Stronger Than Lions - 4. Amadoda

One evening I brought my mother a cup of tea while she was busy in her study. She had continued to work for the newspaper as senior editor, right up until three months before she died. This night she was not at her Mac clacking away as usual, but writing carefully and deliberately with a fountain pen on an old-style letter pad. She was using her Mont Blanc, a gift from her father when she landed her first job as a journalist. It’s mine now, and I keep it in my desk drawer. I take it out now and then and twirl the beautiful thing around in my hands as if it were a magic wand capable of stopping or reversing the flow of time. Oupa Stefanus had it inscribed with the opening of the Gospel of St John in Afrikaans: In die begin was die WOORD—In the Beginning was the WORD.

‘Hi Mom,’ I said, putting down the tea. ‘What are you up to?’

She stopped writing and pushed the pad underneath some papers.

‘Hey, sweetie, just signing some letters.’ She craned her graceful neck up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. ’How’s my boy?’

‘I’m cool.’ Her eyes looked puffy. ‘Are you okay, Mom?’

I cautiously stroked the fuzz on her head. Her hair was growing back now. Though she had already ditched the headscarf, I just knew we would end up never seeing her trademark raven tresses again.

‘I’m fine, Cal. Just tired.’ I knew she was lying.

‘You nauseous? Are you in pain?’

‘No… there’s just so much work at the paper. I’ve got three junior editors to train and I need to finish overseeing the honours students’ dissertations before the semester is finished.’ In typical Mom fashion, she still had thousands irons in the fire.

‘You need to rest,’ I said.

‘Oh, Caleb, son of Adam Trask.’

‘Mom.’

‘Caleb, son of Jephunneh. Don’t worry about your poor old mother. She’s got to keep herself busy.’

I was helpless as she invoked the dual literary and Biblical heritage of my name.

My mother loved books as if they were members of her family. To Kill a Mockingbird was one of her favourites and I was very nearly called Atticus were it not for the intervention of my father. They settled for the name of the prodigal son in Steinbeck’s East of Eden. Stephen, my second name, was a compromise between my maternal grandfather, Stefanus Johannes, and the anti-apartheid activist Steve Biko. Biko had died in detention the year my sister was born. Mom had always been one for mixing things up—a Protestant Afrikaans girl from the Free State who fell in love with a Catholic Celt, on a windy day on Hout Bay Beach when hairstyles were big and fear and loathing were even bigger.

It was now over a decade since Mandela had united the country, and while things were far from perfect, I was hardly living in the police state my parents’ generation had had to endure.

She took my hand in hers. It looked old, spidery with veins, as translucent as an embryo.

‘Stop fussing about me and go do your homework,’ she said eventually, and kissed my hand.

‘Okay, Mom. But get to bed soon.’

‘Jy moet nog vir jou ma luister, my kind,’ she said in Afrikaans: You still have to listen to your mother, my child. She only spoke to me in Afrikaans when I was in trouble or she needed to emphasise things that teenage brains filed under “later”.

‘Ja, ja,’ I said, and trundled off to my room.

* * *

I’d hastily showered and was on my way down to join my dad for supper when my phone beeped with a text. It was Chris.

– How you doing bud? All cool for tomorrow?

I frowned for a few seconds, my finger frozen above the keypad. I took a breath and started typing.

– I'm well, thanks. My dad says it's fine for you to pick me up but he wants to meet you first.

– Eish buddy. Should I be nervous?

– My dad's pretty harmless. He just wants to make sure your car's safe. He's a bit protective I guess.

– ­As he should be bud. Also, I like that you don’t use sms spk 4 ur txts cuz it just m8kes ppl luk lyk 1diots…

– wut m8kes u think im n0t?

– You dork. So what you up to, bru?

– Not much, why?

The phone rang in my hand. I nearly dropped it.

‘Chris?’

‘Hey Cal, am I disturbing you? I know it's a bit late.’

‘No. I'm just surprised you called.’

‘Listen, I want to ask you a favour. A huge favour.’

I frowned again. ‘What is it?

‘You take science right?’

‘Ja. Why?’

‘I was wondering if you could help with the science syllabus. And maybe maths? I got a bit behind last year when things got, uh, a little complicated. I’m totally out of sync in chem.’

He might as well have asked me if I’d like the winnings of last weeks Lotto. I was that kind of freak who loved tutoring. I’d made a fair amount of pocket money giving extra lessons to dazed Form Ones who got overwhelmed in their first year in high school.

I tried hide my smile even though he couldn't see me. 'Well, it's the least I can do since you’ve been so kind to me.’

‘Aw, shit, bru, I owe you big time. I just need this year to go smoothly, you know?’

That makes two of us, I thought. ‘How’s tomorrow after school? I’ve got swim practice until 3:30.’

