At the Funeral

A Ma’am Mzimba Case

Chapter One

“The Interruption”

She strutted into the church, quite a sight to behold. She wore a bright yellow maxi dress that accentuated her alluring figure. Onlookers wondered whether this woman possessed any common sense, or whether she just liked to stick out in a sea of people wearing black at a funeral. With her Louis V handbag swinging from her arm, and her pitch-black Peruvian wig causing her already yellow bone skin to “pop”, she cat-walked to the pulpit, snapping her fingers in the air. The gasps and whispers of confusion didn’t cause her to retreat with embarrassment or shame.

“Hayi, hayi, hayi,” she was heard to call, still snapping her fingers all about her. Grey-haired Reverend Mzoboshe stumbled out of her way. Perhaps lightning would come from heaven to strike such sacrilegious behaviour. She stood before the congregation, the closed casket to her left. It was a good thing they had shut it. Everyone had heard about that gunshot wound to the head. And perhaps standing beside a closed coffin instead of an open one would help her remember the man who had paid for everything she owned just the way he was when she had seen him last: as an unhappily married man who blessed her with her expensive lifestyle.

“They killed him,” she said. “They killed him. Someone here at this funeral killed him.”

And of course, her accusations flooded the church with whispering and gasps all over again.

It was the widow who stood up, her action exacting silence from all sides. The young woman in the yellow dress widened her eyes and then took a step back. Her reaction convinced the congregation that at least one bone of decency was still left in that voluptuous body.

“How dare you show your face here?” hissed the widow.

The two women’s appearances contrasted each other. Livingstone Ngobeni’s widow had rolled over to the other side of 40. One could tell she had been slender before bringing three boys into the world, but Xoliswa Ngobeni was still considered a beauty as the lines of age were not etched on her face yet. Her opponent, Zingisa Mthembu however, was a pretty twenty-four-year-old who felt no shame in having had a publicised affair with a married man. The two women stood facing each other, the intrigued congregation waiting to see who would pounce on whom first. Most would have betted on Xoliswa winning the fight. This little girl was born yesterday.

The Reverend Mzoboshe cleared his throat and stepped towards the women. “What’s going on here?” he whispered.

The young Zingisa’s shoulders dropped, and she tilted her face toward the man of the cloth. Her senses had returned. “They killed Livingstone, Tata . . .”

“That’s Mr Ngobeni to you,” Xoliswa growled. The young woman bowed her head. “And of course we know he was killed. It was a robbery. Now, either you go sit down or you leave this church.”

Zingisa turned to the reverend again as if hoping that he would entertain her behaviour. “But they killed him. Someone here killed him.” She had tried to keep her voice low, but her words echoed across a room of ears sensitive to every word that fell from her lips.

Sergeant Dinga stood up, his movements causing heads to turn in his direction. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and had a protruding stomach. He made his way towards the front, patting his person for his policing badge.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, eventually giving up his search. No one questioned his actions, though. He was a well-known figure in the community. “You can’t go around accusing people, my girl. More especially at a funeral.”

“Thank you, John,” Xoliswa said. “Perhaps you can escort this girl out of here.”

“No,” Zingisa said. Her big eyes blinked at the fifty-something-year-old sergeant. “Livingstone said they were out to get him.

“Who, my girl?” asked Sergeant Dinga. Bodies behind them were leaning over in their chairs.

“I don’t know. But he said someone in the taxi association was going to kill him soon. He said he could tell they were plotting to take his place.”

“As the head of the taxi association?” asked the reverend.

“Yes.”

Xoliswa clicked her tongue. “As if Livingstone would pour his heart out to a common girl! I was his wife, for crying out loud. Are the two of you going to believe my word or the word of a deranged gold digger? Now, everyone please just sit down and let the father of my children be laid to rest in peace.”

Zingisa dared to make eye contact with her female opponent. Far taller than the five-foot two Xoliswa, Zingisa had to look down at her. She clicked her tongue. “I won’t sleep at night knowing that Livingstone told me they were going to kill him and I did nothing about it.”

Xoliswa raised her eyebrows and folded her arms under her buxom breasts, the corners of her lips curled downwards. “Really? So, now you suddenly have a conscience?”

It was then a young man jumped up from his seat to take his station next to Xoliswa. He was handsome and light-skinned, just turned twenty-five. He put his arm around Xoliswa. Everyone recognised him as Themba, Livingstone and Xoliswa’s eldest. His handsome face and apologetic expression stopped people from questioning why he hadn’t jumped to his mother’s defence quicker. That warm and inviting smile Themba usually carried was a contrast to both his parents’ sterner appearances. If it had not been that he was the spitting image of his deceased father, tongues would have wagged that he was in no way Livingstone Ngobeni’s son—that ruthless, cold-hearted taxi owner who scorched anyone who dared get in his way. Only his sharp-tongued wife could survive his blazes. She had plenty of her own fire to brandish at Livingstone.

 Themba smiled warmly and nodded to his father’s mistress. The girl with no shame smiled back at him. He turned to his mother again. “Mama, what’s going on?”

“They killed him,” said the yellow dress girl. She reached out to touch Themba on his arm. Xoliswa was quick to slap the hand away. Another wave of gasps could be heard.

“Mama!” Themba exclaimed.

Zingisa broke into sobs. The man of the cloth stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. His reaction had been instinctive. This young woman was the age his daughter would have been if she had survived that accident . . .

“It’s true!” the inconsolable young woman continued. “And it was someone here, in the taxi association. I’m sure of it.”

A short man rose to his feet, drawing the attention of the group at the front of the church. He was a burly fellow. The muscles in his arms and shoulders threatened to burst out of his suit jacket. The short gorilla man, with tattoos climbing from under his shirt collar to his neck, stormed toward the huddled group. A few people shifted in their seats. This young man was well known in the community too, but for all the wrong reasons.

He stood right next to Sergeant Dinga, as if to remind the older man that he didn’t fear the law. He pointed at Zingisa. “Zingi, just say that again. You know, the part about someone in the taxi association . . .” He pushed the edges of his jacket aside and placed his hands on his taut waist, revealing the handle of a gun strapped to him. 

Zingisa gasped.

“Hey, hey!” Themba held up his hand as if it would shield everyone from bullets.

“Watch it,” the sergeant said and also went for his waist. He then remembered that he had left his holster at home. Damned days off!

The armed man grinned, his gold grill shining. The only person who seemed unfazed was the widow.

“You keep that thing where it is, Buntubakhe,” Xoliswa scolded. “If you or any of your thugs killed my husband, you know I will burn that fancy Benz of yours with you in it.”

“Mama!” Themba scolded again.

This Buntubakhe thug of a character gaped at first. He then let out a sigh and shut his mouth, choosing to fold his arms over his broad chest, the weapon disappearing behind the edge of his jacket.

The five souls forming a circle, with the casket on the outside, were a sight resembling something from a South African soap opera or a Nigerian movie. A few camera phones clicked like crazy in the audience.

The snapping stopped when another figure arose from the excitable viewers. The slight-framed woman squeezed past a few seated individuals and made her way down the aisle toward the five characters. A wave of quietness followed her progress, each click of her heels swallowing the whispers, silencing the murmurs. Everyone knew who this figure was. How could they not? Almost everyone at that funeral under the age of 40 had been schooled by her. It was the sixty-five-year-old Ma’am Mzimba, a little lady whose small stature fooled many into thinking she lacked physical strength until a child felt the power of her hidings. Her short legs carried her to the group of five. Her walk seemed to take forever. Three steps for Ma’am Mzimba would be made up by one large stride from a taller person.

