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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781482863536 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Partridge Publishing Africa |
| Publication date: | 08/30/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| File size: | 301 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Magnitude of Small Things
By Lungisa Mtshali
Partridge Africa
Copyright © 2016 Siyethemba MtshaliAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4828-6354-3
CHAPTER 1
Sizwe Motha, the playboy
It was an unusually quiet Friday night for the characteristically busy N3 highway. It was likely because of the week-long showers that had drenched the city of Johannesburg. The showers had effectively discouraged the masses from their various outdoor activities throughout the week so that only the few with erratic working schedules were forced to brave the wet weather. From the distance, assuming you were standing at one of the high-rise buildings standing on the small hills lining the highway, one could see those few cars steadily navigating their way to their respective destinations on the beautiful wet road. The cars looked splendid as they took turns passing under the blue e-toll lights. One has to admit, despite the sheer ridiculousness and controversy around them, how marvellous the e-tolls look. They pull you into the city. They bring along the relief of finally reaching your destination together with a feeling of excitement which suddenly comes from remembering why you stay in the metropolis, why you call Johannesburg home. That's for us who stay there, of course, or frequent the city of gold. It nonetheless is a wonder for newcomers too. It's different, a sophisticated yet simple aesthetic.
Apparent to Mr Smith, who was staring outside the window from the third floor of the Nashua building he worked at, was a white Chevrolet Lumina utility with its V8 engine bringing a total but pleasant end to the peace and serenity surrounding the quiet business district. It was Sizwe Motha, the millionaire playboy who lives as many lives as the many people who gossip about him care to imagine. Sizwe was a fast driver because he was a man who valued time and so led by example by always being punctual. He did whatever he had to do to make it on time, even if that meant sometimes having to run red robots and drive at way over the stipulated speed limit. He was also a thoughtful and considerate man however. At the age of twenty-six, Sizwe knew that to be successful at everything you do, you need to keep a good balance between all the aspects of your life. He valued that balance and he therefore never gave too much consideration to a certain aspect of his life only to care less for another. To him that just didn't make sense at all. He was intelligent, hard-working, and responsible. So responsible, in fact, that he knew way better than to drive at 210 km/h on a wet road!
Two black BMW 3 series sedans, driving at equally high speed, seemed to complete the plot. The sedans, without licence plates, were hot on Sizwe's heels!
Sizwe was making his way back from doing business in Durban. With the good company he kept — owing to the fact that he always mixed business with pleasure — he could not have possibly prepared himself for this! They just appeared behind him about ten minutes ago and Sizwe knew they meant business when they fired two shots. One bullet smashed one of the tail lights and the other bullet hit the left-hand side mirror.
'Who are they?' he thought with a mind that was in turmoil and in part could not believe this was actually happening. He continued to push hard on the accelerator. The characteristic hum of the sexy, sleek, and sporty van's V8 engine which Sizwe loved so dearly seemed now to be the only thing that could keep him alive.
The engines of the three cars roared furiously in unison. Sizwe had managed to open a considerable gap between him and the pursuers. Then suddenly four shots cracked in succession! There was the sound of glass shattering followed by the sound of screeching tyres. Then there was the sound of metal slamming into tar and cement, and the sound of pieces of glass shattering as the laws of physics mercilessly tore the Lumina apart. Then within split seconds everything was still again.
The two black BMW sedans came to a halt near the wreck. Two tall, well-built men dressed in black emerged from the cars.
'I need the Uzi so we can make 100 per cent sure,' one of them said in a deep, sadistic voice.
'Relax, you bloodthirsty fool. You can't use that kind of weapon here — it will raise too much suspicion. That's not good for business,' the third one who had emerged behind the other two said calmly while delightedly lighting a cigarette. 'The point was to send a message; if he dies, it's a bonus. Let's get out of here.'
Confined to what was now a ball of metal and feeling head-searing pain, Sizwe heard the simultaneous and furious taking off of the fleeing cars. He now knew his life depended on emergency services. He, in that moment, drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.
