Short Story of My Life

Short Story of my Life

O, what a journey it has been!                                                                                                                                 I am not that old, but I’ve seen,                                                                                                                            A lot of things. A colourful variety.                                                                                                           I’ve experienced the “Swazi-dream”;                                                                                                                  Bright lights, shiny cars and spectacular lodgings.                                                                                     I’ve feasted on food fit for kings and queens.

It seemed like a dream, for in that midst,                                                                                                        I found myself in the squalid conditions,                                                                                                         Of the township, where poverty is no fiction.                                                                                                             In the “past-life” fancy electricity lights,                                                                                                                           Dangled from the ceiling and illuminated the big house every night.                                                                    But now, a kerosene lamp burnt dimly,                                                                                                              Its light struggling to cover the overcrowded two-roomed flat.

In that past life I had not known that water,                                                                                                 Came anywhere else, apart from tap in the house.                                                                                                 Now, I trudged for a kilometer, heavy-laden,                                                                                                         To acquire such a commodity.                                                                                                                   Blessed is the soul of a child, for to me,                                                                                                               This was an adventure. It seemed a bit funny.

Today, I look at those days, in sheer amazement                                                                                      And I am dumbstruck by such a contrast,                                                                                                                In one person’s life.                                                                                                                                            Yes, I came out stronger.                                                                                                                                Fate has a strange game it plays.                                                                                                                    Now I have a piece of mind in the village.                                                                                                                My soul is a peace. I can manage.                                                                                                                        So you see? I do not lie when I say:                                                                                                                       “What a life it is I’ve had!”

Not Good At All.

‘These days, business is a bit slow, neh,’ Zwakele aka “Two-fingers” thought to himself, as he counted the paper-money clutched in his calloused hands. He licked his thumb with his tongue protruding through his fat dark lips, to lessen the friction between the money. He continued counting.

Nobody knew how he came to be known as “Two-fingers” in the township. Nobody asked. There were quite a number of rumours that sought to explain the nickname. Amongst the bulk of them, one held most sway. This is the one that held that, he was so good at pick-pocketing in his early days, you would have sworn he put the world to a standstill to do it: one minute your wallet  and other possessions would be in your pocket, the next it would be gone! He was considered the best.

Now, at the age of twenty-seven he had ‘retired’ from active crime. He had two boys that worked for him. Their street names were Situation (real name Mzamo) and Bond (Marko). Well, the streets have to christen you with a name. It means you’ve earned it (for the wrong or right reasons). Now, these two aspiring tsotsis stood in-front of their boss—whom they admired greatly—as he took stock of the day.

‘Laaities,’ Two-fingers roared at the two young boys. They flinched. ‘This is shit! The whole day in town, at the busiest place, the bus rank, and all you bring back is this lousy two-clips and five-blues (E250)?’

‘Two-fingers,’ Situation blurted, his eyes darting from side to side, trying not to make direct contact with his boss, ‘believe us man, that’s all. You know we can never steal from you mfethu,’ he ended.

‘Ja, man, Situation is right. The people were wakker (alert) and the police were scattered all over, because of the festive season kaak, you know,’ Bond added. His voice was crackling with fear. He held his “Samson” hat in his hand. It was a sign of respect.

‘Voetsek boys!’ Two-fingers screamed, his face closer to the boys. Foam had accumulated in the corners of his mouth. His eyes were frighteningly bloodshot from excessive drinking and smoking. He moved back, reached deep into the breast pocket of his black dickies shirt—which he had on with matching trousers of the same brand—and took out a cigarette. He lit it up and he leaned on the makeshift shelter used by vegetable vendors during the day in the township. He went on to puff away. ‘Schools are closed and you’re supposed to be making me money and all you do is bring these peanuts! Voetsek! Just go home, because tomorrow I want more, or, there’ll be hell to pay.’

The two boys nodded desperately and scampered-off in the dark after the harsh scolding from their boss. It was about 1830hours, but it was already dark because it was winter. The July air blew unwelcomingly, and there were a few patches of clouds in the sky. The crescent moon began to tear up on one of the clouds and peeped through. It, too, seemed afraid of the biting cold.

Candlelight flickered in most of the stick-and-mud houses. Only in a few houses did the electric light bulbs shine bright in the chilly night. Situation and Bond were brothers. Bond was two years older than Situation. They were fifteen and thirteen years of age, respectively. They only had a mother, who had been bed-ridden two years. Although, their mother was bed-ridden by tuberculosis, word in the township was that she was HIV positive. Well, she did not look good at all. Everyday seemed to be a turn for the worst. Their father had taken to his heels with another woman as soon as the boys’ mother had fallen sick, and was never seen again. That was nine years ago. They never heard from him since.

