Dog Eat Dog. Niq Mhlongo
again as I left the mirror. I pushed open a cubicle door that was ajar. The door hit the knees of the person who was sitting on the toilet inside.
“Somebody. Gee! Don’t you knock when opening a closed door?” said an anonymous voice.
I didn’t answer. I went straight to the next cubicle, after convincing myself that there was nobody inside. Closing the door behind me, I took down my pants and sat on the toilet. I tried to force something out of my stomach, but it would not come. It was already twenty past eleven – I had missed an African Literature tutorial. But I hadn’t prepared for it anyway. I would attend the next class, which was Political Studies, at twelve.
I sat there inside the ceramic shitpot thinking about my victory. As I relaxed, staring at the ceiling, I felt something coming out of my bowels. I tried to push but it went back into my colon again. I tried again with all my power, but only succeeded in emitting a very loud fart. The guy next door started to laugh. Those who were urinating at the gutter joined him. The laughter continued. I didn’t care; they couldn’t see my face anyway. I lingered inside the cubicle, waiting until they had gone. Suddenly there was a knock on my door.
“Somebody,” I answered.
“Are you shitting or masturbating?”
“Both. Do you want to eat my shit or drink my sperm?”
“Uhhu! Shit! That smells. What did you eat?”
“Your sister.”
“Shit. It’s stinking.”
“Of course it is. Did you expect a beautiful aroma?”
It was quiet for a little while, then there were footsteps: somebody was coming into the toilet. I heard the door to the cubicle on my left being closed; then I heard laughter.
“What are you laughing at?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m just thinking of your mother.”
I kept quiet and stared at the wall. On the white door next to the handle there were some words scrawled in black highlighter:
DON’T JUST SIT THERE AND BROOD LIKE A CHICKEN!
SHIT LIKE THUNDER!
I immediately remembered what my brother’s educated friend had said when I had been back home in Orlando West a few days earlier. He had encouraged me to read any graffiti, whether good or bad, wherever it was written. He said I would always learn something from it. Even when I took a piece of newspaper to wipe my arse after having a shit, I should read it. According to him, this would make me knowledgeable. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad advice; your guess would be as good as mine. But that was the reason I continued to read the graffiti.
Many things were written there. The graffiti on my left-hand side really amused me:
IF YOU WANT YOUR BIG DICK TO BE
SUCKED WITHIN A MINUTE,
PUT IT THROUGH THE HOLE ON YOUR RIGHT
AND YOU WON’T REGRET
A second lot of graffiti, which complemented the first, read:
WIPE YOUR BUTT
AND PUT IT AGAINST THE HOLE ON YOUR RIGHT
FOR A FREE RIDE
I looked to my right and saw a small hole stuffed with some toilet paper. The hole was big enough for a penis of my size to fit through. Somebody with a sick mind had bored through the thin ceramic tiles separating the two cubicles. What amused me was that the hole was embellished with blackish ink, like pubic hair on a vagina. I tried to stop myself from laughing but to no avail.
Suddenly I heard an anonymous voice from next door.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I’m imagining me and your mother fucking tonight.”
“Fuck you.”
“You too.”
“You must be a mad guy.”
“Maybe. But I remember your mother telling me that she was pregnant with you about nineteen years ago.”
“You wish, motherfucker.”
I heard the toilet flushing. Then there was a very loud bang on my door.
“I think you are trying to shit to gain a light complexion. Good luck, black boy.”
I heard the main door to the toilet open. Before my anonymous friend could leave I swore loudly: “Fuck you too.”
It was now eleven forty-five. I took out the toilet paper that was blocking the hole on my right, and peeped through the hole to convince myself that there was nobody there. I stood up, wiped my arse, and lifted my penis towards the hole. But before my glans reached the hole I hesitated. What if somebody is waiting to suck my dick on the other side? What if they cut my glans? I heard footsteps. Somebody was coming. I withdrew my penis and zipped up my jeans. Outside the cubicle, I washed my hands and dried them. I looked in the mirror again. I had a lecture in five minutes’ time. I had to go. Time up.
Five
At about half past three that afternoon I found myself at the Jorissen Street branch of the Standard Bank. The sun was still very hot. There were about nine people waiting to use the ATM. Ahead of us was a middle-aged black lady who was busy having her private conversation with the ATM. By the way she looked around her, it seemed to me that there was no agreement reached between them.
A thick red line on the pavement that bore the warning STAND BEHIND THIS RED LINE separated her from the short, moustached black man behind her.
About four or five minutes passed. The black lady stood inert in front of the ATM. Her card was still in the slot and I could hear a beeping sound as she looked around her.
“Oh boy! What is she still doing there?” said the blonde behind me to herself.
Making sure that nobody is watching her, or else blaming herself for putting her money in the bank instead of under her mattress, I answered her silently.
The black lady at the ATM looked around again. The blonde curled her lip. She started cursing impatiently each time the black lady inserted her card into the slot to redo her transaction. Agitated, she ruffled her thatch of long blonde hair with her manicured fingers and began tapping her right foot on the pavement.
I looked her up and down; her red dress stashed away her beautiful slender body from shoulder to hip, leaving her sunburnt legs naked. Stylish sunglasses were pushed up into her blonde hair.
At long last the cursing blonde exploded. “Excuse me. Do you mind helping her? She seems to be struggling,” she pleaded, pointing at the lady at the ATM.
What she didn’t realise is that I had a lot on my mind. I was not in a good mood at all. My meeting with Dr Winterburn had taken its toll, and on top of that I had just received the grade for my first Political Studies essay and I had failed it.
With a sudden flash I turned and looked at the blonde. Anger was building up inside me. Why pick me when there are three people in front of me? I asked myself angrily. She could have even offered to help the lady herself if she was really serious about it. Why me? Is it because she is used to blacks running her errands every day?
“Is it because I’m black?” I asked.
With a shade of disbelief creeping into her voice the blonde responded, “Jeez! I was only sayi . . .”
Her face turned pale from my insinuation. Her long blonde hair wagged about as if she was looking for a hole in the ground to swallow her up immediately.
I could tell that my words had had a strong impact. Yes, it is true that I was implying that she was a racist. It was the season of change when everyone was trying hard to disown apartheid, but to me the colour white was synonymous with the word and I didn’t regret what I had said to the blonde. Anyway, I had been told that playing the race card