Moxyland

Lerato

Zama calls. And it’s not even my birthday. Of all of us, Siphokazi is the only one who cares enough to try to hold the family together, and naturally, that’s what Zama’s calling about.

‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’ says my sister, her tone dripping accusation.

‘No,’ I say, ‘of course not.’ But I have. Who has time to keep track of these things? And it’s morbid, dredging it up year after year. The past only holds you back. It’s like a drift net. The kind you get tangled in and drown.

‘It’s important to her.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Which day is it again?’

We tried to do a pilgrimage a few years ago, at Sipho’s behest, to visit the clinic where they died, because we don’t have a clue where the graves are. But two days before we were set to leave, government inc. announced a new round of quarantines, which made travelling into the Ciskei impossible. When Zama and I pulled out, she tried to go anyway, on her own, without a car, with some of her Buddhist buddies tagging along. You can guess how far she got. Turned around at the first checkpoint.

She nagged for a year after that, but there was always an excellent excuse not to go, and I didn’t fabricate all of them either. I’ve been doing a lot of travelling lately. For the moment, she’s content to settle for the memorial ceremony, but I live in dread of her suggesting another attempt at our own personal hajj.

Zama gives me the day and the time we’re going to meet at Cape Point for the ‘ceremony’. She guilt-trips me into agreeing to host dinner as well, although she’s horrified when I suggest using Communique’s chefs.

‘We have to cook a meal together, it’s traditional.’

‘I don’t cook.’

‘Fine. Sipho and I will cook. You do have a kitchen, right?’ I have to think about that one, about when last we used the hob. I manage to convince her we should just go to a restaurant, maybe the one at Cape Point, because if Sipho cooks, we’ll be eating some vegan lentil glob that you have to chew for ages. This is my idea of family, actually, a sticky morass you can’t chew your way out of. We wrap up, but I try and spin the conversation out a little. I can tell Zama is secretly pleased and flattered, but it’s only because I need extra material for my prerecords to throw off the spyware.

Zama likes to play the family historian. She’s a font of all these great stories about our parents, but the Eskom orphanage – let’s not cop to the PC term of ‘trade school’, even if they are cultivating proprietary workforces – has always been more vivid in my head than my idea of home, which is a patchwork of broadcast images. Green hills and sky and a threadbare chicken with long scrawny legs scratching through dust that would never yield a juicy maggot, let alone mielies. It’s all cliché, a communal sepia-toned memory that all us Aidsbabies have in common.

I was only seven at the time. The baby of the family after Zama and Siphokazi, and Tebogo, who succumbed even before our parents. I just have to accept whatever Zama says, the stories polished and brittle from so much repetition.

I think I remember a clinic with walls painted a sickly avocado green, and playing Darth Vader in the sterilmask until I got a smack. In my memory it’s Zama who hit me, but I suppose it could just as easily have been a nurse.

She says we used to walk miles along the railway tracks, picking some raggy weed, cosmos I think, to give to our mother. Predictably, the nurses confiscated it all when we got there for fear that we might contaminate our parents. We weren’t even allowed to touch them.

I remember rows of beds crammed together and sour metal smells and a man, limbs as spindly and sharp as a locust, who terrified me. It’s going to sound harsh, but I’m glad I never had to go back there, never had to deal with the reality of Thomokazi and Sam Mazwai, which is all I have of them, their names on my birth certificate. And the legacy of two sisters, one turned hippievegan-Buddhist-dropout, the other fermenting in her dead-end job at Eskom, never having graduated beyond our first parent company.

It may be partially my fault Zamajobe never made it out of Eskom. I probably had some kind of familial obligation to tell them when I realised that only the brightest and most productive get out – to better companies that pay a premium for the privilege. But they were older. They should have been guiding me. And besides, I didn’t need the competition.

Within a year, I’d been handpicked to go over to Pfizer SA Primary in Cape Town, and suddenly the story sums in class were focused on medication doses rather than wattage, and the school didn’t have the same level of desperation. There weren’t girls selling themselves at the side of the road to truck drivers for tuck money.

At fourteen, I had my pick of bursaries at secondary institutions run by Telkom, Cisco, Wesizwe and New Mutua. I knew I wanted to get into media, and by then I knew how to negotiate, how to play the system. No more fucking around in squalid dorms with the hordes. When I took up New Mutua’s scholarship, I demanded a private room, and it was great for two years.

Communique got me through a Pluslife chat room. In those days it was music sharing and flirting, before the record labels started imposing criminal sentences and meshing their crippleware with defusers. I met my first handful of boyfriends through the chats. But then one of my online friends made me a proposition of a different nature.

By the end of the day, New Mutua knew all about it and I was being forcibly evicted, marched out by security guards with Aitos, not even allowed to go back for my phone. Looking back, it’s obvious that my new friend ratted me out to make sure I didn’t change my mind. I never learned his real name. Headhunters are only as effective as their anonymity.

Technically, I still had another four years of training to go before officially entering the workforce, but Communique was willing to let me skip two, provided I waive the gap year that all skills institute grads are legally entitled to. But I’ve been here six years, almost seven, and that’s starting to feel like a very, very long time.

When I get off the phone, with a whole halfhour’s worth of filler for the spyware boys, I find a summons to Lesley Rathebe’s office. My stomach clamps with a momentary dread, because there is always the possibility that someone has picked up the minuscule drop in bandwidth of the data being siphoned off the adboards through my newly installed backdoor.

But the meeting with Rathebe is not a disciplinary. It’s about the report on the MetroBabe Strollers, and how very much she liked my outof-the-box Radio Gaga suggestion, and how very wasted she thinks I am in core coding. There’s a position that’s just opened up in strategic, developing new tool sets for existing technologies, and she’d be happy to back me if I were ‘gutsy’ enough to apply for it.

I could bring Mpho Gumede with me if I like, she says. We seem to work well together. I decline, politely. Regrettably, I tell her, and only under duress, he’s too volatile. No imagination. He nearly jeopardised the Bula Metalo job.

I know, I know, it’s heartless. But if I’m stuck in Communique for the duration, I can’t afford to be coupled with someone who might hold me back.