The Great Destitution

Shujon

The music, crashing into the walls; drums, bare hands slapping against skin. Dancers,
shaking the floors, their moves mesmerizing the room; bare feet, jumping, stomping,
carrying the dancers and the party into the night.
I stood in the corner, the only brown boy in a sea of black bodies, all glistening with
sweat, swaying, swelling, pushing me further into the corner. Me, brown boy, Kishur,
half the size of my friend, Kingana, Kingu for short. We were with our other friends
from school at Moloko, a bare dance hall with a 40 Rand cover charge, its floors stained
with liquor and wooden walls etched with the names of thousands of teenage lovers.
Shoulder to shoulder, we danced waving our arms and our brandy bottles in their brown
bags, which we snuck in to the club. Baruti was there, peacocking in his bright club
clothes, which he bought this week from his pay working at my dads liquor store.
Dingana slowly moved to the beat by his side, his face cratered with pox marks but lit up
by a high voltage smile. Kingu was there dancing, not with anyone in particular; bare-
chested, just raising his hands in the air, waving at the ceiling, shaking his dreads---
enjoying the touch of strangers, grinding against the girl next to him, and then another.
Hey Kish, what thecome over here and dance with these girls; they want taste of some
brown boy.
I stood there, ignored Kingu knowing that he will soon move on, forget that I am even
there. I watched Kingu; I watched Baruti and Dingana, and felt the warmth of our
friendship, a friendship newly smelted on the hot dirt of Joburgs streets, a friendship
born out of respect. But this was not always the case.
I closed my eyes, felt the heat and the beat of the drums. Joburg is my hometown; but this
scorched city, where moonlight shivers in fear of the shadows, has been my home truly
only for a short while. This was my first night out in town; I had just turned 16 and Kingu
wanted to bring me out and see if he could get me to dance with one his girls. But no luck
for this brown boy; Kingu and the boys were busy with their girls, thank god leaving me
alone to watch them, enjoy the scenes and sights of my first party.
I grew up in Joburg, but really didnt. My parents and their parents didnt and dont
consider themselves Africans; my great-grandparents were brought here by the British to
work on plantations; they were brought here from Gujrat, India, and soon became the
overseers of the black workers. My parents still speak Gujrati at home, still consider
going back to the motherland, a place where their great-grandparents were landless
peasants, fodder for the insatiable appetites of the landlords and British; but now, oh yes,
they are NRIs, Non Resident Indians, Now Rehabilitated Indians, who can flash their
dollars and buy respect. Prior to the Great Destitution (spoken off in hushed tones at the
dinner table before my sister and I show up; or angry screams from my mother when she
realizes she is rubbing shoulders with her maids in our new, post-destitution
neighbourhood); before we were flung out of our fancy neighbourhood by my dads
riches to rags business dealings, my little sister, Areesha, and I went to a prep school
where there were only a handful of very rich blacks. We lived in Lenasia, an upscale
suburb of Joburg, with mostly Indians as our neighbours; brown skinned doctors and
lawyers and tradesmen, whose starched collars hid the brown from the sun. We had a
large home, a faux Tuscan villa with its terracotta-colored walls, tiled roofs and
cobblestone driveway; the architecture rage in Joburg for the newly rich. Areesha and I
had our own rooms, a long hallway away from our parents grand bedroom with its own
sitting area and coffee table books. We lived in luxury, our clothes washed and ironed,
our food cooked and served, our most menial tasks undertaken by our maids.
But then, when I was 14 years old, the Great Destitution happened; my dad lost it all. He
sold all our land and bought shares in a mine. His partner, a first generation Guju, stole
the mine right from under his nose (Priya, I can hear my dad saying to my mom, he is
Gujrati, same caste and from our village. He is like family, we can trust him with our
children. Do not worry. Poor dad, he had that statement thrown in his face by my mom a
thousand, soul searing times). No more fancy schools, no more nice shaded
neighbourhood, no more clubs where we could practice acting white; no more uncles and
aunts watching our every move, boasting about our every tiny success, hiding every big
failure; no more NRI dreams of buying respect in the motherland, of riding into the
village on a decked out elephant, spreading coins like the landlords.