As soon as everyone in the group caught sight of her, the circle opened its doors with no hesitation. Everyone who stood there, except for the reverend and the sergeant, could still feel the effects of her swing on their bottoms.

“Yes, Ma’am?” It was the reverend who greeted first, revealing a smile of relief. Besides having been one of this woman’s suitors when they were both far younger, Ma’am Mzimba had become to him a trusted confidant, even more so after his dear wife passed away in the same accident as his beloved daughter.

The corners of Ma’am Mzimba’s eyes wrinkled as she smiled up at everyone, each member of the group getting their turn. That smile was contagious. It didn’t matter that there was a coffin about a foot away. She wore no glasses, not even for reading. Her eyesight was still as sharp as an eagle’s.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Ma’am Mzimba said.

“No, no,” Xoliswa responded on everyone’s behalf.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” she continued. “The death of a husband and father is sad enough. I wouldn’t want to cause any more discomfort.”

Everyone in the group, except for Xoliswa, bowed their heads.

“So, what seems to be the problem, Reverend?” asked the little lady. Reverend Mzoboshe cleared his throat as if he would speak, but then kept his lips glued together instead. He glanced at Zingisa.

“They killed him, Gogo,” whined the nonsensical girl. “Someone at this funeral killed him.”

Chapter Two

“According to Zingisa”

Besides the turn of events being such a grave disrespect toward the dead (whom Ma’am Mzimba was convinced couldn’t tell their right hand from their left, but that was beside the point) the accusations of this so-called deranged girl had to be addressed.

“What?” had been Xoliswa’s response to Ma’am Mzimba and the reverend. Her jaw tightened and she clenched her fists. “You mean right now? Couldn’t this have waited until my husband’s corpse was six feet under?” She glared at Zingisa. “Do you see what you’ve done?”

Yellow dress girl met Xoliswa’s glare.

Ma’am Mzimba touched Xoliswa’s arm. “My dear child. The damage has been done. I hope you don’t feel I’m showing any disrespect toward your late husband. But think of this, my dear: the processions have just begun. We all know there is still a sermon at least an hour long.” Ma’am Mzimba paused and turned to the reverend. The corners of his lips curled downwards, and he had to agree to her guess with a nod. In the many years he’d led these processions, he’d mastered the art of preaching for an hour. It seemed to convince loved ones that their deceased were strolling past the pearly gates, no matter how villainous they had been.

“Then there’s still the speaker about his childhood,” continued Ma’am Mzimba. “After that, the speaker about his adult years. And after that, the speaker about his more senior years . . .”

Everyone seemed to get the little woman’s point. 

“People’s minds are already distracted by young Zingisa’s accusations. Is that really how we would like this father to be remembered: the listeners speculating whether the person sitting right next to them, singing hymns to our Lord, was the killer? Let’s afford young Zingisa a few minutes to explain why she feels Mr Ngobeni’s killer is at this funeral.”

Themba leaned toward his mother and whispered in her ear. She sighed heavily.

“Fine,” she said through her teeth.

“Reverend,” Themba said, “some juice and scones are ready in the yard. I’ll let the guests know they can snack on them for a few minutes before you continue with the eulogy.”

The reverend nodded again. “Seems a fine suggestion, son.” He led the group of six into his office.

After everyone had taken their seats, the corners of Ma’am Mzimba’s eyes wrinkled once more as she invited Zingisa with a smile. Zingisa couldn’t help returning the smile to her former school principal. However, her brow furrowed when she looked around at the other people who glued their gazes to her. Well, at least there was an audience now. But she couldn’t stop herself from reminiscing about how her relationship with Livingstone Ngobeni had started . . .

****

Zingisa would compare her relationship with Livingstone Ngobeni to that of Tat’ Mandela and Mam’ Winnie. She would even dare to say they met in the exact same way. Well, almost. Winnie caught Mandela’s attention as a beautiful social worker waiting for a bus. Livingstone had seen Zingisa several times at the local taverns, as she toyed with the idea of becoming his blessed girl. The “bus stop scenario” only happened a year later, while Zingisa was waiting for a taxi on her way to work. She could have hopped into one of Livingstone’s many taxis, but the ride in a shiny black Range Rover was a more enticing, cheaper option. Livingstone stopped his eye-catching SUV in front of her, as if she was a fancy diplomat who couldn’t be allowed to take a step too far.

“Ow, yellow bone,” was how this older man greeted her as she climbed into the passenger seat. Her summer dress rested just above her yellow thighs. Livingstone whistled. That was one thing she believed she had going for her: her light skin. If anyone ever dared to argue her prettiness, at least she was cognizant of how a light skin could fool many insecure blacks. She didn’t have to bleach. Everyone knew TV taught blacks the closer you were to having so-called “white” features, the better. And who the hell really wanted to be a “brown-skinned girl” anyway? Creole Beyonce was as yellow as they came . . .

She slid comfortably into Livingstone’s leather seats. She could get used to this. It beat working at a call centre all her life. If this man liked her, imagine the life she could live? After all, Livingstone was never seen with his wife in public. Maybe they would become even more estranged if he realised he belonged with someone else. Well, whatever the case, it was worth a shot, Zingisa thought. At the very least, it might earn her a new iPhone. The affair began . . .

****

It was Sergeant Dinga who brought her back to the present by coughing up phlegm from that nicotine-filled chest of his. He scribbled blue ink on a notepad the reverend had handed to him. Satisfied that the pen was working, he looked at Zingisa and narrowed his eyes.

“Now,” he said. “Who’s the killer?”

“The killer?” Zingisa widened her eyes. “Well, I don’t know.”

“What?” exclaimed Dinga.

“Then, what was all that performance about?” cried Xoliswa. She shifted forward. Themba put his hand on her arm. The widow sighed and rested back in her chair again.

“But I know for sure it was someone at the taxi association,” Zingisa continued. “Two days before he was killed, Livingstone told me he had eavesdropped on a meeting he hadn’t been invited to. He’s the head of the taxi association, and he wasn’t invited. He said they kept going on about how the association needed new blood, someone who thought out of the box and who wasn’t that scared of the police.”

Buntubakhe, the young taxi owner, threw his head back and let out a villainous laugh. Everything about this young man not only made a person’s skin crawl, but infused a fear for one’s life. He certainly wasn’t a man anyone would like their daughter to get entangled with. His laugh petered out as everyone watched his shoulders shake. He eventually wiped his eyes.

“What’s so funny?” Zingisa dared to ask. Sergeant Dinga was in the room. Buntubakhe couldn’t shoot her.

“You should be a comedian, Zingi, really,” he said. “Why would anyone plot anything against Livingstone? We all respected him.”

“How about you, for starters?” asked Xoliswa. Buntubakhe’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t help gaping. It was as if he was going to ask how she could think that of him. “Your three new taxis are doing well, Buntu. And I heard talk about how you wanted to challenge ‘Ngobeni Taxi Services.’ You think because I’m a so-called housewife, I don’t hear talk?”

“But . . .” Buntubakhe said. Then he paused. He straightened his back.

Sergeant Dinga chewed on his pen. “Well?” he said. “We all know your past, boy. Prison’s like a B&B for you.”

“Now, hold on. Just hold on.” With one hand on his knee and the other pointing at Zingisa, he said, “You’re telling me that Livingstone suspected I was going to kill him so I could take his place as the head?”

Zingisa clicked her tongue and looked away.

“This is slander!”

