One place to really love in Africa is the Book Lounge. At the BL birthday party on Monday, I recruited several writers and an artist to send me their ‘notes’ on love in Africa. I kept asking people hopefully, don’t you have anything among your stash of unpublished writings? Yesterday, I remembered I had something in my own stash that might do. It’s a play, called Lovebirds. It was a finalist in the 2005 PANSA Festival of Contemporary Theatre. The judges had good things to say and bad things to say about it—it is far too long and complicated among other problems; really it is no more than a brave attempt in need of much work—but I love this play because it reminds me of the great opportunities that abound in South Africa and it was a of a kind of dream-like experience. It was my first play; it was draining to write, and represented a creative end of several years of research, which began when I studied criminology honours (with Don Pinnock as one of my lecturer’s) at UCT. I posted off the play a few weeks before I left to teach in China; then I forgot about it. Some months later, an email arrived to say I was one of five finalists including Mike van Graan and Peter Krummeck. The email said:
The judges comments briefly were: that the script needs a good director as it is complex and diffcult; wonderful scenario and could be theatrically exciting; the impact is startling. Staging may become complicated, director must work on this carefully.Dark humour is wonderful.
The email informed me I would be given R30 000 to produce a staged reading. It would require actors, a director, lighting, sound and suggestions of set. They wanted to know if I would accept the offer and if I could make the staged reading happen from China. How could I refuse? With the miracle of Skype, I found a great director, Susan Lloyd-Roberts (she had studied theatre at RADA and had directed the opening ceremony of the cricket world cup! She was a godsend). Together, Sue and I, over Skype between China and Africa, set about putting together this production. Sue really did all the hard work, but she kept me part of the process, and even sent me short videos of the lead actors’ auditions—it was very difficult to make the choice, and I was quite overwhelmed at seeing these lines I’d written be acted and interpreted in different ways by a selection of actors. Finally, we agreed that although he was inexperienced and untrained, Maurice Page had such natural talent, he should be Shahiem, the lead, a taxing role both physically and emotionally. There were also to be celebrities and some very sporting socialites and actors, agreed to play along, in spite of the tiny budget and limited pay. Among them were Neil McCarthy, a truly brilliant actor, and Edith Venter, who, in fact, was the very person I’d thought of while writing the part. Although Lovebirds didn’t win (Peter Krummeck’s play “iVirgin Boy” won), something even better happened. Maurice’s star quality and outstanding performance so impressed the head of the drama department at the Tshwane University, that she awarded him a full scholarship to study acting the following year.
Briefly, Lovebirds is the perspective of a prisoner from Pollsmoor Adult Max who has been given a special dispensation by the Minister of Correctional Services to attend the premier of an Oscar-nominated documentary at the Waterfront Cinema Nouveau. The evening has all the ritz and razzle of a Style society page. It is in gaudy contrast to this man, Shahiem, and his story, which is the subject of the documentary: his life at the Pollsmoor Sheraton.
A year later I pared it down, did away with (ubiquitous) Algeria (how did she get into Pollsmoor!), and turned Lovebirds into a film script. Budget required to produce: many millions of Rands.
A year after that, I rewrote it again, but this time with music, I decided to turn it into a Jazz opera, using existing songs (kind of like Moulin Rouge, but with African Jazz; great to research). Budget required to produce, half as many millions as the film, but millions surely.
Some months later, I opted to rewrite it as a novel. It really doesn’t work as a novel.
Now it has become a blog, possibly the longest blog I’ve ever posted. Hallelujah!
LOVEBIRDS
A play in two acts (unedited)
By ALEX SMITH
First performed 27th November 2005 at Civic Theatre in Gauteng, directed by Susan Lloyd Roberts, with the following cast
CHARACTERS
Shahiem Abrams—played by Maurice Page
Old Ginger Cakes—played by Andre Samuels
Andre ‘The Big Shot’ — played by Neil McCarthy
The Party People:
Edith ‘The High-Maintenance Socialite’—played by Edith Venter
Roy ‘The Bohemian Academic/Journalist’—played by Charles Leonard
Ravi ‘The Media Mogul’—played by Clayton Robbertze
Dalene ‘The Secretary’—played by Esmeralda Bihl
Tini ‘The Government Minister’—Thomo Setshogo
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE
Before the red curtain goes up, Shahiem, in sneakers, jeans and a tucked in checked shirt is milling with the crowd at the opening party of a Documentary Film Festival, which takes place under the sparkly lights in the foyer of the Waterfront Cinema Nouveau. Shahiem has a scar across his face going through his one eye, which is closed, ruined. The Party People are dressed to kill and laughing and chatting and sipping French Martini’s made of super premium Pravda vodka. There is a pyramid display of the frosty-glass Pravda bottles and each one is embedded with the glittering Swarofski crystal, that is their trademark. On a long table, draped in shimmering black fabric there is a buffet with obscene amounts of artfully plumed and swirled and decorated food amidst a profusion of flowers, and there is a chocolate fountain. The music is Latin café, upbeat and very jolly. There is poster advertising the Documentary Film Festival and there is poster advertising the documentary ‘Shahiem’s Way’, with a picture of Shahiem. On the poster are also the words: ‘Grid Prix for best film at Visions du Reel in Nyon’ and ‘Miami IFF, Best Documentary’
Shahiem, looks out of place and ill at ease with the whole socialite scene. Tentatively he helps himself to just one of those amuses bouches, a mozzarella ball encased in a wrap of venison carpaccio and fastened with a toothpick. Edith, also about to spear a mozzarella ball, notices for the first time who she is next to. She’s a tough blonde but maudlin today and has already had a few martinis too many. She glances up at the poster of ‘Shahiem’s Way’ and back at Shahiem. She moves off quickly and joins a conversation with Big Shot and Ravi. The big shot has a cocaine sniff and is wearing jeans and a black Armani jacket. Ravi is very debonair and wears a three-piece-suite with a sensational Iris and mustard coloured tie. He has a tanzanite ring on his small finger.
EDITH (To Big Shot, indicating Shahiem): Andre, (To Ravi) My God you look fabulous …can it be: an Oswald Botang limited edition tie? (To Andre again, eyeing Shahiem) That’s him, isn’t it?
BIG SHOT (Lowers his dark glasses): Dead right.
RAVI (Strokes his tie): I confess, it’s one of my little indulgences.
BIG SHOT: Wanna be introduced?
EDITH (Dealing with both conversations, to Ravi first): A man after my own heart (absently), if I still have such a thing, apparently I’m a heartless bitch …(now to Big Shot) to the gangster. Oh? … well … ah, maybe later Darling, later. Got to get another of those Martini’s first. Isn’t that bottle just divine? (In parting, about to return to the social drift, looking about to see who else she knows) And where’s that gorgeous wife of yours?
BIG SHOT: Christina couldn’t make it. Our little boy is sick.
EDITH: What a shame… she always looks so outrageously sexy. But then young women look sexy no matter what, don’t they? She should be here.
(Parting words) Love the tie.
Edith heads for the Pravda Pyramid.
While he’s eating his mozzarella ball, Shahiem speaks.
SHAHIEM (To us): The Minister of Correctional affairs – she’s over there in the canary suit (he indicates Tini who has just entered and is shaking hands with Ravi. She wears a violent yellow shantung silk suit and a turban) — she gave me a special dispensation to be here tonight. She refused The General’s application.
He saunters across to the outskirts of the crowd. As he speaks, the endless party continues, with people helping themselves to huge plates of food and milling. Drinking those French Martinis and whooping at the chocolate fountain.
SHAHIEM (To us): Imagine this toothpick I’m chewing is a weapon.
I give it to you.
“Here’s a weapon”. That’s what they say.
Are you strong enough to be a 28? Prove yourself. Ha!
You’re a bangbroek – I can see it with my missing eye.
I should have stabbed out the eyes of the big shot TV man and his cameras came wanting to interview us. There he is – the big shot.
Party freezes and spotlight on the Big Shot.
BIG SHOT (To Shahiem): We want to do a documentary, Mr Abrams. We’re thinking of calling it ‘Shahiem’s Life’… There’s a lot of foreign interest in the concept, the Norwegians are on board and CNN has an option on it for their ‘Life Portraits’ slot … tell me, do you read much?
SHAHIEM (To us): Phew! What does he think that because I’m a prisoner I can’t read or something? Patronising bastard (To Big Shot) Ja, baasie, I read.
BIG SHOT: Excellent, excellent, that’s just excellent … this is going to work out great. I don’t suppose you’ve come across the book Algeria’s Way?
SHAHIEM: Ja, baasie
BIG SHOT: God, please don’t call me that … What? You have? You’ve seen it or you’ve read it?
SHAHIEM: I’ve read it, baasie.
BIG SHOT: No … You’ve actually read it? You’ve read Algeria’s Way? Wow! I didn’t think … Jeez, well fuck me…no, I don’t mean … fuck, ah whatever. Shit but that’s, great stuff … fucking brilliant man …
SHAHIEM(To us): He was so surprised to hear I’d read that book written by the Mexican man with the long name, that he went on an on – I actually began to think he was on drugs or something.
BIG SHOT: Then … well fuck man, now that changes everything … then it’s going to be authentic. AUTHENTIC! Smashing, man, this is great stuff, great stuff … I’m thinking, okay change of play … well it’s better, BETTER, MUCH BETTER. God this is … this is, we could be talking Sundance here, man I mean, fuck this could be Oscar material … yes, god dammit, yes, yes and here’s what were going to do: I want you to describe your experience of reading Algeria’s Way in the context of prison life. God, this going to be brilliant. Fucking brilliant ¬ – they don’t call me “The Hound Dog” for nothing: I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing Mr Abrams, can a I call you Shahiem. Shahiem, buddy, I’ve got a nose for winners …
SHAHIEM: Even then it didn’t strike me as strange that Algeria’s Way was the book I started reading on the first day I went back into that place.
‘Context of prison life’, what does he know? He’s a bleddy, bevokte, kaalkop Kojak but in Calvin Klein jeans.
Ja, they were Calvins.
He came in there like a kid on a school outing to the zoo: offering me cigarettes like monkey nuts. ‘
BIG SHOT: I’ve got a car-load of cigarette’s outside; I heard you guys can do with them. Fuck, I can’t live without them myself, so you and I we have lots in common, my friend, lots in common. Chinese cigarette’s, if you don’t mind. Bet you never smoked Chinese: Great fucking Wall, blue filters, you’ll love them. I’ve got a mate in Beijing, sends me truckloads. Anytime you want a smoke, you just tell me and I’ll get you a box … Okay?
SHAHIEM(To us): I didn’t want to be interviewed. Why would I want that?
Our secrets are our secrets; our life is our life.
It’s not for everyone to know.
And he, in his chinos, with his Great Wall smokes thinks I want to tell him what’s in my heart. Gaan kak!
The party, music and laughter, resumes. It looks like Big Shot is trying to pitch a new idea to the Media Mogul.
SHAHIEM: That man, over there (He looks in the direction of the Big Shot), he didn’t really want to know me.
He didn’t want to know how in standard two, I was the only boy in my class who got sixty-out-of-sixty in the geometry exam.
He didn’t care that I won the Junior Champs under thirteen top scoring soccer player award a year before I dropped out of school.
He thinks I’m a half brain with a hole for a left eye and a taste for human liver.
“Vokof,” I said. “I’m not speaking to them.”
But the General wanted me to speak to the Big Shot.
I did it for the General – I told the man with his microphone and his fancy cameras everything he wanted to hear.
Actually I deserve an academy award for it, just like old Mr Silence of the Lambs, Hopkins.
That Old Big Shot told me relive the experience I had of reading the book, to find sentences that evoke memories.
So I put on a good act, like a chimp at a tea party in my orange Pollsmoor uniform.
