
\n          Ma squeezes me painfully. \u201cDon\u2019t. Stay here with me.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019ve got to do something!\u201d I say.
\n          \u201cThen call the police.\u201d
\n          \u201cThey\u2019re probably too busy,\u201d I reply even as I make my way to the study where the landline is.
\n          Bless Ma and Pa for keeping all the important numbers written on a piece of cardboard right next to the phone. I check my cell \u2013 enough battery power, thank fuck.
\n          But there\u2019s no signal.
\n          Whatever knocked out the electricity has done the same to the phone lines.
\n          \u201cWhat the hell?\u201d I murmur. Panic claws at me, and a thin whine tears out of my throat. I don\u2019t want to stay here in the house with nowhere to go, but I don\u2019t want to go out there either. Those shambling, dark figures…
\n          I stand for I don\u2019t know how long, the dead receiver clutched in one hand, concentrating only on breathing. I don\u2019t know what to do. I really don\u2019t. Whenever something went horribly wrong in the past, be it a flat tyre or someone getting hurt, Pa would sort it out. Pa always knows what to do. Now he\u2019s not here. I don\u2019t feel much better knowing that all this time that I\u2019ve been with Thulani, I\u2019ve been leaning on him too.
\n          The candlelight wobbles down the passage and Ma\u2019s shadow leaps and prances as she approaches. \u201cDid you come right?\u201d
\n          \u201cLine\u2019s…\u201d I read Ma\u2019s horrified expression. \u201cDead.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat are we going to do now? We need to find out if Schalk is okay.\u201d
\n          \u201cI know, Ma.\u201d I slam the phone down in its cradle and drag my fingers through my hair. Maybe the pain can distract me; it certainly doesn\u2019t help my predicament.
\n          Even from where we are standing in one of the front rooms, the sudden shaking of the back door is so loud it sounds as if someone\u2019s trying to yank the door off the hinges. The handle is jiggled roughly, like an impatient child trying to enter.
\n          Ma shrieks and almost drops the candle.
\n          \u201cMaybe it\u2019s Pa,\u201d I say, but I don\u2019t believe myself. Why would he come round the back and frighten us out of our wits like that?
\n          Whoever it is starts thumping at the door just as I enter the kitchen, and I\u2019m grateful for the fact that the door is solid wood.
\n          \u201cWho is it?\u201d I call.
\n          A drawn-out moan is all response before the slapping starts again. I can hear nails scoring into the wood, gouging splinters. Or at least so my imagination informs me.
\n          Ma stands in the kitchen, the candle held skew so that she drips wax on the floor. \u201cWho is that?\u201d
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t think it\u2019s Pa.\u201d I swallow hard and blink back tears. I can barely breathe. We\u2019re trapped.
\n          Dead. Dead. We\u2019re going to wind up dead.
\n          \u201cLet me in…\u201d The voice is raspy and dry, like old newspapers being crumpled.
\n          \u201cThat\u2019s not Pa!\u201d Every instinct tells me to step away to go lock myself in the bathroom, but to what end?
\n          Shaking, I approach the sink, part the curtain and shine the cellphone\u2019s torch light out the window. But I can\u2019t see much more than my own reflection in the glow.
\n          A hand thumps against the glass hard, and a face is pressed against the pane. Skin sloughs off the cheek and the eyes are completely opaque \u2013 like fish eyes left out in the sun too long. Bloody saliva leaves a snail trail.
\n          I stagger backward into the table, and upset a chair in the process. My scream has Ma drop her candle. Luckily I keep hold of my phone.
\n          A fist crashes through the glass and sends shards skittering all over the floor. Then a long, arm, dark with gore and missing two fingers, snakes over the sill groping, feeling along. Almost the way someone would pat for his reading glasses.
\n          \u201cWe must get out of here, Ma. It\u2019s not safe.\u201d I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, but only sobs escape. I just can\u2019t. None of this is actually happening. Please oh god let none of this be happening.
\n          Ma\u2019s crouched by the door, arms flung over her head as she wails, the cry that of an animal in pain. \u201cSchalk, oh my Schalk where are you? I\u2019m so scared.\u201d
\n          But Pa\u2019s not here. And neither is Thulani. Whatever madness has descended on the town, we can\u2019t stay here and wait for someone to rescue us.
\n          Dead. Thulani\u2019s dead. You know it\u2019s the truth<\/em>, my dark half whispers.
\n          Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
\n          Then I do start laughing.
\n          I get up and try my best to ignore that arm trying to drag its body past the burglar bars. If Pa\u2019s done anything right, it\u2019s the attention to detail he\u2019s lavished on security measures. This is Africa, after all.
\n          I\u2019ve always joked and said they\u2019d trap themselves inside so thoroughly they wouldn\u2019t be able to get out if there\u2019s a fire, but now I\u2019m perversely glad.
