Copyright©2016byTrevorNoah

Allrightsreserved.

PublishedintheUnitedStatesbySpiegel&Grau,animprintofRandomHouse,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.

SPIEGEL&GRAUandDesignisaregisteredtrademarkofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.

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Names:Noah,Trevor,author.

Title:Bornacrime:storiesfromaSouthAfricanchildhood/byTrevorNoah.

Description:Firstedition.|NewYork:Spiegel&Grau,2016.

Identifiers:LCCN2016031399|ISBN9780399588174|ISBN9780399590443(international)|ISBN9780399588181(ebook)

Subjects:LCSH:Noah,Trevor|Comedians—UnitedStates—Biography.|Comedians—SouthAfrica—Biography.|Televisionpersonalities—UnitedStates—Biography.

Classification:LCCPN2287.N557A32016|DDC791.4502/8092[B]—dc23LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2016031399

EbookISBN 9780399588181

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v4.1

ep

Contents

Cover

TitlePage

Copyright

ImmoralityAct,1927

PartI

Chapter1:Run

Chapter2:BornaCrime

Chapter3:Trevor,Pray

Chapter4:Chameleon

Chapter5:TheSecondGirl

Chapter6:Loopholes

Chapter7:Fufi

Chapter8:Robert

PartII

Chapter9:TheMulberryTree

Chapter10:AYoungMan’sLong,Awkward,OccasionallyTragic,andFrequentlyHumiliatingEducationinAffairsoftheHeart,PartI:Valentine’sDay

Chapter11:Outsider

Chapter12:AYoungMan’sLong,Awkward,OccasionallyTragic,andFrequentlyHumiliatingEducationinAffairsoftheHeart,PartII:TheCrush

Chapter13:Colorblind

Chapter14:AYoungMan’sLong,Awkward,OccasionallyTragic,andFrequentlyHumiliatingEducationinAffairsoftheHeart,PartIII:TheDance

PartIII

Chapter15:GoHitler!

Chapter16:TheCheeseBoys

Chapter17:TheWorldDoesn’tLoveYou

Chapter18:MyMother’sLife

Dedication

Acknowledgments

AbouttheAuthor

IMMORALITYACT,1927

ToprohibitillicitcarnalintercoursebetweenEuropeansandnativesandotheractsinrelationthereto.

BE IT ENACTED by the King’s Most Excellent Majesty, the Senate and the House of

AssemblyoftheUnionofSouthAfrica,asfollows:—

1.AnyEuropeanmalewho has illicit carnal intercoursewith a native female, and anynativemalewhohasillicitcarnalintercoursewithaEuropeanfemale…shallbeguiltyofanoffenceandliableonconvictiontoimprisonmentforaperiodnotexceedingfiveyears.

2.Anynative femalewhopermits anyEuropeanmale tohave illicit carnal intercoursewith her and any European female who permits any native male to have illicit carnalintercoursewithhershallbeguiltyofanoffenceandliableonconvictiontoimprisonmentforaperiodnotexceedingfouryears….

Thegeniusofapartheidwasconvincingpeoplewhoweretheoverwhelmingmajoritytoturnoneachother.Aparthate,iswhatitwas.Youseparatepeopleintogroupsandmakethemhateoneanothersoyoucanrunthemall.

Atthetime,blackSouthAfricansoutnumberedwhiteSouthAfricansnearlyfivetoone,yetweweredivided intodifferent tribeswithdifferent languages:Zulu,Xhosa,Tswana,Sotho,Venda,Ndebele,Tsonga,Pedi,andmore.Longbeforeapartheidexistedthesetribalfactionsclashed and warred with one another. Then white rule used that animosity to divide andconquer. All nonwhites were systematically classified into various groups and subgroups.Thenthesegroupsweregivendifferinglevelsofrightsandprivilegesinordertokeepthematodds.

PerhapsthestarkestofthesedivisionswasbetweenSouthAfrica’stwodominantgroups,theZuluandtheXhosa.TheZulumanisknownasthewarrior.Heisproud.Heputshisheaddownandfights.Whenthecolonialarmiesinvaded,theZuluchargedintobattlewithnothingbutspearsandshieldsagainstmenwithguns.TheZuluwereslaughteredbythethousands,buttheyneverstoppedfighting.TheXhosa,ontheotherhand,pridethemselvesonbeingthethinkers. My mother is Xhosa. Nelson Mandela was Xhosa. The Xhosa waged a long waragainst thewhiteman aswell, but after experiencing the futility of battle against a better-armed foe,manyXhosa chiefs tookamorenimble approach. “Thesewhitepeople areherewhetherwelikeitornot,”theysaid.“Let’sseewhattoolstheypossessthatcanbeusefultous.InsteadofbeingresistanttoEnglish,let’slearnEnglish.We’llunderstandwhatthewhitemanissaying,andwecanforcehimtonegotiatewithus.”

TheZuluwenttowarwiththewhiteman.TheXhosaplayedchesswiththewhiteman.Fora long time neither was particularly successful, and each blamed the other for a problemneitherhadcreated.Bitterness festered.Fordecades those feelingswereheld incheckbyacommonenemy.Thenapartheidfell,Mandelawalkedfree,andblackSouthAfricawenttowarwithitself.

RUN

Sometimes inbigHollywoodmovies they’llhave thesecrazychasesceneswheresomebody jumpsorgets thrownfromamovingcar.Thepersonhits thegroundandrollsforabit.Thentheycometoastopandpopupanddustthemselvesoff,likeitwasnobigdeal.WheneverIseethatIthink,That’srubbish.Gettingthrownoutofamovingcarhurtswayworsethanthat.

I was nine years old when my mother threw me out of a moving car. IthappenedonaSunday.IknowitwasonaSundaybecausewewerecominghomefromchurch,andeverySundayinmychildhoodmeantchurch.Wenevermissedchurch.Mymotherwas—and still is—adeeply religiouswoman.VeryChristian.Like indigenous peoples around the world, black South Africans adopted thereligionofourcolonizers.By“adopt”Imeanitwasforcedonus.Thewhitemanwasquitesternwiththenative.“YouneedtopraytoJesus,”hesaid.“Jesuswillsaveyou.”Towhichthenativereplied,“Well,wedoneedtobesaved—savedfromyou,butthat’sbesidethepoint.Solet’sgivethisJesusthingashot.”

Mywhole family is religious, butwheremymotherwasTeamJesus all theway, my grandmother balanced her Christian faith with the traditional Xhosabeliefsshe’dgrownupwith,communicatingwiththespiritsofourancestors.Fora long timeIdidn’tunderstandwhysomanyblackpeoplehadabandoned theirindigenousfaithforChristianity.ButthemorewewenttochurchandthelongerIsat in those pews the more I learned about how Christianity works: If you’reNativeAmericanandyoupraytothewolves,you’reasavage.Ifyou’reAfricanandyoupray toyourancestors, you’reaprimitive.Butwhenwhitepeoplepray toaguywhoturnswaterintowine,well,that’sjustcommonsense.

Mychildhoodinvolvedchurch,orsomeformofchurch,atleastfournightsaweek.Tuesdaynightwas theprayermeeting.WednesdaynightwasBible study.ThursdaynightwasYouthchurch.FridayandSaturdaywehadoff.(Timetosin!)ThenonSundaywewenttochurch.Threechurches,tobeprecise.Thereasonwewenttothreechurcheswasbecausemymomsaideachchurchgavehersomethingdifferent.ThefirstchurchofferedjubilantpraiseoftheLord.Thesecondchurchoffered deep analysis of the scripture, whichmymom loved. The third churchofferedpassionandcatharsis; itwasaplacewhereyoutrulyfelt thepresenceoftheHolySpiritinsideyou.Completelybycoincidence,aswemovedbackandforth

between these churches, I noticed that each one had its own distinct racialmakeup:Jubilantchurchwasmixedchurch.Analyticalchurchwaswhitechurch.Andpassionate,catharticchurch,thatwasblackchurch.

Mixed church was Rhema Bible Church. Rhema was one of those huge,supermodern, suburban megachurches. The pastor, Ray McCauley, was an ex-bodybuilderwithabigsmileandthepersonalityofacheerleader.PastorRayhadcompetedinthe1974Mr.Universecompetition.Heplacedthird.ThewinnerthatyearwasArnoldSchwarzenegger.Everyweek,Raywouldbeuponstageworkingreally hard tomake Jesus cool. There was arena-style seating and a rock bandjamming outwith the latest Christian contemporary pop. Everyone sang along,and if you didn’t know thewords thatwas okay because theywere all right upthereontheJumbotronforyou.ItwasChristiankaraoke,basically.Ialwayshadablastatmixedchurch.

WhitechurchwasRosebankUnioninSandton,averywhiteandwealthypartofJohannesburg.IlovedwhitechurchbecauseIdidn’tactuallyhavetogotothemain service.Mymomwould go to that, and I would go to the youth side, toSundayschool.InSundayschoolwegottoreadcoolstories.Noahandthefloodwasobviouslyafavorite;Ihadapersonalstakethere.ButIalsolovedthestoriesabout Moses parting the Red Sea, David slaying Goliath, Jesus whipping themoneychangersinthetemple.

Igrewupinahomewithverylittleexposuretopopularculture.BoyzIIMenwerenotallowedinmymother’shouse.Songsaboutsomeguygrindingonagirlallnight long?No,no,no.Thatwas forbidden. I’dhear theotherkidsat schoolsinging“EndoftheRoad,”andI’dhavenocluewhatwasgoingon.IknewoftheseBoyzIIMen,butIdidn’treallyknowwhotheywere.TheonlymusicIknewwasfromchurch:soaring,upliftingsongspraisingJesus.Itwasthesamewithmovies.Mymomdidn’twantmymindpollutedbymovieswithsexandviolence.SotheBiblewasmyactionmovie.Samsonwasmysuperhero.HewasmyHe-Man.Aguybeatinga thousandpeople todeathwith the jawboneofadonkey?That’sprettybadass.EventuallyyougettoPaulwritingletterstotheEphesiansanditlosestheplot, but theOld Testament and theGospels? I could quote you anything fromthosepages,chapterandverse.TherewereBiblegamesandquizzeseveryweekatwhitechurch,andIkickedeveryone’sass.

Then therewas black church. Therewas always some kind of black churchservicegoingonsomewhere,andwetriedthemall.Inthetownship,thattypicallymeant an outdoor, tent-revival-style church. We usually went to mygrandmother’s church, an old-school Methodist congregation, five hundredAfrican grannies in blue-and-white blouses, clutching their Bibles and patientlyburning in the hot African sun. Black church was rough, I won’t lie. No air-conditioning. No lyrics up on Jumbotrons. And it lasted forever, three or fourhoursatleast,whichconfusedmebecausewhitechurchwasonlylikeanhour—inandout,thanksforcoming.ButatblackchurchIwouldsitthereforwhatfeltlike

aneternity,tryingtofigureoutwhytimemovedsoslowly.Isitpossiblefortimetoactuallystop?Ifso,whydoesitstopatblackchurchandnotatwhitechurch?IeventuallydecidedblackpeopleneededmoretimewithJesusbecausewesufferedmore.“I’mheretofilluponmyblessingsfortheweek,”mymotherusedtosay.Themoretimewespentatchurch,shereckoned,themoreblessingsweaccrued,likeaStarbucksRewardsCard.

Blackchurchhadonesavinggrace. If I couldmake it to the thirdor fourthhourI’dget towatchthepastorcastdemonsoutofpeople.Peoplepossessedbydemonswouldstartrunningupanddowntheaisles likemadmen,screaming intongues. The usherswould tackle them, like bouncers at a club, and hold themdownforthepastor.Thepastorwouldgrabtheirheadsandviolentlyshakethemback and forth, shouting, “I cast out this spirit in the name of Jesus!” Somepastorsweremoreviolentthanothers,butwhattheyallhadincommonwasthattheywouldn’tstopuntil thedemonwasgoneandthecongreganthadgone limpandcollapsedon the stage.Thepersonhad to fall.Because ifhedidn’t fall thatmeant the demon was powerful and the pastor needed to come at him evenharder. You could be a linebacker in the NFL. Didn’t matter. That pastor wastakingyoudown.GoodLord,thatwasfun.

Christian karaoke, badass action stories, and violent faith healers—man, Ilovedchurch.ThethingIdidn’t lovewasthelengthswehadtogotoinordertoget to church. It was an epic slog. We lived in Eden Park, a tiny suburb wayoutsideJohannesburg.Ittookusanhourtogettowhitechurch,anotherforty-fiveminutes to get tomixed church, and another forty-fiveminutes to drive out toSoweto for black church. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, some Sundays we’ddoublebacktowhitechurchforaspecialeveningservice.Bythetimewefinallygothomeatnight,I’dcollapseintobed.

ThisparticularSunday, theSundayIwashurledfromamovingcar,startedout like any other Sunday. My mother woke me up, made me porridge forbreakfast. I tookmybathwhile shedressedmybabybrotherAndrew,whowasninemonthsold.Thenwewentouttothedriveway,butoncewewerefinallyallstrapped in and ready to go, the car wouldn’t start.Mymom had this ancient,broken-down,bright-tangerineVolkswagenBeetlethatshepickedupfornexttonothing. The reason she got it for next to nothing was because it was alwaysbreakingdown.TothisdayIhatesecondhandcars.Almosteverythingthat’severgone wrong in my life I can trace back to a secondhand car. Secondhand carsmade me get detention for being late for school. Secondhand cars left ushitchhikingonthesideofthefreeway.Asecondhandcarwasalsothereasonmymomgotmarried.Ifithadn’tbeenfortheVolkswagenthatdidn’twork,weneverwouldhave looked for themechanicwhobecame the husbandwhobecame thestepfatherwhobecamethemanwhotorturedusforyearsandputabulletinthebackofmymother’shead—I’lltakethenewcarwiththewarrantyeverytime.

AsmuchasIlovedchurch,theideaofanine-hourslog,frommixedchurchto

whitechurchtoblackchurchthendoublingbacktowhitechurchagain,wasjusttoomuchtocontemplate.Itwasbadenoughinacar,buttakingpublictransportwouldbetwiceaslongandtwiceashard.WhentheVolkswagenrefusedtostart,insidemyheadIwaspraying,Pleasesaywe’lljuststayhome.Pleasesaywe’lljuststayhome.ThenIglancedovertoseethedeterminedlookonmymother’sface,herjawset,andIknewIhadalongdayaheadofme.

“Come,”shesaid.“We’regoingtocatchminibuses.”

—

Mymotherisasstubbornassheisreligious.Oncehermind’smadeup,that’sit.Indeed,obstaclesthatwouldnormallyleadapersontochangetheirplans,likeacarbreakingdown,onlymadehermoredeterminedtoforgeahead.

“It’stheDevil,”shesaidaboutthestalledcar.“TheDevildoesn’twantustogotochurch.That’swhywe’vegottocatchminibuses.”

Whenever I found myself up against my mother’s faith-based obstinacy, Iwouldtry,asrespectfullyaspossible,tocounterwithanopposingpointofview.

“Or,”Isaid,“theLordknowsthattodayweshouldn’tgotochurch,whichiswhyhemadesurethecarwouldn’tstart,sothatwestayathomeasafamilyandtakeadayofrest,becauseeventheLordrested.”

“Ah,that’stheDeviltalking,Trevor.”

“No, because Jesus is in control, and if Jesus is in control andwe pray toJesus,hewouldletthecarstart,buthehasn’t,therefore—”

“No, Trevor! Sometimes Jesus puts obstacles in your way to see if youovercomethem.LikeJob.Thiscouldbeatest.”

“Ah!Yes,Mom.Butthetestcouldbetoseeifwe’rewillingtoacceptwhathashappenedandstayathomeandpraiseJesusforhiswisdom.”

“No.That’stheDeviltalking.Nowgochangeyourclothes.”

“But,Mom!”

“Trevor!Sun’qhela!”

Sun’qhelaisaphrasewithmanyshadesofmeaning.Itsays“don’tundermineme,”“don’tunderestimateme,”and“justtryme.”It’sacommandandathreat,allat once. It’s a common thing forXhosaparents to say to their kids.Any time IhearditIknewitmeanttheconversationwasover,andifIutteredanotherwordIwasinforahiding—whatwecallaspanking.

At the time, I attended a private Catholic school calledMaryvale College. Iwas the championof theMaryvale sportsdayevery single year, andmymotherwon themoms’ trophyevery single year.Why?Because shewasalways chasingmetokickmyass,andIwasalwaysrunningnottogetmyasskicked.Nobodyranlike me and my mom. She wasn’t one of those “Come over here and get your

hiding”typemoms.She’ddeliverittoyoufreeofcharge.Shewasathrower,too.Whateverwasnexttoherwascomingatyou.Ifitwassomethingbreakable,Ihadtocatchitandput itdown.If itbroke,thatwouldbemyfault, too,andtheass-kickingwouldbethatmuchworse.Ifshethrewavaseatme,I’dhavetocatchit,putitdown,andthenrun.Inasplitsecond,I’dhavetothink,Isitvaluable?Yes.Isitbreakable?Yes.Catchit,putitdown,nowrun.

We had a very Tom and Jerry relationship,me andmymom. Shewas thestrict disciplinarian; I was naughty as shit. She would send me out to buygroceries,andIwouldn’tcomerighthomebecauseI’dbeusingthechangefromthemilkandbreadtoplayarcadegamesatthesupermarket.Ilovedvideogames.IwasamasteratStreetFighter.Icouldgoforeveronasingleplay.I’ddropacoinin,timewouldfly,andthenextthingIknewthere’dbeawomanbehindmewithabelt.Itwasarace.I’dtakeoffoutthedoorandthroughthedustystreetsofEdenPark,clamberingoverwalls,duckingthroughbackyards.Itwasanormalthinginourneighborhood.Everybodyknew:ThatTrevorchildwouldcomethroughlikeabatoutofhell,andhismomwouldberighttherebehindhim.Shecouldgoatafull sprint inhighheels, but if she reallywanted to comeafterme shehad thisthingwhereshe’dkickhershoesoffwhilestillgoingat topspeed.She’ddo thisweirdmovewithheranklesandtheheelswouldgoflyingandshewouldn’tevenmissastep.That’swhenIknew,Okay,she’sinturbomodenow.

When Iwas little shealways caughtme,butas I gotolder I got faster, andwhen speed failed her she’d use herwits. If Iwas about to get away she’d yell,“Stop!Thief!”She’ddothistoherownchild.InSouthAfrica,nobodygetsinvolvedinotherpeople’sbusiness—unlessit’smobjustice,andtheneverybodywantsin.Soshe’dyell“Thief!”knowingitwouldbringthewholeneighborhoodoutagainstme,andthenI’dhavestrangerstryingtograbmeandtackleme,andI’dhavetoduckanddiveanddodgethemaswell,all thewhilescreaming,“I’mnotathief!I’mherson!”

The last thing I wanted to do that Sunday morning was climb into somecrowdedminibus,butthesecondIheardmymomsaysun’qhela Iknewmyfatewassealed.ShegatheredupAndrewandweclimbedoutoftheVolkswagenandwentouttotrytocatcharide.

—

Iwasfiveyearsold,nearlysix,whenNelsonMandelawasreleasedfromprison.IrememberseeingitonTVandeveryonebeinghappy.Ididn’tknowwhywewerehappy, just that we were. I was aware of the fact that there was a thing calledapartheidanditwasendingandthatwasabigdeal,butIdidn’tunderstandtheintricaciesofit.

WhatIdoremember,whatIwillnever forget, is theviolencethat followed.The triumph of democracy over apartheid is sometimes called the BloodlessRevolution.Itiscalledthatbecauseverylittlewhitebloodwasspilled.Blackbloodraninthestreets.

Astheapartheidregime fell,weknewthat theblackmanwasnowgoing torule.Thequestionwas,whichblackman?Spatesof violencebrokeoutbetweentheInkathaFreedomPartyandtheANC,theAfricanNationalCongress,astheyjockeyed for power. The political dynamic between these two groups was verycomplicated,butthesimplestwaytounderstanditisasaproxywarbetweenZuluand Xhosa. The Inkatha was predominantly Zulu, very militant and verynationalistic.TheANCwasabroadcoalitionencompassingmanydifferenttribes,butitsleadersatthetimewereprimarilyXhosa.Insteadofunitingforpeacetheyturned on one another, committing acts of unbelievable savagery.Massive riotsbroke out. Thousands of people were killed. Necklacing was common. That’swhere people would hold someone down and put a rubber tire over his torso,pinninghisarms.Thenthey’ddousehimwithpetrolandsethimonfireandburnhimalive.TheANCdidittoInkatha.InkathadidittotheANC.Isawoneofthosecharred bodies on the side of the road one day on my way to school. In theeveningsmymomandIwould turnonour littleblack-and-whiteTVandwatchthenews.Adozenpeoplekilled.Fiftypeoplekilled.Ahundredpeoplekilled.

Eden Park sat not far from the sprawling townships of the East Rand,Thokoza and Katlehong, which were the sites of some of the most horrificInkatha–ANC clashes. Once a month at least we’d drive home and theneighborhoodwouldbeonfire.Hundredsofriotersinthestreet.Mymomwouldedge the car slowly through the crowds and around blockadesmade of flamingtires.Nothingburnslikeatire—itrageswithafuryyoucan’timagine.Aswedrovepasttheburningblockades,itfeltlikewewereinsideanoven.Iusedtosaytomymom,“IthinkSatanburnstiresinHell.”

Whenevertheriotsbrokeout,allourneighborswouldwiselyholeupbehindcloseddoors.Butnotmymom.She’dheadstraightout,andaswe’dinchourwaypasttheblockades,she’dgivetheriotersthislook.Letmepass.I’mnotinvolvedinthisshit.Shewasunwaveringinthefaceofdanger.Thatalwaysamazedme.Itdidn’tmatterthattherewasawaronourdoorstep.Shehadthingstodo,placestobe.Itwasthesamestubbornnessthatkepthergoingtochurchdespiteabroken-downcar.TherecouldbefivehundredrioterswithablockadeofburningtiresonthemainroadoutofEdenPark,andmymotherwouldsay,“Getdressed.I’vegottogotowork.You’vegottogotoschool.”

“Butaren’tyouafraid?”I’dsay.“There’sonlyoneofyouandthere’ssomanyofthem.”

“Honey,I’mnotalone,”she’dsay.“I’vegotallofHeaven’sangelsbehindme.”

“Well, itwouldbeniceifwecouldseethem,”I’dsay.“BecauseIdon’tthinktheriotersknowthey’rethere.”

She’dtellmenottoworry.Shealwayscamebacktothephraseshelivedby:“IfGodiswithme,whocanbeagainstme?”Shewasneverscared.Evenwhensheshouldhavebeen.

—

ThatcarlessSundaywemadeourcircuitofchurches,endingup,asusual,atwhitechurch.WhenwewalkedoutofRosebankUnionitwasdarkandwewerealone.Ithadbeenanendlessdayofminibusesfrommixedchurchtoblackchurchtowhitechurch,andIwasexhausted.Itwasnineo’clockatleast.Inthosedays,withalltheviolenceandriotsgoingon,youdidnotwanttobeoutthatlateatnight.Wewerestandingat thecornerofJellicoeAvenueandOxfordRoad,right in theheartofJohannesburg’swealthy,whitesuburbia,andtherewerenominibuses.Thestreetswereempty.

I so badlywanted to turn tomymom and say, “You see? This iswhyGodwantedustostayhome.”Butonelookattheexpressiononherface,andIknewbetter thantospeak.Therewere timesIcould talksmacktomymom—thiswasnotoneofthem.

We waited and waited for a minibus to come by. Under apartheid thegovernment provided no public transportation for blacks, butwhite people stillneededus to showup tomop their floors and clean their bathrooms.Necessitybeingthemotherof invention,blackpeoplecreatedtheirowntransitsystem,aninformal network of bus routes, controlled by private associations operatingentirely outside the law. Because the minibus business was completelyunregulated, it was basically organized crime. Different groups ran differentroutes, and they would fight over who controlled what. There was bribery andgeneral shadiness thatwent on, a great deal of violence, and a lot of protectionmoneypaidtoavoidviolence.Theonethingyoudidn’tdowasstealaroutefromarival group. Drivers who stole routes would get killed. Being unregulated,minibuses were also very unreliable. When they came, they came. When theydidn’t,theydidn’t.

Standing outsideRosebankUnion, Iwas literally falling asleep onmy feet.Notaminibusinsight.Eventuallymymothersaid,“Let’shitchhike.”Wewalkedandwalked,andafterwhatfeltlikeaneternity,acardroveupandstopped.Thedriver offered us a ride, and we climbed in. We hadn’t gone ten feet whensuddenlyaminibusswervedrightinfrontofthecarandcutusoff.

AZuludrivergotoutwithaniwisa,alarge,traditionalZuluweapon—awarclub,basically.They’reused tosmashpeople’s skulls in.Anotherguy,hiscrony,got out of thepassenger side.Theywalkedup to thedriver’s side of the carwewere in, grabbed themanwho’d offered us a ride, pulled him out, and startedshovingtheirclubsinhisface.“Whyareyoustealingourcustomers?Whyareyoupickingpeopleup?”

It looked like they were going to kill this guy. I knew that happenedsometimes.Mymomspokeup.“Hey, listen,hewas justhelpingme.Leavehim.We’llridewithyou.That’swhatwewantedinthefirstplace.”Sowegotoutofthefirstcarandclimbedintotheminibus.

We were the only passengers in the minibus. In addition to being violentgangsters, South African minibus drivers are notorious for complaining andharanguingpassengersastheydrive.Thisdriverwasaparticularlyangryone.Aswe rodealong,he started lecturingmymother aboutbeing in a carwithamanwhowasnotherhusband.Mymotherdidn’tsufferlecturesfromstrangemen.Shetoldhimtomindhisownbusiness,andwhenheheardherspeakinginXhosa,thatreallysethimoff.ThestereotypesofZuluandXhosawomenwereasingrainedasthoseofthemen.Zuluwomenwerewell-behavedanddutiful.Xhosawomenwerepromiscuousandunfaithful.Andherewasmymother,histribalenemy,aXhosawomanalonewithtwosmallchildren—oneofthemamixedchild,noless.Notjustawhorebutawhorewhosleepswithwhitemen. “Oh,you’reaXhosa,”he said.“Thatexplainsit.Climbingintostrangemen’scars.Disgustingwoman.”

Mymomkept telling him off and he kept calling her names, yelling at herfromthefrontseat,wagginghisfingerintherearviewmirrorandgrowingmoreand more menacing until finally he said, “That’s the problem with you Xhosawomen.You’reallsluts—andtonightyou’regoingtolearnyourlesson.”

Hespedoff.Hewasdrivingfast,andhewasn’tstopping,onlyslowingdowntocheckfortrafficattheintersectionsbeforespeedingthrough.Deathwasneverfar away fromanybodyback then.At thatpointmymother couldbe raped.Wecouldbekilled.Thesewereallviableoptions.Ididn’tfullycomprehendthedangerwewereinatthemoment;IwassotiredthatIjustwantedtosleep.Plusmymomstayedverycalm.Shedidn’tpanic,soIdidn’tknowtopanic.Shejustkepttryingtoreasonwithhim.

“I’msorryifwe’veupsetyou,bhuti.Youcanjustletusouthere—”

“No.”

“Really,it’sfine.Wecanjustwalk—”

“No.”

HeracedalongOxfordRoad,thelanesempty,noothercarsout.Iwassittingclosest to the minibus’s sliding door. My mother sat next to me, holding babyAndrew.Shelookedoutthewindowatthepassingroadandthenleanedovertome and whispered, “Trevor, when he slows down at the next intersection, I’mgoingtoopenthedoorandwe’regoingtojump.”

I didn’t hear a word of what she was saying, because by that point I’dcompletelynoddedoff.Whenwecametothenexttrafficlight,thedrivereasedoffthegasabittolookaroundandchecktheroad.Mymotherreachedover,pulledtheslidingdooropen,grabbedme,andthrewmeoutasfarasshecould.ThenshetookAndrew,curledherselfinaballaroundhim,andleapedoutbehindme.

Itfeltlikeadreamuntilthepainhit.Bam!Ismackedhardonthepavement.Mymother landedrightbesidemeandwetumbledandtumbledandrolledandrolled. I was wide awake now. I went from half asleep to What the hell?!

EventuallyIcametoastopandpulledmyselfup,completelydisoriented.Ilookedaroundandsawmymother,alreadyonherfeet.Sheturnedandlookedatmeandscreamed.

“Run!”

SoIran,andsheran,andnobodyranlikemeandmymom.

It’s weird to explain, but I just knew what to do. It was animal instinct,learnedinaworldwhereviolencewasalwayslurkingandwaitingtoerupt.Inthetownships,when the police came swooping inwith their riot gear and armoredcarsandhelicopters,Iknew:Runforcover.Runandhide.Iknewthatasafive-year-old. Had I lived a different life, getting thrown out of a speedingminibusmighthavefazedme.I’dhavestoodtherelikeanidiot,going,“What’shappening,Mom?Whyaremylegssosore?”Buttherewasnoneofthat.Momsaid“run,”andIran.Likethegazellerunsfromthelion,Iran.

Themen stopped theminibus and got out and tried to chase us, but theydidn’t stand a chance. We smoked them. I think they were in shock. I stillremember glancing back and seeing them give up with a look of utterbewildermentontheirfaces.Whatjusthappened?Who’dhavethoughtawomanwith two small children could run so fast? Theydidn’t know theyweredealingwiththereigningchampsoftheMaryvaleCollegesportsday.Wekeptgoingandgoinguntilwemadeittoatwenty-four-hourpetrolstationandcalledthepolice.Bythenthemenwerelonggone.

I stilldidn’tknowwhyanyof thishadhappened; I’dbeenrunningonpureadrenaline.OncewestoppedrunningIrealizedhowmuchpainIwasin.Ilookeddown,andtheskinonmyarmswasscrapedandtorn.Iwascutupandbleedingall over.Momwas, too.Mybabybrotherwas fine, though, incredibly.Mymomhad wrapped herself around him, and he’d come through without a scratch. Iturnedtoherinshock.

“Whatwasthat?!Whyarewerunning?!”

“Whatdoyoumean,‘Whyarewerunning?’Thosemenweretryingtokillus.”

“Younevertoldmethat!Youjustthrewmeoutofthecar!”

“Ididtellyou.Whydidn’tyoujump?”

“Jump?!Iwasasleep!”

“SoIshouldhaveleftyouthereforthemtokillyou?”

“Atleasttheywouldhavewokenmeupbeforetheykilledme.”

Back and forth we went. I was too confused and too angry about gettingthrownoutofthecartorealizewhathadhappened.Mymotherhadsavedmylife.

Aswecaughtourbreathandwaitedforthepolicetocomeanddriveushome,shesaid,“Well,atleastwe’resafe,thankGod.”

ButIwasnineyearsoldandIknewbetter.Iwasn’tgoingtokeepquietthistime.

“No,Mom! This was not thanks to God! You should have listened to Godwhenhetoldustostayathomewhenthecarwouldn’tstart,becauseclearlytheDeviltrickedusintocomingouttonight.”

“No,Trevor!That’snothowtheDevilworks.ThisispartofGod’splan,andifHewantedusherethenHehadareason…”

Andonandonandtherewewere,backatit,arguingaboutGod’swill.FinallyI said, “Look,Mom. Iknowyou loveJesus,butmaybenextweekyoucouldaskhimtomeetusatourhouse.Becausethisreallywasn’tafunnight.”

Shebrokeout inahugesmileandstarted laughing. I started laughing, too,andwe stood there, this little boy and hismom, our arms and legs covered inbloodanddirt,laughingtogetherthroughthepaininthelightofapetrolstationonthesideoftheroadinthemiddleofthenight.

Apartheidwasperfectracism.Ittookcenturiestodevelop,startingallthewaybackin1652when the Dutch East India Company landed at the Cape of Good Hope and established atradingcolony,Kaapstad,laterknownasCapeTown,areststopforshipstravelingbetweenEurope and India. To imposewhite rule, theDutch colonistswent towarwith the natives,ultimatelydevelopingasetoflawstosubjugateandenslavethem.WhentheBritishtookovertheCapeColony,thedescendantsoftheoriginalDutchsettlerstrekkedinlandanddevelopedtheir own language, culture, and customs, eventually becoming their own people, theAfrikaners—thewhitetribeofAfrica.

TheBritishabolishedslaveryinnamebutkeptitinpractice.Theydidsobecause,inthemid-1800s, inwhathadbeenwrittenoffasanear-worthlesswaystationontheroutetotheFarEast,afewluckycapitalistsstumbledupontherichestgoldanddiamondreservesintheworld,andanendlesssupplyofexpendablebodieswasneededtogointhegroundandgetitallout.

As the British Empire fell, the Afrikaner rose up to claim South Africa as his rightfulinheritance.Tomaintainpowerinthefaceofthecountry’srisingandrestlessblackmajority,the government realized they needed a newer andmore robust set of tools. They set up aformalcommissiontogooutandstudyinstitutionalizedracismallovertheworld.Theywentto Australia. Theywent to theNetherlands. Theywent to America. They sawwhatworked,what didn’t. Then they came back and published a report, and the government used thatknowledgetobuildthemostadvancedsystemofracialoppressionknowntoman.

Apartheid was a police state, a system of surveillance and laws designed to keep blackpeople under total control. A full compendium of those laws would run more than threethousandpagesandweighapproximately tenpounds,but thegeneral thrustof it shouldbeeasyenoughforanyAmericantounderstand.InAmericayouhadtheforcedremovalofthenative onto reservations coupledwith slavery followed by segregation. Imagine all three ofthosethingshappeningtothesamegroupofpeopleatthesametime.Thatwasapartheid.

BORNACRIME

I grew up in South Africa during apartheid, whichwas awkward because I wasraisedinamixedfamily,withmebeingthemixedoneinthefamily.Mymother,PatriciaNombuyiseloNoah,isblack.Myfather,Robert,iswhite.Swiss/German,tobeprecise,whichSwiss/Germansinvariablyare.Duringapartheid,oneof theworst crimes you could commit was having sexual relations with a person ofanotherrace.Needlesstosay,myparentscommittedthatcrime.

In any society built on institutionalized racism, race-mixing doesn’tmerelychallenge the system as unjust, it reveals the system as unsustainable andincoherent.Race-mixingprovesthatracescanmix—andinalotofcases,wanttomix. Because amixed person embodies that rebuke to the logic of the system,race-mixingbecomesacrimeworsethantreason.

Humans being humans and sex being sex, that prohibition never stoppedanyone.ThereweremixedkidsinSouthAfricaninemonthsafterthefirstDutchboatshitthebeachinTableBay.JustlikeinAmerica,thecolonistsherehadtheirwaywith the nativewomen, as colonists so often do.Unlike inAmerica,whereanyonewithonedropofblackbloodautomaticallybecameblack,inSouthAfricamixedpeoplecametobeclassifiedastheirownseparategroup,neitherblacknorwhitebutwhatwecall“colored.”Coloredpeople,blackpeople,whitepeople,andIndianpeoplewere forced to register their racewith the government.Based onthoseclassifications,millionsofpeoplewereuprootedandrelocated.Indianareasweresegregatedfromcoloredareas,whichweresegregatedfromblackareas—allof them segregated fromwhite areas and separated fromone another by bufferzonesof empty land.Lawswerepassedprohibiting sexbetweenEuropeans andnatives, laws that were later amended to prohibit sex between whites and allnonwhites.

Thegovernmentwenttoinsanelengthstotrytoenforcethesenewlaws.Thepenalty for breaking them was five years in prison. There were whole policesquads whose only job was to go around peeking through windows—clearly anassignment for only the finest law enforcement officers. And if an interracialcouplegotcaught,Godhelpthem.Thepolicewouldkickdownthedoor,dragthepeople out, beat them, arrest them. At least that’s what they did to the blackperson.Withthewhitepersonitwasmorelike,“Look,I’lljustsayyouweredrunk,

butdon’tdoitagain,eh?Cheers.”That’showitwaswithawhitemanandablackwoman.Ifablackmanwascaughthavingsexwithawhitewoman,he’dbeluckyifhewasn’tchargedwithrape.

Ifyouaskmymotherwhethersheeverconsideredtheramificationsofhavinga mixed child under apartheid, she will say no. She wanted to do something,figuredoutawaytodoit,andthenshedidit.Shehadaleveloffearlessnessthatyouhavetopossesstotakeonsomethinglikeshedid.Ifyoustoptoconsidertheramifications,you’llneverdoanything.Still,itwasacrazy,recklessthingtodo.Amillionthingshadtogorightforustoslipthroughthecracksthewaywedidforaslongaswedid.

—

Underapartheid,ifyouwereablackmanyouworkedonafarmorinafactoryorinamine.Ifyouwereablackwoman,youworkedinafactoryorasamaid.Thosewereprettymuchyouronlyoptions.Mymotherdidn’twanttoworkinafactory.Shewasahorriblecookandneverwouldhavestoodforsomewhite lady tellingherwhat todoallday.So, true tohernature, she foundanoption thatwasnotamongtheonespresentedtoher:Shetookasecretarialcourse,atypingclass.Atthetime,ablackwomanlearninghowtotypewaslikeablindpersonlearninghowto drive. It’s an admirable effort, but you’re unlikely to ever be called upon toexecutethetask.Bylaw,white-collarjobsandskilled-laborjobswerereservedforwhites.Blackpeopledidn’tworkinoffices.Mymom,however,wasarebel,and,fortunatelyforher,herrebellioncamealongattherightmoment.

In the early 1980s, the South African government began making minorreformsinanattempttoquellinternationalprotestovertheatrocitiesandhumanrights abuses of apartheid. Among those reformswas the token hiring of blackworkers in low-level white-collar jobs. Like typists. Through an employmentagencyshegotajobasasecretaryatICI,amultinationalpharmaceuticalcompanyinBraamfontein,asuburbofJohannesburg.

When my mom started working, she still lived with my grandmother inSoweto, the township where the government had relocated my family decadesbefore.Butmymotherwasunhappyathome,andwhenshewastwenty-twosheranawaytoliveindowntownJohannesburg.Therewasonlyoneproblem:Itwasillegalforblackpeopletolivethere.

TheultimategoalofapartheidwastomakeSouthAfricaawhitecountry,witheveryblackpersonstrippedofhisorher citizenshipand relocated to live in thehomelands, theBantustans, semi-sovereign black territories thatwere in realitypuppetstatesofthegovernmentinPretoria.Butthisso-calledwhitecountrycouldnotfunctionwithoutblacklabortoproduceitswealth,whichmeantblackpeoplehadtobeallowedtolivenearwhiteareasinthetownships,government-plannedghettos built to house blackworkers, like Soweto. The townshipwaswhere youlived,butyour statusasa laborerwas theonly thing thatpermittedyou to staythere.Ifyourpaperswererevokedforanyreason,youcouldbedeportedbackto

thehomelands.

Toleavethetownshipforworkinthecity,orforanyotherreason,youhadtocarryapasswithyourIDnumber;otherwiseyoucouldbearrested.Therewasalsoacurfew:Afteracertainhour,blackshadtobebackhomeinthetownshiporriskarrest.Mymotherdidn’tcare.Shewasdeterminedtonevergohomeagain.Soshestayedintown,hidingandsleepinginpublicrestroomsuntilshelearnedtherulesofnavigatingthecityfromtheotherblackwomenwhohadcontrivedtolivethere:prostitutes.

Many of the prostitutes in town were Xhosa. They spoke my mother’slanguageand showedherhow to survive.They taughtherhow todressup in apair ofmaid’s overalls tomove around the citywithout being questioned. Theyalsointroducedhertowhitemenwhowerewillingtorentoutflatsintown.Alotofthesemenwereforeigners,GermansandPortuguesewhodidn’tcareaboutthelawandwerehappytosignaleasegivingaprostituteaplacetoliveandworkinexchange for a steadypieceon the side.Mymomwasn’t interested in any sucharrangement, but thanks to her job she did havemoney to pay rent. Shemet aGermanfellowthroughoneofherprostitutefriends,andheagreedtoletheraflatinhisname.Shemovedinandboughtabunchofmaid’soverallstowear.Shewascaught and arrestedmany times, for not having her ID on theway home fromwork,forbeinginawhiteareaafterhours.Thepenaltyforviolatingthepasslawswas thirtydays in jailora fineof fiftyrand,nearlyhalfhermonthlysalary.Shewould scrape together the money, pay the fine, and go right back about herbusiness.

—

Mymom’ssecretflatwasinaneighborhoodcalledHillbrow.Shelivedinnumber203. Down the corridor was a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed Swiss/GermanexpatnamedRobert.Helivedin206.Asaformertradingcolony,SouthAfricahasalways had a large expatriate community. People find their way here. Tons ofGermans.LotsofDutch.HillbrowatthetimewastheGreenwichVillageofSouthAfrica.Itwasathrivingscene,cosmopolitanandliberal.Thereweregalleriesandunderground theaters where artists and performers dared to speak up andcriticizethegovernmentinfrontofintegratedcrowds.Therewererestaurantsandnightclubs, a lot of them foreign-owned, that served a mixed clientele, blackpeople who hated the status quo and white people who simply thought itridiculous. These people would have secret get-togethers, too, usually insomeone’s flat or in empty basements that had been converted into clubs.Integration by its nature was a political act, but the get-togethers themselvesweren’tpoliticalatall.Peoplewouldmeetupandhangout,haveparties.

Mymomthrewherselfintothatscene.Shewasalwaysoutatsomeclub,someparty,dancing,meetingpeople.Shewasaregularat theHillbrowTower,oneofthetallestbuildingsinAfricaatthattime.Ithadanightclubwitharotatingdanceflooronthetopfloor.Itwasanexhilaratingtimebutstilldangerous.Sometimes

the restaurants and clubswould get shut down, sometimes not. Sometimes theperformers and patronswould get arrested, sometimes not. It was a roll of thedice.Mymotherneverknewwhomtotrust,whomightturnherintothepolice.Neighborswouldreportononeanother.Thegirlfriendsof thewhitemen inmymom’sblockof flatshadeveryreasontoreportablackwoman—aprostitute,nodoubt—livingamongthem.Andyoumustrememberthatblackpeopleworkedforthegovernmentaswell.Asfarasherwhiteneighborsknew,mymomcouldhavebeenaspyposingasaprostituteposingasamaid,sentintoHillbrowtoinformonwhites who were breaking the law. That’s how a police state works—everyonethinkseveryoneelseisthepolice.

Living alone in the city, not being trusted and not being able to trust, mymother started spendingmore andmore time in the company of someonewithwhomshefeltsafe:thetallSwissmandownthecorridorin206.Hewasforty-six.Shewastwenty-four.Hewasquietandreserved;shewaswildandfree.Shewouldstopbyhisflattochat;they’dgotoundergroundget-togethers,godancingatthenightclubwiththerotatingdancefloor.Somethingclicked.

Iknowthattherewasagenuinebondandalovebetweenmyparents.Isawit.Buthowromantictheirrelationshipwas,towhatextenttheywerejustfriends,Ican’tsay.Thesearethingsachilddoesn’task.AllIdoknowisthatonedayshemadeherproposal.

“Iwanttohaveakid,”shetoldhim.

“Idon’twantkids,”hesaid.

“Ididn’taskyoutohaveakid.Iaskedyoutohelpmetohavemykid.Ijustwantthespermfromyou.”

“I’mCatholic,”hesaid.“Wedon’tdosuchthings.”

“Youdoknow,”shereplied,“thatIcouldsleepwithyouandgoawayandyouwouldneverknowifyouhadachildornot.ButIdon’twantthat.HonormewithyouryessothatIcanlivepeacefully.Iwantachildofmyown,andIwantitfromyou.Youwillbeabletoseeitasmuchasyoulike,butyouwillhavenoobligations.Youdon’thavetotalktoit.Youdon’thavetopayforit.Justmakethischildforme.”

Formymother’spart,thefactthatthismandidn’tparticularlywantafamilywith her, was prevented by law from having a family with her, was part of theattraction. She wanted a child, not a man stepping in to run her life. For myfather’spart,Iknowthatforalongtimehekeptsayingno.Eventuallyhesaidyes.WhyhesaidyesisaquestionIwillneverhavetheanswerto.

Ninemonthsafter thatyes,onFebruary20, 1984,mymother checked intoHillbrowHospitalforascheduledC-sectiondelivery.Estrangedfromherfamily,pregnant by a man she could not be seen with in public, she was alone. Thedoctorstookheruptothedeliveryroom,cutopenherbelly,andreachedinand

pulledoutahalf-white,half-blackchildwhoviolatedanynumberoflaws,statutes,andregulations—Iwasbornacrime.

—

Whenthedoctorspulledmeouttherewasanawkwardmomentwheretheysaid,“Huh. That’s a very light-skinned baby.” A quick scan of the delivery roomrevealednomanstandingaroundtotakecredit.

“Whoisthefather?”theyasked.

“His father is from Swaziland,” my mother said, referring to the tiny,landlockedkingdominthewestofSouthAfrica.

Theyprobablyknewshewaslying,buttheyaccepteditbecausetheyneededanexplanation.Underapartheid,thegovernmentlabeledeverythingonyourbirthcertificate: race, tribe,nationality.Everythinghad tobe categorized.Mymotherlied and said Iwas born inKaNgwane, the semi-sovereign homeland for Swazipeople living inSouthAfrica.Somybirthcertificatedoesn’tsay thatI’mXhosa,whichtechnicallyIam.Anditdoesn’tsaythatI’mSwiss,whichthegovernmentwouldn’tallow.ItjustsaysthatI’mfromanothercountry.

Myfather isn’tonmybirthcertificate.Officially,he’sneverbeenmyfather.Andmymother,truetoherword,waspreparedforhimnottobeinvolved.She’drented a new flat for herself in Joubert Park, the neighborhood adjacent toHillbrow,andthat’swhereshetookmewhensheleftthehospital.Thenextweekshewenttovisithim,withnobaby.Tohersurprise,heaskedwhereIwas.“Yousaid that you didn’t want to be involved,” she said. And he hadn’t, but once Iexistedherealizedhecouldn’thaveason livingaroundthecornerandnotbeapartofmylife.Sothethreeofusformedakindoffamily,asmuchasourpeculiarsituationwouldallow.Ilivedwithmymom.We’dsneakaroundandvisitmydadwhenwecould.

Wheremostchildrenareproofoftheirparents’love,Iwastheproofoftheircriminality. The only time I could bewithmy fatherwas indoors. Ifwe left thehouse,he’dhavetowalkacrossthestreet fromus.MymomandIusedtogotoJoubert Park all the time. It’s the Central Park of Johannesburg—beautifulgardens, a zoo, a giant chessboard with human-sized pieces that people wouldplay.Mymothertellsmethatonce,whenIwasatoddler,mydadtriedtogowithus.Wewereinthepark,hewaswalkingagoodbitawayfromus,andIranafterhim,screaming,“Daddy!Daddy!Daddy!”Peoplestartedlooking.Hepanickedandranaway.Ithoughtitwasagameandkeptchasinghim.

I couldn’t walk with mymother, either; a light-skinned child with a blackwomanwouldraisetoomanyquestions.WhenIwasanewborn,shecouldwrapmeupandtakemeanywhere,butveryquicklythatwasnolongeranoption.Iwasagiantbaby,anenormouschild.WhenIwasoneyou’dhavethoughtIwastwo.WhenIwastwo,you’dhavethoughtIwasfour.Therewasnowaytohideme.

Mymom, same as she’d done with her flat and with hermaid’s uniforms,foundthecracksinthesystem.Itwasillegaltobemixed(tohaveablackparentandawhiteparent),butitwasnotillegaltobecolored(tohavetwoparentswhowerebothcolored).Somymommovedmearoundtheworldasacoloredchild.Shefoundacrèche inacoloredareawhereshecould leavemewhileshewasatwork.TherewasacoloredwomannamedQueenwho lived inourblockof flats.Whenwewantedtogoouttothepark,mymomwouldinvitehertogowithus.Queenwouldwalknext tomeandact like shewasmymother, andmymotherwould walk a few steps behind, like she was themaid working for the coloredwoman.I’vegotdozensofpicturesofmewalkingwiththiswomanwholookslikemebutwhoisn’tmymother.Andtheblackwomanstandingbehinduswholookslike she’s photobombing the picture, that’s my mom. When we didn’t have acoloredwomantowalkwithus,mymomwouldriskwalkingmeonherown.Shewouldholdmyhandorcarryme,but if thepoliceshowedupshewouldhavetodropmeandpretendIwasn’thers,likeIwasabagofweed.

WhenIwasborn,mymotherhadn’tseenher family inthreeyears,butshewantedmetoknowthemandwantedthemtoknowme,sotheprodigaldaughterreturned. We lived in town, but I would spend weeks at a time with mygrandmotherinSoweto,oftenduringtheholidays.Ihavesomanymemoriesfromtheplacethatinmymindit’slikewelivedthere,too.

Soweto was designed to be bombed—that’s how forward-thinking thearchitectsofapartheidwere.Thetownshipwasacityuntoitself,withapopulationof nearly one million. There were only two roads in and out. That was so themilitarycouldlockusin,quellanyrebellion.Andifthemonkeyseverwentcrazyandtriedtobreakoutoftheircage,theairforcecouldflyoverandbombtheshitout of everyone. Growing up, I never knew that my grandmother lived in thecenterofabull’s-eye.

Inthecity,asdifficultas itwastogetaround,wemanaged.Enoughpeoplewereoutandabout,black,white, andcolored, going toand fromwork, thatwecouldgetlostinthecrowd.ButonlyblackpeoplewerepermittedinSoweto.Itwasmuch harder to hide someone who looked like me, and the government waswatchingmuchmoreclosely.Inthewhiteareasyourarelysawthepolice,andifyoudiditwasOfficerFriendlyinhiscollaredshirtandpressedpants.InSowetothepolicewere anoccupying army.Theydidn’twear collared shirts.Theyworeriotgear.Theyweremilitarized.Theyoperatedinteamsknownasflyingsquads,becausetheywouldswoopinoutofnowhere,ridinginarmoredpersonnelcarriers—hippos,wecalledthem—tankswithenormoustiresandslottedholesinthesideofthevehicletofiretheirgunsoutof.Youdidn’tmesswithahippo.Yousawone,you ran. That was a fact of life. The township was in a constant state ofinsurrection;someonewasalwaysmarchingorprotestingsomewhereandhadtobe suppressed. Playing inmy grandmother’s house, I’d hear gunshots, screams,teargasbeingfiredintocrowds.

MymemoriesofthehipposandtheflyingsquadscomefromwhenIwasfiveorsix,whenapartheidwasfinallycomingapart.Ineversawthepolicebeforethat,becausewecouldneverriskthepoliceseeingme.WheneverwewenttoSoweto,mygrandmotherrefusedtoletmeoutside.Ifshewaswatchingmeitwas,“No,no,no.Hedoesn’tleavethehouse.”Behindthewall,intheyard,Icouldplay,butnotinthestreet.Andthat’swheretherestoftheboysandgirlswereplaying, inthestreet.Mycousins,theneighborhoodkids,they’dopenthegateandheadoutandroamfreeandcomebackatdusk.I’dbegmygrandmothertogooutside.

“Please.Please,canIgoplaywithmycousins?”

“No!They’regoingtotakeyou!”

For the longest time I thought shemeant that theotherkidswere going tostealme,butshewastalkingaboutthepolice.Childrencouldbetaken.Childrenwere taken. The wrong color kid in the wrong color area, and the governmentcould come in, strip your parents of custody, haul you off to an orphanage. Topolice the townships, the government relied on its network of impipis, theanonymous snitches who’d inform on suspicious activity. There were also theblackjacks,blackpeoplewhoworked for thepolice.Mygrandmother’sneighborwasablackjack.Shehadtomakesurehewasn’twatchingwhenshesmuggledmeinandoutofthehouse.

Mygran still tells the story ofwhen Iwas three years old and, fedupwithbeingaprisoner, Idugaholeunder thegate in thedriveway,wriggled through,andranoff.Everyonepanicked.Asearchpartywentoutandtrackedmedown.Ihadno ideahowmuchdangerIwasputtingeveryone in.The familycouldhavebeendeported,mygrancouldhavebeenarrested,mymommighthavegone toprison,andIprobablywouldhavebeenpackedofftoahomeforcoloredkids.

SoIwaskept inside.Otherthanthosefewinstancesofwalking inthepark,theflashesofmemoryIhavefromwhenIwasyoungarealmostall indoors,mewithmymominhertinyflat,mebymyselfatmygran’s.Ididn’thaveanyfriends.Ididn’t knowanykidsbesidesmy cousins. Iwasn’t a lonelykid—Iwasgoodatbeing alone. I’d read books, play with the toy that I had, make up imaginaryworlds.Ilivedinsidemyhead.Istillliveinsidemyhead.Tothisdayyoucanleaveme alone for hours and I’m perfectly happy entertaining myself. I have toremembertobewithpeople.

—

Obviously, I was not the only child born to black and white parents duringapartheid.Travelingaroundtheworldtoday,ImeetothermixedSouthAfricansall the time.Our stories start off identically.We’re around the same age. TheirparentsmetatsomeundergroundpartyinHillbroworCapeTown.Theylivedinan illegal flat. The difference is that in virtually every other case they left. ThewhiteparentsmuggledthemoutthroughLesothoorBotswana,andtheygrewupin exile, in England or Germany or Switzerland, because being a mixed family

underapartheidwasjustthatunbearable.

OnceMandelawaselectedwecouldfinallylivefreely.Exilesstartedtoreturn.ImetmyfirstonewhenIwasaroundseventeen.Hetoldmehisstory,andIwaslike, “Wait,what?Youmeanwe couldhave left?Thatwasanoption?” Imaginebeingthrownoutofanairplane.Youhitthegroundandbreakallyourbones,yougotothehospitalandyouhealandyoumoveonandfinallyputthewholethingbehindyou—andthenonedaysomebodytellsyouaboutparachutes.That’showIfelt. I couldn’tunderstandwhywe’dstayed. Iwentstraighthomeandaskedmymom.

“Why?Whydidn’twejustleave?Whydidn’twegotoSwitzerland?”

“BecauseIamnotSwiss,”shesaid,asstubbornasever.“Thisismycountry.WhyshouldIleave?”

SouthAfricaisamixoftheoldandthenew,theancientandthemodern,andSouthAfricanChristianityisaperfectexampleofthis.Weadoptedthereligionofourcolonizers,butmostpeopleheldonto theoldancestralways, too, just incase. InSouthAfrica, faith in theHolyTrinity exists quite comfortably alongside belief inwitchcraft, in casting spells and puttingcursesonone’senemies.

I come from a country where people are more likely to visit sangomas—shamans,traditional healers, pejoratively known as witch doctors—than they are to visit doctors ofWestern medicine. I come from a country where people have been arrested and tried forwitchcraft—inacourtoflaw.I’mnottalkingaboutthe1700s.I’mtalkingaboutfiveyearsago.Irememberamanbeingontrialforstrikinganotherpersonwithlightning.Thathappensalotinthehomelands.Therearenotallbuildings,fewtalltrees,nothingbetweenyouandthesky,sopeoplegethitbylightningallthetime.Andwhensomeonegetskilledbylightning,everyoneknowsit’sbecausesomebodyusedMotherNaturetotakeoutahit.Soifyouhadabeefwiththeguywhogotkilled,someonewillaccuseyouofmurderandthepolicewillcomeknocking.

“Mr.Noah,you’vebeenaccusedofmurder.YouusedwitchcrafttokillDavidKibuukabycausinghimtobestruckbylightning.”

“Whatistheevidence?”

“TheevidenceisthatDavidKibuukagotstruckbylightninganditwasn’tevenraining.”

Andyougo to trial.The court ispresidedoverbya judge.There is adocket.There is aprosecutor. Your defense attorney has to prove lack ofmotive, go through the crime-sceneforensics,presentastaunchdefense.Andyourattorney’sargumentcan’tbe“Witchcraftisn’treal.”No,no,no.You’lllose.

TREVOR,PRAY

Igrewupinaworldrunbywomen.Myfatherwaslovinganddevoted,butIcouldonly see him when and where apartheid allowed. My uncle Velile, my mom’syoungerbrother,livedwithmygrandmother,buthespentmostofhistimeatthelocaltaverngettingintofights.

Theonlysemi-regularmalefigureinmylifewasmygrandfather,mymother’sfather, who was a force to be reckoned with. He was divorced from mygrandmother and didn’t live with us, but he was around. His name wasTemperanceNoah,whichwasoddsincehewasnotamanofmoderationatall.Hewas boisterous and loud. His nickname in the neighborhood was “Tat Shisha,”whichtranslates looselyto“thesmokin’hotgrandpa.”Andthat’sexactlywhohewas.Helovedtheladies,andtheladieslovedhim.He’dputonhisbestsuitandstroll through the streets of Soweto on random afternoons, making everybodylaughandcharmingall thewomenhe’dmeet.Hehadabig,dazzlingsmilewithbrightwhiteteeth—falseteeth.Athome,he’dtakethemoutandI’dwatchhimdothatthingwherehelookedlikehewaseatinghisownface.

Wefoundoutmuch later in life thathewasbipolar,butbeforethatwe justthoughthewaseccentric.Onetimeheborrowedmymother’scartogototheshopformilk andbread.Hedisappeared anddidn’t comehomeuntil late that nightwhenwewerewaypast thepoint ofneeding themilk or thebread.Turnedouthe’d passed a youngwoman at the bus stop and, believing no beautifulwomanshouldhavetowaitforabus,heofferedheraridetowhereshelived—threehoursaway.Mymomwasfuriouswithhimbecausehe’dcostusawholetankofpetrol,whichwasenoughtogetustoworkandschoolfortwoweeks.

Whenhewasupyoucouldn’tstophim,buthismoodswingswerewild.Inhisyouthhe’d been a boxer, and one day he said I’d disrespectedhim andnowhewantedtoboxme.Hewasinhiseighties.Iwastwelve.Hehadhisfistsup,circlingme.“Let’sgo,Trevah!Comeon!Putyourfistsup!Hitme!I’llshowyouI’mstillaman!Let’sgo!”Icouldn’thithimbecauseIwasn’tabouttohitmyelder.PlusI’dneverbeen ina fightand Iwasn’tgoing tohavemy firstonebewithaneighty-year-old man. I ran to my mom, and she got him to stop. The day after hispugilisticrage,hesatinhischairanddidn’tmoveorsayawordallday.

TemperancelivedwithhissecondfamilyintheMeadowlands,andwevisitedthemsparinglybecausemymomwasalwaysafraidofbeingpoisoned.Whichwasathingthatwouldhappen.Thefirstfamilyweretheheirs,sotherewasalwaysthechancetheymightgetpoisonedbythesecondfamily.ItwaslikeGameofThroneswithpoorpeople.We’dgointothathouseandmymomwouldwarnme.

“Trevor,don’teatthefood.”

“ButI’mstarving.”

“No.Theymightpoisonus.”

“Okay,thenwhydon’tIjustpraytoJesusandJesuswilltakethepoisonoutofthefood?”

“Trevor!Sun’qhela!”

SoIonlysawmygrandfathernowandthen,andwhenhewasgonethehousewasinthehandsofwomen.

In addition to my mom there was my aunt Sibongile; she and her firsthusband,Dinky,hadtwokids,mycousinsMlungisiandBulelwa.Sibongilewasapowerhouse,astrongwomanineverysense,big-chested,themotherhen.Dinky,as his name implies, was dinky.Hewas a smallman.Hewas abusive, but notreally.Itwasmorelikehetriedtobeabusive,buthewasn’tverygoodatit.Hewastryingtoliveuptothisimageofwhathethoughtahusbandshouldbe,dominant,controlling.Irememberbeingtoldasachild,“Ifyoudon’thityourwoman,youdon’tloveher.”Thatwasthetalkyou’dhearfrommeninbarsandinthestreets.

Dinkywastryingtomasqueradeasthispatriarchthathewasn’t.He’dslapmyauntandhitherandshe’dtakeitandtakeit,andtheneventuallyshe’dsnapandsmackhimdownandputhimbackinhisplace.Dinkywouldalwayswalkaroundlike,“Icontrolmywoman.”Andyou’dwanttosay,“Dinky,firstofall,youdon’t.Secondofall,youdon’tneedto.Becauseshelovesyou.”Icanrememberonedaymyaunthadreallyhadenough.IwasintheyardandDinkycamerunningoutofthehousescreamingbloodymurder.Sibongilewasrightbehindhimwithapotofboilingwater,cursingathimandthreateningtodousehimwithit.InSowetoyouwerealwayshearingaboutmengettingdousedwithpotsofboilingwater—oftenawoman’sonly recourse.Andmenwere lucky if itwaswater.Somewomenusedhot cookingoil.Waterwas if thewomanwanted to teachhermana lesson.Oilmeantshewantedtoendit.