The flashing red lights looked so tragic passing under the beautiful blue e-toll lights. A red Netcare 911 Volkswagen Golf 7 GTI and a white Volkswagen Crafter ambulance not too far behind were answering to a call made by a Mr Smith, who claimed to have witnessed what seemed to be an orchestrated accident. As they drove, the young paramedic sitting at the back was thinking how the more tragic it would be in the turn of events that proved the circus of sirens and lights was a wasted trip, to find that all they would find was another statistic to add to the growing number of road deaths.
CHAPTER 2Mandisa Sangweni, the final-year journalism student at UJ
I wasn't accustomed to waking up anytime earlier than 8 a.m. because I had the absolute fortune of not having early classes. My earliest class was at 10 a.m. and it was on Tuesday. So it came as no surprise that it took me more than an hour to eventually leave home. Thato, the cute cab driver with a smile that sometimes convinces you that he's not the player he actually is, added to my frustration when he took his own time making it to my place.
Being a fourth-year journalism student at the University of Johannesburg (UJ), I threw myself in at the deep end by finding a mentor in the ruthless and 'first on the scene' journalist Bianca Strydom. I wasn't betting she'd take it literally when I said I wanted to tag along every time something big happened. I think the problem was also that we didn't have the same interpretation of what 'big' actually is. An idiotic playboy crashing his car was not big news to me. I didn't care much about Sizwe Motha until Bianca and my ringtone rudely ended my sleep at 5 a.m. 'Check channel 403.' Her voice sounded distant and it took me a while to piece together the instruction.
There was a helicopter too. I bet that's why everyone was suddenly going to be convinced this guy was important. But then again after seeing the footage, I saw how it could be news because he made it out of that wreck alive. The camerawork was great too! The cameraman masterfully zoomed into the golden, commanding badge of the Chevrolet at just the right time for dramatic effect. The mortality of human creations — it almost seemed to mock it now.
'Mandisa are you planning on coming here anytime today!?' Bianca's text message read. It's horrible how it has become a norm for us to be late and disorganized. It makes everyone absolutely hate working with us and many private companies are always reluctant to hire us. I tried my luck with a reply which I felt was good enough considering the circumstances. 'I'm on my way. The cab driver seems to be driving slowly on purpose.'
I managed to make it just in time to meet exhausted journalists making their way out of the hospital. I was too late. 'You were too late! Not that there was much in any case but you better fix the punctuality if you want to be a good journalist!' Bianca managed venting at the world and reprimanding me in one sentence. Her voice was stern and her gaze was poking.
Later on at the coffee shop, she seemed happier and more relaxed than earlier on. She was still angry and rightfully so. I have to get a watch. The coffee was working its magic though, because something she had seen on her phone led to a slight smirk emerging from her plump red lips. She was a beautiful woman. She also had astounding confidence in herself, an undying heart, and very good work ethic. Great qualities in a woman but clearly they weren't enough for her husband who decided to walk out on both her and their four-year-old son four months ago.
'He's still in a bloody coma,' she said, referring to Sizwe Motha, with some of the day's frustrations seeming to sink in again. The reality of having to find a good story hit hard.
'Aren't men always?' I said, opting for dry humour to keep the conversation open and light-hearted.
'The most profound thing I've heard in days. That's more like something I'd tweet,' Bianca said sarcastically. 'You're smart for a 21-year-old. If only you were younger, you were going to make a wonderful daughter-in-law.' We both laughed. Bianca talks a lot about her son. She's really trying her best and half of the time she pulls off the juggling act. She is living proof of how life simply goes on despite all the drastic and sudden fluctuations we suffer. When I raised my head after sending a text, I found that Bianca was fully focused on her laptop screen and, just like me seconds ago, was completely oblivious to her surroundings. I had to wave my hand right in front of her face to get her attention.
Work and that laptop of hers always turn her into a zombie. It's tough living in this world of mobile devices and good Wi-Fi.
'This guy's story is getting to you, hey?' I asked. It was more of a statement than a question, however, since I knew her so well.