“Slander? Well, look who went and bought a dictionary,” Xoliswa remarked. “I swear to you, Buntu. I will get you for this.”

“Hey!” Sergeant Dinga came in, tapping that borrowed pen of his on the table. “Hold on, hold on. Now, we can’t allow for any threats, Mrs Ngobeni. And as for you, Zingisa—there is no proof to your claim that someone at the taxi association plotted to kill Livingstone Ngobeni. As I said, you can’t go around accusing people. What you have is hearsay, not evidence—”

“Hearsay is evidence at the end of the day,” Zingisa cried. “And he was cautious of you too, Sergeant. Said you had it in for him ever since that thing with your wife—”

Sergeant Dinga pushed his chair over as he rose to his feet. “Now, you listen here…” He pointed his pen at Zingisa.

Themba jumped in front of the big man. The sergeant was brought back to his senses when he noticed the five pairs of eyes staring at him.

“Well, well,” remarked Buntubakhe. “Quite the temper, Sergeant. And Zingi’s right. We all know about what happened between Livingstone and Lorraine—”

“That is Mrs Dinga to you, boy!”

Themba put his hands on the sergeant’s shoulders.

Ma’am Mzimba stood up, as if in slow motion. “Excuse me, dears,” she apologised. “Body not as nimble as it used to be.” She straightened herself and sighed. “We don’t want to get distracted from the real reason we’re all here. Young Zingisa claims Livingstone told her he heard the plot with his own ears. Isn’t that so, dear?”

Zingisa nodded.

“And did he actually say that they were planning to remove him as head, or was it actually to kill him altogether?”

“It was kill, Gogo. Kill. He said they were going to kill him. Like Judas.”

Ma’am Mzimba raised her eyebrows. “Judas? Interesting. Did he actually use that name?”

“Oh yes, Gogo.” Zingisa crossed both index fingers over one another. “S’true God. He said ‘like Judas’.”

“So in other words, it was someone close to him, someone he trusted.”

Silence gushed in from all angles.

Ma’am Mzimba smiled. “Now, let’s see.” She laid her gaze on Xoliswa. “Who would Livingstone trust? Well, no-one is closer to a man than his wife . . . at least, that’s how it’s meant to be.” She turned toward Themba, who still stood between Dinga and Zingisa. “But then again, Xoliswa is a capable homemaker with no interest in the taxi business. Who would a man trust next to a firstborn son?”

“Now, you hold it there, Ma’am Mzimba.” Xoliswa dared to raise her finger in her former teacher’s direction. “Themba is a financial advisor at a good company. He has no interest in the taxi business.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed a little when she smiled at Xoliswa. “Of course, dear.” She turned her attention to Buntubakhe. “That only leaves a protégé, doesn’t it?”

Buntubakhe straightened and held both hands in the air. “Why is all of this coming back to me?”

Ma’am Mzimba turned to the sergeant, who had calmed down by then. “Tell us, Sergeant, how did this robbery happen? Run us through the crime scene.”

The heavy man let out an audible sigh. He sat back down.

Chapter Three

“According to Dinga”

To say he disliked Livingstone Ngobeni would be an understatement. On many occasions, Sergeant John Dinga had fantasised about shooting the man in the head and burying him in Ngobeni’s spacious garden. Before the hatred, he hadn’t minded the businessman. Ngobeni had just been a chancer and briber of Dinga’s greedy colleagues. But from the day he found Ngobeni in a compromising position with his wife Lorraine, well, let’s just say that for Dinga, attending Ngobeni’s funeral was a dream come true.

But all of that was meant to be behind him; it was meant to be behind both him and his wife. Lorraine and he had gone for counselling. It had been four years now. But when the report came that Ngobeni was found with a gunshot wound to the head, the sergeant didn’t mind taking some junior constable’s place to do a victory lap around the crime scene.

                                                         ****

“Ngobeni’s Range Rover was found at Big Joe’s garage,” Sergeant Dinga began his description of events. “We got a call from Big Joe on 11 May at about half past four in the afternoon.”

“A time at which I have an alibi,” interrupted Buntubakhe. Everyone ignored him. Idiot seemed to have forgotten that everyone knew thugs like him didn’t need to be the ones doing the dirty work.

“Joe said Ngobeni asked him to open up the parking garage behind the forecourt for him. He just needed to make a brief private phone call. Joe said he didn’t see the harm, let him inside, and went back to the shop. Joe said at least an hour passed, that he clean forgot Ngobeni was still there.”

“And he didn’t hear a gunshot?” Ma’am Mzimba asked.

The sergeant shook his head. “Thieves must have used a silencer.”

“Here’s the part I want to know,” interjected the reverend. “The police are adamant it was a robbery. How did you get to that?”

“Well,” said Dinga. “His wallet and cell phone were gone.”

“And the police told me there was no money on him,” replied Xoliswa. “I told them that was impossible. Livingstone always took home the cash his businesses made. He would put it in the safe in our room. Next morning, he would take it to the bank. He was old school like that, that was Livy. Brought home at least twenty thousand a week, in a silver briefcase, carrying his Glock 22. The police couldn’t find that briefcase.”

“Oh, now I see,” said the reverend. He bowed his head. “So sorry for your loss, Xoliswa.”

“How did he protect himself from robbers all these years?” asked Ma’am Mzimba.

“He had KG and Sandi,” Xoliswa replied. “His bodyguards. He would always let them know where he was and they would make sure they were nearby. But on that day, he was alone. Why? Why did he do that?” Xoliswa turned her face away before anyone could see any tears.

“And Big Joe didn’t see anyone suspicious roaming the property?” asked Ma’am Mzimba.

“Nope,” responded the sergeant. “The tsotsis could have climbed over the barbed wire fence at the back. Joe and the petrol attendants wouldn’t have seen them from the front, especially since the forecourt is usually busy at that time.”

Ma’am Mzimba narrowed her eyes. “I wonder why they didn’t take the car as well. Would have been just as easy, wouldn’t it?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Didn’t want to risk being seen as they would have to drive right past the forecourt, I guess.”

Ma’am Mzimba smiled. “Criminals these days are psychopaths who couldn’t care who sees them. Taking the car would have been a quicker getaway.”

“Unless there was only one of them and they had their own car?” asked the sergeant.

Ma’am Mzimba shrugged. “Unlikely, Sergeant. If everyone knew the bodyguards were always nearby, why would a thief come on his lonesome? Targeting a man like Livingstone has to be carefully planned. It’s not done on the spur of the moment by a petty thief just passing by. And if it was carefully planned, pulling him out of the car once they’d killed him and driving off with it would have taken just a matter of seconds. No trouble at all. But the thieves didn’t go that far. Why not?”

Dinga raised his eyebrows, and his eyes widened.

“Anyway, I’m just a little old lady. Carry on with the events.”

“Well, that’s all there is, Ma’am,” Dinga said. “Joe has gone to Qunu, Eastern Cape, for a month or so. Can’t question him any further for the time being.”

“But can you get hold of him on the phone?”

The sergeant laughed. “I’m ahead of you on that one, Ma’am. Yes, he is answering his phone, even though abruptly. So, yes, he’s still very much alive.”

Ma’am Mzimba chuckled. “You’ll have to excuse us old ladies, Captain. We are rather quick with conspiracy theories.”

Sergeant Dinga could have blushed at Ma’am Mzimba’s compliment. “It’s Sergeant, Ma’am. I’ve never made captain.”

“What a pity.”