That Old Big Shot tried to get all pally-pally with me, like we’re neighbours.
Ha, actually, we were neighbours.
With the Norwegian’s money, he and his crew checked into the five-star luxury of the Steenberg Country Club Hotel, just across the road … funny, huh? Only in South Africa, my friend …
He got so excited when I told him about the General’s game with the encyclopedia.
Freeze party.
BIG SHOT: Genius! That man is pure Genius. I knew he was good, but that is just pure fucking Genius.
Unfreeze party.
SHAHIEM: After they were finished making the documentary, do you think I ever heard from Mr Pally-Pally again?
Not a chance, well unless it was for a photo shoot or tonight … but I know who my real brothers are…
The party bubbles on. Roy, who is an aging academic turned travel writer, sidles over to young, pretty and slightly plump Dalene, who is the secretary in the office of the accountants who deal with apportioning the Norwegian Film Council’s funding. She has a plate piled with food is trying to figure out the chocolate fountain.
ROY: Great spread isn’t it?
DALENE: Too great. I’m supposed to be on the cabbage-soup diet.
ROY: Ah…that sounds very grueling… like Dickens you know …
Beat.
DALENE: You mean Atkins? The Atkins’ die…
Roy has noticed Shahiem on the outskirts.
ROY: That’s him … Shahiem.
DALENE (follows his stare, then grimaces): Oh, my god, you’re right, it is. But he should be in jail, shouldn’t he?
ROY: Yes … I suppose they gave him special permission to be here … Don’t see any police around though … plain clothes maybe? (Momentarily transfixed, speaking to himself) Look at him, almost like Camus’ Outsider.
DALENE: No thank you, I don’t want to look at him, he’s too bloody ugly; I don’t know why anyone would want to pay to see a film about a man like that. I got my ticket’s free. I hope that doesn’t mean I have to sit next to him (She pulls a face and glares in the direction of Shahiem.)
ROY: Wasn’t it Milton Friedman who said, ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch?”
Dalene looks perplexed.
SHAHIEM (To us): I saw a chimpanzee’s tea party once, at the Tygerberg Zoo. They dressed the hairy thing in a yellow checked skirt and made it pour tea with a red teapot. Then it came around and when it clapped its hands we fed it with peanuts covered in pink sugar.
That’s how I was speaking for the camera, making out I’m an old Tsotsi.
Let them all think I’m an ape who can’t speak proper English.
That’s what they want to think.
They don’t want to hear I once took part in the Interschools debating competition. No lies: we beat those swanky boys from that private school …
VOICE OVER THE SOUNDSYSTEM: Ladies and Gentlemen would you please make you way into the auditorium. Don’t forget to collect your complimentary peri-peri popcorn and mini-Moet on your way in. And please switch off your cell phones.
SHAHIEM: Must go now, it’s starting. It’s my silver screen debut (at the Waterfront Cinema Nouveau, if you don’t mind.)
He exits and the banquet table and Pravda pyramid are moved to the sides to make space for a single row, horseshoe of cinema seats, facing the back of the stage. The horseshoe is split down the middle with half the seats on stage right and half on stage left.
The party people, with their popcorn and mini bottles of Moët&Chandon (complete with bendy black straws), take up their seats.
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO
The party people are, either eating or not eating the popcorn according to their characters and they should react, in character to the ‘documentary’ they are watching. The over-abundant banquet, Pravda pyramid and chocolate fountain are still visible.
The red curtain rises.
Behind a stage-size frame of ‘Hollywood mirror’ lightbulbs is a scene of bleak gray, cement and bars. Behind the bars, standing off-centre and in shadow is Old Ginger Cakes. His menacing presence is there throughout, in Shahiem’s mind.
Shahiem, with his back to Old Ginger Cakes, is in front of the bars. He is sitting on a bench, in his orange Pollmoor overall, reading the book, ‘Algeria’s Way’.
On the wall behind him, flash, as if part of a documentary’s titling, the words: “Shahiem’s Life”, and then “Directed by Andre Fonseca” and then, “Produced by Ebrahiem Patel” and then, “In collaboration with Community Films Norway.” and then, “And with the generous support of The National Arts Council.”
The wall goes red, blank, and then come the words “Now she is in Madrid.”
Shahiem looks up from his reading.
SHAHIEM: Okay, here, there’s one on the first page even: “Now she is in Madrid.”
To give the effect of film cuts, there will be quick blackouts on Shahiem’s stage and when the light comes up, he will be in a new position (as happens when bits of a filmed interview are edited out and the director is going for a kind of blunt-cut artsy effect.)
One such blackout occurs now.
When the lights come up. Shahiem is standing, looking nervous to be in front of the camera.
SHAHIEM: This better, ja? Okay, you see, it was two of us, me and this Franse ¬– that’s mos what we call a first timer in here, a Franse.
Hy’s maar a stupid ¬– he says to me he doesn’t even know what is Madrid.
“Haai, sies man, Madrid,” I say, because I know it well mos. “It’s a city nes Joburg. Now this girlie in the book, Algeria, is flying there in a geri because you can’t drive there it’s overseas jy weet.”
Arme klonkie, weet nie eers wat overseas is.
Hy’si ever seen the sea before.
A stupid fresh from the Karoo country, like a Farmer Brown chicken, in here, because why?
He held up a priest with a toy gun.
I told him not to say toy gun to the Numbers, hul gan’ hom moer.
They kill you here if they think you’re bang, frightened, piepierig, you know mos like a small piepie, a boy not a man. Already he’s asking for bad zorries with that strooijong pretty face.
“Don’t be a stupid,” I says to the Franse. “That’s where Real Madrid comes from. Eksê, don’t you watch the soccer?”
Slaan my dood, the Franse is really a Farmer Brown: he doesn’t even know what soccer is.
Stru’s god, here’s my cross (He crosses himself like a Catholic), he’s never watched television even. Hy’s rêrig van die poorest of the poor.
I tell the Franse about the football ¬– all what Old Ginger Cakes told me how way back the English was mos playing with a man’s skull.
Stru’sgod, here’s my cross (He crosses himself), the first football was a foreigner’s skull, the Dane’s Head.
The Dane was mos a Danisher, and Old Ginger Cakes explained to me that the English was mos not liking the Danishers.
After a skull, they used a pig’s bladder and op die ou end they got to using a white ball.
So here inni Pollsmoor Admissions Centre on the super shining concrete floor, with fish stink and cockroaches and Numbers scheming all around and no air and no sun and broken lights, I’m giving the Franse a geography lesson my old school teacher, Miss Daniels, would be proud of… Miss Daniels, that was a chicken to respect, what a lady, you…
Blackout. Lights up, Shahiem, now position.
SHAHIEM: So Franse now knows Madrid issi capital of Spain.
Old Ginger Cakes reads from his Sport Encyclopedia about La Furia, that’s the Spanishers national team.
“There’s lots of other league teams,” I say.
I’m trying to educate the Franse, sien jy, so I elaborate: “Like Levante, the Celtics, Bilbao Lions, Ajax 2 and just across the border in Portugal is lekker seksie Porto. Lekker because that’s where our Benni plays, and seksie because they won the UEFA Champions League.”
And what a match that was. I tell you, and don’t put this in the fillum, I shed a tear of joy for those boys. They was mos the underdogs. The underdogs…
Ja, so Old Ginger Cakes is fixing me and this slim book (Indicates Algeria’s Way) with a cruel eye, and I don’t want to make trouble, so I tell the Farmer Brown chicken Franse to stop asking me questions and I read aloud from ‘Algeria’s Way’ like the General orders.
Blackout. Red on the wall with black text: “The psychologist smiles, a big red lipped conspirator” Shahiem new position, still with the book in his hand.
SHAHIEM: Big red lips is mos like all the poessie Old Ginger Cakes has eaten, that’s what I remember thinking.
Hy’si King of eating ginger cakes – they tell me he’s in here till he’s white bones for forty-six counts and I heard there’s plenty of chickens who died without laying a charge.
Eating ginger cakes is not for me.
I had me a chicken before I was sent back here for violating my parole.
Maargat parole officer is revoking me because he found drugs in my bag. I told him it’s not mine. Stru’sgod, here’s my cross (He crosses himself), it wasn’t mine. I have no idea how daai pille is getting there. Stru’sgod. I tried to explain but the maargat called me a liar. Bleddy bastard. Here’s my cross (He crosses himself): Of that, I’m innocent. Shit…
Blackout. Position change.
SHAHIEM: My chicken’s name was Sonia.
I’m going to marry her oneday’s one day.
She says she’ll wait till her teeth are in a glass for me.
She says men who eat ginger cakes are evil and will burn in hell when the big day comes. I haven’t told her I watched the American Kids gangsters eating ginger cakes when I was one of them…
Always they wanted me to have a go but I told them always, gat man ek’si in the mood nie.
I was never in the mood.
One times one time though they ask me if I was bang, if I’s a chicken too. Don’t I know that Americans is short for ‘Almighty Equal Rights is Comings and Not Standings.’
So then I had a go with that girlie still in her school uniform, to show them I’m no chicken.
To prove I have no fear.
My Chicken, Sonia would cry if she knew I did that, and if she knew about the other things I’ve had to do…(He leans forward as if to hear a question).
Black out. Slight position change.
SHAHIEM: Naai man, ek’t gesê, I’m not telling about that, not for all the bleddy Camels in Tobacco Land … (Again he looks beyond the camera as if someone is going to ask him as question)
Blackout. Position change.
SHAHIEM (quite aggressive): Moenie bevok wees’I, I said no … kak … I’m going now, it’s lock up soon …
Blackout. Position change.
SHAHIEM: I’ll stay but only as jy sweer not to ask about the other things …
All I can tell you is it means I too am going to hell.
Just like Old Ginger Cakes, he’s going to hell even with his Bible and Cross tattoo and his UNISA diplomas.
Stru’sgod, the General is the only prisoner in the country with distance education degrees in business economics, mathematics, sport psychology and marketing and media studies.
Hy’s a bleddy genius. By that point Kojak you’re right: not even bifocal Bill Gates is so clever.
The BBC Channel 4 even did a special program on the General.
But the General, Old Ginger Cakes, I call him, is not giving anybody else in Adult Max permission to study.
And when Old Ginger Cakes is reading there’s nobody going to say nothing. Because why? Because they told me the last bobejaan who disturbed Old Ginger Cakes when he was reading, actually he was studying for an exam, that bobejan had his heart cut out and Old Ginger Cakes ate it.
Stru’sgod, here’s my cross (He crosses himself).
If you don’t believe me, you can ask him … hy’t gesê mos I can tell you anything …well, almost anything. (He laughs; and hides his missing front teeth with his hands. He’s shy to show his gums to the camera.)
Blackout. Position change.
SHAHIEM: Ja, so back to that first day with the Franse. I think I went to toilet or something … anyhow, when I came back there was this Twenty-Eight inked with ‘God gave me freedom but the Judge took it away’, smiling with the Franse and asking him if he would like a lekker cold drink.
Jeeslike, that Franse, hy’s cruel naïve, he’s nodding, about to say yes.
“Nee man, no,” I say to the number. “This Franse’s wanting nothing from you.”
The Twenty-Eight is looking at me bitter.
“No,” I repeat.
The Twenty-Eight says something to his general, Old Ginger Cakes, in their code and then that 28 boggers off.
That was closer than a Gilette shave.
I explain to the Franse that if he takes the cooldrink then he’ll pay with sex and once he’s a wyfie he’s a nothing. Then he belongs to the Twenty-Eights.
I tried, nobody can say I didn’t try to help him … nobody can blame me for what happened, I’m innocent … we’s all innocent actually, every bleddy one of us in the Pollsmoor Sheraton.
Go ask, anybody, try that lelike Twenty-Seven over there … I don’t know anyone in here who’s guilty … that’s a joke, Kojak. I’m making a joke.
