Once Removed

David Mann

On a Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting in line at the Randburg Licensing Department, and thinking. I was thinking about ambition and about inertia. About how humans, like sharks and water and old cars, need to keep moving for risk of stagnating or expiring. But then, don’t they also say that without a kind of rootedness in a place –

“You can move,” came a voice, disgruntled.

The queue had inched forward again, leaving an urgent space between myself and the person ahead of me in the long, snaking row of seats. Here, such a space had to be filled immediately.

I said sorry to the person beside me and moved from one hard, plastic chair to the next, watching the rippling effect this had on those further down the line. Once settled, I took out my phone and saw to a message that had come through a few minutes earlier, but which I had chosen to ignore.

How’s it going there?

I said that things were going fine, and that I was still waiting.

A response came back, almost immediately. Something I’ll never miss about SA. The queues! But thanks so much for doing this man.

The messages were from an old friend who had moved to Hong Kong a while back to teach English through an American-based company. A few weeks ago, he had messaged to tell me, rather unceremoniously, that things in Hong Kong were going so well that he intended to stay there, permanently. The first step toward his emigration involved selling off his old car, which he had left with me on this side of the world.

The car was old, unused, and gathering dust in a parking bay in my building. He had asked me to renew its registration before having it serviced, photographed, and put up for sale online. Perhaps he felt that, once untethered from this object – this reminder of home – he would find it easier to leave for good. Perhaps he just needed the money.

I shifted in my new seat, still warm from the person ahead of me, and messaged my old friend back saying that it was no problem, really, and that he could thank me when he was next in the country by buying me a drink.

Actually, came the response, I’m going to be down in June to sort some stuff. Won’t have much time, though. Headed to Kruger with some of the other expats before we head to Cape Town. But let’s grab a drink at the airport? Will message you the dates.

‘Expats.’ Why did the word annoy me? I typed out a response, read it over, deleted it, and went with a yellow thumbs-up emoji instead. Several wild animals and a South African flag emoji were sent back. The queue slumped forward again, and the person ahead of me stood up and moved into the next seat, leaving another open space between us. I made sure to waste no time in filling the gap.

— —

The building I work in is something of a grand sham. It was built two decades ago, but is modelled on some of Johannesburg’s old Edwardian structures – squared-block masonry, thin columns and arches, all decorative. The inside of the building echoes none of its exterior architecture and is contemporary in a way that is disappointing – an all chrome and white lobby leads to open-plan offices split up with bulky planters housing thin ferns, giving the illusion of privacy between employees. The ceilings, though, reach up to a level that feels two storeys high on each floor. In this way, there is too much room for thought, and whenever I am anywhere else indoors – at home, at the shops, and in restaurants – I begin to feel constrained. 

Small companies rent space on each floor of the building. I work on the fourth floor as the media officer for a small, but successful travel company. We provide moderately priced tourist packages that take tourists through the many wonders of Southern Africa: cable car rides up Table Mountain, canopy tours in the Tsitsikamma National Park, and extensive stays and game tours through the Kruger National Park. It’s my job to manage the company’s newsletter, generate content for its website, and oversee its social media platforms, ensuring that our digital footprint extends far beyond the borders of South Africa and into the targeted corners of the rest of the world, which is, generally speaking, most of the global North.

I’ve never found my job difficult. At most, it can be a little repetitive.

“South Africa practically sells itself,” my boss is fond of saying. “Who doesn’t want to take a trip to the Motherland for a couple of dollars?”

A few times a year we’ll receive a large booking from a high-level organisation of one kind or another – mostly French, German, or Dutch – who are in the country to fund an arts and culture initiative, or check in on some pre-existing investment that usually takes the form of a school, a clinic, or a library in an impoverished area of their choosing. They’ll fly into Joburg, tend to business and then begin their holiday (usually in Cape Town, Durban, or – you guessed it – the Kruger National Park). On these occasions, my boss sends me and my colleague, Mduduzi, to personally collect them from the airport and bring them to their hotels. Something about “South African hospitality”.