Part of the reason these boys attended school was that the government had introduced the so-called free primary education policy, in all primary school grades. Perhaps the main reason for their going to school though—just as is the case with all other orphaned and vulnerable children (OVCs, as they were called)—was that there was food provided at school. Sometimes that was the only meal they had for the day. Or, when Two-fingers was in a good mood (which was very rare), he would give them some money, with which they’d get something to eat, and possibly keep some for their mother. Things were not good at all.

When they got home, they attended to their mother. She asked how they were, how school was, and life in general. These were just perfunctory questions. Was not a parent expected to show interest in the goings-on in her children’s life? Although the hardships had erased the child spirit in these young men, when they spoke to their mother, it was resuscitated. They, too, needed to be cared for. They needed that soft motherly love. Were they not children themselves? The sweet, soul-caressing voice of their mother was enough for them. It melted their hearts.

Their mother had last eaten in the morning when they left, supposedly to do some yard-cleaning work at someone else’s plot in the township. Their mother had heard that his boys were hanging out with the gangster Two-fingers, but she had neither the energy nor the courage to talk about it. The women and other neighbours would hint to her when they came to visit her.

‘Thank you my son,’ she murmured, as she drank the tea Mzamo (Situation) had made for her. She nibbled slowly on the bread that they’d also served.

‘Mama, you look much sicker today,’ Marko (Bond) noted. He wasn’t really expecting an answer to affirm that from her. She never said she was getting worse, but you could see that something was eating her up with every day that passed by. The children were noticing it too.

‘My boys don’t worry about me,’ she said, staring eerily into the cup she drank from, as if expecting all the answers to her woes to come jumping from there. ‘You boys go and rest. I am sure you had a hard day cleaning up Malisa’s yard,’ she ended, as she put the cup on the side board, where a tattered bible lay. She took it and, after a few hysterical coughs, begun to read.

‘Goodnight mama,’ Mzamo and Marko said. Their mother smiled and nodded lazily.

They moved to the other room of the two-roomed flat, where they both slept on a worn-out double bed, and closed the door behind them. They were both distressed. It was written on their faces. After they had stripped their clothes off, they lay on their bed, quietly. They looked at the rusting corrugated iron and oiled rafters that roofed their house. At least they had shelter. Some folks hadn’t. Rain started falling softly on the roof, creating a soothing sound; the lullaby sung by mother-nature herself. Then suddenly Bond said something:

‘Situation,’ he whispered to his brother, nudging him right on the ribs, ‘we’ll have to steal, or should I say, keep some of the money we make from the score in town, man.’ He waited for his brother to answer.

‘What?’ Situation exclaimed. ‘Two-fingers smokes dope, and strangely you get high, nhe? He would rip out our bowels and eat us alive if he’d find out—.’

‘Well, how the heck would he find out?’ Bond interjected. ‘It’s just you and me, man. And mind you, o’lady (mother) has nothing to eat and it doesn’t do her any good. Whatever we score, we’ll just keep a little for ourselves, mf’ethu.’

There was silence. Situation really didn’t like the idea of stealing from their fierce boss. Not at all. Bond didn’t like it too. It was not stealing anyway, if you gave it a closer look. They stole from the people they pick-pocketed and snatched handbags from in town. Taking a minimum sum from the illicit proceeds and giving the lion’s share to Two-fingers was fair. Very fair.

‘Man’ Situation said. He breathed a heavy sigh. ‘It’s not a good idea, I’m telling you, but if it’s for o’lady, I guess I’m game. We’ll do it.’

‘Good, man,’ Bond answered. ‘Besides man, Two-fingers always gives us shit regardless of the score we bring to him. It may be a thousand bucks or a bloody million; He’d still talk kaak anyway. He’d tell us it’ not good enough.’

‘Ok , I think I can get the point,’ Situation said. He proceeded to rub his eyes. He was sleepy. ‘We’ll do it man. Can I sleep now?’ he ended.

‘Yeah man, whatever,’ answered Bond as he pulled his blanket over his head. They fell into a deep sleep, which they had so much yearned for.