\n          \u201cLet me in…\u201d the madman wheezes. \u201cSo hungry…\u201d
\n          \u201cLeave us alone!\u201d I yell. Then, in as calm a voice as possible, I say to Ma. \u201cCome. We need to go.\u201d
\n          She won\u2019t respond, keeps repeating Pa\u2019s name over and over again.
\n          More than ever I realise my urgency; I must get into my car and go. We can\u2019t stay in this house. We can\u2019t wait for someone else to keep doing things on our behalf. So I leave Ma for now and go get my things. I don\u2019t bother packing neatly; just stuff things in. Bag over shoulder, check. Keys. Cellphone. I go grab Ma\u2019s handbag, a jacket for her.
\n          I try to ignore the fingers spidering over the big window in Ma and Pa\u2019s bedroom. It means there\u2019s a person \u2013 let me not think it\u2019s another one \u2013 along the side of the house. We don\u2019t have much time. What\u2019s wrong with these people? Skin sloughing off like that? Goose flesh rises at the mere thought.
\n          I try to breathe, but my chest hurts. It\u2019s dark out there. I won\u2019t be able to see anyone coming. Hands can snag my clothing, drag at me. I can\u2019t help but recall Pa talking about Uhuru \u2013 The Night of the Long Knives \u2013 when all the black people will rise to murder the white oppressors once and for all once Madiba\u2019s gone. No. That\u2019s just stupid. Even though Pa\u2019s been preparing for it his entire life, with his guns and his talk of shooting those people. I won\u2019t say the K-word.
\n          And I can\u2019t help but think of that long, black arm that\u2019s trying to find a way to bring its owner into the house.
\n          I get our things together in the passageway then go back for Ma, get her to pull on her jacket. She\u2019s like a small child, crying and trying to bury her head in my arms. Why must I be the strong one? I\u2019m just as scared. My fingers are shaking so much I can barely pull up the zip of Ma\u2019s jacket.
\n          It\u2019s as we stand by the door that we hear the first dragging step on the front porch.
\n          \u201cShit,\u201d I murmur. The car key almost cuts into the soft meat of my palm. I kill the cellphone torch and we stand absolutely still. I hardly dare to breathe and Ma\u2019s crushing me to her.
\n          I don\u2019t have to see to know someone\u2019s standing there outside. Waiting. Aware that we\u2019re here, alone in the house wanting to leave.
\n          Ma gives a small whimper and I hush her; squeeze her back. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be okay, just be quiet. I\u2019m here.\u201d
\n          Tears run down my cheeks and wet Ma\u2019s hair as we hold each other in the dark.
\n          \u201cLet me in.\u201d It\u2019s Pa, but his voice sounds wrong. He sounds changed<\/em>. I can\u2019t help but think of those shambling figures I saw out in the road before the lights went out.
\n          The body outside throws itself against the door with a meaty thud. Ma and I both shriek and jerk at the same time.
\n          \u201cSo hunnngrrry…\u201d
\n          \u201cGo away!\u201d I shout. \u201cYou\u2019re not my father! What have you done with my father?\u201d
\n          A futile gesture. I know. But I have to say something. Do<\/em> something.
\n          \u201cLet me in.\u201d The words slop out with a wet gurgle. \u201cThere\u2019s nowhere for you to go.\u201d
\n          \u201cNo.\u201d I try not to sob out that one small syllable, but I can feel my entire world contracting to this one point.
\n          \u201cWhy not? Are you ashamed of me?\u201d
\n          Ma goes limp in my arms and I clutch at her. Ma cannot help me. No one can.<\/p>\n

\u00a9 Nerine Dorman, first published in The Naked Convos<\/em> (2014).<\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cIt\u2019s a dead dog, for Christ\u2019s sake, Thulani. I don\u2019t know why \u2013\u201d           Thulani brings the car to a halt far too fast for the gravel road, and we slew sideways as we come to a standstill. I can tell he\u2019s being stubborn from the way he juts out his chin. Mulish, I\u2019ve called him, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":201,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[344,343],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nShame - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7674\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Shame - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"\u201cIt\u2019s a dead dog, for Christ\u2019s sake, Thulani. I don\u2019t know why \u2013\u201d           Thulani brings the car to a halt far too fast for the gravel road, and we slew sideways as we come to a standstill. I can tell he\u2019s being stubborn from the way he juts out his chin. 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Her short fiction has been published in an assortment of anthologies, including the Midian Unmade: Tales of Clive Barker's Nightbreed; The Endless Ages Anthology for Vampire: The Masquerade; The Wraeththu Mythos, and War Stories: New Military Science Fiction, among others. Her YA fantasy novel Dragon Hunt is a finalist in the 2017 Sanlam Youth Literature Prize, and she is the curator of the South African Horrorfest Bloody Parchment event and short story competition. 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