Mdu grew up in Hammanskraal and moved to Johannesburg for work. He has no siblings, but he makes a point of visiting his parents every few months. In December, he’ll usually take a trip to Cape Town or Durban with a few of his friends and spend all of his time as close to the sea as possible. He’s invited me to join them a few times. I never have, and I suspect he never really expects me to say yes.

Whenever Mdu and I are tasked with chauffeuring wealthy foreigners around, we make sure to grab a drink – after we’ve sent our clients on their way – at the hotel bar. When we did this most recently, I asked Mdu what he thought about the fact that so many young white people were leaving South Africa without any intention of returning.

“Because if you’re asking me,” I said, “I’d say that what we’re seeing here is really some kind of modern-day white flight, neatly wrapped up under the guise of travelling whilst young. It’s like the 90s all over again.”

“You take things too seriously,” said Mdu, sipping his beer. “There’s plenty of your people here, young ones, too. Just go to Melville on a Friday night. And weren’t you, like, eight in the 90s?”

Mdu then told me that he also intended to cross international borders someday soon. Not permanently, he enthused, but only for a few years, only because he wanted to experience something new for a change. Didn’t I?

I told him I’d never really thought about it.

“That’s your problem,” he said. “You’re too settled. You need to get out of the city. Out of the country. Otherwise in a few years’ time you’ll still be drinking overpriced beer at this hotel bar while I’ll be on a beach somewhere sipping on a cocktail made in a coconut.”

“But you can do that in South Africa,” I said.

Mdu laughed, slapped me on the back, and called for the bill.

— —

Every Thursday, for the past few weeks, I’ve attended classes for a short course on fine-art photography. The course is somewhat loose in its structure, which is what drew me to it in the first place, and as a result it’s attracted everyone from high school students and recent graduates to stay-at-home parents and retirees who now find themselves with empty nests and too much time on their hands.

“Now this is the real South Africa,” our teacher said at the start of our first class. “Black, white, young and old, all together in the same room working towards the same goal – to document this beautiful country.”

He’s a charismatic American, a photojournalist sent down to cover the general election in ’94. Apparently, he was only supposed to be on assignment for about two weeks but here he is, decades later. I guess he’s quite fond of the place.  

One of my fellow students is a man called Frank who’s taken a liking to me since our first class together. He’s a nice enough guy who, after retiring five years ago, lost his wife only two years after that and now spends most of his weekends travelling out to the Magaliesberg to practise his landscape photography. He told me all of this the first time we met. Frank’s only daughter recently graduated from the Institute of the Culinary Arts, he told me, and shortly after that, moved to New Zealand where she found work as a stewardess on a superyacht called The Spirit of Adventure. “Excellent opportunities for youngsters over there,” Frank said. “Not so much over here, I’m afraid.”  

Recently, after class, Frank invited me out for dinner at one of the local pubs. “I used to come here after work with my buddies back in the day. They still serve the best steak, egg and chips in the whole damn city,” he said.

Frank’s an easy guy to be around. He’s the type of person my father would’ve described as having no “airs and graces”. That night, a few beers in, Frank told me his thoughts about my photographic work. “I just don’t think I get it, you know? It’s not quite – how can I put it? – moving me.”

I explained that the things I photographed were supposed to be remarkably ordinary. That I was aiming for a certain degree of “melancholic realism” in my work – a term I had come across a few nights earlier – and that the objects and spaces I used to achieve that were very simple things: a stalled construction site; a bed, half-made or – one of my favourite images – a discarded CD lying face-up on the pavement with the words “Christmas Day 2002” scrawled across its shiny surface in permanent marker. 

“Maybe that’s the issue,” said Frank. “You’re too caught up in your own thoughts. You’re young, you know? My daughter, she’s over there on the cruise ships meeting new people every single day of her life. She’s travelling the world and it’s helping her grow. You need to get out of this place and find new opportunities before it’s too late.”