“Anyway,” Buntubakhe interrupted, “it’s solved, then. A bunch of tsotsis. It was bound to happen. And as I already said, I have an alibi.”

Ma’am Mzimba smiled at him. “That’s just it, my dear. It doesn’t sound like a bunch of tsotsis.” She turned to the reverend. “The car being left behind makes the robbery look staged, don’t you think, Reverend?”

The reverend frowned, going into deep thought for a moment. “I see what you are getting at, Ma’am.”

“Staged?” asked Themba. “Why would you say that, Gogo?”

It was the reverend who replied. “If I follow Ma’am Mzimba’s train of thought correctly, it’s like this: if you’re going to rob a man of Livingstone’s stature, you need to plan it well, and you might as well take everything. If you’re planning to kill a man of Livingstone’s stature, you also plan it well. But you don’t take everything, because you don’t need everything. The job is already done after shooting him.”

“So, the intention was never to rob your father, my child,” Ma’am Mzimba said, her warm smile directed at Themba, “it was to kill him. And given what Zingisa said about there being a plan to oust him from the taxi association . . .”

All eyes returned to Buntubakhe.

“Oh, come on!” he cried. He suddenly didn’t look so dangerous.

“My dear child,” said Ma’am Mzimba, “I remember how you were the cutest little boy with the most mischievous face. I remember I taught all of your sisters too.”

Buntubakhe couldn’t say a word as he and Ma’am Mzimba looked at each other.

“Tell the truth, dear. It will make you feel better.”

“What? I didn’t kill Livingstone!”

“Not that truth, dear. I know you would never admit to that, because you never admitted to pulling the girls’ bra straps even after I had beaten the demons out of you. You’re the type who doesn’t admit to a serious crime. I mean, admit to this accusation: that you were at the meeting when the taxi association was planning to oust Livingstone.”

Chapter Four

“According to Buntubakhe”

Ma’am Mzimba was right: Buntubakhe was Livingstone’s protégé. The youngster recalled the day Livingstone Ngobeni recruited him as a driver, a decade ago now. Back then, Buntu was a twenty-two-year-old who had done his last prison stint. His God-fearing aunt had given up on him, denying him access to the home he had grown up in, tired of replacing furniture and electric appliances that Buntu had sold to support his “dagga experiments.” And besides, he knew he had to clean up after his last release. He was being accused of having two little daughters wandering about somewhere—wasn’t sure if they were really his. People said they looked like him. But then again, people always found some resemblance in a child when the situation was desperate. “Same dark skin,” people would say. How many men had dark skin? A kid was a kid. At least the two little girls would have someone paying for some things in their lives.

Buntu recalled how Livingstone had eyed him for a good few seconds when Tiny, the other driver, introduced him. “It’s okay,” Tiny had said. “Kid knows how to use a gun and owes me a favour.”

Livingstone’s brow furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder at his fifteen-year-old son, Themba. Boy had headphones on and was bopping his head while grinning at his cell phone. Livingstone let out a sigh of relief.

He turned back to Tiny and Buntu. “Got a license, boy?”

“No.”

“But he can drive,” Tiny chipped in. “QT used to use him as a getaway man.”

Livingstone grinned and nodded. Everyone knew QT. He didn’t use amateurs or cowards.

“Okay,” Livingstone said. “You know how we do, Tiny. Hustle up a fake license.”

“Will have it by tomorrow eve, boss.”

 And so, for eight years, Buntu worked his “bottom” off for Livingstone—both as a driver and a getaway man in Livingstone’s other unsavoury “businesses”. Judgemental people labelled Livingstone’s other “businesses” as crimes. What would they know? Were they taking home R20 000 a week like Livingstone?

Eventually, Buntu could afford one Quantum and two Zolabuds. He would never forget the look on Livingstone’s face when the older man found out. Buntu couldn’t label it. Disappointment? Shock? Anger? “So, you really wanna go out on your own, boy?” he had asked. Buntu couldn’t make out the tone. But he nodded.

“All the best then, son.” Livingstone leaned over, his elbows on his varnished desk. Livingstone didn’t deal with paperwork—Buntu didn’t know what the man needed a desk for.  “Just watch your back, boy. Watch it.”

Buntu had gulped, but he hoped Livingstone hadn’t noticed that his threat (or advice, depending on how you looked at it) unnerved him.

To Buntu’s surprise (and great relief) there appeared to be no bad blood between Livingstone and him. Livingstone had even had a few drinks with his protégé, never allowing Buntu to pay. Yes, things seemed okay, until that taxi association meeting.

Buntu had been the last to arrive in a room filled with drivers, Toyota Cressida owners, and a few known to be “dodgy” businessmen (the word “criminal” was never used).

Fatman Malawi (not his real name of course) was the Chair that evening, speaking his broken Xhosa. When he first came to South Africa, his fancy English didn’t impress the locals. It was just another reminder that the South African blacks his age never got to go to English schools. So broken Xhosa it was. But over the years, Fatman Malawi garnered respect. Yes, Livingstone was still the boss, but Fatman was the one that brought all the business owners together: Xhosa, Chichewa, Tsonga, Shona, Arabic, and even French. In the New Brighton, Daku, and Zakhele townships, it didn’t really matter anymore if you weren’t a homegrown Xhosa. If you had a business the community needed, jump right in—but speak some isiXhosa for crying out loud! As Fatman presented his political-sounding agenda, Buntu searched around for Livingstone. Maybe the veteran was running late. Buntu shrugged and leaned back in his chair, ankles crossed over each other.

“My brothers,” Fatman continued, reverting back to English. “Enough of me blabbering on about change.” He raised his pink palms in the air. “You are all probably thinking: what would an old man know about change, heh? Well, we have someone here who has the brains of a new way we can keep the police at bay. Lord knows we need it since that Bheki Cele is now shooting to kill. It’s time to fight back, my brothers, not sit around and say, “yes baas,” like how Livingstone liked it.”

“Ya, ya!” were the cheers in the group.

Buntu almost fell off his chair. Like Livingstone used to do it? He sat up. What was Fatman on about? Where was Livingstone? He glanced around again.

“We are moving with the times, my brothers,” Fatman continued. “Even if that means we use technology. Well, we have a guru with us who will show us the way. Aren’t we happy we sent our kids to those white schools?”

Everyone laughed.

Buntu’s jaw dropped as he saw who stood up and made his way to stand beside Fatman. He had heard of people being labelled “Brutus” and “Judas”, but this betrayal took the cake.

****

In Reverend Mzoboshe’s office, all eyes were glued to Buntubakhe. He shifted in his seat, unsuccessful in avoiding passing a look at Themba. Livingstone’s son clasped his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees. He looked away from Buntu as soon as the taxi owner made eye contact. Themba’s mother sat beside him, as oblivious as everyone else in the room. Well, almost everyone.

Ma’am Mzimba had noticed the exchange. Buntu saw her shoot a quick, knowing look at Themba. She then made up for her brief lapse of indiscretion by giving each member in the group their turn with her smile.

“Out with it, Buntu,” demanded Sergeant Dinga. “Was there such a meeting to oust Livingstone?”

Buntu was silent for a second or two. He nodded in the end.

Sergeant Dinga grunted and shook his head. He scribbled in the notebook again. “Criminals, hey. Can’t even trust each other.”

“You had better watch your tongue, Sergeant,” Xoliswa rebuked him. “By saying ‘criminal’, you seem to be accusing my husband of unlawful behaviour.”

The heavy man sighed. If only his Lorraine was as loyal as this woman. “Who chaired this meeting?”

