There’s a hole in my shoe. The right one, where my big toe curves up and rubs, well, rubbed, against the fabric until it wore clean through. I wonder how this happened? My running socks aren’t full of holes. Is it something about the shape of my foot? Are my toes more scimitar-like than those of other people? The hole doesn’t really bother me, and the shoes themselves are still in pretty good shape. I don’t think I’ll be replacing them any time soon. Running shoes aren’t cheap.
I stretch before I run. Deep runner’s bends, touching my toes, pulling my knees up to my chest and all that. How long I stretch depends on how busy the road is. I’m self-conscious about my legs. They’re really hairy, and my running shorts are shorter than what I’m generally comfortable with. It’s not a problem when I’m moving, when I’m actually running. But if I’m standing catching breath or stretching at my gate I feel naked.
I turn out of our driveway and start down a steep downhill. The road curves gently to the right and I have to duck beneath some low branches that bear a red fruit that turns to mush underfoot, staining the pavement. I slow down a little near the end of our road. Here, where the hill begins to flatten out, is the t-junction where our tributary feeds into the main road that runs along the entire length of Amanzimtoti.
There’s a sign where the two roads meet. Two signs, in fact. White rectangles, at right angles to one another, perched on the end of a silver pole that’s just taller than my outstretched arm when I’m standing on my toes. One points in the direction I’ve just run from and announces where I live. The other white rectangle has a name too, only this one has been defaced. Someone has taken a can of black spray paint and has crossed it out. Erased it, but not quite.
I must have been around twenty-two when I first read Derrida. We were assigned a chunk of his Of Grammatology for a third year course. Metaphysics, I think.
There isn’t much I remember from that course. I remember being very, very angry at one point and throwing that damned orange and black book as hard as I could at my bedroom wall. My grandmother popped her head in to make sure I was okay. I arranged a meeting with my lecturer to discuss why this stuff was incomprehensible to me. I came away with the impression that its being incomprehensible was part of the point. The lecturer’s kid sat in the back of his office the whole time listening to house music. He tried to use the noise washing over us as a metaphor for what Derrida was trying to do. I thought that was some grade-A bullshit.
“Sous rature”, writing under erasure. I do remember that clicking and sticking. Sometimes a word isn’t exactly right, doesn’t quite capture what we mean, but sometimes we have no other way to gesture towards what we do mean, so we just write the word with a line through it. Like this.
Anyways, these street signs with their names struck out make me think of Derrida.
I turn left, this takes me up towards and then under the highway. It’s wild here. This is the bit I love most about the south coast. Nature is barely contained here. Like if we turned our back for a minute we’d be overrun by the dense green mass that hems us in. I cross a small bridge that runs across a stream. People used to kayak down there, now it’s perpetually clogged with some dark green water plant. An alien of some kind, so thick it looks like you could walk on it.
The bridge itself is part of the road, but here the pavement turns into a series of concrete slats that lie unsecured and packed next to each other like loose teeth that ring like a xylophone or the high keys of a piano when I run across them.
Just past the bridge, where the road dips down lower and the foliage is darkest, there is a broad and deep cement channel for rainwater runoff. Here there is almost always a shallow, but completely clear, stream of water. When I run, most mornings at least, there is a man down there washing himself and his clothes. His skin is an unhealthy dark brown everywhere except for the deep lines etched around his eyes which are pink and raw. He must come quite a way to wash himself because I think he’s the same guy who lives near the bus station in a orange tent with a woman who I thought was his mother until I saw them kissing and pawing at each other like drunk teenagers. I ran past her once. She held a beach weathered branch, white as a bone, as a walking stick, or weapon, I don’t know which. I said hello and she just glared at me. I thought she was going to chase after me with that stick, but she only glared. Glared at me even after I’d long past her. I’ve avoided her since then.