MygrandmotherFrancesNoahwasthefamilymatriarch.Sheranthehouse,lookedafterthekids,didthecookingandthecleaning.She’sbarelyfivefeettall,hunchedover fromyears in the factory, but rockhard and still to this day veryactive and verymuch alive.Wheremy grandfather was big and boisterous,mygrandmotherwascalm,calculating,withamindassharpasanything.Ifyouneedtoknowanythinginthefamilyhistory,goingbacktothe1930s,shecantellyouwhatdayithappened,whereithappened,andwhyithappened.Sheremembersit

all.

My great-grandmother lived with us as well.We called her Koko. She wassuperold,wellintohernineties,stoopedandfrail,completelyblind.Hereyeshadgonewhite,cloudedoverbycataracts.Shecouldn’twalkwithoutsomeoneholdingherup.She’dsitinthekitchennexttothecoalstove,bundledupinlongskirtsandheadscarves,blanketsoverhershoulders.Thecoalstovewasalwayson.Itwasforcooking,heatingthehouse,heatingwaterforbaths.Weputhertherebecauseitwasthewarmestspotinthehouse.Inthemorningsomeonewouldwakeherandbring her to sit in the kitchen. At night someone would come take her to bed.That’sallshedid,allday,everyday.Sitbythestove.Shewasfantasticandfullywithit.Shejustcouldn’tseeanddidn’tmove.

Kokoandmygranwouldsitandhavelongconversations,butasafive-year-oldIdidn’t thinkofKokoasarealperson.Sinceherbodydidn’tmove,shewaslikeabrainwithamouth.Our relationshipwasnothingbut commandpromptsandreplies,liketalkingtoacomputer.

“Goodmorning,Koko.”

“Goodmorning,Trevor.”

“Koko,didyoueat?”

“Yes,Trevor.”

“Koko,I’mgoingout.”

“Okay,becareful.”

“Bye,Koko.”

“Bye,Trevor.”

—

ThefactthatIgrewupinaworldrunbywomenwasnoaccident.Apartheidkeptmeawayfrommyfatherbecausehewaswhite,butforalmostallthekidsIknewonmygrandmother’sblockinSoweto,apartheidhadtakenawaytheirfathersaswell, just for different reasons. Their fathers were off working in a minesomewhere,abletocomehomeonlyduringtheholidays.Theirfathershadbeensenttoprison.Theirfatherswereinexile,fightingforthecause.Womenheldthecommunity together. “Wathint’Abafazi Wathint’imbokodo!” was the chant theywouldrallytoduringthefreedomstruggle.“Whenyoustrikeawoman,youstrikea rock.”As a nation,we recognized the power ofwomen, but in the home theywereexpectedtosubmitandobey.

InSoweto,religionfilledthevoidleftbyabsentmen.Iusedtoaskmymomifitwashardforhertoraisemealonewithoutahusband.She’dreply,“JustbecauseIlivewithoutamandoesn’tmeanI’veneverhadahusband.Godismyhusband.”Formymom,myaunt,mygrandmother,andalltheotherwomenonourstreet,lifecenteredonfaith.Prayermeetingswouldrotatehousesupanddowntheblock

basedontheday.Thesegroupswerewomenandchildrenonly.MymomwouldalwaysaskmyuncleVeliletojoin,andhe’dsay,“Iwouldjoinifthereweremoremen,butIcan’tbetheonlyonehere.”Thenthesingingandprayingwouldstart,andthatwashiscuetoleave.

Fortheseprayermeetings,we’djamourselvesintothetinylivingareaofthehostfamily’shouseandformacircle.Thenwewouldgoaroundthecircleofferingprayers. The grannieswould talk aboutwhatwas happening in their lives. “I’mhappy to behere. I had a goodweek atwork. I got a raise and Iwanted to saythankyouandpraiseJesus.”Sometimesthey’dpullouttheirBibleandsay,“Thisscripturespoke tomeandmaybe itwillhelpyou.”Thentherewouldbeabitofsong.Therewasaleatherpadcalled“thebeat”thatyou’dstraptoyourpalm,likeapercussion instrument. Someone would clap along on that, keeping time whileeveryone sang, “Masango vulekani singene eJerusalema. Masango vulekanisingeneeJerusalema.”

That’s how it would go. Pray, sing, pray. Sing, pray, sing. Sing, sing, sing.Pray, pray, pray. Sometimes it would last for hours, always ending with an“amen,”andtheycouldkeepthat“amen”goingonforfiveminutesatleast.“Ah-men. Ah-ah-ah-men. Ah-ah-ah-ah-men. Ahhhhhhhhahhhhhhhhhh-hahhhhhahhhhhhahhhhhmen. Meni-meni-meni. Men-men-men. Ahhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmennnnnnnnnnnnnnn-nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-n.”Theneveryonewouldsaygoodbyeandgohome.Nextnight,differenthouse,samething.

Tuesdaynights, theprayermeetingcametomygrandmother’shouse,andIwasalwaysexcited, for tworeasons.One, Igot toclapalongon thebeat for thesinging.Andtwo,Ilovedtopray.Mygrandmotheralwaystoldmethatshelovedmy prayers. She believedmy prayers weremore powerful, because I prayed inEnglish.EveryoneknowsthatJesus,who’swhite,speaksEnglish.TheBibleisinEnglish.Yes, theBiblewasnotwritten inEnglish, but theBible came to SouthAfricainEnglishsotousit’sinEnglish.WhichmademyprayersthebestprayersbecauseEnglishprayersgetansweredfirst.Howdoweknowthis?Lookatwhitepeople.Clearly they’regetting through to the rightperson.Add to thatMatthew19:14. “Suffer little children to come unto me,” Jesus said, “for theirs is thekingdomofheaven.”SoifachildisprayinginEnglish?ToWhiteJesus?That’sapowerful combination right there. Whenever I prayed, my grandmother wouldsay,“Thatprayerisgoingtogetanswered.Icanfeelit.”

Womeninthetownshipalwayshadsomethingtoprayfor—moneyproblems,a son who’d been arrested, a daughter who was sick, a husband who drank.Whenever the prayermeetings were at our house, becausemy prayers were sogood,mygrandmotherwouldwantmetoprayforeveryone.Shewouldturntomeand say, “Trevor, pray.” And I’d pray. I loved doing it. My grandmother had

convincedmethatmyprayersgotanswered.IfeltlikeIwashelpingpeople.

—

There is somethingmagical about Soweto. Yes, itwas a prisondesignedby ouroppressors,but italsogaveusasenseofself-determinationandcontrol.Sowetowasours.Ithadanaspirationalqualitythatyoudon’tfindelsewhere.InAmericathedreamistomakeitoutoftheghetto.InSoweto,becausetherewasnoleavingtheghetto,thedreamwastotransformtheghetto.

ForthemillionpeoplewholivedinSoweto,therewerenostores,nobars,norestaurants.Therewerenopavedroads,minimalelectricity,inadequatesewerage.Butwhen you put onemillion people together in one place, they find away tomakea life for themselves.Ablack-market economyroseup,withevery typeofbusinessbeingrunoutofsomeone’shouse:automechanics,daycare,guyssellingrefurbishedtires.

Themostcommonwerethespazashopsandtheshebeens.Thespazashopswere informal grocery stores. People would build a kiosk in their garage, buywholesale bread and eggs, and then resell them piecemeal. Everyone in thetownshipboughtthingsinminutequantitiesbecausenobodyhadanymoney.Youcouldn’taffordtobuyadozeneggsatatime,butyoucouldbuytwoeggsbecausethat’sallyouneededthatmorning.Youcouldbuyaquarterloafofbread,acupofsugar.The shebeenswereunlawfulbars in thebackof someone’shouse.They’dput chairs in their backyard andhang out an awning and run a speakeasy. Theshebeens were where men would go to drink after work and during prayermeetingsandmostanyothertimeofdayaswell.

Peoplebuilthomesthewaytheyboughteggs:alittleatatime.Everyfamilyinthetownshipwasallocatedapieceoflandbythegovernment.You’dfirstbuildashantyonyourplot,amakeshiftstructureofplywoodandcorrugatediron.Overtime,you’dsaveupmoneyandbuildabrickwall.Onewall.Thenyou’dsaveupandbuildanotherwall.Then,yearslater,athirdwallandeventuallyafourth.Nowyouhadaroom,oneroomforeveryoneinyourfamilytosleep,eat,doeverything.Thenyou’dsaveupforaroof.Thenwindows.Thenyou’dplasterthething.Thenyourdaughterwouldstartafamily.Therewasnowhereforthemtogo,sothey’dmove inwith you. You’d add another corrugated-iron structure onto your brickroomandslowly,overyears,turnthatintoaproperroomforthemaswell.Nowyour house had two rooms. Then three. Maybe four. Slowly, over generations,you’dkeeptryingtogettothepointwhereyouhadahome.

My grandmother lived in Orlando East. She had a two-room house. Not atwo-bedroomhouse.Atwo-roomhouse.Therewasabedroom,andthentherewasbasically a living room/kitchen/everything-else room. Somemight say we livedlike poor people. I prefer “open plan.”Mymom and I would stay there duringschool holidays.My aunt and cousinswould be therewhenever shewas on theoutswithDinky.Weallsleptonthefloorinoneroom,mymomandme,myauntandmycousins,myuncleandmygrandmotherandmygreat-grandmother.The

adultseachhadtheirownfoammattresses,andtherewasonebigonethatwe’drolloutintothemiddle,andthekidssleptonthat.

Wehadtwoshantiesinthebackyardthatmygrandmotherwouldrentouttomigrantsandseasonalworkers.Wehadasmallpeachtreeinatinypatchononesideofthehouseandontheothersidemygrandmotherhadadriveway.Ineverunderstoodwhymygrandmotherhadadriveway.Shedidn’thaveacar.Shedidn’tknowhowtodrive.Yetshehadadriveway.Allofourneighborshaddriveways,some with fancy, cast-iron gates. None of them had cars, either. There was nofutureinwhichmostofthesefamilieswouldeverhavecars.Therewasmaybeonecarforeverythousandpeople,yetalmosteveryonehadadriveway.Itwasalmostlike building the drivewaywas away ofwilling the car to happen. The story ofSowetoisthestoryofthedriveways.It’sahopefulplace.

—

Sadly,nomatterhowfancyyoumadeyourhouse,therewasonethingyoucouldneveraspiretoimprove:yourtoilet.Therewasnoindoorrunningwater,justonecommunaloutdoortapandoneoutdoortoiletsharedbysixorsevenhouses.Ourtoilet was in a corrugated-iron outhouse shared among the adjoining houses.Inside,therewasaconcreteslabwithaholeinitandaplastictoiletseatontop;therehadbeena lidatsomepoint,but ithadbrokenanddisappearedlongago.Wecouldn’taffordtoiletpaper,soonthewallnexttotheseatwasawirehangerwitholdnewspaperonitforyoutowipe.Thenewspaperwasuncomfortable,butatleastIstayedinformedwhileIhandledmybusiness.

The thing that I couldn’t handle about the outhousewas the flies. Itwas alongdroptothebottom,andtheywerealwaysdownthere,eatingonthepile,andIhadanirrational,all-consumingfearthattheyweregoingtoflyupandintomybum.

Oneafternoon,whenIwasaroundfiveyearsold,mygranleftmeathomeforafewhourstogorunerrands.Iwaslyingonthefloorinthebedroom,reading.Ineededtogo,but itwaspouringdownrain.Iwasdreadinggoingoutsidetousethe toilet, getting drenched running out there, water dripping on me from theleaky ceiling,wet newspaper, the flies attackingme from below. Then I had anidea.Whybotherwiththeouthouseatall?Whynotputsomenewspaperontheflooranddomybusinesslikeapuppy?Thatseemedlikeafantasticidea.Sothat’swhatIdid.Itookthenewspaper,laiditoutonthekitchenfloor,pulleddownmypants,andsquattedandgottoit.

Whenyou shit, as you first sit down, you’renot fully in the experience yet.Youarenotyetashittingperson.You’retransitioningfromapersonabouttoshittoapersonwhoisshitting.Youdon’twhipoutyoursmartphoneoranewspaperrightaway.Ittakesaminutetogetthefirstshitoutofthewayandgetinthezoneandgetcomfortable.Onceyoureachthatmoment,that’swhenitgetsreallynice.

It’s a powerful experience, shitting. There’s something magical about it,

profoundeven.IthinkGodmadehumansshitinthewaywedobecauseitbringsusbackdowntoearthandgivesushumility.Idon’tcarewhoyouare,weallshitthe same.Beyoncé shits.Thepope shits.TheQueenofEngland shits.Whenweshitweforgetourairsandourgraces,weforgethowfamousorhowrichweare.Allofthatgoesaway.

You are nevermore yourself thanwhen you’re taking a shit. Youhave thatmomentwhere you realize,This isme. This iswho I am. You can pee withoutgiving it a second thought, but not sowith shitting.Have you ever looked in ababy’seyeswhen it’sshitting?It’shavingamomentofpureself-awareness.Theouthouseruinsthat foryou.Therain, theflies,youarerobbedofyourmoment,andnobodyshouldberobbedofthat.Squattingandshittingonthekitchenfloorthat day, I was like,Wow. There are no flies. There’s no stress. This is reallygreat.I’mreallyenjoyingthis.IknewI’dmadeanexcellentchoice,andIwasveryproudofmyselfformakingit.I’dreachedthatmomentwhereIcouldrelaxandbewithmyself.ThenIcasuallylookedaroundtheroomandIglancedtomyleftandthere,justafewfeetaway,rightnexttothecoalstove,wasKoko.

ItwaslikethesceneinJurassicParkwhenthechildrenturnandtheT.rexisrightthere.Hereyeswerewideopen,cloudywhiteanddartingaroundtheroom.Iknewshecouldn’t seeme,buthernosewasstarting tocrinkle—shecouldsensethatsomethingwaswrong.

I panicked. I was mid-shit. All you can do when you’re mid-shit is finishshitting.MyonlyoptionwastofinishasquietlyandasslowlyasIcould,sothat’swhatIdecidedtodo.Then:thesoftestplopofalittle-boyturdonthenewspaper.Koko’sheadsnappedtowardthesound.

“Who’sthere?Hallo?Hallo?!”

Ifroze.Iheldmybreathandwaited.

“Who’sthere?!Hallo?!”

Ikeptquiet,waited,thenstartedagain.

“Issomebodythere?!Trevor,isthatyou?!Frances?Hallo?Hallo?”

Shestartedcallingoutthewholefamily.“Nombuyiselo?Sibongile?Mlungisi?Bulelwa?Who’sthere?What’shappening?”

Itwaslikeagame,likeIwastryingtohideandablindwomanwastryingtofindmeusingsonar.Everytimeshecalledout,Ifroze.Therewouldbecompletesilence.“Who’sthere?!Hallo?!”I’dpause,waitforhertosettlebackinherchair,andthenI’dstartupagain.

Finally,afterwhatfeltlikeforever,Ifinished.Istoodup,tookthenewspaper—which isnot thequietest thing—and I slowwwwwly folded it over. It crinkled.“Who’sthere?”AgainIpaused,waited.ThenIfoldeditoversomemore,walkedovertotherubbishbin,placedmysinatthebottom,andgingerlycovereditwiththe rest of the trash. Then I tiptoed back to the other room, curled up on the

mattressonthefloor,andpretendedtobeasleep.Theshitwasdone,noouthouseinvolved,andKokowasnonethewiser.

Missionaccomplished.

—

Anhourlatertherainhadstopped.Mygrandmothercamehome.Thesecondshewalkedin,Kokocalledouttoher.

“Frances!ThankGodyou’rehere.There’ssomethinginthehouse.”

“Whatwasit?”

“Idon’tknow,butIcouldhearit,andtherewasasmell.”

Mygranstartedsniffingtheair.“DearLord!Yes,Icansmellit,too.Isitarat?Didsomethingdie?It’sdefinitelyinthehouse.”

They went back and forth about it, quite concerned, and then, as it wasgetting dark,mymother camehome fromwork. The second shewalked in,mygrancalledouttoher.

“Oh,Nombuyiselo!Nombuyiselo!There’ssomethinginthehouse!”

“What?!Whatdoyoumean?”

Kokotoldherthestory,thesounds,thesmells.

Then my mom, who has a keen sense of smell, started going around thekitchen,sniffing.“Yes,Icansmellit.Icanfindit…Icanfindit…”Shewenttotherubbish bin. “It’s in here.” She lifted out the rubbish, pulled out the foldednewspaper underneath, and opened it up, and there was my little turd. Sheshowedittogran.

“Look!”

“What?!Howdiditgetthere?!”

Koko, still blind, still stuck in her chair, was dying to know what washappening.

“What’sgoingon?!”shecried.“What’sgoingon?!Didyoufindit?!”

“It’sshit,”Momsaid.“There’sshitinthebottomofthedustbin.”

“Buthow?!”Kokosaid.“Therewasnoonehere!”

“Areyousuretherewasnoonehere?”

“Yes.Icalledouttoeveryone.Nobodycame.”

Mymothergasped.“We’vebeenbewitched!It’sademon!”

Formymother,thiswasthelogicalconclusion.Becausethat’showwitchcraftworks. If someone has put a curse on you or your home, there is always thetalismanortotem,atuftofhairortheheadofacat,thephysicalmanifestationof

thespiritualthing,proofofthedemon’spresence.

Oncemymomfoundtheturd,allhellbrokeloose.Thiswasserious.Theyhadevidence.Shecameintothebedroom.

“Trevor!Trevor!Wakeup!”

“What?!”Isaid,playingdumb.“What’sgoingon?!”

“Come!There’sademoninthehouse!”

Shetookmyhandanddraggedmeoutofbed.Itwasallhandsondeck,timeforaction.The first thingwehadtodowasgooutsideandburntheshit.That’swhat you do with witchcraft; the only way to destroy it is to burn the physicalthing.Wewentouttotheyard,andmymomputthenewspaperwithmylittleturdonthedriveway,litamatch,andsetitonfire.Thenmymomandmygranstoodaroundtheburningshit,prayingandsingingsongsofpraise.

Thecommotiondidn’tstoptherebecausewhenthere’sademonaround,thewhole community has to join together to drive it out. If you’re not part of theprayer,thedemonmightleaveourhouseandgotoyourhouseandcurseyou.Soweneededeveryone.Thealarmwas raised.The callwentout.My tinyoldgranwasoutthegate,goingupanddowntheblock,callingtoalltheotheroldgranniesforanemergencyprayermeeting.“Come!We’vebeenbewitched!”

I stood there,my shit burning in thedriveway,mypoor agedgrandmothertotteringupanddownthestreetinapanic,andIdidn’tknowwhattodo.Iknewtherewasnodemon,buttherewasnowayIcouldcomeclean.ThehidingIwouldhavetoendure?GoodLord.Honestywasneverthebestpolicywhenitcametoahiding.Ikeptquiet.

MomentslaterthegranniescamestreaminginwiththeirBibles,throughthegate and up the driveway, a dozen ormore at least. Everyonewent inside. Thehousewaspacked.Thiswasbyfarthebiggestprayermeetingwe’deverhad—thebiggestthingthathadeverhappenedinthehistoryofourhome,period.Everyonesatinthecircle,prayingandpraying,andtheprayerswerestrong.Thegrannieswerechantingandmurmuringandswayingbackandforth,speakingintongues.Iwasdoingmybesttokeepmyheadlowandstayoutofit.Thenmygrandmotherreachedbackandgrabbedme,pulledmeintothemiddleofthecircle,andlookedintomyeyes.

“Trevor,pray.”

“Yes!” my mother said. “Help us! Pray, Trevor. Pray to God to kill thedemon!”

I was terrified. I believed in the power of prayer. I knew that my prayersworked.SoifIprayedtoGodtokillthethingthatlefttheshit,andthethingthatlefttheshitwasme,thenGodwasgoingtokillme.Ifroze.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Butall thegrannieswere lookingatme,waitingformetopray,soIprayed,stumblingthroughasbestIcould.

“DearLord,pleaseprotectus,um,youknow,fromwhoeverdidthisbut,like,wedon’tknowwhathappenedexactlyandmaybeitwasabigmisunderstandingand,youknow,maybeweshouldn’tbequicktojudgewhenwedon’tknowthewholestoryand,Imean,ofcourseyou know best, Heavenly Father, but maybe this time it wasn’tactuallyademon, becausewho can say for certain, somaybe cutwhoeveritwasabreak…”

It was not my best performance. Eventually I wrapped it up and sat backdown. The praying continued. Itwent on for some time. Pray, sing, pray. Sing,pray, sing. Sing, sing, sing. Pray, pray, pray. Then everyone finally felt that thedemonwasgoneandlifecouldcontinue,andwehadthebig“amen”andeveryonesaidgoodnightandwenthome.

ThatnightIfeltterrible.Beforebed,Iquietlyprayed,“God,Iamsosorryforallofthis.Iknowthiswasnotcool.”BecauseIknew:Godanswersyourprayers.Godisyourfather.He’sthemanwho’sthereforyou,themanwhotakescareofyou.Whenyoupray,HestopsandHe takesHis timeandHe listens,and IhadsubjectedHimtotwohoursofoldgranniesprayingwhenIknewthatwithallthepainandsufferingintheworldHehadmoreimportantthingstodealwiththanmyshit.

When Iwas growing upwe used to get American TV shows rebroadcast on our stations:DoogieHowser,M.D.;Murder,SheWrote;Rescue911withWilliamShatner.Mostof themweredubbedintoAfricanlanguages.ALFwasinAfrikaans.TransformerswasinSotho.ButifyouwantedtowatchtheminEnglish,theoriginalAmericanaudiowouldbesimulcastontheradio. You could mute your TV and listen to that. Watching those shows, I realized thatwheneverblackpeoplewereon-screenspeakinginAfricanlanguages,theyfeltfamiliartome.Theysounded like theyweresupposedtosound.ThenI’d listento theminsimulcastontheradio,andtheywouldallhaveblackAmericanaccents.Myperceptionofthemchanged.Theydidn’tfeelfamiliar.Theyfeltlikeforeigners.

Languagebringswithitanidentityandaculture,oratleasttheperceptionofit.Asharedlanguagesays“We’rethesame.”Alanguagebarriersays“We’redifferent.”Thearchitectsofapartheidunderstoodthis.Partoftheefforttodivideblackpeoplewastomakesurewewereseparatednotjustphysicallybutbylanguageaswell.IntheBantuschools,childrenwereonlytaught in their home language. Zulu kids learned in Zulu. Tswana kids learned in Tswana.Because of this, we’d fall into the trap the government had set for us and fight amongourselves,believingthatweweredifferent.

The great thing about language is that you can just as easily use it to do the opposite:convincepeoplethattheyarethesame.Racismteachesusthatwearedifferentbecauseofthecolorofourskin.Butbecauseracismisstupid,it’seasilytricked.Ifyou’reracistandyoumeetsomeonewhodoesn’tlooklikeyou,thefactthathecan’tspeaklikeyoureinforcesyourracistpreconceptions:He’sdifferent,lessintelligent.AbrilliantscientistcancomeovertheborderfromMexico to live inAmerica,but ifhe speaks inbrokenEnglish,people say, “Eh, Idon’ttrustthisguy.”

“Buthe’sascientist.”

“InMexicanscience,maybe.Idon’ttrusthim.”

However,ifthepersonwhodoesn’tlooklikeyouspeakslikeyou,yourbrainshort-circuitsbecauseyourracismprogramhasnoneof those instructions in thecode.“Wait,wait,”yourmindsays,“theracismcodesaysifhedoesn’tlooklikemeheisn’tlikeme,butthelanguagecodesaysifhespeakslikemehe…islikeme?Somethingisoffhere.Ican’tfigurethisout.”

CHAMELEON

Oneafternoon Iwasplayingwithmycousins. Iwasadoctorand theyweremypatients.IwasoperatingonmycousinBulelwa’searwithasetofmatcheswhenIaccidentallyperforatedhereardrum.Allhellbrokeloose.Mygrandmothercamerunninginfromthekitchen.“Kwenzekantoni?!”“What’shappening?!”Therewasblood coming out of my cousin’s head. We were all crying. My grandmotherpatchedupBulelwa’searandmadesuretostopthebleeding.Butwekeptcrying.Becauseclearlywe’ddonesomethingwewerenotsupposedtodo,andweknewwewere going to be punished.My grandmother finished upwith Bulelwa’s earandwhippedoutabeltandshebeattheshitoutofBulelwa.ThenshebeattheshitoutofMlungisi,too.Shedidn’ttouchme.

Laterthatnightmymothercamehomefromwork.Shefoundmycousinwithabandageoverherearandmygrancryingatthekitchentable.

“What’sgoingon?”mymomsaid.

“Oh,Nombuyiselo,”shesaid.“Trevorissonaughty.He’sthenaughtiestchildI’veevercomeacrossinmylife.”

“Thenyoushouldhithim.”

“Ican’thithim.”

“Whynot?”

“Because I don’t knowhow tohit awhite child,” she said. “Ablack child, Iunderstand.Ablackchild,youhitthemandtheystayblack.Trevor,whenyouhithim he turns blue and green and yellow and red. I’ve never seen those colorsbefore.I’mscaredI’mgoingtobreakhim.Idon’twanttokillawhiteperson.I’msoafraid.I’mnotgoingtotouchhim.”Andsheneverdid.

MygrandmothertreatedmelikeIwaswhite.Mygrandfatherdid,too,onlyhewasevenmoreextreme.Hecalledme“Mastah.”Inthecar,heinsistedondrivingmeasifheweremychauffeur.“Mastahmustalwayssitinthebackseat.”Ineverchallengedhimonit.WhatwasIgoingtosay?“Ibelieveyourperceptionofraceisflawed,Grandfather.”No.Iwasfive.Isatintheback.

There were somany perks to being “white” in a black family, I can’t even

front.Iwashavingagreattime.MyownfamilybasicallydidwhattheAmericanjustice system does: I was given more lenient treatment than the black kids.Misbehaviorthatmycousinswouldhavebeenpunishedfor,Iwasgivenawarningand let off. And I was way naughtier than either ofmy cousins. It wasn’t evenclose.Ifsomethinggotbrokenorifsomeonewasstealinggranny’scookies,itwasme.Iwastrouble.

MymomwastheonlyforceItrulyfeared.Shebelievedifyousparetherod,youspoilthechild.Buteveryoneelsesaid,“No,he’sdifferent,”andtheygavemeapass.Growingup theway Idid, I learnedhoweasy it is forwhitepeople togetcomfortablewithasystemthatawardsthemalltheperks.Iknewmycousinsweregetting beaten for things that I’d done, but I wasn’t interested in changingmygrandmother’s perspective, because that would mean I’d get beaten, too. WhywouldIdothat?SothatI’dfeelbetter?Beingbeatendidn’tmakemefeelbetter.Ihad a choice. I could champion racial justice in our home, or I could enjoygranny’scookies.Iwentwiththecookies.

—

AtthatpointIdidn’t thinkof thespecial treatmentashavingtodowithcolor.Ithought of it as having to dowith Trevor. It wasn’t, “Trevor doesn’t get beatenbecause Trevor is white.” It was, “Trevor doesn’t get beaten because Trevor isTrevor.” Trevor can’t go outside. Trevor can’t walk without supervision. It’sbecauseI’mme;that’swhythisishappening.Ihadnootherpointsofreference.TherewerenoothermixedkidsaroundsothatIcouldsay,“Oh,thishappenstous.”

NearlyonemillionpeoplelivedinSoweto.Ninety-ninepointninepercentofthemwereblack—andthentherewasme.Iwasfamousinmyneighborhoodjustbecauseofthecolorofmyskin.Iwassouniquepeoplewouldgivedirectionsusingme as a landmark. “The house onMakhalima Street. At the corner you’ll see alight-skinnedboy.Takearightthere.”

Wheneverthekidsinthestreetsawmethey’dyell,“Indodayomlungu!”“Thewhiteman!”Someofthemwouldrunaway.Otherswouldcallouttotheirparentstocomelook.OtherswouldrunupandtrytotouchmetoseeifIwasreal.Itwaspandemonium. What I didn’t understand at the time was that the other kidsgenuinelyhadnocluewhatawhitepersonwas.Blackkidsinthetownshipdidn’tleavethetownship.Fewpeoplehadtelevisions.They’dseenthewhitepolicerollthrough,butthey’dneverdealtwithawhitepersonface-to-face,ever.

I’dgotofuneralsandI’dwalkinandthebereavedwouldlookupandseemeandthey’dstopcrying.They’dstartwhispering.Thenthey’dwaveandsay,“Oh!”like theyweremore shockedbymewalking in thanby thedeath of their lovedones.Ithinkpeoplefeltlikethedeadpersonwasmoreimportantbecauseawhitepersonhadcometothefuneral.

Afterafuneral,themournersallgotothehouseofthesurvivingfamilytoeat.

Ahundredpeoplemightshowup,andyou’vegottofeedthem.Usuallyyougetacowandslaughteritandyourneighborscomeoverandhelpyoucook.Neighborsandacquaintances eatoutside in the yardand in the street, and the family eatsindoors.EveryfuneralIeverwentto,Iateindoors.Itdidn’tmatterifweknewthedeceased or not. The family would seeme and inviteme in. “Awunakuvumelaumntanawomlunguamengaphandle.Yizanayeaphangaphakathi,”they’dsay.“Youcan’tletthewhitechildstandoutside.Bringhiminhere.”

AsakidIunderstoodthatpeopleweredifferentcolors,butinmyheadwhiteandblackandbrownwere like typesof chocolate.Dadwas thewhite chocolate,momwas thedarkchocolate,andIwas themilkchocolate.Butwewereall justchocolate. Ididn’t knowanyof ithadanything todowith “race.” Ididn’t knowwhatracewas.Mymotherneverreferredtomydadaswhiteortomeasmixed.SowhentheotherkidsinSowetocalledme“white,”eventhoughIwaslightbrown,Ijust thought they had their colors mixed up, like they hadn’t learned themproperly.“Ah,yes,myfriend.You’veconfusedaquawithturquoise.Icanseehowyoumadethatmistake.You’renotthefirst.”

I soon learned that the quickest way to bridge the race gap was throughlanguage.Sowetowasameltingpot:familiesfromdifferenttribesandhomelands.Mostkidsinthetownshipspokeonlytheirhomelanguage,butIlearnedseverallanguagesbecause I grewup inahousewhere therewasnooptionbut to learnthem.MymommadesureEnglishwasthefirstlanguageIspoke.Ifyou’reblackinSouthAfrica,speakingEnglishistheonethingthatcangiveyoualegup.Englishisthelanguageofmoney.Englishcomprehensionisequatedwithintelligence.Ifyou’re looking for a job, English is the difference between getting the job orstaying unemployed. If you’re standing in the dock, English is the differencebetweengettingoffwithafineorgoingtoprison.

AfterEnglish,Xhosawaswhatwespokearoundthehouse.Whenmymotherwasangry she’d fall backonherhome language.As anaughty child, Iwaswellversed inXhosa threats.Theywere the firstphrases Ipickedup,mostly formyown safety—phrases like “Ndiza kubetha entloko.” “I’ll knock you upside thehead.”Or“Sidengendinisomntwana.”“Youidiotofachild.”It’saverypassionatelanguage. Outside of that, my mother picked up different languages here andthere.ShelearnedZulubecauseit’ssimilartoXhosa.ShespokeGermanbecauseofmyfather.ShespokeAfrikaansbecauseitisusefultoknowthelanguageofyouroppressor.Sothoshelearnedinthestreets.

Living with my mom, I saw how she used language to cross boundaries,handle situations, navigate the world. We were in a shop once, and theshopkeeper, right in front of us, turned to his security guard and said, inAfrikaans, “Volg daai swartes, netnou steel hulle iets.” “Follow those blacks incasetheystealsomething.”

Mymotherturnedaroundandsaid, inbeautiful, fluentAfrikaans,“Hoekomvolgjyniedaaiswartessodatjyhullekanhelpkrywaarnahullesoeknie?”“Why

don’tyoufollowtheseblackssoyoucanhelpthemfindwhatthey’relookingfor?”

“Ag, jammer!” he said, apologizing in Afrikaans. Then—and this was thefunnything—hedidn’tapologizeforbeingracist;hemerelyapologizedforaiminghis racismatus. “Oh, I’m so sorry,”he said. “I thought youwere like theotherblacks.Youknowhowtheylovetosteal.”

Ilearnedtouselanguagelikemymotherdid.Iwouldsimulcast—giveyoutheprogram in your own tongue. I’d get suspicious looks from people just walkingdownthestreet.“Whereareyoufrom?”they’dask.I’dreplyinwhateverlanguagethey’daddressedme in,usingthesameaccent that theyused.Therewouldbeabriefmoment of confusion, and then the suspicious lookwoulddisappear. “Oh,okay.Ithoughtyouwereastranger.We’regoodthen.”

Itbecameatoolthatservedmemywholelife.OnedayasayoungmanIwaswalkingdownthestreet,andagroupofZuluguyswaswalkingbehindme,closinginonme,andIcouldhearthemtalkingtooneanotherabouthowtheyweregoingtomugme.“Asibambe leautieyomlungu.Phumangaphaminangizoqhamukangemuvakwakhe.” “Let’sget thiswhiteguy.Yougo tohis left,andI’llcomeupbehindhim.”Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Icouldn’trun,soIjustspunaroundrealquick and said, “Kodwa bafwethu yingani singavele sibambe umuntu inkunzi?Asenzeni. Mina ngikulindele.” “Yo, guys, why don’t we just mug someonetogether?I’mready.Let’sdoit.”

They looked shocked for a moment, and then they started laughing. “Oh,sorry, dude. We thought you were something else. We weren’t trying to takeanythingfromyou.Weweretryingtostealfromwhitepeople.Haveagoodday,man.”Theywerereadytodomeviolentharm,untiltheyfeltwewerepartofthesametribe,andthenwewerecool.That,andsomanyothersmallerincidentsinmylife,mademerealizethatlanguage,evenmorethancolor,defineswhoyouaretopeople.

I became a chameleon. My color didn’t change, but I could change yourperceptionofmycolor.IfyouspoketomeinZulu,IrepliedtoyouinZulu.IfyouspoketomeinTswana,IrepliedtoyouinTswana.MaybeIdidn’tlooklikeyou,butifIspokelikeyou,Iwasyou.

—

As apartheid was coming to an end, South Africa’s elite private schools startedaccepting children of all colors. My mother’s company offered bursaries,scholarships, for underprivileged families, and she managed to get me intoMaryvaleCollege, an expensive privateCatholic school. Classes taught by nuns.Mass on Fridays. The whole bit. I started preschool there when I was three,primaryschoolwhenIwasfive.

In my class we had all kinds of kids. Black kids, white kids, Indian kids,coloredkids.Mostofthewhitekidswereprettywelloff.Everychildofcolorprettymuchwasn’t.Butbecauseofscholarshipsweallsatatthesametable.Weworethe

samemaroonblazers,thesamegrayslacksandskirts.Wehadthesamebooks.Wehadthesameteachers.Therewasnoracialseparation.Everycliquewasraciallymixed.

Kidsstillgotteasedandbullied,but itwasoverusualkidstuff:beingfatorbeing skinny, being tall or being short, being smart or being dumb. I don’trememberanybodybeing teasedabout their race. Ididn’t learn toput limitsonwhatIwassupposedtolikeornotlike.Ihadawideberthtoexploremyself.Ihadcrushesonwhitegirls.Ihadcrushesonblackgirls.NobodyaskedmewhatIwas.IwasTrevor.

Itwasawonderfulexperiencetohave,butthedownsidewasthatitshelteredmefromreality.Maryvalewasanoasisthatkeptmefromthetruth,acomfortableplacewhereIcouldavoidmakingatoughdecision.Buttherealworlddoesn’tgoaway.Racismexists.Peoplearegettinghurt,andjustbecauseit’snothappeningtoyoudoesn’tmean it’snothappening.Andat somepoint,youhave tochoose.Blackorwhite.Pickaside.Youcantrytohidefromit.Youcansay,“Oh,Idon’tpicksides,”butatsomepointlifewillforceyoutopickaside.

At the end of grade six I left Maryvale to go to H. A. Jack Primary, agovernmentschool.IhadtotakeanaptitudetestbeforeIstarted,and,basedonthe results of the test, the school counselor toldme, “You’re going to be in thesmartclasses,theAclasses.”Ishowedupforthefirstdayofschoolandwenttomyclassroom.Ofthethirtyorsokidsinmyclass,almostallofthemwerewhite.TherewasoneIndiankid,maybeoneortwoblackkids,andme.

Then recess came. We went out on the playground, and black kids wereeverywhere.Itwasanoceanofblack,likesomeonehadopenedatapandalltheblackhadcomepouringout. Iwas like,Wherewere theyallhiding?Thewhitekids I’d met that morning, they went in one direction, the black kids went inanotherdirection,andIwasleftstandinginthemiddle,totallyconfused.Werewegoingtomeetuplateron?Ididnotunderstandwhatwashappening.

Iwaselevenyearsold,and itwas like Iwas seeingmycountry for the firsttime.Inthetownshipsyoudon’tseesegregation,becauseeveryoneisblack.Inthewhiteworld, any timemymother tookme to awhite church,wewere the onlyblackpeoplethere,andmymomdidn’tseparateherselffromanyone.Shedidn’tcare.She’dgo rightupandsitwith thewhitepeople.AndatMaryvale, thekidsweremixedupandhangingouttogether.Beforethatday,Ihadneverseenpeoplebeingtogetherandyetnottogether,occupyingthesamespaceyetchoosingnottoassociatewitheachotherinanyway.InaninstantIcouldsee,Icouldfeel,howtheboundariesweredrawn.Groupsmoved incolorpatternsacross theyard,upthestairs,downthehall.Itwasinsane.IlookedoveratthewhitekidsI’dmetthatmorning. Tenminutes earlier I’d thought I was at a school where they were amajority. Now I realized how few of them there actually were compared toeveryoneelse.

Istoodthereawkwardlybymyselfinthisno-man’s-landinthemiddleofthe

playground.Luckily,IwasrescuedbytheIndiankidfrommyclass,aguynamedTheesanPillay.TheesanwasoneofthefewIndiankidsinschool,sohe’dnoticedme, another obvious outsider, right away. He ran over to introduce himself.“Hello,fellowanomaly!You’reinmyclass.Whoareyou?What’syourstory?”Westartedtalkingandhititoff.Hetookmeunderhiswing,theArtfulDodgertomybewilderedOliver.

ThroughourconversationitcameupthatIspokeseveralAfricanlanguages,and Theesan thought a colored kid speaking black languages was the mostamazingtrick.Hebroughtmeovertoagroupofblackkids.“Saysomething,”hetold them, “andhe’ll showyouheunderstandsyou.”Onekid said something inZulu,andIrepliedtohiminZulu.Everyonecheered.AnotherkidsaidsomethinginXhosa,andIrepliedtohiminXhosa.Everyonecheered.FortherestofrecessTheesan tookmearoundtodifferentblackkidson theplayground. “Showthemyourtrick.Doyourlanguagething.”

Theblackkidswerefascinated.InSouthAfricabackthen,itwasn’tcommonto findawhitepersonoracoloredpersonwhospokeAfrican languages;duringapartheid white people were always taught that those languages were beneaththem.SothefactthatIdidspeakAfricanlanguagesimmediatelyendearedmetotheblackkids.

“Howcomeyouspeakourlanguages?”theyasked.

“BecauseI’mblack,”Isaid,“likeyou.”

“You’renotblack.”

“Yes,Iam.”

“No,you’renot.Haveyounotseenyourself?”

Theywereconfusedatfirst.Becauseofmycolor,theythoughtIwasacoloredperson,butspeakingthesamelanguagesmeantthatIbelongedtotheir tribe.Itjusttookthemamomenttofigureitout.Ittookmeamoment,too.

AtsomepointIturnedtooneofthemandsaid,“Hey,howcomeIdon’tseeyouguysinanyofmyclasses?”ItturnedouttheywereintheBclasses,whichalsohappened to be the black classes. That same afternoon, I went back to the Aclasses,andbytheendofthedayIrealizedthattheyweren’tforme.Suddenly,Iknewwhomypeoplewere,andIwantedtobewiththem.Iwenttoseetheschoolcounselor.

“I’dliketoswitchover,”Itoldher.“I’dliketogototheBclasses.”

Shewasconfused.“Oh,no,”shesaid.“Idon’tthinkyouwanttodothat.”

“Whynot?”

“Becausethosekidsare…youknow.”

“No,Idon’tknow.Whatdoyoumean?”

“Look,”shesaid,“you’reasmartkid.Youdon’twanttobeinthatclass.”

“Butaren’ttheclassesthesame?EnglishisEnglish.Mathismath.”

“Yeah,butthatclassis…thosekidsaregonnaholdyouback.Youwanttobeinthesmartclass.”

“ButsurelytheremustbesomesmartkidsintheBclass.”

“No,therearen’t.”

“Butallmyfriendsarethere.”

“Youdon’twanttobefriendswiththosekids.”

“Yes,Ido.”

Wewentbackandforth.Finallyshegavemeasternwarning.

“Youdo realize the effect thiswillhaveonyour future?Youdounderstandwhatyou’regivingup?Thiswillimpacttheopportunitiesyou’llhaveopentoyoufortherestofyourlife.”

“I’lltakethatchance.”

ImovedtotheBclasseswiththeblackkids.IdecidedI’dratherbeheldbackwithpeopleIlikedthanmoveaheadwithpeopleIdidn’tknow.

BeingatH.A.JackmademerealizeIwasblack.BeforethatrecessI’dneverhadtochoose,butwhenIwasforcedtochoose,Ichoseblack.Theworldsawmeascolored,butIdidn’tspendmylifelookingatmyself.Ispentmylifelookingatotherpeople. I sawmyself as thepeoplearoundme,and thepeoplearoundmewereblack.Mycousinsareblack,mymomisblack,mygranisblack.Igrewupblack.BecauseIhadawhitefather,becauseI’dbeeninwhiteSundayschool,Igotalongwiththewhitekids,butIdidn’tbelongwiththewhitekids.Iwasn’tapartoftheir tribe. But the black kids embraced me. “Come along,” they said. “You’rerollingwith us.”With the black kids, Iwasn’t constantly trying to be.With theblackkids,Ijustwas.

Beforeapartheid,anyblackSouthAfricanwhoreceivedaformaleducationwaslikelytaughtby European missionaries, foreign enthusiasts eager to Christianize and Westernize thenatives.Inthemissionschools,blackpeoplelearnedEnglish,Europeanliterature,medicine,the law. It’s no coincidence that nearly every major black leader of the anti-apartheidmovement, from Nelson Mandela to Steve Biko, was educated by the missionaries—aknowledgeablemanisafreeman,oratleastamanwholongsforfreedom.

The onlyway tomake apartheidwork, therefore,was to cripple the blackmind.Underapartheid,thegovernmentbuiltwhatbecameknownasBantuschools.Bantuschoolstaughtnoscience,nohistory,nocivics.Theytaughtmetricsandagriculture:howtocountpotatoes,howtopaveroads,chopwood,tillthesoil.“ItdoesnotservetheBantutolearnhistoryandsciencebecausehe isprimitive,” thegovernmentsaid.“Thiswillonlymisleadhim,showinghim pastures inwhich he is not allowed to graze.” To their credit, theywere simply beinghonest.Whyeducateaslave?WhyteachsomeoneLatinwhenhisonlypurposeistodigholesintheground?

Missionschoolsweretoldtoconformtothenewcurriculumorshutdown.Mostofthemshutdown,andblackchildrenwere forced intocrowdedclassrooms indilapidatedschools,oftenwithteacherswhowerebarelyliteratethemselves.Ourparentsandgrandparentsweretaughtwith littlesingsong lessons, thewayyou’dteachapreschoolershapesandcolors.Mygrandfatherusedtosingthesongsandlaughabouthowsillytheywere.Twotimestwoisfour.Threetimestwoissix.Lalalalala.We’retalkingaboutfullygrownteenagersbeingtaughtthisway,forgenerations.

Whathappenedwitheducation inSouthAfrica,with themissionschoolsand theBantuschools,offersaneatcomparisonofthetwogroupsofwhiteswhooppressedus,theBritishandtheAfrikaners.ThedifferencebetweenBritishracismandAfrikanerracismwasthatatleasttheBritishgavethenativessomethingtoaspireto.IftheycouldlearntospeakcorrectEnglishanddress inproperclothes, if theycouldAnglicizeandcivilize themselves,onedaytheymight bewelcome in society. TheAfrikanersnever gaveus that option.British racismsaid, “If themonkey canwalk like aman and talk like aman, then perhaps he is aman.”Afrikanerracismsaid,“Whygiveabooktoamonkey?”

THESECONDGIRL

Mymotherusedto tellme,“Ichose tohaveyoubecauseIwantedsomethingtoloveandsomethingthatwouldlovemeunconditionallyinreturn.”Iwasaproductofhersearchforbelonging.Sheneverfeltlikeshebelongedanywhere.Shedidn’tbelongtohermother,didn’tbelongtoherfather,didn’tbelongwithhersiblings.Shegrewupwithnothingandwantedsomethingtocallherown.

My grandparents’marriagewas an unhappy one. Theymet andmarried inSophiatown, but one year later the army came in and drove them out. Thegovernmentseizedtheirhomeandbulldozedthewholeareatobuildafancy,newwhite suburb, Triomf. Triumph. Along with tens of thousands of other blackpeople, my grandparents were forcibly relocated to Soweto, to a neighborhoodcalledtheMeadowlands.Theydivorcednotlongafterthat,andmygrandmothermovedtoOrlandowithmymom,myaunt,andmyuncle.

Mymomwastheproblemchild,atomboy,stubborn,defiant.Mygranhadnoideahowtoraiseher.Whateverlovetheyhadwaslostintheconstantfightingthatwentonbetweenthem.Butmymomadoredherfather,thecharming,charismaticTemperance.Shewentgallivantingwithhimonhismanicmisadventures.She’dtag alongwhen he’d go drinking in the shebeens. All shewanted in life was topleasehimandbewithhim.Shewasalwaysbeingswattedawaybyhisgirlfriends,whodidn’t likehavingareminderofhis firstmarriagehangingaround,butthatonlymadeherwanttobewithhimallthemore.

Whenmymotherwasnineyearsold,shetoldmygranthatshedidn’twanttolive with her anymore. She wanted to live with her father. “If that’s what youwant,” Gran said, “then go.” Temperance came to pick my mom up, and shehappilyboundedupintohiscar,readytogoandbewiththemansheloved.ButinsteadoftakinghertolivewithhimintheMeadowlands,withouteventellingherwhy,hepackedheroffandsenthertolivewithhissisterintheXhosahomeland,Transkei—he didn’twant her, either.Mymomwas themiddle child.Her sisterwas theeldestand firstborn.Herbrotherwas theonly son,bearerof the familyname. They both stayed in Soweto, were both raised and cared for by theirparents.Butmymomwasunwanted.Shewasthesecondgirl.TheonlyplaceshewouldhavelessvaluewouldbeChina.

Mymotherdidn’tseeherfamilyagainfortwelveyears.Shelivedinahutwithfourteencousins—fourteenchildrenfromfourteendifferentmothersandfathers.All the husbands and uncles had gone off to the cities to find work, and thechildrenwhoweren’twanted,orwhomnoonecouldaffordtofeed,hadbeensentbacktothehomelandtoliveonthisaunt’sfarm.

Thehomelandswere,ostensibly,theoriginalhomesofSouthAfrica’stribes,sovereign and semi-sovereign “nations” where black people would be “free.” Ofcourse,thiswasalie.Forstarters,despitethefactthatblackpeoplemadeupover80percentofSouthAfrica’spopulation,theterritoryallocatedforthehomelandswas about 13 percent of the country’s land. There was no running water, noelectricity.Peoplelivedinhuts.

WhereSouthAfrica’swhitecountrysidewaslushandirrigatedandgreen,theblack lands were overpopulated and overgrazed, the soil depleted and eroding.Otherthanthemenialwagessenthomefromthecities,familiesscrapedbywithlittlebeyondsubsistence-levelfarming.Mymother’saunthadn’ttakenherinoutofcharity.Shewastheretowork.“Iwasoneofthecows,”mymotherwouldlatersay, “one of the oxen.” She and her cousins were up at half past four, plowingfieldsandherdinganimalsbefore the sunbaked the soil ashardas cementandmadeittoohottobeanywherebutintheshade.

For dinner theremight be one chicken to feed fourteen children.Mymomwouldhave to fightwith thebiggerkids togetahandfulofmeatorasipof thegravyorevenabonefromwhichtosuckoutsomemarrow.Andthat’swhentherewasfoodfordinneratall.Whentherewasn’t,she’dstealfoodfromthepigs.She’dsteal foodfromthedogs.Thefarmerswouldputoutscrapsfortheanimals,andshe’djumpforit.Shewashungry;lettheanimalsfendforthemselves.Thereweretimeswhen she literally ate dirt. Shewould go down to the river, take the clayfromtheriverbank,andmixitwiththewatertomakeagrayishkindofmilk.She’ddrinkthattofeelfull.

Butmymotherwas blessed that her villagewas one of the placeswhere amission school had contrived to stay open in spite of the government’s Bantueducation policies. There she had a white pastor who taught her English. Shedidn’thave foodorshoesorevenapairofunderwear,butshehadEnglish.Shecouldreadandwrite.Whenshewasoldenoughshestoppedworkingonthefarmand got a job at a factory in a nearby town. She worked on a sewingmachinemakingschooluniforms.Herpayattheendofeachdaywasaplateoffood.Sheusedtosayitwasthebestfoodshe’devereaten,becauseitwassomethingshehadearned on her own. Shewasn’t a burden to anyone and didn’t owe anything toanyone.

Whenmymomturnedtwenty-one,herauntfell illandthatfamilycouldnolongerkeepher inTranskei.Mymomwrote tomygran,askingher to send thepriceofa train ticket,about thirtyrand, tobringherhome.Back inSoweto,mymomenrolledinthesecretarialcoursethatallowedhertograbholdofthebottom

rung of thewhite-collar world. Sheworked andworked andworked but, livingundermy grandmother’s roof, shewasn’t allowed to keep her ownwages. As asecretary,mymomwas bringing homemoremoney than anyone else, andmygrandmotherinsisteditallgotothefamily.Thefamilyneededaradio,anoven,arefrigerator,anditwasnowmymom’sjobtoprovideit.

Somanyblackfamiliesspendalloftheirtimetryingtofixtheproblemsofthepast.Thatisthecurseofbeingblackandpoor,andit isacursethatfollowsyoufrom generation to generation.Mymother calls it “the black tax.” Because thegenerationswhocamebeforeyouhavebeenpillaged,ratherthanbeingfreetouseyourskillsandeducationtomoveforward,youloseeverythingjusttryingtobringeveryonebehindyoubackuptozero.WorkingforthefamilyinSoweto,mymomhadnomorefreedomthanshe’dhadinTranskei,sosheranaway.Sheranallthewaydowntothetrainstationandjumpedonatrainanddisappearedintothecity,determined to sleep inpublic restrooms and rely on the kindness of prostitutesuntilshecouldmakeherownwayintheworld.

—

MymotherneversatmedownandtoldmethewholestoryofherlifeinTranskei.She’dgivemelittlebursts,randomdetails,storiesofhavingtokeepherwitsabouthertoavoidgettingrapedbystrangemeninthevillage.She’dtellmethesethingsandI’dbelike,Lady,clearlyyoudonotknowwhatkindofstoriestobetellingaten-year-old.

MymomtoldmethesethingssothatI’dnevertakeforgrantedhowwegottowherewewere, but none of it ever came from a place of self-pity. “Learn fromyourpastandbebetterbecauseofyourpast,”shewouldsay,“butdon’tcryaboutyourpast.Life is full ofpain.Let thepain sharpenyou,butdon’tholdon to it.Don’tbebitter.”Andsheneverwas.Thedeprivationsofheryouth,thebetrayalsofherparents,shenevercomplainedaboutanyofit.

Justassheletthepastgo,shewasdeterminednottorepeatit:mychildhoodwouldbearnoresemblancetohers.Shestartedwithmyname.ThenamesXhosafamiliesgivetheirchildrenalwayshaveameaning,andthatmeaninghasawayofbecomingself-fulfilling.Youhavemycousin,Mlungisi.“TheFixer.”That’swhoheis.Whenever I got into trouble hewas the one trying to helpme fix it.Hewasalwaysthegoodkid,doingchores,helpingaroundthehouse.Youhavemyuncle,theunplannedpregnancy,Velile. “HeWhoPoppedOutofNowhere.”And that’sall he’s done his whole life, disappear and reappear. He’ll go off on a drinkingbingeandthenpopbackupoutofnowhereaweeklater.

Then you have my mother, Patricia Nombuyiselo Noah. “She Who GivesBack.”That’swhatshedoes.Shegivesandgivesandgives.Shediditevenasagirlin Soweto. Playing in the streets shewould find toddlers, three- and four-year-olds,runningaroundunsupervisedalldaylong.Theirfathersweregoneandtheirmothersweredrunks.Mymom,whowasonlysixorsevenherself,usedtorounduptheabandonedkidsandformatroopandtakethemaroundtotheshebeens.

They’dcollectemptiesfromthemenwhowerepassedoutandtakethebottlestowhereyoucouldturntheminforadeposit.Thenmymomwouldtakethatmoney,buy food in the spaza shops, and feed the kids. She was a child taking care ofchildren.

When it was time to pick my name, she chose Trevor, a name with nomeaningwhatsoever inSouthAfrica,noprecedent inmy family. It’snot evenaBiblicalname.It’sjustaname.Mymotherwantedherchildbeholdentonofate.Shewantedmetobefreetogoanywhere,doanything,beanyone.

She gave me the tools to do it as well. She taught me English as my firstlanguage.Shereadtomeconstantly.ThefirstbookIlearnedtoreadwasthebook.TheBible.Churchwaswherewegotmostofourotherbooks,too.Mymomwouldbringhomeboxes thatwhitepeoplehaddonated—picturebooks,chapterbooks,any book she could get her hands on. Then she signed up for a subscriptionprogramwherewegotbooksinthemail.Itwasaseriesofhow-tobooks.HowtoBeaGoodFriend.HowtoBeHonest.Sheboughtasetofencyclopedias, too; itwasfifteenyearsoldandwayoutofdate,butIwouldsitandporethroughthose.

Mybooksweremyprizedpossessions. Ihadabookshelfwhere Iput them,andIwassoproudofit.Ilovedmybooksandkepttheminpristinecondition.Ireadthemoverandover,butIdidnotbendthepagesorthespines.Itreasuredeverysingleone.AsIgrewolderIstartedbuyingmyownbooks.Ilovedfantasy,loved to get lost in worlds that didn’t exist. I remember there was some bookaboutwhiteboyswhosolvedmysteriesorsomeshit.Ihadnotimeforthat.GivemeRoaldDahl.JamesandtheGiantPeach,TheBFG,CharlieandtheChocolateFactory,TheWonderfulStoryofHenrySugar.Thatwasmyfix.

IhadtofighttoconvincemymomtogettheNarniabooksforme.Shedidn’tlikethem.

“This lion,” she said, “he is a false God—a false idol! You remember whathappenedwhenMosescamedownfromthemountainafterhegotthetablets…”

“Yes,Mom,” I explained, “but the lion is a Christ figure. Technically, he isJesus.It’sastorytoexplainJesus.”

Shewasn’tcomfortablewiththat.“No,no.Nofalseidols,myfriend.”

EventuallyIworeherdown.Thatwasabigwin.

Ifmymotherhadonegoal, itwastofreemymind.Mymotherspoketomelikeanadult,whichwasunusual.InSouthAfrica,kidsplaywithkidsandadultstalktoadults.Theadultssuperviseyou,buttheydon’tgetdownonyourlevelandtalktoyou.Mymomdid.Allthetime.Iwaslikeherbestfriend.Shewasalwaystellingme stories, givingme lessons, Bible lessons especially. She was big intoPsalms.IhadtoreadPsalmseveryday.Shewouldquizmeonit.“Whatdoesthepassagemean?Whatdoesitmeantoyou?Howdoyouapplyittoyourlife?”Thatwaseverydayofmylife.Mymomdidwhatschooldidn’t.Shetaughtmehowto

think.

—

Theendofapartheidwasagradualthing.Itwasn’tliketheBerlinWallwhereonedayitjustcamedown.Apartheid’swallscrackedandcrumbledovermanyyears.Concessionsweremadehereand there, some lawswere repealed,others simplyweren’t enforced. There came a point, in themonths beforeMandela’s release,whenwecouldlivelessfurtively.Itwasthenthatmymotherdecidedweneededtomove.Shefeltwehadgrownasmuchaswecouldhidinginourtinyflatintown.

The country was open now. Where would we go? Soweto came with itsburdens.Mymother stillwanted to get out from the shadow of her family.Mymotheralsocouldn’twalkwithmethroughSowetowithoutpeoplesaying,“Theregoesthatprostitutewithawhiteman’schild.”Inablackareashewouldalwaysbeseenasthat.So,sincemymomdidn’twanttomovetoablackareaandcouldn’taffordtomovetoawhitearea,shedecidedtomovetoacoloredarea.

EdenParkwas a coloredneighborhoodadjacent to severalblack townshipson the East Rand. Half-colored and half-black, she figured, like us. We’d becamouflagedthere.Itdidn’tworkoutthatway;weneverfitinatall.Butthatwasher thinkingwhenwemade themove.Plus itwasachance tobuyahome—ourownhome.EdenParkwasoneofthose“suburbs”thatareactuallyoutontheedgeofcivilization,thekindofplacewherepropertydevelopershavesaid,“Hey,poorpeople.Youcanlivethegoodlife,too.Here’sahouse.Inthemiddleofnowhere.Butlook,youhaveayard!”ForsomereasonthestreetsinEdenParkwerenamedaftercars:JaguarStreet.FerrariStreet.HondaStreet.Idon’tknowifthatwasacoincidence or not, but it’s funny because colored people in South Africa areknownforlovingfancycars.Itwaslikelivinginawhiteneighborhoodwithallthestreetsnamedaftervarietalsoffinewine.

I remembermovingout there in flashbacks, snippets, driving to aplace I’dnever seen, seeing people I’d never seen. It was flat, notmany trees, the samedustyred-claydirtandgrassasSowetobutwithproperhousesandpavedroadsandasenseofsuburbiatoit.Ourswasatinyhouseatthebendintheroadrightoff Toyota Street. Itwasmodest and cramped inside, butwalking in I thought,Wow.Wearereallyliving.Itwascrazytohavemyownroom.Ididn’tlikeit.MywholelifeI’dsleptinaroomwithmymomoronthefloorwithmycousins.Iwasusedtohavingotherhumanbeingsrightnexttome,soIsleptinmymom’sbedmostnights.

There was no stepfather in the picture yet, no baby brother crying in thenight.Itwasmeandher,alone.Therewasthissenseofthetwoofusembarkingona grandadventure. She’d say things tome like, “It’s youandmeagainst theworld.”Iunderstoodevenfromanearlyagethatweweren’tjustmotherandson.Wewereateam.

Itwaswhenwemoved toEdenPark thatwe finally got a car, the beat-up,

tangerineVolkswagenmymotherboughtsecondhandfornexttonothing.Oneoutof five times itwouldn’t start.TherewasnoAC.AnytimeImade themistakeofturning on the fan the vent would fart bits of leaves and dust all over me.Whenever it broke down we’d catch minibuses, or sometimes we’d hitchhike.She’dmakemehideinthebushesbecausesheknewmenwouldstopforawomanbutnotawomanwithachild.She’dstandbytheroad,thedriverwouldpullover,she’dopenthedoorandthenwhistle,andI’dcomerunninguptothecar.Iwouldwatchtheirfacesdropastheyrealizedtheyweren’tpickingupanattractivesinglewomanbutanattractivesinglewomanwithafatlittlekid.

