His father was killed in this club, Victor thought as he stared at the half-faded sign reading “The Zulu Club” above the front door. He had not set foot in here since that day ten years ago. Not even when he visited Hector.
Everything had happened so fast. Two men had come out of nowhere. They had pierced their way through the crowd, spotted Bantu on the pedestal and opened fire. That was the end of it. The second life of a great man went out like a candle’s flicker. Like he had never defied death before.
Victor had arrived needing a shower, a bite and a long nap. He would have visited the club tomorrow once he was refreshed. But Busie had moved out. Nothing of hers remained in the house but the sweet lingering perfume to mock his agony. He’d decided there and then that he had to see her. He needed some answers.
He walked in warily, every next step heavier than the former. The club was dim, lifeless and as quiet as a mouse. The furniture appeared outdated and wrongly placed. For a place that also served food there was no aroma in the air. It smelled of nothingness.
A man sat alone at his table nibbling at the platter before him. He had long dreadlocks that looked more brown than black. He looked up when Victor walked past him, and flashed him a broad smile that showed two missing front teeth.
Victor nodded with a smile. Lucky Dube.
Another man sat a few tables away with a beer in hand. Over there sat two women presumably awaiting their orders. They all regarded Victor with curious looks.
A dark-skinned woman had her back on him. Her dress clung to her body like a lover. She was screaming at a waitress.
‘Oh God, did you really have to do that?’ She said.
It was the waitress who saw Victor first. She looked past Busie and her shoulders stiffened. Busie followed her eyes.
‘We’ll finish this later hey,’ Busie hissed at the waitress. She then ran a hand down her stomach and came to Victor.
‘Afternoon, Zulu,’ she said at close range.
‘Busie,’ he sighed her name instead of saying it. He had not realized that he was holding his breath.
Almost too suddenly, Busie jumped and hugged him. The sweet scent he’d left at the house filled up his nostrils again.
‘I’d thought you’d rest today and we see you tomorrow,’ she said when she set him free.
‘And miss out on a chance to see you? I don’t think so.’ He did his best to make it sound casual.
Busie gave him a glimpse of a smile. Victor thought she looked nervous.
There was silence. Awkward silence.
Busie ran her hands down her stomach again, cleared her throat and yelled, ‘Show’s over! Y’all get back to work now! Back to work!’
The waitress jumped and busied herself behind a till. All other employees who had stopped to watch averted their eyes.
‘Yes, Zulu, let me show you around now,’ Busie said as she offered that smile again.
Victor tailed her to the door reading “Staff Only” overhead.
Busie showed him storerooms and fridges packed untidily. Dairies were mixed with cold meats, soft drinks with wines and champagnes. There was no order. In short, the whole presentation would have driven any health inspector berserk. The rest Victor didn’t care much to see. He simply bobbed his head along to not offend his guide.
‘Yes, now to my office,’ Busie said at last.
Victor followed.
It was still as Bantu had set it to be all those years ago. It was simple. There was a table, a manager’s chair and two more on the opposite side.
Bantu was never an artistic man, but his wife was sentimental enough. She had ordered Hector not to change anything in the office when he took over. She did the same with Busie a year ago.
Victor looked around. There was a cabinet at the end of the room. The walls were bare, except for a painting of Henry Cele as Shaka Zulu. Bantu had once said that the Henry Cele painting was better than Mona Lisa. His wife had called him crazy.
Busie went around the table and sat on the manager’s chair. Victor took one of the two on his side.
He thrummed his fingers on the table. ‘You know, Busie, there’s something I can’t quite get out of my mind.’
‘Hector’s Totem?’ She asked.
Victor nodded. ‘Yes. Hector’s Totem.’
‘I know hey. You’ve been asking about it since the funeral.’
‘So it has nev–‘
‘–No, it has never been found. I know how important it is to you. And was to him too. If I’d ever found it, I would’ve let you know immediately.’
‘I know. Thank you, Busie,’ Victor said. It didn’t make sense to him how the toy had just disappeared. It was with Hector all the time. They should have found it on him when they found his body. Unless his killer had made off with it.
‘Zulu,’ Busie said softly. ‘A piece of advice. You need to let it go. You can’t go on torturing yourself like this hey. You’ll never find your brother’s murderer. Even the police failed.’
Victor scoffed. ‘The police? Did they even try?’
Busie sighed. ‘I almost forgot. I’m talking to a Zulu. You guys can’t stand the police.’
Victor smiled. So did Busie. Victor thought he saw sympathy in Busie’s smile.
‘Let it go, Zulu.’ She said. ‘It’s the only way you can heal.’
And there was silence again. Awkward silence.
Victor kept his eyes on the table. He wanted to say something else to her, but didn’t know how.
She wanted to say something too. He could feel it.
The silence filled up the room as dusk settled outside.
Victor cleared his throat. ‘Busie, you didn’t have to move out of the house. We could’ve shared.’ He supposed he had to say it at some point.
‘You also didn’t have to come all the way here from Durban, but you did anyway. Surely you have more important things to do. You always do. Your mama could’ve just signed the documents and mailed them back to us.’
“To where had she moved?” was next on Victor’s agenda, but her new tone shifted it away. Instead he told her, ‘But you should know Mama better than that now. There’s no way she’d sell to Fana.’
‘If not to sell, then why are you here, Zulu?’
To marry you? It somehow seemed not what she wanted to hear. ‘To buy Fana out of my father’s club,’ he said.
She glared at him.
It was only a year ago that they were almost engaged. His mother had told him that as Hector’s heir, custom decreed that he marries Hector’s wife. To hell with custom, he would have done it for himself.
He had not slept on the day of her cleansing. The ceremony was done at midnight. Only women were allowed to attend. But Victor had peeked from his bedroom’s window as Busie trekked butt naked from the gate to the big house. That was the second time he had seen her naked. It was as magnificent as the first, and just as shameful.
He could never summon the courage to propose to her. It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head, it always came down to betrayal. After all, he had slept with a grieving widow just two days after her husband’s funeral.
‘Fana won’t like this at all hey,’ Busie said.
‘Well, I don’t really care what Fana likes anyway.’ You’re the only person I care about. But those words never made it past his lips.
Sphesihle Vusimuzi Qwabe was born in a small Kwazulu-Natal village. He was raised by his grandmother who, as a retired teacher, read to her grandchildren every evening. He is 29 years old and works for a Foschini store in Johannesburg. Sphesihle completed a national diploma in public relations. He spends every lunch break reading and then writes every evening when he gets home. He writes because he firmly believes that this is what he was meant to do; it is his calling and contribution to this world. He is never so at peace as when he holds a pen in his hand. He is fully committed to the art of writing and is determined to make writing his full-time occupation.