But I did try: “Be taking no favours, no chips, no cooldrinks from nobody, Franse.”
I warned him.
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
“Navigating with a map pre-marked with ballpoint arrows, she finds her way through the streets of the old part of the city where faded glories of the Spanish Empire are punctuated with neon and plastic crests of the Oh say can you see New World. McDonalds, KFC, Ben&Jerry, Dunkin’Doughnut. Dunkin’ Doughnut’s smells of sugar dustings and oil make her grimace.”
SHAHIEM (Smoking a cigarette): KFC. Kentucky was me and my chicken, Sonia’s favourite. On her paydays Sonia buys for us the KFC Steetwise Feast. Two drumsticks, two wings, two breasts, two mash with gravy and three bread rolls. Finger Licking Good, I tell Old Ginger Cakes.
Shahiem pauses and holds his hands in his head.
OLD GINGER CAKES (From the shadows of Shahiem’s memorey): Like eating ginger cakes?
Shahiem looks up at the ‘camera’.
SHAHIEM (To audience): “Like eating ginger cakes.” That’s what he said to me.
“Ja, General, just like eating ginger cakes.” I’m showing no fear.
The Numbers was telling me I must call Old Ginger Cakes on his rank, so I call him General now.
The General himself did explain me he’s a diamond, not a rough diamond but a cut-up diamond. Because why he’s mos the top, so everything about him is flawless diamond: his arms, his legs, his head, his eyes, his teeth even his heart. Pure diamond, hardest stone in the universe, he tells me.
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“The bonds of eating begin with the first mouthful of mother’s milk, and if that is the beginning of love, then the scene of the comestible universe around Algeria is as close to an orgy as one will ever find in the town square of Catholic country. And all goes on without anyone shedding a single pair of knickers.”
Shahiem has a new position.
SHAHIEM: But jy weet Kojak eating doesn’t always happen without shedding knickers… (He looks away from the camera)
THE GENERAL: You Americans laaitie’s eat ginger cakes for sport, hey? Like a team sport and it’s all about getting it in. Isn’t that so?
Shahiem, shakes his head, and just looks out hapless at the camera for a long beat.
SHAHIEM: Old Ginger Cakes is speaking so smart, Afrikaans High and the Queen’s English. His tongue is wearing a tie like that preacher who does services some Saturday mornings on Manneberg Main.
The General himself he’s not wearing a tie, he’s wearings my Hillfiger T-shirt. But don’t forget that his real uniform, the secret uniform he wears in our head, is made of Diamonds.
That Number over there with the cell phone (He points to someone ‘off camera’), he’s the Judge so he’s gold. He’s got my jean on – Sonia is buying it for me for my Birthday from the Mr Price store.
Judge: that’s a five star ranking…
Sonia always used to buy my clothes…
They told me I looked cruel beautiful when I arrived that morning, then they took all my clothes and they keep doing it. But I remember clear, the Franse’s clothing was rubbish so they left him in his stink rags…(He looks out as if the director is signaling something)
BIG SHOT’S VOICE OVER SOUND SYSTEM: That must have been tough?
SHAHIEM (Pulls a face):Strond, that’s nothing – first days are shit. Other Birds is having it much worse, I mean beetroot eet, that sort of thing …beetroot eet, that’s taking a beating till you cough blood.
It’s all about respect, sien jy.
The new Birds come in here with that Zola Hola seven shit, from the TV program, thinking they’s clever. In here six, seven, eight, those numbers mean a lot. People die for those numbers…
So I’s reading to the Franse, but all the time I’m thinking: tonight’s tonight when the story really begins, when lock-up comes then the Franse and I must pray to God, even if my silver cup with God is broken.
For some reason, ja that was before I knew, you’ll understand mean, Old Ginger Cakes has it in his head I’m famous because of the Mexican’s slim book, so I’s planning on keeping the General lekker busy with reading and his big dictionary.
About finger licking good, he says, “You Americans laaitie’s eat ginger cakes for sport, hey? Like a team sport and it’s all about getting it in.”
“Ja, General,” I say. “Eating Ginger Cakes is all about scoring net soos inni football, and you’s the Ronaldo of the sport.”
I think Old Ginger Cakes likes being named for Ronaldo because why he’s smiling.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Ronaldo, Il Fenomeno, The Buck Tooth Boy Wonder.
SHAHIEM: Eksept the teeth, General – you have no front teeth to be buck.
OLD GINER CAKES: Like Nongoloza … Football is your passion isn’t it Shahiem?
Shahiem looks beyond the camera.
SHAHIEM: Hey, Kojak, you’s being stingey with those smokes man, I thought you had truck of them…
Blackout. Shahiem position change and when lights come up he’s smoking again and has a pack of cigarette’s in his hand.
SHAHIEM: Old Ginger Cakes, The General, he ask me if football’s my passion.
I’s not wanting to talk about anything that’s my passion, so I ask him what the dictionary says about eating ginger cakes.
The General tells me ginger cakes is slang and they’s not putting slang in the dictionary.
Meantime steal doors are slamming shut and the warders are tapping keys and calling because it’s almost two and time for dinner.
That explains the stink of cabbage like a blocked WC at the sunset beach cloaks.
Old Ginger Cakes is in no hurry.
He’s reading me about ginger, how it’s from a word that means ‘horn-body’.
“What’s a horn-body,” I ask.
“A man,” he says. “Men are horn-bodies because they’re bodies with a horn between the legs.”
But Old Ginger Cakes issi interestings in talking about horns.
He’s reading me some dictionary definition of sport.
THE GENERAL: A sport consists of an everyday physical activity carried out with a purpose and in an environment different from everyday: for competition, enjoyment, to attain excellence, mastery, domination, for the development of skill and physical power, or some combination of these. The difference of purpose is what characterises sport, combined with the notion of individual or team skill or prowess.
SHAHIEM: I tell you, daai’s a mouth with a Versace silk tie. The General should run for parliament, he’d fit in sweet with all those opgeterte crooks.
“So eating ginger cakes is then definitely a sport,” I say, “ because sex is usually in bed and eating ginger cakes’s usually behind a building, in side-street. And sometimes it’s a competition to see who makes the chicken scream loudest?”
I can speak twak too.
THE GENERAL: Ja, klevaa, Shahiem, that would put it in the category of Achievements sport, like target shooting or golf.
SHAHIEM: That time, I’s thinking: this man’s been here so long he believes this twak. But I know mos better now … So he’s reading more from the dictionary and sounding like a school teacher telling me that sports are classified into three categories or can be a combination of the three categories: Achievements, Opponents, and Racing.
THE GENERAL: Football’s a combination of Achievement and Opponent with elements of Racing too…Of course, with eating ginger cakes there can even be some Racing or Opponent elements if the chicken struggles or tries to run. The team prowess in both football and eating ginger cakes is the domination of the posts. But the most important thing in team sports is love, Ek sê jou Shahiem the love of brothers united, scoring together, winning together.
SHAHIEM: The General, he say, team sports is all about love.
Stru’sgod, I didn’t understand then, but know I do and I agree.
Still I love football and not eating ginger cakes.
So I’m thinking, if eating ginger cakes is like a sport, why’s the law put the General in adult max for so long? And why’s eating ginger cakes not showing on the Super Sport channel?
Passop Shahiem, I’s thinking to myself, wondering is halfway to loosing a heart. Ginger Cakes is God in a diamond suit, and if God is saying eating ginger cakes is like a sport, then that’s as true as the Bible cut into his cheeks… Ja, that’s what the Numbers do when they know Adult Max is home from home ‘til white bones: they cut their cheeks with the emblems of the gang and when the blood is dry the scars is lasting like a lifetime guarantee Seiko watch from Galaxy jewelry shop.
And just that morning, the Judge, that guy with cell phone, he told me Old Ginger Cakes is wanting to recruit me for the Twenty-Eights.
Ai tog, I’s thinking, my ma gaan stokkiesdraai in her grave if she hears this. There’s one ways oneway-only up the stairway to the Kingdom of Numbers: bloedskiet, to spill another’s blood.
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
“She is acceptably content, alone, and with her index finger she gouges a hole through the plastic of her bag of sweet maroon cherries. The blank outside wall reminds her of the acres of void airport corridors.”
SHAHIEM: I know blank and alone.
Blank floors. Blank Walls.
This place is blank and men walk blank faced back to their cells for supper.
On that day, Old Ginger Cakes is eyeing me and he asks if I’m loosing concentration and do I want him to find another way I can be entertaining to him.
When he smiles with his gappy lips I remember skerp what the Twenty-Eights like best: having a piece of fresh backside.
“Naai man, General, I’m not loosing concentration.”
But he’s looking like he’s not believing me.
“Stru’sgod, General, here’s my cross. I’s just wondering what a fresh cherry tastes like. I seen them in the sealed up plastic cartons when I was a casual for Woolworths, packing boxes Christmas time last. I never tasted a fresh cherry, eksept Kool-Aid cherry drink.”
Old Ginger Cakes nods. He tells me that ‘Cherie’ is Ttotsi-taal for what we’s calling a voël, a bird, or a wyfie.
THE GENERAL: Ja, my friend, I’m looking for a fresh Cherie.
SHAHIEM: And he winks at the Franse and then pages through his dictionary and says: “Cherry, my friends is from the Latin cerisia possibly related to Greek word Keras which means horn, probably related to the hardness of cherrywood.”
From his famous sport encyclopedia, Old Ginger Cakes tells me and the Franse that Cherries is the nickname of the English Football League’s Second Division team AFC Bournemouth, them that wears mos the red jerseys.
I can see that in the encyclopedia that Old Ginger Cakes has written notes in pencil. He twists the encyclopedia around so he can read to us from the notes. Like the note that the best player in soontime Cherries history was Irelanders captain, Matt Holland. Ek ken mos vir Matt Holland but the Franse (suddenly he’s angry) vok man, hy was a kind, soos, like a child you know … he knew nothing …sjoe…ja, but I can’t feel bad about what happened: in here you just have to survive … it’s hard, jy weet, this life … I know I’ve disappointed my family … and Sonja(He looks beyond the camera and for a brief moment it seems he might even cry, but he doesn’t.)
Where was I? O ja, the encyclopedia is being turned again and Old Ginger Cakes sê vir ons Matt Holland is a maargat midfielder who scored eighteen goals for the Cherries in two years. Bleddy good, huh?
I could do that. Tru’sgod. I’m talented Kojak…
Blackout. Position change and lights up.
SHAHIEM: So the General’s got this note written with a dollar sign next to it.
It says Holland was sold to First Division team, Ipswich Town, for eight hundred thousand pounds in 1997.
“Atchoo! That’s monies like the lottery winnings,” I say and then of course I must explain to the Franse what First Division means.
Old Ginger Cakes shakes his head, curls his lips soos ‘n ou koeksister, and says, “What happened to loyalty?”
OLD GINGER CAKES: Ek se jou, Shahiem, the Number is my life. If you spill blood for the Number we are with you for life, we love you for life. No money can buy a Number; no money can sell a Number. Only fear destroys the Numbers, that’s why if you fear, we must kill you. Fear kills love and money is the murder weapon. Football used to be about love but it is not the same anymore. Everything is strategy and paper. Those players, they spill blood, break bones but there’s no more love, only management and sponsors and media and money.
Atchoo you say?
Yes, it pains me, you know, that Holland boy appeared in two-hundred and twenty-three successive games for Ipswich. Then the team agreed to a four and a half million pound deal with Aston Villa who wanted to sign Holland, but Holland’s a slimjan and he rejected the move.
