Juliette Manitshana-Mnqeta: Now We’re Even

They shot him.

Well, at least that is what they told Mzwandile Cothoza. His best friend and former business partner, Wayne Stevens, had just passed away. It had been a mugging in Constantia, an affluent suburb in Cape Town. Broad daylight. It sent shock waves in the Western Cape, since Wayne was considered a good guy, chief philanthropist, if there was such a thing. Find a child with an empty stomach, and Wayne would open an organisation to feed it. Even though everyone knew Wayne to have had dealings with the fraudster, Mzwandile Cothoza, he was still considered to be a good apple. As for Mzwandile, he was the black sheep.

A reformed fifty-three-year-old Mzwandile straightened his tailormade suit and tried to sit as comfortably as possible in front of the running video camera. The room lighting had been blinding at first, but he had got used to it quickly. His young companion had eased him into the surroundings. He would never have agreed to do the interview, but the gentle voice over the phone had been so charming and inviting. She spoke to him as if he hadn’t been a formerly convicted criminal with ten years behind bars for a Ponzi scheme that sunk the fortunes of so many families. Perhaps it was because she was so young that she didn’t recall the anger South Africa had felt towards Mzwandile. “Pay your R2500. Add two people under your name. Make millions for life.” They fell for it. No. This young woman wouldn’t have felt the effects. How old would she have been at the time? Five? Six?

He had looked her up on the internet after she had made the phone call and asked for an interview. A spellbinding, oval-shaped face with big brown eyes met his gaze as she held her smile for the camera. It couldn’t hurt being interviewed by a pretty girl, right? And besides, it was the only interview anyone wished to hold with him that wasn’t about the scheme. Today he was going to be asked to relate stories about his friend, Wayne, and not about whether he felt remorse or not that a few men had killed themselves and left behind children after he had tricked them. But then again, why did those men need to live if they had been stupid enough to be tricked in the first place? Never mind. He straightened again. He was reformed now, right?

“Comfortable, Mr Cothoza?” she asked. That bright smile again.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” Mzwandile said. “And please call me Mzwandile.”

She giggled. He watched her glance down at her notepad and then her striking eyes graced him.

“Tell me more about your friendship with Mr Wayne Stevens.”

Mzwandile smiled. She had put him at ease. Her name was Sivuyile Arnold. Only twenty-four. She was a rising investigative journalist. But he didn’t think that line of work would suit her. She would make a far better lifestyle blogger or a friendly talk show host. He had wondered about the English surname since she was clearly a Xhosa girl. Her online biography had said she grew up in the Gauteng province, but she had told him her clan’s name. One couldn’t get more Xhosa than Gatyeni. Her origins were from the Eastern Cape.

Mzwandile’s shoulders dropped a little and he leaned his back against the chair. He rattled away. She kept her smile. She sometimes laughed at his jokes. Sivuyile would scrunch up her brow when he said something thought-provoking. But with everything, that inviting smile followed. It was like she was saying, “Go ahead, sir. Talk. There’s no judgement here. You are only human. We all have good sides. And we all have bad ones. You deserve to speak about your friend and not that fraudulent case all the time.”

He eventually paused when he saw her glance at the wall behind him. Mzwandile was aware that there was a clock.

“Should I continue?” he asked, avoiding turning around to look at the watch while the camera was still rolling.

“Oh sure,” she said and gestured with her slender, manicured hand that he could continue.

This youngster was really flattering for an ex-convict’s ego. He continued. And on. And on. Her timing was good, because as soon as there was a long enough pause, she said: “This has all been so interesting, Mr Cothoza. I feel like Mr Wayne Stevens is sitting right here in the room with us.”

Mzwandile chuckled and glanced down at the floor. “Oh well. He was a good friend.”

One of her crew members was heard to say something. Mzwandile could not catch it. Sivuyile smiled at Mzwandile and held up a finger. “Sorry, just one moment.”

The crew member leaned towards her ear. He was a big, burly fellow with a red face as if there was a sudden heat in the room. Sivuyile’s brow wrinkled as the man whispered. She pressed her lips together. Mzwandile tried to stretch his hearing. But he realised he didn’t need to. There was always that word or phrase. “Ponzi scheme,” followed by “2005.” Mzwandile’s stomach churned.

He watched Sivuyile’s big brown eyes glance at him as the man spoke. Then she did the unexpected. She leaned back, looked up at her colleague and shook her head. “I don’t think that angle is necessary to pursue.”

The colleague raised his eyebrows, avoiding Mzwandile’s stare. He curled the corners of his lips downwards and held up his palms.

Sivuyile smiled at him and touched him on his forearm. “Thanks anyway, Mark. That is for another time.”

This Mark smiled back down at her. But as he turned to walk away, he narrowed his eyes at Mzwandile for a second. Mzwandile hid his grin. “I know,” he thought. “I am getting away with murder.”

His thoughts were stolen by the charming Sivuyile again. “Thank you, Mr Cothoza. I think we’re good.”

