The Unfamous Five

© Nedine Moonsamy

First published in 2019 by Modjaji Books Pty Ltd

www.modjajibooks.co.za

ISBN 978-1-928215-80-6 (Print)

ISBN 978-1-928215-81-3 (ePub)

Edited by Karen Jennings

Cover artwork and lettering by Rudi de Wet

Book and cover design by Monique Cleghorn

Printed and bound by XMegadigital

Set in Minion

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers.

For Ma

For Kama

The children would see about the debt.

But the debt remained.

– V.S. Naipaul, A House for Mr. Biswas.

Contents

History of Lenasia

Earth

June 1993

August 1993

September 1993

November 1993

January 1994

May 1994

Air

February 1995

September 1995

November 1995

September 1996

October 1996

March 1997

January 1998

February 1998

Water

February 1999

December 1999

April 2000

November 2000

February 2001

December 2001

January 2002

Fire

April 2002

June 2002

August 2002

October 2002

Ether

April 2003

Acknowledgements

History of Lenasia

Lenasia is a large Indian township south of Soweto in Gauteng Province, South Africa. It has now become part of the City of Johannesburg. Lenasia is located approximately 35 kilometres south of the Johannesburg central business district and 45 kilometres South of the Sandton central business district.

Apartheid-era planners situated the group area for Johannesburg’s Indians near the Lenz military base. The name Lenasia is thought to be a combination of the words Lenz and Asia. The Lenz in question was one Captain Lenz who owned the original plot on which Lenasia is situated. Many of its early residents were forcibly removed under the Group Areas Act from Fietas, a vibrant non-racial area close to the Johannesburg city centre, to Lenasia. As segregation grew, it became the largest place where people of Indian extraction could legally live in the then old Transvaal province.

It is a testament to the people who were abandoned here by the apartheid government, that Lenasia is now a vibrant and thriving community.

  http://www.lenzinfo.org.za/old_lenzinfo/ourcity/historyoflenasia/

June 1993

The front gates of Kumari’s home are like metallic jaws that swallow each of her friends upon arrival. It is a house of metal and steel, with locks on the front gate, back gate, front door, side door, back door, and the pen that holds the dog when visitors come. The state-of-the-art alarm system has recently been complemented with a ream of barbed wire that now trims the top of the fortress like piped icing around the edges of a square cake.

Come in! Come in, she squeals.

She can barely contain her excitement. Her efforts to make new friends at school have finally paid off. She has invited them to have a picnic in her garden and, by some miracle, they have all accepted. While most teenagers prefer to sleep in during the holidays, this is not the case for the Five who have already decided to keep regular school hours. It was agreed upon after Janine confessed that she will be pretending to go to school all the same.

Hey Janine, nice uniform, laughs Neha. I would have thought Devon would be the one to wear his school uniform during the holidays since he likes that bleddy blazer of his so much.

Oh, fuck off, says Janine. She tries for her most playful tone but, as always, her words come out more aggressive than she expects and put a quick end to Neha’s retorts.

Ja, fuck off, Neha, Devon choruses, far less convincingly.

He has recently transferred from a private school located in the plusher and whiter suburbs and, although learning that blazers are no longer required uniform, persists in wearing his, much to the amusement of his friends.

You know, I’ve been thinking, says Shejal just as Kumari gestures to-wards her garden, can’t we go out instead?

And do what? Neha snorts. Dude, we live in Lenz. Hardly the place for adventures.

Ja, sure, we not going to discover anything great in the streets, but at least we can take a walk or something – just get outside!

They eye each other hesitantly, replaying their parental advisories in their minds: none of them are allowed to go out on the streets.

I think that would be cool, says Janine, already in gross violation of her parental constraints. But where?

What about Top Shops, and then Suicide Valley? says Devon.

Suicide Valley? says Kumari. You can’t be serious. That place is supposed to be dangerous.

Let’s put it to a vote, okay? says Devon. Everyone who wants to take this picnic to Suicide Valley, raise your hand.