They woke up early. At 0600hours the boys were already moving out of the house. They made their mother tea, filled it in an old thermo flask and placed it, a cup and a sugar pot on the side-board that stood next to the bed and, went off. Their mama was still asleep. They didn’t want to disturb her.

The day began slow, but picked up as the hustles and bustles of the city ensued, in the usual way. The two young boys did what they always did, perhaps with much more effort. Who knows? There was a motivation this time around. As the sun turned red, and crept slowly behind the mountains west of the city, taking its time, it was time to go back home and report to their baas.

As they approached their usual meeting place with Two-fingers at the township, the two boys were nervous. Nonetheless they tried to act cool; they put up stern faces, the ones that wouldn’t give them away as soon as Two-fingers blazing red eyes took a hard glance on them. They really didn’t need that.

‘Two, man,’ the boys greeted their master.

‘Things were a bit better today man, definitely better than yesterday,’ Bond said.

‘Laaities,’ Two- finger said, rather nonchalantly. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got me today, and you Bond, don’t come here and tell me what’s better and what’s not boy, verstaan (understand)?’ His tone raised a pitch.

‘We were just saying—,’ they both mumbled.

‘Then say no more, bring my score.’

‘Ok,’ Situation replied. He reached into the back pocket of his denim jeans and took out E450 and a cellphone and handed these things two Two-fingers.

‘Ja,’ grinned Two-fingers. He counted the money and then began to admire the cellphone. ‘You boys have worked hard today. I’m quite impressed,’ he ended.

‘Thanks bra Two,’ the boys said. They breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

‘It’s better than the kaak you brought in yesterday.’ He handed them a 20 emalangeni note. ‘Now get going laaities, tomorrow is another day. I want something this impressive again.’

Just as they turned around to leave, Two-fingers called them again.

‘Bond ntwana (boy), where did you get that dorie (hat)?’ Bring it here boy, I want to see it. It’s definitely my type, the boss-man type,’ said Two-fingers.

‘What? No man we must get going now,’ answered Bond as he shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe tomorrow’ he muttered.

‘Yeah,’ affirmed Situation.

‘Voetsek boy! Hand me that dorie,’ exclaimed Two-fingers. He marched towards Bond and violently snatched it from his head, after a tussle with the young man. There, two 100 rands notes fell off Bond’s head; they floated lazily in the winter air until they lay on the ground.

Bond and Situation were dumbstruck. They looked at each other and then contemplated the beast before them. Two-fingers’ eyes were bright red. He brandished his Rambo knife and it shone in the dark. Hell was about to break loose.

A Short Story on the beautiful country of Lesotho

Blood is thicker than Water

16 October, 1987. Tsietsi Mofokeng disembarked from the ramshackle he had boarded to Maseru and was welcomed by the chilly morning weather coupled with contaminated air, filled with foul ordour as if the whole place were a cauldron. It was a pity what industrialisation could do to the atmosphere. This was the culmination. The fresh clean air of his hometown Mokhotlong had indeed spoilt him in the last few weeks. He should have enjoyed it while it lasted.

The reason he had returned to Maseru from Mokhotlong was work. He had been assigned a classified assignment here. He received a call yesterday, at about midnight and was told that there had been attacks on key installations in the city. These were brutal times. Apartheid forces had struck a few hours ago. The bastards had bombed the newest fuel station east of the city and wreaked havoc in a certain Molefe residence. Why? This particular home was suspected to have been harbouring two terrorists that belonged to the African National Congress. The eldest daughter to the head of the household had been shot badly in the stomach after fear had got the better of her and she had tried to escape. One of the racist trigger-happy bastards saw her and opened fire. Funny part is none of the wanted terrorists were found.

There was no doubt that these tyrants had contacts and informers on the inside. The premier had just opened the new filling station. So hitting the country where it hurt the most was the most rational thing to do. It made Tsietsi’s blood boil to think that his fellow Sotho brothers were cooperating with the enemy. So much for black solidarity! His unit’s job here—his two partners and him—was simply to conduct a thorough and clandestine investigation on the attacks, and find out who these scumbag informers were. The dear Lord be with them, if found, because then they are in for a treat. One they have never experienced before. Their unit was one of the best units in Lesotho’s military intelligence. They went by the name ‘Litau tse tsabehang’. Trust me. You don’t want to know what that means.

