True Life Stories (The Bitter Soul)

By Vusumzi Matomane

[Free Lessons from the Ordinary People]

Last night, in fact; just after midnight, I decided to go outside the house—into the street: for a smoke and a breath-of-fresh-air at the same time. I am not allowed to smoke inside the house…so I always go out just to keep the peace between my Aunt, young Gugu and myself.

            And so, I walked out into the quiet street…nothing ever happens in MacDonald Street during the night (during the day, though, it is a different matter). This could be attributed, I guess, to the fact that there are only twelve houses on the block—I walk in MacDonald Street from end-to-end in; ‘literally,’ two minutes. It is the shortest street in town.

So once I was in the outside-world; I noticed that my neighbour (whom I am going to call A for now and whom I smoke with) was still having his lights on—and I was not wrong by assuming that A was still awake. A and I have a non-verbal agreement that: there is nothing wrong when one knocks on ones’ window, irrespective of the time. That agreement is not even written. I suppose it is a ‘telepathically-agreement’ between smokers…not that I am condoning the ‘smoking-habit’ (actually; I want to quit).

            And so, there we were, out on the street, chatting and smoking like chimneys. A buys the poison in packets—he never runs out of cigarettes.

B (a Male Nurse by profession) discovers that A and I are out on the street, and then he comes out to join us—and the congregation grows. B should have been a storyteller; I have always believed. He has a unique skill of weaving—intertwining—blending together pieces of stories (that might seem unrelated in the beginning) into a meaningful and entertaining story. And his stories; I have observed: are not fictitious.

“Gents, I’m not going to work this morning. I’ll just call the Hospital—tell them I’m sick or something.” B announced.

            “What is the matter now, Grootman?” I asked.

“By sunrise I’ll still be drunk…when you’re drunk; rather not go there in the very first place.” The ‘big brother’ advised us (A and I).

            “I totally agree Grootman.” A agreed.

“Better be disciplined for absenteeism instead. That Hospital—that place isn’t a hospital. If I’m to tell you the truth…it’s a prison.

There is this one dude there, he killed his: wife, wife’s boyfriend, sister-in-law and three kids.”

            “How Grootman??” In awe, both A and I, asked.

“Just as I’m telling you: with a pistol.”

            “You better not go to work then—sound as an unsafe working-environment; especially for an un-sober mind.” That was a wrong suggestion from my side…but then again; it was a right one.

“My point exactly, Chief,” sometimes he likes to call me that, and B went on to add, “Just the other day, the very same dude: spat on my colleagues’ face, tells my colleague that; ‘I don’t like you. You look like that bustard who was fixing my wife.’

Now, Gents, if a man can carry such animosity within himself—I mean; the bloody-bustard went on a killing-spree; murdering his own family. People like me mean nothing to him—that’s why, Gents, in this job; you’ve to be sober…you must be alert at all times. And that’s why I don’t go there when I’m not sober—too risky; on daily basis.”

            “You’re right Grootman,” and, I suppose, I was right by saying: he was right (I still think he is right).

After some few minutes of chatting (about other things now) and smoking; we decided to go back to our respective doors—calling it a ‘night,’ or rather, ‘dawn.’