Muti Nation (13 page)

Schubart Park consists of several towers linked together by a relatively big courtyard. I remember this from the one time I had been in the complex, against my father and grandfather’s wishes. Back then, the pond—a water feature lacking imagination—sparkled. Older people would spend their days seated on the concrete benches surrounding it to feed birds or watch the world pass them by. I don’t recall there ever being grass, though. My memory isn’t quite that good.

I pass through the foyer of the desolate apartment complex, a box-like tunnel, once housing hundreds upon hundreds of post boxes and enter the courtyard. The towers loom over me blocking out the last rays of sunlight, their foreboding abandon more apparent than from outside. They’re skeletons—flesh and muscle picked away by the harsh African elements. The water feature somehow survived time, but algae and some unidentifiable sludge is all that remains in the pool. The benches lie in piles of rubble, broken down to the foundation. Weeds push through the cracks in the pavement, threatening to take back the land.

“I told you to stay in the car.” Detective Mosepi’s voice is indifferent

“When I was in grade one, one of my friends lived here. I think her name was Marie Fisher,” I say. “I remember it was a cold winter’s day when I arrived home, inconsolable and wearing only my school dress. My dad, expecting the worst, asked me what was wrong, but it took so long for me to stop crying. He asked me where my jersey and jacket were. What I’d done with my shoes and socks.”

I shiver from the memory and wrap my arms around myself. I can still remember how the wind had cut through my thin school dress and chilled my bones. I recall how Dad’s face had twisted with pure dread when he saw me. The Devil must have whispered horrendous scenarios into his ear… I have never seen him so scared before or after that day.

“I couldn’t tell him,” I continue. “I was crying so hard. Finally, after I’m sure he was at his wits end, I told him: “Daddy, there are children who come to school without shoes or jerseys. Their lips are blue from the cold, their stomachs grumble from hunger.” I couldn’t understand why the world was so cruel. Why did I have so much when they had
nothing
?” I rub my hands over my arms. “Dad, ever the problem solver, got my grandfather to pitch in for a charity drive. Along with a few guys from the station—you included, Detective—filled up a trailer with food and clothes and blankets and toys. Then you came to school during a lunch hour and we distributed the goods to the children who needed it the most.”

Detective Mosepi shows no sign of recollection or sympathy.

“It was my first lesson in humility,” I admit. “From that day onwards I never threw a tantrum when my Dad or Grandpa said I couldn’t have something. I always ate my vegetables. I thanked God for what I had every night, and
never
, not once, did I curse
Him
for my mother’s absence again.” I turn around to face Detective Mosepi, the memory stirring another bout of gratefulness. “You have no idea how happy those kids were to not feel forgotten.”

“You should have stayed in the car,” he says.

I shrug. “Thought I’d look around and reminisce about the world. I’ll stay well out of the way, don’t worry.”

Detective Mosepi hands me a flashlight and points toward a stairwell, as barren as the rest of its surroundings. “It’s stable, but don’t go falling into an elevator shaft. You have thirty minutes and then I want you back in the car.”

I nod and saunter towards the staircase, excited and anxious to explore the remnants of recent history. After a day of inactivity, I have too much energy to burn. I’m bursting with a desire for movement, for bubbling conversations and interesting sights.

“
Oro, plata, mata,
” I whisper to myself, counting each step as I climb the stairs. “Gold, silver, death.” I ascend the next three steps. Grandpa taught me the Philippine rhyme as an alternative to my annoying childhood obsession with
eeny-meeny-miny-moe
. He told me the rhyme was derived from an old Philippine superstition, where people believed a staircase ending on
mata
was a bad omen. I adopted the superstition for shits and giggles. “
Oro, plata, mata.
Gold, silver, death.” The beam of the flashlight waves across piles of trash and debris in the corners of the landings. In places, pieces of the metal bannisters are missing, but the integrity of the stairs hasn’t been compromised. I am relatively safe as long as I don’t venture too far to the edge or rely on the bannisters. “
Oro, plata, mata.
Gold, silver, death.” I turn the landing and head up another flight.

I’m not even halfway up the tower when my mantra’s been repeated at least five dozen times, ending on
silver
. I decide then not to go any higher than the eleventh floor. Instead, I walk into one of the long, narrow hallway stretching to either side. Some apartments’ front doors hang at awkward angles, providing a glimpse into hollow interiors stripped bare of plumbing pipes, electrical wires, metal window frames, and anything else salvageable for illegal sales. Other apartments don’t even have their doors anymore.

If the world ended tomorrow this would be humanity’s legacy.

I step around a discarded shopping trolley lying in the middle of the hallway and head for the furthest room on the floor.

Down the hallway, the last door on the left, I step through a sloping threshold and into what used to be a narrow corridor. This leads past a tiny kitchen and into a living room where the only remnant of human occupation is a scorched plastic baby-doll. I push forward into another narrow corridor heading past a stripped bathroom and two small bedrooms. At the furthest side, overlooking the city, sits the main bedroom. It’s exposed to the elements. There is no wall or window acting as a barrier and falling over the edge is a reality I’m not fond of living through.

The dying sun throws a deep orange, almost pink, blanket across the jagged horizon. City lights sparkle like gemstones before the world plunges into darkness. The rhythms and beats of Pretoria ebb away, until silence reigns.

Behind me a mural of a black-and-white Jesus Christ looks out on the world.

It’s beautifully tragic.