'Sizwe is a 26-year-old black millionaire. No offence. No one really knows how he makes the money, and by last night's turn of events, it's starting to seem like someone wants him dead,' Bianca replied seriously. 'There's a story here, Mandisa, a big story!'
CHAPTER 3Philani Zungu, the UJ student who loves poetry and girls
If only it wasn't for my lecture, I wouldn't have to run to the poetry sessions all the time. Maybe then I'd also get a chance to sit next to Anele Binda and her hot friends because I'd arrive before it got too full.
'Beautiful girls are all that keep us happy in this crazy world and its crazy problems,' Emmanuel, a guy I met last year, always said.
We were doing B Comm Accounting with him. He had to leave at the beginning of this year, because of financial constraints. It just became impossible for him to go on. He was such a hard-working and disciplined student that certainly deserved to stay here more than these ungrateful kids lurking amongst us just because they have parents who don't mind paying for eight-year diplomas. They say life goes on, though; hopefully with that head on his shoulders and his willingness to work hard, he makes something of his life.
The University of Johannesburg's Auckland Park campus is humongous. It really looked to always prove that to you whenever you were running late. And I was always late for the sessions. I eventually figured that my schedule didn't really allow me to be there. But I had my one reason that justified why I absolutely needed to go. I had to get her numbers somehow. At least that's how it started; getting Anele Binda's attention was the only reason.
But as luck would have it, with such an abundance of beautiful words in a multicultural environment, the poetry swallowed me too. Before my accounting books and the city's hustle and bustle swallowed my life, I absolutely loved poetry. Those guys really brought that love back; they were exceptionally good. I even started writing again. Writing poetry was therapy for me in high school.
It had become even more so now in varsity because I suppose I'm older and wiser. It was great to go to the sessions to listen and to be listened to. I started going there religiously because I started to sleep better knowing I wasn't the only one with a bleeding heart and a fucked-up soul.
'You are just in time,' they all said almost at the same time when I eventually walked in. No one ever wanted to start and arriving late automatically put you at the bottom of the pecking order. Every session started with a debate. An interesting and relevant topic was picked and the floor was open to everyone, with the only rule being that only one person could speak at a time so everybody could be heard. I usually arrived after that, just when they were debating who should start. With not much I could do about it, I put my backpack down, composed myself, and went for it.
'Something happened to a relative of mine a few days ago and that event inspired a part of this piece. I also had the opportunity to watch the State of the Nation Address yesterday on the Internet. It made me start thinking about the real state of South Africa, how we as average citizens see the state of our nation from our perspective. This is called "Are we really free?"'
He still doesn't wash his Converse All Stars despite his mother's daily insistence. That's because to him every speck of dust they soak up is a mark of the hardships he faces in his daily existence.
These days his demons have been haunting him and they've left quite an impression. The dirty sneakers are simply a reflection and a reminder for him of the extent of his soul's depression.
Life in the south of Africa gives a new meaning to what most might loosely translate as a harsh reality. Weekly funeral processions are a constant reminder that death is the only thing in this place that is a guarantee.
His dreams now only exist in the fading twists and curves of the blanket of weed smoke he exhales on a daily basis. Chilling somewhere, usually smoking, he can tell the same gaze he sees every day in the mirror is the same as what he sees in his friends' faces.
His reality leaves him convinced that maybe he has to do crime to cripple the system. It's because they've in any case fucked it up so much that it shattered even the smallest glint of optimism.
But maybe it's also because it's preferable to find oneself in prison. At least where there's a more consistent routine. Be in a place where a plate, shelter, and the likelihood to see another day are promised.
One can even steal some time to gaze at the stars through the thick, cold prison bars. Lost in your thoughts with all that time in the world you might even figure out why our lives here on Earth are less important than the possibility that there could be life on Mars.
Be the kind of intelligent that private schools and a family with old money can help you be. Be the kind of intelligent that most probably would be if they were really free.
The kind of freedom we'd feel. Like maybe tax-free.