When the car did work, we had the windows down, sputtering along andbaking in theheat. Formy entire life thedial on that car’s radio stayedononestation. ItwascalledRadioPulpit,andas thenamesuggests itwasnothingbutpreachingandpraise.Iwasn’tallowedtotouchthatdial.Anytimetheradiowasn’tgettingreception,mymomwouldpopinacassetteofJimmySwaggartsermons.(Whenwefinallyfoundoutaboutthescandal?Oh,man.Thatwasrough.)

Butasshittyasourcarwas, itwasacar. Itwas freedom.Weweren’tblackpeoplestuckinthetownships,waitingforpublictransport.Wewereblackpeoplewhowere out in theworld.Wewere black peoplewho couldwake up and say,“Wheredowechoosetogotoday?”Onthecommutetoworkandschool,therewasa long stretchof the road into town thatwas completelydeserted.That’swhereMomwouldletmedrive.Onthehighway.Iwassix.She’dputmeonherlapandletme steer andwork the indicatorswhile sheworked the pedals and the stickshift.Afterafewmonthsofthat,shetaughtmehowtoworkthestick.Shewasstillworkingtheclutch,butI’dclimbontoherlapandtakethestick,andshe’dcalloutthe gears aswedrove.Therewas this onepart of the road that randeep into avalleyandthenbackuptheotherside.We’dgetupaheadofspeed,andwe’dstickit into neutral and let go of the brake and the clutch, and,woo-hoo!,we’d racedownthehillandthen,zoom!,we’dshootuptheotherside.Wewereflying.

Ifweweren’tatschoolorworkorchurch,wewereoutexploring.Mymom’sattitudewas“Ichoseyou,kid.Ibroughtyouintothisworld,andI’mgoingtogiveyoueverythingIneverhad.”Shepouredherselfintome.Shewouldfindplacesforustogowherewedidn’thavetospendmoney.WemusthavegonetoeveryparkinJohannesburg.MymomwouldsitunderatreeandreadtheBible,andI’drunandplayandplayandplay.OnSundayafternoonsafterchurch,we’dgofordrivesout in thecountry.Mymomwould findplaceswithbeautifulviews forus to sitandhaveapicnic.Therewasnoneof the fanfareof apicnicbasketorplatesoranything like that, only baloney and brown bread and margarine sandwicheswrapped up in butcher paper. To this day, baloney and brown bread andmargarinewillinstantlytakemeback.YoucancomewithalltheMichelinstarsinthe world, just give me baloney and brown bread and margarine and I’m inheaven.

Food, or the access to food, was always the measure of how good or bad

thingsweregoinginourlives.Mymomwouldalwayssay,“Myjobistofeedyourbody,feedyourspirit,andfeedyourmind.”That’sexactlywhatshedid,andtheway she found money for food and books was to spend absolutely nothing onanything else. Her frugality was the stuff of legend. Our car was a tin can onwheels, and we lived in the middle of nowhere. We had threadbare furniture,bustedoldsofaswithholeswornthroughthefabric.OurTVwasatinyblack-and-whitewithabunnyaerialontop.Wechangedthechannelsusingapairofpliersbecausethebuttonsdidn’twork.Mostofthetimeyouhadtosquinttoseewhatwasgoingon.

We always wore secondhand clothes, from Goodwill stores or that weregiveaways fromwhite people at church.All the other kids at school got brands,Nike and Adidas. I never got brands. One time I asked my mom for Adidassneakers.Shecamehomewithsomeknockoffbrand,Abidas.

“Mom,thesearefake,”Isaid.

“Idon’tseethedifference.”

“Lookatthelogo.Therearefourstripesinsteadofthree.”

“Luckyyou,”shesaid.“Yougotoneextra.”

Wegotbywithnexttonothing,butwealwayshadchurchandwealwayshadbooksandwealwayshad food.Mindyou, itwasn’tnecessarilygood food.Meatwasa luxury.When thingsweregoingwellwe’dhavechicken.Mymomwasanexpertat crackingopenachickenboneandgettingoutevery lastbitofmarrowinside. We didn’t eat chickens. We obliterated them. Our family was anarchaeologist’snightmare.We leftnobonesbehind.Whenweweredonewithachickentherewasnothingleftbutthehead.Sometimestheonlymeatwehadwasapackagedmeatyoucouldbuyatthebutchercalled“sawdust.”Itwasliterallythedustofthemeat,thebitsthatfelloffthecutsbeingpackagedfortheshop,thebitsoffatandwhatever’sleft.They’dsweepitupandputitintobags.Itwasmeantfordogs,butmymomboughtitforus.Thereweremanymonthswherethatwasallweate.

The butcher sold bones, too.We called them “soup bones,” but they wereactuallylabeled“dogbones”inthestore;peoplewouldcookthemfortheirdogsasatreat.Whenevertimeswerereallytoughwe’dfallbackondogbones.Mymomwouldboilthemforsoup.We’dsuckthemarrowoutofthem.Suckingmarrowoutofbonesisaskillpoorpeoplelearnearly.I’llneverforgetthefirsttimeIwenttoafancyrestaurantasagrownmanandsomeonetoldme,“Youhavetotrythebonemarrow.It’ssuchadelicacy.It’sdivine.”Theyorderedit,thewaiterbroughtitout,andIwaslike,“Dogbones,motherfucker!”Iwasnotimpressed.

Asmodestlyaswelivedathome,Ineverfeltpoorbecauseourlivesweresorichwithexperience.Wewerealwaysoutdoingsomething,goingsomewhere.Mymomusedtotakemeondrivesthroughfancywhiteneighborhoods.We’dgolookat people’s houses, look at their mansions. We’d look at their walls, mostly,

because that’sallwecouldsee fromtheroad.We’d lookatawall that ran fromoneendoftheblocktotheotherandgo,“Wow.That’sonlyonehouse.Allofthatisforonefamily.”Sometimeswe’dpulloverandgouptothewall,andshe’dputmeuponhershoulders likeIwasa littleperiscope. Iwould look into theyardsanddescribeeverythingIwasseeing.“It’sabigwhitehouse!Theyhavetwodogs!There’salemontree!Theyhaveaswimmingpool!Andatenniscourt!”

Mymothertookmeplacesblackpeopleneverwent.Sherefusedtobeboundbyridiculousideasofwhatblackpeoplecouldn’torshouldn’tdo.She’dtakemetothe ice rink to go skating. Johannesburg used to have this epic drive-inmovietheater,TopStarDrive-In,ontopofamassiveminedumpoutsidethecity.She’dtakeme tomovies there;we’dget snacks,hang the speakeronour carwindow.TopStarhada360-degreeviewofthecity,thesuburbs,Soweto.UpthereIcouldseeformilesineverydirection.IfeltlikeIwasontopoftheworld.

MymomraisedmeasiftherewerenolimitationsonwhereIcouldgoorwhatIcoulddo.WhenI lookbackI realizesheraisedme likeawhitekid—notwhiteculturally,butinthesenseofbelievingthattheworldwasmyoyster,thatIshouldspeakupformyself,thatmyideasandthoughtsanddecisionsmattered.

Wetellpeopletofollowtheirdreams,butyoucanonlydreamofwhatyoucanimagine,and,dependingonwhereyoucomefrom,yourimaginationcanbequitelimited.GrowingupinSoweto,ourdreamwastoputanotherroomonourhouse.Maybe have a driveway. Maybe, someday, a cast-iron gate at the end of thedriveway.Becausethat isallweknew.Butthehighestrungofwhat’spossible isfarbeyondtheworldyoucansee.Mymothershowedmewhatwaspossible.Thethingthatalwaysamazedmeaboutherlifewasthatnooneshowedher.Noonechoseher.Shediditonherown.Shefoundherwaythroughsheerforceofwill.

Perhaps even more amazing is the fact that my mother started her littleproject,me,atatimewhenshecouldnothaveknownthatapartheidwouldend.Therewasnoreasontothinkitwouldend;ithadseengenerationscomeandgo.IwasnearlysixwhenMandelawasreleased,tenbeforedemocracyfinallycame,yetshewaspreparingmetolivealifeoffreedomlongbeforeweknewfreedomwouldexist.Ahardlife inthetownshiporatriptothecoloredorphanagewerethefarmore likely options on the table. But we never lived that way.We onlymovedforward andwe alwaysmoved fast, and by the time the law and everyone elsecamearoundwewerealreadymilesdowntheroad,flyingacrossthefreewayinabright-orange, piece-of-shit Volkswagen with the windows down and JimmySwaggartpraisingJesusatthetopofhislungs.

Peoplethoughtmymomwascrazy.Icerinksanddrive-insandsuburbs,thesethingswere izintozabelungu—the thingsofwhitepeople.Somanyblackpeoplehadinternalizedthelogicofapartheidandmadeittheirown.Whyteachablackchildwhitethings?Neighborsandrelativesusedtopestermymom.“Whydoallthis?Whyshowhimtheworldwhenhe’snevergoingtoleavetheghetto?”

“Because,” shewould say, “even if henever leaves the ghetto, hewill know

thattheghettoisnottheworld.IfthatisallIaccomplish,I’vedoneenough.”

Apartheid,forallitspower,hadfatalflawsbakedin,startingwiththefactthatitnevermadeany sense. Racism is not logical. Consider this: Chinese people were classified as black inSouthAfrica. I don’tmean theywere runningaroundactingblack.Theywere stillChinese.But, unlike Indians, there weren’t enough Chinese people to warrant devising a wholeseparateclassification.Apartheid,despiteitsintricaciesandprecision,didn’tknowwhattodowiththem,sothegovernmentsaid,“Eh,we’lljustcall’emblack.It’ssimplerthatway.”

Interestingly,atthesametime,Japanesepeoplewerelabeledaswhite.ThereasonforthiswasthattheSouthAfricangovernmentwantedtoestablishgoodrelationswiththeJapaneseinordertoimporttheirfancycarsandelectronics.SoJapanesepeopleweregivenhonorarywhitestatuswhileChinesepeoplestayedblack.IalwaysliketoimaginebeingaSouthAfricanpolicemanwholikelycouldn’ttellthedifferencebetweenChineseandJapanesebutwhosejobwastomakesurethatpeopleofthewrongcolorweren’tdoingthewrongthing.IfhesawanAsianpersonsittingonawhites-onlybench,whatwouldhesay?

“Hey,getoffthatbench,youChinaman!”

“Excuseme.I’mJapanese.”

“Oh,Iapologize,sir.Ididn’tmeantoberacist.Havealovelyafternoon.”

LOOPHOLES

Mymotherusedto tellme,“Ichose tohaveyoubecauseIwantedsomethingtoloveandsomethingthatwouldlovemeunconditionallyinreturn—andthenIgavebirthtothemostselfishpieceofshitonearthandalliteverdidwascryandeatandshitandsay,‘Me,me,me,meme.’ ”

Mymom thoughthaving a childwas going tobe likehaving apartner, buteverychildisbornthecenterofitsownuniverse,incapableofunderstandingtheworldbeyonditsownwantsandneeds,andIwasnodifferent.Iwasavoraciouskid.Iconsumedboxesofbooksandwantedmore,more,more.Iatelikeapig.Theway I ate I shouldhavebeenobese.At a certainpoint the family thought Ihadworms.Whenever Iwent tomycousins’house for theholidays,mymomwoulddrop me off with a bag of tomatoes, onions, and potatoes and a large sack ofcornmeal.Thatwasherwayofpreemptinganycomplaintsaboutmyvisit.Atmygran’s house I always got seconds, which none of the other kids got. Mygrandmotherwouldgivemethepotandsay,“Finishit.”Ifyoudidn’twanttowashthedishes,youcalledTrevor.Theycalledmetherubbishbinofthefamily.Iateandateandate.

I was hyperactive, too. I craved constant stimulation and activity. When Iwalkeddownthesidewalkasatoddler,ifyoudidn’thavemyarminadeathgrip,Iwasoff,runningfull-speedtowardthetraffic.Ilovedtobechased.Ithoughtitwasagame.Theoldgranniesmymomhiredtolookaftermewhileshewasatwork?Iwould leave them in tears.Mymomwould comehomeand they’dbe crying. “Iquit.Ican’tdothis.Yoursonisatyrant.”Itwasthesamewithmyschoolteachers,withSundayschool teachers. Ifyouweren’tengagingme,youwere in trouble. Iwasn’tashittopeople.Iwasn’twhinyandspoiled.Ihadgoodmanners.Iwasjusthigh-energyandknewwhatIwantedtodo.

Mymomusedtotakemetotheparksoshecouldrunmetodeathtoburnofftheenergy.She’dtakeaFrisbeeandthrowit,andI’drunandcatchitandbringitback.Overandoverandover.Sometimesshe’dthrowatennisball.Blackpeople’sdogsdon’tplayfetch;youdon’tthrowanythingtoablackperson’sdogunlessit’sfood.SoitwasonlywhenIstartedspendingtimeinparkswithwhitepeopleandtheirpetsthatIrealizedmymomwastrainingmelikeadog.

Anytimemyextraenergywasn’tburnedoff,itwouldfinditswayintogeneralnaughtiness andmisbehavior. I pridedmyself on being the ultimate prankster.Everyteacheratschoolusedoverheadprojectorstoputtheirnotesuponthewallduringclass.Oneday Iwentaroundand took themagnifyingglassoutofeveryprojectorineveryclassroom.AnothertimeIemptiedafireextinguisherintotheschoolpiano,because Iknewweweregoing tohaveaperformanceat assemblythenextday.Thepianistsatdownandplayedthefirstnoteand,foomp!,all thisfoamexplodedoutofthepiano.

ThetwothingsIlovedmostwerefireandknives.Iwasendlesslyfascinatedbythem.Kniveswerejustcool.Icollectedthemfrompawnshopsandgaragesales:flickknives,butterflyknives, theRamboknife, theCrocodileDundeeknife.Firewas the ultimate, though. I loved fire and I especially loved fireworks. WecelebratedGuyFawkesDayinNovember,andeveryyearmymomwouldbuyusatonoffireworks,likeamini-arsenal.IrealizedthatIcouldtakethegunpowderoutofall thefireworksandcreateonemassivefireworkofmyown.OneafternoonIwas doing precisely that, goofing around with my cousin and filling an emptyplantpotwithahugepileofgunpowder,whenIgotdistractedbysomeBlackCatfirecrackers.ThecoolthingyoucoulddowithaBlackCatwas,insteadoflightingittomakeitexplode,youcouldbreakitinhalfandlightitanditwouldturnintoamini-flamethrower. I stopped midway through building my gunpowder pile toplaywiththeBlackCatsandsomehowdroppedamatchintothepile.Thewholething exploded, throwing a massive ball of flame up in my face. Mlungisiscreamed,andmymomcamerunningintotheyardinapanic.

“Whathappened?!”

Iplayed it cool, even though I could still feel theheatof the fireball onmyface.“Oh,nothing.Nothinghappened.”

“Wereyouplayingwithfire?!”

“No.”

Sheshookherhead.“Youknowwhat?Iwouldbeatyou,butJesushasalreadyexposedyourlies.”

“Huh?”

“Gotothebathroomandlookatyourself.”

Iwenttothetoiletandlookedinthemirror.Myeyebrowsweregoneandthefrontinchorsoofmyhairwascompletelyburnedoff.

Fromanadult’spointofview,Iwasdestructiveandoutofcontrol,butasachildIdidn’tthinkofitthatway.Ineverwantedtodestroy.Iwantedtocreate.Iwasn’t burning my eyebrows. I was creating fire. I wasn’t breaking overheadprojectors.Iwascreatingchaos,toseehowpeoplereacted.

And I couldn’t help it. There’s a condition kids suffer from, a compulsivedisorder thatmakes themdo things they themselvesdon’t understand.You can

tellachild,“Whateveryoudo,don’tdrawonthewall.Youcandrawonthispaper.You can draw in this book. You can draw on any surface youwant. But do notdraworwriteorcoloronthewall.”Thechildwilllookyoudeadintheeyeandsay,“Gotit.”Tenminuteslaterthechildisdrawingonthewall.Youstartscreaming.“Why the hell are you drawing on the wall?!” The child looks at you, and hegenuinelyhasnoideawhyhedrewonthewall.Asakid,Irememberhavingthatfeelingallthetime.EverytimeIgotpunished,asmymomwaswhoopingmyass,I’dbethinking,WhydidIjustdothat?Iknewnottodothat.Shetoldmenottodothat.ThenoncethehidingwasoverI’dsaytomyself,I’mgoingtobesogoodfromhereon. I’mneverevergoing todoabad thing inmy lifeevereverevereverever—andtoremembernottodoanythingbad,letmewritesomethingonthewall to remindmyself…and then Iwould pick up a crayon and get straightbackintoit,andIneverunderstoodwhy.

—

My relationship with my mom was like the relationship between a cop and acriminalinthemovies—therelentlessdetectiveandthedeviousmastermindshe’sdeterminedtocatch.They’rebitterrivals,but,damn,theyrespectthehelloutofeachother,andsomehowtheyevengrowtolikeeachother.Sometimesmymomwouldcatchme,butshewasusuallyonestepbehind,andshewasalwaysgivingmetheeye.Someday,kid.SomedayI’mgoingtocatchyouandputyouawayfortherestofyourlife.ThenIwouldgiveheranodinreturn.Haveagoodevening,Officer.Thatwasmywholechildhood.

Mymomwas forever trying to reinme in.Over the years, her tactics grewmoreandmoresophisticated.WhereIhadyouthandenergyonmyside,shehadcunning, and she figuredoutdifferentways to keepme in line.OneSundaywewereattheshopsandtherewasabigdisplayoftoffeeapples.Ilovedtoffeeapples,andIkeptnaggingherthewholewaythroughtheshop.“PleasecanIhaveatoffeeapple?PleasecanIhaveatoffeeapple?PleasecanIhaveatoffeeapple?PleasecanIhaveatoffeeapple?”

Finally,oncewehadourgroceriesandmymomwasheadingtothefronttopay,Isucceededinwearingherdown.“Fine,”shesaid.“Goandgetatoffeeapple.”Iran,gotatoffeeapple,cameback,andputitonthecounteratthecheckout.

“Addthistoffeeapple,please,”Isaid.

Thecashier lookedatmeskeptically. “Waityour turn,boy. I’mstillhelpingthislady.”

“No,”Isaid.“She’sbuyingitforme.”

Mymotherturnedtome.“Who’sbuyingitforyou?”

“You’rebuyingitforme.”

“No,no.Whydoesn’tyourmotherbuyitforyou?”

“What?Mymother?Youaremymother.”

“I’myourmother?No,I’mnotyourmother.Where’syourmother?”

Iwassoconfused.“You’remymother.”

The cashier looked at her, looked back at me, looked at her again. Sheshrugged, like,Ihavenoideawhatthatkid’s talkingabout.Thenshe lookedatmelikeshe’dneverseenmebeforeinherlife.

“Areyoulost,littleboy?Where’syourmother?”

“Yeah,”thecashiersaid.“Where’syourmother?”

Ipointedatmymother.“She’smymother.”

“What?Shecan’tbeyourmother,boy.She’sblack.Can’tyousee?”

Mymom shook her head. “Poor little colored boy lost hismother.What ashame.”

Ipanicked.WasIcrazy?Isshenotmymother?Istartedbawling.“You’remymother.You’remymother.She’smymother.She’smymother.”

Sheshruggedagain.“Sosad.Ihopehefindshismother.”

Thecashiernodded.Shepaidhim,tookourgroceries,andwalkedoutoftheshop.Idroppedthetoffeeapple,ranoutbehindherintears,andcaughtuptoheratthecar.Sheturnedaround,laughinghysterically,likeshe’dreallygotmegood.

“Whyareyoucrying?”sheasked.

“Becauseyousaidyouweren’tmymother.Whydidyousayyouweren’tmymother?”

“Because you wouldn’t shut up about the toffee apple. Now get in the car.Let’sgo.”

BythetimeIwassevenoreight,Iwastoosmarttobetricked,soshechangedtactics. Our life turned into a courtroom drama with two lawyers constantlydebatingover loopholesand technicalities.Mymomwassmartandhadasharptongue,butIwasquickerinanargument.She’dgetflusteredbecauseshecouldn’tkeepup.So she startedwritingme letters.Thatway she couldmakeherpointsand there couldbeno verbal sparringback and forth. If I had chores todo, I’dcomehometofindanenvelopeslippedunderthedoor,likefromthelandlord.

DearTrevor,

“Children,obeyyourparentsineverything,forthispleasestheLord.”

—Colossians3:20

TherearecertainthingsIexpectfromyouasmychildandasayoungman.Youneedtocleanyourroom.Youneedtokeepthehouseclean.Youneedtolookafteryourschooluniform.Please,mychild,Iaskyou.RespectmyrulessothatImayalsorespectyou.Iaskyounow,pleasegoanddothedishesanddotheweedsinthegarden.

Yourssincerely,

Mom

I would do my chores, and if I had anything to say I would write back.BecausemymomwasasecretaryandIspenthoursatherofficeeverydayafterschool, I’d learneda greatdeal aboutbusiness correspondence. Iwas extremelyproudofmyletter-writingabilities.

ToWhomItMayConcern:

DearMom,

Ihavereceivedyourcorrespondenceearlier.IamdelightedtosaythatIamaheadofscheduleonthedishesandIwillcontinuetowashtheminanhourorso.PleasenotethatthegardeniswetandsoIcannotdotheweedsatthistime,butpleasebeassuredthistaskwillbecompletedbytheendoftheweekend.Also,IcompletelyagreewithwhatyouaresayingwithregardtomyrespectlevelsandIwillmaintainmyroomtoasatisfactorystandard.

Yourssincerely,

Trevor

Thosewerethepoliteletters.Ifwewerehavingareal,full-onargumentorifI’dgotten in troubleat school, I’d findmoreaccusatorymissiveswaiting formewhenIgothome.

DearTrevor,

“Foolishnessisboundupintheheartofachild;therodofdisciplinewillremoveitfarfromhim.”

—Proverbs22:15

Yourschoolmarksthistermhavebeenverydisappointing,andyourbehaviorinclasscontinuestobedisruptiveanddisrespectful.Itisclearfromyouractionsthatyoudonotrespectme.Youdonotrespectyourteachers.Learntorespectthewomeninyourlife.Thewayyoutreatmeandthewayyoutreatyourteacherswillbethewayyoutreatotherwomenintheworld.Learntobuckthattrendnowandyouwillbeabettermanbecauseofit.BecauseofyourbehaviorIamgroundingyouforoneweek.Therewillbenotelevisionandnovideogames.

Yourssincerely,

Mom

I,ofcourse,wouldfindthispunishmentcompletelyunfair.I’dtaketheletterandconfronther.

“CanIspeaktoyouaboutthis?”

“No.Ifyouwanttoreply,youhavetowritealetter.”

I’dgotomyroom,getoutmypenandpaper,sitatmylittledesk,andgoafterherargumentsonebyone.

ToWhomItMayConcern:

DearMom,

Firstofall,thishasbeenaparticularlytoughtimeinschool,andforyoutosaythatmymarksarebadisextremelyunfair,especiallyconsideringthefactthatyouyourselfwerenotverygoodinschoolandIam,afterall,aproductofyours,andsoinpartyouaretoblamebecauseifyouwerenotgoodinschool,whywouldIbegoodinschoolbecausegeneticallywearethesame.Granalwaystalksabouthownaughtyyouwere,soobviouslymy

naughtinesscomesfromyou,soIdon’tthinkitisrightorjustforyoutosayanyofthis.

Yourssincerely,

Trevor

I’dbringhertheletterandstandtherewhileshereadit.Invariablyshe’dtearitupandthrowit inthedustbin.“Rubbish!Thisisrubbish!”Thenshe’dstarttolaunchintomeandI’dsay,“Ah-ah-ah.No.Youhavetowritealetter.”ThenI’dgotomyroomandwaitforherreply.Thissometimeswentbackandforthfordays.

The letter writing was forminor disputes. Formajor infractions,mymomwentwiththeass-whooping.LikemostblackSouthAfricanparents,whenitcametodisciplinemymomwasoldschool.IfIpushedhertoofar,she’dgoforthebeltorswitch.That’sjusthowitwasinthosedays.Prettymuchallofmyfriendshaditthesame.

Mymomwouldhave givenmeproper sit-downhidings if I’d givenher theopportunity,butshecouldnevercatchme.Mygrancalledme“Springbok,”afterthe second-fastest landmammal on earth, the deer that the cheetah hunts.Mymomhadtobecomeaguerrillafighter.Shegotherlicksinwhereshecould,herbeltormaybeashoe,administeredonthefly.

OnethingIrespectedaboutmymomwasthatsheneverleftmeinanydoubtastowhyIwasreceivingthehiding.Itwasn’trageoranger.Itwasdisciplinefromaplaceoflove.Mymomwasonherownwithacrazychild.Idestroyedpianos.Ishatonfloors.Iwouldscrewup,she’dbeattheshitoutofmeandgivemetimetocry,andthenshe’dpopbackintomyroomwithabigsmileandgo,“Areyoureadyfor dinner?Weneed to hurry and eat ifwewant towatchRescue 911. Are youcoming?”

“What?Whatkindofpsychopathareyou?Youjustbeatme!”

“Yes. Because you did something wrong. It doesn’t mean I don’t love youanymore.”

“What?”

“Look,didyouordidyounotdosomethingwrong?”

“Idid.”

“Andthen?Ihityou.Andnowthat’sover.Sowhysitthereandcry?It’stimeforRescue911.WilliamShatneriswaiting.Areyoucomingornot?”

—

When it came to discipline, Catholic school was no joke. Whenever I got intotroublewiththenunsatMaryvalethey’drapmeontheknuckleswiththeedgeofametalruler.Forcursingthey’dwashmymouthoutwithsoap.ForseriousoffensesI’dgetsent to theprincipal’soffice.Only theprincipalcouldgiveyouanofficialhiding.You’dhavetobendoverandhe’dhityourasswiththisflatrubberthing,likethesoleofashoe.

Whenever theprincipalwouldhitme, itwas likehewasafraid todo it toohard.OnedayIwasgettingahidingandIthought,Man,ifonlymymomhitmelike this, and I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. The principal was quitedisturbed. “If you’re laughing while you’re getting beaten,” he said, “thensomethingisdefinitelywrongwithyou.”

That was the first of three times the school made my mom take me to apsychologisttobeevaluated.Everypsychologistwhoexaminedmecamebackandsaid,“There’snothingwrongwiththiskid.”Iwasn’tADD.Iwasn’tasociopath.Iwasjustcreativeandindependentandfullofenergy.Thetherapistsdidgivemeaseriesoftests,andtheycametotheconclusionthatIwaseithergoingtomakeanexcellent criminalorbe verygoodat catching criminals, because I couldalwaysfind loopholes in the law.Whenever I thought a rulewasn’t logical, I’d findmywayaroundit.

TherulesaboutcommunionatFridaymass,forexample,madeabsolutelynosense. We’d be in there for an hour of kneeling, standing, sitting, kneeling,standing,sitting,kneeling, standing,sitting,andby theendof it I’dbestarving,butIwasneverallowedtotakecommunion,becauseIwasn’tCatholic.Theotherkids could eat Jesus’s body anddrink Jesus’s blood, but I couldn’t.AndJesus’sbloodwasgrape juice. I lovedgrape juice.Grape juiceandcrackers—whatmorecouldakidwant?Andtheywouldn’tletmehaveany.I’darguewiththenunsandthepriestallthetime.

“OnlyCatholicscaneatJesus’sbodyanddrinkJesus’sblood,right?”

“Yes.”

“ButJesuswasn’tCatholic.”

“No.”

“JesuswasJewish.”

“Well,yes.”

“Soyou’retellingmethat ifJesuswalkedintoyourchurchrightnow,JesuswouldnotbeallowedtohavethebodyandbloodofJesus?”

“Well…uh…um…”

Theyneverhadasatisfactoryreply.

Onemorningbeforemass Idecided,I’mgoing togetmesomeJesusbloodandJesusbody. I snuckbehind the altar and Idrank the entirebottle of grapejuiceandIatetheentirebagofEucharisttomakeupforalltheothertimesthatIcouldn’t.

Inmymind, Iwasn’tbreaking the rules,because the rulesdidn’tmakeanysense. And I got caught only because they broke their own rules. Another kidrattedmeoutinconfession,andthepriestturnedmein.

“No, no,” I protested. “You’ve broken the rules. That’s confidentialinformation.Thepriestisn’tsupposedtorepeatwhatyousayinconfession.”

They didn’t care. The school could break whatever rules it wanted. Theprincipallaidintome.

“What kind of a sick person would eat all of Jesus’s body and drink all ofJesus’sblood?”

“Ahungryperson.”

Igotanotherhidinganda second trip to thepsychologist for thatone.Thethirdvisittotheshrink,andthelaststraw,cameingradesix.Akidwasbullyingme.Hesaidhewasgoingtobeatmeup,andIbroughtoneofmyknivestoschool.Iwasn’tgoingtouseit;Ijustwantedtohaveit.Theschooldidn’tcare.Thatwasthelaststrawforthem.Iwasn’texpelled,exactly.Theprincipalsatmedownandsaid,“Trevor,wecanexpelyou.Youneedtothinkhardaboutwhetheryoureallywant to be at Maryvale next year.” I think he thought he was giving me anultimatumthatwouldgetmetoshapeup.ButIfeltlikehewasofferingmeanout,andItookit.“No,”Itoldhim,“Idon’twanttobehere.”AndthatwastheendofCatholicschool.

Funnily enough, I didn’t get into troublewithmymomwhen it happened.Therewasnoass-whoopingwaitingformeathome.She’dlostthebursarywhenshe’dleftherjobatICI,andpayingforprivateschoolwasbecomingaburden.Butmorethanthat,shethoughttheschoolwasoverreacting.Thetruthissheprobablytook my side against Maryvale more often than not. She agreed with me 100percent about the Eucharist thing. “Let me get this straight,” she told theprincipal. “You’re punishing a child because hewants Jesus’s body and Jesus’sblood? Why shouldn’t he have those things? Of course he should have them.”Whentheymademeseea therapist for laughingwhile theprincipalhitme,shetoldtheschoolthatwasridiculous,too.

“Ms.Noah,yoursonwaslaughingwhilewewerehittinghim.”

“Well,clearlyyoudon’tknowhowtohitakid.That’syourproblem,notmine.Trevor’sneverlaughedwhenI’vehithim,Icantellyou.”

Thatwastheweirdandkindofamazingthingaboutmymom.Ifsheagreedwithmethatarulewasstupid,shewouldn’tpunishmeforbreakingit.Bothsheand thepsychologists agreed that the schoolwas theonewith theproblem,notme.Catholicschoolisnottheplacetobecreativeandindependent.

Catholicschoolissimilartoapartheidinthatit’sruthlesslyauthoritarian,anditsauthorityrestsonabunchofrulesthatdon’tmakeanysense.Mymothergrewup with these rules and she questioned them. When they didn’t hold up, shesimplywentaround them.Theonlyauthoritymymother recognizedwasGod’s.GodisloveandtheBibleistruth—everythingelsewasupfordebate.Shetaughtmetochallengeauthorityandquestionthesystem.Theonlywayitbackfiredon

herwasthatIconstantlychallengedandquestionedher.

—

WhenIwassevenyearsold,mymotherhadbeendatinghernewboyfriend,Abel,forayearmaybe,butatthatpointIwastooyoungtoknowwhotheyweretoeachother.Itwas just“Hey, that’smom’sfriendwho’sarounda lot.”I likedAbel;hewasareallyniceguy.

Asablackpersonbackthen,ifyouwantedtoliveinthesuburbsyou’dhavetofindawhitefamilyrentingouttheirservants’quartersorsometimestheirgarage,whichwaswhatAbelhaddone.HelivedinaneighborhoodcalledOrangeGroveina white family’s garage, which he’d turned into a cottage-type thing with a hotplate and a bed. Sometimes he’d come and sleep at our house, and sometimeswe’dgostaywithhim.Stayinginagaragewhenweownedourownhousewasn’tideal,butOrangeGrovewasclosetomyschoolandmymom’sworksoithaditsbenefits.

Thiswhitefamilyalsohadablackmaidwholivedintheservants’quartersinthebackyard,andI’dplaywithhersonwheneverwestayedthere.Atthatagemyloveoffirewasinfullbloom.Oneafternooneveryonewasatwork—mymomandAbelandbothofthewhiteparents—andthekidandIwereplayingtogetherwhilehismomwasinsidethehousecleaning.OnethingI loveddoingatthetimewasusingamagnifyingglasstoburnmynameintopiecesofwood.Youhadtoaimthelensandgetthefocusjustrightandthenyougottheflameandthenyoumoveditslowlyandyoucouldburnshapesandlettersandpatterns.Iwasfascinatedbyit.

That afternoon I was teaching this kid how to do it. We were inside theservants’quarters,whichwasreallymoreofatoolshedaddedontothebackofthehouse, full of wooden ladders, buckets of old paint, turpentine. I had a box ofmatcheswithme,too—allmyusualfire-makingtools.Weweresittingonanoldmattress that theyused to sleepon the floor,basically a sack stuffedwithdriedstraw.Thesunwasbeaming in through thewindow,and Iwas showing thekidhowtoburnhisnameintoapieceofplywood.

Atonepointwetookabreaktogogetasnack.Isetthemagnifyingglassandthematchesonthemattressandweleft.Whenwecamebackafewminuteslaterwe found the shed had one of those doors that self-locks from the inside. Wecouldn’tgetbackinwithoutgoingtogethismother,sowedecidedtorunaroundandplayintheyard.AfterawhileInoticedsmokecomingoutofthecracksinthewindow frame. I ran over and looked inside. A small fire was burning in themiddle of the straw mattress where we’d left the matches and the magnifyingglass.Weranandcalledthemaid.Shecame,butshedidn’tknowwhattodo.Thedoorwaslocked,andbeforewecouldfigureouthowtogetintotheshedthewholethingcaught—themattress,theladders,thepaint,theturpentine,everything.

Theflamesmovedquickly.Soontheroofwasonfire,andfromtheretheblazespread to themainhouse, and thewhole thingburnedandburnedandburned.

Smokewasbillowingintothesky.Aneighborhadcalledthefirebrigade,andthesirenswereontheirway.Meandthiskidandthemaid,weranouttotheroadandwatchedasthefirementriedtoputitout,butbythetimetheydid,itwastoolate.Therewasnothingleftbutacharredbrick-and-mortarshell,roofgone,andguttedfromtheinside.

Thewhitefamilycamehomeandstoodonthestreet,staringattheruinsoftheirhouse.Theyaskedthemaidwhathappenedandsheaskedhersonandthekidtotallysnitched.“Trevorhadmatches,”hesaid.Thefamilysaidnothingtome.I don’t think they knewwhat to say.Theywere completely dumbfounded.Theydidn’tcallthepolice,didn’tthreatentosue.Whatweretheygoingtodo,arrestaseven-year-old for arson?Andwewere so poor you couldn’t actually sue us foranything.Plustheyhadinsurance,sothatwastheendofit.

TheykickedAbeloutofthegarage,whichIthoughtwashilariousbecausethegarage,whichwasfreestanding,wastheonlypieceofthepropertyleftunscathed.IsawnoreasonforAbeltohavetoleave,buttheymadehim.Wepackeduphisstuff,putitintoourcar,anddrovehometoEdenPark;Abelbasicallylivedwithusfromthenon.Heandmymomgotintoahugefight.“Yoursonhasburneddownmylife!”Buttherewasnopunishmentformethatday.Mymomwastoomuchinshock. There’s naughty, and then there’s burning down awhite person’s house.Shedidn’tknowwhattodo.

Ididn’tfeelbadaboutitatall.Istilldon’t.ThelawyerinmemaintainsthatIam completely innocent. Therewerematches and therewas amagnifying glassandtherewasamattressandthen,clearly,aseriesofunfortunateevents.Thingscatchfiresometimes.That’swhythere’safirebrigade.Buteveryoneinmyfamilywill tell you, “Trevor burned down a house.” If people thought I was naughtybefore,afterthefireIwasnotorious.OneofmyunclesstoppedcallingmeTrevor.Hecalledme“Terror”instead.“Don’tleavethatkidaloneinyourhome,”he’dsay.“He’llburnittotheground.”

MycousinMlungisi,tothisday,cannotcomprehendhowIsurvivedbeingasnaughtyasIwasforaslongasIdid,howIwithstoodthenumberofhidingsthatIgot.WhydidIkeepmisbehaving?HowdidIneverlearnmylesson?Bothofmycousinsweresupergoodkids.Mlungisigotmaybeonehidinginhislife.Afterthathesaidheneverwantedtoexperienceanything like iteveragain,andfromthatdayhealwaysfollowedtherules.ButIwasblessedwithanothertraitIinheritedfrommymother:herabilityto forgetthepain in life.Irememberthethingthatcausedthetrauma,butIdon’tholdontothetrauma.Inever let thememoryofsomethingpainfulpreventmefromtryingsomethingnew.Ifyouthinktoomuchabout the ass-kicking yourmomgave you, or the ass-kicking that life gave you,you’ll stop pushing the boundaries and breaking the rules. It’s better to take it,spendsometimecrying,thenwakeupthenextdayandmoveon.You’llhaveafewbruisesandthey’llremindyouofwhathappenedandthat’sokay.Butafterawhilethebruises fade, and they fade for a reason—becausenow it’s time to getup to

someshitagain.

Igrewupinablackfamilyinablackneighborhoodinablackcountry.I’vetraveledtootherblackcities inblackcountriesallover theblackcontinent.And inallof that timeI’veyet tofindaplacewhereblackpeople likecats.Oneof thebiggestreasonsforthat,asweknowinSouthAfrica,isthatonlywitcheshavecats,andallcatsarewitches.

TherewasafamousincidentduringanOrlandoPiratessoccermatchafewyearsago.Acatgotintothestadiumandranthroughthecrowdandoutontothepitchinthemiddleofthegame.Asecurityguard,seeingthecat,didwhatanysensibleblackpersonwoulddo.Hesaidtohimself,“Thatcatisawitch.”Hecaughtthecatand—liveonTV—hekickeditandstompeditandbeatittodeathwithasjambok,ahardleatherwhip.

Itwasfront-pagenewsalloverthecountry.Whitepeople lost theirshit.Ohmyword, itwasinsane.Thesecurityguardwasarrestedandputontrialandfoundguiltyofanimalabuse.Hehadtopaysomeenormousfinetoavoidspendingseveralmonthsinjail.Whatwasironictomewasthatwhitepeoplehadspentyearsseeingvideoofblackpeoplebeingbeatentodeathbyotherwhitepeople,butthisonevideoofablackmankickingacat,that’swhatsentthemover the edge.Blackpeoplewere just confused.Theydidn’t see anyproblemwithwhat themandid.Theywerelike,“Obviouslythatcatwasawitch.Howelsewouldacatknowhowtogetoutontoasoccerpitch?Somebodysentittojinxoneoftheteams.Thatmanhadtokillthecat.Hewasprotectingtheplayers.”

InSouthAfrica,blackpeoplehavedogs.

FUFI

AmonthafterwemovedtoEdenPark,mymotherbroughthometwocats.Blackcats.Beautiful creatures.Somewoman fromherworkhada litterofkittensshewastryingtogetridof,andmymomendedupwithtwo.IwasexcitedbecauseI’dneverhadapetbefore.Mymomwasexcitedbecauseshelovesanimals.Shedidn’tbelieve in anynonsense about cats. Itwas just anotherway inwhich shewas arebel,refusingtoconformtoideasaboutwhatblackpeopledidanddidn’tdo.

Inablackneighborhood,youwouldn’tdareownacat,especiallyablackcat.Thatwouldbelikewearingasignthatsaid,“Hello,Iamawitch.”Thatwouldbesuicide.Sincewe’dmovedtoacoloredneighborhood,mymomthoughtthecatswouldbeokay.Oncetheyweregrownweletthemoutduringthedaytoroamtheneighborhood.Thenwecamehomeoneeveningandfoundthecatsstrungupbytheir tails fromour frontgate,guttedandskinnedandbleedingout, theirheadschopped off. On our front wall someone had written in Afrikaans,“Heks”—“Witch.”

Coloredpeople,apparently,werenomoreprogressive thanblackpeopleontheissueofcats.

Iwasn’texactlydevastatedabout thecats. Idon’t thinkwe’dhadthemlongenoughformetogetattached;Idon’tevenremembertheirnames.Andcatsaredicksforthemostpart.AsmuchasItriedtheyneverfeltlikerealpets.Theynevershowedmeaffectionnordidtheyacceptanyofmine.Hadthecatsmademoreofaneffort,ImighthavefeltlikeIhadlostsomething.Butevenasakid,lookingatthesedead,mutilatedanimals,Iwaslike,“Well,thereyouhaveit.Maybeifthey’dbeennicer,theycouldhaveavoidedthis.”

Afterthecatswerekilled,wetookabreakfrompetsforawhile.Thenwegotdogs.Dogsarecool.AlmosteveryblackfamilyIknewhadadog.Nomatterhowpooryouwere,youhadadog.Whitepeopletreatdogslikechildrenormembersofthe family. Black people’s dogs are more for protection, a poor-man’s alarmsystem.Youbuyadogandyoukeepitoutintheyard.Blackpeoplenamedogsbytheirtraits.Ifithasstripes,youcallitTiger.Ifit’svicious,youcallitDanger.Ifithas spots, you call it Spotty. Given the finite number of traits a dog can have,prettymucheveryone’sdogshavethesamenames;peoplejustrecyclethem.

We’dneverhaddogsinSoweto.Thenonedaysomeladyatmymom’swork

offered us two puppies. They weren’t planned puppies. This woman’s Maltesepoodlehadbeenimpregnatedbythebullterrierfromnextdoor,astrangemix.Mymomsaidshe’dtakethemboth.Shebroughtthemhome,andIwasthehappiestkidonearth.

MymomnamedthemFufiandPanther.Fufi,Idon’tknowwherehernamecamefrom.Pantherhadapinknose,soshewasPinkPantherandeventuallyjustPanther.Theyweretwosisterswholovedandhatedeachother.Theywouldlookoutforeachother,buttheywouldalsofightallthetime.Like,bloodfights.Biting.Clawing.Itwasastrange,gruesomerelationship.

Pantherwasmymom’sdog;Fufiwasmine.Fufiwasbeautiful.Clean lines,happy face. She looked like a perfect bull terrier, only skinnier because of theMaltese mixed in. Panther, who was more half-and-half, came out weird andscruffy-looking. Panther was smart. Fufi was dumb as shit. At least we alwaysthought shewas dumb as shit.Wheneverwe called them, Pantherwould comerightaway,butFufiwouldn’tdoanything.PantherwouldrunbackandgetFufiandthenthey’dbothcome.ItturnedoutthatFufiwasdeaf.YearslaterFufidiedwhenaburglarwastryingtobreakintoourhouse.Hepushedthegateoveranditfellonherbackandbrokeherspine.Wetookhertothevetandshehadtobeputdown.Afterexaminingher,thevetcameoverandgaveusthenews.

“Itmusthavebeenstrangeforyourfamilylivingwithadogthatwasdeaf,”hesaid.

“What?”

“Youdidn’tknowyourdogwasdeaf?”

“No,wethoughtitwasstupid.”

That’swhenwerealizedthattheirwholelivestheonedoghadbeentellingtheother dogwhat to do somehow.The smart, hearing onewas helping the dumb,deafone.

Fufiwastheloveofmylife.Beautifulbutstupid.Iraisedher.Ipotty-trainedher.Shesleptinmybed.Adogisagreatthingforakidtohave.It’slikeabicyclebutwithemotions.

Fuficoulddoallsortsoftricks.Shecouldjumpsuperhigh.Imean,Fuficouldjump.Icouldholdapieceoffoodoutabovemyownheadandshe’dleapupandgrabit likeitwasnothing.IfYouTubehadbeenaround,Fufiwouldhavebeenastar.

Fufi was a little rascal as well. During the day we kept the dogs in thebackyard,whichwasenclosedbyawallatleastfivefeethigh.Afterawhile,everydaywe’dcomehomeandFufiwouldbesittingoutsidethegate,waitingforus.Wewere always confused.Was someone opening the gate?What was going on? Itnever occurred to us that she could actually scale a five-footwall, but thatwasexactlywhatwashappening.Everymorning,Fufiwouldwaitforustoleave,jump

overthewall,andgoroamingaroundtheneighborhood.

IcaughtheronedaywhenIwashomefortheschoolholidays.Mymomhadleft for work and I was in the living room. Fufi didn’t know I was there; shethought I was gone because the car was gone. I heard Panther barking in thebackyard, looked out, and there was Fufi, scaling the wall. She’d jumped,scamperedupthelastcoupleoffeet,andthenshewasgone.

Icouldn’tbelievethiswashappening.Iranoutfront,grabbedmybicycle,andfollowedhertoseewhereshewasgoing.Shewentalongway,manystreetsover,to anotherpartof theneighborhood.Then shewentup to thisotherhouseandjumpedover theirwall and into their backyard.What thehellwas shedoing? Iwentuptothegateandrangthedoorbell.Thiscoloredkidanswered.

“MayIhelpyou?”hesaid.

“Yeah.Mydogisinyouryard.”

“What?”

“Mydog.She’sinyouryard.”

Fufiwalkedupandstoodbetweenus.

“Fufi,come!”Isaid.“Let’sgo!”

ThiskidlookedatFufiandcalledherbysomeotherstupidname,Spottyorsomebullshitlikethat.

“Spotty,gobackinsidethehouse.”

“Whoa,whoa,”Isaid.“Spotty?That’sFufi!”

“No,that’smydog,Spotty.”

“No,that’sFufi,myfriend.”

“No,thisisSpotty.”

“HowcouldthisbeSpotty?Shedoesn’tevenhavespots.Youdon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”

“ThisisSpotty!”

“Fufi!”

“Spotty!”

“Fufi!”

Of course, sinceFufiwasdeaf shedidn’t respond to “Spotty”or “Fufi.”Shejuststoodthere.Istartedcursingthekidout.

“Givemebackmydog!”

“Idon’tknowwhoyouare,”hesaid,“butyoubettergetoutofhere.”

Thenhewentintothehouseandgothismomandshecameout.

“Whatdoyouwant?”shesaid.

“That’smydog!”

“Thisisourdog.Goaway.”

Istartedcrying.“Whyareyoustealingmydog?!”IturnedtoFufiandbeggedher. “Fufi,whyare youdoing this tome?!Why,Fufi?!Why?!” I called toher. Ibeggedhertocome.Fufiwasdeaftomypleas.Andeverythingelse.

Ijumpedontomybikeandracedhome,tearsrunningdownmyface.IlovedFufisomuch.Toseeherwithanotherboy,actinglikeshedidn’tknowme,afterIraisedher,afterallthenightswespenttogether.Iwasheartbroken.

ThateveningFufididn’tcomehome.BecausetheotherfamilythoughtIwascoming to steal their dog, they had decided to lock her inside, so she couldn’tmakeitbackthewayshenormallydidtowaitforusoutsidethefence.Mymomgothomefromwork.Iwasintears.ItoldherFufihadbeenkidnapped.Wewentbacktothehouse.Mymomrangthebellandconfrontedthemom.

“Look,thisisourdog.”

Thisladyliedtomymom’sface.“Thisisnotyourdog.Weboughtthisdog.”

“Youdidn’tbuythedog.It’sourdog.”

Theywentbackandforth.Thiswomanwasn’tbudging,sowewenthometogetevidence:picturesofuswith thedogs,certificates fromthevet. Iwascryingthewholetime,andmymomwaslosingherpatiencewithme.“Stopcrying!We’llgetthedog!Calmdown!”

Wegatheredupourdocumentationandwentbacktothehouse.Thistimewebrought Panther with us, as part of the proof. My mom showed this lady thepicturesandtheinformationfromthevet.Shestillwouldn’tgiveusFufi.Mymomthreatenedtocall thepolice.It turned intoawholething.Finallymymomsaid,“Okay,I’llgiveyouahundredrand.”

“Fine,”theladysaid.

MymomgavehersomemoneyandshebroughtFufiout.Theotherkid,whothoughtFufiwasSpotty,hadtowatchhismothersellthedoghethoughtwashis.Nowhestartedcrying. “Spotty!No!Mom,youcan’t sellSpotty!” Ididn’t care. IjustwantedFufiback.

Once Fufi saw Panther she came right away. The dogs left with us andwewalked.Isobbedthewholewayhome,stillheartbroken.Mymomhadnotimeformywhining.

“Whyareyoucrying?!”

“BecauseFufilovesanotherboy.”

“So?Whywould thathurtyou? Itdidn’t costyouanything.Fufi’shere.She

stilllovesyou.She’sstillyourdog.Sogetoverit.”

Fufiwasmyfirstheartbreak.NoonehaseverbetrayedmemorethanFufi.Itwasavaluable lesson tome.Thehard thingwasunderstanding thatFufiwasn’tcheating onme with another boy. She wasmerely living her life to the fullest.Until I knew that she was going out on her own during the day, her otherrelationshiphadn’taffectedmeatall.Fufihadnomaliciousintent.

IbelievedthatFufiwasmydog,butofcoursethatwasn’ttrue.Fufiwasadog.Iwasaboy.Wegotalongwell.Shehappenedtoliveinmyhouse.ThatexperienceshapedwhatI’ve feltaboutrelationships for therestofmy life:Youdonotownthethingthatyoulove.Iwasluckytolearnthatlessonatsuchayoungage.Ihavesomanyfriendswhostill,asadults,wrestlewithfeelingsofbetrayal.They’llcometomeangryandcryingandtalkingabouthowthey’vebeencheatedonandliedto,andIfeelforthem.Iunderstandwhatthey’regoingthrough.IsitwiththemandbuythemadrinkandIsay,“Friend,letmetellyouthestoryofFufi.”

WhenIwastwenty-fouryearsold,onedayoutofthebluemymothersaidtome,“Youneedtofindyourfather.”

“Why?”Iasked.AtthatpointIhadn’tseenhiminovertenyearsanddidn’tthinkI’deverseehimagain.

“Becausehe’sapieceofyou,”shesaid,“andifyoudon’tfindhimyouwon’tfindyourself.”

“Idon’tneedhimforthat,”Isaid.“IknowwhoIam.”

“It’s not about knowing who you are. It’s about him knowing who you are, and youknowingwhohe is. Toomanymengrowupwithout their fathers, so they spend their liveswithafalse impressionofwhotheirfather isandwhatafathershouldbe.Youneedtofindyourfather.Youneedtoshowhimwhatyou’vebecome.Youneedtofinishthatstory.”

ROBERT

Myfatherisacompletemystery.TherearesomanyquestionsabouthislifethatIstillcannotevenbegintoanswer.

Where’dhegrowup?SomewhereinSwitzerland.

Where’dhegotouniversity?Idon’tknowifhedid.

How’dheendupinSouthAfrica?Ihaven’taclue.

I’venevermetmySwissgrandparents.Idon’tknowtheirnamesoranythingaboutthem.Idoknowmydadhasanoldersister,butI’venevermether,either.Iknow that he worked as a chef in Montreal and New York for a while beforemovingtoSouthAfricainthelate1970s.Iknowthatheworkedforanindustrialfood-servicecompanyand thatheopenedacoupleofbarsandrestaurantshereandthere.That’saboutit.

I never called my dad “Dad.” I never addressed him “Daddy” or “Father,”either. I couldn’t. Iwas instructednot to. Ifwewere out inpublic or anywherepeople might overhear us and I called him “Dad,” someone might have askedquestionsorcalledthepolice.SoforaslongasIcanrememberIalwayscalledhimRobert.

WhileIknownothingofmydad’slifebeforeme,thankstomymomandjustfromthetimeIhavebeenabletospendwithhim,Idohaveasenseofwhoheisasaperson.He’sverySwiss,cleanandparticularandprecise.He’stheonlypersonIknowwhochecksintoahotelroomandleavesitcleanerthanwhenhearrived.Hedoesn’t likeanyonewaitingonhim.Noservants,nohousekeepers.Hecleansupafter himself. He likes his space. He lives in his own world and does his owneverything.

Iknowthathenevermarried.Heusedtosaythatmostpeoplemarrybecausetheywanttocontrolanotherperson,andheneverwantedtobecontrolled.Iknowthat he loves traveling, loves entertaining, having people over. But at the sametimehisprivacy is everything tohim.Whereverhe liveshe’snever listed in thephonebook.I’msuremyparentswouldhavebeencaughtintheirtimetogetherifhehadn’tbeenasprivateasheis.Mymomwaswildandimpulsive.Myfatherwasreservedandrational.Shewasfire,hewasice.Theywereoppositesthatattracted,andIamamixofthemboth.

OnethingIdoknowaboutmydadisthathehatesracismandhomogeneitymorethananything,andnotbecauseofanyfeelingsofself-righteousnessormoralsuperiority.He justneverunderstoodhowwhitepeoplecouldberacist inSouthAfrica.“Africaisfullofblackpeople,”hewouldsay.“SowhywouldyoucomeallthewaytoAfricaifyouhateblackpeople?Ifyouhateblackpeoplesomuch,whydidyoumoveintotheirhouse?”Tohimitwasinsane.

Becauseracismnevermadesensetomyfather,heneversubscribedtoanyoftherulesofapartheid.Intheearlyeighties,beforeIwasborn,heopenedoneofthe first integrated restaurants inJohannesburg, a steakhouse.Heapplied for aspecial license that allowed businesses to serve both black and white patrons.Theselicensesexistedbecausehotelsandrestaurantsneededthemtoserveblacktravelersanddiplomatsfromothercountries,whointheoryweren’tsubjecttothesame restrictions as black South Africans; black South Africans withmoney inturnexploitedthatloopholetofrequentthosehotelsandrestaurants.

My dad’s restaurant was an instant, booming success. Black people camebecause there were few upscale establishments where they could eat, and theywanted to come and sit in a nice restaurant and see what that was like.Whitepeoplecamebecausetheywantedtoseewhatitwasliketositwithblackpeople.Thewhitepeoplewouldsitandwatchtheblackpeopleeat,andtheblackpeoplewouldsitandeatandwatchthewhitepeoplewatchingthemeat.Thecuriosityofbeingtogetheroverwhelmedtheanimositykeepingpeopleapart.Theplacehadagreatvibe.

Therestaurantclosedonlybecauseafewpeopleintheneighborhoodtookitupon themselves to complain. They filed petitions, and the government startedlookingforwaystoshutmydaddown.Atfirsttheinspectorscameandtriedtogethimoncleanlinessandhealth-codeviolations.ClearlytheyhadneverheardoftheSwiss. That failed dismally. Then they decided to go after him by imposingadditionalandarbitraryrestrictions.

“Since you’ve got the license you can keep the restaurant open,” they said,“butyou’llneedtohaveseparatetoiletsforeveryracialcategory.You’llneedwhitetoilets,blacktoilets,coloredtoilets,andIndiantoilets.”

“Butthenitwillbeawholerestaurantofnothingbuttoilets.”

“Well, ifyoudon’twanttodothat,yourotheroptionistomakeitanormalrestaurantandonlyservewhites.”

Heclosedtherestaurant.

After apartheid fell,my fathermoved fromHillbrow toYeoville, a formerlyquiet,residentialneighborhoodthathadtransformedintothisvibrantmeltingpotofblackandwhiteandeveryotherhue.ImmigrantswerepouringinfromNigeriaandGhanaandalloverthecontinent,bringingdifferentfoodandexcitingmusic.RockeyStreetwasthemainstrip,anditssidewalkswerefilledwithstreetvendorsandrestaurantsandbars.Itwasanexplosionofculture.

Mydad livedtwoblocksover fromRockey,onYeoStreet, rightnext to thisincredible park where I loved to go because kids of all races and differentcountries were running around and playing there.My dad’s house was simple.Nice,butnothingfancy.I feel likemydadhadenoughmoneytobecomfortableandtravel,butheneverspentlavishlyonthings.He’sextremelyfrugal,thekindofguywhodrivesthesamecarfortwentyyears.

My father and I lived on a schedule. I visitedhim every Sunday afternoon.Even though apartheid had ended,mymomhadmadeher decision: She didn’twanttogetmarried.Sowehadourhouse,andhehadhis.I’dmadeadealwithmymomthat if Iwentwithher tomixedchurchandwhite church in themorning,after that I’d get to skip black church and go to my dad’s, where we’d watchFormula1racinginsteadofcastingoutdemons.

I celebratedmy birthday withmy dad every year, andwe spent Christmaswith him as well. I loved Christmas with my dad because my dad celebratedEuropeanChristmas.EuropeanChristmaswas thebestChristmas ever.Mydadwentallout.HehadChristmaslightsandaChristmastree.Hehadfakesnowandsnow globes and stockings hung by the fireplace and lots of wrapped presentsfromSantaClaus.AfricanChristmaswasalotmorepractical.We’dgotochurch,comehome,haveanicemealwithgoodmeat and lotsof custardand jelly.Buttherewasnotree.You’dgetapresent,butitwasusuallyjustclothes,anewoutfit.Youmightgetatoy,butitwasn’twrappedanditwasneverfromSantaClaus.Thewhole issueofSantaClaus isa rathercontentiousonewhen it comes toAfricanChristmas,amatterofpride.WhenanAfricandadbuyshiskidapresent,thelastthinghe’sgoingtodoisgivesomefatwhitemancreditforit.AfricanDadwilltellyoustraightup,“No,no,no.Iboughtyouthat.”

Outside of birthdays and special occasions, all we had were our Sundayafternoons.Hewould cook forme.He’d askmewhat Iwanted, and I’d alwaysrequest the exact same meal, a German dish calledRösti, which is basically apancakemadeoutofpotatoesandsomesortofmeatwithagravy. I’dhave thatandabottleofSprite,andfordessertaplasticcontainerofcustardwithcaramelontop.

Agoodchunkof thoseafternoonswouldpass insilence.Mydaddidn’t talkmuch. He was caring and devoted, attentive to detail, always a card on mybirthday,alwaysmyfavoritefoodandtoyswhenIcameforavisit.Butatthesametimehewasaclosedbook.We’dtalkaboutthefoodhewasmaking,talkabouttheF1 racingwe’dwatched. Every now and then he’d drop a tidbit of information,aboutaplacehe’dvisitedorhis steakhouse.But thatwas it.Beingwithmydadwaslikewatchingawebseries.I’dgetafewminutesofinformationafewminutesatatime,thenI’dhavetowaitaweekforthenextinstallment.

—

WhenIwasthirteenmydadmovedtoCapeTown,andwelosttouch.We’dbeenlosingtouchforawhile, foracoupleofreasons.Iwasateenager.Ihadawhole

otherworld Iwasdealingwithnow.Videogamesandcomputersmeantmore tomethanspendingtimewithmyparents.Also,mymomhadmarriedAbel.Hewasincensedbytheideaofmymombeingincontactwithherpreviouslove,andshedecideditwassaferforeveryoneinvolvednottotesthisanger.Iwentfromseeingmy dad every Sunday to seeing him every other Sunday,maybe once amonth,whenevermymom could sneakme over, same as she’d done back inHillbrow.We’dgone from livingunder apartheid to livingunder anotherkindof tyranny,thatofanabusive,alcoholicman.

At the same time, Yeoville had started to suffer fromwhite flight, neglect,generaldecline.Mostofmydad’sGerman friendshad left forCapeTown. Ifhewasn’tseeingme,hehadnoreasontostay,soheleft.Hisleavingwasn’tanythingtraumatic,becauseitneverregisteredthatwemightlosetouchandneverseeeachother again. In my mind it was just Dad’s moving to Cape Town for a bit.Whatever.

Then he was gone. I stayed busy living my life, surviving high school,survivingmyearly twenties,becomingacomedian.Mycareer tookoffquickly. IgotaradioDJgigandhostedakids’adventurerealityshowontelevision.Iwasheadliningatclubsalloverthecountry.Butevenasmylifewasmovingforward,thequestionsaboutmydadwerealwaysthereinthebackofmymind,bubblinguptothesurfacenowandthen.“Iwonderwhereheis.Doeshethinkaboutme?Does he know what I’m doing? Is he proud of me?”When a parent is absent,you’re left in the lurch of not knowing, and it’s so easy to fill that space withnegative thoughts. “Theydon’t care.” “They’re selfish.”Myonesavinggracewasthatmymomneverspokeillofhim.Shewouldalwayscomplimenthim.“You’regoodwithyourmoney.Yougetthatfromyourdad.”“Youhaveyourdad’ssmile.”“You’recleanandtidylikeyourfather.”Ineverturnedtobitterness,becauseshemadesureIknewhisabsencewasbecauseofcircumstanceandnotalackoflove.Shealwaystoldmethestoryofhercominghomefromthehospitalandmydadsaying,“Where’smykid?Iwantthatkidinmylife.”She’dsaytome,“Don’teverforget:Hechoseyou.”And,ultimately,whenIturnedtwenty-four,itwasmymomwhomademetrackhimdown.

