John Matshikiza:WITH THE LID OFF
I’m driving in the rain when I get a call from my private army (well, armed response to you) to tell me there has been an alarm activation at my house.
“Should they go round and check it out?” asks the voice on the other end of the line.
“You do that and shoot anybody you find.” Then I tell him to get off the line because there’s smoke coming out of the front of my car.
The engine has caught fire and the whole caboodle has ground to a halt in the middle of the street. It’s bang in the black of night and I’m alone. I force courage into my shaking arms and open the bonnet. The flames rise to meet me. I recoil.
Remembering that this is an ubuntu-centred society, I try to flag down passing cars. People accelerate past me, and the flames are growing bigger.
The only useful thing about the rain is that there’s lots of water around, so I cup my hands and throw some on to the inferno. Well, my grandmother always said, “Never throw water on to an electrical fire, it’ll only make things worse,” but the water certainly puts out the flames on this occasion.
The fire is out, but my keys are missing. I find them on the pavement, where I dropped them in a panic while stooping for water in the gutter. But now the car won’t start. Electrics burnt out. My preoccupation now is what could be going on with some swine breaking into my house.
So I lock the car and sprint towards my home, which, fortunately, is not far away.
I leave the gate open for the security company and tiptoe to the back of the house.
All looks well. The light for the security key is on and there is no alarm ringing. What is happening?
Finally, cautiously, I enter. As I start to turn on the lights, I see an eery blue beam outside. The security guard has arrived.
He’s walking up my drive, flashing his torch around. He’s obviously got his gun out. I go to the back door and yell: “It’s OK, I’m the homeowner! Don’t shoot!” He doesn’t reply, so I stand there, waiting to be shot.
He comes round the corner and smiles.
“It’s OK, Mr Khuzwayo. We’re not like some of these so-called security cowboys. We don’t shoot first and ask later.” He’s happily waving his gun in my face – the trouble organiser.
“It’s not Khuzwayo, it’s Matshikiza,” I say. “How about checking out the house?”
“Ah, right. We’ll do that for you, Mr Khuzwayo.” Off he goes, with a Magnum the size of a suitcase in his hand, and checks out the house. All is fine.
“It’s this rain,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of panic buttons that are going off because of the rain.” He puts the gun down on my dining table. “So how’s the movie business, Mr Khuzwayo?”
“It’s not Khuzwayo, it’s Matshikiza.”
He slaps his palm on his forehead. “Ja, no, of course it’s not you. Mr Khuzwayo’s at 88 Louis Botha. My mistake. Have you got some scissors? I’m feeling terrible.”
“What do you want scissors for?”
“I want to cut off my underpants.”
I don’t say anything. I go looking for scissors while he stands in the kitchen undoing his belt.
“What’s the matter with your underpants?” I call down the house.
“I got shot with an AK-47, and these underpants are just giving me hell.” I’m back with the scissors. “How did you get shot with an AK?” I ask.
“It was the day of Chris Hani’s funeral. You remember it?”
“So how come they shot you with an AK?”
“I was standing on the roof, guarding one of our warehouses. This group of marchers came by on their way to the funeral. They saw me standing on the roof and they decided to shoot me. I think they’d have shot any white man at the time.”
He’s pulling down his trousers down to show me a reddish hole on his bikini line. I really don’t want to see any more.
He takes the scissors and begins to cut. I turn away.
“I fell down three floors and broke my neck. I’ve got 18 steel pins in my neck now.” He’s grinning at me, cutting away at the underpants.
Then he puts down the scissors and, mercifully, pulls up his trousers and fastens his belt. He sticks his massive gun back in its holster, which is situated on top of the hole in his hip. I’m wondering, “Surely it’s the gun that’s grating his wound like this? What have his underpants got to do with it?”
“How do you feel now?” I ask.
“I think it’s much better,” he replies. “Anyway, have a good rest of the night.”
“Thanks for coming by.”
“Always a pleasure, Mr Khuzwayo.”
And off he goes, my intrepid saviour striding into the evil Johannesburg night.