I disagreed with Frank and I told him so. I said: “Look, Frank, there’s a whole world out there for all of us to explore, but I just don’t see the point in doing any of that until you’ve gotten to really know the place you started out in. It’s a kind of duty to a country. In South Africa I think that takes a little longer to do because –”

Frank was no longer listening. The rugby was on.

— —

A few months ago, I went to a group exhibition at a small gallery not too far from where I stay. In the exhibition, there were photographs of people covered in gold body paint standing in the middle of open fields, and there were pencil drawings of cityscapes that grew out of everyday objects like couches, tabletops, and pot plants. There was also a watercolour painting of a very populated beach.

A woman standing next to me wearing a colourful beret and a pair of long earrings said that the painting was crude, but brilliantly incisive. I didn’t know what it was, other than a painting of a very populated beach.

Another work caught my attention: a monochromatic oil painting showing a blurred figure moving through a crisp, white foyer. The foyer had two leafy plants in it and a set of sliding doors that the figure was moving towards. The painting held my attention for some time. When I looked at it, I became aware of the people around me. I was overwhelmed by the things they were saying and the way they were moving about the space, a collection of wispy voices and long, thin arms holding up smartphones and glasses of wine. By contrast, the foyer in the painting was cool and still. It was a scene I found myself wanting to step into.

I took out my phone and tried to photograph the work, but the lighting was harsh and the image came out blurry and overexposed. I put my phone away and looked at the painting again. Below it, the title read: Once Removed.

— —

“It’s stranger than fiction! Can you imagine?” said my boss.

“This is all because of that racist president of theirs,” said Mdu.

We were, all three of us, huddled around Mdu’s desk watching a grainy video of a well-known South African musician who had been detained by US immigration officials and was now being forced to sing for them.

The story, as it was being told that day across every local news outlet, was that the vocalist Lindo Ngobeni had gone over to the States as part of an international tour she had embarked on and, upon arrival, had been held at the airport and questioned as to her presence in the country. When she told them that she was, in fact, an internationally renowned musician who was there to perform, they asked her to sing for them, right then and there, to prove that she hadn’t just made the whole thing up.

One of her back-up vocalists had recorded the incident, put it online and now, all the way on the other side of the world, we were watching as she stood and sang to a group of seated security officials in a foreign airport.

“Ja, now you see when they send their pop-stars and rappers over here, people give their yearly salaries to go and see them, but when one of our own goes that side they don’t even let them onto the stage. It’s disrespectful man,” said my boss to no one in particular.

“This is wrong,” said Mdu. “She must just get back on the plane and come perform here at home. They won’t even understand what she’s singing about over there.”

My phone began to buzz and I left the two of them to their independent commentary. Back at my desk, I checked my messages.

Hey. I’ve got a guy who’s interested in the car. Wants to come check it out sometime this week. Can I tell him you’ll be around?

Also, dates for Kruger are confirmed. 20-26th. Gonna book my flight now so I’ll message you the details. Gonna be such a kak flight, but I’m looking forward to grabbing a cold one with you. Can’t wait to be home, bru!

— —

At a set of robots near my apartment there used to be a man who showed up every day at 6am and began to shout. He would shout about the police and about poverty, mostly. Sometimes, he would shout about a specific South African politician. From my bed, I could hear him shouting these things and in this way the man was a disruptive, but consistent presence in my life.

The other week, I spoke to the security guard outside a new apartment block just down the road from me and very near to where The Shouting Man took his own post. I asked him: “What’s the story with that man who shouts all the time? Does he stay at the shelter around here?”

“That crazy one?” replied the guard. “He’s not from here. I think he’s from Nigeria or something, but all he ever does is stand there and carry on, just making noise. He even threatened a lady here from this building with a stick the other day. The police must take him away.”