Becausemyfather issoprivate, findinghimwashardwork.Wedidn’thaveanaddress.Hewasn’tinthephonebook.Istartedbyreachingouttosomeofhisoldconnections,GermanexpatsinJohannesburg,awomanwhousedtodateoneof his friends who knew somebody who knew the last place he stayed. I gotnowhere. Finally my mom suggested the Swiss embassy. “They have to knowwhereheis,”shesaid,“becausehehastobeintouchwiththem.”

IwrotetotheSwissembassyaskingthemwheremyfatherwas,butbecausemyfatherisnotonmybirthcertificateIhadnoproofthatmyfatherismyfather.Theembassywrotebackandsaidtheycouldn’tgivemeanyinformation,becausetheydidn’tknowwhoIwas.Itriedcallingthem,andIgottherunaroundthereaswell.“Look,kid,”theysaid.“Wecan’thelpyou.We’retheSwissembassy.Doyou

knownothingabouttheSwiss?Discretioniskindofourthing.That’swhatwedo.Tough luck.” I kept pestering themand finally they said, “Okay,we’ll take yourletterand,ifamansuchasyou’redescribingexists,wemightforwardyourlettertohim.Ifhedoesn’t,maybewewon’t.Let’sseewhathappens.”

Afewmonthslater,alettercamebackinthepost:“Greattohearfromyou.How are you? Love, Dad.” He gave me his address in Cape Town, in aneighborhoodcalledCampsBay,andafewmonthslaterIwentdowntovisit.

I’llneverforgetthatday.Itwasprobablyoneoftheweirdestdaysofmylife,goingtomeetapersonIknewandyetdidnotknowatall.Mymemoriesofhimfelt just out of reach. Iwas trying to rememberhowhe spoke,howhe laughed,whathismannerwas.Iparkedonhisstreetandstartedlookingforhisaddress.CampsBay is full of older, semiretiredwhite people, and as Iwalkeddown theroadalltheseoldwhitemenwerewalkingtowardmeandpastme.Myfatherwaspushing seventyby thatpoint, and Iwas so afraid I’d forgottenwhathe lookedlike.Iwaslookinginthefaceofeveryoldwhitemanwhopassedme,like,Areyoumydaddy?BasicallyitlookedlikeIwascruisingoldwhitedudesinabeachfrontretirementcommunity.ThenfinallyIgottotheaddressI’dbeengivenandrangthe bell, and the second he opened the door I recognized him.Hey! It’s you, Ithought.Ofcourseit’syou.You’retheguy.Iknowyou.

Wepickeduprightwherewe’dleftoff,whichwashimtreatingmeexactlythewayhe’dtreatedmeasathirteen-year-oldboy.Likethecreatureofhabithewas,myfatherwentstraightbackintoit.“Right!Sowherewerewe?Here,I’vegotallyourfavorites.PotatoRösti.AbottleofSprite.Custardwithcaramel.”Luckilymytasteshadn’tmaturedmuchsincetheageofthirteen,soItuckedrightin.

WhileIwaseatinghegotupandwentandpickedupthisbook,anoversizedphotoalbum,andbroughtitbacktothetable.“I’vebeenfollowingyou,”hesaid,andheopeneditup.ItwasascrapbookofeverythingIhadeverdone,everytimemynamewasmentionedinanewspaper,everythingfrommagazinecoverstothetiniestclub listings, fromthebeginningofmycareerall thewaythroughto thatweek.Hewas smiling sobigashe tookme through it, lookingat theheadlines.“TrevorNoahAppearingThisSaturdayattheBluesRoom.”“TrevorNoahHostingNewTVShow.”

Ifeltafloodofemotionsrushingthroughme.ItwaseverythingIcoulddonottostartcrying.Itfeltlikethisten-yeargapinmylifeclosedrightupinaninstant,like only a day had passed since I’d last seen him. For years I’d had so manyquestions.Ishethinkingaboutme?DoesheknowwhatI’mdoing?Isheproudofme? But he’d been with me the whole time. He’d always been proud of me.Circumstancehadpulledusapart,buthewasnevernotmyfather.

Iwalkedoutofhishousethatdayaninchtaller.Seeinghimhadreaffirmedhischoosingofme.Hechosetohavemeinhislife.Hechosetoanswermyletter.Iwas wanted. Being chosen is the greatest gift you can give to another humanbeing.

Oncewe reconnected, I was overcome by this drive tomake up for all theyearswe’dmissed.Idecidedthebestwaytodoitwastointerviewhim.Irealizedvery quickly that that was a mistake. Interviews will give you facts andinformation, but facts and information weren’t really what I was after.What Iwantedwas a relationship, andan interview isnot a relationship.Relationshipsare built in the silences. You spend time with people, you observe them andinteractwiththem,andyoucometoknowthem—andthatiswhatapartheidstolefromus: time.Youcan’tmakeup for thatwithan interview,but Ihad to figurethatoutformyself.

Iwentdowntospendafewdayswithmyfather,andImadeitmymission:ThisweekendIwillgettoknowmyfather.AssoonasIarrivedIstartedpepperinghimwithquestions.“Whereareyoufrom?Wheredidyougotoschool?Whydidyoudothis?Howdidyoudothat?”Hestartedgettingvisiblyirritated.

“What is this?” he said. “Why are you interrogating me? What’s going onhere?”

“Iwanttogettoknowyou.”

“Isthishowyounormallygettoknowpeople,byinterrogatingthem?”

“Well…notreally.”

“Sohowdoyougettoknowpeople?”

“Idunno.Byspendingtimewiththem,Iguess.”

“Okay.Sospendtimewithme.Seewhatyoufindout.”

Sowespenttheweekendtogether.Wehaddinnerandtalkedaboutpolitics.WewatchedF1racingandtalkedaboutsports.WesatquietlyinhisbackyardandlistenedtooldElvisPresleyrecords.Thewholetimehesaidnotonewordabouthimself.Then,asIwaspackinguptoleave,hewalkedovertomeandsatdown.

“So,”he said, “in the timewe’ve spent together,whatwouldyou sayyou’velearnedaboutyourdad?”

“Nothing.AllIknowisthatyou’reextremelysecretive.”

“Yousee?You’regettingtoknowmealready.”

WhenDutch colonists landed at the southern tip ofAfrica over threehundred years ago,they encountered an indigenous people known as theKhoisan. TheKhoisan are theNativeAmericansofSouthAfrica,a lost tribeofbushmen,nomadichunter-gatherersdistinct fromthedarker,Bantu-speakingpeopleswholatermigratedsouthtobecometheZulu,Xhosa,andSotho tribes of modern South Africa. While settling in Cape Town and the surroundingfrontier, the white colonists had their way with the Khoisan women, and the first mixedpeopleofSouthAfricawereborn.

To work the colonists’ farms, slaves were soon imported from different corners of theDutchempire,fromWestAfrica,Madagascar,andtheEastIndies.TheslavesandtheKhoisanintermarried, and thewhite colonists continued to dip in and take their liberties, and overtimetheKhoisanallbutdisappearedfromSouthAfrica.Whilemostwerekilledoffthroughdisease,famine,andwar,therestoftheirbloodlinewasbredoutofexistence,mixedinwiththedescendantsofwhitesandslavestoformanentirelynewraceofpeople:coloreds.Coloredpeople are a hybrid, a completemix. Some are light and some are dark. Some have Asianfeatures,somehavewhitefeatures,somehaveblackfeatures.It’snotuncommonforacoloredmanandacoloredwomantohaveachildthatlooksnothinglikeeitherparent.

Thecursethatcoloredpeoplecarryishavingnoclearlydefinedheritagetogobackto.Iftheytracetheirlineagebackfarenough,atacertainpointitsplitsintowhiteandnativeandatangledwebof“other.”Sincetheirnativemothersaregone,theirstrongestaffinityhasalwaysbeen with their white fathers, the Afrikaners. Most colored people don’t speak Africanlanguages. They speak Afrikaans. Their religion, their institutions, all of the things thatshapedtheirculturecamefromAfrikaners.

ThehistoryofcoloredpeopleinSouthAfricais,inthisrespect,worsethanthehistoryofblackpeopleinSouthAfrica.Forallthatblackpeoplehavesuffered,theyknowwhotheyare.Coloredpeopledon’t.

THEMULBERRYTREE

AttheendofourstreetinEdenPark,rightinabendatthetopoftheroad,stoodagiantmulberrytreegrowingoutofsomeone’sfrontyard.Everyyearwhenitborefruittheneighborhoodkidswouldgoandpickberriesfromit,eatingasmanyasthey couldand fillingupbags to takehome.Theywouldallplayunder the treetogether.Ihadtoplayunderthetreebymyself.Ididn’thaveanyfriendsinEdenPark.

Iwastheanomalywhereverwe lived.InHillbrow,we lived inawhitearea,and nobody looked like me. In Soweto, we lived in a black area, and nobodylookedlikeme.EdenParkwasacoloredarea.InEdenPark,everyonelookedlikeme, butwe couldn’t have beenmore different. Itwas the biggestmindfuck I’veeverexperienced.

Theanimosity I felt from thecoloredpeople I encounteredgrowingupwasoneofthehardestthingsI’veeverhadtodealwith.Ittaughtmethatitiseasiertobean insiderasanoutsider than tobeanoutsiderasan insider. If awhiteguychooses to immerse himself in hip-hop culture and only hang out with blackpeople,blackpeoplewillsay,“Cool,whiteguy.Dowhatyouneedtodo.”Ifablackguychoosestobuttonuphisblacknesstoliveamongwhitepeopleandplaylotsofgolf, white peoplewill say, “Fine. I like Brian.He’s safe.” But try being a blackperson who immerses himself in white culture while still living in the blackcommunity.Trybeingawhitepersonwhoadopts the trappingsofblackculturewhilestilllivinginthewhitecommunity.Youwillfacemorehateandridiculeandostracismthanyoucanevenbegintofathom.Peoplearewillingtoacceptyouiftheyseeyouasanoutsidertryingtoassimilateintotheirworld.Butwhentheyseeyouasa fellowtribememberattempting todisavowthe tribe, that is somethingtheywillneverforgive.ThatiswhathappenedtomeinEdenPark.

—

When apartheid came, colored people defied easy categorization, so the systemused them—quite brilliantly—to sow confusion, hatred, and mistrust. For thepurposes of the state, colored people became the almost-whites. They weresecond-classcitizens,deniedtherightsofwhitepeoplebutgivenspecialprivilegesthatblackpeopledidn’thave,justtokeepthemholdingoutformore.Afrikanersused to call them amperbaas: “the almost-boss.” The almost-master. “You’re

almost there. You’re so close. You’re this close to being white. Pity yourgrandfathercouldn’tkeephishandsoff thechocolate,eh?But it’snotyourfaultyou’recolored,sokeeptrying.Becauseifyouworkhardenoughyoucanerasethistaint fromyourbloodline.Keeponmarrying lighterandwhiteranddon’t touchthe chocolate and maybe, maybe, someday, if you’re lucky, you can becomewhite.”

Which seems ridiculous, but it would happen. Every year under apartheid,somecoloredpeoplewouldgetpromotedtowhite. Itwasn’tamyth; itwasreal.People could submit applications to the government. Your hair might becomestraightenough,yourskinmightbecomelightenough,youraccentmightbecomepolished enough—and you’d be reclassified as white. All you had to do wasdenounce your people, denounce your history, and leave your darker-skinnedfriendsandfamilybehind.

The legal definition of a white person under apartheid was “one who inappearance is obviously a white person who is generally not accepted as acoloured person; or is generally accepted as a white person and is not inappearanceobviouslyawhiteperson.”Itwascompletelyarbitrary,inotherwords.That’swherethegovernmentcameupwiththingslikethepenciltest.Ifyouwereapplyingtobewhite,thepencilwentintoyourhair.Ifitfellout,youwerewhite.Ifit stayed in, you were colored. You were what the government said you were.Sometimesthatcamedowntoaloneclerkeyeballingyourfaceandmakingasnapdecision.Dependingonhowhighyourcheekboneswereorhowbroadyournosewas,hecouldtickwhateverboxmadesensetohim,therebydecidingwhereyoucould live,whomyoucouldmarry,what jobsandrightsandprivilegesyouwereallowed.

And colored people didn’t just get promoted to white. Sometimes coloredpeople became Indian. Sometimes Indian people became colored. Sometimesblackswerepromotedtocolored,andsometimescoloredsweredemotedtoblack.Andof coursewhites couldbedemoted to coloredaswell.Thatwaskey.Thosemixedbloodlineswerealwayslurking,waitingtopeekout,andfearoflosingtheirstatus kept white people in line. If two white parents had a child and thegovernment decided that child was too dark, even if both parents produceddocumentationproving theywerewhite, thechildcouldbeclassifiedascolored,andthefamilyhadtomakeadecision.Dotheygiveuptheirwhitestatustogoandliveascoloredpeopleinacoloredarea?Orwouldtheysplitup,themothertakingthecoloredchildtoliveintheghettowhilethefatherstayedwhitetomakealivingtosupportthem?

Manycoloredpeoplelivedinthislimbo,atruepurgatory,alwaysyearningforthewhite fatherswho disowned them, and they could be horribly racist to oneanother as a result. Themost common colored slur was boesman. “Bushman.”“Bushie.”Becauseitcalledouttheirblackness,theirprimitiveness.Theworstwaytoinsultacoloredpersonwasto inferthattheywereinsomewayblack.Oneof

themostsinisterthingsaboutapartheidwasthatittaughtcoloredpeoplethatitwasblackpeoplewhowereholdingthemback.Apartheidsaidthattheonlyreasoncoloredpeoplecouldn’thavefirst-classstatuswasbecauseblackpeoplemightusecolorednesstosneakpastthegatestoenjoythebenefitsofwhiteness.

That’swhatapartheiddid:Itconvincedeverygroupthatitwasbecauseoftheotherracethattheydidn’tgetintotheclub.It’sbasicallythebounceratthedoortellingyou,“Wecan’tletyouinbecauseofyourfriendDarrenandhisuglyshoes.”So you look at Darren and say, “Screw you, Black Darren. You’re holding meback.”ThenwhenDarrengoesup,thebouncersays,“No,it’sactuallyyourfriendSizweandhisweirdhair.”SoDarrensays,“Screwyou,Sizwe,”andnoweveryonehateseveryone.Butthetruthisthatnoneofyouwereevergettingintothatclub.

Colored people had it rough. Imagine: You’ve been brainwashed intobelieving that yourblood is tainted.You’ve spent all your timeassimilatingandaspiringtowhiteness.Then,justasyouthinkyou’reclosinginonthefinishline,somefuckingguynamedNelsonMandelacomesalongandflipsthecountryonitshead.Nowthefinishlineisbackwherethestartinglinewas,andthebenchmarkisblack. Black is in charge. Black is beautiful. Black is powerful. For centuriescolored people were told: Blacks are monkeys. Don’t swing from the trees likethem.Learntowalkuprightlikethewhiteman.Thenallofasuddenit’sPlanetoftheApes,andthemonkeyshavetakenover.

—

Soyoucanimaginehowweirditwasforme.Iwasmixedbutnotcolored—coloredbycomplexionbutnotbyculture.BecauseofthatIwasseenasacoloredpersonwhodidn’twanttobecolored.

In Eden Park, I encountered two types of colored people. Some coloredpeoplehatedmebecauseofmyblackness.MyhairwascurlyandIwasproudofmyAfro.IspokeAfricanlanguagesandlovedspeakingthem.PeoplewouldhearmespeakingXhosaorZuluandthey’dsay,“Wat is jy? ’nBoesman?” “Whatareyou,aBushman?”Whyareyoutryingtobeblack?Whydoyouspeakthatclick-clicklanguage?Lookatyourlightskin.You’realmostthereandyou’rethrowingitaway.

Other colored people hated me because of my whiteness. Even though Iidentifiedasbeingblack,Ihadawhitefather.IwenttoanEnglishprivateschool.I’dlearnedtogetalongwithwhitepeopleatchurch.IcouldspeakperfectEnglish,andIbarelyspokeAfrikaans,thelanguagecoloredpeopleweresupposedtospeak.So colored people thought that I thought I was better than them. They wouldmockmy accent, like I was putting on airs. “Dink jy, jy is grênd?” “You thinkyou’rehighclass?”—uppity,peoplewouldsayinAmerica.

EvenwhenI thoughtIwas liked,Iwasn’t.OneyearIgotabrand-newbikeduringthesummerholidays.MycousinMlungisiandIweretakingturnsridingaroundtheblock.Iwasridingupourstreetwhenthiscutecoloredgirlcameoutto

theroadandstoppedme.Shesmiledandwavedtomesweetly.

“Hey,”shesaid,“canIrideyourbike?”

Iwascompletelyshocked.Oh,wow,Ithought,Imadeafriend.

“Yeah,ofcourse,”Isaid.

Igotoffandshegotonandrodeabout twentyor thirty feet.Somerandomolderkidcamerunninguptothestreet,shestoppedandgotoff,andheclimbedonandrodeaway.Iwassohappythatagirlhadspokentomethatitdidn’tfullysinkinthatthey’dstolenmybicycle.Iranbackhome,smilingandskippingalong.Mycousinaskedwherethebicyclewas.Itoldhim.

“Trevor,you’vebeenrobbed,”hesaid.“Whydidn’tyouchasethem?”

“Ithoughttheywerebeingnice.IthoughtI’dmadeafriend.”

Mlungisiwasolder,myprotector.Heranoffand foundthekids,andthirtyminuteslaterhecamebackwithmybike.

Thingslikethathappenedalot.Iwasbulliedallthetime.Theincidentatthemulberrytreewasprobablytheworstofthem.LateoneafternoonIwasplayingbymyselflikeIalwaysdid,runningaroundtheneighborhood.Thisgroupoffiveorsixcoloredboyswasupthestreetpickingberriesoffthemulberrytreeandeatingthem. Iwent over and started picking some to take home formyself. The boyswereafewyearsolderthanme,aroundtwelveorthirteen.Theydidn’ttalktome,andIdidn’ttalktothem.TheywerespeakingtooneanotherinAfrikaans,andIcouldunderstandwhattheyweresaying.Thenoneofthem,thiskidwhowastheringleaderofthegroup,walkedover.“Magekjoumoerbeiesien?”“CanIseeyourmulberries?”Myfirstthought,again,was,Oh,cool.Imadeafriend.Iheldupmyhandandshowedhimmymulberries.Thenheknockedthemoutofmyhandandsmushedthemintotheground.Theotherkidsstartedlaughing.Istoodthereandlooked at him amoment. By that point I’d developed thick skin. I was used tobeingbullied.Ishruggeditoffandwentbacktopickingberries.

Clearly not getting the reactionhewanted, this kid started cursingme out.“Fokweg,jouonnoseleBoesman!”“Getthefuckoutofhere!Goaway,youstupidBushie!Bushman!” I ignoredhimandwentonaboutmybusiness.ThenI feltasplat!onthebackofmyhead.He’dhitmewithamulberry.Itwasn’tpainful,juststartling.Iturnedtolookathimand,splat!,hehitmeagain,rightinmyface.

Then, in a split second, before I could even react, all of these kids startedpeltingmewith berries, pelting the shit out ofme. Some of the berriesweren’tripe,andtheystunglikerocks.Itriedtocovermyfacewithmyhands,buttherewasabarragecomingatmefromallsides.Theywerelaughingandpeltingmeandcallingmenames.“Bushie!Bushman!”Iwasterrified.Justthesuddennessofit,Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Istartedcrying,andIran.Iranformylife,all thewaybackdowntheroadtoourhouse.

When I ran inside I looked like I’d been beaten to a pulp because I was

bawlingmyeyesoutandwascoveredinred-purpleberryjuice.Mymotherlookedatme,horrified.

“Whathappened?”

In between sobs I told her the story. “These kids…themulberry tree…theythrewberriesatme…”WhenIfinished,sheburstoutlaughing.“It’snotfunny!”Isaid.

“No,no,Trevor,”shesaid.“I’mnotlaughingbecauseit’sfunny.I’mlaughingout of relief. I thought you’d been beaten up. I thought this was blood. I’mlaughingbecauseit’sonlyberryjuice.”

Mymomthoughteverythingwasfunny.Therewasnosubjecttoodarkortoopainfulforhertotacklewithhumor.“Lookonthebrightside,”shesaid,laughingandpointingtothehalfofmecoveredindarkberryjuice.“Nowyoureallyarehalfblackandhalfwhite.”

“It’snotfunny!”

“Trevor,you’reokay,”shesaid.“Goandwashup.You’renothurt.You’rehurtemotionally.Butyou’renothurt.”

Half anhour later,Abel showedup.At that pointAbelwas stillmymom’sboyfriend.Hewasn’t trying tobemy fatheror evena stepfather, really.Hewasmore like a big brother than anything. He’d joke around with me, have fun. Ididn’tknowhimthatwell,butonethingIdidknowabouthimwasthathehadatemper.Verycharmingwhenhewantedtobe,incrediblyfunny,butfuckhecouldbemean.He’dgrownupinthehomelands,whereyouhadtofighttosurvive.Abelwasbig,too,aroundsix-foot-three,longandlean.Hehadn’thitmymomyet.Hehadn’thitmeyet,either.ButIknewhewasdangerous.I’dseenit.Someonewouldcutusoffintraffic.Abelwouldyelloutthewindow.Theotherguywouldhonkandyellback.InaflashAbelwouldbeoutofourcar,overtotheirs,grabbingtheguythrough thedriver’s-sidewindow,screaming inhis face, raisinga fist.You’dseetheotherguypanic.“Whoa,whoa,whoa.I’msorry,I’msorry.”

WhenAbelwalkedinthatnight,hesatdownonthecouchandsawthatI’dbeencrying.

“Whathappened?”hesaid.

I started to explain.Mymother cutme off. “Don’t tell him,” she said. Sheknewwhatwouldhappen.Sheknewbetterthanme.

“Don’ttellmewhat?”Abelsaid.

“It’snothing,”shesaid.

“It’snotnothing,”Isaid.

Sheglaredatme.“Don’ttellhim.”

Abelwasgettingfrustrated.“What?Don’ttellmewhat?”

He’dbeendrinking;henevercamehomefromworksober,andthedrinkingalwaysmadehistemperworse.Itwasstrange,butinthatmomentIrealizedthatif I said the right things I could get him to step in anddo something.Wewerealmostfamily,andIknewifImadehimfeellikehisfamilyhadbeeninsulted,he’dhelpmegetbackattheboys.Iknewhehadademoninsidehim,andIhatedthat;it terrifiedmehowviolentanddangeroushewaswhenhe snapped.But in thatmomentIknewexactlywhatIhadtosaytogetthemonsteronmyside.

Itoldhimthestory,thenamestheycalledme,thewaytheyattackedme.Mymotherkeptlaughingitoff,tellingmetogetoverit,thatitwaskidsbeingkids,nobigdeal.Shewastryingtodefusethesituation,butIcouldn’tseethat.Iwasjustmadather.“Youthinkit’sajoke,butit’snotfunny!It’snotfunny!”

Abelwasn’tlaughing.AsItoldhimwhatthebullieshaddone,Icouldseetheangerbuildingupinsidehim.WithAbel’sanger,therewasnorantingandraving,no clenched fists.He sat thereon the couch listening tome,not sayingaword.Then,verycalmanddeliberate,hestoodup.

“Takemetotheseboys,”hesaid.

Yes,Ithought,thisisit.Bigbrotherisgoingtogetmyrevengeforme.

Wegotintohiscaranddroveuptheroad,stoppingafewhousesdownfromthetree.Itwasdarknowexceptforthelightfromthestreetlamps,butwecouldsee theboyswerestill there,playingunder the tree. Ipointed to the ringleader.“Thatone.Hewasthemainone.”Abelslammedhisfootonthegasandshotuponto the grass and straight toward the bottom of the tree. He jumped out. Ijumpedout.Assoonasthekidssawmetheyknewexactlywhatwashappening.Theyscatteredandranlikehell.

Abelwasquick.GoodLord,hewasfast.Theringleaderhadmadeadashforitand was trying to climb over a wall. Abel grabbed him, pulled him down, anddraggedhimback.Thenhe strippedabranchoff the tree, a switch, and startedwhippinghim.Hewhippedtheshitoutofhim,andIlovedit.IhaveneverenjoyedanythingasmuchasIenjoyedthatmoment.Revengetrulyissweet.Ittakesyoutoadarkplace,but,man,itsatisfiesathirst.

Thentherewasthestrangestmomentwhereitflipped.Icaughtaglimpseofthelookofterrorintheboy’sface,andIrealizedthatAbelhadgonepastgettingrevengeforme.Hewasn’tdoingthistoteachthekidalesson.Hewasjustbeatinghim.Hewasagrownmanventinghisrageonatwelve-year-oldboy.InaninstantIwentfromYes,IgotmyrevengetoNo,no,no.Toomuch.Toomuch.Ohshit.Ohshit.Ohshit.DearGod,whathaveIdone?

Oncethiskidwasbeattoshit,Abeldraggedhimovertothecarandheldhimup in front of me. “Say you’re sorry.” The kid was whimpering, trembling. Helookedmeintheeye,andIhadneverseenfearinsomeone’seyeslikeIsawinhis.He’dbeenbeatenbyastrangerinawayIdon’tthinkhe’deverbeenbeatenbefore.Hesaidhewassorry,butitwaslikehisapologywasn’tforwhathe’ddonetome.

Itwaslikehewassorryforeverybadthinghe’deverdoneinhislife,becausehedidn’tknowtherecouldbeapunishmentlikethis.

Lookinginthatboy’seyes,IrealizedhowmuchheandIhadincommon.Hewasakid.Iwasakid.Hewascrying.Iwascrying.HewasacoloredboyinSouthAfrica,taughthowtohateandhowtohatehimself.Whohadbulliedhimthatheneededtobullyme?He’dmademefeelfear,andtogetmyrevengeI’dunleashedmyownhellonhisworld.ButIknewI’ddoneaterriblething.

Oncethekidapologized,Abelshovedhimawayandkickedhim.“Go.”Thekidranoff,andwedrovebacktothehouseinsilence.AthomeAbelandmymomgotinahuge fight. Shewasalwaysonhimabouthis temper. “You can’t go aroundhittingotherpeople’s children!You’renot the law!Thisanger, this isnoway tolive!”

A couple of hours later this kid’s dad drove over to our house to confrontAbel.Abelwentouttothegate,andIwatchedfrominsidethehouse.BythatpointAbelwastrulydrunk.Thiskid’sdadhadnoideawhathewaswalkinginto.Hewassome mild-mannered, middle-aged guy. I don’t remember much about him,becauseIwaswatchingAbelthewholetime.Inevertookmyeyesoffhim.Iknewthat’swherethedangerwas.

Abeldidn’thaveagunyet;heboughtthatlater.ButAbeldidn’tneedaguntoputthefearofGodinyou.Iwatchedashegotrightinthisguy’sface.Icouldn’thearwhattheothermanwassaying,butIheardAbel.“Don’tfuckwithme.Iwillkill you.” The guy turned quickly and got back in his car and drove away. Hethoughthewascomingtodefendthehonorofhisfamily.Helefthappytoescapewithhislife.

WhenIwasgrowingup,mymomspentalotoftimetryingtoteachmeaboutwomen.Shewasalwaysgivingmelessons,littletalks,piecesofadvice.Itwasneverafull-blown,sit-downlecture about relationships. Itwasmore like tidbits along theway.And Ineverunderstoodwhy,becauseIwasakid.Theonlywomeninmylifeweremymomandmygrandmotherandmyauntandmycousin.Ihadnoloveinterestwhatsoever,yetmymominsisted.Shewouldgooffonawholerangeofthings.

“Trevor,rememberamanisnotdeterminedbyhowmuchheearns.Youcanstillbethemanofthehouseandearnlessthanyourwoman.Beingamanisnotwhatyouhave,it’swhoyouare.Beingmoreofamandoesn’tmeanyourwomanhastobelessthanyou.”

“Trevor,makesureyourwomanisthewomaninyourlife.Don’tbeoneofthesemenwhomakes his wife compete with his mother. A man with a wife cannot be beholden to hismother.”

Thesmallestthingcouldprompther.I’dwalkthroughthehouseonthewaytomyroomand say, “Hey, Mom” without glancing up. She’d say, “No, Trevor! You look at me. Youacknowledgeme.ShowmethatIexisttoyou,becausethewayyoutreatmeisthewayyouwilltreatyourwoman.Womenliketobenoticed.Comeandacknowledgemeandletmeknowthatyouseeme.Don’tjustseemewhenyouneedsomething.”

Theselittlelessonswerealwaysaboutgrown-uprelationships,funnilyenough.Shewassopreoccupiedwithteachingmehowtobeamanthatshenevertaughtmehowtobeaboy.Howtotalktoagirlorpassagirlanoteinclass—therewasnoneofthat.Sheonlytoldmeaboutadult things. She would even lecture me about sex. As I was a kid, that would get veryawkward.

“Trevor,don’t forget:You’rehavingsexwithawomaninhermindbeforeyou’rehavingsexwithherinhervagina.”

“Trevor,foreplaybeginsduringtheday.Itdoesn’tbegininthebedroom.”

I’dbelike,“What?Whatisforeplay?Whatdoesthatevenmean?”

AYOUNGMAN’SLONG,AWKWARD,OCCASIONALLYTRAGIC,ANDFREQUENTLY

HUMILIATINGEDUCATIONINAFFAIRSOFTHEHEART,PARTI:VALENTINE’SDAY

ItwasmyfirstyearatH.A.Jack,theprimaryschoolItransferredtoafterleavingMaryvale.Valentine’sDaywas approaching fast. Iwas twelve years old, and I’dnever done Valentine’s Day before. We didn’t celebrate it in Catholic school. Iunderstood Valentine’s Day, as a concept. The naked baby shoots you with anarrow and you fall in love. I got that part. But this was my first time beingintroduced to it as an activity. At H. A. Jack, Valentine’s Day was used as afundraiser.Pupilsweregoingaroundsellingflowersandcards,andIhadtogoaskafriendwhatwashappening.

“Whatisthis?”Isaid.“Whatarewedoing?”

“Oh,youknow,”shesaid,“it’sValentine’sDay.Youpickaspecialpersonandyoutellthemthatyoulovethem,andtheyloveyouback.”

Wow,Ithought,thatseemsintense.ButIhadn’tbeenshotbyCupid’sarrow,and Ididn’t knowof anyonegetting shotonmybehalf. Ihadno cluewhatwasgoingon.Allweek,thegirlsinschoolkeptsaying,“Who’syourvalentine?Who’syourvalentine?”Ididn’tknowwhatIwassupposedtodo.Finallyoneofthegirls,awhitegirl,said,“YoushouldaskMaylene.”Theotherkidsagreed.“Yes,Maylene.YoushoulddefinitelyaskMaylene.YouhavetoaskMaylene.Youguysareperfectforeachother.”

MaylenewasagirlIusedtowalkhomefromschoolwith.Welivedinthecitynow, me, my mom and Abel, who was now my stepfather, and my new babybrother,Andrew.We’dsoldourhouseinEdenParktoinvestinAbel’snewgarage.Thenthatfellapart,andweendedupmovingtoaneighborhoodcalledHighlandsNorth, a thirty-minutewalk fromH.A. Jack. A group of uswould leave schooltogethereveryafternoon,eachkidpeelingoffandgoingtheirseparatewaywhenwereachedtheirhouse.MayleneandIlivedthefarthest,sowe’dalwaysbethelasttwo.We’dwalktogetheruntilwegotwhereweneededtogo,andthenwe’dpartways.

Maylenewas cool. Shewas goodat tennis, smart, cute. I likedher. I didn’thaveacrushonher; Iwasn’teventhinkingaboutgirls thatwayyet. I just likedhangingoutwithher.Maylenewasalsotheonlycoloredgirlinschool.Iwastheonlymixedkidinschool.Weweretheonlytwopeoplewholookedlikeeachother.

ThewhitegirlswereinsistentaboutmeaskingMaylenetobemyvalentine.Theywere like, “Trevor, you have to ask her. You’re the only two. It’s yourresponsibility.”Itwaslikeourspecieswasgoingtodieoutifwedidn’tmateandcarryon.WhichI’velearnedinlifeissomethingthatwhitepeopledowithoutevenrealizing it. “You two look the same, thereforewemust arrange for you tohavesex.”

Ihonestlyhadn’tthoughtofaskingMaylene,butwhenthegirlsbroughtitup,thatthinghappenedwheresomeoneplantstheideainyourheadanditchangesyourperception.

“Maylene’stotallygotathingforyou.”

“Doesshe?”

“Yeah,youguysaregreattogether!”

“Arewe?”

“Totally.”

“Well,okay.Ifyousayso.”

I likedMayleneasmuchasI likedanyone,Isuppose.MostlyIthinkI likedtheideaofbeingliked.IdecidedI’daskhertobemyvalentine,butIhadnoideahow todo it. Ididn’t know the first thingabouthavingagirlfriend. Ihad tobetaught thewhole lovebureaucracyof theschool.Therewas the thingwhereyoudon’tactuallytalkstraighttotheperson.Youhaveyourgroupoffriendsandshehas her group of friends, and your group of friends has to go to her group offriends and say, “Okay,Trevor likesMaylene.Hewants her to behis valentine.We’reinfavor.We’rereadytosignoffwithyourapproval.”Herfriendssay,“Okay.Soundsgood.WehavetorunitbyMaylene.”TheygotoMaylene.Theyconsult.Theytellherwhattheythink.“Trevorsayshelikesyou.We’reinfavor.Wethinkyou’dbegoodtogether.Whatdoyousay?”Maylenesays,“IlikeTrevor.”Theysay,“Okay.Let’smove forward.”They comeback tous. “Maylene says sheapprovesandshe’swaitingforTrevor’sValentine’sDayadvance.”

Thegirlstoldmethisprocesswaswhatneededtohappen.Isaid,“Cool.Let’sdoit.”Thefriendssorteditout,Maylenegotonboard,andIwasallset.

TheweekbeforeValentine’s,MayleneandIwerewalkinghometogether,andIwas trying to get up the courage to ask her. Iwas so nervous. I’d never doneanythinglikeit.Ialreadyknewtheanswer;herfriendshadtoldmeshe’dsayyes.It’slikebeinginCongress.Youknowyouhavethevotesbeforeyougotothefloor,butit’sstilldifficultbecauseanythingcouldhappen.Ididn’tknowhowtodoit,allIknewwasIwanted it tobeperfect, soIwaiteduntilwewerestandingoutsideMcDonald’s.ThenImusteredupallofmycourageandturnedtoher.

“Hey,Valentine’sDayiscomingup,andIwaswondering,wouldyoubemyvalentine?”

“Yes.I’llbeyourvalentine.”

And then, under the golden arches, we kissed. It was my first time everkissingagirl.Itwasjustapeck,ourlipstouchedforonlyafewseconds,butitsetoffexplosionsinmyhead.Yes!Oh,yes.This.Idon’tknowwhatthisis,butIlikeit.Somethinghadawakened.AnditwasrightoutsideMcDonald’s,soitwasextraspecial.

NowIwastrulyexcited.Ihadavalentine.Ihadagirlfriend.IspentthewholeweekthinkingaboutMaylene,wantingtomakeherValentine’sDayasmemorableasIcould.Isavedupmypocketmoneyandboughtherflowersandateddybearand a card. I wrote a poem with her name in the card, which was really hardbecause there aren’t many good words that rhyme with Maylene. (Machine?Ravine? Sardine?) Then the big day came. I got my Valentine’s card and theflowersandtheteddybearandgotthemreadyandtookthemtoschool.Iwasthehappiestboyonearth.

The teachers had set aside a period before recess for everyone to exchangevalentines. Therewas a corridor outside our classroomswhere I knewMaylenewouldbe,andIwaitedforherthere.Allaroundme,lovewasinbloom.Boysandgirls exchanging cards and gifts, laughing and giggling and stealing kisses. Iwaitedandwaited.FinallyMayleneshowedupandwalkedovertome.Iwasabouttosay“HappyValentine’sDay!”whenshestoppedmeandsaid,“Oh,hi,Trevor.Um, listen, I can’t be your girlfriend anymore. Lorenzo asked me to be hisvalentineandIcan’thavetwovalentines,soI’mhisgirlfriendnowandnotyours.”

Shesaiditsomatter-of-factlythatIhadnoideahowtoprocessit.Thiswasmyfirsttimehavingagirlfriend,soatfirstIthought,Huh,maybethisisjusthowitgoes.

“Oh,okay,”Isaid.“Well,um…happyValentine’sDay.”

Iheldout the card and the flowers and the teddybear. She took themandsaidthanks,andshewasgone.

Ifeltlikesomeonehadtakenagunandshotholesineverypartofme.Butatthe same time some part of me said, “Well, this makes sense.” Lorenzo waseverything I wasn’t. He was popular. He waswhite. He’d upset the balance ofeverythingbyaskingout theonlycoloredgirl inschool.Girls lovedhim,andhewasdumbasrocks.Aniceguy,butkindofabadboy.Girlsdidhishomeworkforhim;hewas that guy.Hewas really good-looking, too. Itwas likewhenhewascreatinghischaracterhe traded inallhis intelligencepoints forbeautypoints. Istoodnochance.

AsdevastatedasIwas,IunderstoodwhyMaylenemadethechoicethatshedid.IwouldhavepickedLorenzooverme,too.Alltheotherkidswererunningupand down the corridors and out on the playground, laughing and smiling withtheirredandpinkcardsandflowers,andIwentbacktotheclassroomandsatbymyselfandwaitedforthebelltoring.

Petrolforthecar,likefood,wasanexpensewecouldnotavoid,butmymomcouldgetmoremileageoutofatankofpetrolthananyhumanwhohaseverbeenonaroadinthehistoryofautomobiles. She knew every trick. Driving around Johannesburg in our rusty oldVolkswagen,every timeshestopped in traffic, she’d turnoff thecar.Then the trafficwouldstartandshe’dturnthecaronagain.Thatstop-starttechnologythattheyuseinhybridcarsnow? That was my mom. She was a hybrid car before hybrid cars came out. She was themasterofcoasting.Shekneweverydownhillbetweenworkandschool,betweenschoolandhome.Sheknewexactlywherethegradientshiftedtoputit intoneutral.Shecouldtimethetraffic lights so we could coast through intersections without using the brakes or losingmomentum.

ThereweretimeswhenwewouldbeintrafficandwehadsolittlemoneyforpetrolthatIwouldhavetopushthecar.Ifwewerestuckingridlock,mymomwouldturnthecaroffanditwasmyjobtogetoutandpushitforwardsixinchesatatime.Peoplewouldpitchupandoffertohelp.

“Areyoustuck?”

“Nope.We’refine.”

“Yousure?”

“Yep.”

“Canwehelpyou?”

“Nope.”

“Doyouneedatow?”

Andwhatdoyousay?Thetruth?“Thanks,butwe’rejustsopoormymommakesherkidpushthecar”?

Thatwassomeofthemostembarrassingshitinmylife,pushingthecartoschoollikethefuckingFlintstones.Becausetheotherkidswerecominginonthatsameroadtogotoschool.I’dtakemyblazeroffsothatnoonecouldtellwhatschoolIwentto,andIwouldburymyheadandpushthecar,hopingnoonewouldrecognizeme.

OUTSIDER

AfterfinishingprimaryschoolatH.A.Jack,IstartedgradeeightatSandringhamHighSchool.Evenafterapartheid,mostblackpeoplestill livedinthetownshipsand the areas formerly designated as homelands, where the only availablegovernment schools were the broken remnants of the Bantu system. Wealthywhitekids—alongwiththefewblackpeopleandcoloredpeopleandIndianswhohadmoney or could get scholarships—were holed up in private schools, whichweresuper-expensivebutvirtuallyguaranteedentryintouniversity.SandringhamwaswhatwecallaModelCschool,whichmeantitwasamixofgovernmentandprivate,similartocharterschoolsinAmerica.Theplacewashuge,athousandkidsonsprawlinggroundswithtenniscourts,sportsfields,andaswimmingpool.

BeingaModelCschoolandnotagovernmentschool,Sandringhamdrewkidsfromallover,makingitanear-perfectmicrocosmofpost-apartheidSouthAfricaasawhole—aperfectexampleofwhatSouthAfricahasthepotentialtobe.Wehadrichwhitekids,abunchofmiddle-classwhitekids,andsomeworking-classwhitekids.Wehadblackkidswhowerenewlyrich,blackkidswhoweremiddle-class,andblackkidsfromthetownships.WehadcoloredkidsandIndiankids,andevena handful of Chinese kids, too. The pupils were as integrated as they could begiventhatapartheidhadjustended.AtH.A.Jack,racewasbrokenupintoblocks.Sandringhamwasmorelikeaspectrum.

South African schools don’t have cafeterias. At Sandringhamwe’d buy ourlunchatwhatwecallthetuckshop,alittlecanteen,andthenhavefreereintogowhereverwewantedon the school grounds to eat—thequad, the courtyard, theplayground, wherever. Kids would break off and cluster into their cliques andgroups.Peoplewerestillgroupedbycolor inmostcases,butyoucouldseehowtheyallblendedandshaded intooneanother.Thekidswhoplayed soccerweremostlyblack.Thekidswhoplayedtennisweremostlywhite.Thekidswhoplayedcricketwereamix.TheChinesekidswouldhangoutnexttotheprefabbuildings.Thematrics,whatSouthAfricanscall seniors,wouldhangouton thequad.Thepopular,prettygirlswouldhangoutoverhere,andcomputergeekswouldhangoutoverthere.Totheextentthatthegroupingswereracial,itwasbecauseoftheways race overlapped class and geography out in the realworld. Suburban kidshungoutwithsuburbankids.Townshipkidshungoutwithtownshipkids.

At break, as the only mixed kid out of a thousand, I faced the samepredicamentIhadontheplaygroundatH.A.Jack:WherewasIsupposedtogo?Evenwithsomanydifferentgroupstochoosefrom,Iwasn’tanaturalconstituentof any particular one. I obviously wasn’t Indian or Chinese. The colored kidswouldshitonmeall thetimeforbeingtooblack.SoIwasn’twelcomethere.Asalways, Iwas adept enoughwithwhite kids not to get bullied by them, but thewhite kids were always going shopping, going to the movies, going on trips—things that requiredmoney.Wedidn’thaveanymoney, so Iwasoutof themixthere,too.ThegroupIfeltthemostaffinityforwasthepoorblackkids.Ihungoutwith themandgotalongwith them,butmostof themtookminibuses to schoolfromwayoutinthetownships,fromSoweto,fromTembisa,fromAlexandra.Theyrodetoschoolas friendsandwenthomeas friends.Theyhadtheirowngroups.Weekends and school holidays, they were hanging out with one another and Icouldn’t visit. Sowetowas a forty-minute drive frommy house.We didn’t havemoneyforpetrol.AfterschoolIwasonmyown.WeekendsIwasonmyown.Everthe outsider, I created my own strange little world. I did it out of necessity. Ineededawaytofitin.Ialsoneededmoney,awaytobuythesamesnacksanddothethings that theotherkidsweredoing.Which ishowIbecamethe tuck-shopguy.

Thankstomylongwalktoschool,Iwaslateeverysingleday.I’dhavetostopoff intheprefect’sofficetowritemynamedownfordetention.Iwasthepatronsaint of detention. Already late, I’d run to join my morning classes—math,English,biology,whatever.Thelastperiodbeforebreakwasassembly.Thepupilswouldcometogetherintheassemblyhall,eachgradeseatedrowbyrow,andtheteachersandtheprefectswouldgetuponstageandgooverthebusinessofwhatwas happening in the school—announcements, awards, that sort of thing. Thenamesof thekidswithdetentionwere announcedat every assembly, and Iwasalwaysoneofthem.Always.Everysingleday.Itwasarunningjoke.Theprefectwould say, “Detentions for today…” and Iwould stand up automatically. ItwasliketheOscarsandIwasMerylStreep.TherewasonetimeIstoodupandthentheprefectnamed the fivepeopleand Iwasn’toneof them.Everyoneburstoutlaughing. Somebody yelled out, “Where’s Trevor?!” The prefect looked at thepaper and shook his head. “Nope.” The entire hall erupted with cheers andapplause.“Yay!!!!”

Then, immediately after assembly, there would be a race to the tuck shopbecausethequeuetobuyfoodwassolong.Everyminuteyouspentinthequeuewasworking against your break time.The sooner you got your food, the longeryouhadtoeat,playagameofsoccer,orhangout.Also,ifyougottherelate,thebestfoodwasgone.

Twothingsweretrueaboutmeatthatage.One,Iwasstillthefastestkidinschool.Andtwo,Ihadnopride.ThesecondweweredismissedfromassemblyIwouldrunlikeabatoutofhelltothetuckshopsoIcouldbethefirstonethere.Iwasalways first in line. Ibecamenotorious forbeing thatguy,somuchso that

people started comingup tome in line. “Hey, canyoubuy this forme?”Whichwould piss off the kids behindme because it was basically cutting the line. Sopeople started approachingme during assembly. They’d say, “Hey, I’ve got tenrand.Ifyoubuymyfoodforme,I’llgiveyoutwo.”That’swhenIlearned:timeismoney.IrealizedpeoplewouldpaymetobuytheirfoodbecauseIwaswillingtorunforit.Istartedtellingeveryoneatassembly,“Placeyourorders.Givemealistofwhatyouwant,givemeapercentageofwhatyou’regoingtospend,andI’llbuyyourfoodforyou.”

Iwasanovernight success.Fatguysweremynumber-onecustomers.Theyloved food, but couldn’t run. I had all these rich, fat white kids whowere like,“Thisisfantastic!Myparentsspoilme,I’vegotmoney,andnowI’vegotawayIcangetfoodwithouthavingtoworkforit—andIstillgetmybreak.”Ihadsomanycustomers Iwas turningkidsaway. Ihada rule: Iwould take fiveordersaday,highbiddersonly.I’dmakesomuchthatIcouldbuymylunchusingotherkids’moneyandkeepthelunchmoneymymomgavemeforpocketcash.ThenIcouldaffordtocatchabushomeinsteadofwalkingorsaveuptobuywhatever.Everyday I’d take orders, assembly would end, and I’dmakemymad dash and buyeverybody’shotdogsandCokesandmuffins.Ifyoupaidmeextrayoucouldeventellmewhereyou’dbeandI’ddeliverittoyou.

I’dfoundmyniche.SinceIbelongedtonogroupIlearnedtomoveseamlesslybetweengroups.Ifloated.Iwasachameleon,still,aculturalchameleon.Ilearnedhowtoblend.Icouldplaysportswiththejocks.Icouldtalkcomputerswiththenerds. I could jump in the circle and dance with the township kids. I poppedaroundtoeveryone,working,chatting,tellingjokes,makingdeliveries.

Iwaslikeaweeddealer,butoffood.Theweedguyisalwayswelcomeattheparty. He’s not a part of the circle, but he’s invited into the circle temporarilybecause of what he can offer. That’s who I was. Always an outsider. As theoutsider,youcanretreat intoashell,beanonymous,be invisible.Oryoucangotheotherway.Youprotectyourselfbyopeningup.Youdon’tasktobeacceptedforeverythingyouare,justtheonepartofyourselfthatyou’rewillingtoshare.Formeitwashumor.IlearnedthateventhoughIdidn’tbelongtoonegroup,Icouldbeapartofanygroupthatwaslaughing.I’ddropin,passoutthesnacks,tellafewjokes.I’dperformforthem.I’dcatchabitoftheirconversation,learnmoreabouttheirgroup,andthenleave.Ineveroverstayedmywelcome.Iwasn’tpopular,butIwasn’tanoutcast.Iwaseverywherewitheverybody,andatthesametimeIwasallbymyself.

I don’t regretanything I’veeverdone in life,anychoice that I’vemade.But I’mconsumedwith regret for the things I didn’t do, the choices I didn’tmake, the things I didn’t say.Wespend somuch time being afraid of failure, afraid of rejection. But regret is the thing weshouldfearmost.Failureisananswer.Rejectionisananswer.Regretisaneternalquestionyouwillneverhavetheanswerto.“Whatif…”“Ifonly…”“Iwonderwhatwouldhave…”Youwillnever,neverknow,anditwillhauntyoufortherestofyourdays.

AYOUNGMAN’SLONG,AWKWARD,OCCASIONALLYTRAGIC,ANDFREQUENTLY

HUMILIATINGEDUCATIONINAFFAIRSOFTHEHEART,PARTII:THECRUSH

Inhighschool,theattentionofgirlswasnotanafflictionIsufferedfrom.Iwasn’tthehotguyinclass.Iwasn’teventhecuteguyinclass.Iwasugly.Pubertywasnotkindtome.Myacnewassobadthatpeopleusedtoaskwhatwaswrongwithme,likeI’dhadanallergicreactiontosomething.Itwasthekindofacnethatqualifiesasamedicalcondition.Acnevulgaris,thedoctorcalledit.We’renottalkingaboutpimples,kids.We’retalkingpustules—big,pus-filledblackheadsandwhiteheads.Theystartedonmyforehead,spreaddownthesidesofmyface,andcoveredmycheeksandneckandravagedmeeverywhere.

Beingpoordidn’thelp.NotonlycouldInotaffordadecenthaircut, leavingmewithahuge,unrulyAfro,butmymotheralsousedtogetangryatthefactthatIgrewoutofmyschooluniformstoofast,sotosavemoneyshestartedbuyingmyclothesthreesizestoobig.Myblazerwastoolongandmypantsweretoobaggyandmyshoes floppedaround. Iwasaclown.Andofcourse,Murphy’sLaw, theyear my mom started buying my clothes too big was the year that I stoppedgrowing.SonowIwasnevergoingtogrowintomyclownclothesandIwasstuckbeingaclown.TheonlythingIhadgoingformewasthefactthatIwastall,buteven there I was gangly and awkward-looking. Duck feet. High ass. Nothingworked.

After sufferingmyValentine’sDayheartbreakat thehandsofMayleneandthehandsome,charmingLorenzo,Ilearnedavaluablelessonaboutdating.WhatIlearnedwasthatcoolguysgetgirls,andfunnyguysgettohangoutwiththecoolguys with their girls. I was not a cool guy; therefore I did not have girls. IunderstoodthatformulaveryquicklyandIknewmyplace.Ididn’taskgirlsout.Ididn’thaveagirlfriend.Ididn’teventry.

Formetotrytogetagirlwouldhaveupsetthenaturalorderofthings.Partofmysuccessas the tuck-shopguywas that Iwaswelcomeeverywhere,andIwaswelcome everywhere because I was nobody. I was the acne-ridden clown withduck feet in floppy shoes. Iwasn’t a threat to the guys. Iwasn’t a threat to thegirls. The minute I became somebody, I risked no longer being welcomed asnobody. The pretty girls were already spoken for. The popular guys had stakedtheirclaim.Theywouldsay,“IlikeZuleika,”andyouknewthatmeantifyoutriedanythingwithZuleikathere’dbeafight.Intheinterestofsurvival,thesmartmove

wastostayonthefringe,stayoutoftrouble.

At Sandringham, the only time girls in class looked at me was when theywantedmetopassa lettertothehotguyinclass.ButtherewasonegirlIknewnamedJohanna. Johannaand Ihadbeenat the same school intermittentlyourwholelives.WewereinpreschoolatMaryvaletogether.Thensheleftandwenttoanotherschool.ThenwewereinprimaryschoolatH.A.Jacktogether.Thensheleft andwent to another school.Then finallywewereatSandringham together.Becauseofthatwebecamefriends.

Johannawasoneofthepopulargirls.HerbestfriendwasZaheera.Johannawas beautiful. Zaheera was stunning. Zaheera was colored, Cape Malay. ShelookedlikeSalmaHayek.Johannawasoutandaboutandkissingboys,sotheguyswere all into her. Zaheera, as beautiful as shewas,was extremely shy, so thereweren’tasmanyguysafterher.

JohannaandZaheerawerealwaystogether.Theywereonegradebelowme,butintermsofpopularitytheywerethreegradesaboveme.StillIgottohangoutwiththembecauseIknewJohannaandwehadthisthingfrombeingindifferentschools together. Dating girls may have been out of the question for me, buttalkingtothemwasnot,becauseIcouldmakethemlaugh.Humanbeingsliketolaugh,andluckyformeprettygirlsarehumanbeings.SoIcouldrelatetotheminthatway,butneverintheotherway.Iknewthisbecausewhenevertheystoppedlaughingatmyjokesandstoriesthey’dsay,“SohowdoyouthinkIcangetDanieltoaskmeout?”IalwayshadaclearideaofwhereIstood.

Outwardly,Ihadcarefullycultivatedmystatusasthefunny,nonthreateningguy, but secretly I had the hugest crush on Zaheera. She was so pretty and sofunny. We’d hang out and have great conversations. I thought about herconstantly,butforthelifeofmeIneverconsideredmyselfworthyofdatingher.Itoldmyself,I’mgoing tohavea crushonher forever,and that’sall that’s evergoingtohappen.

AtacertainpointIdecidedtomapoutastrategy.IdecidedI’dbebestfriendswithZaheeraandstayfriendswithherlongenoughtoaskhertothematricdance,whatwecallourseniorprom.Mindyou,wewereingradenineatthispoint.Thematricdancewasthreeyearsaway.ButIdecidedtoplaythelonggame.Iwaslike,Yep,justgonnatakemytime.Becausethat’swhathappensinthemovies,right?I’dseenmyAmericanhighschoolmovies.Youhangaround longenoughas thefriendlygoodguyandthegirldatesabunchofhandsomejerks,andthenonedaysheturnsaroundandgoes,“Oh,it’syou.Itwasalwaysyou.You’retheguyIwassupposedtobewithallalong.”

Thatwasmyplan.Itwasfoolproof.

IhungoutwithZaheeraeverychanceIgot.We’dtalkaboutboys,whichonesshelikedandwhichoneslikedher.I’dgiveheradvice.AtonepointshegotsetupwiththisguyGary.Theystarteddating.Garywasinthepopulargroupbutkindof

shyandZaheerawasinthepopulargroupbutkindofshy,sohisfriendsandherfriendsset themup together, likeanarrangedmarriage.ButZaheeradidn’t likeGaryatall.Shetoldme.Wetalkedabouteverything.

Oneday,Idon’tknowhow,butIpluckedupthecouragetoaskZaheeraforherphonenumber,whichwasabigdealbackthenbecauseitwasn’tlikecellphonenumberswhereeverybodyhaseveryone’snumberfortextingandeverything.Thiswasthelandline.Toherhouse.Whereherparentsmightanswer.WeweretalkingoneafternoonatschoolandIasked,“CanIgetyourphonenumber?MaybeIcancallyouandwecantalkathomesometime.”Shesaidyes,andmymindexploded.What???!!!!Agirlisgivingmeherphonenumber???!!!Thisisinsane!!!WhatdoIdo??!!Iwassonervous.I’llneverforgethertellingmethedigitsonebyoneasIwrote themdown, trying to keepmy hand from shaking.We said goodbye andwentourseparatewaystoclass,andIwaslike,Okay,Trevor.Playitcool.Don’tcallherrightaway.Icalledherthatnight.Atseven.She’dgivenmehernumberat two.Thatwasmebeingcool.Dude,don’tcallherat five.That’s tooobvious.Callheratseven.

Iphonedherhouse thatnight.Hermomanswered. I said, “May I speak toZaheera,please?”Hermomcalledher,andshecametothephoneandwetalked.For like an hour. After thatwe started talkingmore, at school, on the phone. InevertoldherhowIfelt.Nevermadeamove.Nothing.Iwasalwaystooscared.

ZaheeraandGarybrokeup.Thentheygotbacktogether.Thentheybrokeup.Thentheygotbacktogether.Theykissedonce,butshedidn’tlikeit,sotheyneverkissedagain.Thentheybrokeupforreal.Ibidedmytimethroughitall.IwatchedPopularGarygodowninflames,andIwasstillthegoodfriend.Yep,theplanisworking.Matricdance,herewecome.Onlytwoandahalfyearstogo…

Thenwehad themid-yearschoolholidays.Thedaywecameback,Zaheerawasn’tatschool.Thenshewasn’tatschoolthenextday.Thenshewasn’tatschoolthedayafterthat.EventuallyIwentandtrackeddownJohannaonthequad.

“Hey,where’sZaheera?” I said. “Shehasn’t beenaround for awhile. Is shesick?”

“No,” she said. “Didn’t anyone tell you? She left the school. She doesn’t gohereanymore.”

“What?”

“Yeah,sheleft.”

My first thoughtwas,Wow, okay. That’s news. I should give her a call tocatchup.

“Whatschooldidshemoveto?”Iasked.

“Shedidn’t.HerdadgotajobinAmerica.Duringthebreaktheymovedthere.They’veemigrated.”

“What?”

“Yeah.She’sgone.Shewassuchagoodfriend,too.I’mreallysad.AreyouassadasIam?”

“Uh…yeah,”Isaid,stilltryingtoprocesseverything.“IlikedZaheera.Shewasreallycool.”

“Yeah,shewassupersad,too,becauseshehadsuchahugecrushonyou.Shewasalwayswaitingforyoutoaskherout.Okay,Igottagotoclass!Bye!”

Sheranoffand leftmestandingthere,stunned.She’dhitmewithsomuchinformation at once, first that Zaheera was gone, then that she had left forAmerica,andthenthatshe’d likedmeallalong.Itwas likeI’dbeenhitbythreesuccessive waves of heartbreak, each one bigger than the last. My mind racedthroughallthehourswe’dspenttalkingonthequad,onthephone,allthetimesIcouldhavesaid,“Hey,Zaheera,Ilikeyou.Willyoubemygirlfriend?”TenwordsthatmighthavechangedmylifeifI’dhadthecouragetosaythem.ButIhadn’t,andnowshewasgone.

Ineveryniceneighborhoodthere’sonewhitefamilythatDoesNotGiveaFuck.Youknowthefamily I’m talking about. Theydon’t do their lawn, don’t paint the fence, don’t fix the roof.Theirhouseisshit.Mymomfoundthathouseandboughtit,whichishowshesnuckablackfamilyintoaplaceaswhiteasHighlandsNorth.

MostblackpeopleintegratingintowhitesuburbsweremovingtoplaceslikeBramleyandLombardyEast.ButforsomereasonmymomchoseHighlandsNorth.Itwasasuburbanarea,lots of shopping. Working people, mostly. Not wealthy but stable and middle-class. Olderhouses,butstillaniceplacetolive.InSowetoIwastheonlywhitekidintheblacktownship.InEdenParkIwastheonlymixedkidinthecoloredarea.InHighlandsNorthIwastheonlyblackkidinthewhitesuburb—andby“only”Imeanonly.InHighlandsNorththewhitenevertookflight.ItwasalargelyJewishneighborhood,andJewishpeopledon’tflee.They’redonefleeing.They’vealreadyfled.Theygettoaplace,buildtheirshul,andholditdown.Sincethewhite people around usweren’t leaving, thereweren’t a lot of families like oursmoving inbehindus.

Ididn’tmakeany friends inHighlandsNorth for the longest time. Ihadaneasier timemakingfriendsinEdenPark,tobehonest.Inthesuburbs,everyonelivedbehindwalls.ThewhiteneighborhoodsofJohannesburgwerebuiltonwhite fear—fearofblackcrime, fearofblackuprisingsandreprisals—andasaresultvirtuallyeveryhousesitsbehindasix-footwall,and on top of thatwall is electricwire. Everyone lives in a plush, fancymaximum-securityprison.Thereisnosittingonthefrontporch,nosayinghitotheneighbors,nokidsrunningbackandforthbetweenhouses.I’dridemybikearoundtheneighborhoodforhourswithoutseeing a single kid. I’dhear them, though.Theywere allmeetingupbehindbrickwalls forplaydatesIwasn’tinvitedto.I’dhearpeoplelaughingandplayingandI’dgetoffmybikeandcreepupandpeekoverthewallandseeabunchofwhitekidssplashingaroundinsomeone’sswimmingpool.IwaslikeaPeepingTom,butforfriendship.