Only Kumari keeps both hands at her sides, aware that Elina, her family’s domestic worker, might fret and tell on her. But she quickly reconsiders; Elina is good at keeping her secrets.

So, that’s it! Let’s waai, says Devon, who has been trying to pick up local slang from the rest of the Five. But it is still uncomfortable on his tongue and makes everyone smile at his effort.

The Five go to Suicide Valley, announces Neha.

Janine scoffs. Even though Neha has explained the story many times, she is still clueless as to what those five simple characters – no doubt she is the dog – that Enid Blyton wrote about have to do with their lives. This is the problem with books, she thinks. Reality suffers under the gaze of people who read too much and then read too much into life. There is no book that will make her life better, no book that will change her father, her mother, the way her food tastes and the manner in which a dog barks. She pities Neha, whose literary capacities are overdeveloped to the point of delusion. For the rest of them Romeo and Juliet is merely a school setwork to endure, but for Neha it has come to reflect the inner workings of her latest crush. She has walked them through it point by point: yes, they can all see the feuding families, the Hindu girl and her Muslim love interest. But if these star-crossed lovers were ever found dead, they imagine that there would only be gossip about drugs or brainwashing. Unlike Neha, they remain doubtful about whether a love of this kind can heal the unspoken animosities or the polite non-mixing of these very different religions.

When they set out from the house, they walk all along Rose Avenue, a peculiar rose with its long and straight arrangement of petals. Shejal clutches Kumari’s wicker picnic basket awkwardly as they move quickly on this street; a main vein that connects the residential areas to Top Shops, mothers to groceries, young people to fast food and domestic workers to taxis. A relative, a family friend, might see them and pull them back into captivity. Janine feels the most vulnerable in her uniform; a readymade invitation for a bored patrolling policeman. Who would believe her innocence? Who would believe that she has very little that resembles a casual wardrobe, that her parents don’t even know when her school holidays are and that they have never asked?

A dishevelled man walks in dizzy loops. He crosses their path and the sour stench of stale beer lingers in the air in front of them.

Ah, hallo, Jocelene. Jocelene, hallo, he slurs.

Uh, hello, Uncle, says Janine, mortified as her friends’ surprise settles on her.

Joh, who the fuck was that? says Shejal when the man staggers away. Eish, you know some hardcore characters, Janine.

Jocelene, laughs Neha.

"No seriously, who was that?" asks Shejal. He has never come that close to a homeless person before.

She looks up at each of them, their polite faces turned away. She knows they are all equally hungry for a dirty tale; a glimpse at a world that their parents have probably warned them about.

He’s Alkee Uncle. He stays in the same road as me, or used to stay in the same road. But then his wife threw him out and now he has taken a vow to drink himself to death until she takes him back. He doesn’t eat, just drinks, for breakfast, lunch and supper.

Why did she throw him out? asks Neha.

Cos he was drinking, says Janine, but maybe it’s cos she wanted to be with that coloured man who now stays there with her. Who knows.

The Five finally reach the very end of Rose Avenue and pass through the station market of vendors, taxi drivers and travellers. They weave through the street-side fruit and vegetables; the bananas, oranges, tomatoes, cabbages, smelling both rancid and ripe. They are laid out on colourful plastic plates, measured into fixed prices of five rands. There are chicken feet and mielies roasting on fires made inside old oil drums. Large women covered in printed blankets nurse their flames. Ripples of heat float through the air and turn the world into wavy sheets of plastic. They try hard not to lose each other as their eyes feed on the spectacle of chaos, dirt, life and poverty. They cruise amongst the stalls; cheap plastic combs, aprons for domestic workers and frilly dresses for little girls in small, medium and large. They pass a makeshift tent with a hairdresser inside. The buzz of the electric razor never pauses. A board full of painted illustrations of the kind of haircuts one can receive inside stands at the front. The Five stop to look at the beheaded portraits of black men with their neat, cropped sponge-tops.

All of those haircuts look the same, Shejal laughs.