Using my cell phone, I take pictures of the sunset, framed by the broken walls, floor and ceiling. I take pictures of the mural too and post them on Facebook under the photo album heading: PRETORIA—BEAUTIFUL AND FORGOTTEN PLACES.

My phone buzzes in my hand, ruining the moment.

“Hello.” My voice rebounds from the surrounding walls and disappears into the dusk.

“Wherever you are,” Detective Mosepi hisses over the line, “stay put and keep quiet. Rochester and his guy slipped into the building you’re in.”

I fumble with the flashlight and switch it off.

“My guys are getting into position, but if anything happens, scream as loud as you can—”

“I’m on the eleventh floor,” I cut him off. “I’m too high for anyone to come rescue me if something happens.”

He grumbles under his breath in isiZulu. “Stay where you are until I call you again. Please.”

“I’m sitting down right now,” I say, looking around for a place to sit. The floor is dusty and uneven and I’ll probably need a tetanus shot before the night is over, but I take a seat and look out on the City of Pretoria. “And I’m ruining my outfit in the process. Are you happy, Detective?”

Detective Mosepi ends the call.

“You’re welcome.” I mutter to the cell phone, already scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed again. Several “likes” have blinked in my notification box thanks to the photographs I posted. One of the thumbs up belongs to Howlen. “Oh, so you do use Facebook?” I whisper. “Good to know.”

My phone buzzes again; another notification, this time from a delivered SMS.

>Howlen: Where are you?

>Esmé: Shubart Park.

>Howlen: o_O I won’t presume to know where that is. Are you safe?

>Esmé: Relatively. Why? Want to come hold my hand? :-P

>Howlen: Can’t. I’m going out on a date.

>Esmé: Did Grandpa drag you to dinner again? LOL!

>Howlen: No. I’m going out with a pathologist I met at the lab.

I stare at the last message for longer than necessary, eyebrow raised, lips pursed, blood curdling. Instead of saying something I would later regret, especially seeing as Howlen and I never discussed the aspects of our so-called relationship, I weigh my words carefully.

>Esmé: Sounds like fun. Enjoy your evening.

>Howlen: Thank you. Enjoy yours as well.

>Esmé: I plan on it. Cheers.

“Asshole,” I hiss.

I ignore his texted response and push the piece of plastic tech into my pocket. Out of sight but far from being out of mind, I lean back against the wall and grind my teeth. We’ve never broached the subject of whether we were seeing one another exclusively or not. Still, I thought it was bloody obvious.

Well… okay, I don’t think it would have worked out between us anyway, but screwing around is just rude.

Eskom—South Africa’s leading electricity provider’s load-shedding schedule kicks into gear as the sun sinks behind the horizon, dousing the twinkling lights as the power grid is turned off. Utter blackness surrounds me. I resist the urge to put on the flashlight and pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my hands around my legs.

Tonight has become incredibly depressing.

With only the moon as a light source, I discern individual rocks and bricks and other large pieces of debris surrounding me.

Shouts echo from somewhere in the building. A gunshot fires. More shouts. Then, silence. I jump up, fumble for the flashlight, and wait for something more to happen. Footsteps drag across concrete, loud and fast, and close. Shouted demands. Several more shots reverberate through the hollow building.

My heart pumps adrenaline. Paranoia makes me consider my chances of survival. There are no hiding places available if someone runs to this apartment. I’ll get shot, be held hostage, or killed. I’m not entirely helpless, I can protect myself, but there’s only so much I can physically do against a gun.

“Fuck,” I whisper. I sit down and try to make myself small. The noise continues, closing in on my location. I shut my eyes, pray that this takedown is quickly resolved and hope Howlen has a terrible time on his date.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. I find it with trembling hands and check my messages.

>Howlen: Are you angry with me?

>Howlen: You were at a bloody swinger’s party last night!

>Howlen: May?

>Esmé: I’m stuck in the middle of a shootout! Shut up already, I’m hiding!

Footsteps make me hold my breath. I hide the cell phone’s screen against my chest, hoping the light is muted enough not to alert whoever’s stumbling around in the dark. My palms sweat, my mind races, every single one of my regrets surfaces.

Please don’t come in here, I pray, squeezing my eyes shut and tightening my grip on my phone. Please, please, please.

My phone vibrates.

The footsteps halt. I hear debris crush, crack, and grind under feet. Laboured breathing comes to an abrupt stop somewhere inside the apartment. A distinct
click
as a bullet slides into the chamber of a gun.

My lungs burn from inactivity, but I daren’t make a sound.

Footsteps close in on me, slowly.

I stand up from the floor, even slower. I can’t save myself if I’m sitting, and I won’t go out without a fight.

A figure appears in the doorway, tall and familiar—I’ve been studying it the whole day. Rochester’s gaze is glued on the city beyond, not on me hiding a hairsbreadth away.

Maybe he won’t see me? Maybe he’ll walk away?

Luck is not on my side.

Something must have given my presence away, because Rochester suddenly whirls around and pulls the trigger.

The shot is deafening from its close proximity. It rebounds from three barely-standing walls before disappearing into the night. The white light from the barrel sears my sparce surroundings into my retinas, effectively blinding me for a moment. My vocal cords release a sound that’s something between a war cry and a scream for help.

Shock and fear jolts me into action, adrenaline forces me to survive.

Before Rochester can decide to pull the trigger again, I kick him in his midriff.

He doubles over, gasping for air, but does not release his weapon.

I’m ready to strike a second time, but instead of finding purchase against his lean body, Rochester’s fist smashes against my eye socket.