Nou lag hy die lekkerste, he’s captaining the Premiership team Charlton Athletic. Ek sweer jou, Shahiem, I am the General, if you spill blood for the Numbers, and stay fearless, we will fight for you and die for you till kingdom come. Now that’s true love. We are your community, and with us you know you will never walk alone. You never have to worry that the General is going to be sold to another team.”
SHAHIEM: He’s going on about loyalty and how I’ll know true love if I spill blood for the Numbers. And I’s trying not to hear. All I’s thinking was how daai Aston Villa is a very lekker team.
Why in the world Holland is not wanting to go there?
At the same time my eyes is on the tattoos on the side of Old Ginger Cakes neck sayings ‘pretty wise’ and ‘Spit on my grave’.
OLD GINGER CAKES: You like it? ( He points to his neck.) Pretty Wise, that’s me. Wise enough to know you’re dreaming right now about what it would be like to play for Aston Villa.
SHAHIEM: I was dreaming of being the Aston Villa midfielder. Shit, forget that, I’m still dreaming just of any bleddy field and playing football with any team. No chance in here – Admission Center life is one or two hours a week in the outside yard. And that’s only if the warders are feeling good …
Ja nee, …so then Old Giner Cakes says to me: “I’ll show you how the pretty wise play Adult Max football.”
OLD GINGER CAKES: Next time your thoughts are wondering Shahiem, choose a word from the page and I’ll turn it into football.
SHAHIEM: His game is to turn my worries into football. Shit … By this stage the poor Franse’s stomach is mos making hungry noises but when he gets up the General tells him to sit unless he wants his wings clipped. The General gives me his lippy smile and says, “You stick with me Shahiem. I’ll give you lots of fresh cherries.”
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
“One of the headline stories in the newspaper now protruding from the bin, is titled, ‘Tycoon Dead, Hijacker Arrested’. When she notices it, she pulls up the corner of the paper and scans the tale of the fifteen-year-old who was arrested for the murder of Roger Winshaw. She looks at the picture of Shahiem Abrams, the arrested teenager who is awaiting trial in Pollsmoor’s notorious Admissions Centre.”
Lights up.
SHAHIEM: Slaan my dood. Dis ekke, it’s me in a book and it’s mos true.
I was just a kid when all that happened but I seen it all in the newspaper.
Now suddenly I’m in a book: daai’s maar something to be impressed with.
A book, me, in a book. Vok.
I show the Franse but he can’t read so he doesn’t understand how special it is.
Old Ginger Cakes is smiling big lips…
Thinking of it now, I just realised, maybe the General made me read this book to him on purpose because I was in it … ja, like he knew of me … but he said he knew … didn’t he? Ja, we’s sitting there and …
OLD GINGER CAKES: Ek sê Shahiem you’re famous. In those days you were just another Americans Kid but now, you’re a celebrity: this Mexican man has written your unauthorised biography… will you autograph my copy?”
SHAHIEM: Can you think, the General, diamond, he wanting my signature in his book … that gives a man a sense of pride, jy weet? But then I realise …
Anyway, I sign his copy of Algeria’s Way and the General’s talking on and on but I’m not hardly listening because I’m wondering why this Mexican man, has put me in the eyes like this?
He doesn’t even know me and I don’t know him … I’s feeling the pride but also like somebody stole something from me.
They put me in jail, when I’s a kid for stealing that tycoon Winshaw’s life, but this Mexican man he’s stolen my life too … see how he’s put me in the eyes.
That’s what I’s thinking and the Franse’s stomach is still making noises.
“So Shahiem,” the General says to me. “This puts you above the rest and that’s why I want you for the Twenty-Eights.” He leans to my ear. “ There’s a warder with a number on his head, and you’re the Number.”
Me?
OLD GINGER CAKES: Yes, Shahiem, my friend, you are the number and soon you and I will be brothers.
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
“What a horrible teacher.” Algeria watches Cathy take a bite of a second chocolate. Chrissie suckles on her Coke. “I’m surprised they still do dissections thought. Aren’t there computer simulations now?”
Diana shakes her head. “I don’t know. I would never expect my children to have to do it. It can traumatise a person. Nobody has the right to torture people … or animals. I’m a vegetarian.”
SHAHIEM: I’m no bleddy vegetarian; in this place a person’s lucky to get meat.
But there’s always a Mr Price to being favoured.
At that first dinner I’s wonderings like ping-pong about spilling blood and Old Ginger Cakes and this befokde Mexican man.
If that Mexican man’s not putting me in these slim pages then Old Ginger Cakes and his Numbers would have left me alone.
So I think: if I spill blood and it’s a warder then I’m here till white bones and Sonia’s teeth really will be in the glass before we two’s together eating a Streetwise Feast again.
I’d kill for chicken thighs instead of the kak they serve here. Dinner’s pap and gravy with cabbage and one piece of meat and a slice of dry bread.
On my first day back, I got a piece of meat, so jy kan maar put two together and think the Numbers is favouring me.
The first time I was here, all those years ago when I’s a teenager, I never once had a piece of meat, no meat for three years.
Because why? The Numbers is controlling the Kitchen and those days before I was famous, they had no interest in me.
No Grand West jackpots for guessing that Old Ginger Cakes is getting a full plate of red meat every meal – I’m talking T-bone steak.
Blackout. Red screen with text:
“In retrospect Algeria associates equivocation and Shakespearean witches with the mind magician Malcolm Ross. In silence, her thoughts cry de profundis.”
SHAHIEM: I’s liking that sentence because it’s something close what’s happening in my head. Sien jy, I’s eating my meat but my thoughts is screaming.
And then Old Ginger Cakes is pointing to the book and he says, “Gaan aan.”.
But I’s needing to scheme, so I’s thinking mos what the General said about his game, and I ask for him to turn Magician into football.
“Aha, klevaa, you remembered.” The General’s nodding and pulling a chicken bone from his mouth.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Okay, I’ve got one: the White Magician, that’s the name they gave Philippe Troussier whose coaching magic led ASEC Abidjan to three successive championships in the early nineties.
Coached Bafana Bafana at the France World Cup, but then the bobbejane let him go off to Japan. Hey, are you listening to me?
SHAHIEM: I’s listening but only with one ear. The other ear is listening to my thinking and worrying for Sonia and for the Franse because lock-up is comings soon.
Old Ginger Cakes is talking on about why France, the country, not the pretty boy, why France the country with one of the best teams is loosing that World Cup against Abidjan.
OLD GINGER CAKES: They didn’t score a single goal in the tournament.
SHAHIEM: The General tells us it was because of African magicians. The Senegalese Witchdoctors, he tells us, cast spells and buried the names of the French players in a graveyard…
That day, the first day back in the Pollsmoor Sheraton, I’s like a French name in a graveyard of Numbers.
Blackout. Red wall and text:
“THE DEVIL (REVERSED)
1
Diana strokes her scarred hands and the feel of the dead skin patched together takes her back to a particular morning, some fifteen years ago. The reversal began on that morning.”
SHAHIEM: There’s no reversing the Devil in here.
The Devil’s having a Pollmoor tan.
No more colour even if you’s born black as the tar on Adderley Street.
There’s no sun…
Okay, so dinner is over.
I’s hearing down the corridor, gates hard closing and locks turning, and the voices of three thousand devils handing back their metal plates.
Like I said, after dinner it’s lock up … that’s every day at three pm in the afternoon. Then’s hell mos really beginning.
The Numbers is allocating beds and cells and the Franse and I are allocated to Ginger Cakes’ Hell, number one hundred and ninety-three, where the General has his bunk … don’t put that in, about Ginger Cakes Hell … can you erase…
Blackout. Shahiem changes position.
SHAHIEM: “Tell me about the Devil,” I’s asking Old Ginger Cakes.
General’s thinking long about that.
Why I don’t know – he should know Van Demon well.
Ag, sorry man Kojak, can you wind that back, delete that?
VOICE OF BIG SHOT: We’ll edit it out.
SHAHIEM: Ja?Good … Anyway, I’m sitting there listening to the shuffling of men coming in, it’s a special sound, so loud sometimes it makes me feel almost mad, that shuffling and squeaking rubber soles on the concrete.
There’s a lot here that can make a man go mad … no space, for one … the first time I’s sent here my cell was the size of double bed. Inside was a triple bunk, the windows was shuttered and there was a toilet and a basin and space for one man standing. I was mos the youngest so I had the worst: the top bunk, a place of no breathing. I couldn’t sit up even because the ceiling was too close to the bed…Ja, that’s all, stru’sgod, here’s my cross (He crosses himself).
OLD GINGER CAKES: El Diablo … you thought you had me, hey Shahiem, but I’ve go one: El Diablo, El Diablo.
SHAHIEM: El Diablo, that’s Old Ginger Cakes answer.
The warder is shaking his keys on his dog leash waist-band and us forty mens is crashed in a mesh and bar tomb smaller than a soccer pitch goal area.
Marco Etcheverry, El Diablo, the best player in the history of MLS.
By those days, I’s not knowing about the MLS so the General is telling me it’s the American soccer leagues. Funny there I’s thinking always that Americans is only playing their style football with the rugby ball jy weet. But no, they’s great soccer players the General says. El Diablo, who’s playing for DC United, is famous for his wicked sexy free kick goals.
Actually, I’s enjoying the General’s story about El Diablo’s game winning play in the MLS Cup, United vs. Los Angeles. The General is reading me about it from one of those magazine clippings he keeps in his Sport Encyclopedia.
OLD GINGER CAKES: El Diablo, a lethal weapon they called him. Do you know what a lethal weapon is Shahiem?
Long beat. Shahiem is reluctant to go further.
SHAHIEM: I hope Sonja never sees this … El Diablo was called the lethal weapon and when the General told me that, he asked me if I knew what a lethal weapon was.
“A gun?” I said.
So the General smiles and asks me for my toothbrush. It’s the Pollsmoor standard issue blue. I give him the toothbrush.
“This is a lethal weapon,” he says, giving me that lippy grin and he calls to the others for a boxie matches, a kersie and the sharpies. Sharpies is blades mostly smuggled from the prison hospital. He snaps off the top of my standard blue, meaning I’s not having anything to brush my teeth with anymore. He lights the candle and burns the end of the standard blue till it’s melting hot and sticky enough to glue on the sharpie.
OLD GINGER CAKES: One blade on each side makes for a better weapon. I’ll keep it for you, until you need it.
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“She took it for granted that the yellow arrows painted along the Camino paths would lead her faithfully to Villadangos, the agreed stop for that night.”
SHAHIEM: I’s taking a breath and wishing there’s yellow arrows to lead me faithfully to somewhere safe.
The air is dagga sweet and toilet sour.
Some men is putting up a sheet across two triple bunks at the end of the room.
This cell I’m talking about is filled with men and the space is no more than fifteen metres by five metres.
There’s this committee of six Numbers followings another Number into the place behind the sheet.
Then there’s talking in the code language.
Then there’s noise: thumping, beating, kicking and some gasping but no shouting. Shouting’s not allowed.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Official business, not your concern, Shahiem …Only a small matter.
SHAHIEM: It’s a small matter, to that means they won’t be hitting in the face.
That Number is probably just asking a warder a question without getting permissions from the General, that’s mos a small matter.
A big matter is doing something the General’s not liking. For that there’s a beating with steel locks in socks.
Disobeying the General’s asking has an extra special punishment. They’s choosing a prisoner with Aids to rape you. After that, life is leaking out slowly, so that’s why they’s calling it a ‘Slow Puncture’.
Pretty hey … you know Kojak, this place is filled with poets.
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
“Spain’s countryside, its natural architecture, provided green butterflies and wild roses as an intermittent delight between her interior debate over Richard’s supposed psychopathology. He himself had once told Algeria he had no memory of emotions and that he needed feelings to be explained. Richard was a beautiful man become heartless.”
