The God Who Made Mistakes

Ekow Duker

Description

Behind the closed doors of their suburban Johannesburg home, Themba and Ayanda Hlatshwayo, both legal professionals, are beset by deep tensions that claw with relentless intensity at the polished facade of their lives. Ayanda seeks solace in dance classes, while Themba is increasingly drawn to the male companionship he finds at a book club.

With wit and sympathy, The God Who Made Mistakes explores the origins of Themba's unease and confused sense of identity. It takes us back to a river bank in Alex, the township where he grew up, and to a boy he once knew who met a violent death there. As the story peels back the painful layers of recollection, Themba’s domineering mother, Differentia, has a major decision to make. When developers set their sights on buying the family home and building a supermarket in its place, tendrils of envy and greed begin to curl out of unexpected quarters, as the unscrupulous seek to grab a share of the spoils. Back yard tenant, Tinyiko, with her short skirts and questionable morality, and Themba’s disgraced, unemployed elder brother, Bongani, begin to plot and scheme, while across town Themba’s fragile marriage faces its biggest challenge. When his past walks unexpectedly into his present, it threatens to blow apart his carefully constructed world.

The God Who Made Mistakes is a powerful, poignant story of unexpressed longings which, when finally uttered, can no longer be contained.

Sujets

• LGBTQ+
• Idioma inglés
• 21st century
• General officer
• Modernism
• English
• General
• Family Life
• Romance
• Gay
• Anglais

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781770104266
• Langue: English

Extrait

The God Who Made Mistakes

Also by Ekow Duker
Dying in New York (2014)
‘ Dying in New York is a great triumph for Ekow Duker. His prose is both gentle and beautiful and the characters unfold as the writer takes us on a tour of a scarcely human world that rests its weight on the weak.’ – Mtutuzeli Nyoka , author of A Hill of Fools and I Speak to the Silent
‘A well-received book [that tells the] haunting story of a young South African woman who dreams of dying in New York. It highlights the deep sense of escapism she uses to repress her tragic encounter with abuse.’ – Zamahlasela Gabela , True Love Man
White Wahala (2014)
‘ White Wahala is refreshingly original and speaks to a range of interesting topics that are swirling about because of our political atmosphere.’ – Lungile Mathupha , Heat
‘I thoroughly enjoyed this book … Not only are you given a glimpse of what South African township life is like, but you are introduced to interesting and comical characters who all operate within this environment. Definitely a must read.’ – Ashleigh Seton-Rogers , The Citizen
‘Ekow Duker’s take on the present state of the country has the potential to generate a lot of debate. It’s impossible to remain neutral towards the story.’ – Karina M Szczurek , Cape Times

The God Who Made Mistakes
A Novel
Ekow Duker
PICADOR AFRICA

Copyright
First published in 2016 by Picador Africa an imprint of Pan Macmillan South Africa Private Bag X19, Northlands Johannesburg, 2116
www.panmacmillan.co.za
ISBN 978-1-77010-425-9 eBook ISBN 978-1-77010-426-6
© 2016 Ekow Duker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Editing by Alison Lowry Proofreading by Kelly Norwood-Young Design and typesetting by Fire and Lion Cover design by K4 Alexandra cover image by Motlhalefi Mahlane/South Photographs /A frica Media Online

To the mothers of the men who shared their stories with me. Although I never met you, your voices were the loudest of all.

‘I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road.’ – Stephen Hawking

Prologue
Many years ago , there was a good king who ruled over his people with wisdom and justice. He was a great warrior who fought more fiercely than a lion and it was no wonder that his reputation spread to distant lands and even across the sea.
The king had many wives and they bore him several children. Each of the women lived in her own compound and was guarded, on pain of death, by a warrior hand-picked by the king himself. Now the king’s youngest wife was more beautiful than all the others. Lithe, fragrant and delightful, she was as graceful as a wisp of smoke. The king loved her so much, she only had to point at a garland of stars and he would send armies to pluck it from the night sky so he could place it tenderly around her neck.
The queen and her guard fell in love for they were both young and of similar spirit and soon they could not have retraced their steps, even if they had wanted to. On the nights when the king visited the queen and the young warrior kept watch outside, the lovers’ hearts would grow mad with anguish for it was the king she held in her arms and not him. And when the king left and all was quiet, the queen would open the door of her hut to let her lover in, whispering softly to him to quell the rage that burned in his eyes.
In time the queen fell pregnant and grew heavy with child. The king was overjoyed and in anticipation of the birth, ordered that there be celebrations throughout the land. The queen’s lover was also glad but his happiness was tempered with doubt and a cold, nagging dread. He yearned for the unborn child to be his, yet he feared the punishment the king would inflict on him should his treachery be known. His death would be gruesome, painful and protracted.
When the day came for the queen to give birth, the praise singers sang until their throats became parched and dry. The sun went down, rose and went down again, and still she had not delivered.
The prolonged hours of labour left the queen terribly weak. Messengers took word to the king that the woman he loved more than life was close to death. On hearing this, the king was filled with deep sorrow and his proud, handsome face creased over with concern. His courtiers trembled and whispered nervously among themselves for they had never seen their king so desolate before. Then with a great rolling of his shoulders, the king roused himself and stood up to speak. As one, the courtiers fell silent and turned to hear what the king had to say.

