Huge letters on the outside of the building said, “GANS AUTO REPAIRS”. It was 7’ o’ clock in the morning. It promised to be a lovely, sunny bright day with clear blue skies. Gan’s workshop opened at half past seven. Shami waited out on the large piece of concrete slab along the front of the workshop. He couldn’t help looking up at a flock of birds flying so high above. As if there was no worry in the whole wide world.
A newer model sedan pulled in at the petrol garage next door, interrupting his reverie. A little head popped out the window from the back. An animated voice yelled out as the petrol attendant approached the car, “Hey Shami, I’m going fishing with my daddy to try out my new fishing rod. My daddy’s going to buy me a burger and ice cream!” Shami ran cheerfully to the vehicle to greet his friend. A plump, hairy hand suddenly reached out and clouted him hard on the face. He stumbled backwards in shock.
“Chris!!!” a gruff male voice snapped from inside the car. “Did I not ask you to stop talking to these rascals!? Why do you think he’s sitting out there so early in the morning? He’s definitely up to no good, I tell you. These people have nothing better to do with their lives except wait around to see what they can steal.”
“But he’s my school friend, dad. He’s in my class and he’s not a rascal. He doesn’t steal; everyone likes him and I like him too,” pleaded the tiny Chris.
“You will not back answer me, you hear my boy! I’ll have a chat with your teacher about the friends you keep at school. We’ll not have our son mingle with the likes of him. Imagine what your mother will say when she hears about this!” A few moments later, the car drove off and Chris’s head popped up. He waved as they sped away. Shami waved back with a heavy and sore heart. His face still smarted from that hard blow.
Gan arrived shortly after. He was accompanied by two of his mechanics. The day was a demanding day and Shami did a lot of running around. He passed tools, carried spares and made tea for everyone. He helped drain out petrol into gallon containers. This was from vehicles that had just about full tanks. They quickly stored these out of sight. Gan and the others were amazed at the quick-witted boy. They asked him to answer the constantly ringing phone.
The persistently ringing phones kept Shami busy for most of the day. “Good day, Gan’s Auto Repairs, may I help you,” he answered importantly.
“Err… sorry where is this…?” a usually uncertain voice would ask.
“Gan’s Auto Repairs, sir,” was the firm reply.
“Oh… uh… are you the new receptionist, then?” And a range of other curious questions normally followed by amusement.
There was usually laughter on the other side when he formally responded, “I’m the assistant mechanic sir.”
It was a grease-covered and dog-tired Shami that plodded home late that afternoon. He clutched a packet containing snacks for his siblings. He’d bought some pies for supper. He promised himself that in future no one would lay a hand on him. Irrespective who they thought they were. He worked hard for his money. To be called a rascal and a time waster was an insult to all his efforts in making something of his life. His instincts told him he was destined for greater things.
Shami spent most of his days trying to make life less stressful for his delicate household. He was ridiculed, and he was tormented by a few children in his age group, who had the benefit of both their parents to nurture and fuss over them; but he developed a thick skin for the misfortunes that were thrown his way. He learnt that self-pity was a disease that greedily ate up your insides leaving you like an empty, living, breathing zombie. Shami despised people who sat around groveling in misery. There were countless people who thrived on playing victim. He knew that the politics of the land was cruel to those who allowed themselves to become victims. He had made a choice to be a survivor. To be a victim was to play into the hands of the oppressor. His share of oppressors came in all shapes and sizes. But Comrade Ngobese showed him time and again who the real oppressor of the people truly was.
He had watched Ngobese fleeing for his life from apartheid security forces. The security forces had stormed the neighborhood searching for Ngobese. Thankfully the comrade, who was a father figure to Shami, was well prepared for such likelihood of being confronted by the apartheid forces. He simply vanished. Or so it seemed to the state security police. Ngobese was a master of disguises and he helped lead the resistance movement right under the noses of the watchful eyes of the security police.
Shami recalled attending a cell meeting with his aunt and was puzzled to see a strange fat lady seated in the shadows. He rolled with laughter when the lady spoke. To him it was amusing hearing Ngobese’s authoritative and commanding voice coming from the strange looking, fat lady. The comrades had to snap at him to keep him quiet. But each of them had a knowing twinkle in their eyes. Amidst the harsh realities which overshadowed these clandestine meetings, having Shami around added a spark of hope. It was his energy and enthusiasm; and that mythical promise of a better life which Shami signified. His fresh and youthful demeanor represented a better future. It epitomized a future free of unjust laws and racial discrimination. It gave them hope.
Shami too had already been reproached by the police a few times. There was a time when he had been caught red-handed distributing pamphlets at the nearby railway station. The white railway master had marched him into the office where they awaited the police. The railway master could barely contain his excitement. “I can’t believe I actually caught one of these communist instigators myself... with my own hands,” he contemplated. His body shook uncontrollably with exhilaration.
The railway official played the scene in his mind. He thought how he would describe the encounter to his friends. His sense of creativity made the culprit many years older and armed with some East European weapon. He had been fearful at first of what this commie troublemaker was capable of. But no, his anger at the terror that these bastards were causing in the fatherland had given him superhuman strength and courage, and he had overcome the terrorist. Don’t ask him how, but he had somehow managed to do it... for the sake of the fatherland. God had been by his side. He imagined his friends and his fleshy red-faced wife all beaming at him with admiration; all standing around a barbeque get-together his wife would most certainly host in his honor. He went to the back office to admire a picture of himself in camouflage attire. Voices speaking in Afrikaans interrupted his thoughts.
He returned to the front office with an authoritative look plastered on his face. Two security police officials dressed in safari suits had come to collect the culprit. The railway official pointed to the corner, an empty corner. Neither culprit nor pamphlets were to be seen. The security officials were furious and puzzled that he would leave the boy unattended with not even a rope to bind him. “You shall certainly be called in for questioning on this matter,” they said, and they stomped out in frustration.
“Let me get my hands on that little Indian,” he shrieked, red-faced, to an amused crowd loitering around outside the office.
Shami had been perplexed that the white railway official had simply left him alone with the pamphlets and disappeared into the back office. Instinct kicked in and he had raced out of the office with his parcel of pamphlets in hand, as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him. Ngobese cautioned him to be more watchful the next time round.
IV
He stood outside the shop waiting patiently, passing the time, and looking at the garments displayed in the window. His aunt had informed him that he ought to speak to Mrs. Khan. She was the proprietor of the shop. It was Mrs. Khan who’d phoned Ngobese informing him that she was on the lookout for two dependable students to assist her during the Christmas holidays.
Shami had been one of the two students summoned to Ngobese’s home in the township. The other student was a black boy approximately the same age as Shami. The leader had dispensed precise and specific instructions. He e
xpected them to live up to his expectations. The Khan’s were longstanding supporters of the anti-apartheid struggle. The boys were instructed not to show disrespect. This was an opportunity to earn pocket money and acquire skills, and most importantly they needed this chance to build their lives. He’d chosen them carefully, so he didn’t expect them to let him down. The boys were expected to serve as messengers for the Khans and the anti-apartheid movement.
The second boy, Theo, who accompanied him on that first day decided abscond when he saw the plain looking shop. The store was situated in an arcade, alongside the bus terminal in Pinetown.