It was only after a year or so that I figured out the key tomaking black friends in thesuburbs: the children of domestics.Manydomesticworkers in SouthAfrica,when they getpregnanttheygetfired.Or,ifthey’relucky,thefamilytheyworkforletsthemstayonandtheycanhave thebaby,but then thebabygoes to livewith relatives in thehomelands.Then theblackmotherraisesthewhitechildren,seeingherownchildonlyonceayearattheholidays.But ahandful of familieswould let theirdomesticskeep their childrenwith them, living inlittlemaids’quartersorflatletsinthebackyard.

Foralongtime,thosekidsweremyonlyfriends.

COLORBLIND

AtSandringhamIgottoknowthisonekid,Teddy.Funnyguy,charmingashell.MymomusedtocallhimBugsBunny;hehadacheekysmilewithtwobigteeththatstuckoutthefrontofhismouth.TeddyandIgotalonglikeahouseonfire,oneofthosefriendswhereyoustarthangingoutandfromthatdayforwardyou’renever apart. We were both naughty as shit, too. With Teddy, I’d finally metsomeonewhomademe feel normal. Iwas the terror inmy family.Hewas theterror in his family.When you put us together it wasmayhem.Walking homefromschoolwe’dthrowrocksthroughwindows,justtoseethemshatter,andthenwe’drunaway.Wegotdetention togetherall the time.The teachers, thepupils,theprincipal,everyoneatschoolknew:TeddyandTrevor,thickasthieves.

Teddy’s mom worked as a domestic for a family in Linksfield, a wealthysuburb near school. Linksfield was a long walk from my house, nearly fortyminutes, but still doable.Walking aroundwas prettymuch all I did back then,anyway.Icouldn’taffordtodoanythingelse,andIcouldn’taffordtogetaroundanyotherway.Ifyou likedwalking,youweremyfriend.TeddyandIwalkedalloverJohannesburgtogether.I’dwalktoTeddy’shouseandwe’dhangoutthere.Thenwe’dwalkbacktomyhouseandhangoutthere.We’dwalkfrommyhousedown to the city center,whichwas likea three-hourhike, just tohangout, andthenwe’dwalkallthewayback.

FridayandSaturdaynightswe’dwalktothemallandhangout.TheBalfourParkShoppingMallwasafewblocksfrommyhouse.It’snotabigmall,butithaseverything—an arcade, a cinema, restaurants, South Africa’s version of Target,SouthAfrica’sversionoftheGap.Then,oncewewereatthemall,sinceweneverhad anymoney to shop orwatchmovies or buy food,we’d justwander aroundinside.

One nightwewere at themall andmost of the shopswere closed, but thecinemawas still showingmovies so the buildingwas still open. There was thisstationeryshopthatsoldgreetingcardsandmagazines,anditdidn’thaveadoor,sowhenitclosedatnighttherewasonlyametalgate,likeatrellis,thatwaspulledacrosstheentranceandpadlocked.Walkingpastthisshop,TeddyandIrealizedthatifweputourarmsthroughthetrelliswecouldreachthisrackofchocolatesjust inside. And these weren’t just any chocolates—they were alcohol-filledchocolates. I loved alcohol. Loved loved loved it.Mywhole life I’d steal sips of

grown-ups’drinkswheneverIcould.

We reached in, grabbed a few, drank the liquor inside, and then gobbleddownthechocolates.We’dhitthejackpot.Westartedgoingbackagainandagaintostealmore.We’dwaitfortheshopstostarttoclose,thenwe’dgoandsitagainstthegate,actinglikewewerejusthangingout.We’dchecktomakesurethecoastwas clear, and then one of us would reach in, grab a chocolate, and drink thewhiskey.Reach in, grab a chocolate, drink the rum.Reach in, grab a chocolate,drinkthebrandy.Wedidthiseveryweekendforatleastamonth,havingthebesttime.Thenwepushedourlucktoofar.

ItwasaSaturdaynight.Wewerehangingoutattheentrancetothestationeryshop, leaning up against the gate. I reached in to grab a chocolate, and at thatexactmomentamallcopcamearoundthecornerandsawmewithmyarminuptomy shoulder. I broughtmyhandoutwith a bunchof chocolates in it. Itwasalmost likeamovie. I sawhim.He sawme.His eyeswentwide. I tried towalkaway,actingnatural.Thenheshoutedout,“Hey!Stop!”

Andthechasewason.Webolted,headingforthedoors.Iknewifaguardcutusoffattheexitwe’dbetrapped,sowewerehaulingassasfastaswecould.Weclearedtheexit.Thesecondwehit theparking lot,mallcopswerecomingatusfromeverydirection,adozenofthematleast.Iwasrunningwithmyheaddown.Theseguardsknewme.Iwasinthatmallallthetime.Theguardsknewmymom,too.Shedidherbankingatthatmall.IftheyevencaughtaglimpseofwhoIwas,Iwasdead.

Weranstraightacrosstheparkinglot,duckingandweavingbetweenparkedcars,theguardsrightbehindus,yelling.Wemadeittothepetrolstationoutattheroad, ran through there, and hooked left up the main road. They chased andchasedandweranandran,anditwasawesome.Theriskofgettingcaughtwashalf the funof beingnaughty, andnow the chasewason. Iwas loving it. Iwasshittingmyself,butalso loving it.Thiswasmyturf.Thiswasmyneighborhood.Youcouldn’t catchme inmyneighborhood. Ikneweveryalleyandeverystreet,everybackwalltoclimbover,everyfencewithagapbigenoughtoslipthrough.Iknew every shortcut you could possibly imagine. As a kid, wherever I went,whateverbuilding Iwas in, Iwasalwaysplottingmyescape.Youknow, in caseshitwent down. In reality Iwas a nerdy kidwith almost no friends, but inmymind Iwasan importantanddangerousmanwhoneeded toknowwhereeverycamerawasandwherealltheexitpointswere.

I knewwe couldn’t run forever.Weneeded aplan.AsTeddy and I bookedpast the fire station therewas a road off to the left, a dead end that ran into ametalfence.Iknewthattherewasaholeinthefencetosqueezethroughandonthe far sidewas an empty fieldbehind themall that took youback to themainroadandback tomyhouse.Agrown-upcouldn’t fit through thehole,butakidcould.Allmyyearsof imagining the lifeofasecretagent formyself finallypaidoff.NowthatIneededanescape,Ihadone.

“Teddy,thisway!”Iyelled.

“No,it’sadeadend!”

“Wecangetthrough!Followme!”

Hedidn’t. I turned and ran into the dead end. Teddy broke the otherway.Half themall cops followedhim, half followedme. I got to the fence and knewexactlyhowtosquirmthrough.Head,thenshoulder,oneleg,thentwist,thentheotherleg—done.Iwasthrough.Theguardshitthefencebehindmeandcouldn’tfollow.Iranacrossthefieldtoafenceonthefarside,poppedthroughthere,andthenIwasrightontheroad,threeblocksfrommyhouse.Islippedmyhandsintomy pockets and casually walked home, another harmless pedestrian out for astroll.

OnceIgotbacktomyhouseIwaitedforTeddy.Hedidn’tshowup.Iwaitedthirtyminutes,fortyminutes,anhour.NoTeddy.

Fuck.

I ran toTeddy’shouse inLinksfield.NoTeddy.Mondaymorning Iwent toschool.StillnoTeddy.

Fuck.

NowIwasworried.AfterschoolIwenthomeandcheckedatmyhouseagain,nothing.Teddy’shouseagain,nothing.ThenIranbackhome.

AnhourlaterTeddy’sparentsshowedup.Mymomgreetedthematthedoor.

“Teddy’sbeenarrestedforshoplifting,”theysaid.

Fuuuck.

Ieavesdroppedon theirwholeconversation fromtheother room.FromthestartmymomwascertainIwasinvolved.

“Well,wherewasTrevor?”sheasked.

“Teddysaidhewasn’twithTrevor,”theysaid.

Mymomwasskeptical.“Hmm.AreyousureTrevorwasn’tinvolved?”

“No,apparentlynot.Thecopssaidtherewasanotherkid,buthegotaway.”

“SoitwasTrevor.”

“No,weaskedTeddy,andhesaiditwasn’tTrevor.Hesaiditwassomeotherkid.”

“Huh…okay.”Mymomcalledmein.“Doyouknowaboutthisthing?”

“Whatthing?”

“Teddywascaughtshoplifting.”

“Whhaaat?” I playeddumb. “Noooo.That’s crazy. I can’t believe it.Teddy?

No.”

“Wherewereyou?”mymomasked.

“Iwasathome.”

“Butyou’realwayswithTeddy.”

Ishrugged.“Notonthisoccasion,Isuppose.”

For amomentmymom thought she’d caughtme red-handed, but Teddy’dgivenmeasolidalibi.Iwentbacktomyroom,thinkingIwasintheclear.

—

ThenextdayIwasinclassandmynamewascalledoverthePAsystem.“TrevorNoah, report to the principal’s office.” All the kids were like, “Ooooohhh.” Theannouncementscouldbeheardineveryclassroom,sonow,collectively,thewholeschool knew I was in trouble. I got up and walked to the office and waitedanxiouslyonanuncomfortablewoodenbenchoutsidethedoor.

Finally theprincipal,Mr.Friedman,walkedout. “Trevor,come in.”Waitinginsidehisofficewastheheadofmallsecurity,twouniformedpoliceofficers,andmyandTeddy’shomeroomteacher,Mrs.Vorster.Aroomfulofsilent,stone-facedwhiteauthorityfiguresstoodoverme,theguiltyyoungblackman.Myheartwaspounding.Itookaseat.

“Trevor,Idon’tknowifyouknowthis,”Mr.Friedmansaid,“butTeddywasarrestedtheotherday.”

“What?”Iplayedthewholethingagain.“Teddy?Oh,no.Whatfor?”

“Forshoplifting.He’sbeenexpelled,andhewon’tbecomingbacktoschool.Weknowtherewasanotherboyinvolved,andtheseofficersaregoingaroundtothe schools in the area to investigate.We called you here becauseMrs. Vorstertellsusyou’reTeddy’sbestfriend,andwewanttoknow:Doyouknowanythingaboutthis?”

Ishookmyhead.“No,Idon’tknowanything.”

“DoyouknowwhoTeddywaswith?”

“No.”

“Okay.”Hestoodupandwalkedovertoatelevisioninthecorneroftheroom.“Trevor,thepolicehavevideofootageofthewholething.We’dlikeyoutotakealookatit.”

Fuuuuu uuuuu uuuuuuuck.

Myheartwaspounding inmy chest.Well, life, it’sbeen fun, I thought. I’mgoingtogetexpelled.I’mgoingtogotojail.Thisisit.

Mr.FriedmanpressedPlayontheVCR.Thetapestarted.Itwasgrainy,black-and-whitesecurity-camera footage,butyoucouldseewhatwashappeningplain

asday.Theyevenhaditfrommultipleangles:MeandTeddyreachingthroughthegate.Me andTeddy racing for the door. They had thewhole thing. After a fewseconds,Mr.Friedmanreachedupandpauseditwithme,fromafewmetersout,freeze-framed in themiddle of the screen. Inmymind, this was when he wasgoingtoturntomeandsay,“Nowwouldyouliketoconfess?”Hedidn’t.

“Trevor,”hesaid,“doyouknowofanywhitekidsthatTeddyhangsoutwith?”

Inearlyshatmyself.“What?!”

IlookedatthescreenandIrealized:Teddywasdark.Iamlight;Ihaveoliveskin.Butthecameracan’texposeforlightanddarkatthesametime.Sowhenyouputme on a black-and-white screennext to a black person, the camera doesn’tknowwhat todo. If the camerahas topick, itpicksmeaswhite.Mycolorgetsblownout.Inthisvideo,therewasablackpersonandawhiteperson.Butstill:Itwasme.Thepicturewasn’tgreat,andmyfacialfeatureswereabitblurry,butifyoulookedclosely:Itwasme.IwasTeddy’sbestfriend.IwasTeddy’sonlyfriend.Iwasthesinglemostlikelyaccomplice.Youhadtoatleastsuspectthatitwasme.Theydidn’t.Theygrilledmeforagoodtenminutes,butonlybecausetheyweresosurethatIhadtoknowwhothiswhitekidwas.

“Trevor,you’reTeddy’sbestfriend.Tellusthetruth.Whoisthiskid?”

“Idon’tknow.”

“Youdon’trecognizehimatall?”

“No.”

“Teddynevermentionedhimtoyou?”

“Never.”

AtacertainpointMrs.Vorster just startedrunning througha listofall thewhitekidsshethoughtitcouldbe.

“IsitDavid?”

“No.”

“Rian?”

“No.”

“Frederik?”

“No.”

Ikeptwaiting for it tobea trick, for themto turnandsay, “It’syou!”Theydidn’t.Atacertainpoint,IfeltsoinvisibleIalmostwantedtotakecredit.IwantedtojumpupandpointattheTVandsay,“Areyoupeopleblind?!That’sme!Canyou not see that that’s me?!” But of course I didn’t. And they couldn’t. Thesepeoplehadbeensofuckedbytheirownconstructofracethattheycouldnotseethatthewhitepersontheywerelookingforwassittingrightinfrontofthem.

Eventuallytheysentmebacktoclass.Ispenttherestofthedayandthenextcoupleofweekswaitingfortheothershoetodrop,waitingformymomtogetthecall.“We’vegothim!Wefigureditout!”Butthecallnevercame.

SouthAfricahaselevenofficiallanguages.Afterdemocracycame,peoplesaid,“Okay,howdowecreateorderwithouthavingdifferentgroupsfeellikethey’vebeenleftoutofpoweragain?”Englishistheinternationallanguageandthelanguageofmoneyandofthemedia,sowehadtokeepthat.Mostpeoplewereforcedtolearnat leastsomeAfrikaans,soit’susefultokeepthat,too.Pluswedidn’twantthewhiteminoritytofeelostracizedinthenewSouthAfrica,orelsethey’dtakealltheirmoneyandleave.

OftheAfricanlanguages,Zuluhasthelargestnumberofnativespeakers,butwecouldn’tkeep thatwithout alsohavingXhosa andTswana andNdebele. Then there’s Swazi, Tsonga,Venda, Sotho, andPedi.We tried to keep all themajor groupshappy, so thenext thingweknew we’d made eleven languages official languages. And those are just the languages bigenoughtodemandrecognition;therearedozensmore.

It’s the Tower of Babel in South Africa. Every single day. Every day you see peoplecompletely lost, trying to have conversations and having no idea what the other person issaying. Zulu and Tswana are fairly common. Tsonga and Pedi are pretty fringe. Themorecommonyourtongue,thelesslikelyyouaretolearnothers.Themorefringe,themorelikelyyou are to pick up two or three. In the citiesmost people speak at least some English andusuallyabitofAfrikaans,enoughtogetaround.You’llbeatapartywithadozenpeoplewherebits of conversationare flyingby in twoor threedifferent languages.You’llmisspart of it,someonemighttranslateontheflytogiveyouthegist,youpickuptherestfromthecontext,andyoujustfigureitout.Thecrazythingisthat,somehow,itworks.Societyfunctions.Exceptwhenitdoesn’t.

AYOUNGMAN’SLONG,AWKWARD,OCCASIONALLYTRAGIC,ANDFREQUENTLY

HUMILIATINGEDUCATIONINAFFAIRSOFTHEHEART,PARTIII:THEDANCE

BytheendofhighschoolI’dbecomeamogul.Mytuck-shopbusinesshadevolvedinto a mini-empire that included selling pirated CDs I made at home. I’dconvincedmymother,asfrugalasshewas,thatIneededacomputerforschool.Ididn’t.IwanteditsoIcouldsurftheInternetandplayLeisureSuitLarry.ButIwas very convincing, and she broke down and got it for me. Thanks to thecomputer,theInternet,andthefortunategiftofaCDwriterfromafriend,Iwasinbusiness.

Ihadcarvedoutmyniche,andwashavingagreattime;lifewassogoodasanoutsider thatIdidn’teventhinkaboutdating.Theonlygirls inmy lifewere thenakedonesonmy computer.While I downloadedmusic andmessed around inchat rooms, I’d dabble in porn sites here and there. No video, of course, onlypictures.Withonlineporntodayyoujustdropstraightintothemadness,butwithdial-upittooksolongfortheimagestoload.Itwasalmostgentlemanlycomparedtonow.You’dspendagoodfiveminuteslookingatherface,gettingtoknowherasaperson.Thenafewminuteslateryou’dgetsomeboobs.Bythetimeyougottohervagina,you’dspentalotofqualitytimetogether.

InSeptemberofgradetwelve,thematricdancewascomingup.Seniorprom.This was the big one. I was again faced with the dilemma of Valentine’s Day,confrontinganother strange ritual Ididnotunderstand.All I knewaboutpromwasthat,accordingtomyAmericanmovies,promiswhere ithappens.Youloseyourvirginity.Yougoandyourideinthelimousine,andthenyouandthegirldothething.Thatwasliterallymyonlyreference.ButIknewtherule:Coolguysgetgirls, and funny guys get to hang outwith the cool guyswith their girls. So I’dassumedIwouldn’tbegoing,orifIdidgoitwouldn’tbewithadate.

IhadtwomiddlemenworkingformeinmyCDbusiness,BonganiandTom.TheysoldtheCDsthatIcopiedinexchangeforacut.ImetTomatthearcadeatthe Balfour Park mall. Like Teddy, he lived nearby because his mom was adomestic worker. Tom was in my grade but went to a government school,Northview,aproperghettoschool.TomhandledmyCDsalesoverthere.

Tomwasachatterbox,hyperactiveandgo-go-go.Hewasarealhustler,too,alwaystryingtocutadeal,workanangle.Hecouldgetpeopletodoanything.A

greatguy,butfuckingcrazyandacompleteliaraswell.IwentwithhimoncetoHammanskraal, a settlement that was like a homeland, but not really.Hammanskraal,as itsAfrikaansnamesuggests,wasthekraalofHamman,whatusedtobeawhiteman’sfarm.Theproperhomelands,VendaandGazankuluandTranskei,wereplaceswhereblackpeopleactuallylived,andthegovernmentdrewaborderaroundthemandsaid,“Staythere.”Hammanskraalandsettlementslikeitwereemptyplacesonthemapwheredeportedblackpeoplehadbeenrelocated.That’s what the government did. They would find some patch of arid, dusty,uselessland,anddigrowafterrowofholesintheground—athousandlatrinestoserve four thousand families. Then they’d forcibly remove people from illegallyoccupyingsomewhiteareaanddropthemoffinthemiddleofnowherewithsomepalletsofplywoodandcorrugatediron.“Here.Thisisyournewhome.Buildsomehouses. Good luck.” We’d watch it on the news. It was like some heartless,survival-basedrealityTVshow,onlynobodywonanymoney.

OneafternooninHammanskraal,Tomtoldmeweweregoingtoseeatalentshow.Atthetime,IhadapairofTimberlandbootsI’dbought.Theyweretheonlydecentpieceof clothing Iowned.Back then, almostnoone inSouthAfricahadTimberlands. They were impossible to get, but everyone wanted them becauseAmerican rapperswore them. I’d scrimpedand savedmy tuck-shopmoneyandmyCDmoney tobuy them.Aswewere leaving,Tomtoldme, “Besure towearyourTimberlands.”

Thetalentshowwas inthis littlecommunityhallattachedtonothinginthemiddleofnowhere.Whenwegot there,Tomwasgoingaround, shakinghands,chattingwitheverybody.Therewassinging,dancing,somepoetry.Thenthehostgot up onstage and said, “Re na le modiragatsi yo o kgethegileng. Ka kopoamogelang…Spliff Star!” “We’ve got a special performer, a rapper all the wayfromAmerica.Pleasewelcome…SpliffStar!”

SpliffStarwasBustaRhymes’shypemanat the time. I sat there, confused.What? Spliff Star? InHammanskraal? Then everyone in the room turned andlookedatme.Tomwalkedoverandwhisperedinmyear.

“Dude,comeuponstage.”

“What?”

“Comeonstage.”

“Dude,whatareyoutalkingabout?”

“Dude,please,you’regonnagetmeinsomuchshit.They’vealreadypaidmethemoney.”

“Money?Whatmoney?”

Ofcourse,whatTomhadfailedtotellmewasthathe’dtoldthesepeoplehewasbringingafamousrapperfromAmericatocomeandrapintheirtalentshow.Hehaddemandedtobepaidupfrontfordoingso,andI,inmyTimberlands,was

thatfamousAmericanrapper.

“Screwyou,”Isaid.“I’mnotgoinganywhere.”

“Please,dude,I’mbeggingyou.Pleasedomethis favor.Please.There’s thisgirlhere,andIwannagetwithher,andItoldherIknowalltheserappers…Please.I’mbeggingyou.”

“Dude,I’mnotSpliffStar.WhatamIgonnado?!”

“JustrapBustaRhymessongs.”

“ButIdon’tknowanyofthelyrics.”

“Itdoesn’tmatter.Thesepeopledon’tspeakEnglish.”

“Aw,fuck.”

IgotuponstageandTomdidsometerriblebeat-boxing—“Bffba-dff,bffbffba-dff”—whileIstumbledthroughsomeBustaRhymeslyricsthatImadeupasIwentalong.Theaudienceeruptedwithcheersandapplause.AnAmericanrapperhadcometoHammanskraal,anditwasthemostepicthingtheyhadeverseen.

Sothat’sTom.

One afternoon Tom came by my house and we started talking about thedance.ItoldhimIdidn’thaveadate,couldn’tgetadate,andwasn’tgoingtogetadate.

“Icangetyouagirltogowithyoutothedance,”hesaid.

“No,youcan’t.”

“Yes,Ican.Let’smakeadeal.”

“Idon’twantoneofyourdeals,Tom.”

“No,listen,here’sthedeal.IfyougivemeabettercutontheCDsI’mselling,plusabunchoffreemusicformyself,I’llcomebackwiththemostbeautifulgirlyou’veeverseeninyourlife,andshe’llbeyourdateforthedance.”

“Okay,I’lltakethatdealbecauseit’snevergoingtohappen.”

“Dowehaveadeal?”

“Wehaveadeal,butit’snotgoingtohappen.”

“Butdowehaveadeal?”

“It’sadeal.”

“Okay,I’mgoingtofindyouadate.She’sgoingtobethemostbeautifulgirlyou’veeverseen,andyou’regoingtotakehertothematricdanceandyou’regoingtobeasuperstar.”

Thedancewasstill twomonthsaway. Ipromptly forgotaboutTomandhisridiculous deal. Then he came over tomy house one afternoon and popped his

headintomyroom.

“Ifoundthegirl.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.Youhavetocomeandmeether.”

IknewTomwasfullofshit,butthethingthatmakesaconmansuccessfulisthat henever gives younothing.Hedelivers just enough to keep youbelieving.Tomhadintroducedmetomanybeautifulwomen.Hewasneverdatingthem,buthe talkedagoodgame,andwasalwaysaroundthem.Sowhenhesaidhehadagirl,Ididn’tdoubthim.Thetwoofusjumpedonabusandheadedintothecity.

Thegirllivedinarun-downblockofflatsdowntown.Wefoundherbuilding,andagirl leanedoverthebalconyandwavedusinside.Thatwasthegirl’ssisterLerato, Tom said. Come to find out, he’d been trying to get with Lerato, andsetting me up with the sister was his way in—of course, Tom was working anangle.

Itwasdark in the lobby.The elevatorwasbusted, sowewalkedup severalflights.ThisgirlLeratobroughtusintotheflat.Inthelivingroomwasthisgiant,but Imean really, really enormous, fatwoman. Iwas like,Oh,Tom. I seewhatyou’vedonehere.Nicelyplayed.Tomwasabigjokeraswell.

“Isthismydate?”Iasked.

“No,no,no,”hesaid.“Thisisnotyourdate.Thisisheroldersister.YourdateisBabiki.Babikihasthreeoldersisters,andLeratoisheryoungersister.Babiki’sgonetothestoretobuygroceries.She’llbebackinamoment.”

Wewaited,chattedwiththeoldersister.Tenminutes laterthedooropenedandthemostbeautifulgirlIhaveeverseeninmylifewalkedin.Shewas…goodLord.Beautifuleyes,beautifulgoldenyellow-brownskin.Itwas likesheglowed.Nogirlatmyhighschoollookedanythinglikeher.

“Hi,”shesaid.

“Hi,”Ireplied.

Iwasdumbfounded.Ihadnoideahowtotalktoagirlthatbeautiful.Shewasshyanddidn’tspeakmuch,either.Therewasabitofanawkwardpause.LuckilyTom’saguywhojusttalksandtalks.Hejumpedrightinandsmoothedeverythingover.“Trevor,thisisBabiki.Babiki,Trevor.”HewentonandonabouthowgreatIwas,howmuchshewaslookingforwardtothedance,whenIwouldpickherupforthedance,allthedetails.Wehungoutforafew,andthenTomneededtogetgoingsoweheadedoutthedoor.Babikiturnedandsmiledatmeandwavedasweleft.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

We walked out of that building and I was the happiest man on earth. Icouldn’t believe it. Iwas the guy at schoolwho couldn’t get adate. I’d resignedmyselftonevergettingadate,didn’tconsidermyselfworthyofhavingadate.ButnowIwasgoingtothematricdancewiththemostbeautifulgirlintheworld.

OverthefollowingweekswewentdowntoHillbrowafewmoretimestohangoutwithBabikiandhersistersandher friends.Babiki’s familywasPedi,oneofSouth Africa’s smaller tribes. I liked getting to know people of differentbackgrounds, so that was fun. Babiki and her friends were what we callamabhujua.They’re aspoor asmostotherblackpeople,but they try to act likethey’renot. Theydress fashionably and act rich.Amabhujuawill put a shirt onlayaway, one shirt, and spend sevenmonths paying it off. They’ll live in shackswearingItalianleathershoesthatcostthousands.Aninterestingcrowd.

Babiki and I never went on a date alone. It was always the two of us in agroup.Shewasshy,andIwasanervouswreckmostofthetime,butwehadfun.Tomkept everyone loose andhaving a good time.Wheneverwe’d say goodbye,Babiki would giveme a hug, and once she even gaveme a little kiss. I was inheaven.Iwaslike,Yeah,I’vegotagirlfriend.Cool.

—

As thedance approached, I startedgettingnervous. I didn’thave a car. I didn’thaveanydecentclothes.Thiswasmyfirsttimetakingoutabeautifulgirl,andIwantedittobeperfect.

We’dmoved to Highlands North whenmy stepfather’s garage went out ofbusiness, and he moved his workshop to the house. We had a big yard and agarageintheback,andthatbecamehisnewworkshop,essentially.Atanygiventime,wehadatleasttenorfifteencarsinthedriveway,intheyard,andoutonthestreet, clients’ carsbeingworkedonandold junkersAbelkept around to tinkerwith.OneafternoonTomandIwereatthehouse.TomwastellingAbelaboutmydate,andAbeldecidedtobegenerous.HesaidIcouldtakeacarforthedance.

TherewasaredMazdathatwe’dhadforawhile,acompletepieceofshitbutit worked well enough. I’d borrowed it before, but the car I really wanted wasAbel’s BMW. It was old and beat-up like theMazda, but a shit BMW is still aBMW.Ibeggedhimtoletmetakeit.

“Please,please,canIusetheBMW?”

“Notafuckingchance.”

“Please.Thisisthegreatestmomentinmylife.Please.I’mbeggingyou.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.YoucantaketheMazda.”

Tom,alwaysthehustlerandthedealmaker,steppedin.

“BraAbie,”hesaid.“Idon’tthinkyouunderstand.IfyousawthegirlTrevoristakingtothedance,youwouldseewhythisissoimportant.Let’smakeadeal.Ifwebringherhereandshe’s themostbeautifulgirlyou’veeverseen inyour life,you’lllethimtaketheBMW.”

Abelthoughtaboutit.

“Okay.Deal.”

WewenttoBabiki’sflat,toldhermyparentswantedtomeether,andbroughther back to my house. Then we brought her around to the garage in the backwhereAbelandhisguyswereworking.TomandIwentoverandintroducedthem.

“Abel,thisisBabiki.Babiki,thisisAbel.”

Abelsmiledbig,wascharmingasalways.

“Nicetomeetyou,”hesaid.

Theychattedforafewminutes.TomandBabikileft.Abelturnedtome.

“Isthatthegirl?”

“Yes.”

“YoucantaketheBMW.”

OnceIhadthecar,Idesperatelyneededsomethingtowear.Iwastakingoutthisgirlwhowasreallyintofashion,and,exceptformyTimberlands,everythingIownedwasshit.IwaslimitedinmywardrobechoicesbecauseIwasstuckbuyingintheshopsmymotherletmegoto,andmymotherdidnotbelieveinspendingmoneyonclothes.She’dtakemetosomebargainclothingstoreandtellmewhatourbudgetwas,andI’dhavetofindsomethingtowear.

At the time Ihadno clue about clothes.My ideaof fashionwas abrandofclothing calledPowerhouse. Itwas thekindof stuffweight liftersweardown inMiamioroutatVeniceBeach,baggytrackpantswithbaggysweatshirts.Thelogowasacartoonofthisgiantbodybuildingbulldogwearingwraparoundsunglassesandsmokingacigarandflexinghismuscles.Onthepantshewasflexingalltheway down your leg. On the shirt he was flexing across your chest. On theunderwear,hewasflexingonyourcrotch.IthoughtPowerhousewasthebaddestthingintheworld,Ican’tevenfront.Ihadnofriends,Iloveddogs,andmuscleswerecool—that’swhereIwasworkingfrom.IhadPowerhouseeverything,thefullrange,fiveofthesameoutfitinfivedifferentcolors.Itwaseasy.Thepantscamewiththetop,soIknewhowtomakeitwork.

Bongani,theothermiddlemanfrommyCDbusiness,foundoutIhadadate,andhemadeithismissiontogivemeamakeover.“Youneedtoupyourgame,”hesaid. “You cannot go to the dance looking the way you look—for her sake, notyours.Let’sgoshopping.”

Iwent tomymom and begged her to givememoney to buy something to

wearforthedance.Shefinallyrelentedandgaveme2,000rand,foroneoutfit.Itwas themostmoneyshe’devergivenme foranything inmy life. I toldBonganihowmuchIhadtospend,andhesaidwe’dmakeitwork.Thetricktolookingrich,he toldme, is tohaveoneexpensive item,and for therestof the thingsyougetbasic,good-lookingqualitystuff.Theniceitemwilldraweveryone’seye,andit’lllooklikeyou’vespentmorethanyouhave.

InmymindnothingwascoolerthantheleathercoatseverybodyworeinTheMatrix.TheMatrix cameoutwhile Iwas inhigh school and itwasmy favoritemovieatthetime.IlovedNeo.InmyheartIknew:IamNeo.He’sanerd.He’suselessateverything,butsecretlyhe’sabadasssuperhero.AllIneededwasabald,mysterious black man to come into my life and showme the way. Now I hadBongani,black,headshaved,tellingme,“Youcandoit.You’retheone.”AndIwaslike,“Yes.Iknewit.”

I told Bongani I wanted a leather coat like Keanu Reeves wore, the ankle-lengthblackone.Bonganishutthatdown.“No,that’snotpractical.It’scool,butyou’llneverbeabletowearitagain.”Hetookmeshoppingandweboughtacalf-length black leather jacket, which would look ridiculous today but at the time,thanks toNeo,was very cool.That alone cost 1,200 rand.Thenwe finished theoutfitwith a pair of simple black pants, suede square-toed shoes, and a cream-whiteknittedsweater.

Oncewehadtheoutfit,BonganitookalonglookatmyenormousAfro.Iwasforevertryingtogettheperfect1970sMichaelJacksonAfro.WhatIhadwasmoreBuckwheat:unrulyandimpossibletocomb,likestabbingapitchforkintoabedofcrabgrass.

“Weneedtofixthatfuckinghair,”Bonganisaid.

“Whatdoyoumean?”Isaid.“Thisisjustmyhair.”

“No,wehavetodosomething.”

Bongani lived in Alexandra. He draggedme there, and we went to talk tosomegirlsfromhisstreetwhowerehangingoutonthecorner.

“Whatwouldyoudowiththisguy’shair?”heaskedthem.

Thegirlslookedmeover.

“Hehassomuch,”oneofthemsaid.“Whydoesn’thecornrowit?”

“Shit,yeah,”theysaid.“That’sgreat!”

Isaid,“What?Cornrows?No!”

“No,no,”theysaid.“Doit.”

Bongani dragged me to a hair salon down the street. We went in and satdown.Thewomantouchedmyhair,shookherhead,andturnedtoBongani.

“I can’t work with this sheep,” she said. “You have to do something about

this.”

“Whatdoweneedtodo?”

“Youhavetorelaxit.Idon’tdothathere.”

“Okay.”

Bongani dragged me to a second salon. I sat down in the chair, and thewoman tookmyhair and startedpainting this creamywhite stuff in it.Shewaswearingrubberglovestokeepthischemicalrelaxeroffherownskin,whichshouldhavebeenmyfirstcluethatmaybethiswasn’tsuchagreatidea.Oncemyhairwasfulloftherelaxer,shetoldme,“Youhavetotrytokeepitinforaslongaspossible.It’sgoingtostartburning.When itstartsburning, tellmeandwe’ll rinse itout.Butthelongeryoucanhandleit,thestraighteryourhairwillbecome.”

Iwantedtodoitright,soIsatinthechairandwaitedandwaitedforaslongasIcould.

Iwaitedtoolong.

She’dtoldmetotellherwhenitstartedburning.Sheshouldhavetoldmetotellherwhenitstartedtingling,becausebythetimeitwasactuallyburningithadalreadytakenoffseverallayersofmyscalp.IwaswellpasttinglingwhenIstartedto freak out. “It’s burning! It’s burning!” She rushed me over to the sink andstarted to rinse the relaxerout.What Ididn’tknow is that thechemicaldoesn’treally start to burn until it’s being rinsed out. I felt like someone was pouringliquidfireontomyhead.WhenshewasdoneIhadpatchesofacidburnsallovermyscalp.

Iwastheonlymaninthesalon;itwasallwomen.Itwasawindowintowhatwomenexperiencetolookgoodonaregularbasis.Whywouldtheyeverdothis?,I thought.This ishorrible.But itworked.Myhairwas completely straight.Thewomancombeditback,andIlookedlikeapimp,apimpnamedSlickback.

Bongani thendraggedmeback to the first salon, and thewomanagreed tocornrowmyhair.Sheworkedslowly.Ittooksixhours.Finallyshesaid,“Okay,youcan look in themirror.”She turnedmearound in the chair and I looked in themirror and…I had never seenmyself like that before. It was like themakeoverscenesinmyAmericanmovies,wheretheytakethedorkyguyorgirl,fixthehairand change the clothes, and the ugly duckling becomes the swan. I’d been soconvincedI’dnevergetadatethatInevertriedtolookniceforagirl,soIdidn’tknowthatIcould.Thehairwasgood.Myskinwasn’tperfect,but itwasgettingbetter;thepustuleshadrecededintoregularpimples.Ilooked…notbad.

Iwenthome,andmymomsquealedwhenIwalkedinthedoor.

“Ooooooh!They turnedmybabyboy intoapretty littlegirl! I’vegota littlegirl!You’resopretty!”

“Mom!C’mon.Stopit.”

“Isthisthewayyou’retellingmethatyou’regay?”

“What?No.Whywouldyousaythat?”

“Youknowit’sokayifyouare.”

“No,Mom.I’mnotgay.”

Everyoneinmyfamilylovedit.Theyallthoughtitlookedgreat.Mymomdidteasetheshitoutofme,though.

“It’sverywelldone,”shesaid,“butitiswaytoopretty.Youdolooklikeagirl.”

—

The big night finally came. Tom came over to helpme get ready. The hair, theclothes,everythingcametogetherperfectly.OnceIwasset,wewenttoAbeltogetthe keys to the BMW, and that was themoment the whole night started to gowrong.

ItwasaSaturdaynight,endoftheweek,whichmeantAbelwasdrinkingwithhisworkers.Iwalkedouttohisgarage,andassoonasIsawhiseyesIknew:Hewaswasted.Fuck.WhenAbelwasdrunkhewasacompletelydifferentperson.

“Ah,youlooknice!”hesaidwithabigsmile,lookingmeover.“Whereareyougoing?”

“WhereamI—Abie,I’mgoingtothedance.”

“Okay.Havefun.”

“Um…canIgetthekeys?”

“Thekeystowhat?”

“Tothecar.”

“Whatcar?”

“TheBMW.YoupromisedIcoulddrivetheBMWtothedance.”

“Firstgobuymesomebeers,”hesaid.

Hegavemehiscarkeys;TomandIdrovetotheliquorstore.IboughtAbelafewcasesofbeer,droveback,andunloadeditforhim.

“Okay,”Isaid,“canItaketheBMWnow?”

“No.”

“Whatdoyoumean‘no’?”

“Imean‘no.’Ineedmycartonight.”

“Butyoupromised.YousaidIcouldtakeit.”

“Yeah,butIneedthecar.”

Iwascrushed.IsattherewithTomandbeggedhimforclosetohalfanhour.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Nope.”

Finallywerealizeditwasn’tgoingtohappen.WetooktheshittyMazdaanddrove toBabiki’s house. Iwas an hour late picking her up. Shewas completelypissedoff.Tomhadtogoinandconvincehertocomeout,andeventuallyshedid.

Shewas evenmoregorgeous thanbefore, in anamazing reddress, but shewasclearlynotinagreatmood.InsideIwasquietlystartingtopanic,butIsmiledandkepttryingmygentlemanlybesttobeagooddate,holdingthedoorforher,tellingherhowbeautifulshewas.Tomandthesistergaveusasend-offandweheadedout.

ThenIgotlost.ThedancewasbeingheldatsomevenueinapartoftownIwasn’tfamiliarwith,andatsomepointIgotcompletelyturnedaroundandhadnoideawhereIwas.Idrovearoundforanhourinthedark,goingleft,goingright,doublingback.Iwasonmycellphonethewholetime,desperatelycallingpeople,tryingtofigureoutwhereIwas,tryingtogetdirections.Babikisatnexttomeinstony silence the whole time, clearly not feeling me or this night at all. I wascrashinghard.Iwas late. Ididn’tknowwhereIwasgoing. Iwas theworstdateshe’deverhadinherlife.

I finally figured out where I was and wemade it to the dance, nearly twohourslate.Iparked,jumpedout,andranaroundtogetherdoor.WhenIopenedit,shejustsatthere.

“Areyouready?”Isaid.“Let’sgoin.”

“No.”

“No?What…whatdoyoumean,‘no’?”

“No.”

“Okay…butwhy?”

“No.”

“Butweneedtogoinside.Thedanceisinside.”

“No.”

I stood there for another twenty minutes, trying to convince her to comeinside,butshekeptsaying“no.”Shewouldn’tgetoutofthecar.

Finally,Isaid,“Okay,I’llberightback.”

IraninsideandfoundBongani.

“Wherehaveyoubeen?”hesaid.

“I’mhere!Butmydate’sinthecarandshewon’tcomein.”

“Whatdoyoumeanshewon’tcomein?”

“Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.Pleasehelpme.”

Wewentbackouttotheparkinglot.ItookBonganiovertothecar,andthesecondhesawherhelostit.“JesusinHeaven!ThisisthemostbeautifulwomanI’veeverseen.Yousaidshewasbeautiful,Trevor,butthisisinsane.”InaninstanthecompletelyforgotabouthelpingmewithBabiki.Heturnedandranbackinsideand called to the guys. “Guys! You gotta come see this! Trevor got a date! Andshe’sbeautiful!Guys!Comeouthere!”

Twentyguyscamerunningoutintotheparkinglot.Theyclusteredaroundthecar.“Yo,she’ssohot!”“Dude,thisgirlcamewithTrevor?”Guysweregawkingatherlikeshewasananimalatthezoo.Theywereaskingtotakepictureswithher.Theywere calling back tomore people inside. “This is insane! Look at Trevor’sdate!No,no,no,yougottacomeandsee!”

Iwasmortified.I’dspentfouryearsofhighschoolcarefullyavoidinganykindof romantichumiliationwhatsoever,andnow,on thenightof thematricdance,thenight of all nights,myhumiliationhad turned into a circus bigger than theevent itself:Trevor theundatable clown thoughthewas going tohave themostbeautifulgirlatthedance,buthe’scrashingandburningsolet’sallgooutsideandwatch.

Babikisat in thepassengerseat,staringstraightahead,refusing tobudge. Iwasoutsidethecar,pacing,stressedout.Afriendofminehadabottleofbrandythathe’dsmuggledintothedance.“Here,”hesaid,“havesomeofthis.”Nothingmatteredatthatpoint,soIstarteddrinking.I’dfuckedup.Thegirldidn’tlikeme.Thenightwasdone.

Most of the guys eventually wandered back inside. I was sitting on thepavement, taking swigs from the brandy bottle, getting buzzed. At some pointBonganiwentbackovertothecartotryonelasttimetoconvinceBabikitocomein.Afteraminutehisheadpoppedupoverthecarwiththisconfusedlook.

“Yo,Trevor,”hesaid,“yourdatedoesnotspeakEnglish.”

“What?”

“Yourdate.ShedoesnotspeakanyEnglish.”

“That’snotpossible.”

Igotupandwalkedovertothecar.IaskedheraquestioninEnglishandshegavemeablankstare.

Bonganilookedatme.

“HowdidyounotknowthatyourdatedoesnotspeakEnglish?”

“I…Idon’tknow.”

“Haveyouneverspokentoher?”

“OfcourseIhave—or,wait…haveI?”

IstartedflashingbackthroughallthetimesI’dbeenwithBabiki,meetingather flat,hangingoutwithher friends, introducingher toAbel.Did I talk toherthen?No.DidItalktoherthen?No.ItwaslikethesceneinFightClubwhereEdNorton’scharacterflashesbackandrealizesheandBradPitthaveneverbeeninthe same roomwithHelena Bonham Carter at the same time. He realizes he’sbeenpunchinghimselfthewholetime.He’sTylerDurden.InalltheexcitementofmeetingBabiki,thetimeswewerehangingoutandgettingtoknoweachother,wewereneveractuallyspeakingtoeachother.ItwasalwaysthroughTom.

FuckingTom.

Tomhadpromisedhe’dgetmeabeautifuldateforthedance,buthehadn’tmadeanypromisesaboutanyofherotherqualities.Wheneverweweretogether,she was speaking Pedi to Tom, and Tomwas speaking English tome. But shedidn’t speak English, and I didn’t speak Pedi. Abel spoke Pedi. He’d learnedseveral South African languages in order to deal with his customers, so he’dspokenwithherfluentlywhentheymet.ButinthatmomentIrealizedI’dneveractually heard her say anything inEnglish other than: “Yes.” “No.” “Hi.” “Bye.”That’sit:“Yes.”“No.”“Hi.”“Bye.”

Babikiwassoshythatshedidn’ttalkmuchtobeginwith,andIwassoineptwithwomen that I didn’t knowhow to talk to her. I’d never had a girlfriend; Ididn’tevenknowwhat“girlfriend”meant.Someoneputabeautifulwomanonmyarmandsaid,“She’syourgirlfriend.”I’dbeenmesmerizedbyherbeautyandjusttheideaofher—Ididn’tknowIwassupposedtotalktoher.Thenakedwomenonmy computer, I’d never had to talk to them, ask them their opinions, ask themabouttheirfeelings.AndIwasafraidI’dopenmymouthandruinthewholething,soIjustnoddedandsmiledalongandletTomdothetalking.

AllthreeofBabiki’soldersistersspokeEnglish,andheryoungersisterLeratospoke a little. So whenever we hung out with Babiki and her sisters and theirfriends,alotoftheconversationwasinEnglish.Therestofitwasgoingrightbyme inPedior inSotho,but that’scompletelynormal inSouthAfricaso itneverbotheredme;Igotenoughofthegistoftheconversationfromeveryone’sEnglishto knowwhat was going on. And the waymymind works with language, evenwhen I’mhearing other languages, they get filtered intoEnglish as I’m hearingthem. My mind stores them in English. When my grandmother and great-grandmotherwerehystericallyprayingtoGodtodestroythedemonthathadshitontheirkitchenfloor,allofthattranspiredinXhosa,butit’sstoredinEnglish.IrememberitasEnglish.SowheneverIlayinbedatnightdreamingaboutBabikiand the moments we’d spent together, I felt like it had transpired in Englishbecausethat’showIrememberedit.AndTomhadneversaidanythingaboutwhatlanguageshespokeordidn’tspeak,becausewhywouldhecare?HejustwantedtogethisfreeCDsandgetwiththesister.WhichishowI’dbeendatingagirlforover

a month—the girl I very much believed was my first girlfriend—without everhavinghadasingleconversationwithher.

NowthewholenightcamerushingbackandIsawitfromherpointofview,anditwasperfectlyobvioustomewhyshedidn’twanttogetoutofthecar.Sheprobablyhadn’twantedtogotothedancewithmeinthefirstplace;sheprobablyowedTomafavor,andTomcantalkanyoneintoanything.ThenI’dlefthersittingandwaitingformeforanhourandshewaspissedoff.Thenshegotintothecaranditwasthefirsttimewehadeverbeenalone,andsherealizedIcouldn’tevenholdaconversationwithher.I’ddrivenheraroundandgottenlostinthedark—ayounggirlaloneinacarinthemiddleofnowherewithsomestrangeguy,noideawhereIwastakingher.Shewasprobablyterrified.Thenwegottothedanceandshe didn’t speak anyone’s language. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t evenknowme.

BonganiandIstoodoutsidethecar,staringateachother.Ididn’tknowwhattodo. I tried talkingtoher inevery languageIknew.Nothingworked.Sheonlyspoke Pedi. I got so desperate that I started trying to talk to her using handsignals.

“Please.You.Me.Inside.Dance.Yes?”

“No.”

“Inside.Dance.Please?”

“No.”

IaskedBonganiifhespokePedi.Hedidn’t.IraninsidetothedanceandranaroundlookingforsomeonewhospokePeditohelpmetoconvincehertocomein.“DoyouspeakPedi?DoyouspeakPedi?DoyouspeakPedi?”NobodyspokePedi.

SoInevergottogotomymatricdance.OtherthanthethreeminutesIspentrunningthroughitlookingforsomeonewhospokePedi,Ispentthewholenightintheparkinglot.Whenthedanceended,IclimbedbackintotheshittyredMazdaanddroveBabikihome.Wesatintotalawkwardsilencethewholeway.

IpulledupinfrontofherblockofflatsinHillbrow,stoppedthecar,andsatforamomentas I tried to figureout thepoliteandgentlemanlyway toend theevening.Then,outofnowhere, she leanedoverandgavemeakiss.Like, a realkiss,aproperkiss.Thekindofkiss thatmademeforget that thewholedisasterhadjusthappened.Iwassoconfused.Ididn’tknowwhatIwassupposedtodo.ShepulledbackandIlookeddeepintohereyesandthought,Ihavenoideahowgirlswork.

I got out of the car, walked around to her side, and opened her door. Shegathered up her dress and stepped out and headed toward her flat, and as sheturnedtogoIgaveheronelastlittlewave.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

InGermany,nochildfinisheshighschoolwithoutlearningabouttheHolocaust.Notjustthefactsofitbutthehowandthewhyandthegravityofit—whatitmeans.Asaresult,Germansgrowupappropriatelyawareandapologetic.Britishschoolstreatcolonialismthesameway,to an extent. Their children are taught the history of the Empirewith a kind of disclaimerhangingoverthewholething.“Well,thatwasshameful,nowwasn’tit?”

InSouthAfrica,theatrocitiesofapartheidhaveneverbeentaughtthatway.Weweren’ttaughtjudgmentorshame.Weweretaughthistorythewayit’staughtinAmerica.InAmerica,thehistoryofracismistaughtlikethis:“TherewasslaveryandthentherewasJimCrowandthentherewasMartinLutherKingJr.andnowit’sdone.”Itwasthesameforus.“Apartheidwas bad. Nelson Mandela was freed. Let’s move on.” Facts, but not many, and never theemotionalormoraldimension.Itwasasiftheteachers,manyofwhomwerewhite,hadbeengivenamandate.“Whateveryoudo,don’tmakethekidsangry.”

GOHITLER!

WhenIwasingradenine,threeChinesekidstransferredtoSandringham:Bolo,Bruce Lee, and John. They were the only Chinese kids in the school, out of athousandpupils.Bologothisnicknamebecausehe lookedlikeBoloYeungfromthe Jean-Claude Van Damme movie Bloodsport. Bruce Lee’s name really wasBruceLee,whichmadeourlives.HerewasthisChineseguy,quiet,good-looking,ingreatshape,andhisnamewasBruceLee.Wewerelike,Thisismagic.Thankyou, Jesus, for bringing us Bruce Lee. John was just John, which was weirdbecauseoftheothertwo.

IgottoknowBolobecausehewasoneofmytuck-shopclients.Bolo’sparentswereprofessionalpirates.Theypiratedvideogamesandsoldthematfleamarkets.As the son of pirates, Bolo did the same thing—he started selling bootlegPlayStationgamesaroundschool.KidswouldgivehimtheirPlayStation,andhe’dbring itbacka fewdays laterwithachip in it thatenabledthemtoplaypiratedgames,whichhewouldthensell them.Bolowas friendswith thiswhitekidandfellowpiratenamedAndrew,whotradedinbootlegCDs.Andrewwastwogradesabovemeandarealcomputergeek;heevenhadaCDwriterathome,backwhennobodyhadCDwriters.

Onedayonmytuck-shoprounds,IoverheardAndrewandBolocomplainingabouttheblackkidsatschool.They’drealizedthattheycouldtakeAndrew’sandBolo’smerchandise,say“I’llpayyoulater,”andthennotpay,becauseAndrewandBoloweretooscaredofblackpeopletogobacktoaskforthemoney.Ileanedintotheir conversationandsaid, “Listen,youshouldn’tgetupset.Blackpeopledon’thaveanymoney,sotryingtogetmorestuffforlessmoneyisjustwhatwedo.Butletmehelp.I’llbeyourmiddleman.YougivemethemerchandiseandI’llsellit,andthenI’llhandlegettingthemoney.Inreturn,yougivemeacutofthesale.”Theylikedtheidearightaway,andwebecamepartners.

Asthetuck-shopguy,Iwasperfectlypositioned.Ihadmynetworksetup.AllIhadtodowastapintoit.WiththemoneyImadesellingCDsandvideogames,Iwas able to save up and add new components and more memory to my owncomputer.Andrewthecomputergeekshowedmehowtodoit,wheretobuythecheapestparts,howtoassemblethem,howtorepairthem.Heshowedmehowhisbusiness worked, too, how to download music, where to get rewritable CDs inbulk.TheonlythingIwasmissingwasmyownCDwriter,becauseitwasthemost

expensive component. At the time a CD writer cost asmuch as the rest of thecomputer,nearly2,000rand.

I worked as a middleman for Bolo and Andrew for a year. Then Bolo leftschool;therumorwasthathisparentsgotarrested.FromthatpointonIworkedforAndrew,andthenashewasabouttomatriculatehedecidedtoquitthegame.“Trevor,”hetoldme,“you’vebeenaloyalpartner.”And,asthanks,hebequeatheduntomehisCDwriter.Atthetime,blackpeoplebarelyhadaccesstocomputers,let’sstartthere.ButaCDwriter?Thatwasthestuffoflore.Itwasmythical.ThedayAndrewgave it tome,hechangedmy life.Thanks tohim, Inowcontrolledproduction, sales, distribution—I had everything I needed to lock down thebootlegbusiness.

Iwas a natural capitalist. I loved selling stuff, and Iwas selling somethingthateverybodywantedandnobodyelsecouldprovide.Isoldmydiscsfor30rand,around$3.A regularCD in the store cost 100 to 150 rand.Oncepeople startedbuyingfromme,theywouldn’tbuyrealCDseveragain—thedealwastoogood.

Ihadan instinct forbusiness,but at the time I knewnothingaboutmusic,whichwasoddforsomeonerunningamusic-piratingbusiness.TheonlymusicIknew, still, was Christian music from church, the only music allowed in mymother’shouse.TheCDwriterAndrewgavemewasa1xCDwriter,whichmeantitcopiedatthespeeditplayed.EverydayI’dleaveschool,gotomyroom,andsitforfivetosixhours,copyingCDs.Ihadmyownsurround-soundsystembuiltwitholdcarspeakersI’dsalvagedfromthejunkersAbelkeptintheyard,andIstrungthemuparoundtheroom.EventhoughIhadtosittherewhileeachCDplayed,for a long time I didn’t really listen to them. I knew itwas against the dealer’scode:Nevergethighonyourownsupply.

ThankstotheInternet,Icouldgetanyoneanything.Ineverjudgedanyone’staste in music. You wanted the new Nirvana, I got you the new Nirvana. YouwantedthenewDMX,IgotyouthenewDMX.LocalSouthAfricanmusicwasbig,butblackAmericanmusicwaswhatpeopleweredesperatefor,hip-hopandR&B.Jagged Edge was huge. 112 was huge. I sold a lot ofMontell Jordan. SomuchMontellJordan.

WhenIstarted,Ihadadial-upconnectionanda24kmodem.Itwouldtakeadaytodownloadanalbum.Buttechnologykeptevolving,andIkeptreinvestinginthe business. I upgraded to a 56kmodem. I got faster CDwriters,multiple CDwriters. I starteddownloadingmore, copyingmore, sellingmore. That’swhen Igottwomiddlemenofmyown,myfriendTom,whowenttoNorthview,andmyfriendBongani,wholivedinAlex.

OnedayBonganicametomeandsaid,“Youknowwhatwouldmakealotofmoney? Instead of copyingwhole albums,why don’t you put the best tracks ofdifferent albums onto one CD, because people only wanna hear the songs theylike.”Thatsoundedlikeagreatidea,soIstartedmakingmixCDs.Thosesoldwell.Then a fewweeks laterBongani cameback and said, “Can youmake the tracks

fadeintooneanothersothemusicmovesfromtrackonetotracktwowithoutabreakandthebeatcarrieson?It’llbelikeaDJplayingacompletesetthewholenight.”Thatsoundedlikeagreatidea,too.IdownloadedaprogramcalledBPM,“beatsperminute.”Ithadagraphicalinterfacethatlookedliketwovinylrecordssidebyside,and I couldmixand fadebetweensongs,basicallyeverythingaDJcando live. I startedmakingpartyCDs, and those started selling likehotcakes,too.

—

Businesswasbooming.BymatricIwasballing,making500randaweek.Toputthat inperspective, therearemaids inSouthAfricawhostillearn less than thattoday.It’sashitsalaryifyou’retryingtosupportafamily,butasasixteen-year-oldlivingathomewithnorealexpenses,Iwaslivingthedream.

ForthefirsttimeinmylifeIhadmoney,anditwasthemostliberatingthingin theworld.The first thingI learnedabouthavingmoneywas that itgivesyouchoices.Peopledon’twanttoberich.Theywanttobeabletochoose.Thericheryouare,themorechoicesyouhave.Thatisthefreedomofmoney.

With money, I experienced freedom on a whole new level: I went toMcDonald’s. People inAmerica don’t understand, butwhen anAmerican chainopensinathird-worldcountry,peoplegocrazy.That’struetothisday.ABurgerKing opened for the first time in SouthAfrica last year, and therewas a queuearoundtheblock.Itwasanevent.Everyonewasgoingaroundsaying,“IhavetoeatatBurgerKing.Haveyouheard?It’sfromAmerica.”Thefunnythingwasthatthe queue was actually just white people.White people went bat-shit crazy forBurgerKing.Blackpeoplewere like,whatever.Blackpeopledidn’tneedBurgerKing. Our hearts were with KFC and McDonald’s. The crazy thing aboutMcDonald’s isthatweknewabout it longbeforeitcame,probablyfrommovies.We never even dreamed we would ever get one in South Africa; McDonald’sseemedtous likeoneofthoseAmericanthingsthat isexclusivelyAmericanandcan’tgoanywhereelse.EvenbeforeweevertastedMcDonald’s,weknewwe’dloveit,andwedid.AtonepointSouthAfricawasopeningmoreMcDonald’sthananyothercountryintheworld.WithMandelacamefreedom—andwithfreedomcameMcDonald’s. AMcDonald’s had opened up just two blocks from our house notlongafterwemovedtoHighlandsNorth,butmymomwouldneverpayforustoeatthere.WithmyownmoneyIwaslike,Let’sdothis.Iwentallin.Theydidn’thave “supersize” at the time; “large” was the biggest. So I walked up to thecounter,feelingveryimpressedwithmyself,andIputdownmymoneyandsaid,“I’llhavealargenumberone.”

I fell in love with McDonald’s. McDonald’s, to me, tasted like America.McDonald’sisAmerica.Yousee itadvertisedandit looksamazing.Youcrave it.Youbuyit.Youtakeyourfirstbite,anditblowsyourmind.It’sevenbetterthanyouimagined.Then,halfwaythrough,yourealizeit’snotallit’scrackeduptobe.A few bites later you’re like,Hmm, there’s a lot wrongwith this. Then you’re

done,youmissitlikecrazy,andyougobackformore.

OnceI’dhadatasteofAmerica,Ineverateathome.IonlyateMcDonald’s.McDonald’s,McDonald’s,McDonald’s,McDonald’s.Everynightmymotherwouldtrytocookmedinner.

“Tonightwe’rehavingchickenlivers.”

“No,I’mgonnahaveMcDonald’s.”

“Tonightwe’rehavingdogbones.”

“IthinkI’mgonnagowithMcDonald’sagain.”

“Tonightwe’rehavingchickenfeet.”

“Hmmmmm…Okay,I’min.ButtomorrowI’meatingMcDonald’s.”

ThemoneykeptrollinginandIwasballingoutofcontrol.ThisishowballingIwas: Iboughtacordless telephone.Thiswasbeforeeveryonehadacellphone.The range on this cordless phone was strong enough that I could put the baseoutsidemywindow,walk the twoblocks toMcDonald’s,ordermy largenumberone,walkbackhome,gouptomyroom,andfireupmycomputer,carryingonaconversation thewhole time. Iwas thatdudewalkingdownthestreetholdingagiantphonetomyearwiththeaerialfullyextended,talkingtomyfriend.“Yeah,I’mjustgoin’downtoMcDonald’s…”

Lifewasgood,andnoneofitwouldhavehappenedwithoutAndrew.Withouthim, Iwould never havemastered theworld ofmusic piracy and lived a life ofendlessMcDonald’s.Whathedid,onasmallscale,showedmehowimportantitistoempowerthedispossessedandthedisenfranchisedinthewakeofoppression.Andrewwaswhite.Hisfamilyhadaccesstoeducation,resources,computers.Forgenerations,whilehispeoplewerepreparingtogotouniversity,mypeoplewerecrowded into thatchedhuts singing, “Two times two is four.Three times two issix.Lalalalala.”Myfamilyhadbeendeniedthethingshisfamilyhadtakenforgranted. Ihadanatural talent for selling topeople,butwithoutknowledgeandresources,wherewasthatgoingtogetme?Peoplealwayslecturethepoor:“Takeresponsibility for yourself! Make something of yourself!” But with what rawmaterialsarethepoortomakesomethingofthemselves?

Peoplelovetosay,“Giveamanafish,andhe’lleatforaday.Teachamantofish,andhe’lleatforalifetime.”Whattheydon’tsayis,“Anditwouldbeniceifyougavehimafishingrod.”That’sthepartoftheanalogythat’smissing.WorkingwithAndrewwas the first time inmy life I realizedyouneedsomeone fromtheprivilegedworldtocometoyouandsay,“Okay,here’swhatyouneed,andhere’showitworks.”TalentalonewouldhavegottenmenowherewithoutAndrewgivingmetheCDwriter.Peoplesay,“Oh, that’sahandout.”No.Istillhavetoworktoprofitbyit.ButIdon’tstandachancewithoutit.

—

OneafternoonIwasinmyroommakingaCDwhenBonganicameovertopickuphisinventory.Hesawmemixingsongsonmycomputer.

