It’s one of those evenings we’ve poked and picked and sold every bloody tin can down Black Soweto to raise supper that ends up tasting like a pot of paper. Fashek happens to know a lot about the Illuminati. I ask him, at some point, why we don’t just sell our souls to Don JAY-Z for some ‘bread’. He looks over at me, utters a baffled, long-drawn-out “Huuuh?”, appears to weigh to himself the gravity of what I’ve just said and explodes into laughter. It’s such a crazed eruption of sound so crude in its loudness it has him coughing and gasping and wheezing. That’s one thing about Fashek. Sometimes, he’s any normal older brother. The rest of the time — like now — he’s no better than any kaka bastard, dead, alive or budding in the belly.
Every laughter has a timeout. Not Fashek’s. So now I’m pissed at him because he won’t stop this fooling and tell me why. “What, wawa?” I snap. “This is why Tsile told you no,” I add with spite.
He’s wiping off tears with the back of his hand. “Sell our souls,” he says, completely ignoring my low blow. “Selling is not the issue, you cattle thief —”
“Fasheke!!!” Ma warns from the parlor.
“Yes, mommy!!”
“Your brother is not a cattle thief!”
He shrugs and sneers. “Sorry, ma.” He looks around and his voice drops to a whisper, and he gives me that serious look. “The issue is, is it profitable?
It’s not.
Because right now, we’re in line. Me, Ma and Fashek. In a congested grocery store that smells faintly of disinfectant.
I am watching Ma’s hand, the one with the debit card. She is tapping her thigh with it, briskly scratching at each edge, sometimes holding it in a too-tight grip. If I slip my hand in hers, I know it’ll be damp with anxiety. I think I have an idea why.
Once, we went to the store to get the kinda crap you get when you know you aren’t going to have money for fuck-all in a while: Candles. Eggs. Noodles. We dropped our purchase on the counter, a nice little poor heap.
“Card or cash?” the cashier had asked. That bitch looked like a weasel with human eyes.
“Card,” Ma replied, presenting it to her.
A minute as long as eternal damnation passed. A number of people were behind us.
The cashier could’ve shaken her head. Could’ve whispered. Could’ve given a sign. Could’ve done anything but what she ultimately decided on doing: yelling, “Nothing in here!”
Ma had gasped and acted all surprised and annoyed. She had snatched back the card and examined it for herself, assuring the cashier and whoever cared to pretend to listen that there was enough money in it the last time she checked. Like any of that mattered.
It was the last time we’d ever gone into that store.
Now, standing here, with the way she’s treating that debit card, I’m concerned all over again that the same thing isn’t going to happen. Still, a part of my heart has enough confidence that since we dropped some of the things we picked to increase our odds of not getting embarrassed, whatever is in that card will save us.
“Card or cash?” the cashier says.
“Card,” Ma says, presenting it and I start to panic again.
She does the click-click thing and a beep-beep followed by a paper slip peeps out.
That’s right, we’re good.
On our way home, we pass Tsile.
God’s got the whole world in his hands. As for the boys of Black Soweto, Tsile’s got it behind her. It’s that simple. And it’s that mighty. Fasheke once called it a planet. I quipped, “Oh, Marse?” and he shot me a proud look, stood up, slapped my shoulder hard and gave me a perfect dap like I’d just dug up the keys and gotten us out of poverty.