Madala
I t began raining the day the dogs found Sipho Sibanda. A soft, gentle patter that fell like a benediction from the hands of a loving and indulgent god. Two dogs, both of indeterminate colour and breed, approached the man lying in the bushes. With exaggerated care, they placed one muddy paw gingerly in front of the other, then stopped abruptly, taut limbed and stiff tailed, their bodies poised for flight.
The reeds sighed and parted as the dogs drew closer, sprinkling their backs with drops of water. The dogs sniffed at the man’s bare feet and nudged his cracked heels before edging their way up his legs. One of them, the male and the larger of the two, lingered over the remnants of dried blood and excrement that caked his buttocks, its nose twitching in a frenzied dialogue that only dogs understand. Then, with an almost human reverence, it began to lick at the patch of dry white residue splattered across the back of the man’s thighs. There would be no abuse or rocks hurled at them. Sipho Sibanda was dead.
Madala found Sipho Sibanda the next day and by then the river was in flood. Thin veins of white foam criss-crossed the dark muscular torrent as the river swept past, moaning like a madman to break free of its banks. It was like a giant pinned down on an operating table, its skin flayed back without anaesthetic. The carcass of a large animal flashed by, its legs stiff and pointing crookedly to heaven. A withered tree branch, a jagged piece of styrofoam, a woman’s shoe, alone and without its partner. Sodden spoils of life, soon to be deposited at the feet of a capricious and vengeful god.
Despite his limp, Madala was surprisingly nimble. He slid down the river bank with his knees bent and his arms outstretched like a surfer. He was wearing black gumboots, the only thing of value he had left from the mines. He’d sewn his olive-green tarpaulin himself and it flared outwards from his shoulders like a cape. He came to this spot on the river at the same time every year. Five thirty in the evening on the eleventh of February and it was the eleventh of February today.
Last year he’d lost his footing and been dragged a hundred metres downstream by the current. He’d never had a chance to place the flowers properly or even say a prayer. The year before that, his flowers had clung stubbornly to the far bank of the river, infuriatingly out of reach and wedged among the driftwood and plastic shopping bags, like another piece of rubbish. Each year the river conspired to mock him and each year he wondered why he came at all.
With a loud sigh, Madala rummaged inside the folds of his tarpaulin and took out a bunch of small white flowers. Seventy five rand from the BP filling station, an extravagance for most people in Alex and especially so for him. He held the flowers to his nose, squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. In the past, all it took was one smell of the flowers to conjure up a richly textured image of her face. Now his memory had faded so far into the distance, her face had become no more than an indistinct blur of shapes and sounds he barely recognised as belonging to a woman. His woman. Madala inhaled again, more sharply this time and with greater urgency. But it was no use. He shook his head in annoyance and scowled at the flowers. He might as well have bought plastic.
Suddenly, a putrid smell wafted around him and Madala’s nostrils crinkled in distaste. He raised his head and sniffed the moist air, seeking out the source of the odour. Madala had smelled death too often not to recognise the sickly foulness that accompanied it. He stepped forward, brushing the reeds aside like they were curtains. The smell was more pungent now and yet he almost stumbled over the body. It was a man’s body. He was tall, lean and slightly muscled. He was lying face down as if there was something particularly interesting hidden there in the mud. His trousers were bunched around his ankles and his shirt was nowhere to be seen. He had bite marks on his thighs, stray dogs no doubt, and one buttock was already half eaten away. Madala swore out loud and crossed himself repeatedly, his profanity growing more pronounced with each circuit.
‘Fock! Fock! Fock!’
Madala clambered back up to the road and pondered what to do. It couldn’t be him, he’d been very careful. His instincts told him to leave the body there to rot. It was safer that way. But he knew his conscience would nag him and he didn’t have the energy for any more turmoil inside his head.
He trudged all the way to the Alexandra police station and stood hesitantly in the entrance. Except for the two framed photographs of the president and the minister of police above the counter, there was no one in sight. Water dripped off his clothes and formed a puddle around his feet.
‘Voetsek!’
Madala looked around him, wondering who had spok