“Fatman Malawi,” Buntu responded.

“You see, you see?” said Zingisa. “Livingstone wasn’t imagining it. Someone was out to get him. And I told you, it was someone from the taxi association!” She glared at Xoliswa. “Do you believe me now?”

“I wouldn’t believe anything you said even if I saw you walk on water.” Xoliswa noticed the reverend shifted in his seat. “Uh . . . just a figure of speech, Reverend.”

“So, then, Fatman Malawi was busy putting a plan together to oust Livingstone,” said the sergeant.

Buntu folded his arms across his broad chest. He would let the sergeant come to his own conclusions. He and Themba didn’t exchange glances again.

“Did they say how they would oust Livingstone?” the sergeant asked.

Buntu shook his head. 

Zingisa grinned. “What’s the matter, Buntu? Cat got your tongue? Sucks to feel guilty, huh?”

“At least I’m not having flings with married people, Zingi.”

Yellow dress girl shut up.

“Well, then. Looks like Fatman Malawi might need to be questioned,” concluded Sergeant Dinga.

Ma’am Mzimba smiled at Themba when he raised his head. Then she glimpsed at the still oblivious Xoliswa beside him. “I suppose Fatman has some questions to answer,” the old woman replied. She turned to Zingi again. “So, Livingstone told you he overheard what was said at the meeting?”

Zingi nodded.

“Where was he?”

“Don’t know, Gogo. But he said he had heard enough. No one saw him.”

“And he heard it with his own ears? No one perhaps reported it to him?”

“Nope, Gogo. Heard it all himself. Drank all weekend. Kept going on that he never thought he would be betrayed this way.”

Ma’am Mzimba narrowed her eyes at Zingi. “How would you describe his mood? Think carefully now, dear? Was he angry or was he sad at what he had heard?”

The girl shrugged. “Both . . . Well, I don’t know, Gogo. Is there a difference?”

Ma’am Mzimba raised her finger at her former pupil. She could suddenly recall Zingisa as a child. The girl was one of the laziest she had ever taught, but she had brains. If only she applied herself. This girl was far from stupid. “Think carefully, Zingisa.”

Zingisa looked around her, at all the pairs of eyes staring at her in anticipation. She shrugged again. “I guess he was more sad than angry. In fact, he was heartbroken.”

The corners of Ma’am Mzimba’s eyes wrinkled as she broke into her warm smile. “Heartbroken,” she whispered, making sure not to look at Themba. “Interesting choice of words, my dear. Very interesting.”

Chapter Five

“According to Themba”

Themba knew he owed his life to his father. Well, besides his father having caused his birth and paying for his schooling, Themba knew it was because of his father he wasn’t rotting away in prison. But he supposed he could argue that he wouldn’t have had to fear prison in the first place if it hadn’t been for his father.

As a nineteen-year-old just having earned his PDP license, he stood before Livingstone while his father narrowed his eyes at his new driver. He was meant to be going to university, just like Xoliswa had wanted. But he had chosen to work for his father—if Livingstone would allow him.

It would all work out. Themba just knew it. It had to work out. This was his chance to prove to his father that he wasn’t just a bookworm, only resourceful with numbers and gadgets. He really could be Livingstone’s right-hand man instead of that thug, Buntubakhe. Thug? Wait. Themba had to stop thinking like that if he wanted his father to rely on him. His father’s acquaintances weren’t thugs. They just did whatever needed to be done.

Themba watched his father scratch his chin, eyes still narrowed. Tiny, sitting in the corner and sucking on empty bones, said: “It won’t hurt, Livingstone. Boy’s got a license now. Keep it in the family. Less stress on your pockets, you know?”

Livingstone remained silent. He paced back and forth, slowly, a sign he was thinking about a crucial business deal.

“Please, Dad.” Themba made the mistake of begging. Livingstone stopped his pacing and looked at his son.

The boy looked at Tiny for help. Tiny shook his head as if to remind Themba not to seem so desperate.

Finally, Livingstone sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back, looked down at the ground, and said, “Okay, okay. You get one chance, son. You know how your mother feels about you not going to university.”

“Yes!” Themba exclaimed, pumping both fists.

Livingstone frowned. Tiny sighed, shut his eyes, and shook his head again.

“Oh.” Themba straightened himself and pushed his skinny chest out. “Sorry, Dad. I won’t let you down.”

And his first few trips hadn’t gone too badly. He had been restricted to nearby townships, and he always had to drive back to the rank immediately. No gallivanting, no girls. “Your mother will forever be on my case,” was Livingstone’s explanation.

It was after six months that he got his first long trip. From New Brighton to the City Centre.

“You don’t wait for the taxi to get full,” his father had commanded. “In town you meet with Isaac and he will drive a full taxi back to the township. Got it?”

Themba had felt his heart sink. His father didn’t trust him yet.

“You just go,” Livingstone continued, “even if it’s two passengers.”

But Themba would obey. On that day, Mrs Mzoboshe and her daughter, Asenathi, climbed into the taxi. The reverend’s wife always carried that inviting smile on her face. Themba couldn’t help smiling in return as he looked at her from his rear-view mirror. He caught Asenathi’s smile too, a young woman who hadn’t looked twice his way before he started driving a taxi. He stared into his mirror as she flashed that white smile, all the more fetching since she had an enchanting dark skin tone. The old lady called their destination.

“Yes, Mama,” Themba responded, snapping out of his daze and starting the engine. Still not able to erase his smile, he heard Asenathi giggle. Themba was going to show off. He revved the engine a little, then stuck his USB device into the radio. Major League’s album was only a few days old. Asenathi would be impressed that he had got it so soon. As the Quantum began moving, Themba peeped at Asenathi in the mirror again. Girl bopped her head to the bass coming from the speakers. His grin returned as he thought about asking her for her number after they reached their destination.

The speed limit on Uitenhage Road was 80. Everyone except for taxi drivers and speed freaks knew that. And before, Themba had stuck to that limit. But glancing occasionally at the girl who smiled at him whenever their eyes met infused a confidence into his veins he had never known before. His right foot pressed down further and further. The breeze fluttering in from his open window made him crave a higher speed. When he glimpsed at the speedometer, the hand floated just under 120. And then there was the music—there was just something about Gqom music. His foot pressed further. There was some stupid driver in a silver BMW suddenly in front of him. Themba grinned. He looked at Asenathi, who was still bopping her head to his music and mouthing some words. She had better look up and watch. He was going to overtake a BMW. No indicating either. That’s how all of his father’s men drove. He swerved to the right, picking up speed. The BMW tried to increase its own speed. Themba stretched a little to see who this incompetent fool was. Another young man, probably not that much older than he was. Themba won in the end and took a sharp swerve back to the left. “Bambelani, siyajika!” he joked. Then everything changed. . .

When he could open his eyes again, he was lying in the passenger seat, shattered glass everywhere. He felt dampness on the side of his face. He put his hand there, and when he pulled it away again to examine it, he saw blood.

As he sat on the hospital bed at a private institution, a constable told him he was lucky. “Just a scratch, hey,” the man had said.

A few minutes later, the same constable was standing in a corner, whispering with his father. Themba watched Livingstone place something into the police officer’s hand and close it. The man nodded. Themba knew that this case would not be taken any further. He was going to walk away scot free. He was going to walk away with just a scar on the side of his face, while The Reverend Mzoboshe would soon have to bury his wife and child. The old man would never know who the driver had been.

****

Twenty-five-year-old successful financial adviser Themba Ngobeni stood in the front of a room filled with taxi drivers and small business owners.

