Glittering Gallows

Chapter 39

245 C Chapter 39 he tunnel was dank and very narrow. It smelled of sewage. Crouched beside a homemade paraffin lamp, Aluwani, shirtless and sweating profusely, burrowed with the pick at the end of the tunnel. They had cut half of the tool’s wooden handle off to allow for swinging in the confinement. Regis Makgunda sat on old, folded fifty-kilogramme hessian and polypropylene empty bags behind the digger. Originally the bags contained Vietnamese rice, bread flour and Pretoria Portland cement. Also shirtless and soiled, Regis sat on the bags under the light of another lamp. He was blowing and admiring the Luger and its three bullets. Agnes Lamola’s photograph lay upturned between his feet. Both men had thawed to the pungent smell in the boring. When they started, both were afraid they would bore into a leaking sewage pipe, whose water dampened the walls of the burrow, and feared drowning underground. Aluwani dug expertly and incessantly. He had a tendency to inspect curious rock fragments he encountered as if they were prospecting for gold. Regis believed that indeed the man worked in the illegal mines of Johannesburg and he was once an Aid Agency for prostitutes like he had claimed. As he laboured, grunting with effort and frequently wiping grit from his eyes with the back of his hands, Aluwani cursed his ancestors, God and the people who introduced money into the world. “You condemned me to damn hard labour, nigger,” he said angrily. “I wonder if our brothers worked as hard in the damn sugar plantations of America.” Regis ignored him. “Slave master, did you hear me?” Regis wished his colleague would stop talking; his bad breath rendered the acrid air fouler. From habit, Regis cleaned his teeth with sticks and ashes though it did nothing to the discoloration that had T 246 set in. He had never seen Aluwani washing his mouth. All his mate ever did with his mouth was gulp vodka and curse. When rubble and soil accumulated between Aluwani’s feet, he crawled past Regis with his pick. The latter put the Luger down, drew a polypropylene bag and crawled to the end of the tunnel where his mate was working. With his hands, he scooped the rubble into the sack. “You love this bitch, hey?” Regis looked over his shoulder and saw Aluwani crouched where he was sitting a while ago, Agnes’ photograph in his hands. “Don’t talk shit about her. Or I’ll break your neck.” He resumed filling the sack until it was nearly full, and began tying it. “Shithead, how do I know you won’t kill me after the robbery?” “That’s movie stuff. We’re buddies, Alu. We’ve suffered together. If you died today I’d wash your body and bury you as decently as possible. There won’t be a pauper’s burial for you.” “You washing my damn body... the gonorrhoea and everything?” “Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” “We’re rascals, Reggie. We’re of no benefit to ourselves or South Africa.” “Aluwani, you’d let convicts bury me?” “I don’t know. Life has taught me to be unkind. I think with my rectum.” Regis dragged the filled bag towards Aluwani. ...