SHAHIEM: Maybe’s maybe, Richard has spent some time in a place like this. There’s lot’s of beautiful men become heartless in this place. I read that in the book over and over… sometimes I still look at it…
So, the beating at the end of the cell is mos over.
The sheet is coming down and eight Numbers is standing talking. The one Number is lekker sore but nothing is showing on his face.
That’s the Way of the Numbers.
Them that’s beaten must be careful to show nothing. The Numbers is mos watching body language and if they’s thinking you’s piepierig or bang, you know mos, frightened, then forget it. As jy issi hard dan gaan hulle jou nail.
When you’s coming here, you better leave your heart in the box at the entrance with your other valuables.
Also, I remember trying to think what a green butterfly is looking like …it was something to think about other than what was happening in Jessica Rabbit’s bunk behind me.
Ja, you see by that time there was a man in the cell called Jessica Rabbit – a very thin man. I’s thinking he’s from Nigeria because he’s speaking French. He’s a cherie, a bird, a Twenty-Eight’s wyfie.
When we arrived on that day Jessica Rabbit was sweeping the floor and cleaning the toilet, making the beds…
Ja, so I’m sitting there thinking on green butterflies and in a bunk behind me I’s hearing nakedness, skin on skin, the gasping, and the squeaking bunk.
The green butterflies is not much help.
Noises from the squeaking bunk is hammering into my thoughts.
I’m trying to think only of the story but everywhere there’s men, too many for the room. It’s too hot and there’s only a thin breeze from one broken window that’s barred to darkness.
Thumping, thumping from behind and nobody’s saying nothing, nobody’s seeing nothing.
Like I said, Kojak, in here, everybody is innocent.
I’m thinking how much I love Sonia.
The standard blue is glinting.
I’m sweating.
OLD GINGER CAKES: “ Hey, Shahiem, why have you stopped reading?
SHAHIEM: I’m trying to speak but wanting to scream, thinking about how many fifteen hour nights I’m to be locked in this kak and lice cell.
I’m swallowing and shouting in my head: “Show nothing, Shahiem, show nothing.”
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
‘Algeria has made herself a cup of herb tea using one of the teabags from the box that is crushed into her backpack and which has made all her clothes smell of mint. “How on earth can you earn a living from storytelling?”
“Story therapy for children who have been traumatised or have developmental or learning disorders – that’s how I make my money. I belong to a storytelling circle too,” says Hazel. “Once a month we gather and tell stories.”
“What sort of stories do you tell?”’
SHAHIEM: This part I remember clearly. Again this chicken with her bleddy cup of tea, as if tea is kissing…
The General’s doing sit-ups with his feet held down by the Franse.
Gat man, why’s this chicken having a cup of tea when there’s hunks of soft bread she could have? She must be tartie, you know a stupid. Here two slices of bread is worth a cigarette… No, I don’t want one now…
So the General is sweating and looking at me and before he can be making any comments or slicing me with those eyes, I say, “Cup.”
“Do a hundred sit-ups and I’ll talk while you work,” the General commands.
So I’s sitting legs flat for the Franse to hold my feet. Like this.
(Shahiem positions himself to do the sit-ups)
“The World Cup soccer Trophy, originally called the Jules Rimet Trophy,” the General says.
(Shahiem begins doing situps)
OLD GINGER CAKES: It was hidden in a shoebox under a bed during World War Two by the FIFA Vice President to protect it from the Germans.
SHAHIEM: That’s twenty sit-ups done and there’s men in other bunks watching me and I’m not even close to sweating. And the General is talking on.
OLD GINDER CAKES: Just before the 1966 World Cup final in England the trophy was stolen. Eventually, it was found buried under a tree by a dog called Pickles.
SHAHIEM (Still doing sit-ups): Closing on fifty and the General is watching hard but I’m not sweating.
OLD GINGER CAKES: 1983 the trophy was stolen again but it was never found. They say it was melted down.
SHAHIEM: Seventy-nine and I’m going like a Boeing.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Now there’s a new trophy, the FIFA World Cup Trophy. 18-karat gold.
SHAHIEM: Done. (He jumps up) I’s on my feet straight away, not even out of breath. The general is nodding, pleased with me, lighting a cigarette.
OLD GINGER CAKES: I knew I was right about you, Shahiem.
SHAHIEM: I smiled but it was the last time I was happy.
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
‘Nogoloza is much, much more than a rapist though, he’s an historical figure, but to the woman he raped, Miriam Ntshoanana, he’s just a rapist. I can see indications of how he became that, but still…”
“Tell me,” Ruth asks. “Please. I need to know how.”
“I don’t think there is one ‘how’, it’s a chemistry of time and experiences, one small change can upset the balance; I see in his life a tipping point.’
SHAHIEM: While I’s reading this girlie’s story about Nongoloza, which is all lies actually, the General keeps getting up and also all the while he’s tapping the standard blue, like he’s impatient mos or maybe he’s testing to see that the sharpies are sticking to the ends. Tapping, first on his hand then against the metal bed.
After what happened later, I read that bit about the tipping point again…
The General’s so clever: I’s starting to think he wanted me to read to that part. He was angry with that story. Really angry.
So, my tipping point began with the General chanting…
OLD GINGER CAKES: 26, 27, 28 Nongoloza, Nongoloza. (He continues a low chant of unintelligeable words, throughout)
SHAHIEM: Soon the other men in the Pollsmoor Sheraton suite one hundred and ninety-three is joining in: “ 26, 27, 28, Nongoloza, Nongoloza.”
They carry on with the true story of Nongoloza from the Book of Numbers; that’s then like the gang’s history. But it’s not written, it’s all spoken from memories, nothing’s written and it’s only for the ears of the Numbers, so I can’t tell you.
The chanting is low and a man with ‘Twee Ag’ in big letters on his forehead is crushing pille and sprinkling them on dagga, stirring with a match, stuffing it into a plastic pipe.
The pipe goes to the Franse first.
Theys giving him the cream, the first suck, and it’is a bad omen for the Franse but he’s knowing nothing. He takes the pipe and breathes in deeply.
“Again,” the Judge commands.
So the Franse’s taking a second suck. I can see his head is deurmekaa. Then he’s shaking from the cream, spitting and then it’s lights out.
Daai ou gang history is going on in deep voices and they’s passing the pipe around and turnings the Franse over.
Chanting is going on and daai ‘Twee Ag’ jong pulls the pant off die Franse leaving his backside naked.
The chanting has almost a chorus line, “26, 27, 28, Nongoloza, Nongoloza.”
Old Ginger Cakes, the General, in his diamond suit sucks the pipe and he’s the first up the Franse’s backside. It’s like launching a ship, poppings the cork on a bottle of Grand Mousseaux sparking wine to consecrate it.
Now the Franse is launched as a Fucker, and his backside belongs to the Numbers. The man of Gold, the Judge, is next but the Franse wakes up.
“26, 27, 28, Nongoloza, Nongoloza,” they chant.
“No noise, birdie, or I’ll cut off your lips,” the Judge whispers in the Franse’s ear.
There’s more men waiting for their turn. They’s gerooked and ready to rodeo.
My new friend, the Franse is staring me cruel.
There’s tears on his cheeks. But you can’t say I didn’t warn him.
His eyes is pittyful, asking for help, askings me not to leaving him, not to turn away but the General’s looking at me. I’m sorry for the Franse but happy it’s not me.
How could I go back to Sonia if that happened to me?
So I’s takings a suck on the pipe when it passes me and I open the book that made me famous and try and concentrate on reading all about Algeria’s Way.
I remember this next line bright as Be My Wife Zenon lights.
Red Wall with black text:
‘“Love!” Margaret emits a shiver of laughter. “That dies very quickly.”’
SHAHIEM: I want to vomit.
Soon the chanting is over.
The place smells of sweet of dagga and burnt like ash and of men and sex.
It’s like one of those tea parties you go to after a funeral ¬– all, somber and with a fake smiles.
We’s all burried in here and these men just don’t know it. Ag ‘strond man, they’s knowing but not showing. That’s the Number’s way.
So, they’s finished their sport with the Franse.
The General’s handing me the standard blue with the sharpies on its ends.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Next time, you can join in. That’s when you’ve done your duty, Shahiem.
SHAHIEM: I take the standard blue, not wanting to think about it. And casual like, I say, “Wie’s mos the warder with the number on his head?”
The General smiles.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Garry Karels. The Judge will point him out to you in the morning … I’m glad to see you’re enjoying the book.
SHAHIEM: In the opposite bunk, the Franse hasn’t moved, like he’s in shock or maybe fearing that if he moves it will all begin again. His face is dirty with tears and snot.
I’s thinking maybe the slim pages will bring the Franse out of his head. Story, therapy, like that lady in the book does. So I say, “Ja, General.” And then I read loudly enough for the Franse to hear. To take his mind off you know…at least I did something…
So, Kojak, jy kan maar dink, I had no choice but to do what the General wanted …but actually the General does love us. He’s our father in here and he’s pretty wise like God … I think that’s enough though. I don’t want to tell you more…
Maybe just one thing to show you how wise Old Ginger Cakes, the General is – he also works in mysterious ways.
I only heard this today, before I came to talk to your cameras again: it was a Number who planted those madrax pille in my tog bag. You know the ones that got my parole revoked. I told you I’s innocent.
The General wanted me in here, in the Pollsmoor Sheraton, maybe because of the book. The General told me, I’m a chosen one, I’m a star.
Black out.
Faint light on Ravi. He’s rubbing his hands together, the Tanzanite ring glints. He’s reverend but clearly pleased.
Dalene dabs tears off her cheeks and blows her nose.
RAVI (He turns to the Big Shot): ‘I’m a star’… that line gets me every time and the camera work in those last frames is sensational, so moody, textured. The colours so vivid.
BIG SHOT (He’s coming off his high): Glad you like it.
RAVI: That line’s gonna get you the Oscar …We must talk; I’ve got a script I’ve been sitting on, a kind of Art Noir gangster feature set in Soweto. South Africa’s ‘City of God’. I’ve been waiting for the right director … I think you’re the man.
BIG SHOT (It’s the first time, he’s really struck by the awfulness of his film): I’m the man? (Puzzled, looks up at the blank sceen.) The man.
ACT TWO
The set is as before, except that the act opens with a spotlight on The General, who although is still behind the bars, now has birdcages with lovebirds in them all around him. And he opens one of these and takes out a lovebird.
On the red wall appears the black text:
“Algeria starts crying. Walking and crying, and dosed herself with that self-pity often experienced by the sick, whether the malady be of the mind or of a more physical sort, who in their moment of least resistance, imagine themselves to be near death.”
Lights up. Shahiem has his head in his hands. The Party People are eating Magnum ice-creams.
SHAHIEM: Lovebirds … lovebirds, ‘n mens kan’it’i glo nie. Lovebirds.
BIG SHOT’S VOICE OVER SOUNDSYSTEM: Shahiem? Shahiem … If you’re innocent why are still in the Pollsmoor Sheraton. Shahiem?
SHAHIEM: Skuus, Kojak, I just can’t get the birds out of my head.
BIG SHOT’ VOICE: I was just wondering why, if you were framed by The General … I mean he engineered your return to Adult Max, why have gotten out?
SHAHIEM: Ja … (Opens his copy of Algeria’s Way) Sien jy, it’s like she saying, there’s always a moment of least resistance … did you ever imagine yourself near death?
BIG SHOT’S VOICE: Maybe. Yes. When was your moment of least resistance?
SHAHIEM: Daai thin standard blue is lying on my thigh, light as a feather, heavy as a coffin.
General’s mos gaan kak, I’s meaning literal – he’s sittings on the toilette adding to the stink.
I’s wanting to take the chance to check the Franse is fine, because the boy’s not moving for almost an hour, and his pants is just hangings off him.
I’s worrying that if he’s not moving soon, someone will have another go with hims.
