Dog Eat Dog. Niq Mhlongo
them with some water.
For about a minute Dr Winterburn scrawled something in her diary. I became mesmerised by the trick that age had played on her once fresh flesh. Although her body showed that she was still young, her face revealed wrinkles that were the result of the unstoppable wheel of time. I started to wonder if she still dated at her age. In my perverted thoughts I began asking myself if she enjoyed spreading her legs for ambitious gigolos to dance between. Looking at the thick make-up on her face, I concluded that she was that type who would share her nakedness with young white men, under the illusion that their pace between her thighs would keep her forever young.
I didn’t notice that Dr Winterburn had finished scrawling in her diary. I was stroking my chin in deep erotic thought when she closed it and spoke to me.
‘Okay Mr Njomane, what is it that you came to see me about?’
‘About the status of my bursary application.’
‘Do you have your student card with you?’ she asked as she reset her PC.
I reached for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans, took out the card and gave it to her. She typed something into her PC and drew back, waiting for the information to appear. By that time I had begun to sweat. Dr Winterburn leaned forward and folded her arms. She exhaled heavily and leaned backwards again.
‘I thought that you already knew the outcome of your appeal, Mr Njomane. I wrote to you early last week. Haven’t you received my letter yet?’
‘Yes, I received your letter, but the grounds on which I was refused the bursary are Greek to me. I came here to make an appointment to talk to you about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her face flushing with astonishment. ‘Are you here to tell us what to do and what not to do?’ She looked at me and hunched forward again as if she was talking to a deaf person. ‘Look here, Mr Njomane; in this office we have our own criteria for selecting students for bursaries. Remember we would love to sponsor everyone who asks for help, but we are circumscribed by the funds we have at our disposal. There are quite a number of students whose situation is really pathetic and we have decided that in your case at least it is not that bad.’
Dr Winterburn hunched forward again and looked at me. She balanced her elbows on the table. I did not say a word.
‘What I suggest you do is to apply for outside donors. You can get a list of addresses from Rachel, our secretary.’
I bit my lip in disappointment.
‘To begin with, Dr Winterburn, I came here to understand what you actually mean by saying that my situation is not that bad. It seems that you people in this office have got the wrong end of the stick about my situation and . . .’
‘What’s your point, Mr Njomane?’ she interrupted.
‘My point is this. I got an exemption two years ago and I have been sitting at home since then waiting for the opportunity to study at this institution. I applied to the Faculty of Arts and got admitted to do my BA. It’s my wish that this office grant me a bursary so that I can study, graduate, get a better job and assist my poverty-stricken family. My father has passed away and my mother is a pensioner and single-handedly supports nine members of our family. There’s nowhere I can go for help except this office.’
I took out my brown envelope. It contained my father’s death certificate and my mother’s pension slip as well as the three affidavits.
‘This is the second time that I have submitted this evidence and I wonder if the committee took any notice of it when it reached its decision,’ I added as I pushed the documents towards her.
Dr Winterburn took the documents and a pause followed as she pretended to be studying them closely.
‘That affidavit shows that twelve family members live crammed into a four-roomed matchbox house in Soweto.’
She started looking for something in the bottom drawer. Her other hand was rubbing at the corners of her bloodshot eyes. I knew she was looking for her glasses. From where I was sitting I could see them; they were buried under an avalanche of documents that were lying on her desk, including some of my documents. She found them without too much effort, put them on and began to study my documents.
‘Mmm, so how does your family survive on your mother’s three hundred and fifty rand pension?’ she asked, pushing my documents away.
‘It’s really difficult. Our electricity and water have been cut off because the bills have not been paid for the past two years,’ I lied.
I was not ashamed that I lied. Living in this South Africa of ours you have to master the art of lying in order to survive. As she looked at me I hid my hands under the edge of the table so that she couldn’t see my gold-plated Pulsar watch, which I had bought the previous year at American Swiss.
I looked Dr Winterburn straight in the eye. With her left hand she pulled open the bottom drawer, took out a packet of Consulates and a lighter. Next to the carafe was an ashtray filled with butts and half-smoked cigarettes. She carefully balanced a cigarette between her lips, then paused and watched the yellow flame of the lighter flicker between her fingers.
‘This is your first time at this university, isn’t it?’
‘Yes ma’am,’ I answered.
She took two deep drags on her cigarette and then flicked the ash sharply into the ashtray. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said.
three
Dr Winterburn read each one of my documents carefully. At the same time she added some information to the notes on her computer screen. I glared at my father’s death certificate, which lay next to her right hand.
Raw memories of the past surged through my mind. I remembered my sister and myself paying my father a visit in hospital the day before his death. I wasn’t young, I was doing my standard nine. I remember to this day my father lying in his hospital bed. He had seemed unusually small like a child; there were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin was very pale, so pale in fact that I could actually count the veins underneath it. He could not even move on his own.
I looked at my sister. Her eyes were filled with sorrow and as she stood in the corner of the hospital room she began to sob. But I was brave enough to stand closer to my father; I wanted him to die in my arms.
Maybe we have turned into strangers to him, I thought with pain when my father showed no sign of recognising us. But later he called out my name. He raised his hand and I held it. He even said something faintly, but I couldn’t hear him. I called his name softly a couple of times, and unconsciously he kept saying ‘hmm’ each time I repeated it. He got tired quickly and closed his eyes. I rested his hands on his chest as the nurse arrived and told us it was the end of visiting time.
The following day I heard that my father was gone. That was the first day that I knew fear existed inside me. I did not go to school that Monday. How could I, with that unspeakable sense of grief?
When I finally went to school three days later the Big Punisher, as we called him, was waiting to discipline me for my truancy. That morning, after the assembly and prayer, the names of the truants were read out and they were called upon to appear in the disciplinary room. My name was on the list.
The deep-mouthed Big Punisher was smiling as I stood in front of him. ‘Son, those who live in glass houses must not throw stones; obey our rules or face punishment. You know that being absent for a day is ten strokes of the cane. You have been absent for three days so you must multiply that by three,’ he said, mercilessly straightening his cane.
When I didn’t say a word he continued: ‘Do you want to take your punishment in instalments or all at the same time, son?’ He let out a small malicious laugh. ‘Come on, son. If you take it cash at the same time I will give you a discount of five,’ he said, as if we were completing a business transaction.
When I still did not answer he ordered me to bend over and receive my punishment. ‘I know you will