American Express

At the top of Government Avenue, standing solidly in its own gardens, is Cape Town’s venerable Mount Nelson Hotel. For more than a century it has catered to the tastes of the great, the good, and the merely wealthy. A young Winston Churchill called it “a most excellent and well-appointed establishment which may be thoroughly appreciated after a sea voyage.” John Lennon once meditated under a tree there, and the Dalai Lama enlightened the guests with a teaching in the ballroom on “The Four Noble Truths.” Now, coach-loads of tourists, from Liverpool, Cologne or Detroit, amused by the rand/dollar exchange rate, sweep past the tall columns at the entrance on Orange Street. They wave at the guards in their pith helmets; are driven sedately up the avenue of palm trees leading to the front entrance; and disembark, looking for something a bit exotic but not too unfamiliar. With perhaps a hot stone massage at the spa thrown in.

On a Friday morning in July, the concierge at the front desk watched the middle-aged couple flipping through the tour brochures. He’d seen them before — they were part of a group from Chicago that had arrived four days ago.

“May I help you, Sir?”

“Hi,” the man looked at his name-tag, “Tyrone. We’ve had such a great time in Cape Town. Took the cableway to the top of Table Mountain, been to the Waterfront, tasted the wine at Groot Constantia. It’s been great, hasn’t it, Linda?”

“So great. And we visited Nelson Mandela’s cell on Robben Island. So…humbling.”

“Sadly, we leave tomorrow. But on our last day we’re looking for, how can I put it, an authentic experience?”

“Authentic?”

“Yeah, like…”

“We’d like to meet some, uh, real people,” Linda interrupted.

“Real people…” said Tyrone. “Ah, I think I know what you’re looking for, and I know just the man to help you. His name is Andile, you say it like Ahn — dee — lair. He runs a tour operation specializing in this sort of thing. Shall I ask him to be here at, say, two-thirty?”

“Wow, that would be great,” said the man, pressing a hundred rand note into the concierge’s hand, “and please, call me Bob.”

The Toyota minibus, with the words Andile’s Township Tours in red letters on both sides, headed down the N2. It had rained last night, slanting in from the north-west, but now the sun reflected off the tarred surface of the road. They crossed the Liesbeeck river and passed the Mowbray golf course. Table Mountain receded in the rear-view mirror. They had left the city behind.

“Round about here I usually say to my clients — look. Just look.” Andile turned off the mbaqanga music on the stereo, and nodded left and right. Corrugated-iron shacks pressed on the sides of the freeway. Children played soccer on a bare patch of ground. Goats foraged amongst tin cans and plastic bags. A minibus taxi overtook them on the shoulder of the road, narrowly missing their rear bumper. “Jesus,” said Bob, and Andile muttered something they couldn’t understand.

They took an off-ramp to the left, crossed over the N2, and passed a sign which read KHAYELITSHA. A dog ran across the road and Andile braked hard. “Fuck,” said Bob. At a taxi rank three men were arguing, gesticulating violently, but the people around them seemed to take no notice. Meat was roasting on fires in half-drums at the side of the road. “We call it shisa nyama,” said Andile. “The Afrikaners say braaivleis. You say barbecue.” Linda rolled down her window, and the wind blew through her grey-blonde hair. “Smells good,” she smiled.

In the course of the afternoon they visited a school which ran an adult literacy program; a community vegetable garden; and, the highlight, an orphanage for children whose parents had died of Aids. The children sang Nkosi sikelel’ iAfrica — God bless Africa — while both Bob and Linda wiped away tears. Afterwards they took a selfie on Bob’s iPhone — Bob, Linda and Andile, arms around shoulders — in front of the minibus. Bob sent the photo to his colleagues at the University with a whatsapp message, “Hello from Africa!”

The sun was now setting over Table Mountain. “Okay,” said Andile, “back to the Mount Nelson then.”

“Andile,” said Bob, “we’ve had such a great time. But, after all that, we just couldn’t face dinner again in the Lord Nelson restaurant. Isn’t there some place you know where we could get a beer and a burger? And spend a bit of time with some real people?”

Andile hesitated. “Eish, I think maybe it’s enough now.”

“C’mon, Andile,” said Linda, “you must know such a place.”

“Okay then. We’ll go to Babalwa’s. But we’re not staying too long.”

They stopped outside a brick building in the older part of Khayelitsha, with a sign which read BABALWA’S PLACE. They crossed the muddy street, and Andile spoke sharply to some children who followed them. Bob had to duck as they walked through the front door. Andile introduced them to Babalwa herself. “Professor Bob and Linda Schuter from Chicago; Babalwa — the queen of Khayelitsha.” She laughed, and they shook hands in the African way — fingers under, over, under. They sat at a round wooden table, and Babalwa brought them quart bottles of Castle lager. There were perhaps twenty other patrons, some seated at tables, some playing pool in the room next door, and some gathered around the half-drum outside the back door where meat was roasting on an open fire.

“You must be hungry,” said Babalwa, and placed a roasted sheep’s head on the table before them. “We call it a smiley,” said Andile, twisting off a piece of flesh from the cheek. “Come, eat.” Bob and Linda each took a small piece, and chewed meaningfully. “Delicious,” said Bob, “we should try this at Thanksgiving”.

At about 9 Babalwa turned up the kwaito music, and some of the patrons began to dance. Linda rose a bit unsteadily and joined them, hands above her head, eyes half closed and hips swaying. Andile raised an eyebrow and looked at Bob who shrugged. “Haven’t seen her this happy in a long time!”

