Who Killed Thato?

This is a work of Fiction…[Download pdf at the bottom of the page]

Part 1 of 7.

“If my child had ever told me someone molested him, that person would be dead. I would kill them.”

Nolali spoke in riddles. Everything she said worked like a seed ready to grow into something else if you let it settle in your mind. I know this now because I rode the ride.

As she spoke, I drifted away into a conversation that Soso and I had a few months ago. He was telling me about the fights that keep his family together. I must have been drifting off then too because his voice grew louder when he said, “Thato tried to kiss me one evening. Well, he did kiss me. He put his tongue in my mouth and called it practice.”

This seemingly unprovoked confession was enough to draw the spark back into my eyes. I shifted around on the rug where we were laying. I could not lie, hold eye contact, and ask my follow-up question all at once, so I sat up.

Cross-legged, I said, “What do you mean Thato kissed you?”

Soso was still laying back on the floor as he told me the story behind the kiss. He was twelve, and Thato was fourteen. It happened in the living room when the sleeper couch was still out front.

“It wasn’t a big deal until I told my mom about it when I was seventeen. I told her the story during an argument. I thought I was telling her that I felt neglected and unseen. But I think she heard me questioning my sexuality or something.”

When he was done talking, I laid down next to him and we shared the silence. I filed the story in my memory, and it became one of those things I thought I knew about him.

This evening Nolali is campaigning for the death sentence to be brought up against Luthando Makayi – the 43-year-old man who raped a six-year-old child. I suppose it is natural that Nolali would have an emotional response to the case.

The story was a part of every news update on the national broadcaster. Morning news had call-in segments which sounded like cult gatherings asking listeners to ‘speak their minds on the question of capital punishment’. As if the death penalty is a long-term solution for a nation suffering from a collective sense of PTSD. The news media had taken an odd position, I thought. All that ‘if murderers and rapists are killed, we would have lower rape statistics and fewer murders happening’. It sounded like a re-branding of justified hatred backed by fear-mongering logic – Passion over reason is sprinkled with a dash of economic theory.

To avoid being hypnotized, I chose to focus on the morning traffic, and the occasional crow that began scavenging the city streets as everybody made their way to some other place that is not home.

(Part 2)

Her mother taught her that it’s better to side with the devil you know.

My mother taught me to outwit the devil whereas my grandmother taught me how to slay the devil – bring him to his knees and all. And now here I am about to introduce this new friend to my mother and I just know mother will not approve.

On a separate night, Soso’s mother asked me if I knew anything about witchcraft.

Oh, my goodness, how did this happen again? How did Soso leave me here alone, with this lady? These dinner conversations are the worst part of my days. Here we go…

“My mother was a Methodist; she chose to believe in love, hard work and goodness. I like thinking about the good things in life.”

“Do you know about people who make human sacrifices to sustain their riches?”

“I’ve heard stories. But as I said, I know enough to not invite unwanted energies into my psyche.”

“Hayibo Anele, we are just talking. I am not inviting unwanted anything.”

Perhaps if I keep quiet this lady will stop this line of conversation. I didn’t notice Soso leaving the room. But it’s okay, I’ll give it until I finish drinking this juice.

(Part 3)

Mother had his ability to shock me even when I knew what to expect – it was uncanny.

After the introduction of my newly found friend and all the pleasantries that are expected from a parent hosting her daughter’s friend for a weekend came to pass. Monday came by, and Mother woke me up from my usual afternoon nap to suggest we go out for ice cream. Ice cream by the seaside was one of our things, one of our many secrets, I suppose.

As she pulled out of the parking spot at Sun Coast she said, “Anele why are you friends with that girl?” I giggled. I couldn’t figure out what to say so I went with something like, “Awu Ma, she’s nice. I like her. The tone of her voice sounded serious when she said, “I know you. I gave birth to you. I raised you. So what are you looking to get from being friends with that child?”

Still a bit dumbfounded. I replied by saying something like, “I think we’re outsiders in the same way.” Then there was silence. I had an argument prepared in defence of my friend, but I expected my mom to lay out her disapproval by forbidding home visits or introducing new limits on internet use or even tightening security around travelling arrangements. Mother was undefeated when it came to creating walls around me.