‘Schweet. Hang on.’ There was a muffled voice in the background. ‘My mom insists on you having a meal with us if you’re gonna help me out. Would that be okay with your dad?’

I felt a strange rush of blood to my head.

‘That sounds... great,’ I said, slightly overwhelmed. ‘I’ll check with my dad and let you know in a little while?’

‘No worries.’

I heard my dad calling me for supper downstairs.

‘Coming Dad!’ I yelled. ‘I gotta go. See ya tomorrow? If that’s still okay?’

‘Free chauffeur service for my teacher as long as he likes.’

I laughed, and he rang off.

I raced down the stairs to supper, now very hungry.

* * *

Chris was at my house early.

‘Hello Chris,’ said my dad, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Devon MacLeod. Thank you for helping my son out yesterday.’

‘Hey, Dr MacLeod, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘And you.’ Dad turned to me. He was smiling, which meant Chris had not made a blip on his creeper radar. ‘Make sure you boys drive slowly and carefully.’

'Of course, sir.'

My father looked at me with mock seriousness. ‘Don’t overload poor Chris with too many equations now.' He turned to Chris. 'When my son gets going on a tangent he doesn’t stop.’

‘Whatever, Dad,’ I groaned as we got into The Thing and drove off to school.

The morning sped by. I was really looking forward to seeing where Chris lived, but first I had to get through swimming try-outs. I was a decent swimmer, but needed to up my game. Our coach had told me the previous year that if I pushed myself there was a good chance I might get a place on the junior provincial team.

At lunch I met Rob and Bella for our usual catch up among questionable caloric intake. Bella was moaning about the year’s English syllabus (too many male writers) when Chris wandered over to the table.

‘Howzit, I'm Chris, the new guy,’ he said pleasantly. ‘So you’re Cal’s good buddies?’

‘Oh, hello!" Bella was beaming, looking him up and down perhaps a little too eagerly. She always developed these huge crushes on guys whom she would mourn for weeks afterwards because, according to her, Pre-Raphaelite poetry and jockstraps were doomed to be incompatible. I supposed Chris would be no exception.

‘Do you mind if I sit with you guys?’

‘Not at all,’ said Bella, and pulled out a seat. Chris extended a hand to Rob, who said nothing, but shook it cautiously.

‘So,’ she said, leaning forward on her elbows and cupping her head in her hands, ‘what brings you to St Francis? Not our summer arts programme, perhaps? I did Pablo Neruda last year, comparing the Spanish to the English translation. Though your frame suggests you spend at least an equal amount of time pursuing athletic activities.'

Rob elbowed her gently in the ribs. I rolled my eyes.

‘Topaz and salt-rose,’ Chris said, staring far into the distance. 'I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz. This Neruda guy wrote that, didn't he?'

Bella stared, speechless.

‘I think you’ve just gained a billion brownie points with Miss Literature here,’ said Rob with a smirk.

‘I like that poem,' said our new friend. 'At least I used to.’ He switched gear and turned to Rob. ‘Caleb told me you’re a bit of a gamer and into Alienware? Cause that’s awesome, man. I’ve been looking for someone to help me assemble a kick-ass system.’

He had had Rob at “gamer”. This turned on Rob’s chatterbox button, so that soon Chris and Rob were involved in an intricate discussion of 128-bit microprocessor architecture that went way over my head.

He’d seemed so calmly one-dimensional when I first laid eyes on him. Now he'd gone from straight line into one of those 4-D tesseract hypercubes Mr Ngema waxed lyrical about in Geometry. Perhaps Chris was a 4-D hyperdude. Who liked my friends. Who liked me.

By the time lunch had finished, Chris and Rob had already made plans to game online. He'd also promised to bring Bella his copy of the collected works of Neruda his dad had bought on a trip to Cuba (with that assistant, as it turned out.) I glanced at my watch. I had to get to swimming try-outs.

* * * 

Water, like music, is one of the few places where I feel totally at home. Being surrounded by the quiet blue makes my spirit soar and my mind float in infinity. Mom once said I was a seal in a previous life. Swimming was my solace when storm clouds gathered in my brain.

When Mom died my body threatened to grow gills.

I hurriedly got my kit on, the regulation Speedo with the school colours of red and blue and a stylized wolf’s head on the one side. “WOLVES” was emblazoned on the butt in Comic fucking Sans. The kit was lurid, but at least it wasn’t like I was in 1950s America, when boys did their swimming in the nude at the YMCA.

A couple of guys were already messing around in the pool. I dived down to the bottom and gazed upwards, where the meniscus of the water spread in all directions like a sheet of quicksilver. I stayed under for a good half-minute. When I surfaced, Jason was standing with his arms folded in the lane next to me.

