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PHYLLIS OWEN: A SOFT WHITE CLOUD
CHAPTER NINE
It was Nellie, Impuku’s
sister, who broke the news to Nokwazi.
She waited for him at the gate before school began and spoke in a voice
that was flat and completely without any emotion or feeling.
They had found Impuku dead in the room.
He had a plastic bag over his head. Lying on
the floor next to him was an aerosol spray.
He had been sniffing the spray and had suffocated.
Nokwazi stared disbelievingly at her, too shocked
and numbed to reply.
Slowly the full horror of what had happened
to his friend dawned on him and he was gripped by an aching loneliness and
grief. Turning his head away from her
to hide the tears that came into his eyes, he was glad the bell rang so that he
could hurry away to his classroom.
Before lessons began, Miss Nqwelo fiddled with
her glasses and then told the class in a weary voice that Impuku had died as a
result of smoking dagga. ‘Dagga is
harmful because it appears to be mild,’ she informed them, ‘but it is known to
bring about a complete change of personality and even people with the mildest
temperments can become violent. The
change of personality that had come over Impuku led him to place a plastic bag
over his head and to sniff a spray to give him more of a ‘kick’ than he was
getting from dagga. Furthermore,’ she
went on, ‘not only are drugs dangerous but the people who deal in them are also
very dangerous.’
She paused and looked directly at Nokwazi.
He shifted uneasily in his desk.
‘If you know a drug dealer or if you are in
any way involved in drugs don’t hesitate to come to me. We don’t want any more tragedies at our
school. Remember that drugs are not bad
because they are illegal, they’re illegal because they are BAD!’
During the morning Nokwazi paid little or no
attention to the lessons. He cast
occasional despairing glances at the empty desk next to him, hoping against
hope that he was living through a nightmare that would soon end and he would
once again see his friend, with his mouse-like features, sitting hunched as
usual at his desk.
But as the morning wore slowly on he came to
realise that he would never see Impuku again.
Gradually his grief-stricken mind began to understand
that if Impuku had not become involved on the fringe of the drug trade, he would
not have smoked the ‘zols’.
He recalled Impuku’s words. ‘What we are doing is harmless,’ and yet it
was clear that Impuku’s ‘harmless’ involvement had set him on the road to his own
destruction.
He thought also of Celo Sithole lying in a pool
of blood, face downwards on the gravel. Had Celo obtained the drugs from John Novalo for whom he, Nokwazi,
had served as a ‘lookout’? Didn’t Celo
jump to his death shortly after John Novalo’s visit during break?
Impuku had also said that there were many others
who would take their place if they tried to give up their jobs as ‘lookouts’. Many others indeed, but it was he, Nokwazi,
who, together with Impuku, had seen to it that John Novalo was not noticed by
any teacher who might have come into the playground.
He stared out of the window. White clouds rolled lazily across a pale blue
sky. The memory of the conversation he
had had with Impuku the day after he had first smoked a ‘zol’ came flooding
back to him. ‘….it made me feel
wonderful, like floating on a soft white cloud.’
Nokwazi swallowed hard. There was a lump in his throat that would
not go away.
If only he had the courage to tell Samuel that
he would no longer work for him, he thought, longingly. But he knew that if he did Samuel would deal
harshly with him. He might even kill
him.
Instinctively he knew that Samuel would suspect
him of informing the police if he suddenly stopped working for him.
After school he made his way slowly to the shopping
centre. Samuel and Beka were talking to
each other. Without lifting his eyes, Nokwazi
told them about Impuku’s death. Beka
only growled. ‘Stupid kid! I told him not to get himself hooked!’
Beka’s callous and offhanded remark sent a
sudden surge of anger through Nokwazi. ‘Impuku’s the second death at our
school,’ he burst out.
‘That’s not our worry,’ Beka snarled, and
walked away.
Samuel looked intently at Nokwazi. ‘If you
know what’s good for you don’t get any ideas above leaving,’ he spat out and
added abruptly, ‘and keep away from the drugs.’ His face showed a viciousness which terrified Nokwazi. Then, with the back of his hand, Samuel hit
him hard across the mouth with such force that he fell to the ground. ‘That’s just a taste of what you’ll get if I
have any trouble from you.’
A cold sensation of dread spread through Nokwazi
as he rose slowly to his feet. Then a vision
of his friend, Umpuku, lying so still and quiet with a plastic bag over his
head, came into his mind. And he
thought of Celo Sithole, lying in a pool of blood….. Running his tongue along
his dry lips he said, almost fiercely, ‘I’m leaving, and soon.’
Samuel was about to lunge at him again when
Beka came rushing up to them. He looked
distraught.
‘I’ve just heard from John Novalo that
Goodwin and his gang are coming for us tomorrow night,’ he said.
Samuel growled, but Nokwazi could see that he
was worried. After a few moments
silence, Samuel said slowly: ‘I have an
idea how we can get rid of them. Alex,
at the bottle store, has a brother in the police drug squad. I’ll leak Goodwin’s operation to him and
suggest they raid Goodwin’s place tonight at twelve when everyone is asleep.’
Beka sighed. ‘It had better work,’ he said, unconvinced, ‘or we’ll have big
trouble.’ He walked away.
At four o’clock, when Samuel had sold all
his packages, he beckoned to Nokwazi to come to him. After giving him his six rand he said, ‘You know where Beka and I
live, number 1262 Methusalah Street?’
Nokwazi nodded.
‘I have a job for you,’ Samuel continued.
‘I told you I’m not working any more,’ Nokwazi
insisted. Samuel gave him a dark look
and Nokwazi thought he was going to hit him again and ducked. ‘Do this job for me,’ he snapped, ‘and we’ll
talk about your leaving tomorrow. This
job will earn you fifty rand.’
Nokwazi just looked at him but said nothing. A month ago fifty rand would have been a fortune
and he would have been very happy to earn so much money, but now it meant
nothing to him, nothing at all.
He heard Samuel talking: ‘Goodwin and a few of his henchmen live up
the road from us in number 1292. There
are no street lights. At the front of
the gate there’s a letter box shaped like a barrel with 1292 painted on it.’ He handed Nokwazi a penlight torch. ‘At a quarter to twelve tonight I want you
to switch this on and leave it in that letter box with the light facing the
opening. It won’t be difficult. The streets are deserted at that time.’ He chuckled, obviously pleased with his plan. Then his voice became threatening again: ‘Don’t
let me down! And remember, the torch
must be there on time.’
Nokwazi didn’t answer. He took the torch and slipped it into the
front of his shirt.
An idea had begun to kindle in his mind and
he smiled wryly.
The following Monday morning Miss Nqwelo told
them how two men, one by the name of Samuel Mafuna and another called Beka,
both of whom it was said dealt in drugs, had been caught by police in their
home. The men gave the police the name
of another drug dealer called Goodwin. The police also arrested him and his gang.
Nokwazi listened in silence, not looking up
from his book.
‘Yes,’ Miss Nqwelo went on, ‘those men can
all look forward to a long, long time in jail.
I’m so glad. The lives of many
young people will now be saved.’
Nokwazi caught his breath. Then he glanced warily around the classroom. His heart was throbbing painfully.
‘Apparently the police found a small lighted
torch in the letter box,’ Miss Nqwelo continued. ‘They had been given a tip-off and the torch did the rest. Whoever put the torch there, certainly deserves
our thanks.’
Nokwazi continued working. He felt enormously relieved. And free.
The end
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