"Well, there isn’t much they can do with their kind of hair," says Kumari, who secretly sympathises with the stubborn curl that sprouts on African heads. Her curly, dry bush of hair is nothing like the graceful, whip-in-the-wind manes of Janine and Neha. She is the unfortunate kroeshaar of the family, as her grandmother is so fond of pointing out. Kumari constantly wears her hair in a tight bun of necessity and shame. It is to train her hair into new thinking and to hide its wicked rebelliousness, just like those men who shear their hair into nullities, never letting the sponge spew out into fully-fledged Afros.

They continue walking until they reach the toppest of Top Shops! Neha announces it theatrically, in contrast to the lacklustre scene. A mangy dog pees on a single, drying rose bush in front of the local post office whose red and blue façade is as cracked and faded as the face of a cheap clown.

Joh, this is so swak, Kumari pouts.

Argh, never mind … there’s still Suicide Valley to see, says Devon.

Ja, come, barks Shejal as he starts marching ahead down Lenasia Drive. Let’s go gang! Let’s go. He claps his hands to get them to pick up the pace.

Once the houses have all but disappeared from view, the stretch of dry veld opens up in front of them. Kumari begins to shiver as the winds lick the fresh sweat from the back of her neck. Shej, didn’t your mother warn about Suicide Valley? she asks him in a whisper directed straight into his ear.

Of course she did, but you should know better than to heed my mother’s warnings by now, he says as he drags her by the arm. You’ll never go any-where.

"Who died here anyways? Did anyone really kill themselves here? asks Neha. It’s probably all bull."

Are you kidding me? says Janine. Come, I’ll show you where it was done.

She trots ahead of the group as if smelling a trail. She brings them all to a high chain-link fence that circles the quarry. Their fingers spill through the holes as they fasten themselves to it, staring down into the muddy water. The fence creaks and bends under their weight; they sway along the border of life and death.

But what could possibly make you drown yourself? asks Kumari.

Ja, well, people were poor in those days, says Neha. I mean, if you poor, how else would you commit suicide? No pills, no gun, just good old-fashioned drowning.

Oh ja, and Indian people were dirt poor in those days, neh? says Kumari, the history of a struggle just dawning on her.

Ja, so poor and they would still have twenty thousand children, says Devon with a laugh.

Oh God, you should hear my father’s stories about how he had to walk two kilometres with no shoes just to get to school because they were so poor and he had so many brothers and blah, blah, blah… says Neha.

Eish you should hear my granny’s stories! She’s even worse. She’s got some about how she had to collect cow dung just so that they could use it to cook, laughs Shejal.

Janine watches the rest of them giggle at these anecdotes, but like Neha’s father, like Shejal’s grandmother, she knows there is nothing funny about being poor. I wonder how many people died in here, she says, still stuck to the fence like a fly in a web. And why.

A wretched wind begins to blow. In the open field they are left exposed to the blasts that howl around them. The reeds in the swamp begin to whip wildly against each other. The birds scatter in disarray and dart above the Five in a panic of having been evacuated without notice.

Have you guys heard any actual stories about people who died here? asks Kumari as she tries to forget the little swallows that swoop around her head.

"I heard a story," says Shejal.

"Cool, tell us!’ beams Neha, already digging into Kumari’s picnic basket for a snack.

I heard that there were these two lovers who weren’t allowed to be together so they came here to kill themselves so that they could spend eternity together. That’s why they say you should never come here with someone you love or else your love will be cursed for the rest of your life.

At this Janine places her hands on her chest, just over her heart. Neha gives her an odd look, thinking it is only Kumari – or Devon – who could be touched by such a sentimental story.

Kumari fusses with the wicker basket, daintily pulling out a blanket to cover the tough burnt grass patch. Making a demonstration of her impeccable planning, she arranges disposable plates and cups with a flourish. Her mother’s biryani is still warm in the small stainless-steel pot. She unties the dish cloth that keeps the lid in place. Janine hands out neatly-wrapped foil parcels to each of them as if they are Christmas presents. For the first time, she is allowed to give as everyone else gives. Now she is a part of an exchange – a friendship – and less of the stray dog in need of charity. She tries to savour the moment; the puzzled looks on her friends’ faces, the thank yous on their lips.