“Thisisinsane,”hesaid.“Areyoudoingthislive?”

“Yeah.”

“Trevor,Idon’tthinkyouunderstand;you’resittingonagoldmine.Weneedtodothisforacrowd.YouneedtocometothetownshipandstartDJ’inggigs.NoonehaseverseenaDJplayingonacomputerbefore.”

Bongani lived in Alexandra. Where Soweto is a sprawling, government-plannedghetto,Alexandraisatiny,densepocketofashantytown,leftoverfromthe pre-apartheid days. Rows and rows of cinder-block and corrugated-ironshacks, practically stacked on top of one another. Its nickname is Gomorrahbecauseithasthewildestpartiesandtheworstcrimes.

StreetpartiesarethebestthingaboutAlexandra.Yougetatent,putitupinthemiddle of the road, take over the street, and you’ve got a party. There’s noformalinvitationsorguestlist.Youjusttellafewpeople,wordofmouthtravels,andacrowdappears.Therearenopermits,nothing likethat.Ifyouownatent,youhavetherighttothrowapartyinyourstreet.CarscreepuptotheintersectionandthedriverwillseethepartyblockingtheirwayandshrugandmakeaU-turn.Nobody gets upset. The only rule is that if you throw a party in front ofsomebody’shouse,theygettocomeandshareyouralcohol.Thepartiesdon’tenduntilsomeonegetsshotorabottlegetsbrokenonsomeone’s face.That’showithastoend;otherwise,itwasn’taparty.

Backthen,mostDJscouldspinforonlyafewhours;theywerelimitedbythenumberofvinylstheycouldbuy.Sincepartieswentallnight,youmightneedfiveorsixDJstokeepthedancinggoing.ButIhadamassiveharddrivestuffedwithMP3s,whichiswhyBonganiwasexcitedwhenhesawmemixing—hesawawaytocornerthemarket.

“Howmuchmusicdoyouhave?”heasked.

“WinampsaysIcanplayforaweek.”

“We’llmakeafortune.”

Our first gig was a New Year’s Eve party the summer we graduated fromSandringham.BonganiandItookmytower,mygiantmonitor,andallthecablesand the keyboard and the mouse. We loaded everything up in a minibus andbrought it over to Alex.We took over the street in front of his house, ran theelectricityoutofhisplace,setupthecomputer,setupspeakers,andborrowedatent,andpeoplecame.Itwasexplosive.Bymidnightthewholestreetwaspackedfromoneendtotheother.OurswasthebiggestNewYear’sEvepartyinAlexandrathatyear,andtohavethebiggestpartyinAlexandraisnojoke.Allnight,fromfarandwide,peoplekeptcoming.Thewordspread:“There’salight-skinnedguywhoplaysmusiconacomputer.You’veneverseenanythinglikeit.”IDJ’dbymyself

until dawn. By thenme andmy friends were so drunk and exhausted that wepassedoutonthelawnoutsideBongani’shouse.Thepartywassobigitmadeourreputationinthehood,instantly.Prettysoonweweregettingbookedallover.

Whichwasagoodthing.

WhenBonganiandIgraduatedfromhighschool,wecouldn’tgetjobs.Therewerenojobsforustoget.TheonlywaysIhadtomakemoneywerepiratingCDsandDJ’ingparties, andnow that I’d leftSandringham, theminibusdrivers andcornerkids inAlexandrawere thesinglebiggestmarket formyCDs.ItwasalsowhereIwasplayingthemostgigs,sotokeepearningInaturallygravitatedthatway.MostofthewhitekidsIknewweretakingagapyear.“I’mgoingtotakeagapyearandgotoEurope.”That’swhatthewhitekidsweresaying.SoIsaid,“I,too,amgoingtotakeagapyear.Iamgoingtotakeayearandgotothetownshipandhangoutonthecorner.”Andthat’swhatIdid.

Therewasa lowbrickwall runningdownthemiddleof theroad in frontofBongani’shouseinAlex,andeverydayBonganiandIandourcrewwouldgositon thewall. I’d bringmy CDs.We’d playmusic and practice dancemoves.WehustledCDsalldayandDJ’dpartiesatnight.Westartedgettingbookedforgigsinothertownships,otherhoods.

ThankstomycomputerandmodemIwasgettingexclusivetracksfewpeoplehad access to, but that created a problem for me. Sometimes I’d play the newmusicatpartiesandpeoplewouldstandaroundgoing,“Whatisthis?Howdoyoudancetoit?”Forexample,ifaDJplaysasonglike“WatchMe(Whip/NaeNae)”—yes,it’sacatchysong,butwhatisawhip?Whatisanaenae?Forthatsongtobepopularyouhavetoknowhowtodothewhipandthenaenae;newmusicworksatpartiesonly ifpeopleknowhow todance to it.Bonganidecidedweneededadance crew to showpeople the steps to the songswewere playing. Becausewespent our days doing nothing but listening to CDs and coming up with dancemoves,ourcrewfromthecorneralreadyknewallthesongs,sotheybecameourdancers. And hands down the best,most beautiful,most graceful dancer in thecrewwasBongani’sneighbor,Hitler.

Hitlerwasagreatfriendofmine,andgoodLordcouldthatguydance.Hewasmesmerizing to watch. He had a looseness and a fluidity that defied physics—imagineajellyfishifitcouldwalkonland.Incrediblyhandsome,too,tallandlitheandmuscular, with beautiful, smooth skin, big teeth, and a great smile, alwayslaughing. And all he didwas dance.He’d be up in themorning, blasting housemusicorhip-hop,practicingmovesthewholeday.

In thehood, everybodyknowswho thebestdancer in thecrew is.He’s likeyourstatussymbol.Whenyou’repooryoudon’thavecarsorniceclothes,butthebestdancergetsgirls,sothat’stheguyyouwanttorollwith.Hitlerwasourguy.Therewerepartieswithdancecompetitions.Kidsfromeveryneighborhoodwouldcomeandbringtheirbestdancers.We’dalwaysbringHitler,andhealmostalwayswon.

WhenBonganiandIputtogetheraroutineforourdancecrew,therewasnoquestionwhowasgoing tobe thestarattraction.Webuilt thewholesetaroundHitler.I’dwarmthecrowdupwithafewsongs,thenthedancerswouldcomeoutanddoacoupleofnumbers.Oncethey’dgottenthepartystarted,they’dfanouttoformasemicirclearoundthestagewithagapinthebackforHitlertoenter.I’dcrankupRedman’s“Let’sGetDirty”andstartwhippingthecrowdupevenmore.“Areyou ready?! I can’t hearyou!Letmehearyoumake somenoise!” Peoplewould start screaming, andHitlerwould jump into themiddleof the semicircleand the crowd would lose it. Hitler would do his thing while the guys circledaround him, shouting him on. “GoHit-ler! GoHit-ler! GoHit-ler! GoHit-ler!”Andbecausethiswaship-hop,thecrewwoulddothatthingwhereyoushootyourarmoutinfrontofyouwithyourpalmflat,boppingitupanddowntothebeat.“GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!”We’dhavethewholecrowdinafrenzy,athousandpeopleinthestreetchantingalongwiththeirhandsintheair.“GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!”

—

Hitler,althoughanunusualname,isnotunheard-ofinSouthAfrica.Partofithasto dowith theway a lot of black people pick names. Black people choose theirtraditionalnameswithgreatcare;thosearethenamesthathavedeeplypersonalmeanings.Butfromcolonialtimesthroughthedaysofapartheid,blackpeopleinSouthAfricawererequiredtohaveanEnglishorEuropeannameaswell—anamethatwhitepeoplecouldpronounce,basically.SoyouhadyourEnglishname,yourtraditionalname,andyourlastname:PatriciaNombuyiseloNoah.Ninetimesoutof ten, your European namewas chosen at random, plucked from the Bible ortakenfromaHollywoodcelebrityorafamouspoliticianinthenews.IknowguysnamedafterMussoliniandNapoleon.And,ofcourse,Hitler.

Westernersareshockedandconfusedbythat,butreallyit’sacaseoftheWestreapingwhatithassown.ThecolonialpowerscarvedupAfrica,puttheblackmanto work, and did not properly educate him. White people don’t talk to blackpeople. So why would black people know what’s going on in the white man’sworld?Becauseofthat,manyblackpeopleinSouthAfricadon’treallyknowwhoHitlerwas.Myowngrandfather thought “ahitler”wasakindofarmy tank thatwashelpingtheGermanswinthewar.Becausethat’swhathetookfromwhatheheardonthenews.FormanyblackSouthAfricans,thestoryofthewarwasthattherewassomeonecalledHitlerandhewasthereasontheAllieswerelosingthewar.ThisHitlerwassopowerful thatatsomepointblackpeoplehadtogohelpwhitepeoplefightagainsthim—andifthewhitemanhastostooptoasktheblackmanforhelpfightingsomeone,thatsomeonemustbethetoughestguyofalltime.Soifyouwantyourdogtobetough,younameyourdogHitler.Ifyouwantyourkid tobe tough, younameyourkidHitler.There’s a goodchanceyou’vegot anunclenamedHitler.It’sjustathing.

AtSandringham,wewere taughtmoreaboutWorldWarII thanthe typical

blackkids in the townshipswere,butonly inabasicway.Weweren’t taught tothink critically about Hitler and anti-Semitism and the Holocaust. We weren’ttaught, for instance, that thearchitectsofapartheidwerebig fansofHitler, thattheracistpoliciestheyputinplacewereinspired,inpart,bytheracistpoliciesoftheThirdReich.Weweren’ttaughthowtothinkabouthowHitlerrelatedtotheworldwe lived in.Weweren’tbeing taught to think,period.Allwewere taughtwasthatin1939HitlerinvadedPolandandin1941heinvadedtheSovietUnionandin1943hedidsomethingelse.They’rejustfacts.Memorizethem,writethemdownforthetest,andforgetthem.

Thereisalsothistoconsider:ThenameHitlerdoesnotoffendablackSouthAfricanbecauseHitler isnot theworst thingablackSouthAfricancan imagine.Everycountrythinkstheirhistoryisthemostimportant,andthat’sespeciallytrueintheWest.ButifblackSouthAfricanscouldgobackintimeandkilloneperson,CecilRhodeswouldcomeupbeforeHitler.IfpeopleintheCongocouldgobackintimeandkilloneperson,Belgium’sKingLeopoldwouldcomewaybeforeHitler.IfNativeAmericanscouldgobackintimeandkilloneperson,itwouldprobablybeChristopherColumbusorAndrewJackson.

IoftenmeetpeopleintheWestwhoinsistthattheHolocaustwastheworstatrocity in human history, without question. Yes, it was horrific. But I oftenwonder, with African atrocities like in the Congo, how horrific were they? ThethingAfricansdon’thavethatJewishpeopledohaveisdocumentation.TheNaziskeptmeticulousrecords,tookpictures,madefilms.Andthat’sreallywhatitcomesdownto.HolocaustvictimscountbecauseHitlercountedthem.Sixmillionpeoplekilled.Wecanalllookatthatnumberandrightlybehorrified.Butwhenyoureadthrough the history of atrocities against Africans, there are no numbers, onlyguesses.It’shardertobehorrifiedbyaguess.WhenPortugalandBelgiumwereplundering Angola and the Congo, they weren’t counting the black people theyslaughtered.HowmanyblackpeoplediedharvestingrubberintheCongo?InthegoldanddiamondminesoftheTransvaal?

SoinEuropeandAmerica,yes,HitleristheGreatestMadmaninHistory.InAfricahe’sjustanotherstrongmanfromthehistorybooks.InallmytimehangingoutwithHitler, Ineveronceaskedmyself, “Why ishisnameHitler?”HisnamewasHitlerbecausehismomnamedhimHitler.

—

OnceBonganiandIaddedthedancerstoourDJsets,weblewup.WecalledourgrouptheBlackandWhiteBoys.ThedancerswerecalledtheSpringbokBoys.Westartedgettingbookedeverywhere.Successfulblack familiesweremoving to thesuburbs,buttheirkidsstillwantedtohaveblockpartiesandstayconnectedtothecultureof the townships,so they’dbookus toplay theirparties.Wordofmouthtraveled. Pretty soon we were getting booked more and more in the suburbs,meetingwhitepeople,playingforwhitepeople.

One kid we knew from the township, his mother was involved in creating

culturalprograms for schools. InAmerica they’dbe called “diversityprograms.”They were springing up all over South Africa because we were supposed to belearningaboutandembracingoneanother in thispost-apartheidera.Thiskid’smomaskedusifwewantedtoplayataculturaldayatsomeschoolinLinksfield,thewealthysuburbsouthofSandringhamwheremypalTeddyhad lived.Therewasgoingtobeallsortsofdifferentdancingandmusic,andeveryonewasgoingtocometogetherandhangoutandbecultural.Sheofferedtopay,sowesaidsure.Shesentustheinformationwiththetimeandplaceandthenameoftheschool:theKingDavidSchool.AJewishschool.

Thedayof theevent,webookedaminibus, loaded itupwithourgear,anddroveover.Oncewearrivedwewaited in thebackof theschool’sassemblyhallandwatchedtheactsthatwentonstagebeforeus,differentgroupstooktheirturnsperforming, flamenco dancers, Greek dancers, traditional Zulumusicians. Thenwewereup.WewerebilledastheHipHopPantsulaDancers—theSouthAfricanB-Boys.Wesetupoursoundsystemonstage.Ilookedout,andthewholehallwasnothingbutJewishkidsintheiryarmulkes,readytoparty.

Igotonthemic.“Areyoureadytorockout?!”

“Yeahhhhhh!”

“Makesomenoise!”

“Yeahhhhhh!”

Istartedplaying.Thebasswasbumping,mycrewwasdancing,andeveryonewashavingagreat time.The teachers, thechaperones, theparents,hundredsofkids—theywerealldancinglikecrazy.Oursetwasscheduledforfifteenminutes,and at the ten-minutemark came themoment forme toplay “Let’sGetDirty,”bringoutmystardancer,andshutshitdown.

Istartedthesong,thedancersfannedoutintheirsemicircle,andIgotonthemic.

“Areyouguysready?!”

“Yeahhhhhh!”

“Youguysarenotready!Areyouready?!”

“Yeeeaaahhhhhhhh!”

“Allright!GiveitupandmakesomenoiseforHIIIIIITTTTLLLLEERRRRR-RRRRR!!!”

Hitlerjumpedouttothemiddleofthecircleandstartedkillingit.Theguysaround himwere all chanting, “GoHit-ler! GoHit-ler! GoHit-ler! GoHit-ler!”Theyhadtheirarmsoutinfrontofthem,bouncingtotherhythm.“GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!” And Iwas right there on themic leading themalong.“GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!”

Thewholeroomstopped.Noonewasdancing.Theteachers,thechaperones,theparents,thehundredsofJewishkidsintheiryarmulkes—theyfrozeandstaredaghastatusuponthestage.Iwasoblivious.SowasHitler.Wekeptgoing.Foragoodthirtysecondstheonlysoundintheroomwasthebeatofthemusicandmeonthemicyelling,“GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!GoHit-ler!PutyourhandsintheairforHitler,yo!”

A teacher ranupbehindme and yanked theplug formy systemout of thewall. Thehallwent dead silent, and she turned onme and shewas livid. “Howdare you?! This is disgusting! You horrible, disgusting vile creature!Howdareyou?!”

Mymindwasracing,tryingtofigureoutwhatshewastalkingabout.Thenitclicked.Hitlerhadaspecialdancemovecalledospanava.Itmeans“whereyouwork”anditwasverysexual:Hishipswouldgyrateandthrust,likehewasfuckingtheair.Thatwas themovehewasdoingat themoment the teacher ranout, soclearlythedancewasthethingshefoundsodisgusting.ButthiswasamovethatAfricanpeopledoallthetime.It’sapartofourculture.Hereweweresharingourculture for a cultural day, and this woman was calling us disgusting. She wasoffended,andIwasoffendedbyhertakingoffense.

“Lady,”Isaid,“Ithinkyouneedtocalmdown.”

“Iwillnotcalmdown!Howdareyoucomehereandinsultus?!”

“Thisisnotinsultinganyone.Thisiswhoweare!”

“Getoutofhere!Youpeoplearedisgusting.”

And there itwas.Youpeople.Now I sawwhat the dealwas: This ladywasracist.Shecouldn’tseeblackmendancingsuggestivelyandnotgetpissedoff.AsIstartedpackingupmygear,wekeptarguing.

“Listen,lady.We’refreenow.We’regonnadowhatwe’regonnado.Youcan’tstopus.”

“I’llhaveyouknowthatmypeoplestoppedpeoplelikeyoubefore,andwecanstopyouagain.”

She was talking, of course, about stopping the Nazis inWorldWar II, butthat’snotwhatIwashearing.JewsinSouthAfricaarejustwhitepeople.AllIwashearingwassomewhiteladyshoutingabouthowwhitepeoplebeatusbeforeandthey’llbeatusagain.Isaid,“Youwillneverstopusagain,lady”—andhere’swhereI played the trump card—“You’ll never stop us, because now we have NelsonMandelaonourside!Andhetolduswecandothis!”

“What?!”

Shewas so confused. I’d had it. I started cussing her out. “Fuck you, lady.Fuck your program. Fuck your school. Fuck your whole people. Let’s go, guys!We’reout!”

Wedidn’twalkoutofthatschool.Wedancedout.Wedanceddownthestreetpumping our fists in the air. “Go Hit-ler! Go Hit-ler! Go Hit-ler! Go Hit-ler!”Because Hitler had shut shit down. Hitler had themost gangster dancemovesever,andthosewhitepeopledidn’tknowwhathitthem.

A lexandrawas a farmoriginallynamed for thewife of thewhitemanwhoowned it. LikeSophiatownandotherblackspotspopulatingwhiteareasbeforeapartheid,AlexstartedoutasasquattersettlementwhereblacksgatheredandlivedwhencomingtoJohannesburgtofindwork.WhatwasuniqueaboutAlexisthatthisfarmersoldplotsoflandtosomeoftheblacktenantsinthetimebeforeitwasillegalforblackstoownproperty.SowhileSophiatownandother black ghettos were razed and rebuilt as white suburbs, Alex fought and held on andasserted its right to exist. Wealthy white suburbs like Sandton grew around it, but Alexremained.Moresquatterscameandmoresquatterscame,puttingupmakeshift shacksandshanties.TheylookliketheslumsinMumbaiorthefavelasinBrazil.ThefirsttimeIsawthefavelasinRioIsaid,“Yeah,that’sAlexandra,butonahill.”

Sowetowas beautiful because, after democracy, youwatched Soweto grow. Soweto hasbecomeapropercityuntoitself.Peoplewentfromthree-roomhousestofive-roomhousestothree-bedroomhouseswithgarages.Therewasroomtogrowbecausethepieceoflandfromthegovernmentgaveyousomething tobuildon.Alexandracan’tdo that.Alex can’t getanybigger,becauseit’spinnedinonallsides,anditcan’tbuildup,becauseit’smostlyshacks.

When democracy came, people flooded into Alex from the homelands, building newshacks in the backyards of other shacks with stillmore shacks attached to the backside ofthose shacks, growingmore dense andmore compressed, leaving close to 200,000 peopleliving in a few square kilometers. Even if you go back today, Alex hasn’t changed. It can’tchange.It’sphysicallyimpossibleforittochange.Itcanonlybewhatitis.

THECHEESEBOYS

MyfriendBonganiwasashort,bald,super-buffguy.Hewasn’talwaysthatway.Hiswholelifehe’dbeenskinny,andthenabodybuildingmagazinefounditswayintohishandsandchangedhislife.Bonganiwasoneofthosepeoplewhobroughtout the best in everybody.Hewas that friendwhobelieved in you and saw thepotentialinyouthatnobodyelsedid,whichwaswhysomanyofthetownshipkidsgravitated toward him, and why I gravitated toward him as well. Bongani wasalwayspopular,buthisreputationreallytookoffwhenhebeatuponeofthemoreinfamousbulliesintheschool.Thatcementedhisstatusassortoftheleaderandprotectorofthetownshipkids.

Bongani lived in Alex, but I never visited him there while we were still inschool;he’dalwayscometomyhouseinHighlandsNorth.I’dbeentoAlexafewtimes,forbriefvisits,butI’dneverspentanyrealtimethere.I’dneverbeenthereatnight,let’sputitthatway.GoingtoAlexduringthedayisdifferentfromgoingthereatnight.TheplacewasnicknamedGomorrahforareason.

Onedayafterschool,notlongbeforewematriculated,Bonganiwalkeduptomeonthequad.

“Hey,let’sgotothehood,”hesaid.

“Thehood?”

AtfirstIhadnoideawhathewastalkingabout.Iknewtheword“hood”fromrapsongs,andIknewthedifferenttownshipswhereblackpeoplelived,butIhadneverusedtheonetodescribetheother.

The walls of apartheid were coming down just as American hip-hop wasblowing up, and hip-hopmade it cool to be from the hood. Before, living in atownshipwassomethingtobeashamedof;itwasthebottomofthebottom.Thenwehadmovies likeBoyzntheHoodandMenace IISociety, and theymade thehoodlookcool.Thecharactersinthosemovies,inthesongs,theyownedit.Kidsin the townships started doing the same, wearing their identity as a badge ofhonor: Youwere no longer from the township—youwere from the hood. BeingfromAlexgaveyouwaymorestreetcredthanlivinginHighlandsNorth.SowhenBonganisaid,“Let’sgotothehood,”Iwascuriousaboutwhathemeant.Iwantedtofindoutmore.

—

WhenBonganitookmetoAlexweenteredasmostpeopledo,fromtheSandtonside. You ride through one of the richest neighborhoods in Johannesburg, pastpalatialmansions and hugemoney. Then you go through the industrial belt ofWynberg that cordons off the rich and white from the poor and black. At theentrancetoAlexthere’sthehugeminibusrankandthebusstation.It’sthesamebustling, chaotic third-world marketplace you see in James Bond and JasonBournemovies. It’s Grand Central Station but outdoors. Everything’s dynamic.Everything’sinmotion.Nothingfeelslikeitwasthereyesterday,andnothingfeelslikeitwillbetheretomorrow,buteverydayitlooksexactlythesame.

Rightnext to theminibus rank,of course, is aKFC.That’sone thingaboutSouthAfrica:There’salwaysaKFC.KFCfoundtheblackpeople.KFCdidnotplaygames. They were in the hood before McDonald’s, before Burger King, beforeanyone.KFCwaslike,“Yo,we’rehereforyou.”

Once you gopast theminibus rank, you’re inAlexproper. I’ve been in fewplaces where there’s an electricity like there is in Alex. It’s a hive of constanthumanactivity,alldaylong,peoplecomingandgoing,gangstershustling,guysonthe corner doing nothing, kids running around. There’s nowhere for all thatenergytogo,nomechanismforittodissipate,soiteruptsperiodicallyinepicactsof violence and crazy parties. One minute it’ll be a placid afternoon, peoplehangingout,doingtheirthing,andnextthingyouknowthere’sacopcarchasinggangsters, flying through the streets, a gun battle going off, helicopters circlingoverhead.Then,tenminuteslater,it’slikeitneverhappened—everyone’sbacktohangingout,backtothehustle,comingandgoing,runningaround.

Alexis laidoutonagrid,aseriesofavenues.Thestreetsarepaved,butthesidewalksaremostlydirt.Thecolorschemeiscinderblockandcorrugatediron,grayanddarkgray,punctuatedbybrightsplashesofcolor.Someone’spaintedawall lime green, or there’s a bright-red sign above a takeaway shop, or maybesomebody’spickedupabright-bluepieceofsheetmetaljustbyluck.There’slittleinthewayofbasicsanitation.Trashiseverywhere,typicallyagarbagefiregoingdownsomesidestreet.There’salwayssomethingburninginthehood.

Asyouwalk,there’severysmellyoucanimagine.Peoplearecooking,eatingtakeawaysinthestreets.Somefamilyhasashackthat’sjury-riggedontothebackofsomeoneelse’sshack,andtheydon’thaveanyrunningwater,sothey’vebathedinabucket fromtheoutdoortapandthendumpedthedirtywater inthestreet,where it runs into the river of sewerage that’s already there because the watersystemhasbackedupagain.There’saguyfixingcarswhothinksheknowswhathe’sdoing,buthedoesn’t.He’sdumpingoldmotoroilintothestreet,andnowtheoiliscombiningwiththedirtybathwatertomakeariveroffilthrunningdownthestreet.There’sprobablyagoathangingaround—there’salwaysagoat.Asyou’rewalking, sound washes over you, the steady thrum of human activity, peopletalkinginadozendifferentlanguages,chatting,haggling,arguing.There’smusic

playing constantly.You’ve got traditionalSouthAfricanmusic coming fromonecorner, someone blasting Dolly Parton from the next corner, and somebodydrivingpastpumpingtheNotoriousB.I.G.

Thehoodwasacompletesensoryoverloadforme,butwithinthechaostherewasorder,asystem,asocialhierarchybasedonwhereyoulived.FirstAvenuewasnot cool at all because itwas right next to the commotion of theminibus rank.SecondAvenuewasnicebecause ithad semi-houses thatwerebuiltwhen therewas still some sort of formal settlement going on. Third, Fourth, and FifthAvenueswerenicer—forthetownship.Theseweretheestablishedfamilies,theoldmoney. Then from Sixth Avenue on down it got really shitty,more shacks andshanties. There were some schools, a few soccer fields. There were a couple ofhostels,giantprojectsbuiltbythegovernmentforhousingmigrantworkers.Youneverwantedtogothere.That’swheretheseriousgangsterswere.YouonlywentthereifyouneededtobuyanAK-47.

AfterTwentiethAvenueyouhittheJukskeiRiver,andonthefarsideofthat,acrosstheRooseveltStreetBridge,wasEastBank,thenewest,nicestpartof thehood.EastBankwaswherethegovernmenthadgonein,clearedoutthesquattersand their shacks, and started to build actual homes. It was still low-incomehousing,butdecenttwo-bedroomhouseswithtinyyards.Thefamilieswholivedthere had a bit of money and usually sent their kids out of the hood to betterschools,likeSandringham.Bongani’sparentslivedinEastBank,atthecornerofRoosevelt and Springbok Crescent, and after walking from the minibus rankthroughthehood,wewoundupthere,hangingaroundoutsidehishouseonthelowbrickwall down themiddle of SpringbokCrescent, doingnothing, shootingtheshit.Ididn’tknowitthen,butIwasabouttospendthenextthreeyearsofmylifehangingoutatthatveryspot.

—

IgraduatedfromhighschoolwhenIwasseventeen,andbythatpointlifeathomehadbecometoxicbecauseofmystepfather.Ididn’twanttobethereanymore,andmymomagreedthatIshouldmoveout.Shehelpedmemovetoacheap,roach-infestedflatinabuildingdowntheroad.Myplan,insofarasIhadone,wastogotouniversity tobeacomputerprogrammer,butwecouldn’taffordthetuition.Ineeded tomakemoney. The only way I knew how tomakemoney was sellingpiratedCDs,andoneofthebestplacestosellCDswasinthehood,becausethat’swheretheminibusrankwas.Minibusdriverswerealwayslookingfornewsongsbecausehavinggoodmusicwassomethingtheyusedtoattractcustomers.

Anothernicethingaboutthehoodwasthatit’ssupercheap.Youcangetbyonnext to nothing. There’s ameal you can get in the hood called akota. It’s aquarterloafofbread.Youscrapeoutthebread,thenyoufillitwithfriedpotatoes,asliceofbaloney,andsomepickledmangorelishcalledachar.Thatcostsacoupleofrand.Themoremoneyyouhave,themoreupgradesyoucanbuy.Ifyouhaveabitmoremoneyyoucanthrowinahotdog.Ifyouhaveabitmorethanthat,you

canthrowinapropersausage,likeabratwurst,ormaybeafriedegg.Thebiggestone,withalltheupgrades,isenoughtofeedthreepeople.

Forus, theultimateupgradewas to throwona sliceof cheese.Cheesewasalwaysthethingbecauseitwassoexpensive.Forgetthegoldstandard—thehoodoperated on the cheese standard. Cheese on anything wasmoney. If you got aburger, that was cool, but if you got a cheeseburger, thatmeant you hadmoremoneythanaguywhojustgotahamburger.Cheeseonasandwich,cheeseinyourfridge,thatmeantyouwerelivingthegoodlife.InanytownshipinSouthAfrica,ifyouhadabitofmoney,peoplewouldsay,“Oh,you’reacheeseboy.”Inessence:You’renotreallyhoodbecauseyourfamilyhasenoughmoneytobuycheese.

In Alex, because Bongani and his crew lived in East Bank, they wereconsideredcheeseboys.Ironically,becausetheylivedonthefirststreetjustovertheriver,theywerelookeddownonasthescruffofEastBankandthekidsinthenicerhouseshigherupinEastBankwerethecheesiercheeseboys.Bonganiandhiscrewwouldneveradmit tobeingcheeseboys.Theywould insist, “We’renotcheese.We’rehood.”Butthentherealhoodguyswouldsay,“Eh,you’renothood.You’recheese.”“We’renotcheese,”Bongani’sguyswouldsay,pointingfurtherupEastBank.“They’recheese.”Itwasallabunchofridiculousposturingaboutwhowashoodandwhowascheese.

Bonganiwas the leaderofhis crew, theguywhogot everyone togetherandgot things moving. Then there was Mzi, Bongani’s henchman. Small guy, justwantedtotagalong,beinthemix.Bhekiwasthedrinksman,alwaysfindingusboozeandalwayscomingupwithanexcuse todrink.Then therewasKakoatse.We called himG.Mr.NiceGuy.AllGwas interested inwaswomen. Ifwomenwereinthemix,hewasinthegame.Then,finally,therewasHitler,thelifeoftheparty.Hitlerjustwantedtodance.

Cheeseboyswereinauniquelyfuckedsituationwhenapartheidended.Itisonethingtobeborninthehoodandknowthatyouwillneverleavethehood.Butthecheeseboyhasbeenshowntheworldoutside.Hisfamilyhasdoneokay.Theyhaveahouse.They’vesenthimtoadecentschool;maybehe’sevenmatriculated.Hehasbeengivenmorepotential,buthehasnotbeengivenmoreopportunity.Hehasbeengivenanawarenessoftheworldthatisoutthere,buthehasnotbeengiventhemeanstoreachit.

The unemployment rate, technically speaking, was “lower” in South Africaduringapartheid,whichmakessense.Therewasslavery—that’showeveryonewasemployed.Whendemocracycame,everyonehadtobepaidaminimumwage.Thecost of labor went up, and suddenly millions of people were out of work. Theunemployment rate for young blackmen post-apartheid shot up, sometimes ashighas50percent.Whathappenstoa lotofguys is theyfinishhighschoolandtheycan’tafforduniversity,andevenlittleretailjobscanbehardtocomebywhenyou’refromthehoodandyoulookandtalkacertainway.So,formanyyoungmeninSouthAfrica’stownships,freedomlookslikethis:Everymorningtheywakeup,

maybetheirparentsgotoworkormaybenot.Thentheygooutsideandchillonthe corner thewhole day, talking shit. They’re free, they’ve been taught how tofish,butnoonewillgivethemafishingrod.

—

OneofthefirstthingsIlearnedinthehoodisthatthereisaveryfinelinebetweencivilianandcriminal.Weliketobelievewelive inaworldofgoodguysandbadguys,andinthesuburbsit’seasytobelievethat,becausegettingtoknowacareercriminalinthesuburbsisadifficultthing.Butthenyougotothehoodandyouseetherearesomanyshadesinbetween.

Inthehood,gangsterswereyourfriendsandneighbors.Youknewthem.Youtalkedtothemonthecorner,sawthematparties.Theywereapartofyourworld.Youknewthemfrombeforetheybecamegangsters.Itwasn’t,“Hey,that’sacrackdealer.”Itwas,“Oh,littleJimmy’ssellingcracknow.”Theweirdthingaboutthesegangsterswas that theywereall,ataglance, identical.Theydrove thesameredsportscar.Theydatedthesamebeautifuleighteen-year-oldgirls.Itwasstrange.Itwasliketheydidn’thavepersonalities;theysharedapersonality.Onecouldbetheother, and the other could be the one. They’d each studied how to be thatgangster.

In thehood, even if you’renot a hardcore criminal, crime is in your life insomewayoranother.Therearedegreesofit.It’severyonefromthemombuyingsomefoodthatfelloffthebackofatrucktofeedherfamily,allthewayuptothegangs sellingmilitary-gradeweapons and hardware. The hoodmademe realizethatcrimesucceedsbecausecrimedoestheonethingthegovernmentdoesn’tdo:crimecares.Crimeisgrassroots.Crimelooksfortheyoungkidswhoneedsupportand a lifting hand. Crime offers internship programs and summer jobs andopportunities for advancement. Crime gets involved in the community. Crimedoesn’tdiscriminate.

Mylifeofcrimestartedoffsmall,sellingpiratedCDsonthecorner.Thatinitselfwasacrime,andtodayI feel likeIoweall theseartistsmoneyforstealingtheirmusic,butbyhoodstandardsitdidn’tevenqualifyasillegal.Atthetimeitneveroccurredtoanyofusthatweweredoinganythingwrong—ifcopyingCDsiswrong,whywouldtheymakeCDwriters?

The garage of Bongani’s house opened up onto Springbok Cresent. Everymorningwe’dopenthedoors,runanextensioncordoutintothestreet,setupatable,andplaymusic.Peoplewouldwalkbyandask,“Whatisthat?CanIgetone,please?”Ourcornerwasalsowherealotofminibusdriversendedtheirroutesandturnedaroundtoloopbacktotheminibusrank.They’dswingby,placeanorder,comeback,pickitup.Swingby,placeanorder,comeback,pickitup.Wespentourwholedayrunningouttothem,goingbacktothegaragetomakemoremixes,andgoingbackouttosell.Therewasaconvertedshippingcontaineraroundthecornerwherewe’d hang outwhenwe got tired of thewall. It had a pay phoneinstalledinsidethatwe’dusetocallpeople.Whenthingswereslowwe’dwander

backandforthbetweenthecontainerandthewall,talkingandhangingoutwiththeotherpeoplewithnothing todo in themiddleof theday.We’d talk todrugdealers, talk to gangsters. Every now and then the cops would come crashingthrough.Adayinthelifeofthehood.Nextday,samething.

Selling slowlyevolved intohustlingbecauseBongani sawall theanglesandknewhowtoexploitthem.LikeTom,Bonganiwasahustler.ButwhereTomwasonlyabouttheshortcon,Bonganihadschemes:Ifwedothis,wegetthat,thenwecan flip that for the other thing, which gives us the leverage we need to getsomething bigger. Someminibus drivers couldn’t pay up front, for example. “Idon’thavethemoney,becauseI’vejuststartedmyshift,”they’dsay.“ButIneednewmusic.CanIoweyouguyssomeformofcredit?I’lloweyouaride. I’llpayyouattheendofmyshift,attheendoftheweek?”Sowestartedlettingdriversbuyoncredit,chargingthemabitofinterest.

Westartedmakingmoremoney.Nevermore thana fewhundred,maybeathousandrandatatime,butitwasallcashonhand.Bonganiwasquicktorealizethe position we were in. Cash is the one thing everyone in the hood needs.Everyone’slookingforashort-termloanforsomething,topayabillorpayafineor justhold things together.People started coming tousandasking formoney.Bonganiwouldcutadeal,andthenhe’dcometome.“Yo,we’regoingtomakeadealwiththisguy.We’regoingto loanhimahundred,andhe’sgoingtogiveusbackone-twentyattheendoftheweek.”I’dsayokay.Thentheguywouldcomebackandgiveus120rand.Thenwediditagain.Thenwediditsomemore.Westartedtodoubleourmoney,thentripleourmoney.

Cash gave us leverage in the hood’s barter economy as well. It’s commonknowledge that if you’re standing at a corner of a main street in the hood,somebody’sgoingtotrytosellyousomething.“Yo,yo,yo,man.Youwantsomeweed?”“YouwannabuyaVCR?”“YouwannabuyaDVDplayer?”“Yo,I’msellingaTV.”That’sjusthowitworks.

Let’ssayweseetwoguyshagglingonthecorner,acrackheadtryingtosellaDVD player and some working dude who wants it but doesn’t have themoneybecause he hasn’t got his wages yet. They’re going back and forth, but thecrackheadwantsthemoneynow.Crackheadsdon’twait.There’snolayawayplanwithacrackhead.SoBonganistepsinandtakestheworkingguyaside.

“Look, I understand you can’t pay for theDVDplayer now,” Bongani says.“Buthowmuchareyouwillingtopayforit?”

“I’llpayone-twenty,”hesays.

“Okay,cool.”

ThenBonganitakesthecrackheadaside.

“HowmuchdoyouwantfortheDVDplayer?”

“Iwantone-forty.”

“Okay, listen.You’rea crackhead.This is a stolenDVDplayer. I’mgoing togiveyoufifty.”

The crackhead protests a bit, but then he takes the money because he’s acrackheadandit’scashandcrackisallaboutthenow.ThenBonganigoesbacktotheworkingguy.

“Allright.We’lldoone-twenty.Here’syourDVDplayer.It’syours.”

“ButIdon’thavetheone-twenty.”

“It’s cool.You can take itnow,only insteadofone-twenty yougiveusone-fortywhenyougetyourwages.”

“Okay.”

Sonowwe’veinvested50randwiththecrackheadandthatgetsus140fromtheworkingguy.ButBonganiwouldseeawaytoflipitandgrowitagain.Let’ssaythisguywhoboughttheDVDplayerworkedatashoestore.

“HowmuchdoyoupayforapairofNikeswithyourstaffdiscount?”Bonganiwouldask.

“IcangetapairofNikesforone-fifty.”

“Okay,insteadofyougivingusone-forty,we’llgiveyoutenandyougetusapairofNikeswithyourdiscount.”

Sonowthisguy’swalkingawaywithaDVDplayerand10randinhispocket.He’sfeelinglikehegotagooddeal.HebringsustheNikesandthenwegotooneofthecheesiercheeseboysupinEastBankandwesay,“Yo,dude,weknowyouwantthenewJordans.They’rethreehundredintheshops.We’llsellthemtoyoufortwohundred.”Wesellhimtheshoes,andnowwe’vegoneandturned60randinto200.

That’sthehood.Someone’salwaysbuying,someone’salwaysselling,andthehustleisabouttryingtobeinthemiddleofthatwholething.Noneofitwaslegal.Nobodyknewwhereanythingcamefrom.TheguywhogotusNikes,didhereallyhavea“staffdiscount”?Youdon’tknow.Youdon’task.It’sjust,“Hey,lookwhatIfound”and“Cool,howmuchdoyouwant?”That’stheinternationalcode.

AtfirstIdidn’tknownottoask.Irememberonetimeweboughtacarstereoorsomethinglikethat.

“Butwhodidthisbelongto?”Isaid.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” one of the guys told me. “White people haveinsurance.”

“Insurance?”

“Yeah, when white people lose stuff they have insurance policies that paythemcashforwhatthey’velost,soit’slikethey’velostnothing.”

“Oh,okay,”Isaid.“Soundsnice.”

Andthatwasasfarasweeverthoughtaboutit:Whenwhitepeoplelosestufftheygetmoney,justanotherniceperkofbeingwhite.

It’s easy to be judgmental about crime when you live in a world wealthyenoughtoberemovedfromit.Butthehoodtaughtmethateveryonehasdifferentnotions of right andwrong, different definitions ofwhat constitutes crime, andwhatlevelofcrimethey’rewillingtoparticipatein.Ifacrackheadcomesthroughand he’s got a crate of Corn Flakes boxes he’s stolen out of the back of asupermarket,thepoormomisn’tthinking,I’maidingandabettingacriminalbybuyingtheseCornFlakes.No.She’sthinking,MyfamilyneedsfoodandthisguyhasCornFlakes,andshebuystheCornFlakes.

Myownmother,mysuper-religious,law-abidingmotherwhousedtoshitonme about breaking the rules and learning to behave, I’ll never forget one day Icamehomeand in thekitchenwasagiantboxof frozenburgerpatties, like twohundred of them, from a takeaway place called Black Steer. A burger at BlackSteercostatleast20rand.

“Whatthehellisthis?”Isaid.

“Oh, some guy atwork had these andwas selling them,” she said. “I got agreatdiscount.”

“Butwheredidhegetitfrom?”

“Idon’tknow.Hesaidheknewsomebodywho—”

“Mom,hestoleit.”

“Wedon’tknowthat.”

“Wedoknowthat.Wherethehellissomeguygoingtogetalloftheseburgerpattiesfrom,randomly?”

Ofcourse,weatetheburgers.ThenwethankedGodforthemeal.

When Bongani first said tome, “Let’s go to the hood,” I thought we weregoing to sellCDsandDJparties in thehood. It turnedout thatweweresellingCDs and DJing parties in order to capitalize a payday-lending and pawnshopoperationinthehood.Veryquicklythatbecameourcorebusiness.

Everydayinthehoodwasthesame.I’dwakeupearly.Bonganiwouldmeetmeatmy flatandwe’dcatchaminibus toAlexwithmycomputer, carrying thegiant tower and the giant, heavy monitor the whole way. We’d set it up inBongani’sgarage,andstartthefirstbatchofCDs.Thenwe’dwalk.We’dgodownto the corner of Nineteenth andRoosevelt for breakfast.When you’re trying tostretch yourmoney, food is where you have to be careful. You have to plan oryou’ll eat your profits. So everymorning for breakfastwe eatvetkoek, which isfried dough, basically. Those were cheap, like 50 cents a pop.We could buy abunchofthoseandhaveenoughenergytosustainusuntillateronintheday.

Thenwe’dsitonthecornerandeat.Whileweate,we’dbepickingupordersfromtheminibusdriversastheywentpast.Afterthatwe’dgobacktoBongani’sgarage, listen to music, lift weights, make the CDs. Around ten or eleven, thedriverswould start coming back from theirmorning routes.We’d take theCDsandheadouttothecornerforthemtopickuptheirstuff.Thenwe’djustbeonthecorner, hanging out,meeting characters, seeingwho cameby, seeingwhere thedaywasgoingtotakeus.Aguyneedsthis.Aguy’ssellingthat.Youneverknewwhatitwasgoingtobe.

Therewasalwaysabigrushofbusinessatlunch.We’dbealloverAlexandra,hitting different shops and corners, making deals with everyone.We’d get freerides from theminibusdrivers becausewe’dhop inwith themanduse it as anopportunity to talk about whatmusic they needed, but secretly we were ridingwiththeguyforfree.“Hey,wewanttocollectorders.We’lltalktoyouwhileyoudrive.Whatdoyouneed?Whatmusicareyoulookingfor?DoyouneedthenewMaxwell?Okay,wegotthenewMaxwell.Okay,we’lltalktoyoulater.We’lljumpouthere.”Thenwe’dhoponanotherridegoingwhereverweweregoingnext.

After lunch, businesswould die down, and that’swhenwe’d get our lunch,usuallythecheapestthingwecouldafford,likeasmileywithsomemaizemeal.Asmileyisagoat’shead.They’reboiledandcoveredwithchilipepper.Wecallthemsmileysbecausewhenyou’redoneeatingallthemeatoffit,thegoatlookslikeit’ssmilingatyoufromtheplate.Thecheeksandthetonguearequitedelicious,butthe eyes are disgusting. They pop in yourmouth. Youput the eyeball into yourmouthandyoubiteit,andit’sjustaballofpusthatpops.Ithasnocrunch.Ithasnochew.Ithasnoflavorthatisappetizinginanyway.

Afterlunchwe’dheadbacktothegarage,relax,sleepoffthemeal,andmakemoreCDs.Intheafternoonswe’dseea lotofmoms.Momslovedus.Theyweresome of our best customers. Since moms run the household, they’re the oneslookingtobuythatboxofsoapthat felloff thebackof the truck,andtheyweremorelikelytobuyitfromusthanfromsomecrackhead.Dealingwithcrackheadsisunpleasant.Wewereupstanding,well-spokenEastBankboys.Wecouldevenchargeapremiumbecauseweaddedthatlayerofrespectabilitytothetransaction.Momsarealsooftenthemostinneedofshort-termloans,topayforthisorthatfor the family. Again, they’d rather deal with us than with some gangster loanshark.Momsknewweweren’tgoing tobreakanyone’s legs if theycouldn’tpay.Wedidn’tbelieveinthat.Alsoweweren’tcapableofit—let’snotforgetthatpart.But that’s where Bongani’s brilliance came in. He always knew what a personcouldprovidependingtheirfailuretopay.

Wemadesomeofthecraziesttrades.Momsinthehoodareprotectiveoftheirdaughters,especiallyiftheirdaughtersarepretty.InAlexthereweregirlswhogotlockedup.Theywent to school, came straighthome, andwent straight into thehouse.Theyweren’tallowedtoleave.Boysweren’tallowedtotalktothem,weren’tevenallowedtohangaroundthehouse—noneofthat.Someguywasalwaysgoing

onabout some locked-awaygirl: “She’s sobeautiful. I’ll doanything togetwithher.”Buthecouldn’t.Nobodycould.

Then thatmomwould need a loan.Oncewe lent her themoney, until shepaidusbackshecouldn’tchaseusawayfromherhouse.We’dgobyandhangout,chat,makesmall talk.Thedaughterwouldberight there,but themomcouldn’tsay,“Don’ttalktothoseboys!”Theloangaveusaccesstoestablisharelationshipwiththemom.We’dgetinvitedtostayfordinner.Oncethemomknewwewerenice,upstandingguys,she’dagreetoletustakeherdaughtertoapartyaslongaswepromised to get her home safely. So thenwe’d go to the guywho’d been sodesperatetomeetthedaughter.

“Hey,let’smakeadeal.We’llbringthegirltoyourpartyandyougettohangoutwithher.Howmuchcanyougiveus?”

“Idon’thavemoney,”he’dsay,“butIhavesomecasesofbeer.”

“Okay,sotonightwe’regoingtothisparty.Yougiveustwocasesofbeerfortheparty.”

“Cool.”

Thenwe’d go to the party.We’d invite the girl,whowas usually thrilled toescapehermother’s prison.The guywouldbring thebeer, he’d get tohangoutwiththegirl,we’dwriteoff themom’sdebt toshowherourgratitude,andwe’dmakeourmoneybacksellingthebeer.Therewasalwaysawaytomakeitwork.And often that was the most fun part: working the angles, solving the puzzle,seeingwhat goes where, who needs what, whomwe can connect with who canthengetusthemoney.

Atthepeakofouroperationweprobablyhadaround10,000randincapital.Wehadloansgoingoutandinterestcomingin.WehadourstockpileofJordansand DVD players we’d bought to resell. We also had to buy blank CDs, hireminibusestogotoourDJgigs,feedfiveguysthreetimesaday.Wekepttrackofeverythingonthecomputer.Havinglivedinmymom’sworld,Iknewhowtodospreadsheets.We had aMicrosoft Excel document laid out: everybody’s name,howmuchtheyowed,whentheypaid,whentheydidn’tpay.

Afterworkwaswhenbusinessstartedtopickup.Minibusdriverspickingupone lastorder,mencominghome fromwork.Themenweren’t looking forsoapand Corn Flakes. They wanted the gear—DVD players, CD players, PlayStationgames.Moreguyswouldcomethroughsellingstuff,too,becausethey’dbeenouthustling and stealing all day.There’d be a guy selling a cellphone, a guy sellingsomeleatherjackets,aguysellingshoes.TherewasthisonedudewholookedlikeablackversionofMr.BurnsfromTheSimpsons.He’dalwayscomebyattheendofhisshiftwiththemostrandomuselesscrap,likeanelectrictoothbrushwithoutthecharger.Onetimehebroughtusanelectricrazor.

“Whatthehellisthis?”

“It’sanelectricrazor?”

“An electric razor?We’re black. Do you knowwhat these things do to ourskin?Doyouseeanyonearoundherewhocanuseanelectricrazor?”

Weneverknewwherehewasgettingthisstufffrom.Becauseyoudon’task.Eventuallywepiecedittogether,though:Heworkedattheairport.Itwasallcraphewasboostingfrompeople’sluggage.

Slowlytherushwouldstarttotaperoffandwe’dwinddown.We’dmakeourlastcollections,gooverourCDstock,balanceouraccounts.IftherewasapartytoDJ thatnightwe’d start getting ready for that.Otherwise,we’dbuy a fewbeersandsitaroundanddrink,talkabouttheday,listentothegunshotsinthedistance.Gunshotswentoffeverynight,andwe’dalways try toguesswhatkindofgun itwas.“That’sanine-millimeter.”Usuallythere’dbeapolicechase,copcarsflyingthrough after some guy with a stolen car. Then everyone would go home fordinnerwiththeirfamilies.I’dtakemycomputer,getbackinaminibus,ridehome,sleep,andthencomebackanddoitallagainthenextday.

—

Ayearpassed.Thentwo.Ihadstoppedplanningforschool,andwasnoclosertohavingthemoneytoenroll.

The tricky thing about the hood is that you’re always working, working,working,andyoufeellikesomething’shappening,butreallynothing’shappeningatall. Iwasout thereeveryday fromsevena.m. tosevenp.m.,andeveryday itwas:How dowe turn ten rand into twenty?Howdowe turn twenty into fifty?HowdoI turnfifty intoahundred?At theendof thedaywe’dspenditonfoodandmaybesomebeers,andthenwe’dgohomeandcomebackanditwas:Howdoweturntenintotwenty?Howdoweturntwentyintofifty?Itwasawholeday’sworktoflipthatmoney.Youhadtobewalking,bemoving,bethinking.Youhadtogettoaguy,findaguy,meetaguy.Thereweremanydayswe’dendupbackatzero,butIalwaysfeltlikeI’dbeenveryproductive.

HustlingistoworkwhatsurfingtheInternetistoreading.Ifyouadduphowmuch you read in a year on the Internet—tweets, Facebook posts, lists—you’veread theequivalentof a shit tonofbooks,but in fact you’ve readnobooks inayear.WhenIlookbackonit,that’swhathustlingwas.It’smaximaleffortputintominimalgain.It’sahamsterwheel.IfI’dputallthatenergyintostudyingI’dhaveearned an MBA. Instead I was majoring in hustling, something no universitywouldgivemeadegreefor.

WhenIfirstwentintoAlex,Iwasdrawnbytheelectricityandtheexcitementof it, butmore important, I was accepted there,more so than I’d been in highschool or anywhere else.When I first showed up, a couple of people raised aneyebrow.“Who’sthiscoloredkid?”Butthehooddoesn’tjudge.Ifyouwanttobethere, you can be there. Because I didn’t live in the hood I was technically anoutsiderinthehood,butforthefirsttimeinmylifeIdidn’tfeellikeone.

Thehood is also a low-stress, comfortable life.All yourmental energygoesintogettingby,soyoudon’thavetoaskyourselfanyofthebigquestions.WhoamI?WhoamIsupposedtobe?AmIdoingenough?Inthehoodyoucanbeaforty-year-oldman living in yourmom’s house asking people formoney and it’s notlooked down on. You never feel like a failure in the hood, because someone’salwaysworseoff thanyou,andyoudon’t feel likeyouneedtodomore,becausethebiggestsuccessisn’tthatmuchhigherthanyou,either.Itallowsyoutoexistinastateofsuspendedanimation.

Thehoodhasawonderfulsenseofcommunitytoitaswell.Everyoneknowseveryone, fromthecrackheadall theway through to thepoliceman.People takecareofoneanother.Thewayitworksinthehoodisthatifanymomasksyoutodo something, you have to say yes. “Can I send you?” is the phrase. It’s likeeveryone’syourmom,andyou’reeveryone’skid.

“CanIsendyou?”

“Yeah,whaddyaneed?”

“Ineedyoutogobuymilkandbread.”

“Yeah,cool.”

Thenshegivesyousomemoneyandyougobuymilkandbread.As longasyouaren’tbusyanditdoesn’tcostyouanything,youdon’tsayno.

Thebiggestthinginthehoodisthatyouhavetoshare.Youcan’tgetrichonyourown.Youhavemoney?Whyaren’tyouhelpingpeople?Theoldladyontheblock needs help, everyone pitches in. You’re buying beer, you buy beer foreveryone.Youspread itaround.Everyonemustknow thatyoursuccessbenefitsthecommunityinonewayoranother,oryoubecomeatarget.

Thetownshippolicesitselfaswell.Ifsomeone’scaughtstealing,thetownshipdealswith them. If someone’s caughtbreaking intoahouse, the townshipdealswith them. If you’re caught raping a woman, pray to God the police find youbeforethetownshipdoes.Ifawomanisbeinghit,peopledon’tgetinvolved.Therearetoomanyquestionswithabeating.What’sthefightabout?Who’sresponsible?Whostartedit?Butrapeisrape.Theftistheft.You’vedesecratedthecommunity.

Thehoodwasstrangelycomforting,butcomfortcanbedangerous.Comfortprovidesafloorbutalsoaceiling.Inourcrew,ourfriendGwasliketherestofus,unemployed, hanging out. Then he got a job at a nice clothing store. Everymorning he went to work, and the guys would tease him about going to work.We’dseehimheadedoutalldressedup,andeveryonewouldbelaughingathim.“Oh,G,lookatyouinyourfancyclothes!”“Oh,G,goingtogoseethewhitemantoday,huh?”“Oh,G,don’tforgettobringsomebooksbackfromthelibrary!”

Onemorning,afteramonthofGworkingattheplace,wewerehangingoutonthewall,andGcameout inhisslippersandhissocks.Hewasn’tdressedforwork.

“Yo,G,what’sgoingon?What’supwiththejob?”

“Oh,Idon’tworkthereanymore.”

“Why?”

“TheyaccusedmeofstealingsomethingandIgotfired.”

AndI’llneverforgetthinkingtomyselfthatitfeltlikehediditonpurpose.Hesabotagedhimselfsothathe’dgetacceptedbackintothegroupagain.

Thehoodhasagravitationalpull.Itneverleavesyoubehind,butitalsoneverletsyou leave.Becausebymaking the choice to leave, you’re insulting theplacethatraisedyouandmadeyouandnever turnedyouaway.Andthatplace fightsyouback.

Assoonasthingsstartgoingwellforyouinthehood,it’stimetogo.Becausethehoodwilldragyoubackin.Itwillfindaway.Therewillbeaguywhostealsathingandputsitinyourcarandthecopsfindit—something.Youcan’tstay.Youthinkyoucan.You’llstartdoingbetterandyou’llbringyourhoodfriendsouttoaniceclub,and thenext thingyouknowsomebodystartsa fightandoneofyourfriendspullsagunandsomebody’sgettingshotandyou’re left standingaroundgoing,“Whatjusthappened?”

Thehoodhappened.

—

Onenight IwasDJ’ing aparty,not inAlexbut right outsideAlex inLombardyEast,anicer,middle-classblackneighborhood.Thepolicewerecalledabout thenoise.Theycamebustinginwearingriotgearandpointingmachineguns.That’showourpoliceroll.Wedon’thavesmallandthenbig.WhatAmericanscallSWATisjustourregularpolice.Theycamelookingforthesourceofthemusic,andthemusic was coming from me. This one cop came over to where I was with mycomputerandpulledthismassiveassaultrifleonme.

“Yougottashutthisdownrightnow.”

“Okay,okay,”Isaid.“I’mshuttingitdown.”

ButIwasrunningWindows95.Windows95tookforevertoshutdown.Iwasclosingwindows,shuttingdownprograms. Ihadoneof those fatSeagatedrivesthatdamagedeasily,andIdidn’twanttocutthepowerandpossiblydamagethedrive.Thiscopclearlydidn’tgiveafuckaboutanyofthat.

“Shutitdown!Shutitdown!”

“Iam!I’mshuttingitdown!Ihavetoclosetheprograms!”

Thecrowdwasgettingangry,andthecopwasgettingnervous.Heturnedhisgunawayfrommeandshotthecomputer.Onlyheclearlydidn’tknowanythingabout computers because he shot the monitor. The monitor exploded but themusic kept playing.Now therewas chaos—music blaring and everyone running

andpanickingbecauseofthegunshot.Iyankedthepowercordoutofthetowertoshutthethingdown.Thenthecopsstartedfiringteargasintothecrowd.

Theteargashadnothingtodowithmeorthemusic.Teargasisjustwhatthepoliceusetoshutdownparties inblackneighborhoods, liketheclubturningonthelightstotelleveryonetogohome.

I lost the hard drive. Even though the cop shot themonitor the explosionsomehow fried the thing.Thecomputerwouldstillbootup,but it couldn’t readthedrive.Mymusic librarywasgone.Even if I’dhadthemoney foranewharddrive, ithadtakenmeyearstoamassthemusiccollection.Therewasnowaytoreplaceit.TheDJ’ingbusinesswasover.TheCD-sellingbusinesswasdone.Allofasuddenourcrewlostitsmainrevenuestream.Allwehadleftwasthehustle,andwehustledevenharder,takingthebitofcashwehadonhandandtryingtodoubleit,buyingthistoflipitforthat.Westartedeatingintooursavings,andinlessthanamonthwewererunningondust.

Then, one evening after work, our friend from the airport, the black Mr.Burns,cameby.

“Hey,lookwhatIfound,”hesaid.

“What’veyougot?”

“Acamera.”

I’llneverforgetthatcamera.Itwasadigitalcamera.Weboughtitfromhim,and I took it and turned it on. It was full of pictures of a nicewhite family onvacation,andIfeltlikeshit.Theotherthingswe’dboughthadnevermatteredtome. Nikes, electric toothbrushes, electric razors. Who cares? Yeah, some guymight get firedbecauseof thepallet ofCornFlakes thatwentmissing from thesupermarket, but that’s degrees removed. You don’t think about it. But thiscamerahadaface.Iwentthroughthosepictures,knowinghowmuchmyfamilypictures meant to me, and I thought, I haven’t stolen a camera. I’ve stolensomeone’smemories.I’vestolenpartofsomeone’slife.

It’ssuchastrangething,butintwoyearsofhustlingIneveroncethoughtofitasacrime. Ihonestlydidn’t think itwasbad.It’s just stuffpeople found.Whitepeople have insurance. Whatever rationalization was handy. In society, we dohorriblethingstooneanotherbecausewedon’tseethepersonitaffects.Wedon’tseetheirface.Wedon’tseethemaspeople.Whichwasthewholereasonthehoodwasbuiltinthefirstplace,tokeepthevictimsofapartheidoutofsightandoutofmind.Because ifwhite people ever sawblack people as human, theywould seethat slavery is unconscionable. We live in a world where we don’t see theramificationsofwhatwedotoothers,becausewedon’tlivewiththem.Itwouldbea whole lot harder for an investment banker to rip off people with subprimemortgagesifheactuallyhadtolivewiththepeoplehewasrippingoff.Ifwecouldseeoneanother’spainandempathizewithoneanother,itwouldneverbeworthittoustocommitthecrimesinthefirstplace.

Asmuchasweneededthemoney,Ineversoldthecamera.I felt tooguilty,like it would be bad karma, which I know sounds stupid and it didn’t get thefamilytheircameraback,butIjustcouldn’tdoit.ThatcameramademeconfrontthefactthattherewerepeopleontheotherendofthisthingIwasdoing,andwhatIwasdoingwaswrong.

—

Onenight our crewgot invited to dance in Soweto against another crew.Hitlerwas going to compete with their best dancer, Hector, who was one of the bestdancers in South Africa at the time. This invitation was a huge deal.We weregoing over there repping our hood. Alex and Soweto have always had a hugerivalry.SowetowasseenasthesnobbishtownshipandAlexandrawasseenasthegrittyanddirtytownship.HectorwasfromDiepkloof,whichwasthenice,well-offpartofSoweto.Diepkloofwaswherethefirstmillion-randhouseswerebuiltafterdemocracy.“Hey,we’renotatownshipanymore.We’rebuildingnicethingsnow.”Thatwas the attitude. That’swhowewere up against.Hitler practiced awholeweek.

WetookaminibusovertoDiepkloofthenightofthedance,meandBongani,MziandBhekiandG,andHitler.Hectorwonthecompetition.ThenGwascaughtkissingoneoftheirgirls,anditturnedintoafightandeverythingbrokedown.Onour way back to Alex, around one in the morning, as we were pulling out ofDiepkloof togetonthe freeway,somecopspulledourminibusover.Theymadeeveryone get out and they searched it. We were standing outside, lined upalongsidethecar,whenoneofthecopscameback.