I always wonder, why does this guy come so far to wash? Is the water just cleaner here than near the station, it is because of the shade, or is it just something to do, something to break what I guess must be a pretty dull procession of days?
More posts, more white rectangles. Each of them has the street’s name scratched or painted out. Sometimes it’s the same black spraypaint as the one near my house, sometimes it’s white enamel, and I can imagine some guys standing around a braai talking about it all when one of them remembers that he has half a can of paint left over from when he redid the skirting in his kid’s room and, wouldn’t it be something, wouldn’t it be right, to drive from corner to corner expunging that murderous name.
I don’t think anyone goes out of their way to vandalize with the same paint that you’d use to brighten up the house, so I can only guess that theirs is a crime of opportunity. Civil disobedience by way of the DIY aisle at the local Spar.
Depending on how I’m feeling, and when I need to start work, I might run down to ‘Toti main.
Every corner has the same name sous rature.
I take the long way around to the beach, down Roslyn, past a number of car places and the back side of Sweetwaters, the monstrous block of flats that dominates the ‘Toti skyline. There’s a club here, it’s still here, and I remember a night nearly 18 years ago when me and a few of my friends came here, drank rum, and ended up somewhere on the beach trying to invoke Gaia while the wind whipped around us and Louis sat just outside the circle, vomiting in the sand.
On my right the lagoon opens up and I turn left onto Beach road.
Here, on the far corner is the Sanlam Centre. I took my little girl for ice-cream there once. Soft serve with a pink sauce, strawberry, that messed over the front of her shirt. We crossed the road and played in the megre park before the wind came up and stung her with beach sand.
I was just a few years older than my daughter is now when, at this same shopping centre, a member of the Butterfly unit of the MK put a limpet mine in a dustbin at the Wimpy. The resulting explosion injured dozens of people, killed five, three of them were children. This was in 1985. The state caught the bomber and less than a year later executed him by hanging.
His name was Andrew Zondo and it’s his name, sous rature, on the white rectangles.
I run up past the beachfront Spur. Beyond that there are some really big houses, and right at the end of the street, a surprisingly beautiful public pool. This is Pipeline beach. Here I take a drink of water from the runner’s tap, turn around, and start on my way home.
There’s a picture online of the Sanlam Centre on the day of the attack. It’s of a man, a paramedic I think, running with a little girl in his arms. I look at that picture often. I try hard to feel what it would be like to have my own daughter hurt like that. Then I try to think through how I’d feel when, 20 years later someone renamed the main street in the town I lived in after the person who’d hurt her. I’ve been told that there are people who still live in Toti who lost family that day. I try imagine what it’s like for them to drive to the shops for bread and milk on Andrew Zondo road. I can’t though. I wasn’t born here, and I don’t yet know that kind of pain. I try to imagine it, but I know I fall short.
The run home is tough. The sun’s over the horizon and I’m sweating. My shirt is darker around my armpits and chest. My eyes sting.
Just before the bridge that crosses back over the Manzimtoti there are a few commercial buildings that were mostly abandoned when the new shopping mall opened. As far as I can make out, when commercial business moved north this building was taken over by some kind of martial arts studio. And a church, I think. Plastered across the walls are huge neon yellow signs saying things like “Reality based protection”, “Mixed martial arts”, and “Bully proof your child”.
In 1986 I was in grade 1. Miss Shepard’s class. I had my name above a little compartment along the wall where I would keep my stuff, my shoes, my jersey, lunch. During break the “gradies”, basically all the kids up till standard 1 -- would be corralled in a paved quad between the school’s two brick buildings. The rest of the school would be on the soccer fields.
Sometime in my first week of school I was walking to the far end of the quad when I was approached by two boys, they couldn’t have been more than two years older than me, so maybe 7 or 8. They asked me “Do you want to be part of our gang?”
I watched a lot of movies growing up. More John Hughes than Alfred Hitchcock, and If I knew anything for certain, it was that being in a gang was bad news.