Fatman Malawi, standing to his left, flashed his white smile. “This is the future, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to Themba as if he was announcing a contender at a boxing match. “I mean, this kid’s got brains.”

“Hold on,” a voice called from the seated group. “That’s Ngobeni’s son right there, boss. How do we know he won’t go blabbing to his father?”

Fatman waved the lack of faith away. “Go ahead, son,” said Fatman. “Tell them.”

Themba cleared his throat and stuck his chest out. At least he had developed some muscle since that day his father hired him. His eyes met Buntubakhe’s. The taxi driver shifted in his chair, gaping at what he was seeing. Gape—he always did that when something shocked him. Stupid thug. Themba was not going to feel any guilt. Ever since that accident, Livingstone had continued his father and son relationship with Buntu instead, but sent Themba off to university, much to Xoliswa’s relief. He had gone back to being a shadow to his father, just a clever boy who knew computers. Well, his maths brain and computers got him this far. He had already gained some trust from the small business owners who made successes out of their businesses because of him. Livingstone, his own father, would wave him away and remind him that there was no school like old school.

Themba began his business presentation.

Chapter Six

“Back to the Funeral”

“Is this going to take any longer?” Xoliswa asked. She narrowed her eyes at her wristwatch. “We’ve been sitting here for more than half an hour and have gotten nowhere. This girl”—she pointed a long finger at Zingisa—“has made a mockery of my husband’s memory. And where have her accusations gotten us? Are you happy now? Finally have all the attention you wanted?”

Zingisa huffed, folded her arms, and turned her face away. “I bet you know who killed him.”

Xoliswa leaped from her chair. She was rather nimble for a woman of her size. Both Themba and the sergeant jumped up to stand between her and Zingisa, as if such a situation needed two men. 

“All right, all right,” called the reverend. “Let’s all calm down. It would help if you wouldn’t continue throwing accusations around, my girl.”

Zingisa sighed and bowed her head. If her sudden look of remorse wouldn’t fool Xoliswa, at least the reverend could be taken in.

“Ma’am Mzimba,” Themba said, “I don’t think anything more needs to be discussed. Shouldn’t we get back to the funeral procession?”

Ma’am Mzimba’s famous smile came back. She nodded. “I agree.” She took her time meeting the eyes of each person in the room again, finally resting her concentration on Xoliswa. “I’m very sorry for all this, my dear child.”

“It’s all right, Ma’am,” Xoliswa responded. “It wasn’t your fault. We all know who to blame.”

“Although it was all such an inconvenience, it wasn’t all a waste,” continued Ma’am Mzimba. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned from all this, it’s that death is a thief to us all. Better tell our loved ones all that’s really in our hearts before it’s too late.”

The words were as cliché as could be, but because it was Ma’am Mzimba who said them, no-one would show how annoyed they were. Well, they had gone full circle: a deranged blessed girl had strutted into the church, shouting unsubstantiated accusations, and still no one was the wiser who’d shot Livingstone.

 Ma’am Mzimba turned her attention to Zingisa once more. “Do you work, my dear child?”

Zingisa’s brow furrowed, but she quickly erased the frown. “Uh . . . yes, Gogo. At a call centre. Paying for my studies.”

Ma’am Mzimba raised her eyebrows. “Very good. What are you studying, my dear?”

“I’m studying to be a paralegal, Gogo.”

“Really? Oh yes, of course! I remember how clever you were!”

Zingisa couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you, Gogo.”

“Clever?” Xoliswa muttered, although she tried to keep her voice low. “Never met such a stupid girl in my life.”

“Well, then,” Ma’am Mzimba said, “that’s all I needed to know.”

The sergeant frowned. “All you needed to know, Ma’am? What do you mean?”

She smiled at the sergeant and waved her wrinkly hand as if to say he shouldn’t pay her much attention. They all returned to the processions.

Chapter Seven

“Who killed Livingstone?”

Xoliswa Ngobeni stretched herself on her cotton couch, examining her swollen ankles. Being on stilettos all day, half of which was spent at the graveyard amongst wailing people, wasn’t something she wanted to repeat soon. These were the days she was reminded why it had been such a good thing to have brought three boys into this world: to look after their mum. Her youngest, fifteen-year-old Libongwe, had the duty of massaging those swollen ankles. He was a little man who had recently developed a fake American accent, limping around, claiming he was some nigga.

“It’s okay, I’ll rub your feet, mum,” Li said—like he had a choice. “Even YoungstaCPT said there ain’t no gangster that can claim he wasn’t breastfed, you know?”

“Only you’re not a gangster. If you try that, you’re out of this house.”

The doorbell rang. Xoliswa looked at her wristwatch, then swivelled to see the clock on the wall behind her. It was a quarter past nine in the evening. Who on earth could be visiting at that time, especially after she made sure everyone saw her tears at her husband’s funeral a few hours before? Themba jogged down the stairs and announced he would see who it was. Intrigued, she watched her son disappear behind the wall separating their sitting room from the foyer to attend to the intercom.

A second later, he reappeared from behind the wall, brow furrowed. “It’s Sergeant Dinga,” he announced.

“What does he want at this time?”

“We’ll see now.” Themba stood in the passage, hands in his pockets, glaring at the now open door.

Xoliswa hated being kept in suspense. She leaped from her beloved couch, her aching ankles miraculously cured. She was about to make her way to the passage, when Themba took a step back.

His brow furrowed again. “Sergeant? Gogo Mzimba?”

“Ma’am Mzimba?” Xoliswa asked.

Themba led the two visitors into the sitting room.

“Hello, dear,” Ma’am Mzimba greeted, the corners of her eyes creasing as she revealed that famous smile. Not even that grin would ease Xoliswa about the sudden intrusion.

“What’s going on, Sergeant?” Xoliswa asked. The grown man looked down at Ma’am Mzimba as if the old lady would explain. He seemed not to know why he was there either.

“Don’t worry, my dear child,” Ma’am Mzimba said, making her way past Xoliswa to find a seat. “I asked the sergeant to bring me here just to check on how you’re all doing.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“That’s what I asked,” the sergeant muttered.

Ma’am Mzimba smiled at everyone.

Xoliswa turned to Li. She made sure that he returned her stare. What she was about to say would be very important, and she hoped her wanna-be-nigga son would have the sense to catch the meaning of her words. “Li,” she said, pausing for effect, “go and tell your brother he shouldn’t worry about coming down to see who was ringing the bell, okay? Sonny should just sleep his headache off, okay?”

The little nigga frowned. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” Themba was quick to say. “I’ll do it.”

He turned to make his way to the staircase, but before he could put a foot on the first step, a young woman’s voice was heard to say, “Sis’ Xoli, I’m on my way now.”

Xoliswa sighed heavily, shut her eyes, and clenched her fists. Yellow dress Zingisa Mthembu came skipping down the stairs, only to stop halfway when she saw Sergeant Dinga frown up at her, and Ma’am Mzimba grin at her as if she wasn’t surprised to see her.

“How nice to see you again, dear,” Ma’am Mzimba said. “Please come join us.” The little lady shifted her slender frame to the other end of the couch and patted an empty seat beside her as if she and Zingisa would fill couch.

“Now wait a minute, wait a minute,” the sergeant interrupted, his stupefied expression having now disappeared. “What is she doing here?” He looked at Xoliswa and then back at the girl. “But I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“Yes, Sergeant, you did exactly what they wanted you to do: you thought,” Ma’am Mzimba said. She patted the empty seat next to her again. Yellow dress girl looked to Xoliswa for guidance. Livingstone’s wife didn’t say a word. She took her own seat while Zingisa made her way to Ma’am Mzimba.