“We’vefoundagun,”hesaid.“Whosegunisit?”

Weallshrugged.

“Wedon’tknow,”wesaid.

“Nope,somebodyknows.It’ssomebody’sgun.”

“Officer,wereallydon’tknow,”Bonganisaid.

HeslappedBonganihardacrosstheface.

“You’rebullshittingme!”

Thenhewentdowntheline,slappingeachofusacrosstheface,beratingusaboutthegun.Wecouldn’tdoanythingbutstandthereandtakeit.

“Youguysaretrash,”thecopsaid.“Whereareyoufrom?”

“Alex.”

“Ohhhhh,okay,Isee.DogsfromAlex.Youcomehereandyourobpeopleandyourapewomenandyouhijackcars.Bunchoffuckinghoodlums.”

“No,we’redancers.Wedon’tknow—”

“Idon’tcare.You’reallgoingtojailuntilwefigureoutwhosegunthisis.”

At a certain pointwe realizedwhatwas going on. This copwas shaking usdownforabribe.“Spotfine”istheeuphemismeveryoneuses.Yougothroughthiselaboratedancewiththecopwhereyousaythethingwithoutsayingthething.

“Can’twedosomething?”youasktheofficer.

“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”

“We’rereallysorry,Officer.Whatcanwedo?”

“Youtellme.”

Thenyou’resupposedtomakeupastorywherebyyouindicatetothecophowmuchmoneyyouhaveonyou.Whichwecouldn’tdobecausewedidn’thaveanymoney.Sohetookustojail.Itwasapublicbus.Itcouldhavebeenanyone’sgun,buttheguysfromAlexweretheonlyoneswhogotarrested.Everyoneelseinthecarwasfreetogo.Thecopstookustothepolicestationandthrewusinacellandpulledusoutonebyoneforquestioning.WhentheypulledmeasideIhadtogivemyhomeaddress:HighlandsNorth.Thecopgavemethemostconfusedlook.

“You’renot fromAlex,”he said. “What are youdoingwith these crooks?” Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Heglaredatmehard.“Listenhere,richboy.Youthinkit’sfunrunningaroundwiththeseguys?Thisisn’tplay-playanymore.Justtellmethetruthaboutyourfriendsandthegun,andI’llletyougo.”

Itoldhimno,andhethrewmebackinthecell.Wespentthenight,andthenextdayIcalledafriend,whosaidhecouldborrowthemoneyfromhisdadtogetus out. Later that day the dad came down and paid themoney. The cops keptcallingit“bail,”butitwasabribe.Wewereneverformallyarrestedorprocessed.Therewasnopaperwork.

Wegotoutandeverythingwasfine,butitrattledus.Everydaywewereoutinthestreets,hustling,tryingtoactasifwewereinsomewaydownwiththegangs,butthetruthwaswewerealwaysmorecheesethanhood.Wehadcreatedthisideaof ourselves as a defensemechanism to survive in theworldwewere living in.Bongani and the otherEast Bank guys, because ofwhere theywere from,whatthey looked like—they just had very little hope. You’ve got two options in thatsituation.Youtaketheretail job,flipburgersatMcDonald’s, ifyou’reoneoftheluckyfewwhoevengetsthatmuch.Theotheroptionistotoughenup,putupthisfacade.Youcan’tleavethehood,soyousurvivebytherulesofthehood.

Ichosetoliveinthatworld,butIwasn’tfromthatworld.Ifanything,Iwasan imposter.Day todayIwas in itasmuchaseveryoneelse,but thedifferencewasthat inthebackofmymindIknewIhadotheroptions.Icouldleave.Theycouldn’t.

Once,whenIwastenyearsold,visitingmydadinYeoville,Ineededbatteriesforoneofmytoys.Mymomhadrefusedtobuymenewbatteriesbecause,ofcourse,shethought itwasawasteofmoney,soIsnuckouttotheshopsandshopliftedapack.Asecurityguardbustedmeonthewayout,pulledmeintohisoffice,andcalledmymom.

“We’vecaughtyoursonshopliftingbatteries,”hesaid.“Youneedtocomeandfetchhim.”

“No,” she said. “Take him to jail. If he’s going to disobey he needs to learn theconsequences.”

Then she hung up. The guard looked at me, confused. Eventually he let me go on theassumptionthatIwassomewaywardorphan,becausewhatmotherwouldsendherten-year-oldchildtojail?

THEWORLDDOESN’TLOVEYOU

My mom never gave me an inch. Anytime I got in trouble it was tough love,lectures,punishment,andhidings.Everytime.Foreveryinfraction.Yougetthatwithalotofblackparents.They’retryingtodisciplineyoubeforethesystemdoes.“Ineed todo this toyoubefore thepolicedo it toyou.”Because that’sallblackparentsare thinking fromthedayyou’reoldenough towalkout into thestreet,wherethelawiswaiting.

InAlex,gettingarrestedwasafactoflife.Itwassocommonthatoutonthecornerwehad a sign for it, a shorthand, clapping yourwrists together like youwerebeingputinhandcuffs.Everyoneknewwhatthatmeant.

“Where’sBongani?”

Wristclap.

“Oh,shit.When?”

“Fridaynight.”

“Damn.”

Mymomhatedthehood.Shedidn’tlikemyfriendsthere.IfIbroughtthemback to thehouse, shedidn’t evenwant themcoming inside. “Idon’t like thoseboys,” she’d say. She didn’t hate them personally; she hated what theyrepresented.“Youandthoseboysgetintosomuchshit,”she’dsay.“Youmustbecarefulwhoyousurroundyourselfwithbecausewhereyouarecandeterminewhoyouare.”

Shesaidthethingshehatedmostaboutthehoodwasthatitdidn’tpressuremetobecomebetter.Shewantedmetohangoutwithmycousinathisuniversity.

“What’sthedifferenceifI’matuniversityorI’minthehood?”I’dsay.“It’snotlikeI’mgoingtouniversity.”

“Yes,butthepressureof theuniversity isgoingtogetyou.Iknowyou.Youwon’t sit by and watch these guys become better than you. If you’re in anenvironment that is positive and progressive, you too will become that. I keeptellingyoutochangeyourlife,andyoudon’t.Onedayyou’regoingtogetarrested,andwhenyoudo,don’tcallme.I’lltellthepolicetolockyouupjusttoteachyoualesson.”

Becausethereweresomeblackparentswho’dactuallydothat,notpaytheirkid’s bail, not hire their kid a lawyer—the ultimate tough love. But it doesn’talwayswork,becauseyou’regivingthekidtoughlovewhenmaybehejustneedslove.You’retryingtoteachhimalesson,andnowthatlessonistherestofhislife.

—

OnemorningIsawanadinthepaper.Someshopwashavingaclearancesaleonmobile phones, and they were selling them at such a ridiculous price I knewBonganiandIcould flip theminthehoodforaprofit.Thisshopwasout in thesuburbs,toofartowalkandtooout-of-the-waytotakeaminibus.Fortunatelymystepfather’sworkshopandabunchofoldcarswereinourbackyard.

I’dbeen stealingAbel’s junkers toget around since Iwas fourteen. Iwouldsay I was test driving them to make sure they’d been repaired correctly. Abeldidn’tthinkthatwasfunny.I’dbeencaughtmanytimes,caughtandsubjectedtomymother’swrath.Butthathadneverstoppedmefromdoinganything.

Most of these junkers weren’t street legal. They didn’t have properregistrations or proper number plates. Luckily, Abel also had a stack of oldnumberplatesinthebackofthegarage.IquicklylearnedIcouldjustputoneonanoldcarandhittheroad.Iwasnineteen,maybetwenty,notthinkingaboutanyoftheramificationsofthis.IstoppedbyAbel’sgaragewhennoonewasaround,pickeduponeof thecars, the redMazda I’d taken to thematricdance, slappedsomeoldplatesonit,andsetoffinsearchofdiscountedcellphones.

I got pulled over inHillbrow.Cops in SouthAfrica don’t give you a reasonwhentheypullyouover.Copspullyouoverbecause they’recopsand theyhavethepowertopullyouover;it’sassimpleasthat.IusedtowatchAmericanmovieswherecopswouldpullpeopleoverandsay,“Youdidn’tsignal”or“Yourtaillight’sout.” I’d always wonder, Why do American cops bother lying? One thing Iappreciate about SouthAfrica is thatwe have not yet refined the system to thepointwherewefeeltheneedtolie.

“DoyouknowwhyIpulledyouover?”

“Becauseyou’reapolicemanandI’mablackperson?”

“That’scorrect.Licenseandregistration,please.”

Whenthecoppulledmeover,itwasoneofthosesituationswhereIwantedtosay,“Hey,Iknowyouguysareraciallyprofilingme!”ButIcouldn’targuethecasebecauseIwas,atthatmoment,actuallybreakingthelaw.Thecopwalkeduptomywindow,askedmethestandardcopquestions.Whereareyougoing?Isthisyourcar?Whosecaristhis?Icouldn’tanswer.Icompletelyfroze.

Being young, funnily enough, I wasmore worried about getting in troublewithmyparentsthanwiththelaw.I’dhadrun-inswiththecopsinAlexandra,inSoweto,butitwasalwaysmoreaboutthecircumstance:apartygettingshutdown,araidonaminibus.Thelawwasallaroundme,butithadnevercomedownon

me,Trevor,specifically.Andwhenyouhaven’thadmuchexperiencewiththelaw,thelawappearsrational—copsaredicksforthemostpart,butyoualsorecognizethatthey’redoingajob.

Yourparents,ontheotherhand,arenotrationalatall.Theyhaveservedasjudge, jury,andexecutioner foryourentirechildhood,and it feels like theygiveyoua lifesentenceforeverymisdemeanor.Inthatmoment,whenIshouldhavebeenscaredofthecop,allIwasthinkingwasShitshitshit;I’minsomuchtroublewhenIgethome.

Thecopcalledinthenumber-plateregistrationanddiscoveredthatitdidn’tmatch the car. Now he was really on my case. “This car is not in your name!What’sgoingonwiththeseplates?!Stepoutofthevehicle!”ItwasonlythenthatIrealized:Ohhhhh,shit.NowI’min realtrouble. I steppedoutof thecar,andheput the cuffs onme and toldme Iwasbeing arrested on suspicionof driving astolenvehicle.Hetookmein,andthecarwasimpounded.

The Hillbrow police station looks exactly like every other police station inSouthAfrica.Theywereallbuiltbythesamecontractorattheheightofapartheid—separate nodes in the central nervous system of a police state. If you wereblindfolded and taken fromone to the other, youprobablywouldn’t even knowthatyou’dchangedlocations.They’resterile,institutional,withfluorescentlightsandcheapfloortile,likeahospital.Mycopwalkedmeinandsatmedownatthefrontbookingdesk.Iwaschargedandfingerprinted.

In themeantime, they’dbeencheckingout thecar,whichwasn’tgoingwellforme,either.WheneverIborrowedcarsfromAbel’sworkshop,Itriedtotakethejunkers rather thana real client’s car; I thought I’dget in less trouble thatway.Thatwasamistake.TheMazda,beingoneofAbel’s junkers,didn’thaveacleartitleofownership.Ifithadhadanowner,thecopswouldhavecalledtheowner,theownerwouldhaveexplainedthatthecarhadbeendroppedoffforrepairs,andthewholethingwouldhavebeensortedout.Sincethecardidn’thaveanowner,Icouldn’tproveIhadn’tstolenit.

Carjackingswerecommon inSouthAfricaat the time, too.Socommonyouweren’tevensurprisedwhentheyhappened.You’dhaveafriendcomingoverforadinnerpartyandyou’dgetacall.

“Sorry.Gotcarjacked.Gonnabelate.”

“Ah,thatsucks.Hey,guys!Davegotcarjacked.”

“Sorry,Dave!”

And the party would continue. And that’s if the person survived thecarjacking.Oftentheydidn’t.Peopleweregettingshotfortheircarsallthetime.Not only could I not prove I hadn’t stolen the car, I couldn’t prove I hadn’tmurderedsomeoneforit,either.Thecopsweregrillingme.“Youkillanyonetogetthatcar,boy?Eh?Youakiller?”

I was in deep, deep trouble. I had only one lifeline: my parents. One callwouldhavefixedeverything.“Thisismystepfather.He’samechanic.Iborrowedhis car when I shouldn’t have.” Done. At worst I’d get a slap on the wrist fordrivingacarthatwasn’tregistered.ButwhatwouldIbegettingathome?

Isatthereinthepolicestation—arrestedforsuspicionofgrandtheftauto,aplausiblesuspectforcarjackingormurder—anddebatedwhetherIshouldcallmyparentsorgotojail.WithmystepfatherIwasthinking,Hemightactuallykillme.Inmymindthatwasanentirelyrealisticscenario.WithmymotherIwasthinking,She’sgoingtomakethisworse.She’snotthecharacterwitnessIwantrightnow.Shewon’thelpme.Becauseshe’dtoldmeshewouldn’t.“Ifyouevergetarrested,don’t callme.” Ineededsomeone sympathetic tomyplight, and Ididn’tbelieveshewas thatperson.SoIdidn’tcallmyparents. IdecidedIdidn’tneedthem.Iwasaman.Icouldgoitalone.IusedmycalltophonemycousinandtoldhimnottotellanyonewhathadhappenedwhileIfiguredoutwhattodo—nowIjusthadtofigureoutwhattodo.

I’dbeenpickeduplateintheafternoon,sobythetimeIwasprocesseditwasclose to lights-out. Iwas spending thenight in jail, like it ornot. Itwas at thatpointthatacoppulledmeasideandtoldmewhatIwasinfor.

ThewaythesystemworksinSouthAfricaisthatyou’rearrestedandheldinacellatthepolicestationuntilyourbailhearing.Atthehearing,thejudgelooksatyourcase,hearsargumentsfromtheopposingsides,andthenheeitherdismissesthe charges or sets bail and a trial date. If you canmake bail, you pay and gohome.Butthereareallsortsofwaysyourbailhearingcangowrong:Yougetsomecourt-appointedlawyerwhohasn’treadyourcaseanddoesn’tknowwhat’sgoingon.Your family can’tpayyourbail. It couldevenbe that the court’sbackedup.“Sorry, we’re too busy. Nomore hearings today.” It doesn’t matter the reason.Onceyou leave jail,youcan’tgobackto jail. Ifyoursituation isn’t resolvedthatday, you go to prison to await trial. In prison you’re housed with the peopleawaitingtrial,notwiththegeneralpopulation,buteventheawaiting-trialsectionisincrediblydangerousbecauseyouhavepeoplepickedupfortrafficviolationsallthewayuptoproperhardenedcriminals.You’restucktheretogether,andyoucanbethere fordays,weeks,maybemonths.It’s thesameway inAmerica.Ifyou’repoor, if youdon’tknowhow the systemworks, youcan slip through the cracks,and thenext thingyouknowyou’re in thisweirdpurgatorywhereyou’renot inprisonbutyou’renotnotinprison.Youhaven’tbeenconvictedofanycrime,butyou’restilllockedupandcan’tgetout.

Thiscoppulledmeasideandsaid,“Listen,youdon’twanttogotoyourbailhearing.They’llgiveyouastateattorneywhowon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.He’llhave no time for you.He’ll ask the judge for a postponement, and thenmaybeyou’llgofreeormaybeyouwon’t.Trustme,youdon’twanttodothat.Youhavetherighttostayhereforaslongasyoulike.Youwanttomeetwithalawyerandsetyourselfupbeforeyougoanywherenearacourtorajudge.”Hewasn’tgiving

me this advice out of the goodness of his heart. He had a deal with a defenseattorney, sending him clients in exchange for a kickback. He handed me theattorney’sbusinesscard,Icalledhim,andheagreedtotakemycase.Hetoldmetostayputwhilehehandledeverything.

NowIneededmoney,becauselawyers,asniceastheyare,don’tdoanythingfor free. I calleda friendandaskedhim ifhecouldaskhisdad toborrowsomemoney.Hesaidhe’dhandleit.Hetalkedtohisdad,andthelawyergothisretainerthenextday.

With the lawyer taken care of, I felt like I had things under control. I wasfeelingprettyslick.I’dhandledthesituation,and,mostimportant,MomandAbelwerenonethewiser.

Whenthetimecameforlights-outacopcameandtookmystuff.Mybelt,mywallet,myshoelaces.

“Whydoyouneedmyshoelaces?”

“Soyoudon’thangyourself.”

“Right.”

Evenwhen he said that, the gravity ofmy situation still wasn’t sinking in.Walkingtothestation’sholdingcell,lookingaroundattheothersixguysinthere,Iwasthinking,Thisisnobigdeal.Everything’sgonnabecool.I’mgonnagetoutofthis.Ithoughtthatrightupuntilthemomentthecelldoorclangedshutbehindmeandtheguardyelled,“Lightsout!”That’swhenIthought,Oh,shit.Thisisreal.

—

Theguardshadgivenmeamatandascratchyblanket.Irolledthemoutontheconcretefloorandtriedtogetcomfortable.EverybadprisonmovieI’deverseenwasracingthroughmyhead.Iwasthinking,I’mgonnagetraped.I’mgonnagetraped.I’mgonnagetraped.ButofcourseIdidn’tgetraped,becausethiswasn’tprison. It was jail, and there’s a big difference, as I would soon come tounderstand.

I woke up the next morning with that fleeting sensation where you thinksomethinghasall beenadream.Then I lookedaroundand remembered that itwasn’t.Breakfastcame,andIsettledintowait.

A day in jail is mostly silence punctuated by passing guards shoutingprofanities at you, doing roll call. Inside the holding cell nobody says anything.Nobodywalksintoajailcellandsays,“Hi,guys!I’mBrian!”Becauseeveryoneisafraid, and no one wants to appear vulnerable. Nobody wants to be the bitch.Nobodywantstobetheguygettingkilled.Ididn’twantanyonetoknowthatIwasjust a kid in for a traffic charge, so I reached back in my mind for all thestereotypesofwhatIimaginedpeopleactlikeinprison,andthenItriedtoactlikethat.

InSouthAfrica,everyoneknowsthatcoloredgangstersarethemostruthless,the most savage. It’s a stereotype that’s fed to you your whole life. The mostnotoriouscoloredgangsaretheNumbersGangs:the26s, the27s, the28s.Theycontroltheprisons.They’reknownforbeingbrutallyviolent—maiming,torturing,raping,cuttingoffpeople’sheads—not for thesakeofmakingmoneybut just toprovehowruthlessandsavagetheyare,likeMexicandrugcartels.InfactalotofthesegangsbasetheirthingonthoseMexicangangs.Theyhavethesamelook:theConverseAllStarswiththeDickiespantsandtheopenshirtbuttonedonlyatthetop.

By the time I was a teenager, anytime I was profiled by cops or securityguards,itusuallywasn’tbecauseIwasblackbutbecauseIlookedcolored.Iwentto a club once withmy cousin and his friend. The bouncer searchedMlungisi,wavedhim in.Hesearchedour friend,wavedhim in.Thenhesearchedmeandgotupinmyface.

“Where’syourknife?”

“Idon’thaveaknife.”

“Iknowyouhaveaknifesomewhere.Whereisit?”

Hesearchedandsearchedandfinallygaveupandletmein,lookingmeoverlikeIwastrouble.

“Noshitfromyou!Okay?”

I figured that if Iwas in jailpeopleweregoing toassumeIwas thekindofcoloredpersonwhoendsupinjail,aviolentcriminal.SoIplayeditup.Iputonthis character; I played the stereotype. Anytime the cops askedme questions IstartedspeakinginbrokenAfrikaanswithathickcoloredaccent.ImagineawhiteguyinAmerica,justdarkenoughtopassforLatino,walkingaroundjaildoingbadMexican-gangsterdialoguefromthemovies.“Shit’sabouttogetloco,ese.”That’sbasically what I was doing—the South African version of that. This was mybrilliantplantosurviveincarceration.Butitworked.Theguysinthecellwithme,theyweretherefordrunkdriving,fordomesticabuse,forpettytheft.Theyhadnoideawhatrealcoloredgangsterswerelike.Everyoneleftmealone.

Wewere all playing a game, onlynobodyknewwewereplaying it.When Iwalkedinthatfirstnight,everyonewasgivingmethislook:“I’mdangerous.Don’tfuckwithme.”SoIwent,“Shit,thesepeoplearehardenedcriminals.Ishouldn’tbehere,becauseIamnotacriminal.”Thenthenextdayeverythingturnedoverquickly. One by one, guys left to go to their hearings, I stayed to wait for mylawyer, and new people started to pitch up. Now I was the veteran, doing mycolored-gangster routine, giving the new guys the same look: “I’m dangerous.Don’t fuck with me.” And they looked at me and went, “Shit, he’s a hardenedcriminal.Ishouldn’tbehere,becauseIamnotlikehim.”Androundandroundwewent.

Atacertainpointitoccurredtomethateverysinglepersoninthatcellmightbefakingit.Wewerealldecentguysfromniceneighborhoodsandgoodfamilies,pickedup forunpaidparking tickets andother infractions.We couldhavebeenhavingagreat time sharingmeals,playing cards, and talkingaboutwomenandsoccer.Butthatdidn’thappen,becauseeveryonehadadoptedthisdangerousposeand nobody talked because everyone was afraid of who the other guys werepretending to be. Now those guys were going to get out and go home to theirfamiliesandsay,“Oh,honey,thatwasrough.Thoseweresomerealcriminals inthere.Therewasthisonecoloredguy.Man,hewasakiller.”

Once Ihad thegame sortedout, Iwasgoodagain. I relaxed. Iwasback tothinking,Igotthis.Thisisnobigdeal.Thefoodwasactuallydecent.Forbreakfasttheybroughtyouthesepeanutbuttersandwichesonthickslicesofbread.Lunchwaschickenandrice.Theteawastoohot,anditwasmorewaterthantea,butitwas drinkable. Therewere older, hard-time prisoners close to parole, and theirdetailwastocomeandcleanthecellsandcirculatebooksandmagazinesforyoutoread.Itwasquiterelaxing.

Therewasonepointwhen I remember eating ameal and saying tomyself,Thisisn’tsobad.Ihangaroundwithabunchofdudes.There’snochores.Nobillstopay.Nooneconstantlynaggingmeandtellingmewhattodo.Peanutbuttersandwiches? Shit, I eat peanut butter sandwiches all the time. This is prettysweet.Icoulddothis.Iwassoafraidoftheass-whoopingwaitingformeathomethatIgenuinelyconsideredgoingtoprison.ForabriefmomentIthoughtIhadaplan.“I’llgoawayforacoupleofyears,comeback,andsayIwaskidnapped,andmomwillneverknowandshe’lljustbehappytoseeme.”

—

Onthethirdday,thecopsbroughtinthelargestmanI’deverseen.Thisguywashuge.Giantmuscles.Darkskin.Hardenedface.Helookedlikehecouldkillallofus.Me and the other prisonerswho’d been acting toughwith one another—thesecondhewalkedinourtough-guyroutineswereover.Everyonewasterrified.Weallstaredathim.“Oh,fuck…”

Forwhatever reason thisguywashalfnakedwhen thecopspickedhimup.Hewaswearingclothes thepolicehadscroungedup forhimat the station, thistorn-upwifebeaterthatwaswaytoosmall,pantssoshortonhimtheylookedlikecapris.HelookedlikeablackversionoftheIncredibleHulk.

This guy went and sat alone in the corner. Nobody said a word. Everyonewatched andwaited, nervously, to seewhat hewould do. Then one of the copscamebackandcalledtheHulkover;theyneededinformationfromhim.Thecopstartedaskinghimabunchofquestions,but theguykept shakinghisheadandsayinghedidn’tunderstand.ThecopwasspeakingZulu.TheHulkwasspeakingTsonga.Blackperson toblackperson,andneithercouldunderstand theother—the Tower of Babel. Few people in South Africa speak Tsonga, but since mystepfatherwasTsongaIhadpickeditupalongtheway.Ioverheardthecopand

theotherguygoingbackandforthwithnothinggettingacross,soIsteppedinandtranslatedforthemandsortedeverythingout.

Nelson Mandela once said, “If you talk to a man in a language heunderstands,thatgoestohishead.Ifyoutalktohiminhislanguage,thatgoestohis heart.”Hewas so right.When youmake the effort to speak someone else’slanguage,evenifit’sjustbasicphraseshereandthere,youaresayingtothem,“Iunderstandthatyouhaveacultureandidentitythatexistsbeyondme.Iseeyouasahumanbeing.”

ThatisexactlywhathappenedwiththeHulk.ThesecondIspoketohim,thisface that had seemed so threatening and mean lit up with gratitude. “Ah, nakhensa,nakhensa,nakhensa.Hiwenamani?MufanawamukhaladiuxitielakwinixiTsonga?Uhumakwini?”“Oh,thankyou,thankyou,thankyou.Whoareyou?HowdoesacoloredguyknowTsonga?Whereareyoufrom?”

Once we started talking I realized he wasn’t the Hulk at all. He was thesweetestman,agentlegiant,thebiggestteddybearintheworld.Hewassimple,noteducated.I’dassumedhewasinformurder,forsquashingafamilytodeathwith his bare hands, but it wasn’t anything like that. He’d been arrested forshopliftingPlayStationgames.Hewasoutofworkandneededmoneytosendtohis family back home, and when he saw how much these games sold for hethoughthecouldstealafewandsellthemtowhitekidsandmakealotofmoney.Assoonashetoldmethat,Iknewhewasn’tsomehardenedcriminal.Iknowtheworldofpiratedthings—stolenvideogameshavenovaluebecauseit’scheaperandlessriskytocopythem,likeBolo’sparentsdid.

I tried to help him out a bit. I told him my trick of putting off your bailhearingtogetyourdefensetogether,sohestayedinthecell,too,bidinghistime,andwehititoffandhungoutforafewdays,havingagoodtime,gettingtoknoweachother.Nooneelseinthecellknewwhattomakeofus,theruthlesscoloredgangsterandhismenacing,Hulk-likefriend.Hetoldmehisstory,aSouthAfricanstorythatwasalltoofamiliartome:Themangrowsupunderapartheid,workingonafarm,partofwhat’sessentiallyaslavelaborforce.It’salivinghellbutit’satleastsomething.He’spaidapittancebutatleasthe’spaid.He’stoldwheretobeand what to do every waking minute of his day. Then apartheid ends and hedoesn’t evenhave that anymore.He findshisway to Johannesburg, looking forwork,tryingtofeedhischildrenbackhome.Buthe’slost.Hehasnoeducation.Hehasnoskills.Hedoesn’tknowwhattodo,doesn’tknowwheretobe.Theworldhasbeentaughttobescaredofhim,buttherealityisthatheisscaredoftheworldbecausehehasnoneofthetoolsnecessarytocopewithit.Sowhatdoeshedo?Hetakesshit.Hebecomesapettythief.He’sinandoutofjail.Hegetsluckyandfindssomeconstructionwork,butthenhegetslaidofffromthat,andafewdayslaterhe’s in a shop and he sees some PlayStation games and he grabs them, but hedoesn’tevenknowenoughtoknowthathe’sstolensomethingofnovalue.

Ifeltterribleforhim.ThemoretimeIspentinjail,themoreIrealizedthat

the law isn’t rational at all. It’s a lottery. What color is your skin? Howmuchmoneydoyouhave?Who’syourlawyer?Who’sthejudge?ShopliftingPlayStationgames was less of an offense than driving with bad number plates. He hadcommittedacrime,buthewasnomoreacriminalthanIwas.Thedifferencewasthat he didn’t have any friends or family to help him out. He couldn’t affordanything but a state attorney.Hewas going to go stand in the dock, unable tospeakorunderstandEnglish,andeveryoneinthecourtroomwasgoingtoassumetheworstofhim.Hewasgoingtogotoprisonforawhileandthenbesetfreewiththe samenothing he had going in. If I had to guess, hewas around thirty-five,fortyyearsold,staringdownanotherthirty-five,fortyyearsofthesame.

—

Thedayofmyhearingcame.Isaidgoodbyetomynewfriendandwishedhimthebest.ThenIwashandcuffedandputinthebackofapolicevananddriventothecourthousetomeetmyfate. InSouthAfricancourts, tominimizeyourexposureandyouropportunitiesforescape,theholdingcellwhereyouawaityourhearingisamassivepenbelow thecourtroom;youwalkupa setof stairs into thedockrather than being escorted through the corridors.What happens in the holdingcell is you’remixed in with the people who’ve been in prison awaiting trial forweeks and months. It’s a weird mix, everything from white-collar criminals toguys picked up on traffic stops to real, hardcore criminals covered with prisontattoos.It’slikethecantinascenefromStarWars,wheretheband’splayingmusicandHanSolo’sinthecornerandallofthebadguysandbountyhuntersfromallover the universe are hanging out—a wretched hive of scum and villainy, onlythere’snomusicandthere’snoHanSolo.

Iwaswiththesepeopleforonlyabriefwindowoftime,butinthatmomentIsawthedifferencebetweenprisonandjail.Isawthedifferencebetweencriminalsand people who’ve committed crimes. I saw the hardness in people’s faces. IthoughtbackonhownaiveI’dbeenjusthoursbefore,thinkingjailwasn’tsobadandIcouldhandleit.Iwasnowtrulyafraidofwhatmighthappentome.

When I walked into that holding pen, I was a smooth-skinned, fresh-facedyoungman.Atthetime,IhadagiantAfro,andtheonlywaytocontrolitwastohave it tied back in this ponytail thing that looked really girly. I looked likeMaxwell.Theguardsclosedthedoorbehindme,andthiscreepyolddudeyelledoutinZulufromtheback,“Ha,ha,ha!Hhemadoda!Angikazengiboneindodaenhle kangaka! Sizoba nobusuku obuhle!” “Yo, yo, yo! Damn, guys. I’ve neverseenamanthisbeautifulbefore.It’sgonnabeagoodnighttonight!”

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Right next to me as I walked in was a young man having a completemeltdown,talkingtohimself,bawlinghiseyesout.Helookedupandlockedeyeswithme,andIguesshethoughtIlookedlikeakindredsoulhecouldtalkto.Hecamestraightatmeandstartedcryingabouthowhe’dbeenarrestedandthrowninjailandthegangshadstolenhisclothesandhisshoesandrapedhimandbeat

himeveryday.Hewasn’tsomeruffian.Hewaswell-spoken,educated.He’dbeenwaitingforayearforhiscasetobeheard;hewantedtokillhimself.ThatguyputthefearofGodinme.

Ilookedaroundtheholdingcell.Therewereeasilyahundredguysinthere,all of them spread out andhuddled into their clearly andunmistakably definedracialgroups:awholebunchofblackpeopleinonecorner,thecoloredpeopleinadifferentcorner,acoupleofIndiansofftothemselves,andahandfulofwhiteguysoff to one side. The guyswho’d beenwithme in the police van, the secondwewalked in, they instinctively, automatically, walked off to join the groups theybelongedto.Ifroze.

Ididn’tknowwheretogo.

Ilookedoveratthecoloredcorner.Iwasstaringatthemostnotorious,mostviolent prison gang in South Africa. I looked like them, but I wasn’t them. Icouldn’tgoovertheredoingmyfakegangstershitandhavethemdiscoverIwasafraud.No, no, no. That gamewas over,my friend. The last thing I neededwascoloredgangstersupagainstme.

But then what if I went to the black corner? I know that I’m black and Iidentifyasblack,butI’mnotablackpersononthefaceofit,sowouldtheblackguysunderstandwhyIwaswalkingover?AndwhatkindofshitwouldIstartbygoing there? Because going to the black corner as a perceived colored personmightpissoffthecoloredgangsevenmorethangoingtothecoloredcornerasafake colored person. Because that’s what had happened to me my entire life.Colored peoplewould seemehanging outwith blacks, and they’d confrontme,wanttofightme.Isawmyselfstartingaracewarintheholdingcell.

“Hey!Whyareyouhangingoutwiththeblacks?”

“BecauseIamblack.”

“No,you’renot.You’recolored.”

“Ah, yes. I know it looks that way, friend, but let me explain. It’s a funnystory, actually.My father is white andmymother is black and race is a socialconstruct,so…”

Thatwasn’tgoingtowork.Nothere.

All of thiswashappening inmyhead in an instant, on the fly. Iwasdoingcrazycalculations,lookingatpeople,scanningtheroom,assessingthevariables.IfIgohere,thenthis.IfIgothere,thenthat.Mywholelifewasflashingbeforeme—theplaygroundatschool, thespaza shops inSoweto, thestreetsofEdenPark—everytimeandeveryplaceIeverhadtobeachameleon,navigatebetweengroups,explainwhoIwas.Itwaslikethehighschoolcafeteria,onlyitwasthehighschoolcafeteria from hell because if I picked the wrong table I might get beaten orstabbedor raped. I’dneverbeenmore scared inmy life.But I still had topick.Becauseracismexists,andyouhavetopickaside.Youcansaythatyoudon’tpick

sides,buteventuallylifewillforceyoutopickaside.

ThatdayIpickedwhite.Theyjustdidn’tlookliketheycouldhurtme.Itwasahandfulofaverage,middle-agedwhitedudes.Iwalkedovertothem.Wehungoutfor a while, chatted a bit. They were mostly in for white-collar crimes, moneyschemes,fraudandracketeering.They’dbeuselessifanyonecameoverlookingtostart trouble; they’d get their asses kicked aswell.But theyweren’t going to doanythingtome.Iwassafe.

Luckilythetimewentbyfairlyquickly.IwasinthereforonlyanhourbeforeIwascalleduptocourt,whereajudgewouldeitherletmegoorsendmetoprisontoawaittrial.AsIwasleaving,oneofthewhiteguysreachedovertome.“Makesure you don’t come back down here,” he said. “Cry in front of the judge; dowhateveryouhavetodo.Ifyougoupandgetsentbackdownhere,yourlifewillneverbethesame.”

Up in the courtroom, I foundmy lawyer waiting.My cousinMlungisi wasthere,too,inthegallery,readytopostmybailifthingswentmyway.

Thebailiffreadoutmycasenumber,andthejudgelookedupatme.

“Howareyou?”hesaid.

I broke down. I’d beenputting on this tough-guy facade for nearly aweek,andIjustcouldn’tdoitanymore.

“I-I’mnotfine,YourHonor.I’mnotfine.”

Helookedconfused.“What?!”

Isaid,“I’mnotfine,sir.I’mreallysuffering.”

“Whyareyoutellingmethis?”

“BecauseyouaskedhowIwas.”

“Whoaskedyou?”

“Youdid.Youjustaskedme.”

“Ididn’tsay, ‘Howareyou?’Isaid, ‘Whoareyou?’WhywouldIwastetimeasking ‘Howareyou?’!This is jail. Iknoweveryone issufferingdownthere. If Iaskedeveryone ‘Howareyou?’we’dbehereallday.Isaid, ‘Whoareyou?’Stateyournamefortherecord.”

“TrevorNoah.”

“Okay.Nowwecancarryon.”

Thewhole courtroom started laughing, so then I started laughing, too. ButnowIwasevenmorepetrifiedbecause Ididn’twant the judge to thinkIwasn’ttakinghimseriouslybecauseIwaslaughing.

ItturnedoutthatIneedn’thavebeenworried.Everythingthathappenednexttookonlya fewminutes.Mylawyerhadtalkedtotheprosecutorandeverything

hadbeenarrangedbeforehand.Hepresentedmycase. Ihadnopriors. Iwasn’tdangerous.Therewerenoobjectionsfromtheopposingside.Thejudgeassignedmytrialdateandsetmybail,andIwasfreetogo.

IwalkedoutofcourtandthelightofdayhitmyfaceandIsaid,“SweetJesus,Iamnevergoingbackthereagain.”Ithadbeenonlyaweek,inacellthatwasn’tterriblyuncomfortablewithfoodthatwasn’thalfbad,butaweekinjailisalong,longtime.Aweekwithoutshoelacesisa long, longtime.Aweekwithnoclocks,withnosun,canfeellikeaneternity.Thethoughtofanythingworse,thethoughtofdoingrealtimeinarealprison,Icouldn’tevenimagine.

—

IdrovewithMlungisitohisplace,tookashower,andsleptthere.Thenextdayhedroppedmebackatmymom’shouse.Istrolledupthedrivewayactingrealcasual.MyplanwastosayI’dbeencrashingwithMlungisiforafewdays.Iwalkedintothehouse likenothinghadhappened. “Hey,Mom!What’sup?”Momdidn’t sayanything,didn’taskmeanyquestions.Iwaslike,Okay.Cool.We’regood.

I stayed formost of the day. Later in the afternoonwe were sitting at thekitchen table, talking. I was telling all these stories, going on about everythingMlungisi and Ihadbeenup to thatweek, and I caughtmymomgivingme thislook,slowlyshakingherhead.ItwasadifferentlookthanIhadeverseenhergivebefore.Itwasn’t“Oneday,I’mgoingtocatchyou.”Itwasn’tangerordisapproval.Itwasdisappointment.Shewashurt.

“What?”Isaid.“Whatisit?”

Shesaid, “Boy,whodoyou thinkpaidyourbail?Hmm?Whodoyou thinkpaidyourlawyer?DoyouthinkI’manidiot?Didyouthinknoonewouldtellme?”

The truth came spilling out. Of course she’d known: the car. It had beenmissingthewholetime.I’dbeensowrappedupindealingwithjailandcoveringmytracksI’dforgottenthattheproofofmycrimewasrightthereintheyard,theredMazdamissingfromthedriveway.AndofcoursewhenIcalledmyfriendandhe’daskedhisdadforthemoneyforthelawyer,thedadhadpressedhimonwhatthe money was for and, being a parent himself, had called my motherimmediately.She’dgivenmyfriendthemoneytopaythelawyer.She’dgivenmycousinthemoneytopaymybail.I’dspentthewholeweekinjailthinkingIwassoslick.Butshe’dknowneverythingthewholetime.

“Iknowyouseemeassomecrazyoldbitchnaggingatyou,”shesaid,“butyouforget thereasonI rideyousohardandgiveyousomuchshit isbecauseI loveyou.EverythingIhaveeverdoneI’vedonefromaplaceoflove.IfIdon’tpunishyou, the world will punish you even worse. The world doesn’t love you. If thepolicegetyou,thepolicedon’tloveyou.WhenIbeatyou,I’mtryingtosaveyou.Whentheybeatyou,they’retryingtokillyou.”

My favorite thing toeatasakid,andstillmy favoritedessertofall time,wascustardandjelly,whatAmericanswouldcallJell-O.OneSaturdaymymomwasplanningforabigfamilycelebrationandshemadeahugebowlofcustardandjellyandputitinthefridge.Ithadeveryflavor:red,green,andyellow.Icouldn’tresistit.Thatwholeday,everytimeIwalkedpastthefridgeI’dpopmyheadinwithaspoonandsneakabite.Thiswasagiantbowl,meanttolastforaweekforthewholefamily.Ifinisheditinonedaybymyself.

ThatnightIwenttobedandIgotabsolutelybutcheredbymosquitoes.Mosquitoeslovetofeastonme,andwhenIwasakiditwasbad.Theywoulddestroymeatnight.Iwouldwakeupcovered with bites and feel ill to my stomach and itchy all over. Which was exactly whathappenedthisparticularSundaymorning.Coveredwithmosquitobites,mystomachbloatedwithcustardandjelly,Icouldbarelygetoutofbed.IfeltlikeIwasgoingtovomit.Thenmymomwalkedin.

“Getdressed,”shesaid.“We’regoingtochurch.”

“Idon’tfeelwell.”

“That’swhywe’regoingtochurch.That’swhereJesusisgoingtohealyou.”

“Eh,I’mnotsurethat’showitworks.”

MymomandIhaddifferentideasabouthowJesusworked.ShebelievedthatyoupraytoJesusand thenJesuspitchesupanddoes the thing that youneed.MyviewsonJesusweremorereality-based.

“Whydon’tItakemedicine,”Isaid,“andthenpraytoJesustothankhimforgivingusthedoctorswhoinventedmedicine,becausemedicineiswhatmakesyoufeelbetter,notJesus.”

“Youdon’tneedmedicineifyouhaveJesus.Jesuswillhealyou.PraytoJesus.”

“ButismedicinenotablessingfromJesus?AndifJesusgivesusmedicineandwedonottakethemedicine,arewenotdenyingthegracethathehasgivenus?”

LikeallofourdebatesaboutJesus,thisconversationwentnowhere.

“Trevor,”shesaid,“ifyoudon’tgotochurchyou’regoingtogetworse.You’reluckyyougotsickonSunday,becausenowwe’regoingtochurchandyoucanpraytoJesusandJesusisgoingtohealyou.”

“Thatsoundsnice,butwhydon’tIjuststayhome?”

“No.Getdressed.We’regoingtochurch.”

MYMOTHER’SLIFE

Once I hadmy hair cornrowed for thematric dance, I started getting attentionfromgirlsforthefirsttime.Iactuallywentondates.AttimesIthoughtthatitwasbecauseIlookedbetter.AtothertimesIthoughtitwasbecausegirlslikedthefactthatIwasgoingthroughasmuchpainastheydidtolookgood.Eitherway,onceIfoundsuccess,Iwasn’tgoingtomesswiththe formula.Ikeptgoingbackto thesalon every week, spending hours at a time getting my hair straightened andcornrowed. My mom would just roll her eyes. “I could never date a man whospendsmoretimeonhishairthanIdo,”she’dsay.

MondaythroughSaturdaymymomworkedinherofficeandputteredaroundhergardendressedlikeahomelessperson.ThenSundaymorningforchurchshe’ddoher hair andput on a nice dress and somehighheels and she looked like amillionbucks.Onceshewasalldoneup,shecouldn’tresistteasingme,throwinglittleverbaljabsthewaywe’dalwaysdowitheachother.

“Nowwho’s the best-looking person in the family, eh? I hope you enjoyedyourweekofbeingtheprettyone,’causethequeenisback,baby.Youspentfourhoursatthesalontolooklikethat.Ijusttookashower.”

Shewasjusthavingfunwithme;nosonwantstotalkabouthowhothismomis.Because,truthbetold,shewasbeautiful.Beautifulontheoutside,beautifulontheinside.Shehadaself-confidenceaboutherthatIneverpossessed.Evenwhenshewasworkinginthegarden,dressedinoverallsandcoveredinmud,youcouldseehowattractiveshewas.

—

Icanonlyassumethatmymotherbrokemorethanafewhearts inherday,butfromthetimeIwasborn,therewereonlytwomeninherlife,myfatherandmystepfather.Rightaroundthecornerfrommyfather’shouseinYeoville,therewasagaragecalledMightyMechanics.OurVolkswagenwasalwaysbreakingdown,andmymomwouldtakeittheretogetitrepaired.Wemetthisreallycoolguythere,Abel,oneoftheautomechanics.I’dseehimwhenwewenttofetchthecar.Thecarbrokedownalot,soweweretherealot.Eventuallyitfeltlikewewerethereevenwhen therewasnothingwrongwith the vehicle. Iwas six,maybe seven. Ididn’tunderstandeverythingthatwashappening.I justknewthatsuddenlythisguywasaround.Hewastall, lankyandleanbutstrong.Hehadtheselongarms

andbighands.Hecouldliftcarenginesandgearboxes.Hewashandsome,buthewasn’tgood-looking.Mymomlikedthatabouthim;sheusedtosaythere’satypeof ugly that women find attractive. She called him Abie. He called her Mbuyi,shortforNombuyiselo.

Ilikedhim,too.Abiewascharmingandhilariousandhadaneasy,gracioussmile.Helovedhelpingpeople,too,especiallyanyoneindistress.Ifsomeone’scarbrokedownon the freeway,hepulledover to seewhathecoulddo. If someoneyelled“Stop,thief!”hewastheguywhogavechase.Theoldladynextdoorneededhelpmovingboxes?He’sthatguy.Helikedtobelikedbytheworld,whichmadehisabuseevenhardertodealwith.Becauseifyouthinksomeoneisamonsterandthewholeworldsayshe’sasaint,youbegintothinkthatyou’rethebadperson.Itmustbemyfaultthisishappeningistheonlyconclusionyoucandraw,becausewhyareyoutheonlyonereceivinghiswrath?

Abelwasalwayscoolwithme.Hewasn’ttryingtobemydad,andmydadwasstill inmy life,soIwasn’t looking foranyonetoreplacehim.That’smom’s coolfriend is how I thought of him.He started coming out to staywith us in EdenPark.Somenightshe’dwantustocrashwithhimathisconvertedgarageflatinOrangeGrove,whichwedid.ThenIburneddownthewhitepeople’shouse,andthatwastheendofthat.FromthenonwelivedtogetherinEdenPark.

OnenightmymomandIwereataprayermeetingandshetookmeaside.

“Hey,” she said. “Iwant to tell you something. Abel and I are going to getmarried.”

Instinctively,withouteventhinking,Isaid,“Idon’tthinkthat’sagoodidea.”

Iwasn’tupsetoranything.Ijusthadasenseabouttheguy,anintuition.I’dfeltitevenbeforethemulberrytree.Thatnighthadn’tchangedmyfeelingstowardAbel;ithadonlyshownme,infleshandblood,whathewascapableof.

“Iunderstand that it’shard,” she said. “Iunderstand that youdon’twant anewdad.”

“No,”Isaid.“It’snotthat.IlikeAbel.Ilikehimalot.Butyoushouldn’tmarryhim.”Ididn’tknowtheword“sinister” then,but if IhadIprobablywouldhaveused it. “There’s just something not right about him. I don’t trust him. I don’tthinkhe’sagoodperson.”

I’dalwaysbeenfinewithmymomdatingthisguy,butI’dneverconsideredthe possibility of him becoming a permanent addition to our family. I enjoyedbeingwithAbel thesameway Ienjoyedplayingwitha tigercub the first timeIwent toa tigersanctuary: I liked it, Ihad funwith it,but Inever thoughtaboutbringingithome.

IftherewasanydoubtaboutAbel,thetruthwasrightthereinfrontofusallalong,inhisname.HewasAbel,thegoodbrother,thegoodson,anamestraightoutoftheBible.Andheliveduptoitaswell.Hewasthefirstborn,dutiful,took

careofhismother,tookcareofhissiblings.Hewastheprideofhisfamily.

ButAbelwas hisEnglishname.HisTsonganamewasNgisaveni. Itmeans“Beafraid.”

—

MomandAbelgotmarried.Therewasnoceremony,noexchangeofrings.Theywentandsignedthepapersandthatwasit.Ayearorsolater,mybabybrother,Andrew,wasborn.Ionlyvaguelyremembermymombeinggoneforafewdays,andwhenshegotbacktherewasnowthisthinginthehousethatcriedandshatand got fed, but when you’re nine years older than your sibling, their arrivaldoesn’tchangemuchforyou.Iwasn’tchangingdiapers;Iwasoutplayingarcadegamesattheshop,runningaroundtheneighborhood.

ThemainthingthatmarkedAndrew’sbirthformewasourfirsttriptomeetAbel’s family during the Christmas holidays. They lived in Tzaneen, a town inGazankulu,whathadbeentheTsongahomelandunderapartheid.Tzaneenhasatropicalclimate,hotandhumid.Thewhitefarmsnearbygrowsomeofthemostamazingfruit—mangoes, lychees,themostbeautifulbananasyou’veeverseeninyour life.That’swhereall the fruitweexport toEuropecomes from.Buton theblacklandtwentyminutesdowntheroad,thesoilhasbeendecimatedbyyearsofoverfarming and overgrazing. Abel’smother and his sisterswere all traditional,stay-at-homemoms, and Abel and his younger brother, who was a policeman,supported the family. Theywere all very kind and generous and acceptedus aspartofthefamilyrightaway.

Tsonga culture, I learned, is extremely patriarchal. We’re talking about aworld where womenmust bow when they greet a man.Men and women havelimited social interactions. Themen kill the animals, and the women cook thefood.Menarenotevenallowedinthekitchen.Asanine-year-oldboy,Ithoughtthiswasfantastic.Iwasn’tallowedtodoanything.Athomemymomwasforevermakingmedochores—washthedishes,sweepthehouse—butwhenshetriedtodothatinTzaneen,thewomenwouldn’tallowit.

“Trevor,makeyourbed,”mymomwouldsay.

“No,no,no,no,”Abel’smotherwouldprotest. “Trevormustgooutsideandplay.”

Iwasmadetorunoffandhavefunwhilemygirlstep-cousinshadtocleanthehouseandhelpthewomencook.Iwasinheaven.

Mymother loathed everymoment of being there. ForAbel, a firstborn sonwhowasbringinghomehis own firstborn son, this tripwasahugedeal. In thehomelands, the firstborn son almost becomes the father/husband by defaultbecause the dad is off working in the city. The firstborn son is theman of thehouse.Heraiseshissiblings.Hismomtreatshimwithacertainlevelofrespectasthe dad’s surrogate. Since this was Abel’s big homecoming with Andrew, he

expectedmymothertoplayhertraditionalrole,too.Butsherefused.

ThewomeninTzaneenhadamultitudeofjobsduringtheday.Theypreparedbreakfast, prepared tea, prepared lunch, did thewashing and the cleaning. Themenhadbeenworkingallyearinthecitytosupportthefamily,sothiswastheirvacation,moreorless.Theywereatleisure,waitedonbythewomen.Theymightslaughteragoator something,dowhatevermanly tasksneeded tobedone,butthentheywouldgotoanareathatwasonlyformenandhangoutanddrinkwhilethewomen cooked and cleaned. Butmymom had beenworking in the city allyear, too, and Patricia Noah didn’t stay in anyone’s kitchen. She was a free-roamingspirit.Sheinsistedonwalkingtothevillage,goingwherethemenhungout,talkingtothemenasequals.

The whole tradition of women bowing to the men, my mom found thatabsurd.Butshedidn’t refuse todo it.Sheoverdid it.Shemadeamockeryof it.Theotherwomenwouldbowbeforemenwith thispolite little curtsy.Mymomwouldgodownandcower,grovelinginthedirtlikeshewasworshippingadeity,andshe’dstaydownthereforalongtime,likeareallylongtime,longenoughtomake everyone very uncomfortable. Thatwasmymom.Don’t fight the system.Mockthesystem.ToAbel, it lookedlikehiswifedidn’trespecthim.Everyothermanhadsomedocilegirlfromthevillage,andherehe’dcomewiththismodernwoman, a Xhosa woman no less, a culture whose women were thought of asparticularlyloudmouthedandpromiscuous.Thetwoofthemfoughtandbickeredthewholetime,andafterthatfirsttripmymotherrefusedtogoback.

UptothatpointI’dlivedmywholelifeinaworldrunbywomen,butaftermymom and Abel weremarried, and especially after Andrewwas born, I watchedhim try to assert himself and impose his ideas of what he thought his familyshould be. One thing that became clear early on was that those ideas did notincludeme. Iwasa reminder thatmymomhad liveda lifebeforehim. Ididn’tevensharehiscolor.Hisfamilywashim,mymom,andthenewbaby.Myfamilywasmymomandme. Iactuallyappreciated thatabouthim.Sometimeshewasmybuddy,sometimesnot,butheneverpretendedourrelationshipwasanythingother than what it was.We’d joke around and laugh together. We’d watch TVtogether.He’dslipmepocketmoneynowandagainaftermymothersaidI’dhadenough.ButhenevergavemeabirthdaypresentoraChristmaspresent.Henevergavemetheaffectionofafather.Iwasneverhisson.

Abel’spresenceinthehousebroughtwithitnewrules.OneofthefirstthingshedidwaskickFufiandPantheroutofthehouse.

“Nodogsinthehouse.”

“Butwe’vealwayshadthedogsinthehouse.”

“Notanymore.InanAfricanhome,dogssleepoutside.Peoplesleepinside.”

Putting the dogs in the yard was Abel’s way of saying, “We’re going to dothings aroundhere theway they’re supposed to be done.”When theywere just

dating,mymotherwas still the free spirit,doingwhat shewanted, goingwhereshewanted.Slowly, those thingsgotreined in. Icould feel thathewas tryingtorein in our independence. He even got upset about church. “You cannot be atchurch thewholeday,”he’d say. “Mywife is gone all day, andwhatwill peoplesay?‘Whyishiswifenotaround?Whereisshe?Whogoestochurchforthewholeday?’No,no,no.Thisbringsdisrespecttome.”

He tried tostopher fromspendingsomuch timeatchurch,andoneof themost effective tools he usedwas to stop fixingmymother’s car. Itwould breakdown,andhe’dpurposefully let it sit.Mymomcouldn’t affordanother car, andshecouldn’tgetthecarfixedsomewhereelse.You’remarriedtoamechanicandyou’re going to get your car fixed by another mechanic? That’s worse thancheating. So Abel became our only transport, and he would refuse to take usplaces.Everdefiant,mymotherwouldtakeminibusestogettochurch.

Losing the car alsomeant losing access tomydad.Wehad to askAbel forrides into town, and he didn’t like what they were for. It was an insult to hismanhood.

“WeneedtogotoYeoville.”

“WhyareyougoingtoYeoville?”

“ToseeTrevor’sdad.”

“What?No,no.HowcanItakemywifeandherchildanddropyouoffthere?You’reinsultingme.WhatdoItellmyfriends?WhatdoItellmyfamily?Mywifeisatanotherman’shouse?Themanwhomadethatchildwithher?No,no,no.”

Isawmyfatherlessandless.Notlongafter,hemoveddowntoCapeTown.

Abelwantedatraditionalmarriagewithatraditionalwife.ForalongtimeIwonderedwhyheevermarriedawomanlikemymominthefirstplace,asshewastheoppositeofthatineveryway.Ifhewantedawomantobowtohim,therewereplentyofgirlsback inTzaneenbeingraisedsolely forthatpurpose.Thewaymymotheralwaysexplainedit,thetraditionalmanwantsawomantobesubservient,butheneverfallsinlovewithsubservientwomen.He’sattractedtoindependentwomen.“He’slikeanexoticbirdcollector,”shesaid.“Heonlywantsawomanwhoisfreebecausehisdreamistoputherinacage.”

—

WhenwefirstmetAbel,hesmokedalotofweed.Hedrank,too,butitwasmostlyweed.Lookingback,Ialmostmisshispotheaddaysbecausetheweedmellowedhimout.He’dsmoke,chill,watchTV,andfallasleep.Ithinksubconsciouslyitwassomethinghe knewheneeded to do to take the edge off his anger.He stoppedsmoking after he and my mom got married. She made him stop for religiousreasons—thebodyisatempleandsoon.Butwhatnoneofussawcomingwasthatwhen he stopped smoking weed he just replaced it with alcohol. He starteddrinkingmoreandmore.Henevercamehomefromworksober.Anaverageday

wasasix-packofbeerafterwork.Weeknightshe’dhaveabuzzon.SomeFridaysandSaturdayshejustdidn’tcomehome.

When Abel drank, his eyes would go red, bloodshot. That was the clue Ilearned to read. I always thought of Abel as a cobra: calm, perfectly still, thenexplosive.Therewasnorantingandraving,noclenchedfists.He’dbeveryquiet,andthenoutofnowheretheviolencewouldcome.Theeyesweremyonlycluetostayaway.Hiseyeswereeverything.TheyweretheeyesoftheDevil.

Late onenightwewokeup to ahouse filledwith smoke.Abel hadn’t comehomebythetimewe’dgonetobed,andI’dfallenasleepinmymother’sroomwithher and Andrew, who was still a baby. I jerked awake to her shaking me andscreaming.“Trevor!Trevor!”Therewassmokeeverywhere.Wethoughtthehousewasburningdown.

My mom ran down the hallway to the kitchen, where she discovered thekitchenonfire.Abelhaddrivenhomedrunk,blinddrunk,drunkerthanwe’deverseenhimbefore.He’dbeenhungry,triedtoheatupsomefoodonthestove,andpassedoutonthecouchwhileitwascooking.Thepothadburneditselfoutandburned up the kitchen wall behind the stove, and smoke was billowingeverywhere.Sheturnedoffthestoveandopenedthedoorsandthewindowstotrytoairtheplaceout.Thenshewentovertothecouchandwokehimupandstartedberatinghimfornearlyburningthehousedown.Hewastoodrunktocare.

She came back into the bedroom, picked up the phone, and called mygrandmother. She started going on and on about Abel and his drinking. “Thisman,he’sgoingtokillusoneday.Healmostburntthehousedown…”

Abelwalkedintothebedroom,verycalm,veryquiet.Hiseyeswerebloodred,hiseyelidsheavy.Heputhisfingeronthecradleandhungupthecall.Mymomlostit.

“Howdareyou!Don’tyouhangupmyphonecall!Whatdoyouthinkyou’redoing?!”

“Youdon’ttellpeoplewhat’shappeninginthishouse,”hesaid.

“Oh,please!You’reworriedaboutwhat theworld is thinking?Worryaboutthisworld!Worryaboutwhatyourfamilyisthinking!”

Abeltoweredovermymother.Hedidn’traisehisvoice,didn’tgetangry.

“Mbuyi,”hesaidsoftly,“youdon’trespectme.”

“Respect?! You almost burned down our house. Respect? Oh, please! Earnyourrespect!Youwantmetorespectyouasaman,thenactlikeaman!Drinkingyourmoney in the streets, andwhere are your child’s diapers?!Respect?! Earnyourrespect—”

“Mbuyi—”

“You’renotaman;you’reachild—”

“Mbuyi—”

“Ican’thaveachildforahusband—”

“Mbuyi—”

“I’vegotmyownchildrentoraise—”

“Mbuyi,shutup—”

“Amanwhocomeshomedrunk—”

“Mbuyi,shutup—”

“Andburnsdownthehousewithhischildren—”

“Mbuyi,shutup—”

“Andyoucallyourselfafather—”

Then out of nowhere, like a clap of thunder when there were no clouds,crack!,hesmackedheracrosstheface.Shericochetedoffthewallandcollapsedlike a ton of bricks. I’d never seen anything like it. She went down and stayeddown for a good thirty seconds. Andrew started screaming. I don’t remembergoingtopickhimup,butIclearlyrememberholdinghimatsomepoint.Mymompulledherselfupandstruggledbacktoherfeetandlaunchedrightbackintohim.She’dclearlybeenknockedforaloop,butshewastryingtoactmorewith-itthanshe was. I could see the disbelief in her face. This had never happened to herbeforeinherlife.Shegotrightbackinhisfaceandstartedshoutingathim.

“Didyoujusthitme?”

Thewholetime,inmyhead,IkeptthinkingthesamethingAbelwassaying.Shutup,Mom.Shutup.You’regoing tomake itworse.Because I knew, as thereceiverofmanybeatings,theonethingthatdoesn’thelpistalkingback.Butshewouldn’tstayquiet.

“Didyoujusthitme?”

“Mbuyi,Itoldyou—”

“No man has ever! Don’t think you can control me when you can’t evencontrol—”

Crack! He hit her again. She stumbled back but this time didn’t fall. Shescrambled,grabbedme,andgrabbedAndrew.

“Let’sgo.We’releaving.”

We ran out of the house and up the road. It was the dead of night, coldoutside. Iwaswearingnothing but a T-shirt and sweatpants.Wewalked to theEden Park police station, over a kilometer away.Mymommarched us in, andthereweretwocopsondutyatthefrontdesk.

“I’mheretolayacharge,”shesaid.

“Whatareyouheretolayachargeabout?”

“I’mheretolayachargeagainstthemanwhohitme.”

TothisdayI’llneverforgetthepatronizing,condescendingwaytheyspoketoher.

“Calmdown,lady.Calmdown.Whohityou?”

“Myhusband.”

“Yourhusband?Whatdidyoudo?Didyoumakehimangry?”

“DidI…what?No.Hehitme.I’mheretolayachargeagainst—”

“No,no.Ma’am.Whydoyouwannamakeacase,eh?Yousureyouwanttodothis?Gohomeandtalktoyourhusband.Youdoknowonceyoulaychargesyoucan’ttakethemback?He’llhaveacriminalrecord.Hislifewillneverbethesame.Doyoureallywantyourhusbandgoingtojail?”

Mymomkeptinsistingthattheytakeastatementandopenacase,andtheyactuallyrefused—theyrefusedtowriteupachargesheet.

“This is a family thing,” they said. “You don’t want to involve the police.Maybeyouwanttothinkitoverandcomebackinthemorning.”