Mzwandile exhaled. She waved at her camera lady and the woman held up a thumb. “That’s a wrap.”

Sivuyile closed her notebook and put it on the coffee table beside her. She leaned back in her chair and swung a fleshy leg over another one.

“I hope you hold your own talk show one day, my child,” Mzwandile found himself saying.

Sivuyile widened her eyes and then chuckled.

“Yes, really,” he continued. “You’re definitely photogenic.”

“Thanks, Mr Cothoza, but you need to be a little more than photogenic to hold a talk show.”

Mzwandile raised his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I mean, you are the full package. Charming, intelligent. You ask all the right questions.”

She grinned. “All the right questions?” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Are there any wrong ones?”

Mzwandile laughed.

“Can we get you some tea or coffee, Mr Cothoza? I’m more of a coffee girl. What’s your poison?”

“Whisky,” he said. He winked. “But since it’s just before lunch, I’ll have a coffee too.”

“Decaf, Americano, cappuccino?”

“Decaf with hot milk.”

She smiled. She turned over her shoulder and called. “Hazel, could we pretty please get one decaf with hot milk and an Americano with cold milk?”

“Coming right up, Sivu,” called a young woman.

As soon as Sivuyile had turned back to him, Mzwandile said, “Your surname Arnold is English.” He paused.

“While I’m Xhosa?”

He hesitated but then nodded. Another chuckle escaped her. “Don’t worry, I get that question a lot when people realise, I’m not married.”

It was only then Mzwandile glanced down at her left hand. He had assumed she couldn’t be married because he thought she would be too young. Now his imagination was racing.

“I was adopted,” she said.

That answered a few things. Besides the surname, this young woman sounded like she came from the best schools. It was going to take South Africa a long time for a young person not to be distinguished by the accent they used when speaking English. Surely, she wouldn’t judge him for trying to decipher that from her manner of presentation.

“What happened to your parents?” he asked. And then he realised it was forward of him. He avoided sighing at his stupidity.

It was like she read his mind because she said, “No, it’s okay.” Her shoulders rose as she took in a deep breath. “Well, apparently it was AIDS in the end. But they contracted all of that after I was born. I was a baby.”

Mzwandile felt his stomach tighten. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

He hoped he was imagining the glaze over her eyes. “That’s okay. There was a wonderful couple that took me in when I was six. They gave me the best life. Treated me like I was their own.” She shrugged. “Even got the surname.”

Mzwandile pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. This was really a first for him. He had so many more questions, but he guessed it would be best not to flood her with them. One of them was how these English parents had raised her to always include her clan’s name when she introduced herself. It was like they did not want her to lose her culture. Impressive.

The beverages arrived. Mzwandile was beyond ease now.

His young friend smiled at him. “How many sugars?”

“It should be none, but I’ll take three.”

She laughed. “A sweet tooth never killed anybody.”

He watched her stand up. She had her back to him as she put in his sugar. What a fetching frame, he thought.

She handed him his coffee and took her seat. “Life must have been tough for you, Mr Cothoza.”

“Mhm.” He slurped his coffee. Not many people knew how hard he had had it. That is why he gave up his job as a bank manager and started that business. It was never about greed. Things are always getting expensive. He grew up poor. Why couldn’t he want a better life for himself? It wasn’t his fault that a few people misunderstood his business dealings.

He watched her drop her gaze to her coffee. She gulped.

“I can tell that you want to ask me something,” he said.

“Well, yes.” She paused. “Besides the time in prison, you’ve also lost a few good friends along the way. I read up about it.”

Mzwandile closed his eyes and nodded. Finally, a sympathetic ear.

“Like Ayanda Ntshanga.”

His eyes shot wide open. He straightened in his chair and was surprised he didn’t spill his coffee. Sivuyile sat forward and held out her hand. “I am sorry. I hope I’m not going to places you wish not to go.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty brow. Over the years, he was hearing that name less and less.

“She was your PA, right?”

Mzwandile was silent.

“During that uh…whole case…um…with that business.”

He eventually nodded.

“It must have been terrible to get the news that she died the way that she did – the strangling.”

He put his coffee aside. “And don’t forget that the police accused me at the beginning. But you can’t dispute tight alibis and no evidence of me having been at the scene.”

He stopped speaking. He was aware that his tone had changed. He glanced around at the room. The camera didn’t seem to be on any longer and Sivuyile’s crew was huddled in a corner over their own coffees, conversing. He stared back at her. “Are you wired?” he suddenly asked.

She gaped. “What?”

Mzwandile felt a pull in his chest. How could he accuse her? But he had to be careful.

“Do you want to search me?” She held up her arms. Her tone had changed too. He had offended her.

Mzwandile sighed heavily. “That won’t be necessary. Sorry.”

Slowly, her smile returned. “That is fine, Mr Cothoza. I understand. I just found your story interesting. I also found Ayanda’s story interesting. She was twenty-six then and was accused of helping you with the scheme.”

Mzwandile nodded.