A few days ago, the man disappeared. The shouting stopped and he was nowhere to be seen. According to my next-door neighbour, he was arrested for throwing a brick at a passing car. “It’s probably for the best,” said my neighbour as he unlocked his front gate, grocery bags in hand. “I don’t think he had anywhere to go, and he certainly wasn’t well.”

— —

An email from my sister that I’d been putting off reading was slowly being buried in my inbox. About a year ago, she’d moved over to the UK to look for work. The plan, she said, was to save up for a few years, come back, buy property, and settle down. I didn’t really expect her to come back. At home, I sat down at my laptop and dug out the email.

Hey boet!

How are you? Still working hard? It’s starting to snow here. I’m starting a new job in a few weeks. I’ll only have to take one bus and a 5 minute walk every day which might sound hectic, but it’s actually so safe to walk here, you wouldn’t believe it. I’m sure you’ve been following the news about this whole Brexit deal. A few of my mates are worried about what will happen, but apparently ancestral visas won’t be affected. Anyways, when are you coming to visit? I’ll take you down to this South African pub I discovered (all the expats go there!) where they play music from SA, serve stuff like Black Label and biltong and all that. I’ve attached a video for you to see.

Miss you lots.

The video showed a small pub with dark wooden fixtures where a group of drunk, white South African men and women were holding onto each other and shouting unintelligibly into the camera. Draped above the bar was a South African flag as well as a bright, green and gold banner with a Springbok leaping across its surface. In the background, global radio hits played out through distorted speakers.

— —

The day’s traffic was at its peak when it happened. I caught a glimpse of him in the side mirror, T-shirt already lifted to expose both his smooth stomach and the tarnished metal of the gun. Seconds later, he was at my window. Inside of the car, jazz music was playing – a local artist recommended to me by way of the algorithm. I had the volume up loud, and when I pulled out the aux cable to hand over the phone, the dashboard speakers fired off an electric crackle that was enough to make me jump. He left as soon as I handed over the phone.

Without the music, the sounds of commuters leaning on their hooters poured through the half-open window. I put the car into first gear and pulled off. Back home, I spent the rest of the evening cancelling my bank cards and trying to figure out whether it was me or the man with the gun who was being hooted at.

— —

I was put in touch with the potential buyer for the car the day before he showed up. Over text, he’d said his name was “Sanusi”, but when we greeted and shook hands that morning, he introduced himself as “Sakhile”. I had all the relevant answers and pieces of information ready, but Sakhile had no questions. He simply gave the car a quick once-over, poked around under the hood, and asked for a reduced cash price. I told him that I wasn’t the one to make that call, that I was facilitating the sale for a friend.

“So it’s not your car?” he asked. “I thought it was your car. You mustn’t confuse people like that. It could make people think that maybe you’re a criminal, you know. This other guy I know, he bought a car like that, the next day he was driving into the airport and the police took him in. The car was stolen the week before! Anyway, let’s ask your friend now about the price. I’m sure he will say yes to the offer. It’s a high price he’s asking for this car, actually, you must see what’s happening in the engine there, it’s gonna cost me a lot to fix.”

I wanted to tell him that the car had just been serviced, but he was already thumbing around in his phone.

“I think he’s probably asleep right now,” I said. “The time-zones are –”

“He’s sleeping still? What’s he sleeping during the day for? There’s money to be made, doesn’t he want to make money?”

I lacked both the voice and the conviction to take back the conversation. Sakhile likely knew this, too. I considered calling, but I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. Should I just accept the cash offer and get the whole interaction over with? I wanted to be rid of the car, badly. It would be the third weekend afternoon I’d spent with a prospective buyer that would amount to nothing. I made the call regardless. As I stood waiting for an answer from the other side of the world, Sakhile’s own phone started to ring. He answered as “Sanusi” and said that he would be on his way shortly. He pocketed his phone and turned back to me.