We were thrown into the heart of Joburg, away from the coolness of our Guju insularity,
into the heat of Joburg through the great migrator, the power of the Great Destitution. No
more protections from the corruption of the city, no more hiding in our Guju values, Guju
superiority.
Areesha and I were sent to a local school; my dad scrounged up enough money from his
relatives to buy a liquor store in the black neighborhood where we moved. My mother
hated it; her neighbours saw the disdain, the Guju superiority in her eyes. They did not
welcome us in their neighborhood; they knew that we saw them as only blacks; as people
who are ok to work in our stores, factories and homes, but not folks who are good enough
to be our neighbours, our friends.
Areesha, our little brown girl with round spectacles, frumpy frocks, knee high socks was
picked on, savaged by the taunts of the other little girls. On our first day of school, dad
dropped us off in front of the school in his old Saab, left to him by his absconding partner
as a consolation prize for stealing his mine. Areesha and I held hands and walked out on
the cracked sidewalk and saw, for the first time in our lives, graffiti on school property,
gang signs blaring their taunts to rival gangs; we ran up the stairs to the metal detector
and then we heard a sharp whisper, friggin Indians, what you doing in our school. We
stared into unforgiving eyes, and then more whispers, shoves and taunts. As we walked
through the metal detector, Areesha held my hand, Kish, I am scared. What will happen
when you are not with me. I looked at her, and told her in my best dad voice, dont
worry, I will only be a few classes from you, and I will be always around in the hallways
and to walk you home.
Right! Not only was I helpless in protecting my little sister, from shielding her from the
cruelty of her classmates, I was shamed by my inability to stand up for myself. I was
beaten daily, double daily, triple daily; outside school, on the way to school (on the days
my fathers car did not start), on the way home from school. Things became too hard to
bear, and I could not take the sight of my sister crying every night anymore, or the
thought my fathers heart breaking at the sight of my bruises.

I used an alley behind my school for a few days to take a shortcut home and avoid the
gang of kids who took particular pleasure in tormenting me. The alley reeked of the
stench of decomposition, and it was not a safe place for me to walk home with my sister,
but it also provided the only respite from beatings for those few days; those few days
were liberating, made me feel like the boy I used to be again. My fortune did not last,
however. By the end of the week, when I jumped the wall with my sister to walk home, I
saw a gang of kids hanging out next to the dumpster in the alley, kicking a rotten
watermelon around, its red juices staining their shoes.
Areesh, please run home if the kids stop me. Do as I say. I said as I let go off my little
sisters hand as she tried to cling on to me. We lowered our heads and started walking
past when the rotten, soggy watermelon hit Areeshas leg. She flinched, and I pushed her
forward. I turned around to see the kids advancing, moving menacingly forward.
Areesh, run. I yelled. She just stood there, pushing herself against the dirt and grease
covered walls of the alley. She is not going to run, I thought, she will not let me take my
beating in silence and walk home to her as if my pride was still intact. The tallest boy
came forward and grabbed my collar, where do you think you are running off in your
new takkies (sneakers), boy. Take those off and we will let you walk away. I felt my
little sisters fear, her eyes peering holes into my head. She was not going to run. I did
not have a choice.
I snapped, and I hit one of the boys on the nose; and thats when the kicks and punches,
the blows to the head, the boot heel on my neck, pushed the deadening fear, the Great
Destitutions final call into me; I was going to die, not necessarily lose my life, but lose
all dignity in this beating.
I could not breath, the boot heel to my neck was cutting off the air; my vision blurred,
and I felt the owner of the boot release the pressure. He did not want to hurt me badly, let
alone kill me; humiliation was the prize, not my coconut oil covered head. I felt the fear
of actually dying ebb; but my desperation rose, as I realized that I, me, my respect, may
still die, that I may be left lying in the dirt, alive and without shoes, to trudge through life
with head bowed. Looking back, I believe I realized that; or, it could be that some primal
instinct was released in my non-primal Guju heart. It does not matter, for I did something,
I broke out, I felt the African earth move me, strengthen me, as I pushed the boot off my
neck, jumped and flung myself at my attackers, with a scream that curled up the
neighbourhoods toes, with tears of anger and rage cleaning my face off the dirt. I flailed,
I flung, I felt a few of my blows land on soft skin, and then strong hands grabbed my
arms, held my legs.
Stop! You will get hurt, stop fighting. Shouted the nose-bleeder, the tall one. His
dreads clung to his face with sweat, and he looked worried and even concerned.
Damn you, coward. I will take you, I will take down two of you; only cowards would
fight one person, while there are 3 of you; cowards!
Hold up. We were just kidding around, and you punched me; why didnt you just walk
away.
I will never again walk away, coward; you jump me, push me, call me out, do anything
to me, only way we end it is if you and your gang of cowards leave me dead on the
floor. I was shaking, my own voice sounding strange, a strangers voice letting me know
that I have arrived, that I was not going to take shit, that there is no Great Destitution for
me, that I was not a Guju lost in Africa, that I was an African fortified by my Guju blood.
Not only did I hear my new voice, the others did too.
Silence.
The grips on my arms and legs slackened and I felt the blood pumping back into my
veins.
Sorry, man. We did not want it to get this far; we sorry for doing this to you man. I was
free, they were not holding me anymore. Tall, broken nose offered me his hand, my
name is Kingu, whats yours?

That was less than two years ago. Since then, Areesha and I have become insiders,
neighbourhood kids, playing on the schools sports teams and doing well in school.
I brought my thoughts back to the party. I watched Kingu, Baruti and Dingana dancing.
Music, drums, beats, stomping of feet on wooden, bare floors. I moved forward, done
with watching the action, done with thinking of the past; my feet were stomping, my
heart was romping, and a hand, rough and strong, grabbed and turned me around.
hahaha, Kish, nice of you to join us. Kingus perfect smile beamed into me.

The author is an attorney and an aspiring writer; he is a member of Writers Block,

www.writersblock.com.bd.