At just after 10 Andile said “Okay, time to go.” Three men had entered the room from the back door, and seated themselves at a table in the corner. One of them, short and stocky with a bald head, stared at them intently. “Bob,” said Andile, “call Linda. It’s time to go.” Two of the men, tall and lean and younger than the first, rose and walked slowly towards Linda. Both of them wore jeans low on their hips; one, a black and gold T-shirt which said Kaizer Chiefs; the other, a green beanie pulled low over his ears. They mimicked her moves, hands above heads, eyes half closed and hips swaying.

“She’s having the time of her life!” said Bob. “Let’s give it a while.”

Bob became aware that the short stocky one had pulled up a chair and was sitting at his side. He put out his hand, “Bob Schuter from Chicago.” The man’s handshake was surprisingly limp.

“Bulelani. What do you do, Bob?”

“I teach at the University of Chicago’s law school. Mainly human rights. And you?”

“I’m a businessman. Why you come here?”

That, thought Bob, is a good question. To rediscover the missing spark in my marriage? To find some relief from the boredom of academic life? To soothe these feelings of guilt I can’t seem to shrug?

“I’d heard they have the best smileys in Khayelitsha.”

The man didn’t smile. He began a monologue which covered slavery, colonialism, Donald Trump, the Anglo-American corporation, and the blues. “You steal from us!” he said, face close to Bob’s. “You owe us — reparations.” He slammed his hand on the table, and the bottles of Castle lager rattled.

Bob felt his throat constricting. He noticed that most of the patrons had left; only the two men were dancing. They danced close on either side of Linda; one was making thrusting movements with his hips, and the other had put his hands on her shoulders. Bob craned his neck; he couldn’t see Babalwa or Andile.

“Look,” said Bob, “why don’t I make a contribution — pay some … reparations?” He opened his wallet, and took out five hundred rand notes.

“For all the trouble you people have caused, five hundred bucks?” Bulelani laughed. “But I see you have a credit card. What’s that — American Express? We can go to the ATM and draw some cash.”

“Hit my limit. Max’d out.”

“Mmm, mmm.” Bulelani rubbed his chin. “But there’s always online banking. You can transfer the money with your mobile phone, ja?” He reached across the table and picked up Bob’s iPhone, swiped his finger across the screen, and tapped on the banking icon.

“What’s your password, Bob?”

Bob hesitated, and looked towards Linda. The two men had herded her into a corner, and were dancing in front of her, blocking her escape. Her eyes were wide open now.

With a quick, fluid movement Bulelani took out a pocket-knife, opened it, and held the blade in front of Bob’s right eye. He placed his left hand behind Bob’s neck, and with his right ran the blade, slowly and gently, down Bob’s nose, over his lips, and across his throat.

“This knife, his name is Mister Okapi. He wants to know — what’s your password, Bob?”

“It’s…” Bob’s mouth was dry, and he had difficulty talking. “It’s BobSchuter1975,” he croaked. “My name and year of birth.”

Bulelani placed the knife on the table, picked up the iPhone, and typed in the password.

“Mmm, it says here available balance $ 52 657.”

“I need the money. I’ve got bills to pay.”

“Of course you’ve got bills to pay — you owe us reparations. And I’ll see that it is used for a good cause, for — educational purposes. Here, I’ll type in my friend’s bank details. Please tap here, Bob, where it says ‘accept’.”

Bob put his hand to his mouth, and closed his eyes. Bulelani’s lips were now close to his ear. “Tap,” he whispered. Bob tapped. The iPhone made a ping noise.

The minibus headed back up the N2. Andile was hunched over the steering wheel.

They had found him outside Babalwa’s place, hiding behind the minibus. He’d asked if they wanted to report the matter to the police, but Linda had shaken her head.

Bob’s hands had started to tremble, and he couldn’t stop them. He put a hand on Linda’s shoulder, but she turned away. Her breath condensed on the window, blurring her vision like a migraine. They passed the Mowbray golf course, and crossed the Liesbeeck river.

At the Mount Nelson’s front desk Tyrone was on duty.

“How was it? Have an authentic experience? Meet some real people?”

Linda walked past him without answering, followed by Bob a few paces behind.

Bob stood at the window of his office on the fourth floor of the University of Chicago’s law school building. The trees had lost their leaves, and it looked as if it might snow. Papers were spread across his desk.

It had been four months since he and Linda returned from South Africa. A month after their return Linda had said she needed some time, and had left to stay with her mother. She’d started working again, taking a temporary position in the history department of a local high school. He used to see her sometimes, usually on Sunday mornings, but she seemed distracted and distant. He’d tried to immerse himself in his work at the law school, but the old passion for the law seemed to have dried up.

He sat at his desk, opened his lap-top, typed in his password — BobSchuter1975 — and scrolled through the emails. The usual stuff. A note from the dean about a faculty meeting next Thursday; a draft from one of his master’s students; the lunch menu from the cafeteria. And one from a name he didn’t recognize. Thandi Songelwa. He clicked, and read.

Dear Professor Schuter

My name is Thandi Songelwa. I am the niece of Bulelani Songelwa, who passed away last month. Uncle Bulelani told me that he met you at Babalwa’s place in Khayelitsha, and spoke often of the wonderful evening that he spent there with you and Mrs Schuter. He also told me of your generous and spontaneous donation. Sadly, it was in the same Babalwa’s place that my uncle died, after he was stabbed while trying to intervene in a knife fight.

I am in my final year of study for my law degree, and have just written my final exams. Some of the money you donated was used to pay off my student debt at the University of Cape Town, so that I can graduate at the end of the year. I hope that one day I will be in a position to repay your kindness.

I intend to apply for a Fulbright scholarship to study for a master’s degree in the United States next year. If I make it, I’d really appreciate it if I could meet you; perhaps we could have a cup of coffee sometime.

Best regards

Thandi.

Ps — I got your email address from the U of C law school website. If I’ve got the wrong Professor Schuter, please delete and ignore.