Their unit had been to many missions all across Africa and now they were needed greatly here at home because of this apartheid onslaught. They just had to cut the pipe that supplied information about South African liberation movement operations in the country. This meant eliminating some of their own people of Sotho blood. They didn’t like it. It was just a tiny contribution they had to make for international relations. But you know what they say; desperate times call for desperate measures. This was an order from the top. Way up there.

Tsietsi had a huge duffle-bag with him that he carried over his broad shoulders. He was a relatively tall fellow with a muscular physique and white teeth that accentuated his dark-skin. He was also the one smooth with the opposite species too.

He walked towards the train station where he, Tsepo, and Molemo—his  partners—were going to meet, then go to the intelligence office where they would get a briefing on the issue at hand as a team. In a couple of minutes he got to the train station where Tsepo was already waiting, chewing violently on what turned out to be gum.

‘Hey, how do you do sergeant?’ shouted Tsepo, as he saw his partner approach. ‘You look different, man. I bet the women from the boondocks were taking good care of you,’ he ended.

‘Of course, man! I will always say this; if you want a true woman befitting to your needs, the rural areas is the way to go,’ he said in a rather serious tone. He then smiled and said, ‘good to see you man. And where exactly is Molemo?’

‘Late as usual,’ said Tsepo, with a little bit of agitation as he contemplated he possibility of Molemo making them late. They were intelligence officers. Military men, for that matter. If there was one thing they should do best was keep time—be punctual at all times. ‘I hope he shows up soon because the Lieutenant would be pissed if-.’

‘Speak of the devil,’ cried out Tsietsi. ‘Here he comes, and you’d swear he was on time! Walking so slowly like he owns the place.’

‘Girls!’ teased Molemo, ‘I’m sorry I’m late. You know that Mohaleshoek is far, and the transport is unreliable.’

‘Enough with the excuses,’ said Tsietsi, ‘we better get going.’ The three men hurriedly walked to the military offices which were a few blocks away.

‘Just on time chaps,’ exclaimed Lieutenant General Khaka of the Lesotho Armed Forces (Intelligence Department). ‘I will not beat about the bush,’ he continued. ‘As you have seen in the news, there have been bombings in the city of very important installations by apartheid forces. Key among these was the petrol station in downtown Maseru. Also these iniquitous acts have caused unnecessary harm on private citizens. In the light of this, gentlemen, your unit has been assigned to go and eliminate some of the unpatriotic elements (informers) in Mazenod—which is where we have confirmed they are hiding. This must be done swiftly, without causing any unnecessary din. There are two of these vagabonds, and I want them dealt with appropriately,’ the Lieutenant ended as he reached out for his mineral water bottle, to take a sip. His mouth was now dry.

‘Oh, I hear quite clearly sir,’ said Molemo, as he popped his knuckles vigorously, proceeding to stretch his arms as if he was ready for anything.

‘Well, I hope you other gentlemen are also clear, because this operation is tonight. This is a very urgent matter,’ Lieutenant Khaka ended.

‘Very well sir,’ the men answered in unison while saluting their superior.

‘And boys,’ said the Lieutenant, ‘you go to the place specified in the document that I’ll hand to you, and bring those bastards back. I trust you will do a commendable job. You’ve never disappointed in your past missions, it’d be a pity if your first screw-up would be in an assignment here at home.’

‘You know us better than that sir,’ said Tsepo, rubbing his calloused hands as if getting prepared for the job.

‘Consider it done, Lieutenant General,’ ended Tsietsi.

‘Very well then,’ said Lieutenant Khaka, ‘take the document I just told you about.’ He handed each one of them the document and added, ‘Tsietsi, I’m putting you in charge of this operation and I want a full report tomorrow morning. Now, you scumbags get out of my face,’ he exploded, looking each and every one of them dead in the eye.

The men again saluted their superior and went out of the office. They went to get their weapons at the warehouse which was situated just half a kilometer from the main offices. It was just the basic stuff. They were going to deal with a bunch of informers that had no military background whatsoever, so they did not expect much of a confrontation. In fact, in their minds, and judging by past experiences, this was quite a straight-forward job. It was nothing compared to some of the operations they had undertaken in some parts of Africa, as assigned by the Lesotho government. Each of them grabbed an AK47; a common weapon, yet excellent. They also took pistols (commonly referred to as 9milimetres).

As soon as they had this sorted out, they got out of the military warehouse and went to a bar in downtown Maseru where they were to brain-storm and strategise, and wait for the right hour at which they were to execute their assignment.