Or maybe not, because that free RDP with a big crack on the side was built using cheap materials that don't come free.
It would be nice to have a normal day where we just laugh for hours and maybe in the afternoon hook up a smash. But in a world where the rules of the jungle are at play, even those warm luxuries need cold hard cash.
Girls no longer search for love but scrounge for money. They have to be on all fours sometimes to ensure their families are warm and comfy.
This puts stress on the brothers that dream of being their unconditional lovers unaware of the fact that obviously when you are doing well she won't mind not using rubbers.
So we live in a river of regret because our past is always catching up with us, ensuring we don't find redemption in that as humans we forget.
So with merchants at almost every street corner and every second jail cell we are hopelessly convinced that the seed is what we need because in those moments when our thoughts are scattered, our demons seem to evaporate in the wind like the smoke of the burning weed.
Or maybe just that one glass.
That's how we start, standing with one beer, watching soccer on a big screen. The Friday nights where drunk drivers end up crashing and flying out the windscreen.
Something is eating us up and many of us seem content with dying silent. That's because in a land run by the unashamedly corrupt, there's always a way to keep the loud ones quiet.
Especially with how, by pure coincidence, the few that voice their opinions
Pass on so unfortunately in car accidents and unexplainable shooting incidents.
The irony of being shackled by the chains of democracy
When all our lives it was screamed at us on SABC
That we are free.
The reality that maybe we aren't, or are we?
The young adults burst into frenzy after having to release their excitement through finger snaps only for three minutes. One guy even attacked Philani for a handshake! Now he wasn't sure whether he really saw Anele clapping and smiling.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Magnitude of Small Things by Lungisa Mtshali. Copyright © 2016 Siyethemba Mtshali. Excerpted by permission of Partridge Africa.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Sizwe Motha, the playboy, 1,Mandisa Sangweni, the final-year journalism student at UJ, 4,
Philani Zungu, the UJ student who loves poetry and girls, 7,
Sizwe, 11,
Mandisa, 13,
Sizwe, 15,
Philani, 17,
Mandisa, 19,
Sizwe, 21,
Mandisa, 24,
Philani, 25,
Sizwe, 29,
Mandisa, 33,
Philani, 37,
Sizwe, 41,
Mandisa, 44,
Sizwe, 47,
Mandisa, 48,
Philani, 49,
Mandisa, 53,
Sizwe, 56,
Mandisa, 59,
Philani, 60,
Sizwe, 61,
Mandisa, 64,
Philani, 65,
Sizwe, 68,
Philani, 69,
Sizwe, 70,
Philani, 72,
Mandisa, 75,
Philani, 76,
Sizwe, 78,
Mandisa, 79,
Sizwe, 80,
Mandisa, 82,
Sizwe, 83,
Mandisa, 85,
Sizwe, 86,
Mandisa, 88,
Philani, 89,
Sizwe, 92,
Mandisa, 96,
Sizwe, 98,
Mandisa, 99,
Sizwe, 102,
Philani, 104,
Sizwe, 106,
Philani, 108,
Mandisa, 110,
Sizwe, 111,
Philani, 113,
Mandisa, 114,
Sizwe, 116,
Philani, 119,
Mandisa, 122,
Philani, 123,
Sizwe, 125,
Philani, 129,
Sizwe, 130,
Mandisa, 132,
Philani, 134,
Philani, 137,
Sizwe, 139,
Sizwe, 143,
Mandisa, 144,
Sizwe, 145,
Mandisa, 146,
Sizwe, 147,
Philani, 149,
Sizwe, 150,
Philani, 151,
Sizwe, 152,
Mandisa, 153,
Philani, 155,
Mandisa, 156,
Philani, 158,
Mandisa, 161,
Sizwe, 163,
Mandisa, 164,
Sizwe, 166,
Mandisa, 167,
Sizwe, 169,
Mandisa, 172,
Sizwe, 173,
Philani, 174,
Mandisa, 175,
Philani, 176,
Sizwe, 177,