Ayanda had been a pretty girl. Round, bubbly, with a smile that brightened every room. There had been the brief affair, of course. It hadn’t been love for him. Besides, sleeping with the devil made it difficult for her to go to the police to report that her source of income was robbing people in broad daylight. In hindsight, to so many, the scheme now sounded like such a silly venture. But folks had believed it back then. Selling medicine that cured every illness under the sun including cancer and AIDS. All you had to do was to invest R2500, recruit two members, sit down, drink the pills, and you would be rich forever.

But one day, he heard that Ayanda might have ratted him out to an investigating officer. She had suddenly grown a halo and became an informant. So, of course, he had been the first suspect when she had been found in her apartment, strangled. On that day though, Wayne Stevens and Ricky Majoro had claimed they were with him when Ayanda died. His fingerprints or DNA were not found on Ayanda’s clothing or the cord that was used to strangle her. Mzwandile’s fingerprints were on doorknobs and on the toilet bowl handle. But then again, he was having an affair with her, so the police could not really use that evidence as something concrete.

“So, you were acquitted of that,” Sivuyile continued. She smiled again. “Fortunately, the law was on your side there. They got that right.”

He cleared his throat. No. They had not. “Yes. Fortunately.”

“But of course, you had to do your time for the scheme.”

Mzwandile took his coffee and began to slurp again. He wrinkled his nose. He had left it for too long.

Sivuyile giggled. “I’ll get Hazel to get you another one. But tell me, Mr Cothoza. Ayanda Ntshanga had a daughter. Is that right?”

Mzwandile thought for a moment. Oh yes. But the little girl had spent more time with her grandmother than Ayanda. She was really granny’s child. He rubbed his chin. “Yes, I think so.”

“Any idea whatever happened to her?”

Mzwandile shrugged. “She was with her grandmother most of the time, so…” He shrugged again.

“Mmh, makes sense.”

The new coffee arrived. This time, Sivuyile did not offer any sugar. Mzwandile got up to pour it in himself.

“A person hears all sorts of conspiracy theories, you know,” she continued.

He slurped. “Mhm. Like…?”

“Like she was there when her mother was murdered.”

Mzwandile shook his head.

Sivuyile narrowed her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

He paused. He cleared his throat and put his coffee aside again. “It is something the police would have mentioned. And it would have been all over the newspapers. I mean, she’s a witness.”

“And if the killer had seen her, he would have killed her as well.”

“Exactly. Would be quite a stupid criminal if he left a witness behind, wouldn’t he?”

“True,” she laughed. “But there are quite a few stupid criminals wandering about.”

Mzwandile was a little stumped. His lips parted but no words escaped him.

“But never mind,” she said quickly. “Anyway, she would have been how old back then?”

“Probably five, six.”

Sivuyile grinned. “So, if she was there, the vision would be clear in her head, and she can go to the police at any time.”

“If she was there – which she wasn’t.”

There was silence between them while the crew members cracked jokes and laughed in the background. Mzwandile saw Sivuyile glance at his cup of coffee sitting next to him. She pointed to it. “That’ll be the second one that’s going to grow cold, Mr Cothoza.” He took the cup.

“Careful not to choke on it.”

Mzwandile looked up at her and wasn’t sure whether he had imagined her words.

“So, you really don’t know what happened to that little girl?” She asked again.

Mzwandile was silent. “Am I supposed to? Remember, Miss Arnold, I have done my time. I robbed a few people. I apologised for that. What else would you like for me to say?” He put the cup aside one last time. He wasn’t prepared to drink anymore. “Do you know what happened to her?”

She kept her stare on him. He could not read her demeanour. But that smile was gone. It was like it had never been there. He felt sweat snake down his brow, down his neck and onto his collar. He was growing extremely hot. He took off his jacket and felt his shirt stick to his back. He coughed.

“I don’t know what happened to her either,” he could hear Sivuyile say. “I’ll call you a cab. You don’t look well.”

He nodded. He suddenly needed to sleep. Something made him glance at his cup again. He looked back up at Sivuyile. She had already risen and held her hand out to him.

They made their way slowly out of the building and towards a cab. The ground was liquidising under Mzwandile’s feet. He felt like a drunk. He put his hand over his flabby chest as his heart started pounding against his flesh at twice the rate. He gasped for air.

Sivuyile opened the back door of the grey Toyota Corolla. Mzwandile had to hold onto the car’s roof to steady himself. Looking over his shoulder, he said. “If these…these…” he paused and coughed. “If these conspiracy theories are so true, then where do these theorists suppose this child was when her mother was being strangled?”

“In the wardrobe.”

“What?”

Sivuyile eased him into the car while his hands shook. What was happening to him?

Before she closed the door, she leaned over and made sure their eyes met. “Good day, Mr Cothoza. It was nice to see you again after such a long time.”

“But…but…” Cough. “But we’ve never met in person before.”

“Now we’re even.”

The door closed. The vehicle began to move while the driver called, “Where to, Timer?”

Mzwandile’s throat constricted. That was the last thing he remembered.