Wrong Number

The wind whipped against the earth with such intensity that the ground on which he tried to walk shook under his feeble feet. He staggered off balance but somehow managed to maintain his stand; to hold his feet to the ground. A man determined. Dust swirled and threw grains of soil in his eyes. He grimaced and squinted in pain. The telephone booth was only a few steps away. But in the rampaging storm, it seemed a million miles away. Walking was a struggle. He clasped his hand against the wound but blood squeezed through his fingers. He felt vulnerable against the screaming wind. He reeled towards the phone booth, a blood stained coin in one hand, the other, though barely successful, was blocking the flow of blood from his body. The wind hauled ferociously – a choir of wolves bellowing a chorus.

After what seemed an eternity, he stepped into the shaking booth, lifted the earpiece to his ear and slotted the blood-smeared coin into the machine. Pain hammered nails into his skull. He punched in the numbers and listened. The wind slapped the sheet-metal booth, threatening to rip it off its bolts. Welcome to voicemail, please leave your message after the tone. Beep.

“John. It’s me... Mogomotsi... Listen, it’s not goanna work. I... I... We underestimated. Listen... Carriage 4. Centre Eagles Grounds... Twilight.”  The booth shook with the wind. He grabbed the structure for balance, his hand leaving the gaping wound in his chest. “Ouch! Glory... John. Glory knows. You should...”

Beeeeeeeeeep.

 

His last coin done. Finished. Less than a minute. The number he had just called was still flashing on the digital display. He stared at it, shocked. The last digit read ‘3’. It was supposed to be ‘6’. John’s phone number ended with a 6. Not 3. Fuck!  He collapsed to the floor into a pool of his own blood. Mogomotsi lost consciousness. The storm raged on, swinging and banging the dangling earpiece of the public phone against the sides of the booth.

Hope Died Last Night (Extract)

Last night when we spoke on the phone, after you scalded me with the truth, I uttered my goodbyes several times but you never spoke the word. We talked for a very long time, not caring about the phone bill that would accumulate. Lately I don’t care much about jack. You said many things but not the goodbye word. You see, this is what messes up my brain right now. You gave me an impression that you love me, even though you were leaving me. It’s confusing, given the condition of our severance. And why did you have to tell me you are expecting this man’s child? Really it wasn’t necessary. All it did was to rub salt into my bleeding wound. Oh, it hurts. As I write this, I will not pussyfoot around, as I possibly did in many of our conversations. Your words nearly asphyxiated me last night. I know I lost you. But losing you is tantamount to losing me. You know this, yet you decided to fling me down this dark tunnel...

The Road To Somelo (Extract)

From the end of the battered, weather-grilled tarmac in Samedupe, around 20 kilos from Maun, starts a road that I pray, from the bottom of my heart that one of the top politicians, preferably that top man in the white house, should experience a ride on. The road will shake the contents of his stomach until he pukes. It will shift the brain in his skull and render him unfit for office – that is for sure. This is the road to a small village (or a settlement as some would name it) called Somelo.
            The dusty, rutted road is imbedded with hard, sharp stones that punch painfully at the tyres. I feel every grind and bump as though they hit directly on my bare feet. The ditches and holes make me grit my teeth in a surge of sickness. I hear the metal structure of the highly-built Nissan Patrol 4X4 Station Wagon complain under the assault. A hail of gravel hammers the underneath of the vehicle, scattering loose stones in idiot profusion.  I grimace, gripping the back of the front seat for support. Outside, the vegetation is dull and hopeless. Dry shrubs and brittle trees stand on the roadside like corpses, watching every brutal movement on the road like spectators at an illegal, deadly race.
            There seem to be no air outside, and that we survive from the blowing air-con. But that’s not the case, of course. At one crazy point, an anthill straddles the road, as though placed there with an evil intent. The Nissan swerves around it and barrows through thick sand. The road stretches on and on, getting worse with every kilometre.  Now and then, an antelope swiftly crosses the road.  After very many kilometres of bumping and shaking, we pass a stationary and deserted light weight bakkie on the road with flat tyres. The poor machine couldn’t survive the cruel road. I look back at the road behind us. I can’t see the bakkie. A thick cloud of dust trails us. Then I look ahead again and I see the first road sign ever. The board says, ‘Somelo 25Km’. That’s a lie, I say to my companions. I tell them that the true distance, on this road, is 250Km. My head is aching. My body is painful.

The Entrepreneur (Extract)

He blew his nose into a tissue paper and threw it in a metal bin besides the piano. His mother was wiping dust off the wooden body of the instrument. She stopped, leaned against the grand piano and looked at her son, eyes narrowing slightly.
            “What you request, I’m afraid, is impossible. This house is the only valuable asset we have. I mean, I have,” she said.
            “That’s why I recommend that you sell it while it’s still valuable,” her son said. “It’s not true that houses don’t depreciate. They do!” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. Then, as if remembering the rules of the house, he snatched it off his mouth and back into the pocket. “I really think the nursing home will treat you better than this house. You are too old to be taking care of yourself and doing all these chores. You know precisely what the doctors said about your condition.”
            “This has never been about my condition. It’s about yours.”  The old woman sneered. “If you think you can fix your deteriorating marriage with my money, forget it.”
            “That’s not a nice thing to say to me, mom.”
            “It’s your gold digging wife who is behind this, isn’t it? Get yourself a job, my son. Or she’ll be leaving you because I’m not selling my house for you.”
            “I’ll talk to the doctors again. You are not fit,” the young man lit the cigarette.

A Very Perfect Stranger (Extract)

 “And what is it that I should have done?!” she threw her hands in the air as though scattering seeds to a brood of chickens. Michael ducked, as if indeed grains spewed off her hands. “It wasn’t easy Michael, put yourself in my shoes.”
            Michael’s lips quivered and his eyes shone. “Even if your shoes fitted me, the idiocy of what you’ve done doesn’t befit me. Options are always there. All you needed was to use your mind, Neo.”
            “As if you a have a mind yourself!” Neo blasted. “Wasn’t it you who was fooled by that lousy neighbour last year?”
            “Don’t try to ward off this conversation to things that belong to dustbins of history.  And don’t mention that incident again, he warned, index finger wagging at her. “I’m only trying to show you the wrongs you’ve done. Why can’t you just swallow your pride and admit that you’re flawed? I’m tired of your defensive arguments even in straightforward matters.” 
            Neo rose from the garden chair, her chest heaving. Arms now akimbo, she glared down into Michael’s eyes, her braids ruffled by the breeze. “You are no better than your father.”
            “Leave my father out of this. Sit back down!”
            “I’m not going to do that. You’ve made a million blunders and the one slip-up I made brings knives to my throat.”
            “Your slip-up has cost us thousands of pulas,” Michael said.
 “Thousands of pulas my ass!” she banged the plastic table between them. Empty glasses flew up.