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Authors: Masande Ntshanga
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Clifton shakes his head. Guys, come on, he says. This isnât appropriate. You know what the rules are for the DVD.
I tell him it isnât my fault, everything was on when I came in.
Sure it was, he says.
The woman is now naked, lying in a puddle of black blood. Clifton walks around to my side of the counter, squeezes past me, and turns it off.
He sighs. Whereâs Dean?
Heâs in the bathroom, I say.
Great. You leave, and he enters. Do you plan it like this?
Maybe.
Clifton presses his clipboard against his chest, scowling like a sitcom villain. I watch him as he stomps off to hassle Dean in the lav. Then I look back down at my phone.
Iâve just received a notification SMS from the bank, Ruan says.
He tells us itâs a deposit, and when he types out the amount, I stare at my phone for a while, making sure Iâm parsing the figure right.
The client wants to meet up no later than today, Ruan says. Heâs scheduled the meeting at Champs, a pool bar next to the railway station in Mowbray.
I nod, but I have to scroll back up to the figure.
In the end, Cissie recovers from the shock before I do. She asks Ruan for a description of the client, a way to locate him inside the bar.
On his side, Ruan takes a moment to pass the question on and the three of us wait for the man to respond. Eventually, he types back to say we should look for the ugliest man in the bar. I wait for Ruan to explain, but he doesnât say anything further.
Then, all at once, I feel done at the Monocle. For the first time since I signed on with them, about a year ago now, I donât wait for my hours to arrive at their official cut-off point, or even for Clifton, my new ex-manager, to come back from scolding Dean inside the bathroom. I turn around and switch the DVD player back on. Then I drop my orange cap on the counter and walk out, making my way to the taxi rank on the station deck above Strand.
I cross over the short steel bridge and buy a packet of Niknaks. Then I walk to the bay marked for Claremont. Inside the taxi, I lean my head against the glass and watch as a pink band wraps itself around the sky over Cape Townâfrom Maitland to Athloneâand a haze of pollution simmers over the land beneath it. I can feel the cogs of the cityâs industries churning down to stillness, and smell the exhaust fumes from the taxis, as if each plume was mixing in with our exhaustion.
On the main road, I decide to put my uncle out of my mind. With the money to consider, this seems a reasonable measure to take. Existence goes on as we all navigate our need for currency. Even Bhutâ Vuyo would understand this. He needs money as much as anyone else. Or maybe, I think, he needs it more.
In Newlands, I find Ruan waiting by the gate, pushing up against the wire fence around Cissieâs building. Cissie isnât back from her pilgrimage to Muizenberg yet, and by the way Ruan looks, I canât tell if heâs high or coming down. I join him on the pavement.
Ruan, you have this face on I think you should see.
He shrugs. Is Cissie still in Muizenberg?
I nod.
I need to find an old person, Ruan says. He tries to laugh, bunching his shoulders together, but the feeling doesnât last. You donât always get to ward off exhaustion, huffing Industrial the way we do.
I lean my back into the fence.
Ruan pulls out a half-smoked cigarette from his pocket and lights it with a broken matchstick. Then he cups a hand over the flame and waves the match out before chucking it into the garden. I watch him sigh and drop his shoulders before taking a drag.
Man, he says, breathing out smoke. When I saw that money coming in, I just started shaking. I was at my place, right? And I had to stop typing for a while. I mean, Jesus, Nathi. He pauses and looks up the road. Whenâs the new shipment coming in?
In a day or two, I say.
Ruan nods. Of course I told the client it was short notice, he says. The guy said it was
Clifton shakes his head. Guys, come on, he says. This isnât appropriate. You know what the rules are for the DVD.
I tell him it isnât my fault, everything was on when I came in.
Sure it was, he says.
The woman is now naked, lying in a puddle of black blood. Clifton walks around to my side of the counter, squeezes past me, and turns it off.
He sighs. Whereâs Dean?
Heâs in the bathroom, I say.
Great. You leave, and he enters. Do you plan it like this?
Maybe.
Clifton presses his clipboard against his chest, scowling like a sitcom villain. I watch him as he stomps off to hassle Dean in the lav. Then I look back down at my phone.
Iâve just received a notification SMS from the bank, Ruan says.
He tells us itâs a deposit, and when he types out the amount, I stare at my phone for a while, making sure Iâm parsing the figure right.
The client wants to meet up no later than today, Ruan says. Heâs scheduled the meeting at Champs, a pool bar next to the railway station in Mowbray.
I nod, but I have to scroll back up to the figure.
In the end, Cissie recovers from the shock before I do. She asks Ruan for a description of the client, a way to locate him inside the bar.
On his side, Ruan takes a moment to pass the question on and the three of us wait for the man to respond. Eventually, he types back to say we should look for the ugliest man in the bar. I wait for Ruan to explain, but he doesnât say anything further.
Then, all at once, I feel done at the Monocle. For the first time since I signed on with them, about a year ago now, I donât wait for my hours to arrive at their official cut-off point, or even for Clifton, my new ex-manager, to come back from scolding Dean inside the bathroom. I turn around and switch the DVD player back on. Then I drop my orange cap on the counter and walk out, making my way to the taxi rank on the station deck above Strand.
I cross over the short steel bridge and buy a packet of Niknaks. Then I walk to the bay marked for Claremont. Inside the taxi, I lean my head against the glass and watch as a pink band wraps itself around the sky over Cape Townâfrom Maitland to Athloneâand a haze of pollution simmers over the land beneath it. I can feel the cogs of the cityâs industries churning down to stillness, and smell the exhaust fumes from the taxis, as if each plume was mixing in with our exhaustion.
On the main road, I decide to put my uncle out of my mind. With the money to consider, this seems a reasonable measure to take. Existence goes on as we all navigate our need for currency. Even Bhutâ Vuyo would understand this. He needs money as much as anyone else. Or maybe, I think, he needs it more.
In Newlands, I find Ruan waiting by the gate, pushing up against the wire fence around Cissieâs building. Cissie isnât back from her pilgrimage to Muizenberg yet, and by the way Ruan looks, I canât tell if heâs high or coming down. I join him on the pavement.
Ruan, you have this face on I think you should see.
He shrugs. Is Cissie still in Muizenberg?
I nod.
I need to find an old person, Ruan says. He tries to laugh, bunching his shoulders together, but the feeling doesnât last. You donât always get to ward off exhaustion, huffing Industrial the way we do.
I lean my back into the fence.
Ruan pulls out a half-smoked cigarette from his pocket and lights it with a broken matchstick. Then he cups a hand over the flame and waves the match out before chucking it into the garden. I watch him sigh and drop his shoulders before taking a drag.
Man, he says, breathing out smoke. When I saw that money coming in, I just started shaking. I was at my place, right? And I had to stop typing for a while. I mean, Jesus, Nathi. He pauses and looks up the road. Whenâs the new shipment coming in?
In a day or two, I say.
Ruan nods. Of course I told the client it was short notice, he says. The guy said it was
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