Momstartedyellingatthem,demandingtoseethestationcommander,andrightthenAbelwalkedintothestation.He’ddrivendown.He’dsoberedupabit,buthewasstilldrunk,drivingintoapolicestation.Thatdidn’tmatter.Hewalkedovertothecops,andthestationturnedintoaboys’club.Liketheywereabunchofoldpals.

“Hey,guys,”hesaid.“Youknowhowitis.Youknowhowwomencanbe.Ijustgotalittleangry,that’sall.”

“It’sokay,man.Weknow.Ithappens.Don’tworry.”

Ihadneverseenanythinglikeit.Iwasnineyearsold,andIstill thoughtofthe police as the good guys. You get in trouble, you call the police, and thoseflashing red-and-blue lights are going to come and save you. But I rememberstanding there watching my mom, flabbergasted, horrified that these copswouldn’thelpher.That’swhenIrealizedthepolicewerenotwhoIthoughttheywere.Theyweremenfirst,andpolicesecond.

Weleftthestation.MymothertookmeandAndrew,andwewentouttostaywithmygrandmother inSoweto forawhile.A fewweeks later,Abeldroveoverand apologized. Abel was always sincere and heartfelt with his apologies: Hedidn’tmeanit.Heknowshewaswrong.He’llneverdoitagain.MygrandmotherconvincedmymomthatsheshouldgiveAbelasecondchance.Herargumentwasbasically,“Allmendoit.”Mygrandfather,Temperance,hadhither.LeavingAbelwas no guarantee it wouldn’t happen again, and at least Abel was willing toapologize. So mymom decided to give him another chance.We drove back to

EdenParktogether,andforyears,nothing—foryearsAbeldidn’t layafingeronher.Orme.Everythingwentbacktothewayitwas.

—

Abelwasanamazingmechanic,probablyoneofthebestaroundatthetime.He’dbeen to technical college, graduated first in his class. He’d had job offers fromBMWandMercedes.Hisbusiness thrivedonreferrals.Peoplewouldbringtheircarsfromalloverthecityforhimtofixbecausehecouldworkmiraclesonthem.Mymom truly believed in him. She thought she could raise him up, help himmakegoodonhispotential,notmerelyasamechanicbutastheownerofhisownworkshop.

Asheadstrongandindependentasmymomis,sheremainsthewomanwhogives back. She gives and gives and gives; that is her nature. She refused to besubservient toAbel at home, but she didwant him to succeed as aman. If shecould make their marriage a true marriage of equals, she was willing to pourherself into itcompletely, thesamewayshepouredherself intoherchildren.Atsomepoint,Abel’sbossdecidedtosellMightyMechanicsandretire.Mymomhadsomemoneysaved,andshehelpedAbelbuy it.TheymovedtheworkshopfromYeoville to the industrial area of Wynberg, just west of Alex, and MightyMechanicsbecamethenewfamilybusiness.

Whenyou first go intobusiness thereare somany thingsnobody tells you.That’s especially true when you’re two young black people, a secretary and amechanic, coming out of a time when blacks had never been allowed to ownbusinesses at all. One of the things nobody tells you is that when you buy abusinessyoubuyitsdebt.AftermymomandAbelopenedupthebooksonMightyMechanics and came to a full realization of what they’d bought, they saw howmuchtroublethecompanywasalreadyin.

Thegaragegradually tookoverour lives. I’dgetoutof school andwalk thefivekilometersfromMaryvaletotheworkshop.I’dsitforhoursandtrytodomyhomeworkwith themachines and repairs going on aroundme. Inevitably Abelwouldgetbehindscheduleonacar,andsincehewasourride,we’dhavetowaitforhimtofinishbeforewecouldgohome.Itstartedoutas“We’rerunninglate.Gonapinacar,andwe’lltellyouwhenwe’releaving.”I’dcrawlinthebackseatofsomesedan,they’dwakemeupatmidnight,andwe’ddriveallthewaybackouttoEdenParkandcrash.Thenprettysoonitwas“We’rerunninglate.Gosleepinacar, and we’ll wake you for school in themorning.”We started sleeping at thegarage.Atfirstitwasoneortwonightsaweek,thenthreeorfour.Thenmymomsoldthehouseandputthatmoneyintothebusinessaswell.Shewentallin.Shegaveupeverythingforhim.

Fromthatpointonwelivedinthegarage.Itwasawarehouse,basically,andnotthefancy,romanticsortofwarehousehipstersmightonedayturnintolofts.No, no. It was a cold, empty space. Gray concrete floors stained with oil andgrease,old junkcarsandcarpartseverywhere.Nearthefront,nexttotheroller

door thatopenedonto the street, therewasa tinyofficebuilt outofdrywall fordoingpaperworkandsuch.Inthebackwasakitchenette, justasink,aportablehotplate,andsomecabinets.Tobathe,therewasonlyanopenwashbasin,likeajanitor’ssink,withashowerheadriggedupabove.

AbelandmymomsleptwithAndrewintheofficeonathinmattressthey’drolloutonthefloor.Isleptinthecars.Igotreallygoodatsleepingincars.Iknowallthebestcarstosleepin.Theworstwerethecheapones,Volkswagens,low-endJapanese sedans. The seats barely reclined, no headrests, cheap fake-leatherupholstery.I’dspendhalfthenighttryingnottoslideofftheseat.I’dwakeupwithsorekneesbecauseIcouldn’tstretchoutandextendmy legs.Germancarswerewonderful,especiallyMercedes.Big,plushleatherseats, likecouches.Theywerecoldwhenyoufirstclimbedin,buttheywerewellinsulatedandwarmedupnicely.All I neededwasmy school blazer to curl upunder, and I could get really cozyinsideaMercedes.Butthebest,hands-down,wereAmericancars.IusedtoprayforacustomertocomeinwithabigBuickwithbenchseats.IfIsawoneofthose,I’dbelike,Yes!ItwasrareforAmericancarstocomein,butwhentheydid,boy,wasIinheaven.

SinceMightyMechanicswasnowafamilybusiness,andIwasfamily,Ialsohad to work. There was no more time for play. There wasn’t even time forhomework.I’dwalkhome,theschooluniformwouldcomeoff,theoverallswouldgoon,andI’dgetunderthehoodofsomesedan.IgottoapointwhereIcoulddoabasicserviceonacarbymyself,andoftenIdid.Abelwouldsay,“ThatHonda.Minor service.” And I’d get under the hood.Day in and day out. Points, plugs,condensers,oilfilters,airfilters.Installnewseats,changetires,swapheadlights,fix taillights.Go to theparts shop, buy theparts, back to theworkshop.Elevenyears old, and thatwasmy life. I was falling behind in school. I wasn’t gettinganythingdone.Myteachersusedtocomedownonme.

“Whyaren’tyoudoingyourhomework?”

“Ican’tdomyhomework.Ihavework,athome.”

Weworkedandworkedandworked,butnomatterhowmanyhoursweputin, thebusinesskept losingmoney.We lost everything.Wecouldn’t evenaffordrealfood.TherewasonemonthI’llneverforget,theworstmonthofmylife.Weweresobrokethatforweeksweatenothingbutbowlsofmarogo,akindofwildspinach,cookedwithcaterpillars.Mopaneworms,they’recalled.Mopanewormsareliterallythecheapestthingthatonlythepoorestofpoorpeopleeat.Igrewuppoor,butthere’spoorandthenthere’s“Wait,I’meatingworms.”MopanewormsarethesortofthingwhereevenpeopleinSowetowouldbelike,“Eh…no.”They’rethese spiny,brightly colored caterpillars the sizeof your finger.They’renothinglike escargot, where someone took a snail and gave it a fancy name. They’refuckingworms.Theyhaveblackspinesthatpricktheroofofyourmouthasyou’reeating them. When you bite into a mopane worm, it’s not uncommon for itsyellow-greenexcrementtosquirtintoyourmouth.

ForawhileIsortofenjoyedthecaterpillars.Itwaslikeafoodadventure,butthenoverthecourseofweeks,eatingthemeveryday,dayafterday,Icouldn’ttakeitanymore.I’llneverforgetthedayIbitamopaneworminhalfandthatyellow-greenoozecameoutandIthought,“I’meatingcaterpillarshit.”InstantlyIwantedtothrowup.Isnappedandrantomymomcrying.“Idon’twanttoeatcaterpillarsanymore!”Thatnight shescrapedsomemoney togetherandboughtuschicken.Aspooraswe’dbeeninthepast,we’dneverbeenwithoutfood.

ThatwastheperiodofmylifeIhatedthemost—workallnight,sleepinsomecar,wakeup,washup ina janitor’s sink,brushmy teeth ina littlemetalbasin,brushmyhairintherearviewmirrorofaToyota,thentrytogetdressedwithoutgettingoilandgreaseallovermyschoolclothessothekidsatschoolwon’tknowIlive inagarage.Oh, Ihated it somuch. Ihatedcars. Ihated sleeping in cars. Ihatedworking on cars. I hated gettingmyhands dirty. I hated eatingworms. Ihateditall.

Ididn’thatemymom,orevenAbel,funnilyenough.BecauseIsawhowhardeveryonewasworking.At first Ididn’tknowabout themistakesbeingmadeonthebusinesslevelthatweremakingithard,soitjustfeltlikeahardsituation.ButeventuallyIstartedtoseewhythebusinesswashemorrhagingmoney.IusedtogoaroundandbuyautopartsforAbel,andIlearnedthathewasbuyinghispartsoncredit.Thevendorswerecharginghimacrazymarkup.Thedebtwascripplingthecompany,and insteadofpayingoff thedebthewasdrinkingwhat littlecashhemade.Brilliantmechanic,horriblebusinessman.

Atacertainpoint,inordertotrytosavethegarage,mymotherquitherjobatICIandsteppedintohelphimruntheworkshop.Shebroughtherofficeskillstothe garage full-time and started keeping the books, making the schedule,balancing theaccounts.And itwasgoingwell,untilAbel started to feel like shewasrunninghisbusiness.Peoplestartedcommentingon itaswell.Clientsweregettingtheircarsontime,vendorsweregettingpaidontime,andtheywouldsay,“Hey,Abie, thisworkshop isgoingsomuchbetternowthatyourwifehas takenover.”Thatdidn’thelp.

We lived in the workshop for close to a year, and thenmymom had hadenough. She was willing to help him, but not if he was going to drink all theprofits.Shehadalwaysbeenindependent,self-sufficient,butshe’dlostthatpartofherselfatthemercyofsomeoneelse’sfaileddream.Atacertainpointshesaid,“Ican’tdothisanymore.I’moutofthis.I’mdone.”Shewentoutandgotajobasasecretarywithareal-estatedeveloper,andsomehow,betweenthatandborrowingagainstwhatever equitywas left inAbel’sworkshop, shewas able to get us thehouse in Highlands North. We moved, the workshop was seized by Abel’screditors,andthatwastheendofthat.

—

Growing up I suffered no shortage of my mother’s old school, Old Testamentdiscipline. She spared no rod and spoiled no child. With Andrew, she was

different.Hegotspankingsatfirst,buttheytaperedoffandeventuallywentaway.WhenIaskedherwhyIgotbeatingsandAndrewdidn’t,shemadeajokeaboutitlikeshedoeswitheverything.“Ibeatyoulikethatbecauseyoucouldtakeit,”shesaid.“Ican’thityourlittlebrotherthesamewaybecausehe’saskinnylittlestick.He’llbreak.Butyou,Godgaveyouthatass forwhipping.”Eventhoughshewaskidding,Icouldtellthatthereasonshedidn’tbeatAndrewwasbecauseshe’dhada genuine change of heart on the matter. It was a lesson she’d learned, oddlyenough,fromme.

Igrewupinaworldofviolence,butImyselfwasneverviolentatall.Yes,Iplayed pranks and set fires and broke windows, but I never attacked people. Ineverhitanyone.Iwasneverangry.Ijustdidn’tseemyselfthatway.Mymotherhadexposedmetoadifferentworldthantheoneshegrewupin.Sheboughtmethebooksshenevergottoread.Shetookmetotheschoolsthatshenevergottogoto.IimmersedmyselfinthoseworldsandIcamebacklookingattheworldadifferentway.Isawthatnotallfamiliesareviolent.Isawthefutilityofviolence,thecyclethatjustrepeatsitself,thedamagethat’sinflictedonpeoplethattheyinturninflictonothers.

I saw,more than anything, that relationships arenot sustainedby violencebutbylove.Loveisacreativeact.Whenyoulovesomeoneyoucreateanewworldforthem.Mymotherdidthatforme,andwiththeprogressImadeandthethingsIlearned,Icamebackandcreatedanewworldandanewunderstandingforher.Afterthat,sheneverraisedherhandtoherchildrenagain.Unfortunately,bythetimeshestopped,Abelhadstarted.

InallthetimesIreceivedbeatingsfrommymom,Iwasneverscaredofher.Ididn’tlikeit,certainly.Whenshesaid,“Ihityououtoflove,”Ididn’tnecessarilyagreewithherthinking.ButIunderstoodthat itwasdisciplineanditwasbeingdone for apurpose.The first timeAbelhitme I felt something I hadnever feltbefore.Ifeltterror.

Iwasingradesix,mylastyearatMaryvale.We’dmovedtoHighlandsNorth,and I’d gotten in trouble at school for forging my mom’s signature on somedocument;therewassomeactivityIdidn’twanttoparticipatein,soI’dsignedthereleaseinhernametogetoutofit.Theschoolcalledmymom,andsheaskedmeaboutitwhenIgothomethatafternoon.Iwascertainshewasgoingtopunishme,butthisturnedouttobeoneofthosetimeswhenshedidn’tcare.ShesaidIshouldhave just askedher; shewouldhave signed the formanyway.ThenAbel,who’dbeensittinginthekitchenwithus,watchingthewholething,said,“Hey,canItalktoyouforasecond?”Thenhetookmeintothistinyroom,awalk-inpantryoffthekitchen,andheclosedthedoorbehindus.

Hewasstandingbetweenmeandthedoor,butIdidn’tthinkanythingofit.Itdidn’toccurtometobescared.Abelhadnevertriedtodisciplinemebefore.He’dneverevengivenmealecture.Itwasalways“Mbuyi,yoursondidthis,”andthenmymotherwould handle it. And thiswas themiddle of the afternoon.Hewas

completelysober,whichmadewhathappenednextallthemoreterrifying.

“Whydidyouforgeyourmother’ssignature?”hesaid.

Istartedmakingupsomeexcuse.“Oh,I,uh,forgottobringtheformhome—”

“Don’tlietome.Whydidyouforgeyourmom’ssignature?”

I started stammering outmore bullshit, oblivious towhatwas coming, andthenoutofnowhereitcame.

Thefirstblowhitmeintheribs.Mymindflashed:It’satrap!I’dneverbeeninafightbefore,hadneverlearnedhowtofight,butIhadthisinstinctthattoldme toget inclose. Ihadseenwhat those longarmscoulddo. I’dseenhimtakedownmymom, butmore important, I’d seen him take down grownmen. Abelnever hit people with a punch; I never saw him punch another person with aclosedfist.Buthehadthisabilitytohitagrownmanacrosshisfacewithanopenhandand they’d crumple.Hewas that strong. I lookedathis armsand I knew,Don’tbeontheotherendofthosethings.Iduckedincloseandhekepthittingandhitting,butIwasintootightforhimtolandanysolidblows.Thenhecaughtonandhestoppedhittingandstartedtryingtograppleandwrestleme.Hedidthisthingwherehegrabbedtheskinonmyarmsandpinched itbetweenhis thumbandforefingerandtwistedhard.Jesus,thathurt.

Itwas themost terrifyingmoment ofmy life. I hadnever been that scaredbefore,ever.Becausetherewasnopurposetoit—that’swhatmadeitsoterrifying.Itwasn’tdiscipline.Nothingaboutitwascomingfromaplaceoflove.Itdidn’tfeellikesomethingthatwouldendwithmelearningalessonaboutforgingmymom’ssignature.It felt likesomethingthatwouldendwhenhewanted it toend,whenhis rage was spent. It felt like there was something inside him that wanted todestroyme.

Abelwasmuchbiggerand stronger thanme,butbeing ina confined spacewas to my advantage because he didn’t have the room to maneuver. As hegrappledandpunchedIsomehowmanagedtotwistandwrigglemywayaroundhimandslipoutthedoor.Iwasquick,butAbelwasquickaswell.Hechasedme.Iranoutofthehouseandjumpedoverthegate,andIranandIranandIran.ThelasttimeIturnedaroundhewasroundingthegate,comingoutoftheyardafterme.UntilIturnedtwenty-fiveyearsold,Ihadarecurringnightmareofthelookonhisfaceashecamearoundthatcorner.

ThemomentIsawhimIputmyheaddownandran.IranliketheDevilwaschasing me. Abel was bigger and faster, but this was my neighborhood. Youcouldn’tcatchmeinmyneighborhood.Ikneweveryalleyandeverystreet,everywall to climb over, every fence to slip through. I was ducking through traffic,cutting through yards. I have no ideawhen he gave up because I never lookedback.Iranandranandran,asfarasmylegswouldcarryme.IwasinBramley,three neighborhoods away, before I stopped. I found a hiding place in somebushesandcrawledinsideandhuddledthereforwhatfeltlikehours.

Youdon’thavetoteachmealessontwice.FromthatdayuntilthedayIlefthome,I livedlikeamouseinthathouse.IfAbelwasinaroom,Iwasoutoftheroom.Ifhewasinonecorner,Iwasintheothercorner.Ifhewalkedintoaroom,IwouldgetupandactlikeIwasgoingtothekitchen,thenwhenIreenteredtheroom, I wouldmake sure I was close to the exit. He could be in the happiest,friendliestmood.Didn’tmatter.NeveragaindidIlethimcomebetweenmeandadoor.MaybeacoupleoftimesafterthatIwassloppyandhe’dlandapunchorakickbeforeIcouldgetaway,butInevertrustedhimagain,notforamoment.

ItwasdifferentforAndrew.AndrewwasAbel’sson,fleshofhisflesh,bloodofhisblood.Despitebeingnineyearsyoungerthanme,Andrewwasreallytheeldestsoninthathouse,Abel’sfirstborn,andthataccordedhimarespectthatIandevenmymotherneverenjoyed.AndAndrewhadnothingbutloveforthatman,despitehis shortcomings.Becauseof that love, I think,outofallofus,Andrewwas theonlyonewhowasn’tafraid.Hewasthe liontamer,onlyhe’dbeenraisedby thelion—hecouldn’t lovethebeastany lessdespiteknowingwhat itwascapableof.Forme, the first glint of anger ormadness fromAbel and Iwas gone. Andrewwould stay and try to talkAbel down.He’d even get betweenAbel andMom. IrememberonenightwhenAbelthrewabottleofJackDaniel’satAndrew’shead.Itjustmissedhimandexplodedonthewall.WhichistosaythatAndrewstayedlongenough toget thebottle thrownathim. Iwouldn’thave stuckaround longenoughforAbeltogetabeadonme.

—

WhenMightyMechanicswentunder,Abelhadtogethiscarsout.Someonewastakingovertheproperty;therewereliensagainsthisassets.Itwasamess.That’swhenhestartedrunninghisworkshopoutofouryard.It’salsowhenmymotherdivorcedhim.

In African culture there’s legal marriage and traditional marriage. Justbecauseyoudivorcesomeonelegallydoesn’tmeantheyarenolongeryourspouse.Once Abel’s debts and his terrible business decisions started impacting mymother’screditandherabilitytosupporthersons,shewantedout.“Idon’thavedebts,”shesaid.“Idon’thavebadcredit.I’mnotdoingthesethingswithyou.”Wewerestillafamilyandtheywerestilltraditionallymarried,butshedivorcedhiminordertoseparatetheirfinancialaffairs.Shealsotookhernameback.

Because Abel had started running an unlicensed business in a residentialarea,oneoftheneighborsfiledapetitiontogetridofus.Mymomappliedforalicensetobeabletooperateabusinessontheproperty.Theworkshopstayed,butAbelkeptrunning it intotheground,drinkinghismoney.At thesametime,mymother startedmovingupat the real-estate company sheworked for, takingonmoreresponsibilitiesandearningabettersalary.Hisworkshopbecamelikeasidehobbyalmost.HewassupposedtopayforAndrew’sschoolfeesandgroceries,buthe started falling behind even on that, and soon my mom was paying foreverything. She paid the electricity. She paid the mortgage. He literally

contributednothing.

Thatwas the turning point.Whenmymother startedmakingmoremoneyandgettingherindependenceback—that’swhenwesawthedragonemerge.Thedrinkinggotworse.Hegrewmoreandmoreviolent.Itwasn’t longaftercomingformeinthepantrythatAbelhitmymomforthesecondtime.Ican’trecallthedetailsofit,becausenowit’smuddledwithalltheothertimesthatcameafterit.Idorememberthatthepolicewerecalled.Theycameouttothehousethistime,butagainitwaslikeaboys’club.“Hey,guys.Thesewomen,youknowhowtheyare.”Noreportwasmade.Nochargeswerefiled.

Whenever he’d hit her or come after me, my mom would find me cryingafterwardandtakemeaside.She’dgivemethesametalkeverytime.

“PrayforAbel,”she’dsay.“Becausehedoesn’thateus.Hehateshimself.”

Toakidthismakesnosense.“Well,ifhehateshimself,”I’dsay,“whydoesn’thekickhimself?”

Abelwasoneof thosedrinkerswhereoncehewasgoneyou’d look intohiseyes and you didn’t even see the same person. I remember one night he camehome fuckdrunk, stumbling through the house. He stumbled into my room,mutteringtohimself,andIwokeuptoseehimwhipouthisdickandstartpissingonthefloor.Hethoughthewasinthebathroom.That’showdrunkhewouldget—hewouldn’tknowwhichroominthehousehewasin.Thereweresomanynightshewouldstumble intomyroomthinking itwashisandkickmeoutofbedandpassout. I’d yell at him,but itwas like talking to a zombie. I’d go sleepon thecouch.

He’dgetwastedwithhiscrewinthebackyardeveryeveningafterwork,andmanynightshe’dendupfightingwithoneofthem.SomeonewouldsaysomethingAbeldidn’tlike,andhe’dbeattheshitoutofhim.Theguywouldn’tshowupforwork Tuesday or Wednesday, but then by Thursday he’d be back because heneededthejob.Everyfewweeksitwasthesamestory,likeclockwork.

Abel kicked the dogs, too. Fufi, mostly. Panther was smart enough to stayaway,butdumb,lovableFufiwasforevertryingtobeAbel’sfriend.She’dcrosshispathorbeinhiswaywhenhe’dhadafew,andhe’dgivehertheboot.Afterthatshe’d go and hide somewhere for a while. Fufi getting kicked was always thewarningsignthatshitwasabouttogodown.Thedogsandtheworkersintheyardoftengotthefirsttasteofhisanger,andthatwouldlettherestofusknowtolielow.I’dusuallygofindFufiwherevershewashidingandbewithher.

The strange thingwas thatwhenFufi got kicked shenever yelpedor cried.When the vet diagnosedher as deaf, he also foundout shehad some conditionwhereshedidn’thaveafullydevelopedsenseoftouch.Shedidn’tfeelpain.Whichwaswhyshewouldalways startoverwithAbel like itwasanewday.He’dkickher,she’dhide,thenshe’dberightbackthenextmorning,wagginghertail.“Hey.I’mhere.I’llgiveyouanotherchance.”

Andhealwaysgotthesecondchance.TheAbelwhowaslikableandcharmingneverwent away.Hehadadrinkingproblem,buthewas anice guy.Wehadafamily.Growingupinahomeofabuse,youstrugglewiththenotionthatyoucanloveapersonyouhate,orhateapersonyoulove.It’sastrangefeeling.Youwantto live inaworldwheresomeone isgoodorbad,whereyoueitherhatethemorlovethem,butthat’snothowpeopleare.

There was an undercurrent of terror that ran through the house, but theactual beatings themselveswerenot that frequent. I think if theyhadbeen, thesituation would have ended sooner. Ironically, the good times in betweenwerewhatallowedittodragoutandescalateasfarasitdid.Hehitmymomonce,thenthenexttimewasthreeyearslater,anditwasjustalittlebitworse.Thenitwastwoyearslater,anditwasjustalittlebitworse.Thenitwasayearlater,anditwasjust a little bit worse. It was sporadic enough to where you’d think it wouldn’thappenagain,but itwas frequent enough that younever forgot itwaspossible.Therewasarhythmtoit.Irememberonetime,afteroneterribleincident,nobodyspoke to him for over a month. No words, no eye contact, no conversations,nothing.Wemovedthroughthehouseasstrangers,atdifferenttimes.Completesilenttreatment.Thenonemorningyou’reinthekitchenandthere’sanod.“Hey.”“Hey.”Thenaweeklater it’s“Didyouseethethingonthenews?”“Yeah.”Thenthenextweekthere’sa jokeanda laugh.Slowly,slowly, lifegoesbacktohowitwas.Sixmonths,ayearlater,youdoitallagain.

—

OneafternoonIcamehomefromSandringhamandmymomwasveryupsetandworkedup.

“Thismanisunbelievable,”shesaid.

“Whathappened?”

“Heboughtagun.”

“What?Agun?Whatdoyoumean,‘Heboughtagun’?”

Agunwas sucha ridiculous thing inmyworld. Inmymind,only copsandcriminalshadguns.Abelhadgoneout andbought a9mmParabellumSmith&Wesson. Sleek and black, menacing. It didn’t look cool like guns in movies. Itlookedlikeitkilledthings.

“Whydidhebuyagun?”Iasked.

“Idon’tknow.”

Shesaidshe’dconfrontedhimaboutit,andhe’dgoneoffonsomenonsenseabouttheworldneedingtolearntorespecthim.

“Hethinkshe’sthepolicemanoftheworld,”shesaid.“Andthat’stheproblemwith theworld.We have peoplewho cannot police themselves, so theywant topoliceeveryoneelsearoundthem.”

Notlongafterthat,Imovedout.Theatmospherehadbecometoxicforme.I’dreachedthepointwhereIwasasbigasAbel.Bigenoughtopunchback.Afatherdoesnot fearretributionfromhisson,butIwasnothisson.Heknewthat.Theanalogy my mom used was that there were now two male lions in the house.“Every time he looks at you he sees your father,” she’d say. “You’re a constantreminderofanotherman.Hehatesyou,andyouneedtoleave.Youneedtoleavebeforeyoubecomelikehim.”

Itwas also just time forme to go.Regardless ofAbel, ourplanhad alwaysbeenformetomoveoutafterschool.Mymotherneverwantedmetobelikemyuncle,oneofthosemen,unemployedandstilllivingathomewithhismother.Shehelpedmegetmyflat,andImovedout.Theflatwasonlytenminutesawayfromthehouse,soIwasalwaysaroundtodropintohelpwitherrandsorhavedinneronce inawhile.But,most important,whateverwasgoingonwithAbel, Ididn’thavetobeinvolved.

Atsomepointmymommovedtoaseparatebedroominthehouse,andfromthen on they weremarried in name only, not even cohabitating but coexisting.Thatstateofaffairslastedayear,maybetwo.Andrewhadturnednine,andinmyworldIwascountingdownuntilhe turnedeighteen, thinking thatwould finallyfreemymom from this abusiveman. Then one afternoonmymom called andaskedmetocomebythehouse.Afewhourslater,Ipoppedby.

“Trevor,”shesaid.“I’mpregnant.”

“Sorry,what?”

“I’mpregnant.”

“What?!”

Good Lord, I was furious. I was so angry. She herself seemed resolute, asdeterminedasever,butwithanundertoneofsadnessIhadneverseenbefore,likethenewshaddevastatedheratfirstbutshe’dsincereconciledherselftotherealityofit.

“Howcouldyouletthishappen?”

“Abel and I, wemade up. Imoved back into the bedroom. It was just onenight,andthen…Ibecamepregnant.Idon’tknowhow.”

Shedidn’tknow.Shewasforty-fouryearsold.She’dhadhertubestiedafterAndrew. Even her doctor had said, “This shouldn’t be possible.We don’t knowhowthishappened.”

Iwasboilingwithrage.AllwehadtodowaswaitforAndrewtogrowup,anditwasgoingtobeover,andnowitwaslikeshe’dre-uppedonthecontract.

“Soyou’regoing tohave thischildwith thisman?You’regoing tostaywiththismananothereighteenyears?Areyoucrazy?”

“God spoke to me, Trevor. He told me, ‘Patricia, I don’t do anything by

mistake.There isnothingIgiveyouthatyoucannothandle.’ I’mpregnant forareason.IknowwhatkindofkidsIcanmake.IknowwhatkindofsonsIcanraise.Icanraisethischild.Iwillraisethischild.”

NinemonthslaterIsaacwasborn.ShecalledhimIsaacbecauseintheBibleSarahgetspregnantwhenshe’slikeahundredyearsoldandshe’snotsupposedtobehavingchildrenandthat’swhatshenamesherson.

Isaac’s birth pushed me even further away. I visited less and less. Then Ipoppedbyone afternoonand thehousewas in chaos, police cars out front, theaftermathofanotherfight.

He’dhitherwithabicycle.Abelhadbeenberatingoneofhisworkersintheyard, andmymomhad tried to get between them. Abel was furious that she’dcontradictedhiminfrontofanemployee,sohepickedupAndrew’sbikeandhebeatherwithit.Againshecalledthepolice,andthecopswhoshowedupthistimeactuallyknewAbel.He’dfixedtheircars.Theywerepals.Nochargeswerefiled.Nothinghappened.

ThattimeIconfrontedhim.Iwasbigenoughnow.

“Youcan’tkeepdoingthis,”Isaid.“Thisisnotright.”

He was apologetic. He always was. He didn’t puff out his chest and getdefensiveoranythinglikethat.

“I know,”he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t likedoing these things, but youknowhowyourmomis.Shecantalka lotandshedoesn’t listen.I feel likeyourmomdoesn’t respect me sometimes. She came and disrespected me in front of myworkers. I can’t have these other men looking at me like I don’t know how tocontrolmywife.”

Afterthebicycle,mymomhiredcontractorssheknewthroughthereal-estatebusiness to build her a separate house in the backyard, like a little servants’quarters,andshemovedintherewithIsaac.

“ThisisthemostinsanethingI’veeverseen,”Itoldher.

“This is all I cando,” she said. “Thepolicewon’thelpme.Thegovernmentwon’tprotectme.OnlymyGodcanprotectme.ButwhatIcandoisuseagainsthimtheonethingthathecherishes,andthatishispride.Bymelivingoutsideinashack,everyone isgoingtoaskhim, ‘Whydoesyourwife live inashackoutsideyourhouse?’He’sgoingtohavetoanswerthatquestion,andnomatterwhathesays,everyonewillknowthatsomethingiswrongwithhim.Helovestolivefortheworld.Lettheworldseehimforwhoheis.He’sasaintinthestreets.He’sadevilinthishouse.Lethimbeseenforwhoheis.”

WhenmymomhaddecidedtokeepIsaac,Iwassoclosetowritingheroff.Icouldn’t stand the pain anymore.But seeingher hitwith a bicycle, living like aprisoner in her own backyard, that was the final straw forme. I was a brokenperson.Iwasdone.

“This thing?” I toldher. “Thisdysfunctional thing? Iwon’tbeapartof it. Ican’t live this lifewithyou. I refuse.You’vemadeyourdecision.Good luckwithyourlife.I’mgoingtolivemine.”

Sheunderstood.Shedidn’tfeelbetrayedorabandonedatall.

“Honey,Iknowwhatyou’regoingthrough,”shesaid.“Atonepoint,Ihadtodisownmyfamilytogooffandlivemyownlife,too.Iunderstandwhyyouneedtodothesame.”

SoIdid.Iwalkedout.Ididn’tcall.Ididn’tvisit.IsaaccameandIwent,andforthelifeofmeIcouldnotunderstandwhyshewouldn’tdothesame:leave.Justleave.Justfuckingleave.

I didn’t understand what she was going through. I didn’t understanddomesticviolence.Ididn’tunderstandhowadultrelationshipsworked;I’dneverevenhadagirlfriend.Ididn’tunderstandhowshecouldhavesexwithamanshehatedandfeared.Ididn’tknowhoweasilysexandhatredandfearcanintertwine.

Iwas angrywithmymom. I hatedhim, but I blamedher. I sawAbel as achoiceshe’dmade,achoiceshewascontinuingtomake.Mywholelife,tellingmestoriesaboutgrowingupinthehomelands,beingabandonedbyherparents,shehad always said, “You cannot blame anyone else for what you do. You cannotblameyourpastforwhoyouare.Youareresponsibleforyou.Youmakeyourownchoices.”

She never let me see us as victims. Wewere victims, me and my mom,AndrewandIsaac.Victimsofapartheid.Victimsofabuse.ButIwasneverallowedtothinkthatway,andIdidn’tseeherlifethatway.Cuttingmyfatheroutofourlives to pacify Abel, that was her choice. Supporting Abel’s workshop was herchoice.Isaacwasherchoice.Shehadthemoney,nothim.Shewasn’tdependent.Soinmymind,shewastheonemakingthedecision.

Itissoeasy,fromtheoutside,toputtheblameonthewomanandsay,“Youjust need to leave.” It’s not likemy home was the only home where there wasdomesticabuse.It’swhatIgrewuparound.Isawit inthestreetsofSoweto,onTV,inmovies.Wheredoesawomangoinasocietywherethatisthenorm?Whenthe policewon’t help her?When her own familywon’t help her?Where does awomangowhensheleavesonemanwhohitsherandisjustaslikelytowindupwithanothermanwhohitsher,maybeevenworse than the first?Wheredoesawomangowhenshe’ssinglewiththreekidsandshelivesinasocietythatmakesherapariahforbeingamanlesswoman?Whereshe’sseenasawhorefordoingthat?Wheredoesshego?Whatdoesshedo?

But I didn’t comprehend any of that at the time. I was a boy with a boy’sunderstandingof things. Idistinctlyremember the last timewearguedabout it,too.Itwassometimeafterthebicycle,orwhenshewasmovingintohershackinthebackyard.Iwasgoingoff,beggingherforthethousandthtime.

“Why?Whydon’tyoujustleave?”

Sheshookherhead.“Oh,baby.No,no,no.Ican’tleave.”

“Whynot?”

“BecauseifIleavehe’llkillus.”

Shewasn’tbeingdramatic.Shedidn’traisehervoice.Shesaidittotallycalmandmatter-of-fact,andIneveraskedherthatquestionagain.

—

Eventually she did leave.What prompted her to leave, what the final breakingpointwas,Ihavenoidea.Iwasgone.Iwasoffbecomingacomedian,touringthecountry,playingshowsinEngland,hostingradioshows,hostingtelevisionshows.I’dmovedinwithmycousinMlungisiandmademyownlifeseparatefromhers.Icouldn’t investmyselfanymore,becauseitwouldhavebrokenmeintotoomanypieces.ButonedaysheboughtanotherhouseinHighlandsNorth,metsomeonenew,andmovedonwithher life.Andrewand Isaac still saw theirdad,who,bythat point, was just existing in the world, still going through the same cycle ofdrinkingandfighting,stilllivinginahousepaidforbyhisex-wife.

Yearspassed.Lifecarriedon.

ThenonemorningIwasinbedaroundtena.m.andmyphonerang.ItwasonaSunday.IknowitwasonaSundaybecauseeveryoneelseinthefamilyhadgonetochurchandI,quitehappily,hadnot.Thedaysofendlesslyschleppingbackandforthtochurchwerenolongermyproblem,andIwaslazilysleepingin.Theironyofmylifeisthatwheneverchurchisinvolvediswhenshitgoeswrong,likegettingkidnappedbyviolentminibusdrivers.I’dalwaysteasedmymomaboutthat,too.“Thischurchthingofyours,allthisJesus,whatgoodhascomeofit?”

I looked over atmy phone. Itwas flashingmymom’s number, butwhen Ianswered,itwasAndrewontheotherend.Hesoundedperfectlycalm.

“Hey,Trevor,it’sAndrew.”

“Hey.”

“Howareyou?”

“Good.What’sup?”

“Areyoubusy?”

“I’msortofsleeping.Why?”

“Mom’sbeenshot.”

Okay,sothereweretwostrangethingsaboutthecall.First,whywouldheaskmeifIwasbusy?Let’sstartthere.Whenyourmom’sbeenshot,thefirstlineoutof yourmouth shouldbe “Mom’sbeen shot.”Not “Howareyou?”Not “Areyoubusy?”Thatconfusedme.Thesecondweirdthingwaswhenhesaid,“Mom’sbeen

shot,”Ididn’task,“Whoshother?”Ididn’thaveto.Hesaid,“Mom’sbeenshot,”andmymindautomaticallyfilledintherest:“Abelshotmom.”

“Whereareyounow?”Isaid.

“We’reatLinksfieldHospital.”

“Okay,I’monmyway.”

Ijumpedoutofbed,randownthecorridor,andbangedonMlungisi’sdoor.“Dude,mymom’sbeen shot! She’s in thehospital.”He jumpedout of bed, too,and we got in the car and raced to the hospital, which luckily was only fifteenminutesaway.

Atthatpoint,Iwasupsetbutnotterrified.Andrewhadbeensocalmonthephone,nocrying,nopanic inhisvoice, so Iwas thinking,Shemustbeokay. Itmustnotbethatbad.Icalledhimbackfromthecartofindoutmore.

“Andrew,whathappened?”

“Wewereonourwayhome fromchurch,”hesaid,again totallycalm. “AndDad was waiting for us at the house, and he got out of his car and startedshooting.”

“Butwhere?Wheredidheshoother?”

“Heshotherinherleg.”

“Oh,okay,”Isaid,relieved.

“Andthenheshotherinthehead.”

Whenhe said that,mybody just let go. I remember theexact traffic light Iwas at. For amoment therewas a complete vacuumof sound, and then I criedtearslikeIhadnevercriedbefore.Icollapsedinheavingsobsandmoans.IcriedasifeveryotherthingI’dcriedforinmylifehadbeenawasteofcrying.Icriedsohardthatifmypresentcryingselfcouldgobackintimeandseemyothercryingselves,itwouldslapthemandsay,“Thatshit’snotworthcryingfor.”Mycrywasnotacryofsadness.Itwasnotcatharsis.Itwasn’tmefeelingsorryformyself.Itwasanexpressionofrawpainthatcamefromaninabilityofmybodytoexpressthat pain in any other way, shape, or form. She was my mom. She was myteammate.Ithadalwaysbeenmeandhertogether,meandheragainsttheworld.WhenAndrewsaid,“shotherinthehead,”Ibrokeintwo.

Thelightchanged.Icouldn’tevenseetheroad,butIdrovethroughthetears,thinking,Justgetthere,justgetthere,justgetthere.Wepulleduptothehospital,andIjumpedoutofthecar.Therewasanoutdoorsittingareabytheentrancetotheemergencyroom.Andrewwasstandingtherewaitingforme,alone,hisclothessmeared with blood. He still looked perfectly calm, completely stoic. Then themomenthelookedupandsawmehebrokedownandstartedbawling.Itwaslikehe’dbeenholdingittogetherthewholemorningandtheneverythingbrokelooseatonceandhelostit.Irantohimandhuggedhimandhecriedandcried.Hiscry

wasdifferentfrommine,though.Mycrywasoneofpainandanger.Hiscrywasoneofhelplessness.

Iturnedandranintotheemergencyroom.Mymomwasthereintriageonagurney. The doctorswere stabilizing her.Herwhole bodywas soaked in blood.Therewasaholeinherface,agapingwoundaboveherlip,partofhernosegone.

ShewasascalmandsereneasI’deverseenher.Shecouldstillopenoneeye,andsheturnedandlookedupatmeandsawthelookofhorroronmyface.

“It’s okay, baby,” shewhispered, barely able to speakwith theblood inherthroat.

“It’snotokay.”

“No,no,I’mokay,I’mokay.Where’sAndrew?Where’syourbrother?”

“He’soutside.”

“GotoAndrew.”

“ButMom—”

“Shh.It’sokay,baby.I’mfine.”

“You’renotfine,you’re—”

“Shhhhhh.I’mfine,I’mfine,I’mfine.Gotoyourbrother.Yourbrotherneedsyou.”

The doctors keptworking, and therewas nothing I could do to help her. IwentbackoutsidetobewithAndrew.Wesatdowntogether,andhetoldmethestory.

Theywerecominghomefromchurch,abiggroup,mymomandAndrewandIsaac, her new husband and his children and a whole bunch of his extendedfamily, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. They had just pulled into thedrivewaywhenAbelpulledupandgotoutofhiscar.Hehadhisgun.Helookedrightatmymother.

“You’vestolenmylife,”hesaid.“You’vetakeneverythingawayfromme.NowI’mgoingtokillallofyou.”

Andrewsteppedinfrontofhisfather.Hesteppedrightinfrontofthegun.

“Don’tdothis,Dad,please.You’redrunk.Justputthegunaway.”

Abellookeddownathisson.

“No,”hesaid.“I’mkillingeverybody,andifyoudon’twalkawayIwillshootyoufirst.”

Andrewsteppedaside.

“Hiseyeswerenot lying,”hetoldme.“HehadtheeyesoftheDevil.InthatmomentIcouldtellmyfatherwasgone.”

ForallthepainIfeltthatday,inhindsight,IhavetoimaginethatAndrew’spainwas fargreater thanmine.MymomhadbeenshotbyamanIdespised. Ifanything, I feltvindicated; I’dbeenrightaboutAbelallalong. Icoulddirectmyanger andhatred towardhimwithno shameor guiltwhatsoever.ButAndrew’smother had been shot by Andrew’s father, a father he loved. How does hereconcile his lovewith that situation?Howdoes he carry on loving both sides?Bothsidesofhimself?

Isaac was only four years old. He didn’t fully comprehend what washappening,andasAndrewsteppedaside,Isaacstartedcrying.

“Daddy,whatareyoudoing?Daddy,whatareyoudoing?”

“Isaac,gotoyourbrother,”Abelsaid.

Isaac ran over toAndrew, andAndrewheld him.ThenAbel raisedhis gunand he started shooting. My mother jumped in front of the gun to protecteveryone,andthat’swhenshetookthefirstbullet,not inherlegbutinherbuttcheek.Shecollapsed,andasshefelltothegroundshescreamed.

“Run!”

Abelkeptshootingandeveryoneran.Theyscattered.Mymomwasstrugglingtogetbacktoher feetwhenAbelwalkedupandstoodoverher.Hepointedthegunatherheadpoint-blank,execution-style.Thenhepulledthetrigger.Nothing.Thegunmisfired.Click!Hepulledthetriggeragain,samething.Thenagainandagain.Click!Click!Click!Click!Four timeshepulled the trigger,and four timesthegunmisfired.Bulletswerepoppingoutoftheejectionport,fallingoutofthegun,fallingdownonmymomandclatteringtotheground.

Abelstoppedtoseewhatwaswrongwiththegun.Mymotherjumpedupinapanic.Sheshovedhimaside,ranforthecar,jumpedintothedriver’sseat.

Andrewranbehindand jumped into thepassengerseatnext toher.Justassheturnedtheignition,Andrewheardonelastgunshot,andthewindshieldwentred.Abelhadfiredfrombehindthecar.Thebulletwentintothebackofherheadandexitedthroughthefrontofherface,andbloodsprayedeverywhere.Herbodyslumped over the steeringwheel. Andrew, reactingwithout thinking, pulledmymom to the passenger side, flipped over her, jumped into the driver’s seat,slammedthecarintogear,andracedtothehospitalinLinksfield.

I asked Andrew what happened to Abel. He didn’t know. I was filled withrage,buttherewasnothingIcoulddo.Ifeltcompletelyimpotent,butIstillfeltIhadtodosomething.SoItookoutmyphoneandIcalledhim—Icalledthemanwho’djustshotmymom,andheactuallypickedup.

“Trevor.”

“Youkilledmymom.”

“Yes,Idid.”

“Youkilledmymom!”

“Yes.AndifIcouldfindyou,Iwouldkillyouaswell.”

Then he hung up. It was the most chilling moment. It was terrifying.WhatevernerveI’dworkeduptocallhimI immediatelylost.TothisdayIdon’tknowwhat I was thinking. I don’t knowwhat I expected to happen. I was justenraged.

IkeptaskingAndrewquestions,tryingtogetmoredetails.Then,asweweretalking,anursecameoutsidelookingforme.

“Areyouthefamily?”sheasked.

“Yes.”

“Sir,there’saproblem.Yourmotherwasspeakingabitatfirst.She’sstoppednow,butfromwhatwe’vegatheredshedoesn’thavehealthinsurance.”

“What?No,no.Thatcan’tbetrue.Iknowmymomhashealthinsurance.”

Shedidn’t.Asit turnedout,afewmonthsprior,she’ddecided,“Thishealthinsurance isascam.Inevergetsick. I’mgoingtocancel it.”Sonowshehadnohealthinsurance.

“We can’t treat your mother here,” the nurse said. “If she doesn’t haveinsurancewehavetosendhertoastatehospital.”

“State hospital?! What—no! You can’t. My mom’s been shot in the head.You’regoingtoputherbackonagurney?Sendherout inanambulance?She’lldie.Youneedtotreatherrightnow.”

“Sir,wecan’t.Weneedaformofpayment.”

“I’myourformofpayment.I’llpay.”

“Yes,peoplesaythat,butwithoutaguarantee—”

Ipulledoutmycreditcard.

“Here,”Isaid.“Takethis.I’llpay.I’llpayforeverything.”

“Sir,hospitalcanbeveryexpensive.”

“Idon’tcare.”

“Sir,Idon’tthinkyouunderstand.Hospitalcanbereallyexpensive.”

“Lady,Ihavemoney.I’llpayanything.Justhelpus.”

“Sir,youdon’tunderstand.Wehavetodosomanytests.Onetestalonecouldcosttwo,threethousandrand.”

“Threethousan—what?Lady,thisismymother’slifewe’retalkingabout.I’llpay.”

“Sir,youdon’tunderstand.Yourmotherhasbeenshot.Inherbrain.She’llbe

inICU.OnenightinICUcouldcostyoufifteen,twentythousandrand.”

“Lady,areyounot listeningtome?This ismymother’s life.This isher life.Takethemoney.Takeallofit.Idon’tcare.”

“Sir!Youdon’tunderstand. I’ve seen thishappen.Yourmother couldbe inthe ICU for weeks. This could cost you five hundred thousand, six hundredthousand.Maybeevenmillions.You’llbeindebtfortherestofyourlife.”

I’mnotgoingtolietoyou:Ipaused.Ipausedhard.Inthatmoment,whatIheardthenursesayingwas,“Allofyourmoneywillbegone,”andthenIstartedtothink,Well…whatisshe,fifty?That’sprettygood,right?She’slivedagoodlife.

Igenuinelydidnotknowwhattodo.Istaredatthenurseastheshockofwhatshe’dsaidsunkin.Mymindracedthroughadozendifferentscenarios.WhatifIspend that money and then she dies anyway? Do I get a refund? I actuallyimaginedmymother, as frugal as shewas,wakingup froma comaand saying,“Youspenthowmuch?Youidiot.Youshouldhavesavedthatmoneytolookafteryour brothers.” Andwhat aboutmy brothers? Theywould bemy responsibilitynow.Iwouldhavetoraisethefamily,whichIcouldn’tdoifIwasmillionsindebt,anditwasalwaysmymother’ssolemnvowthatraisingmybrotherswastheonethingIwouldneverhavetodo.Evenasmycareertookoff,she’drefusedanyhelpIoffered.“Idon’twantyoupayingforyourmotherthesamewayIhadtopayformine,”she’dsay.“Idon’twantyouraisingyourbrothersthesamewayAbelhadtoraisehis.”

Mymother’sgreatestfearwasthatIwouldenduppayingtheblacktax,thatIwouldgettrappedbythecycleofpovertyandviolencethatcamebeforeme.ShehadalwayspromisedmethatIwouldbetheonetobreakthatcycle.Iwouldbetheone to move forward and not back. And as I looked at that nurse outside theemergencyroom,IwaspetrifiedthatthemomentIhandedhermycreditcard,thecyclewouldjustcontinueandI’dgetsuckedrightbackin.

Peoplesayall thetimethatthey’ddoanythingforthepeoplethey love.Butwould you really?Would you do anything?Would you give everything? I don’tknow thata childknows thatkindof selfless love.Amother, yes.Amotherwillclutchherchildrenandjumpfromamovingcartokeepthemfromharm.Shewilldo it without thinking. But I don’t think the child knows how to do that, notinstinctively.It’ssomethingthechildhastolearn.

Ipressedmycreditcardintothenurse’shand.

“Dowhateveryouhavetodo.Justpleasehelpmymom.”

Wespent the restof theday in limbo,waiting,notknowing,pacingaroundthehospital, familymembersstoppingby.Severalhours later, thedoctor finallycameoutoftheemergencyroomtogiveusanupdate.

“What’shappening?”Iasked.

“Yourmotherisstable,”hesaid.“She’soutofsurgery.”

“Isshegoingtobeokay?”

Hethoughtforamomentaboutwhathewasgoingtosay.

“Idon’t like touse thisword,”hesaid,“becauseI’mamanofscienceandIdon’tbelieveinit.Butwhathappenedtoyourmothertodaywasamiracle.Ineversay that,becauseIhate itwhenpeoplesay it,but Idon’thaveanyotherway toexplainthis.”

The bullet that hit my mother in the butt, he said, was a through-and-through. Itwent in, came out, and didn’t do any real damage. The other bulletwentthroughthebackofherhead,enteringbelowtheskullatthetopofherneck.Itmissed the spinal cordby ahair,missed themedullaoblongata, and traveledthroughherheadjustunderneaththebrain,missingeverymajorvein,artery,andnerve.Withthetrajectorythebulletwason,itwasheadedstraightforherlefteyesocketandwouldhaveblownouthereye,butatthelastseconditsloweddown,hithercheekboneinstead,shatteredhercheekbone,ricochetedoff,andcameoutthrough her left nostril. On the gurney in the emergency room, the blood hadmadethewoundlookmuchworsethanitwas.Thebullettookoffonlyatinyflapofskinonthesideofhernostril,anditcameoutclean,withnobulletfragmentsleftinside.Shedidn’tevenneedsurgery.Theystoppedthebleeding,stitchedherupinback,stitchedherupinfront,andletherheal.

“Therewasnothingwecando,because there’snothingweneed todo,” thedoctorsaid.

Mymother was out of the hospital in four days. She was back at work inseven.

—

Thedoctorskepthersedatedtherestofthatdayandnighttorest.Theytoldallofus to go home. “She’s stable,” they said. “There’s nothing you can do here. Gohomeandsleep.”Sowedid.

Iwentback first thing thenextmorning tobewithmymother inherroomandwaitforhertowakeup.WhenIwalkedinshewasstillasleep.Thebackofherheadwasbandaged.Shehadstitchesinherfaceandgauzecoveringhernoseandher lefteye.She looked frailandweak, tired,oneof the few times inmy life I’deverseenherlookthatway.

Isatclosebyherbed,holdingherhand,waitingandwatchingherbreathe,afloodofthoughtsgoingthroughmymind.IwasstillafraidIwasgoingtoloseher.Iwasangryatmyselffornotbeingthere,angryatthepoliceforallthetimestheydidn’t arrest Abel. I toldmyself I should have killed him years ago, whichwasridiculous to think because I’m not capable of killing anyone, but I thought itanyway.Iwasangryattheworld,angryatGod.Becauseallmymomdoesispray.Ifthere’safanclubforJesus,mymomisdefinitelyinthetop100,andthisiswhatshegets?

Afteranhourorsoofwaiting,sheopenedherunbandagedeye.Thesecondshedid,Ilostit.Istartedbawling.SheaskedforsomewaterandIgaveheracup,andsheleanedforwardabittosipthroughthestraw.Ikeptbawlingandbawlingandbawling.Icouldn’tcontrolmyself.

“Shh,”shesaid.“Don’tcry,baby.Shhhhh.Don’tcry.”

“HowcanInotcry,Mom?Youalmostdied.”

“No, Iwasn’tgoing todie. Iwasn’tgoing todie. It’sokay. Iwasn’tgoing todie.”

“ButIthoughtyouweredead.”Ikeptbawlingandbawling.“IthoughtI’dlostyou.”

“No,baby.Baby,don’tcry.Trevor.Trevor,listen.Listentome.Listen.”

“What?”Isaid,tearsstreamingdownmyface.

“Mychild,youmustlookonthebrightside.”

“What?Whatareyoutalkingabout,‘thebrightside’?Mom,youwereshotintheface.Thereisnobrightside.”

“Of course there is. Now you’re officially the best-looking person in thefamily.”

She broke out in a huge smile and started laughing. Through my tears, Istartedlaughing,too.Iwasbawlingmyeyesoutandlaughinghystericallyatthesametime.Wesatthereandshesqueezedmyhandandwecrackedeachotherupthewaywealwaysdid,motherandson,laughingtogetherthroughthepaininanintensive-carerecoveryroomonabrightandsunnyandbeautifulday.

Whenmymotherwasshot,somuchhappenedsoquickly.Wewereonlyable topiece thewhole story togetherafter the fact, aswe collectedall thedifferent accounts fromeveryonewho was there. Waiting around at the hospital that day, we had so many unansweredquestions,like,WhathappenedtoIsaac?WherewasIsaac?Weonlyfoundoutafterwefoundhimandhetoldus.

WhenAndrewspedoffwithmymom,leavingthefour-year-oldaloneonthefront lawn,Abelwalkedovertohisyoungest,pickedhimup,puttheboyinhiscar,anddroveaway.Astheydrove,Isaacturnedtohisdad.

“Dad,whydidyoukillMom?”heasked,atthatpointassuming,aswealldid,thatmymomwasdead.

“BecauseI’mveryunhappy,”Abelreplied.“BecauseI’mverysad.”

“Yeah,butyoushouldn’tkillMom.Wherearewegoingnow?”

“I’mgoingtodropyouoffatyouruncle’shouse.”

“Andwhereareyougoing?”

“I’mgoingtokillmyself.”

“Butdon’tkillyourself,Dad.”

“No,I’mgoingtokillmyself.”

TheuncleAbelwastalkingaboutwasnotarealunclebutafriend.HedroppedIsaacoffwiththisfriendandthenhedroveoff.Hespentthatdayandwenttoeveryone,relativesandfriends,andsaidhisgoodbyes.Heeventoldpeoplewhathehaddone.“ThisiswhatI’vedone.I’vekilledher,andI’mnowonthewaytokillmyself.Goodbye.”Hespentthewholedayonthisstrangefarewelltour,untilfinallyoneofhiscousinscalledhimout.

“You need to man up,” the cousin said. “This is the coward’s way. You need to turnyourself in. If you were man enough to do this, you have to be man enough to face theconsequences.”

Abelbrokedownandhandedhisgunovertothecousin,thecousindrovehimtothepolicestation,andAbelturnedhimselfin.

Hespentacoupleofweeksinjail,waitingforabailhearing.Wefiledamotionopposingbailbecausehe’dshownthathewasathreat.SinceAndrewandIsaacwerestillminors,socialworkersstartedgetting involved.Wefelt likethecasewasopen-and-shut,but thenoneday,after amonth or so,we got a call that he’dmade bail. The great ironywas that he got bailbecausehetoldthejudgethatifhewasinjail,hecouldn’tearnmoneytosupporthiskids.Buthewasn’tsupportinghiskids—mymomwassupportingthekids.

SoAbelwasout.Thecaseslowlygrounditswaythroughthelegalsystem,andeverythingwentagainstus.Becauseofmymother’smiraculousrecovery,thechargewasonlyattemptedmurder. And because no domestic violence charges had ever been filed in all the timesmymotherhadcalledthepolicetoreporthim,Abelhadnocriminalrecord.Hegotagoodlawyer,whocontinuedtoleanonthecourtaboutthefactthathehadchildrenathomewhoneededhim.Thecaseneverwenttotrial.Abelpledguilty toattemptedmurder.Hewasgiventhreeyears’probation.Hedidn’tserveasingledayinprison.Hekeptjointcustodyofhissons.He’swalkingaroundJohannesburgtoday,completelyfree.ThelastIheardhestilllivessomewherearoundHighlandsNorth,nottoofarfrommymom.

—

Thefinalpieceofthestorycamefrommymom,whocouldonlytellushersideaftershewokeup.SherememberedAbelpullingupandpointingthegunatAndrew.Sherememberedfalling

tothegroundaftergettingshotintheass.ThenAbelcameandstoodoverherandpointedhisgunatherhead.Shelookedupandlookedathimstraightdownthebarrelofthegun.Thenshestartedtopray,andthat’swhenthegunmisfired.Thenitmisfiredagain.Thenitmisfiredagain, and again. She jumped up, shoved him away, and ran for the car. Andrew leapt inbesideherandsheturnedtheignitionandthenhermemorywentblank.

To this day, nobody can explain what happened. Even the police didn’t understand.Because itwasn’t like the gundidn’twork. It fired, and then itdidn’t fire, and then it firedagainforthefinalshot.Anyonewhoknowsanythingaboutfirearmswilltellyouthata9mmhandguncannotmisfireinthewaythatgundid.Butatthecrimescenethepolicehaddrawnlittlechalkcirclesalloverthedriveway,allwithspentshellcasingsfromtheshotsAbelfired,andthenthesefourbullets,intact,fromwhenhewasstandingovermymom—nobodyknowswhy.

Mymom’stotalhospitalbillcameto50,000rand.Ipaiditthedayweleft.Forfourdayswe’d been in the hospital, family members visiting, talking and hanging out, laughing andcrying.Aswepackedupherthingstoleave,Iwasgoingonabouthowinsanethewholeweekhadbeen.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” I told her. “I still can’t believe you didn’t have any healthinsurance.”

“OhbutIdohaveinsurance,”shesaid.

“Youdo?”

“Yes.Jesus.”

“Jesus?”

“Jesus.”

“Jesusisyourhealthinsurance?”

“IfGodiswithme,whocanbeagainstme?”

“Okay,Mom.”

“Trevor,Iprayed.ItoldyouIprayed.Idon’tprayfornothing.”

“Youknow,”Isaid,“foronceIcannotarguewithyou.Thegun,thebullets—Ican’texplainanyofit.SoI’llgiveyouthatmuch.”ThenIcouldn’tresistteasingherwithonelastlittlejab.“ButwherewasyourJesustopayyourhospitalbill,hmm?IknowforafactthatHedidn’tpaythat.”

Shesmiledandsaid,“You’reright.Hedidn’t.ButHeblessedmewiththesonwhodid.”

Formymother.Myfirstfan.Thankyouformakingmeaman.

Fornurturingmycareerthesepastyearsandsteeringmedowntheroadthatledtothisbook,IowemanythankstoNormAladjem,DerekVanPelt,SanazYamin,RachelRusch,MattBlake,JeffEndlich,andJillFritzo.

Formakingthisbookdealhappenandkeepingitontrackduringaverytightandhectic time, Iwould like to thankPeterMcGuiganandhis teamatFoundryLiterary+Media,includingKirstenNeuhaus,SaraDeNobrega,andClaireHarris.Also,manythankstoTannerColbyforhelpingmeputmystoryonthepage.

Forseeingthepotential inthisbookandmakingitareality,Iwould liketothankeveryoneatRandomHouseandSpiegel&Grau,includingmyeditorChrisJackson,publishersJulieGrauandCindySpiegel,TomPerry,GregMollica,SusanTurner,AndreaDeWerd,LeighMarchant,BarbaraFillon,DharaParikh,RebeccaBerlant,KellyChian,NicoleCounts,andGinaCentrello.

ForbringingthisbookhometoSouthAfricaandmakingsureitispublishedwith the utmost care, I would like to thank everyone at Pan Macmillan SouthAfrica, including Sean Fraser, Sandile Khumalo, Andrea Nattrass, RhulaniNetshivhera,SandileNkosi,NkatekoTraore,KatlegoTapala,WesleyThompson,andMiavanHeerden.

Forreadingthismanuscriptinitsearlystagesandsharingthoughtsandideastomakeitthefinishedproductyouholdinyourhands,Iowemydeepestgratitudeto KhayaDlanga, David Kibuuka, AneleMdoda, RyanHarduth, SizweDhlomo,andXolisaDyeshana.

And, finally, for bringingme into thisworld andmakingme theman I amtoday,Iowethegreatestdebt,adebtIcanneverrepay,tomymother.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

TREVORNOAHisacomedianfromSouthAfrica.

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