“Hey, Franse, you’s still in this world?”I’s whispering, “Hey, hey, it’s me mos Shahiem. As jy kan my hoor, if you’s hearing me, put on you pant my bra, do it soon like or you know, bad things might happen.”
The Franse is moving his head and then suddenly like a fleas biting him he’s jumping up and pulling on his pant.
There’s pain in his doings, I can seeing in his frown like he’s having teeth pulled. He’s sitting sore on the floor between his bunk and mine.
His face all marked with tears and snot.
His back against the wall, and he’s just staring.
“Wipe you face, don’t let them see your face like that,” I’s whispering.
The Franse’s wiping his face on the front of his T-Shirt and then looking at me, big eyes like one of them stray dogs who kids take to kicking.
I’s realising that I’s knowing him almost a day and I doesn’t know his name.
“What’s you’re name Franse?”
“Zo.”
Then The General’s comings back.
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“Ah but the love lives of canaries changed in a storm.”
Shahiem is paging through the book and then he finds what he’s looking for.
SHAHIEM : Here it is, listen (reading from the book): “A brown canary with a bald wing sits on a perch behind the bar. Every now and then the bird swivels its head and tugs at its remaining feathers.
‘Belonged to a man who recently died,” says the barman. “The bird’s in mourning.’
While Algeria sips her tea, Ruth stares sadly at the grieving parrot and one of the other ladies in the group tells them about the history of Canaries. In the 1400’s the masters of the Spanish Empire conquered the Canary Islands and amongst the treasures they took back to their homeland were those tiny singing delights. Spain controlled the breeding of Canaries, allowing only male birds to be sold. For a century no female Canary was permitted to leave Spanish soil.”
That’s real jailbirds for you … but wait, there’s more, listen: “Ah but the love lives of canaries changed in a storm: one small incident upset the balance of power, and everything was altered. A ship carrying a large cargo of Canaries from the Canary Islands was wrecked. They flew from their broken cages to the Island of Elba where they began breeding. Soon Canaries were being sold and bred all over Europe.
So maar, sien jy Kojak, the Spanish didn’t have exclusivity over the female birds anymore…
Zo, The Franse, he liked that.
“You think is true?” Zo’s asking.
The General and I’s taking by surprise to hear Zo speaking because all day he’s hardly saying nothing.
“What?” General is not sounding pleased.
“About the female birds?” Zo’s saying looking right into the General’s eye.
Those who’s saying silence is golden is wrong, silence is a standard blue with sharpies on either side.
“It’s a book, ja, so it mos must be true,” I says. But it’s lekker tense and I so I’s say: “ Hey, I’ve got one for the game General, Canaries. Turn Canaries into football.”
Smirking’s, the General saying, “Ag, that’s too easy…”
OLD GINGER CAKES (As he strokes his lovebird):There’s four main Canaries in Football: Norwich City, Canaries, Standard Luik, De Kanaries, and Nantes, Les Canaries but the biggest Canaries of all, the golden yellow Goddelijke Kanaries, is the National Team of Brazil. Those are the real Canaries.
And when you’re talking of Canaries the King, O Rei, is Pelé, one of the greatest footballers in history, a great business too, at one time Pelé was a registered brand-name to rival Coca-cola.
But the Canary from heaven, the greatest footballer to set foot on a pitch is Garrincha, Alegria do Povo, the Joy of the People. Manuel Francisco dos Santos, Garrincha, was the golden Angel of football, playing for the love of it, not the money.
SHAHIEM: So he’s asking if I’s nowing this Canary, this Brazilian player called, Garrincha. “Do you know what it says on his memorial stone on Brazil?” The General asks me.
I’s shaking my head.
The General is looking for a magazine clipping laying between the pages in his sport encyclopedia, to tell me.
OLD GINGER CAKES: ‘Garrincha, Joy of Pau Grande, Joy of Magé, Joy of Brazil, Joy of the World.’ Then below, it says, ‘ He was a sweet child. He spoke with the birds.’
SHAHIEM: I’s not knowing what so say, this General is mos too tricky, jy weet.
If I’s sayings the wrong thing, it could be big zorries for me but I’s sure there’s a tear in his ugly eye. True’s god, here’s my cross. (He crosses himself)
Algeria and Diana struggle to establish a vegetarian standard from the carnivorous Pilgrim’s menu.
“Is it possible to have the ‘Tripe with Chickpeas’, without the Tripe? Just the Chickpeas. I’m vegetarian.”
Blackout. Red wall with black text:
“Lenguado a la parrilla?” The daughter asks, and she taps her pen against her order pad. Agata nods and the daughter makes a note of the order. From the other end of the table, in a language of half Spanish-half gesture, Algeria beckons. The daughter sidles closer.
“Is it possible to have the ‘Tripe with Chickpeas’, without the Tripe? Just the Chickpeas. I’m vegetarian, vegetariana.”
“Bloody vegetarians,” Cathy mutters to Chrissie.
Lights up on Shahiem.
SHAHIEM: When I read that, I’s thinking I could catch The General out, so I say: “I’s havings a cruel one for you nows General: vegetarian. Can you turn vegetarian into football?”
TheGeneral is closing his eyes.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Ja, ja, there is … wait, it’s on the tip of my tongue…
SHAHIEM: But then, on the steel door number one hundred and ninety-three is a clanging. The General is opening his eyes.
“Ebrahiem,” the General commands.
Minister of Safety and Security is Ebrahiem’s ranking.
He’s wearing a Tommy Hilfiger T-Shirt but his real uniform is sparkling silver.
Hy’s a lelike, kak ugly man with his face scarred worse than the General en all around his neck his skin is tattooed with ‘I killed my mother.’
So Ebrahiem, the SS Minister is opening the peep on the steel door.
From cell to cell there’s strings tied for messages and passing cigarettes, drugs whatever mos. Messages for the top brass is coming tied with a ietsie hard, like metal, and makings three clangs so the General knows it’s important business.
Now Ebrahiem’s standing by the General and daai lelike gesig is looking even uglier.
I’s sure Zo is shivering but I’s not daring to look him.
“There’s word the warders is wise about the Number on Karelse,” says Ebrahiem. “Morning they’s doing a hide and seek.”
“Goed,” the General says, “You know what to do. Shahiem, give me that for safekeeping.” So the General is taking the standard blue weapon off my thigh and handing the standard blue to Ebraheim. “Put it in the vault.”
“Lees aan,” General is commaninding me to carry on with the book.
But before I’s starting again, I’s see the SS Minister makings signs and there’s a sheet goings up and others is takings things in and out of lockers.
The General is seeing me mos lookings and winks.
OLD GINGER CAKES: Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, Shahiem, we’re expecting visitors in the morning ¬– we want the place to be spick and span …
Ha, I’ve remembered now… you thought you could trip me with Vegetarian.
SHAHIEM: Then the General was all smiling and he says: “Carlos Roa, Argentinian goalie, nicknamed Lechuga, means lettuce, he’s a vegetarian.”
The General is looking like a lotto winner and the sheet is coming down and mens is returning to what they was doing before.
Black out. Red wall with:
VII.
The Chariot
Lights on Shahiem:
SHAHIEM: Men have mos a smell in the mornings, like sleep and sweat and body and poep and donkiepiel draadtrek, pulling the sex wire you know mos. But in here daai stink is for forty mens and fear in no air no space and lice blankets and too much shit in the toilette.
Through the night stink is gettings stronger – you know how when there’s meat cooking, in the beginning there’s no smell but as the juice and heat gets more, all the smell comes out.
I’s noticing that about here because I never closing my eyes.
That night the General is snoring lekker.
Zo … Zo is not moving from that wall, not closing his eyes … just staring into darkness, eyes shining wet.
Five AM and daai steel door is shaking and keys is turning and voices is shouting. Gates is slamming.
“Everyone out, out, out!” a warder is shouting. The General is getting up super-sport slowly, takings a couple of books from his locker, including Algeria’s slim pages, the sport encyclopedia, the dictionary and some other boekie with Chinese symbols on it called The Art of War.
Mens is up and watching from outside the open door.
The warders is throwing over mattresses and things out of the lockers, feeling around inside and tossing into a box their findings. Sharpies, blades, that sort of thing. The General is walking out with his pile of books cool as a komkommer.
Some warder is looking through those books softly-softly like they’s eggshells, because theys knowing that if the General is unhappy dan sal die kak kom, groot zorries, big, big problems.
“I want to shower desperate, Shahiem, do you think I can shower now?” Zo is asking me suddenly. We’s outside and the corridor is mos louder than a world cup stadium.
“Ja, go my bra, but don’t be too long or you’ll be missing breakfast.”
Soons Zo is gone the Judge is at my side.
“The Times is that Karelse is taking his off-day today, but tomorrow he’s back. Tomorrow’s the day, Shahiem.”
Warders is leaving one ninety-three with a box full of blades and some drugs. They’s selling the drugs back to the men later no doubts.
We’s going back in to 193.
Breakfast is late owing to the hide and seek.
“Where’s Zo?” asks the General.
“Showering.” I say
OLD GINGER CAKES: Daai girlie has still got to learn the rules of what it means to be the General’s Voeljie.
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“Algeria arrives at the top of an exaggerated hill and peers over the down side. Behind her are red clay vales and overgrown pastures holding up the thoughts of an artist. Amidst patterns and layers of grasses, leaves and weeds, the artist has planted giant marble sculptures. A double headed horse, a Roman profile the size of an upturned car and a dancing woman without legs.”
SHAHIEM: “Roman!” I’s shouting so loud that some other mens in the cell is looking up from their bowls.
The porridge is tasting like burnt tin but I’s hungy since it’s mos thriteen hours since we last eat, so I’s eating quick.
“In one ninety-one,” one of the mens in an opposite bunk is saying to me. “Roman’s in one nine-one.”
The General’s giving me a skeef look with a dirty frown.
“Huh?” I’s not understanding.
Then the General is smiling again.
“Ignore him, Shahiem, he doesn’t know how to play the game. Roman. Let me see, so much to choose from I could be here all day … mmm?
OLD GINGER CAKES: How about this: Roman Abramovich. The Russian Billionaire who bought Chelsea football club. Saved the Blues from an eighty million pound debt by buying himself the ultimate rich man’s toy. Wonderful publicity stunt for the Oil and aluminum tycoon and governor of Chukotka, an obscure province in Russia.
SHAHIEM: The General says Roman Abramovich is shy and retiring, just like Zo.
The General is pointing his finger at Zo who is holdings is stomach and has not even taken a look at his bowl of oats. “You must eat bird, or you’ll fade away.”
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“Algeria wonders if words can make a universe and words made civilization possible, does the one who owns the words own the civilization, and own the people? Who owns the words in this civilization?”
“Now that is the truth, my brothers, if you own words you own civilization,” sayings the General, “Don’t you forget it.”
Now the General’s really showing he’s Diamond, eyes sparkling like a pure one from Sterns.
“Ek sê jou, it’s not the government, the law-makers, it not the vokking Court and the judge in on his bleddy high and mighty chair like God, they are not the ones who own the truth, they are not the ones make right right and wrong wrong. It’s the man who owns words, he is one with the power. The publishers, the media, the television.”
I’s nodding, not really knowing what the vok the General is on about. He’s a bit funny sometimes … my Sonja, she says he’s a megalomania.
“Ja, it’s good for you to understand, these things Shahiem,” The General has a wild look in his eyes like that preacher on the corner of Mannenberg Main Road … The General is in a kind of a state and he’s snatching Algeria’s slim pages from my hand…
OLD GINGER CAKES: You know what this writer has done? Huh?
SHAHIEM: Nee, what General?
