The Pier

1

It was very early, and still pitch dark outside.

Nokulinda had not checked the time when she woke up, but she could deduce from the sporadic passing of cars on the main road, and the general silence, that it must have been after three am. She stayed in bed with her hands clasped over her breasts, her mind treacherously clear. She noticed that her hands were shaking, and for a second she feared rheumatism. Her eyes roved around the room. It was lit by street lights, and shadowed by white lace curtains and what she thought were ineffective but demonstrative burglar bars. All was as it had always been: a bland and matte pinewood wardrobe that was starting to chip embarrassingly, a dressing table with a triptych of mirrors she had inherited from someone (she always forgot whom), and shoe boxes stacked up against the wall, sometimes used as storage or hiding spaces. In front of the dressing table stood an old-fashioned suitcase. She had packed the night before for her trip. She stared at it. In the street light, the leather was a hue between brown and maroon. The gold buckles whose keys were long lost, still shone brilliantly. She remembered that when her son had left for Johannesburg, she had tried to insist that he take this suitcase. He'd baulked at the idea. Who was he, he'd asked, a character from Cry, The Beloved Country?

After a few minutes' hesitation, Nokulinda sat up and slid her feet into her slippers. She pulled her pink dressing gown, the one with the floral embroidery on the breast, out of the wardrobe and shuffled to the kitchen, buttoning it right up to the top as she went. The house was not cold. The lounge, situated between the bedroom and the kitchen, was furnished with an oversized room divider, slippery leatherette couches, a scuffed armchair, and a matching coffee table. Every room in the house was tiled.

She flicked the kitchen light on. The fridge droned monotonously. She opened the door and took out a slab of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, margarine, ham, and lettuce and placed them on the kitchen counter. She sniffed, then frowned as if she had committed a transgression. She leaned her back against the counter and listened. What had she forgotten? Outside, a car was growling away. She remembered: bread. Bread was what she had forgotten.

She prepared the sandwiches for her trip, wrapped them in tinfoil and packed them into a Tupperware container. She heard the clock in the lounge. It ticked with an unforgiving regularity. She didn't remember when she'd bought it, but suddenly, for the first time in all the years she had lived in this house, she stared at it and she hated it as if she had suffered great betrayal from it. Its gilt frame, beige face, and black hands offended her. It ticked on. The second hand performed its revolutions. And she hated it. She walked into the dark lounge and pulled the armchair across the floor to the wall where the clock hung. The chair got stuck between two tiles and she kicked it violently, almost falling over backwards. She felt a sharp pain around her hip area. She remembered the tremor in her hands. She pushed the chair against the wall, until it was directly beneath the clock. It met the wall with a muted thump. She removed her slippers and climbed up onto the cushioned seat. When she had lifted the clock from its nail, she ripped the batteries from its back. The tips of her fingers were sore. She fell into the chair, holding the clock tightly in one hand, and breathed heavily.

________

She had eventually gone back to the bedroom to fish her cellphone out of her handbag. The cellphone now lay on her lap. Outside, taxi horns were beginning to blare. She unlocked her cellphone and the shock of the screen's white light initially startled her. She read the article again. The words were still there. Permanent...