‘Why hello, MacLeod,’ he said with a dead smile, ‘you also trying out for this year?’

I had almost forgotten he would be there. Jason was the school’s swimming star, and he made sure you knew it.

‘Hi Jason. You know I’ve been on the team in the past.’

‘Just checking that you didn’t have other more pressing interests. Like fixing bicycles.’

I was about to tell him to fuck off when Mr Mazibuko, the swim coach arrived and started yelling at us.

‘Molweni amadoda!’ he greeted us in Xhosa. ‘You are not inkwenkwe anymore so stop messing about and line up for roll call!’

Moses Mazibuko was something of a local legend. Though he was officially a geography teacher, he had been an Olympic-quality swimmer in his prime. He was not allowed to realise his dream of becoming a competitive athlete. According to the apartheid government, “black people couldn’t swim”. So he did what he could: teach swimming. He had been at St Frank’s for years, and had hand-reared several great athletes. Though nearing sixty he carried the frame of a thirty year-old, and swam two kilometres every morning.

‘Out the pool!’ he barked. He made us line up and he checked each one of us up and down, taking our details.

He blew his whistle. ‘Right. We’ll mix newcomers and existing team members. The following each choose a lane: Williams, Van Wyk, Padayachee, Weiss, Ndwandwa, MacLeod.’

We scrambled to our positions.

‘We’ll start you lot with hundred metre heats: freestyle, then butterfly, then backstroke. Overall winner gets a key to the steam room for the rest of the month.’

Mr Mazibuko’s philosophy was that if you worked hard you got to play hard. You had to get special permission to use the steam room in the change rooms. I was definitely going to take Mr Mazibuko up on his offer.

‘Ready, set, go!’

Buoyed by the good mood I was in, I was soon ahead of the others—even Jason. I was completing my second tumble turn when I felt blinding pain. Someone had kicked me in the left side. As I squirmed up to the surface I saw Jason flit past me. I hopped around, rubbing my flank, furious as all the other swimmers raced off into the distance.

Mr Mazibuko jogged towards my lane. ‘MacLeod! What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing sir, just a cramp,’ I lied.

‘You didn’t warm up, did you?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Go take a breather, and start with the next heat if you’re feeling better.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ I managed, and crawled out of the pool to go sit down on a bench, rubbing my sore side. The other boys finished. Jason was first and was beating his chest triumphantly in the water. He briefly looked at me, serial killer grin on cue.

‘Good going, Weiss,’ said Mr Mazibuko. All right, then, time for butterfly. Get yourselves ready!’

‘Wait, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m going too.’

‘If you cramp out again you’re off for the rest of the day and will have to try out later.’

‘I understand, sir.’

I thought of Chris dealing with Frank the previous day. I was going to be calm, very calm, and not give Jason any satisfaction. I even looked back and mouthed a “well done” to him. He frowned, looking confused.

‘Ready, set, GO!’

After an initial wince the pain was gone. I was so focused that I didn’t notice I was first to finish. I turned around for another length but Mr Mazibuko shouted at me to stop.

Jason was second to arrive, by at least two seconds, and he did not like it. He punched the water with a sour expression.

‘Excellent, MacLeod,’ he said, bending down and tapping me on the back. ‘Great form. THIS,’ he said, pointing to me, ‘is how you swim butterfly. Furious but graceful.’ He clapped his hands. ‘St Frank’s hasn’t won the interschool championships for four years… but I see a lot of talent here today, men!’

We proceeded with backstroke, which went uneventfully. I tied with Padayachee, a newbie who was surprising everyone. Jason kept coming second in almost all the heats, and it was hard to hide my glee. When we were done we collapsed onto one of the stands, panting heavily.

‘Great work. For now, you can all stay. In particular, I think the man in top form is—for the first time—MacLeod!’

'Sir?' I flushed a little, eyes widening.

‘You’re developing attitude, Caleb. About time.’

My fellow swimmers gave me smiles and thumbs-ups ad high-fives. Except, of course, Jason, who was looking surly as he skulked off to the boys’ change room.

‘Good job, men, you’ve earned your rest. MacLeod gets a key to the steam-room. Next time we’re going at it full throttle! Time for me to coach the babies.’

With that Mazibuko lumbered away, blowing his whistle to put the next group of boys through their paces.

* * *

We were playing chicken in the steam room to see how long we could stay at the hottest temperature before passing out. I was euphoric, half-dazed by the extreme heat and thrilled by my finest performance in the pool so far. I’d never been a bad swimmer, but had never really shone. I’d never expected to feel so happy two days into the new school year.

The other guys in our group left but I lingered for a while longer, letting my mind float. Then I remembered Chris would be waiting for me. My body was aching now, and the kick to my side was making its presence known again. I hobbled to the nearest shower stall and launched myself into an ice-cold rain. The shock of the cold water yanked me back into the present. When I had endured enough I brought the water to the perfect temperature and just stood there, letting it massage my back.

