“The monster next door” by Tinyiko Mtswene

Level 4

“Prosecutor,” said the judge. “Do you have any other witnesses?”

“Yes, your honour” she said whilst rising “I’d like to call Mr Tinyiko Mtswene onto the
stand”.

My heart stopped.

I knew I was to be called, but hearing my name made me doubt whether I was
prepared. I proceeded towards the stand, the walk feeling like it took forever. My legs
started shaking, my hands trembling as I took my seat.

“Mr Mtswene, can you please tell us what happened on the 23 rd of January?” asks the
prosecutor. My mind starts to drift back to that night.

That dreadful night. It was the worst night of my life. It was the worst night of her life,
poor Mrs Khumalo.

It gave me never-ending nightmares, relentless memories of an encounter with a

monster.

On that night, our neighbour, Mrs Khumalo, had just returned home after three weeks at
her relatives. She and Mr Khumalo had been going through a rough patch in their
marriage, so she needed a break.

Her return signalled hope, or so I thought.

My mother had made her famous beef stew as a welcome back dinner and she asked
me to go deliver the food. I was only too happy to oblige.

There I was, on my merry way to see Mrs Khumalo – one of my favourite people on this
planet.
I reached her house and let myself through the gate as I have done hundreds of time
before. As I got closer to the back door, I started hearing strange noises. I could not
make out what it was, so I moved closer and closer to the door. With each step the
noises became clearer. It wasn’t noises at all, it was screams. Mrs Khumalo’s screams.

“Please, please… I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again!” she pleaded. Her words were
followed by a huge thud. It sounded as though someone had a terrible fall. I rushed to
the closest window, my heart beating out of control. Before I peeked through the
window, I tried to draw a breath.

“Relax buddy, it’s probably just an accident, nothing serious.” I told myself, until I
gathered enough courage to stand up and look.

My nails dug in to the Tupperware lid. The image before me burned into my memory,
forever.

I saw Mr Khumalo standing over his wife, who was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
His arm was raised, until it came smashing down, repeatedly. It was like witnessing a
car crash: I was unable to move. My eyes were glued to this horrific scene. He carried
on hitting and kicking his wife as if she were a dog. After a while, she stopped
screaming. It was as if she had given up. But he didn’t, not for a while anyway.

When Mr Khumalo finally dropped his hands to his sides, I realised my fingers had
grown numb and the plastic tub fell out of my hands, crashing into the ground.

He immediately looked up, at the window, right into my eyes.

I fled, running faster than my legs have ever moved before, only stopping once I was in
the safety of my bedroom.

A million thoughts was raging through my head. I was overcome by so many emotions
that were so confusing I couldn’t even begin to make sense of what had happened.
Pacing back and forth through my room, unable to stand still until I caught sight of my
reflection in the mirror.
Suddenly a calmness flowed over me. To my surprise, I walked over to the mirror,
staring deeply into my reflection’s eyes and said “you saw nothing. Absolutely nothing
bad happened tonight.” Then I slipped on my pyjamas and cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I awoke to voices down the hall. Half asleep I stumbled towards the
kitchen, and there, sitting at our table talking to my mother, is Mr Khumalo!

“The food was lovely,” he said with such ease. “My wife and I really enjoyed it, thank
you.” The empty Tupperware sat next to him on the kitchen counter. Before they could
notice me, I tried to hide behind the fridge. But this man, this monster, saw me. As my
mother busied herself with the plastic tub at the zinc, Mr Khumalo stared at me.

It was the stare-down of a lifetime, neither one of us flinching. That was until he raised
his hand – and his thumb – at me. He then slowly moved the hand across his throat.
Without saying one word to me, he said plenty, all that I needed to hear.

Message received.

I didn’t dare tell my parents or anyone about what I saw. Days went by, days turned into
weeks and weeks into months, four months to be exact. Four months of me trying
desperately to forget what I saw, four months of avoiding the Khumalos and four months
of feeling great sadness and empathy every time I passed by their house.

I had almost forgotten about what I saw, until one morning it became impossible for me
or anyone else for that matter to ignore what was going in that house.

On this particular morning, we woke up to the sound of police and ambulance sirens.
My heart sank when my parents told me what had happened…

Mrs Khumalo had given up, indefinitely. Beaten to death the night before.

I dropped to my knees and started wailing.

My parents hugged me. “Don’t cry son, it’s not your fault, it’s all going to be okay”

“It’s not okay!” I snapped. “It is my fault, I saw him beating Mrs Khumalo before and I
didn’t tell you guys.”
“When?” asked my father. “A few months ago.” I slowly replied, trying to fight back the
tears.

Although they didn’t say it, I could see they were disappointed in me. That made me feel
worse.

Two weeks went by without my parents talking to me about what had happened. This
awkward time was interrupted by the news of Mr Khumalo’s trial.

I decided it would be the right thing to testify against him.

“Mr Mtswene,” said the prosecutor, snapping me back to reality, back to the courtroom.
“Do you remember what you saw on the night of the 23 rd of January?”

I slowly turn my head to face him, Mr Khumalo. Tsakane’s very own monster. Our eyes
meet for the last time and with a wry smile I say, “I’ll never forget it.”

About Tinyiko Mtswene: I am an LLB student hailing from Gauteng who loves the finer
things in life. I am an avid reader and a skilful writer. Although law is gonna be my
profession, Literature will always be my passion.