OLD GINGER CAKES: Stolen our history our king – like you were stolen Shahiem and used. This writer has done the same with Nongoloza. What is written in this book is kak, it’s treason. It’s a crime and it must be punished by death and people must know that it’s punished. And Shahiem, you’re going to tell the world, who paid for this crime.
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“Rest and to listen to the birds.”
Lights up.
SHAHIEM (Reading from the book): ‘Rest and to listen to the birds,’ he says and all the while he keeps her cool in the white folds of his robe. He gives her water when she feels thirsty and cools her cheeks when she feels hot.
As he strokes her forehead he says, ‘Whenever you need help, at any time, I will be there for you.’
Here is bliss. There is plenty to drink and nothing to fear.
‘People put too much emphasis on death. The body is just a vessel,’ he says. ‘The soul will move from one vessel to the next or perhaps to a flower, an animal, a bird, even a fly.’
They are passing a forest and there are many flies buzzing all around and she wonders if those hot and dirty black flies could be vessels too.”
What do you think Kojak? Do dirty black flies have souls too … Zo and I is liking that chapter a lot. We’s reading again that time the General’s not with us … ja, it’s like two days I think after we’s arrivng and then:
“Isaacs, Raheesh,” a warder is calling, looking into one ninety-three, “Raheesh Isaacs, you have a visitor.”
The General is nodding and getting up.
“Visiting is forty minutes, carry on Shahiem, and when I’m back we three are going to see the Personal Growth Ladies. That’s at twelve o’clock,” the General says and he’s going with the warder. I’s not knowing who these Ladies is.
After the General is going, the Judge is whispering to his second that it’s one of the General’s business associates. Some sort of quad bike stealing and hawking syndicate.
I’s wishing for a visitor too but I’s knowing Sonia is not coming today because why it’s Friday mos so she is by the work.
Maybe Saturday.
Kak man Saturday. I’s not wantings to think of Saturday because that’s when warder Karelse will be back.
Maybe I can ask the Spirit of Love to rustle up a transfer for this guy Karelse? Huh, I’s hoping he will go somewhere else. Shit. I’s beatings my knuckles on my forehead without even thinking.
“Shahiem,” Zo says, “don’t be stressing, remember about the flies, the vessel is not important, everything will be fine, everything will be fine.”
I’s having it in my mind to say, easy for you. But it’s not easy for Zo, it’s worse for him. That’s what I’s reminding myself.
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“‘I never had the chance to have a good relationship with my mother,’ says Margaret.
Ruth crushes a raspberry between her thumb and index finger, so that her fingers become stained with the small fruit’s blood.
‘We just didn’t see eye to eye.’ Margaret shakes her head. ‘And then she died when I was twenty-four. We never had the time to make peace with each other.’
‘Twenty-four years is a long time to live without peace.’ Ruth looks at the broken berry in her hand. ‘That must have been hard for your mother.’”
OLD GINGER CAKES: “Kom nou, it’s late, we must be getting to the Pollsmoor penthouse, the Ladies will be waiting.”
SHAHAIEM: When the General’s back from seeing his visitor, then he, the Judge and ‘I Killed my Mother’ and I’s and Zo is going with a warder upstairs.
To Madiba’s cell, that’s where Madiba was when he was in Pollsmoor.
There’s five others from other cells also goings to meet the Ladies.
Ladies, the General’s explaining is from an NGO. They’s wanting to help prisoners, wanting us to make peace with the past and ‘get in touch with our better selve’s’ as one of the Ladies is sayings.
Jeez … was I’s shocked that the General is volunteering for the Ladies program.
OLD GINGER CAKES: After thirty years in prison, beggars can’t be chooses and entertainment’s entertainment.
SHAHIEM: The General says the government’s wanting to let more prisoners go and doing programs like this is looking good for parole …
The penthouse is mos really a penthouse, there’s lekker air, fresh painted walls in here high above the prison and there’s even sky to see and there over in the corner is mos the mountain. True’s God.
To get to there we’s walking outside and I’s breathing so much as I could. Like it’s the last air in the universe.
There’s a terrace, never minding the twelve foot wall, there’s a terrace size like my half of a football pitch, and sky, sky, sky.
That day’s blue as true as Jesus was a Jew.
These two ladies is telling us they’s Life Skills Coaches, and makings Zo and I’s sign to say we two new ones will commit to the program.
Then the group is doing idiot dancing in a circle … true’sgod, all these innocent rapist and murderers dancing like kindergarten … but I tell you Kojak, I’d be dancing in a circle everyday if it’s meaning I can see the sky and breathings fresh air.
After the dance, the fat lady, Rene, is readings us a poem and then there’s talking about relationships.
The Judge is makings up some kak about the laws of the Numbers.
The whitey lady, Francis, is writing everything down, very intersting she is in the whole story. Whose she thinking, the Judge is goings to be telling her the secrets of the Numbers to write in her book … please.
She’s telling us she’s writings a book to make people realising that us prisoners is mos humans too.
“Now Shahiem, you are a new member to the group, perhaps you would like to tell us about yourself,” Rene says.
“Like what?”
“Whatever you like.”
“I’s liking football.”
She’s smiles. “I’m sure everyone here agrees that football is fun to watch.”
“No,” I’s saying. “I’s like playing football.”
“Wonderful.” Francis is looking very pleaseed.
I’s shruggings – it’s not so bleddy wonderful I’s thinkings since I’s can’t be playing for the next four years and if I’s doings the number on that warder Karelse and getting caught then I can be adding a dozen years on to that.
“What position do you play?”
“Midfielder.” I says.
“Any particular team?”
Any vokking particular team? Why? Why is she asking this, what difference is it makings now. Dis nou rondvok, annoying mos, any particular team. By that time I’s thinking this is now too much limelight for me … But anyhow I answer:
“When I’s thirteen, I’s playing for Western Cape in the Transnet Under-14 Inter-Provincial. SAFA scouts is choosing the best players at the tournament for the national training squad. I’s one of the ones they choosing.”
That’s now just comings out and I’s not knowing why I’s bothering to answer.
Francis is mos smiling again. “That’s excellent Shahiem and how did the it go in the squad?”
Didn’t goings nowhere, because I’s never made it to the first practice, but what’s it to them? I’s not tellings them my Sunlight Liquid story, if they want a soap let them mos watch Days of our Lives or Egoli.
“ I never went, Missus Francis.”
She’s looking at me now like I should be telling more but sy kan gaan kak, contract or no. I’s mos lekker stupid in those days, to think if things had been going different, if daai ou lygat boyfriend of my ma’s not gambling away our house on the Kennilworth ponies and Grand West Choo-Choo jackpot machine, then I would have been in the under-14’s who’s playings in the World Cup in France.
Vok man – they’s doings sweet footwork those laaities.
But you know Kojak, I, Shahiem was the sweetest. They’s callings me the ‘centipede’ because I’s doing tricks so quick it’s like I’s having a hundred feet.
And of course, Missus Francis, wants to know: “Why, Shahiem? Why didn’t you go to the football try-out?”
“Personal issues.”
“Do you play still? In the yard here?” She’s asking.
Mens is laughing. The Judge is telling her how we only get a couple hours a week out there.
“If the warder’s in a good mood,” says the jong with ‘I killed my mother’ tattooed all over him.
“What, that’s terrrible.”
“It’s terrible, yes, Missus.”
Maybe they’s not so bad, Missus Francis and Missus Rene. They’s lekker angry that we’s isn’t allowed outside more. Missus Francis sayings she going to find out about this and see if she can be doings something.
Then a jong called Benji, who’s from another cell, is asking her if she can do something about the food too.
Then someone else asking her if she can goings to see if his family is fine because they’s not visiting him for over a year and he’s wanting to know if they’s alright. Another man’s begging her to smuggle in a couple cartons of Styversant.
Then she’s holding up her hands like a traffic cop and says, “Hold on now guys, Rene and I are here to do the Life Skills course with you. We can’t do all these other things, it’s just not possible. Try to understand. But I am going to see what I can do about making sure that you are allowed in the yard everyday, even if it is just for an hour.”
“You can give up life skills and become a football coach, missus Francis, for the Pollsmoor Adult Max team,” the General says.
“Don’t think I’d be much good at that Raheesh, I’m a bit too old and creaky to be a football coach,” she’s laughing. Actually I’s liking Missus Rene and Missus Francis.
Missus Rene is looking at her watch: “Time is running out Francis, we better give Zo a turn before the end of the session.”
“Yes, of course, perhaps you would like to tell us about yourself, Zo?” Mrs Fransis asks.
Zo’s shaking his head. Holdings his stomach.
“Sure?”
He’s nodding his head, and looking at the floor.
“Okay, maybe next time,” she says. “Well then to finish off I have a piece of music I’d like you to listen too. Close your eyes and just let your thoughts flow with the music. It’s by Beethoven and it’s called the Moonlight Sonata.”
The Moonlight Sonata begins playing and continues to its end as Shahiem speaks.
SHAHIEM: My thoughts is flowing with Sonia. this music is likes watching her brushing her hair. Down to her waist – that’s how long Sonia’s hair is. So beautiful…
Long pause and the music continues. Then Shahiem speaks again but the music continues.
SHAHIEM: I can never get that music out of my head … Nobody says nothing after it end that day.
Missus Francis promising again to see what she can do about yard time.
Then warders is leading us out of the light of the Pollsmoor Sheraton Penthouse Suite, back down the fish stink stairs, through two metal gates, above one graffiti’s painted in green and it say, ‘Failure today is an opportunity to begin again more intelligently tomorrow’.
That’s in green.
But I’s thinking: “Tomorrow is going to be the biggest failure.” What happens if I’s saying no to the General? Sayings thanks General but I’s preferring not to be a number. Kak, man, ek’s mos bevok inni head. There’s no saying no to the General …
Already it’s dinner time.
Metal plates is handed round in the cell, after fresh air, this place is smelling soos a old mans rotten balls.
The General is getting a meal and a half as usual.
Zo’s giving his plate to me. I’s sayings no, he must eat but he’s saying he has no appetite. He say he’s got a pain in his belly.
I’s eating his food, and feelings shame…
We’s eating with a spoon, Kojak, jy weet. Even them with meat is eating with a spoon. Because why? The food is shredded like for a baby. Pap and the same from yesterday with some flakings of fish like sponge. Food for babies and men without teeth.
Then the plates go and doors is locked.
Me and the forty, every minute for the next thousand.
Some mens gambling dice, some mens just staring, standing or siting or lyings down. Most is smoking dagga or white pipe. One on a cell phone. One on the toilette making a noisy poep. Jessica Rabbit making the beds. I can’t getting it into my thoughts that this is my life, this is my life, this goal area is my everyday, my everynight… my everynight.
Zo’s back in his corner, holding his stomach.
The General is talking with the cell phone man.
“That’s the Finance Officer,” Twee Ag is telling me.
“Always phoning,” I say. “Who’s he talking to always?”
“Atchoo, my brother, you’s getting too big for your Adult Max Trax. General’s got businesses on the outside but after tomorrow when you’s proved yourself a Number, then you can be asking questions. Until then keep your eye’s in you pockets or they’ll end up on a knife.”
So to keep my eyes in my pockets, I’s standing looking at the window, bars and shutters and thin light from small metal squares. Maybe half an hour, maybe an hour or more, just standings, looking…
OLD GINGER CAKES: Wakie, wakie, Mr Football.
SHAHIEM: The General’S clicking his fingers in front of my face and giving me the slim pages in one hand and the standard blue jungle, that’s what theys callings a knife in here mos, a jungle, in the other hand.
“You read, en jy…” The General clicks his fingers and points to Zo. Zo is not looking. “Ek sê jou, my little cherrie bird.” General is clickings his fingers in front of Zo’s face and Zo is lookings up. “Ek en jy, cherrie, is off to the honeymoon suite.”
Blackout. Red wall. Then text:
“They are the secret of your strength.”