“I must say it was a cleverly constructed plan,” Ma’am Mzimba said.

“Plan?” asked the sergeant. He started searching his person.

“Oh, never mind your notebook and pen, Sergeant. Sit down and I’ll get you up to speed.”

The big man obeyed.

“You see,” said Ma’am Mzimba, daring to meet Xoliswa’s livid glare, “some plans are better left simple. Once we try to add all the glitter and other decoration, it begins to lose its authenticity.”

Xoliswa folded her arms and clicked her tongue. “Really? Indulge me—tell us how you figured it all out. I’m not for a moment admitting that you’re right, of course—but humour me, anyway.”

The grin didn’t leave the old lady’s face. “Here’s a little lesson in life, my dear: know when you’re defeated. It makes picking up the pieces much easier and less messy.”

Sergeant Dinga scratched his greying head. Was he the only one who wasn’t following? “What plan? What defeat?”

“You see, Sergeant, I suspected that there was something nasty in the woodshed when Zingisa interrupted the funeral processions of the man she was having an affair with,” Ma’am Mzimba explained. “The bright yellow dress, the overreaction, the attention seeking—it was all a bit much. Something must have been very wrong. But people love a good scandal. So, no one saw past the display.”

Xoliswa rolled her eyes. “Except for you, of course.”

“Everything seemed so staged. But I couldn’t be sure, you see. Either this girl did lack all sense, or she was a very clever actress who could get away with things by making people think she was stupid.” Ma’am Mzimba narrowed her eyes at Zingisa who sat beside her. The girl looked away. “Yes, Zingisa. You might have been lazy at school, but I remember none of the teachers who taught you ever doubted your intelligence.” Ma’am Mzimba turned to the sergeant again. “Imagine how much common sense she must be lacking if she waltzes into her lover’s funeral, wearing bright yellow instead of black, and throwing accusations around. She would have quite a nerve even to show her face at his funeral.”

The sergeant stroked his chin. “True, true.”

“So, we all began to believe that she was the stupidest girl ever to be born. But then she made a very big mistake.”

Zingisa frowned. “What?” she asked.

Ma’am Mzimba chuckled. “You told us that you were studying to be a paralegal, dear. Stupid? Really? All that research, indexing and making sure that attorneys and advocates have all the information they need right at their fingertips? You would need quite a brain on you to do that.” Ma’am Mzimba paused and turned to Sergeant Dinga. “Can you see now, Sergeant? Very out of character. All those brains, and no common sense? Can’t be.”

The corners of Dinga’s mouth curled downward, and he nodded. He could see it now. The character Zingisa had played at the funeral wasn’t her own. “So, you’re saying there was never an affair? It was all staged for us at the funeral?”

“Oh, there was an affair, make no mistake,” Ma’am Mzimba replied, raising her finger at the sergeant. “Young Zingisa was Livingstone’s mistress. But she is also a little gold digger who doesn’t mind where her money comes from, just as long as she gets it. She was paid by Xoliswa to disturb the proceedings.”

“What?” exclaimed Dinga. He looked at Xoliswa for an explanation. The woman was silent. 

“But why would Mrs Ngobeni pay Zingisa to disrupt her husband’s funeral?” Dinga asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Ah, Sergeant!” replied Ma’am Mzimba clapping her wrinkly hands. “Now, you’re asking the right questions. Take your mind back and try to remember: So much emphasis was put on someone in the taxi association having killed him. The interesting thing is that they didn’t lay the blame at any specific person’s feet. Do you remember that?”

Dinga nodded.

“It was then I realised that the emphasis was on someone—anyone—having killed him. They were trying so hard to emphasise that there was a murderer.”

“Well, wasn’t there a murderer? He was murdered. So there has to be a murderer,” Dinga exclaimed.

“He was killed, Sergeant, not murdered. Now, also remember: Zingisa here told us how heartbroken Livingstone was. He kept mentioning Judas. So there was certainly a betrayal he had never expected.” Ma’am Mzimba paused and looked up at Themba. The young man folded his arms across his broad chest and looked away from her. “I noticed from the looks of guilt you and Buntu were exchanging that you were the Judas Livingstone was talking about.”

Themba gulped. His lips parted.

“Don’t you say a word to her, Themba,” his mother warned.

Ma’am Mzimba waved Xoliswa away and continued with her narrative. “So, heartbroken Livingstone drove to Joe’s Garage and asked for a moment alone. Big Joe thought nothing of it and let him in. And here is something else for your memory as well, Sergeant: Livingstone always carried a gun with him. But this time, out of character, he has no bodyguards nearby. Why? Now, picture a man, heartbroken, feeling betrayed by not only his flesh and blood, but possibly the heir to his throne. What do you think he was planning to do?”

Themba looked away. Zingisa bowed her head. Xoliswa’s glare scolded Ma’am Mzimba. “How dare you,” she growled. “You come into my home and you make insinuations—”

“He was going to kill himself?” Sergeant Dinga interrupted.

Ma’am Mzimba pressed her lips together and nodded.

“Now picture the following scenario as well, Sergeant: Big Joe comes looking for Livingstone. He finds the man dead in his car. He panics. Who would he phone?”

“Livingstone’s wife.”

“And that’s what he did. But the whole situation is messy. The Great Livingstone Ngobeni killing himself? No, can’t be! What would that do to the family name and legacy?” Ma’am Mzimba turned to Xoliswa again. “And let me guess: your husband’s life insurance policy doesn’t pay out in the case of a suicide.”

Xoliswa was silent, her eyes narrowed.

“So, you would get nothing for all those years you had to endure a cheating husband.”

Xoliswa’s lip curled in disgust at the little lady’s intelligence.

“So, the cover up begins,” Ma’am Mzimba continued. “That’s why Big Joe was so hard to get a hold of, you see? We all know he tends to talk too much, sometimes saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong people. A month or just over is long enough to make policemen lackadaisical in their interrogations. No offence, Sergeant.”

“None taken, Ma’am.” It was true.

“So, to make absolutely sure that everyone, including the insurance company, is convinced that Livingstone was robbed and killed as oppose to having committed suicide, Xoliswa plans the major distraction at the funeral. And of course, no-one would ever guess that a widow and young mistress would work together. So, our pretty Zingisa was paid to trick us into thinking that someone—anyone—had killed Livingstone. As long as it wasn’t a suicide. You see, my dear Xoliswa? You should have just left it all at the garage. The staged performance at the funeral just took it a bit too far.”

Xoliswa clicked her tongue. What an annoyance this retired school principal was. Wasn’t she meant to be dead already?

“So, Livingstone killed himself, then?” the sergeant asked. No one responded.

Ma’am Mzimba sighed and clasped her hands before her. She stood up in slow motion. After all that effort, she placed her hands on her lower back and stretched to the side. “I’m getting too old for all this sleuthing.” She afforded each person in the room that famous smile of hers. “But of course, it’s rather hard to prove anything without any evidence. So let us let sleeping dogs lie.”

The sergeant shrugged. “Amen to that.” He didn’t really care who killed Livingstone. As long as the man wasn’t messing with people’s wives anymore. He could live with sleeping dogs lying.

Xoliswa’s shoulders dropped as she exhaled. She was a rich woman, but even she could never have bought the relief she felt.

“Some secrets,” Ma’am Mzimba concluded, “we take to the grave.”