“It’s okay my brother, I won’t take the car. I’m looking for something with more power anyway. You’ve gotta be fast here, you know? I can make this car fast, but it will cost too much, I think. Maybe when your friend wakes up, he’ll have a better deal, huh? For now you can tell him I say ‘no thanks’, okay?” 

— —

I once read a quote about airports that went: “A busy airport is the sign of a country that is thriving, economically and culturally.”

Or something along those lines.

Sitting in Arrivals at the OR Tambo International Airport, I realised that the problem with a busy airport is that you can’t really tell who’s coming and who’s going. Or for how long people plan on being gone. The flickering display board behind me had stated that the flight would be delayed by an hour – too short a time for me to leave and return – and then later updated to reflect a two-and-a-half-hour delay. I watched people enter through the sliding doors and guessed where they were coming from and what they were here to do. It was something Mdu and I would do whenever we picked up clients, although his assumptions were always far more amusing than mine. Most flights carried groups of enthusiastic tourists who would rush to pose in front of the Oliver Tambo statue for photographs. I caught one group debating whether or not it was a statue of Nelson Mandela.

The couple next to me had been waiting for about as long as I had. Probably, they were waiting on a son or a daughter, maybe also teaching English abroad. Each time the display board reflected another delay, they would engage in small, private displays of exasperation, hissing words like “ridiculous” and “unbelievable” to no one in particular. More time passed, more people came and went. My phone buzzed intermittently – work emails and spam texts offering life insurance. With at least another hour to kill, I made my way to the airport’s cluster of restaurants and coffee shops. He could meet me at the bar, I thought. I might as well get a head start.

I ordered a draught of my regular and drank it at the bar alone, feeling far older than I was, and truthfully, a little sorry for myself. Should I have brought a book? What was worse to do at an airport bar: drink alone or read alone? I settled for my phone, skimming news headlines and refreshing the International Arrivals page. Forty-five minutes until his flight was due to land. I read a breaking news article about a national lottery scandal and an ad about off-season vacation rates flashed just below the second paragraph. Three days in Mauritius for R10k, flights included. Sponsored ads masquerading as news articles at the bottom of the page carried headlines like: “Durban man works from home and makes $20k a day. You’ll never guess what he does!” and “The US is giving green cards to South Africans with these skills”. Time passed slowly. 

Halfway through my third draught, a message came through.

Just landed.

I messaged back to say that I was already at the bar. That I’d order him a drink so long.

Ah man, we’ve actually got to hop straight into the cab. The driver’s been waiting this whole time and it’s his last trip out for the day. Maybe we can meet at arrivals quickly before I head out?

Bastard. I paid up and made my way back to Arrivals, feeling the full effects of the beer now that I was on my feet. It occurred to me that I didn’t want to see my old friend at all, didn’t want to welcome him back to the country so much as tell him that his time abroad had turned him into another arrogant and unbearable tourist. I rehearsed, in my head, what I was going to say to him as I made my way through the crowds.

Arrivals was packed, full of people craning their necks and searchine. A separate crowd, all dressed in green sports jerseys and carrying flags and brightly coloured banners, had occupied the front of the waiting area, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their team. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and trained my eyes on the automatic sliding doors, opening and closing as people began to filter through. Around me, people began to break away from the crowd and find one another, laughing and hugging and shaking hands as they did. My head was starting to ache. I could taste the bitter effects of beer in the back of my throat. The sports crowd was already chanting, one woman carrying out her own call of: “Here come our boys!” Their bodies were brushing up against mine, pushing and shoving.

The doors slid open and the sports team spilled out, raising a chorus of high, whiny cheer from everyone around me. I tried to keep my eyes trained on the bodies on the other side of the doors. There, the room seemed full of activity and purpose, people either returning home or arriving somewhere new, all of them with someone waiting for them, or with something to attend to. What was I doing? Witnessing. Waiting. Stagnating? 

In the frenzy of the crowd, the noise and relentless sentiment, I could barely make out a single face.