Neha digs in her bag, not willing to let her contributions get lost in the flood. Ta-daa! a bag of marshmallows, she announces for attention. "Ta-daa! A two-litre bottle of Coke … Ta-daa! A whole packet of black balls and," she holds them in suspense, a soccer ball, stolen from my brother! Oh, bugger you all, I thought the soccer ball was a cool finale, she says, seeing their expressions fall.

Joh, larney food, says Shejal as Devon pops the lid of his Tupperware with pride. He scans the array of crackers, cheeses, cold meats, sliced baby gherkins, bright red baby tomatoes and pitted black olives.

And don’t forget, there is Grapetiser to wash it down, Devon adds, thoroughly pleased with his work.

Oh, and don’t worry about my biryani, it’s veg, Shej, says Kumari. She giggles at the rhyme and earns herself a high five from Neha.

Ja, mine is veg as well, says Janine. "I thought it best for us all to eat the same food instead of making something separate for you … Not that it’s a big deal or anything."

"Thanks, guys. Shej the Veg thanks you all for letting the animals live a day longer by not devouring them. Then taking a bite, he asks Janine, What is this?"

It’s a creamed corn and cheese tart, she says shyly.

Aaah man, says Shejal, my favourite, how did you know I smaak corn?

And the lunch tin? asks Kumari as she knocks on its lid.

Well, that’s for dessert. I made it myself too. It’s chocolate cake.

"There is no way, no way you made this," says Neha, urgently opening the tin. Huh-uh, no. Voetsek!

I told you all that I can cook. I’ve been cooking since I was 10. I told you guys, but you didn’t believe me, says Janine with a song in her voice, shrugging off the attention.

Oh, come on, woman. Who the hell cooks when they 10 years old? asks Kumari.

Ja, my sister is 10 and she is useless except for watching cartoons, says Shejal.

Well, I didn’t have K-TV, says Janine, so I had time to learn how to cook.

Shejal is already digging in to the chocolate cake. Janine can hear a faint sigh escape from his throat. The chocolate on his chin she finds beautiful. She adds the image to her collection, wrapped in the delicate, red tissue paper pockets of her heart. How long, she wonders, until it all pops out like a messy, overstuffed sock drawer.

You know, I have a story too, says Devon. But I heard it from this crazy aunty who stays across from us, so don’t ask me whether it’s true or not. When I was small, she told me a story about this mother and her children. The story was that there was this mother in the ol’ days who couldn’t feed her children. So she brought them here and they all innocently dived in because she said she would send the rope ladder down after they finished swimming. But it turns out that she left them there to drown because she couldn’t face having them starve to death.

Everyone remains silent as they imagine those children trying to claw their way up the muddy walls.

Ja, Devon continues, "and I’ve heard from lots of other people who came around here that they got stomach cramps or started feeling a little sick cos those hungry children were trying to remind them of their suffering."

I’m full, says Shejal as he throws down half a slice of Janine’s chocolate cake. Soon everyone follows suit, dropping the last bits of their picnic on their plates.

We can leave the leftovers, says Kumari. My granny always says that it’s good to feed the dead. She scoops up all the leftovers into a huge pile on a single paper plate, walks toward the quarry and leaves it just beside the fence for the ghost children.

Oh, haha, she says as she walks back and her friends all stare past her shoulder with looks of utter surprise. I know there’s nothing behind me.

But they do not relent and she is forced to turn around just as the reeds start to quiver. The Five watch with bewilderment as an old black man strolls out from one of the dirt paths that have been tramped through the bushes by people taking shortcuts from Soweto. He spots the plate of food beside the fence and goes to pick it up. After he smells it and deems it satisfactory, he begins to eat, continuing to walk ahead. He goes straight past them without a word or glance.

Well, Kumari, you didn’t get to feed the dead, but at least you got to feed an old, hungry man, says Devon.

They begin to leave, but further up the path they retreat behind a thicket of reeds.

Three Indian boys dressed in African-American-inspired clothes –