The white twisted moustache hovering over a friendly grin, it’s the colonel on a red billboard directing us home. I’m sure uMthoko doesn’t need to look at it anyway, he’s the one who drove us here. The responsible one: He drinks but his understanding of the importance of sobriety tonight guided him away alcohol. He lives just three streets up but I’ve never noticed him, he slides under the radar unlike his brother uMdu. I can see his silver teeth from the other side of this dark car, his arm around a giggling girl in a short dress next to me in the backseat. Ikhandlela. UVuyani is the loudest one here and the seatbelt the only thing keeping him attached front seat of his dad’s sedan. He slurs his words as he yells the lyrics of “Amarido” while dancing along. Only the fear of his dad keeps him sane enough not to spill any cognac from the glass securely grasped in his right hand.
Our plan had hinged heavily on Vuyani’s dad lending us his car. An experienced Zulu man whom life had hardened over the decades. Unapproachable, those who dare master up the courage are sure-footed in the cultural fundamentals of addressing a man like him. Vuyani had to always carefully choose his words and body language on the few occasions he visited his dad. On one of these rare occasions he had to introduce uMthoko as our responsible driver. Mthoko, being the kind of character who seems well versed in the art of addressing the older generation effortlessly convinced Vuyani’s dad. The rest of our master plan would unfold with relative ease, go to the party and drive back home.
The colonel now in distant memory Mthoko navigates through quiet streets of this suburban area. There’s no one on the streets, all the people here a cosy in their air-conditioned homes. Vuyani hangs forward with his chin stabbing his collarbone and his body swaying with the motion of the car; peacefully sleeping and leaving the sound system solemnly to perform the task of entertaining the audience. Mthoko stops the car in front of a lawn guarded by a well-kept hedge and turns his body towards the backseat. The giggling stops. With a sense of defeat he asks to use one of our phones for GPS. Minehle and Mdu left their phones at home, Vuyani and I merely possess our trap phones. Yajampa. Mdu sips his full glass of cognac and calmly suggests we drive back to a petrol station he saw earlier. The car moves from its rest and circles back, Minehle digs into her light pink leather bag and puts on a pair of spectacles.
The bright garage lights call Vuyani back to consciousness, it doesn’t take long for him to regain his glass from the built-in cup holder. Mdu stumbles out the car and takes Minehle with him. Mthoko retrieves the car keys from the ignition makes his way to the petrol pump where in no time he meets a petrol attendant. Mthoko tentatively listens to a petrol attendant, the man in navy uniform with his arm raised pointing to our route back home, Mthoko nodding in understanding. The peaceful moment in the car interrupted by Minehle entering the car and slamming the door, Vuyani wants to say something but decides against starting that topic Minehle is not in the mood. Her dress sitting slightly higher than earlier. Tears sit above her lower eyelids, shielded by the newly-formed crack on the right lens of her spectacles. She pours herself a glass of the cognac…