Molemo puffed on a cigarette, exhaling the smoke in circular clouds as they planned their mission to the finest detail. ‘So when are we going in?’ he asked, turning to face Tsietsi who was sipping on a Lion lager rubbing his chin with his other hand.

‘In six hours’ time,’ answered Tsietsi, ‘at 2300 hours.’

Tsepo fidgeted on his stool. He looked out to the open space that led to the veranda at the back of the bar and said, ‘That’s fine. The sooner we do it the quicker we’ll get it out of the way and go back home. We are supposed to be on leave for crying out loud.’

‘Whatever man,’ barked Tsietsi. ‘This is what you signed up for. This is the life. You must be available at all times, man. You should’ve chosen to deliver pizzas or something. Maybe you’d be happier.’ Tsepo frowned and his brow corrugated into furrows as a sign of being annoyed. He did not answer that verbally. His facial expression was enough to show his sentiments. He downed the Heineken dumpie and took the paper they had been scribbling on and looked at its contents as if there was a hidden meaning somewhere there.

It was 2245 hours when these three men got to Mazenod. The engine of their Toyota Land Rover seemed to be unusually noisy because the night was now tranquil. The candles and kerosene lamps that usually illuminated the stone-brick houses of the township were now put off. The people were now asleep. Mist had covered like a blanket the hills that surrounded Maseru city to the east and the weather was quite chilly. Bullfrogs croaked in the swamps and ponds nearby as if complaining that the water was too cold.

Molemo drove the car off the main road into the short savannah grass just a few metres from the road. The engine went off. They disembarked from the car, each wearing a bottle-neck jersey, cargo-trousers, boots and beanies. All these clothes were black. Also, each had a duffle bag.

‘Ok guys,’ said Tsietsi, ‘these fools are lodging in a house two minutes away from here and we are heading north. It is just at the end of that street, on the left,’ he said pointing. ‘And ja, let’s keep it clean people,’ he ended.

‘Sure,’ Molemo and Tsepo nodded.

The house they had come to was a square shaped stone-brick house. It had a red stoep with a make-shift veranda at the front door. It also had four medium-sized windows, one on each side of the four walls. ‘You,’ Tsietsi pointed at Molemo, ‘go and take position at the back door. Then Tsepo and I will knock at the front door.’ This message was communicated through signs, not in actual words.

In a few seconds, the men had taken their positions. Tsietsi and Tsepo knocked at the front door and their pistols were already in their hands. They knocked again. Then someone mumbled something in  Sesotho, enquiring who it was at this ungodly hour. Tsietsi rambled on, how he had been robbed a few minutes ago, and needed help. The man inside approached the door, unlocking it from the inside in the dark.. No sooner had he opened than the two military men kicked the door that sent him flying off, landing recklessly in a corner that had pots that clanged loudly as he fell on them.

Tsepo waved his pistol frantically at the two men that were in the house. After verbally abusing the two men in the house, he instructed the one who had just woken up to go and open the back door, where Molemo had been waiting. The man did not object. He trembled as he walked half-naked to the back door. Tsietsi’s eyes were fierce and he waved his torch back and forth as he searched the place for anything that would be of use in as far as this case was concerned.

‘You bloody scumbags!! You have the guts to betray your own country, nhe?’ He roared, looking directly at the man who was still groaning on the floor,  his face covered with a huge enamel pot lid. The man did not answer. ‘Tsepo! Tie this bastard up; he will regret the day he was born. He is coming with us,’ he ended.

Tsepo charged at the man and hammered him with his gun on the head, sending him unconscious. ‘Where’s Molemo?’ he enquired, after dragging the half-dead body to the front door. ‘Haven’t seen him ever since that scumbag-.’

Tsietsi and Tsepo went to the back door and overhead Molemo talking to the man who had gone to open the door during the skirmish. Molemo said, ‘Uncle you must go. I will say that you escaped.’

Perhaps it was a reflex action, or an action at a subconscious level. Tsepo went out of the house, gun in hand. Tsietsi screamed, ‘No man! Don’t do anything crazy!’ The pistol exploded three times in the quiet night and the smell of gunpowder filled the thick cold air. The time Tsietsi knocked Tsepo out of balance, the damage had been done.

Molemo lay still on the ground, bleeding on the neck, while his uncle moaned and groaned,   holding his bowels. Tsietsi dragged himself up and ran towards Molemo and his uncle. He was horrified. It was his first time steering an operation and something so dreadful happened. Of course every assignment had its casualties, but this! This was a bit too much!