(Part 4)

The days went by, and Friday came around. The week happened to be peaceful, and my thoughts were clear. Work was fun, and every reading was worthwhile again. I was spending less time chasing the words, and the noise settled down for a few days.

Back then I had a routine, midnight was bedtime. So, my final thoughts of the day happened at the start of the next day. Thursday was a good day and I thought it best to hold on to that feeling for a few hours, that was my final thought as I drifted into sleep.

The next morning my phone rang before my 5am alarm.

“Hey, you… hey, sleepy head… Lele, are you up?”

“Mmmh”

“Lele, I need you to remind me, what time is your first class today?”

(Part 5) : Scorched Earth

We grew up in different worlds. Where I was raised rules and responsibilities were put in place to teach us about our roles and loyalties. We were raised to be self-righteous. My value was unspoken because it is obvious and there was no need to state the obvious. Especially because silence is golden.

Soso was raised the way his mother was treated. She closed one door to redirect him and she concealed and revealed information based on which decisions she wanted him to make. Nolali was truly the product of the apartheid era. She lied effortlessly, she believed it served her desires and she despised the idea of free will. It was strange to watch her extremely deontological ethics override her listening skills. I suppose that is the danger of a binary mind with control issues. She respects rules above everything else, but she’s also a willing dictator.

By Sunday evening Soso had become accepting of my benevolent resistance techniques. He was aware that I had a clear sense of who I was. He understood that it did not matter what games they played or how many doors they tried to shut in my face I knew enough about my talents, and I valued hard work. Admittedly it was difficult to ignore their determination to undo what my parents had nurtured.

(Part 6) : Tug-of-War

As promised, at 8 am I was saying a prayer whilst Soso fiddled with the padlock. I had my backpack strapped tight, a water bottle in my right hand and a pair of running shoes on my feet – I came prepared for the occasion.

But Soso was being evasive, he was avoiding eye contact and he kept his face covered between his shoulders. I kept thinking, this is it, after this play Soso and I will be on the same page again.

“Good morning… Hey, are you okay?”

“Oh, so now you have time to care.”

“What?”

“I said, now you have time to care?”

“Soso are you angry with me?”

“It doesn’t matter… made you cereal and a cup of tea.”

“Oh okay. Thank you… What about the walk?”

“What about the walk?”

“Are you up for it?”

“Yeah sure, if that’s what you want.”

“Soso, do you want to walk around the park for half an hour or would you rather we do something else?”

“You came here for a walk, so let’s walk.”

At times his possessive attitude was hyped by his reactive persona. When so, he became even more animated with heightened degrees of passive-aggressive behaviour. This morning we are meeting at degrees of passive-aggressive. Sisonke sets the feeling of doom in motion by using his body like a dictaphone communicating ideas from different site points. His long back to turn away, his shoulders to hide, his eyes to focus, his arms to swing and his neck to repress his initial line of action. In times like these the messages sound like ducks quaking in a pod. There is no harmony, no pattern, just chaos-inducing quacking. No pattern in the noise making just continual communication of some idea. When I look back on this, I will not miss the way he speaks.

We wandered around the house for a few minutes before leaving for the walk. I remember the sun shone brightly, I felt a cool breeze and heard birds chirping over the buzz of moving traffic.

“How did you manage last night?”

“I managed.”

“Do you have a plan for today?”

“Yeah, I have a friend coming over in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

“We should head back.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“No.”

“Are you coming back?”

“No.”

As things disintegrated it became clear that Soso had an M.O. (modus operandi) for every girlfriend who left him. He has taken care to tell everybody he knows just how mentally unstable she was. His lack of originality was shameful.

He was surprisingly creative with the way he let the stories come up. One time while driving with a distant friend who was somehow familiar with a girl he used to date, Soso dove into a soliloquy about how crazy and unstable his last girlfriend turned out to be. The monologue was elaborate, baiting the passengers with questions like, what was I supposed to do? And Even mom, who’s a nurse thought that girl needed help.

I heard the story, first, being told by his mother during dinner a few weeks before. It came up again when the most significant crack appeared, Soso pointed at some Rehabilitation Center and said:

“This is where we had to drop her off. She stayed here for a few months.”