Then I felt myself connecting with the tiled wall. Two fists plunged into my back. Winded, I fell to the floor. I tried to speak but couldn’t make a sound. I looked up. Jason was bending over me.

‘Jason…’

He grabbed at my throat.

‘Fuck you, MacLeod,’ he hissed. ‘Quit trying to be a faggot prima donna.’ Taut, naked, and glistening, he looked like a steroid-injected Gollum.

I coughed and tried to mouth the words ‘Stop, Please.’

His voice became thinner and reedier. ‘You think you’re better than me? Faggots like you aren't better than me.'

I swung a punch at him. Since I’d never even tried to hit somebody before, I missed, feebly grazing his chin.

He kneed me in the groin. I doubled up and crumpled to the ground, trying not to make a sound. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

There was movement at the back of the changing rooms and a group of boys came in. Jason backed away, but not before whispering ‘I’m watching you’.

I was crying now, but mostly in reflex. I was pissed at myself that I couldn’t even throw a decent punch.

I must have stayed under the shower zoning out and getting my breath back for a long time because the next thing I remember was a gentle tap on my back. I winced, darting around with wide eyes.

Chris was just standing there.

‘Easy tiger,’ he said. ‘It’s just me. I came to find you.’

I kept my arms folded protectively over my body.

‘What happened, bru? You look like you’ve been... holy shit, did someone hurt you?’

‘Just leave it,’ I said.

‘For fuck’s sakes,’ he growled under his breath and punched a fist into his hand. ‘Let me see.’

‘No, it’s okay.’ I coughed. ‘it’s…’

‘Relax.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. It was so warm. Ever so gently, he pulled me towards him and stared at the spot on my flank, which was rapidly turning into a big blue shiner.

‘Arsehole. So that’s what happened in the first heat. Did the fucker kick you in the nuts too?’ he asked nonchalantly.

‘How did you know?’ I said, my voice still thin.

‘The way you’re clutching your stomach. You always feel the pain there. I know.’

I was shivering. And I was completely naked in front of my new friend. ‘I—I need a towel,’ I said in a wheezy voice.

‘Here you go,’ he said, handing me the one I had hung up next to the stall.

‘Thanks,’ I managed, and tried to cover myself as casually as I could.

‘Take your time. I’ll meet you outside.’ There was a dark tone in his voice that was freaky. ‘I know it’s that Jason dude, you don’t have to tell me. I want to march up to that fuckwit right now and kick his head in.’

His fists balled. He looked like a panther about to pounce. He was scaring me.

‘Chris. This is not your fight.’

He shut his eyes tight and slowly relaxed. ‘Okay buddy. But you need to do something about this.’

‘What can I do?’ I sighed. ‘This is my life.'

‘Doesn't have to be, bru. I could help you change a few things.’

I shrugged.

‘Do you want me to take you home rather? We can do this another day if you’re not feeling well'

‘No, dude,’ I said, my breath more even. ‘I would really, really, like to go and get out of here and just do what we said we’d do.’

‘Logical, Captain,’ he said, and gave me the Vulcan salute. His uniform was wet where he had helped me to my feet. A splash of water had plastered one side of his white school shirt against his chest. I had to stop myself from staring at the nipple.

'That's a good Vulcan voice. Though I think Spock only makes that sign when he actually says "Live long and prosper"'

He snorted. 'In my defence I've never actually watched The Original Series.'

'I'll try and ignore what you just said.'

'Well, bru, you're not going to live long and prosper if you don't dry off and get into some warm clothes. I'll meet you outside.'

A few moments later we were in The Thing and driving out the school gates.

‘How are you feeling now?’ said Chris, turning into the main road.

‘Okay, I guess. I mean, it was awesome to come first and all.’

‘Yeah, bru, you were like on fire with the butterfly!’

‘You were watching me?’

‘Yup. I sat on the grandstands. You’re like a frigging torpedo in the water.’

‘And then it all went south afterwards. Jason is...’

‘A narcissistic fuckwit who can’t handle anything better than he is. My mom’s told me all about narcissists. It’s like her favourite word these days. Uses it a lot when she talks about my old man.’

I laughed, even though it hurt.

‘So come now,’ he said, drumming the steering wheel, ‘we’re gonna have an awesome afternoon, and if you don’t feel like going through the work stuff we can just hang out.’

I closed my eyes, playing a mental movie of all the highs and lows that I’d been through in the past 24 hours. For the second time, I was with Chris after a small trauma and also feeling safe and calm. Even happy.

It was only when we arrived in his driveway when I realized his elbow had been gently leaning on my shoulder throughout the drive home.