SHAHIEM (Reading): “A Frenchman, who she has heard is over eighty years old and his wife emerge from the dormitory as Algeria eats her usual breakfast of bananas. The French woman winks at Algeria. ‘They are the secret of your strength,’ she says as she bandages her husband’s toes. Algeria nods and smiles sadly with a mouthful of green Banana.”
On that morning, I’s really needing strength. “What I’d give for a breakfast of bananas in stead of this shit,” I’s saying to Zo.
Zo’s still not eating.
The General is having a pretty nice looking apple which he’s slicing with my standard blue jungle. He’s offerings a piece to his wyfie, Zo but Zo is shaking his head.
OLD GINGER CAKES: When you’re one of us Shahiem, I’ll make sure you get fruit with your breakfast – that’s what it means to be a Number. We look after each other, because we love each other, kill and be killed for each other.
SHAHIEM: The General’s slicing up the whole apple, wiping the jungle and handing it to me.
OLD GINGER CAKES: You’ll be needing that soon.
SHAHIEM: The General tells me, “ the Judge, has something to show you, Shahiem.”
… So uutside one-ninety three, the Judge and I and mens with stiff legs is rumblings and the warders is unlocking the doors in the next cell block, which is separated from our block by metal gates.
“Come with me,” the Judge says. “I’m going to call a man, the man that I call is your number.”
We two is walking to the metal gate.
Then the Judge is hanging on the gate and says, ““Warder Karelse, I’ve got to get me to the Doctor, will you take me.”
He’s a laaitie, Karelse. Coloured. I’s thinkings maybe he’s white because of the name but he’s coloured, maybe thirty. Nice face. Like Tiger Woods, jy weet. Nice young man. But the way he’s looking at the Judge is like he’s looking at death.
“What’s the problem?” Karelse says. He must know there’s a number out…
“Scaabies,” the Judge replies. “They’s driving me mad, there’s an outbreak in our cell.”
Karelse is nodding. I’s wonderings if he has a chicken or maybe even kids.
“Fine,” says Karelse. “I’ll be round to fetch you before lunch.”
That simple.
On our way back to cell one ninety-three I’s asking the Judge why Karlese is the Number. He’s telling me, Karelse used to do hot work for the General but lately he’s been icy, meanings he’s not taking orders any more.
The General can’t be having that, and he’s needing to send a message …
Blackout. Red wall with text:
“…Between the noiseless black of heavenly vapors and the licking black of catchment deluvium. Alone with the gibbous moon twins. It is a suicidal darkness.”
SHAHIEM: It’s Saturday. “Abrams, Shahiem,” a Warder is calling. “Shahiem Abrams, you have a visitor, come with me.”
The General pats me on the chest and is taking the jungle back without the warder noticing…
Hey, Kojak, has you ever been swimming in the ice-water Atantic, so cold your bones could snap and your lips can’t open, ears, eyes is paining? Once, I’s doing that at a beach with a lekker sexy ablution block where there’s indoor showers with hot waters.
On that Saturday, I’s so cold as Atlantic ice, close to snapping and then comes the shower. Warm burning away the cold. Daai’s heaven.
Seeings Sonia is warm burning away the cold.
She’s in the mist of other mense’s sweat and grease and snot en trane smeared across the glass.
But she’s like an angel, mos, in a film when they’s making heaven in soft focus.
I’s wanting to speak but my throat is hurting too much with the warm burning.
My eyes too they’s hurting.
There’s children’s screaming behind Sonia and people like thousands of maggots in a carcas but I’s not letting nothings steal my eyes from Sonia’s eyes.
Her mouth is moving but I’s hearing nothings.
She’s bending her head, to speak into the metal box. Sien jy, they’s putting the box so low and the chair is so high and there’s wood in front of the box so when she’s talking I’s can’t see her. The metal box is stealing her eyes from me.
“Shahiem, I miss you.” She’s crying. God keep my tears in my eyes, I’s not wanting her to see me cry.
I’s bending down to talk into the box on my side, telling her I’s missing her too but I’s looking up and she’s frowning, shakings her head. “I can’t hear you properly,” she says. “There’s too much crackling on this thing.”
Bleedy befokte ding is not working. Can you believe it?
“I’s loving you Sonia, I’s loving you.”
She’s shaking her head. “I can’t hear Shahiem, maybe there’s someone who can fix this. I’ll ask, wait a moment.”
I’s wanting to say, forget the box just talk to me, look at me, be my yellow arrow show me the right way but she’s goings. Without her in front of me I’s wondering if she will ever come back.
But she does.
She bends down to talk into the box. “They say there’s nothing they can do. Can you hear me okay?”
She’s looking up. I’s nodding.
I’s putting my forehead against the glass and she’s putting her forehead against mine but the glass is too thick, too cold. I’s wanting to die.
“Shahiem, I bought lots of fruit for you. I remembered how you said they give you no fresh food here but security took it away. A woman told me that fruit is not allowed in case it’s injected with drugs or something. So I’ve got nothing for you, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you.”
Crying.
I’s hating to hear her crying, it’s like having a standard blue jungle stuck in my heart. I’s wanting to tell her again that those drugs in the bag were not mine, and that I’s not knowing how they got there. But the metal box is shit, I’s feeling I could be smashing daai box.
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine, just … Shahiem, just please look after yourself. I don’t want you to get hurt, Shahiem. Look after yourself because I love you and…”
I’s nodding and trying to explain with my hands that I’s loving her too.
“You know it was payday yesterday,” she says and she’s wiping the tears off her face with her hands. “But I’s forgettings you’s not at home Shahiem, so I’s goings to KFC. Only when I got home with the Streetwise Feast did I remember, you’re not there…”
She’s looking up at me. Speaking to my face and then remembering I can’t hear unless she bends down to the metal box.
“It’s not the same without you,” she says. “I gave the Streetwise feat to that old stray dog…” She’s laughing. “I think the dog thought he’d died and gone to heaven. …All night I dreamed of you Shahiem, dreamed you were next to me but you were wearing dirty football boots.”
Laughing again. I’s loving seeing her smile.
Blackout. Red wall with no text.
SHAHIEM: After that I stopped reading.
All Saturday morning, I’s thinking about my forty minutes of heaven and the words on the slim pages is like soup in my head … I can’t read no matter how hard I try.
Around midday, the Judge is by my side. “Warder Karelse is here mos, we’s goingsto see the doctor.”
All over my skin is fire.
The General is handing me the jungle.
I’s walkings out of cell one ninety-three heavy as a barrow of builders rubble.
“He’s also needing to see the Doctor,” the Judge is explaining to warder Karelse. “He’s also got the scabies.”
“The doctor will look after you,” says Warder Karelse.
He’s seems to be a person who cares. Look after you. Look after yourself. That’s what Sonia is mos saying. Look after yourself because I love you.
We three’s walking and I’s hearings Sonia’s voice over and over ¬– ‘Look after yourself because I love you.’
We’s getting to the metal gate.
That builder’s rubble is mos gone. I’s feeling calm and cool.
There’s something happening. A fight between prisoners. But I’s hardly noticing, as if I’s walking in a dream and I’s knowing exactly what I must do.
“Now, Shahiem” the Judge says.
I’s having no worries. I’s feeling no fear.
The Judge has taken Warder Karelse around the waist with his hand over his mouth. There’s a wall of men’s and I’s lettting the standard blue jungle slip down from my shirt sleeve.
Into my hand.
This neck of Karelse is mos just a neck.
I’s holding the jungle like a stake and sticking it right into the hollow of that neck. Pulling the blade but that side of the standard blue is blunt. The Warder is twisting like lamb and I’s so calmly turning the standard blue around and this side is much sharper.
It’s slicing across his neck. I keep slicing and slicing.
Again and again, down and down, likes I’s carving a rare roast never minding the blood.
I’m Carvings.
Carvings because Sonia’s lovings me. Because I must look after myself. Carvings on and on. Thinking only of love. And then the body drops.
Not Warder Karelse because he is still looking at me in the Judge’s hand.
First I’s confused and then I’s realising I carved right through his neck.
The Judge throws the head on the ground and pulls me away, pulls me back to cell one ninety-three.
Blackout. Credits are flashing on the wall (they continue during the dialogue, and should be timed so that they last right through the dialogue.) “Director Andre Fonseca” , “ Executive Producer Ebrahiem Patel”, “Producer Community Films Norway” “Associate Producer The National Arts Council of South Africa” “Writer Andi Tang” “Editor Benjamin Leshin” “Production Manager Mick Griggs” “Assistant Director Melissa van der Heerver” “Camera Operator Kirsty Ross” “Assistant Cameraman Lee Watson” “Film Loader Ricky Setsongo” “Production Sound Mixer Ben Sparks” “Boom Operator Stephen Robins” “Gaffer Lois Du Preez” “Key Grip Donald Maki” “Production Assistant Lorenzo Young” “Production Caterer By Word of Mouth” “With thanks to the administrators and staff of Pollsmoor Maximum Security Prison, Cape Town, South Africa.”
There is enough light to see Edith and Tini. Edith looks ill.
EDITH: God! I need a drink after that. (To Big Shot who is in the shadows on her left) Do they really go on like that in Pollsmoor? … It’s barbaric.
Big Shot just nods and pinches his brow; he’s trying to pull himself together. Roy takes out his notebook and a pen. He eyes Tini, waiting for her response.
EDITH: I have two friends who own properties at that Steenberg Golf Estate. They’d be horrified if they knew what was going on across the road, horrified … (She turns to Tini, who is on her right) How can the government let it go on like that? It’s shocking.
TINI: Shocking … yes, of course but you must understand, this is an isolated incident, blown out of proportion and manipulated to win awards at documentary film festivals and for that The Minister of Arts and Culture is very proud but his gain is my loss… It’s media sensationalism.
Roy cocks his head.
ROY: Are you saying this kind of thing doesn’t go on in the prisons?
TINI: I’m saying the media always tries to make me look bad … (to Edith) your friends at the golf estate don’t need to worry. I like to play golf there myself when I’m in town.
ROY: You’re not worried?
EDITH: Golf? You play golf?
ROY (Leans across to Tini. He’s writing down everything she says): You’re not worried, for instance, that our prisons are making monsters out of troubled men?
TINI (prickling at Edith but with a big, knowing smile. She chooses not to hear Roy.): Are you surprised?
ROY: I’m worried.
TINI(She turns to give Roy a wily smile): That is how it should be, I do the work and leave the worrying to the media.
EDITH (defensive): No… I’m not surprised; why should I be surprised. What’s your handicap, darling?
ROY: Do you think you’re doing enough then?
TINI(Evasive): I think we’re doing as much as we can. Crime and punishment are issues of global concern. No-body has a solution.
ROY: Is that a justification for you? If our prisons are universities of crime it’s fine, because there’s no solution?
TINI: No. That’s not what I’m saying.
ROY: Tell me then, what are you saying?
TINI: I’ve told you.
ROY: You’re avoiding the issue.
EDITH (Happy to change the subject): Well, I can tell you one thing: this documentary is going to do nothing for the property prices in that Steenberg area.
Blackout. The final credit on the wall: “In memory of Zo Urion(1985 – 2005) . A leading light in the Pollsmoor Bird Handrearing Project. While battling against an AIDS related illness, he gave life, love and protection to 37 baby Lovebirds.
Like Garrincha, Joy of the World, ‘He spoke with the birds.’”
CURTAIN
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Algeria's Way
Drinking from the Dragon's Well
December 3rd, 2008 @11:53 #
I love the intro to this and am saving the play to read at another time. What a story!
December 3rd, 2008 @12:21 #
Likewise! Today I really do have to work (guilt guilt), but will tuck into this once I have soothed some neglected clients.
December 3rd, 2008 @12:28 #
I read it! and now I want to see it!