And so, I respectfully declined.
One of the boys walked behind me, pinned my arms behind my back while the other punched me in the stomach. It may have been the first time I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I was more shocked than angry, and -- knowing what I knew from movies about how gangs were for the bad-guys -- I was genuinely confused about why anyone would want to be the bad-guy? Why did these kids want to be in a gang? Why did they want to hurt me?
Why be Murdoc when you could be Macgyver? Why be Skeletor when you could be He-Man? Why be Johnny when you could be flippin’ Daniel-San?
Andrew Zondo. “Andrew Zondo”. Andrew Zondo.
The name evokes a moment, not a person.
Actually, it evokes two moments.
The first, an explosion at a beachside restaurant. The second, the end of a young man’s life at the hands of a brutal political regime.
I see Andrew Zondo’s name hundreds of times a year. The municipality tries to clean the street signs, tries to replace those that have been ripped from their posts, but a week or two later someone will have painted them over or ripped them down again.
I see his name hundreds of times a year, and yet I know very little about him beyond the snatches of SA history I can find online. Some articles from the City Press. A picture of him, unsmiling, looking directly at the camera.
From what I have read, I can’t see him as Murdoc or Skeletor.
He was part of his school’s debate team. He was a preacher’s son. And it was a police raid on a prayer service that helped him decide to leave home, learn how to fight, join the struggle.
He planted the bomb in the Sanlam centre as … as what? “Revenge for”, or … maybe, “in response to” an attack in Lesotho? The words are tricky here. Revenge isn’t quite what I’m looking for, although that’s partly what it was, sure. Neither is “in response to” quite right either -- it makes Zondo too passive, it denies him agency.
He was angry. He wanted change.
Zondo was sentenced to death 5 times over for the bombing. He was offered a life sentence if he would turn state witness. He chose to die rather than betray his comrades.
Before the judge passed sentence, Zondo addressed the court and apologised to the families and friends of those who lost their lives in the attack. A cynic may say that he was trying to curry favour. I find that difficult to believe, at this point he almost certainly knew he was going to die, he hadn’t much to gain by apologising.
None of his family were present at his burial.
I’m still on Andrew Zondo road. I run back past the rain-water channel. My legs are warm, and despite the dull ache in my knees, I feel as though I could run forever.
I follow the road which turns left and up a short hill that runs past a primary school. Some mornings I’ll see the swimming team doing drills. Every one of these kids was born long after Zondo was hanged. I wonder what their teachers and parents tell them when they ask about the name on the sign outside the school that has been struck through? What is the mythology they’ll inherit?
These things I read online, these facts about Zondo and his life, his character, are somehow empty to me. Although they serve to round him out, he feels distant still. As with those who lost family that December in 1985, there’s a gap between knowing and feeling. I can’t bridge it with facts.
I recoil from what Zondo did. The taking of life is always an evil. And yet, it was that same kind of evil that pushed him to do what he did. I try to imagine what I would do if I were him, if I’d seen what he had, if I’d felt what he had. Would I have done the same? It’s not impossible.
Past the primary school the road curves right and flattens out. On the left there are train tracks and just beyond that, the beach. I run past the cafe where my little girl and I, both covered in sand, once stopped for ice-cream before going home to shower. We love ice-cream.
The road inclines gently, flattens out, and then pushes upwards once more.
Here is where I get my hair cut.
Here is where we went to celebrate my wife’s 27th birthday.
Here is where I bought fishing bait on the morning I decided fishing wasn’t for me.
At the top of the hill, at the point just before I turn and walk home along Strelitzia, I stop to catch my breath.
Here, in an indentation just off the pavement, is a concrete bench.
I ran past it for years before I noticed its small golden plaque.
In memory of Sheila, she so loved this spot.
I sit on Sheila’s bench and pull my knees to my chest. They ache deliciously.
Below, the ocean rolls and roars and stretches until it becomes the horizon.