A far more meek-looking Xoliswa looked up at her former teacher. They looked at each other for a few seconds.

Ma’am Mzimba turned to Sergeant Dinga. “You may take me home now, Sergeant.”

Epilogue

“The Grave’s Secrets”

Reverend Mzoboshe stood on the church veranda, his hand on his lower back as he stretched, face grimacing. He sighed. Mawethu, a nineteen-year-old ex-dagga lover, who Youth Correctional Services had assigned to do his community service time at the church, was busy chatting up young women in the vicinity instead of keeping the yard clean. Well, the reverend wasn’t going to bark anymore. One more week and the boy would be sent elsewhere. The youth of today were so lazy. At nineteen, the reverend had already started working while studying for his ministry on the side.

But it was all a sign of the times, wasn’t it? Lazier young men, refusing to work and running around wreaking havoc for their university fees to fall while half of them wouldn’t finish their degree, anyway. Lazier young men, leaving fatherless babies wherever they went. Lazier young men with stupid girls as their company, ready to cry “gender-based violence” instead of having just been good girls, saving themselves for marriage. If the girls just stayed away from men’s beds, they wouldn’t get slapped around so much and be upsetting the entire country. Mxim. Stupid youth.

The reverend took hold of the broom again and continued his sweeping. He didn’t hear the nimble footsteps that approached him.

“Hello, Reverend,” a familiar voice announced.

The reverend looked up and was met by that contagious smile. “Ma’am Mzimba,” he replied.

The former teacher glanced around her. “Where’s your assistant?”

The reverend sighed. “Youth,” was all he said.

Ma’am Mzimba laughed. He could see she understood fully. “Yes, youth. But what can we do, hey?” She followed her remark with a shrug.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked the old man while he ushered her to a chair on the veranda.

“Thought I should see how you’re holding up, Reginald.”

She had his attention. Ever since he received his qualifications, Ma’am Mzimba had never used his name when addressing him. Yes, it had been decades, but he was convinced this was the first time in years she had called him by his Christian name.

He raised his eyebrows. “Seeing how I am holding up? That’s kind of you. But why?”

Ma’am Mzimba’s smile returned. “Oh, I am just thinking how stressful Saturday must have been for you. I also wanted to let you know that I haven’t forgotten the anniversary of your wife’s death. On the day Livingstone died, it was the anniversary of Bukelwa and Asenathi’s passing away.”

The reverend looked down at his feet.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything on the day, Reginald. I haven’t forgotten them.”

“Really?” the reverend replied, jaw clenched and still looking down at his feet. “It seems as if the whole world has forgotten.”

Ma’am Mzimba reached out and held his hand. He looked up at her again and forced a smile, but he knew she could see right past him.

“It’s been six years now, hasn’t it?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I asked Dinga to take me to see Xoliswa on Saturday,” Ma’am Mzimba continued.

“Oh? Was anything wrong?”

Ma’am Mzimba shook her head. “Just me doing my sleuthing again.”

He laughed. “One of these days you’ll come across something you didn’t want to find.”

“True.”

“Well, what did you find out?”

“I told them I knew their secret, how they were trying to cover up what they thought was a suicide.”

Again, he raised his grey eyebrows. He avoided gaping. “Really?” He nodded. “So, you think Livingstone committed suicide and Xoliswa tried to cover it up?”

“Xoliswa came to the scene, probably accompanied by Themba, and found her husband with a gunshot wound to the head and the gun still there. Of course, they removed the gun and took his wallet and the briefcase with the money in it.”

“To make it look like a robbery?”

Ma’am Mzimba nodded.

He whistled and shook his head. “But why would Xoliswa cover up the suicide?”

“Oh the usual,” said Ma’am Mzimba, waving her hand as if people covered up suicides every day. “Avoiding a family scandal and making sure the life insurance policy is paid out.”

He grunted. “The extents people will go to, hey. Suicide, you say? I suppose his conscience caught up with him for all the wrongs he’s done. It will be up to the Lord to judge where his soul goes now. May He have mercy.”

“Mercy?” he heard Ma’am Mzimba ask. When he looked back at her, she carried an expression he was unfamiliar with. He couldn’t identify the feelings she was trying to conceal at that moment. But if he was not mistaken, there was a great deal of disappointment. “Do you really want the Lord to have mercy on his soul, Reginald?”

His dry lips parted, but he couldn’t respond. He realised he was parched.

“11th May,” she continued. “I’ll never forget it. Bukelwa was a very good friend of mine—a sister. Every 11th May I find you here at the church, like clockwork, keeping yourself busy to distract yourself. As I said, Reginald, I’m sorry I never said anything this time. I never said anything, because I didn’t find you here nor at your home on the 11th, the day Livingstone supposedly shot himself.”

He was silent, bravely meeting her gaze, barely blinking. Her sleuthing. Yes. Her sleuthing indeed!

“Livingstone never revealed who was driving his taxi on that day, did he?” she asked.

“Never wanted to give a name,” he responded. He realised his voice shook. “Didn’t even have the decency to just give me a name. I wouldn’t have done anything. An old man like me? Just a name, Deborah . . .” He hadn’t used her first name in decades either. “A name,” he whispered. “That was all.”

Ma’am Mzimba drew in a breath. She managed to look away before the reverend caught sight of the tears forcing themselves on her. “Well, I hope the Lord does have mercy on Livingstone’s soul,” she said. “But I hope He extends the same mercy to you, Reginald.”

He removed his hand from hers, clasped both hands together, and stared ahead. “Yes, I certainly hope He does.”

He didn’t look back at her as she stood up and began walking away. Deborah and her sleuthing. She was bound to come across something she wouldn’t like. And now, her affectionate heart had to keep a secret for his sake. It wouldn’t surprise him if she afforded him less of her time after this. He already felt God wasn’t affording him time either, so he hadn’t bothered to pray after the 11th. But how forgiving did God expect him to be?

On the anniversary of his wife and daughter’s death, while he was buying oil at Big Joe’s garage, he saw Livingstone walk into the store. On the 11th. Why the 11th? If it had been the 10th, it would’ve been fine. If it had been the 12th, it also would have been fine. The taxi criminal only acknowledged the reverend with the wave of a hand—not a verbal greeting. Didn’t even have the decency to extend a verbal acknowledgement—on the 11th.

Livingstone whispered something to Joe. Joe acceded to something. Livingstone left the store again. For the fifteen minutes that followed—just fifteen—Reginald didn’t know who he was. In a trance, he paid for the oil and walked out of the store. His feet led him to the back of the forecourt. Not a soul in that crowded forecourt seemed to pay any attention to him as he disappeared. His feet took him to the back garage, the direction he had watched Livingstone walk toward. The driver’s door was open. Livingstone was on his phone.

As the criminal turned his head to look up at the reverend who now stood right above him, he froze. The Glock pistol with the silencer was lying on his lap. He hung up. It was as if Livingstone was trying to understand what was happening. The man of the cloth who stood before him grabbed the gun on his lap. By the time Livingstone realised what was happening, the reverend had fired a shot on the side of his face.

Reginald wiped the gun with the edge of his jacket and placed it into Livingstone’s right hand. He shut the Range Rover’s door, and his feet took him back to his 1990 Mercedes Benz. He started the engine. Fifteen minutes was all it took, and he was back in his empty house. The name Livingstone didn’t want to reveal went with him to his grave. How Livingstone really died would also go with Reginald to his grave.

The Lord would have to have mercy on both their souls.