Эндрю Миллер (ЮАР) - Dub Steps

‘How do you know it’s God?’

‘There are things in my dreams, lessons, lessons I use in this world, and they work.’ He ran a hand over his scalp, producing a rough, sandpaper sound. ‘You know. Networks. Circuits. What we’re doing with the cell stations. Medicine. That time Thami broke his leg – I dreamed the repair, you know? I didn’t only make him sleep because I wanted him to calm down. I needed to dream. And I did. And then I knew.’

‘You think anyone else dreams like that?’

He was still rubbing his scalp. He gave a final triple rub, then stopped. ‘Maybe, but I haven’t seen or heard anything like mine.’ His eyes popped ever so slightly and suddenly I saw the little ten-year-old-boy who had organised the expo, who had chased down Eeeyus.

‘Let’s just say I know of what you speak, my boy. I don’t think your experience is the same as mine has been, but I understand what you’re saying. Not metaphorically. Practically.’

‘So, what do you think? Is it God? In my dreams?’

‘Well, what do you think? I listen to you preach, I see what you’re doing with the farm and the people and the parties and all of that, and I must say I wonder. How much of this is you? How much is the dreams? Can you answer that? Can you discern your dreams in your actions?’

His eyes popped further, then sank back. He looked silly, a pensive, troubled giant perched too delicately on a tiny frame. ‘I like to think when I’m doing things that it’s all logic, but in moments when I’m by myself, which is rare, obviously, I question where it’s coming from and why. Behind the logic, here’s this kind of swamp of motivation and, I don’t know, I don’t really even know who I am any more.’

‘You dreaming every night?’

‘Phewww.’ The air ran from him. ‘I guess. I think most nights – but also, I don’t know. You know how it is with dreams. There are the things you can remember and then there’s all the white noise in the background when you wake up, like you know a lot happened but you can’t get a handle on it.’

‘You ever speak to your mother about it – the dreams?’

‘No, I tried, but not hard enough.’

‘Sthem…’ I leaned forward. I implored. ‘Beatrice and Andile and me and Fats, we’re pretty much gone. Fats can’t find his own zipper, I just sit here with Camille and daydream, and Beatrice and Andile aren’t far behind. Time is short. So you should know. When it happened, when everyone disappeared, your mother dreamed the kind of dreams you’re talking about. If I were you, I would talk to the others about it, to Fats even. I don’t think you can carry on with these questions without finding out more about her and her dreams. That means Fats. See if you can get something linear from him.’

We talked more of the past, me clinging to the decades, all gone now, drops in the river. I asked Sthem if he was sure he was right in what he was doing, and he said all he had was his heart, and his heart wasn’t asking any questions that couldn’t be answered.

I said that will have to do.

I asked him if he was in control of the numbers – if they all added up. To me it still looked like there were too many kids, too many people. It wasn’t the first time I had broached the subject, and it wasn’t the first time he evaded it, a tetchy furrow running across his brow, followed quickly by a trust accusation – his stock reply.

This is how it has been with Sthembiso and me for years. The distance between us punctuated by these awkward occasional meetings, filled with allusions to the things in between. We chatted on for a few minutes, about the details of this and that. I probed again around the unilateral music ban – the tyranny of the trance.

Next to Gerald’s body they had found a note. Dub, his final scrawl made sure to tell us. True dub.

To me it was the scrawl of hope. Of real, honest-to-God hope – the kind based on something tangible and physical. As much as their savagery to English was just that – savagery – their presence was still, ultimately, a light. A flicker on the horizon.

Sthembiso took it in a completely different direction. For him, their dub cast our trance in a new context of conflict. Everyone knew better than even to try to slip a fatter bass line in anywhere. A jazzy beat. An old rock ’n’ roll tune… Never.

Never.

In case the message hadn’t spread far or fast enough, in case the sight of the daily departing drones, reaching ever further, bringing back ever more, did not fully carry the military message, his lectures and sermons began referencing the importance of continuity and the danger of those heavy-handed, as yet unknown but clearly existent Zambian savages, waiting, surely, definitely, with their lazy beats and their machetes and their glazed, stoned, dubbed-out eyes…

There is us, Sthembiso said. And there is them. They left Gerald’s body in a tree. Strips hanging off it. Do the math, and do not be afraid of the numbers – they tell us what we need to know.

After Sthembiso had departed that last time, I had the sudden urge to talk to Sihle, my direct offspring. As a child he tended towards the coy and annoying, but in his later years he picked up enough confidence to show that his childhood uncertainty was just that – uncertainty. Now he was in charge of the Soweto Calabash, running, by all accounts, a fairly large set-up. There was much talk of parallel digital ports and docking points and such things beyond the ken of an old half-toothed man.

I strolled slowly, carefully, along the back paths, the neon-free paths, to the main house. This, I decided, would be the time. An appropriate time to finally use the landline. I asked one of the kids to dial it up for me. It looked for all the world like an old cellphone, but it was attached by a cable to an unusually large docking base, which in turn led to a nest of thick cables, all running away in different directions. The details were beyond me, but I had seen a few of them on it and it appeared to function pretty much like an old two-way radio in the connection phase. As far as I could gather – and that wasn’t very far, admittedly – the two-way connection was required to activate the call. One had to literally summons the party on the other side via a series of rings. The other party then had to flick a set of switches.

Once all had done what they needed to do, the handset could undock from its base and be used like a phone of old.

‘Sihle?’ I bellowed down the line.

‘Hola?’ His voice was surprisingly light, like a teenager.

‘It’s Roy.’

‘Roy? Really?’ He was surprised and amused. ‘Nice, Ntate. I’m honoured. Wot’s cooking down de?’

‘Nothing really. That’s why I decided to call. Seeing as they’ve got this set-up it makes sense to use it, I supposed.’

‘Korrek. Good call. An good to hear your voice, good to hear. Tell me something exciting. Ish is pretty dead this side.’

‘Sheesh. I was hoping you could tell me. Uhhh… oh, they’ve asked me to DJ at the next session.’

‘Ja? Wikkid. Nice. Okei… I might come through. I might definitely come through.’

‘Ja. Bit weird really but thought I’d give it a shot.’

‘Sho. Mthakathi on the decks. The kiddies will love it.’ He waited awkwardly for something, some reason.

‘Well, I guess I’ll let you get back. I just suddenly, I just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Super. Dope to hear yours.’ He sounded relieved, and just the tiniest bit impatient. ‘You live well now, Roy. Don do nuffing I wouldn’t do. Ha ha.’

‘I love you, boy.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

‘Uh, ja. Wow. Sho. Thanks, Roy. Love you too, broe.’ Awkwardness flooded the line. ‘Uh, gotta go. I being summonsed. Shot for the call, nè? I see you soon.’