Advo,” started PP, as we walked to the parking lot along Rissik Street, “and for that you owe us a bottle of J&B.”
Very few people remembered or knew PP’s real name. I didn’t know it either, but it was easy to pick him out of a crowd because of the way he walked. Because of his gout, he stuck his chest out as if it were an arse and walked slowly without his heels touching the ground.
“Read my lips! That’s right, PP,” added Dilika unnecessarily, “we should be attending a stokvel party at Ndofaya. Advo must buy us ugologo so that we can get there already tipsy.”
“Hey, madoda! I told you that my laaitie was a student at the University of Cape Town, and not working there. Perhaps we can ask him for a case of J&B next year when he is already the biggest advocate in Msawawa,” said Uncle Nyawana protectively.
“Hey, bra Nyawana, read my lips! You must not underestimate the financial power of the students. They have big money from their bursaries and the National Student Financial Aid Scheme,” said Dilika with confidence. “When I was a student at Soweto College, there in Pimville in the early eighties, I used to save a lot of money from my Council of Churches bursary. Besides, Advo was my student at Progress High School and he has to pay me because I’m his good ex-thiza who taught him until he got a university exemption. If it wasn’t for me, he would have been isibotho, drinking imbamba, or a tsotsi, robbing people here ekasi.”
To stop them from arguing I bought a bottle of J&B whisky at the Dakar bottle store next to the parking lot.
* * *
As soon as Zero inserted the key into the ignition of PP’s BMW, “Shibobo” by TKZee blasted out from the giant speakers in the boot of the car. As the BMW sped away in the direction of Soweto, my uncle immediately opened the whisky bottle, poured a tot into the cap and swallowed.
“Ahhhh!” Uncle Nyawana opened his mouth wide and looked at the roof of the car as if to allow fresh air into his lungs. “One nine nine nine was a bit of a rough year, Advo, but this coming year of two gees belongs to us, me and you, Advo,” he whispered into my ear. His eyes were bloodshot. “We’ll be fucking rich. You’ll be an advocate and together we’ll sue Transnet for my lost leg, my laaitie. I’m telling you that we’ll win the case, as it was all because of their negligence that I lost it. I tell you, we’ll be rich, my Advo. Our days as part of the poor walking class of Mzansi will soon be over. We’re about to join the driving class, with stomachs made large by the Black Economic Empowerment. Yeah, we’ll be fucking rich. Stinking rich, Advo,” he repeated over and over again, as if the topic had somehow become trapped in his brain.
“I think so too, Uncle,” I said, without meaning it.
“Yeah. We’ll buy all the houses in our street and put up boom gates, like they do in the northern suburbs, so the thieves can fuck off,” he said, pointing randomly at the mine dump along the M1 South freeway. “But, no,” he corrected himself, “I’ll buy you a house in the posh suburb of Houghton because ngiyak’ncanywa, ntwana. I love you, my laaitie, and I want you to be Mandela’s neighbour and own a mansion with very high walls like all the rich people do. Then you can go around your house naked and your neighbours won’t complain or think you’re mad, like they would in the township, because they won’t be able to see you. We’ll also join the cigar club and all Mandela’s nieces will fight over you. You’ll be the manager of my businesses and when I die you’ll take over, my Advo. We’ll buy a funeral parlour and make huge profits from the tenders we’ll get from the Department of Aids because people in Msawawa die of those worms every day.”
Everyone in the car laughed at my uncle’s dreams, but Zero’s laughter was derisive.
“If you’re black and you failed to get rich in the first year of our democracy, when Tata Mandela came to power, you must forget it, my bra,” said Zero. “The gravy train has already passed you by and, like me, you’ll live in poverty until your beard turns grey. The bridge between the stinking rich and the poor has been demolished. That is the harsh reality of our democracy.”
“Don’t listen to him, Advo. He wants you to lose hope. There are opportunities waiting for us in the township,” said PP, twisting his neck so that he could look in my direction. I was sitting with my uncle and Dilika in the back seat.
My uncle refilled the whisky cap and passed it over to Zero who was driving. My eyes kept shutting because I was tired, but no one seemed to notice as they were enjoying their whisky.
Dilika pulled my arm so that I could give him my attention.
“Read my lips, Advo, I’m glad that you have finished your law degree. Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I said, tiredly.
“Good! But I want you to advise me on something very serious tomorrow, Advo. It concerns your law. I went to see this majiyane in town and he tells me that I have to pay him four clipa as a consultation fee. Bloody lawyer!” Dilika clicked his tongue in manufactured anger. “I wonder where he thinks I’ll raise four hundred bucks, because that’s huge zak. Read my lips, Advo, the cost of living has seriously become higher after these tears of apartheid. We teachers are still paid peanuts by our own black ANC government. That’s why I can’t even afford proper shoes,” he said, pointing at his izimbatata sandals. They were handmade from car tyres.
“Hey, my bra,” interrupted PP from the passenger seat, where he was smoking a cigarette. “Don’t say ‘we teachers’ because you were fired in August, remember? You’re unemployed just like me. You hear that? You and I are both abomahlalela.”
Dilika made no effort to defend himself. Instead, he creased his forehead and drank a tot of whisky straight from the bottle as Zero was still holding the cap.
“Arggh, bleksem! Don’t worry, nkalakatha, you’ll work again,” said Uncle Nyawana in a consolatory voice. “Advo will sort that one out for free when he becomes an advocate next year. Is that not so, my laaitie?” asked Uncle Nyawana, but he wasn’t expecting an answer from me.
“You’re right. That must be his first test as an advocate,” said Zero.
Everyone in the township knew Dilika had been dismissed from his teaching job because of his drinking problem. It had all started when I was at home during the winter break in June. Due to his laziness he’d asked me and two of his students that he had chosen from his standard ten class, to help him mark both his standard eight and nine mid-year biology exam scripts. Dilika had promised us a dozen yezingudu if we finished the job in time.
The deal was concluded in a shebeen that we called The White House. Some of the scripts got lost in the tavern, but Dilika gave marks to the students nonetheless. This only became a problem when marks had been allocated, by mistake, to a student who had passed away before the exams were even written.
When the private investigators came to Dilika’s house, he was drunk and failed to provide an explanation why marks had been given to students whose papers hadn’t been marked, including the student that had passed away.
Dilika blamed his misfortune on the students he had selected from his class to help me mark the papers. He believed that since he hadn’t paid them for the job they might have alerted the authorities. Although I had also not been paid for the job, I escaped the blame because I was still in Cape Town when the investigations started.
As the BMW passed the new Gold Reef City Casino, PP turned and looked at my uncle. “My bra, umshana is fucking gifted upstairs,” he called out loudly, while drunkenly knocking his own head. “Yes, your nephew’s upstairs is sharp as a razor.”
“He inherited it from me,” said Uncle Nyawana. “Remember, I got position one in our standard two class. It was 1971. There were no computers then, only typewriters.”
“Read my lips, my bra! I think you are suffering from what intelligent whites call false memory syndrome. You’ve never been esgele,” teased Dilika. “How could this brilliant young man, who has conquered UCT, the great white man’s institution, be like you? If there is a person amongst us that should