SERGIO'S FOLLY

                                       SERGIO’S FOLLY

The small hut stood alone on the side of a low hill, separated from the main village by a stream which fed the community’s dam. It was newly painted and its boundaries were demarcated by neatly arranged thorn bushes. A footpath wound its way from the river crossing to the front gate, the pillars of which were dwarfed by two large and frequently “pruned” dagga bushes. Its sole inhabitant was a man named Sipho, a veritable giant with a heart of gold and an amiable nature. But as big and likeable as he was, he was as simple as a wind up toy. Superstition was rife in the village, fuelled by the village headman who saw omens - good and bad – behind every bush and so poor old Sipho was relegated to his isolated site so as not to provoke any spirits who may take umbrage to his impediment! He spent his days playing with the village children, charging around like a horse with three or four of them on his back at a time, sending squeals of laughter resounding through the nearby hills. At the end of the day, he would retire to his hut with a jug or two of delicious home brewed beer bought from the local shebeen, stop at his gate to pick a few leaves from his tree of happiness, and settle in for the night.
         But tonight things were different. Old Phineas Nxumalo, the headman, stood under a nearby fever tree and watched with mounting concern, the goings on in Sipho’s hut. A stranger – a Mozambican – had entered their village a few days ago and had taken an unhealthy liking to Sipho. Now the two of them were locked in animated discussion, the single candle in their hut throwing eerie shadows on the wall. Phineas pulled his threadbare jersey closer to his skinny frame as a ripple of foreboding ran down his spine. This was not good…                    
         About 30k’s away on a farm nestled in the hills, Jake Munro lived alone. He was a well liked and respected member of the community, always there to lend a willing hand or to offer advice. But Jake had one major flaw – a whiplash temper that was often awesome and always un-controllable! Sometimes his anger bubbled slowly to the surface and sometimes it just erupted like Mount St Helens! Pain, whether self inflicted or by some external means, was always a trigger for instant retribution! The people who worked for him had learned to recognize the tell-tale signs. Not so Cindy, his wife of only a few months. After one of Jake’s more energetic sessions, she had hurriedly packed her bags and fled! Jake was devastated. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would never have harmed her. He doted over her and missed her more with every passing day. She wrote him one letter, declaring her undying love for him, wishing him a good life – and begging him to get help! There was no return address…          
Old Moses, who was holding a flashlight for him now, knew the signs. His apprehension grew as Jake put the finishing touches to the fuel pump on his tractor. He watched Jake nervously, often allowing the beam to stray from the work area, at which point Jake would bark “khanyisa kahle!” and Moses would rap the flashlight against his palm to coax a bit more light from it and quickly re-focus it on the work area. At last, it was time to try it out and Jake cranked the engine over. Moses was relieved to see a few spurts of diesel issue from the pump, but his relief was short lived as the diesel dried up and it was obvious that the repair was unsuccessful. He glanced at Jake whose face looked set to burst and he prepared himself for a hasty retreat, moving his weight onto the balls of his feet. When Jake reached for his hammer, Moses dropped the flashlight and ran! His flight was followed by a string of curses and a loud thud. The hammer blow had torn the pump from its base and it hung forlornly on its nylon fuel pipe before a second blow sent it crashing to the floor, broken beyond repair. Moses watched from a safe distance as Jake slowly regained his composure, then he helped to lock up and switch the lights off.
With hunched shoulders, he stalked off to the kitchen and dumped a tin of spaghetti and meatballs into a bowl. Wallowing in self pity, he remembered what it was like to have someone cook you a decent meal.
         
Inside the hut, Sergio was outlining his plan and Sipho was trying his best to look interested. He heard Sergio say that there was a good market for stolen vehicles in Mozambique and that he had some good contacts, but Sipho failed to see how that affected him. He couldn’t even drive! “For every bakkie we deliver,” Sergio said, “I will be paid R10 000 and I will give you half – R500 –,” he looked quickly at Sipho to see if he had noticed the deliberate mistake, but Sipho appeared to be a long way from home. Talk of so much money had triggered a series of pleasant thoughts. He paid R4 for a jug of Miriam’s delicious beer but could seldom afford more than one or two, but now half a bakkie worth could be his! How much that was, he couldn’t comprehend, but it must be a lot! As Sergio rambled on, his plan seemed a lot more interesting. He listened more intently now and his eyes bulged when Sergio reached into his bag and pulled out two firearms. The big black one was Sergio’s and a smaller silver one he handed to Sipho. His huge hands trembled as they held the gun – the first he had ever touched - and it felt as though the weapon had charged him with power. He grinned nervously and nodded to Sergio. They shook hands now, partners in crime as he took mock aim through the window, sending old Phineas diving for cover!

Having suitably punished the pump for its non-compliance, Jake drove to town to buy a new one – something he should have done yesterday, he now realized – and was greeted with a firm handshake and a knowing smile by Willem at the spares shop. An hour later, Moses was plowing, happy for the isolation and the look of contentment on his boss’s face. With little left to do and still feeling a bit drained from the exertions of last evening, Jake decided to unwind and go fishing in Nxumalo’s dam…

Try as he may, Sergio could not get Sipho to rehearse their attack with any form of commitment or enthusiasm. His mind wandered and he was distracted by the village children who peered at them through the bushes. What the hell, he didn’t need him for his brain, only his brawn which in itself was a major psychological boost for their team.

Just before two that afternoon, Sergio shook Sipho out of yet another day dream. A vehicle was approaching! Hurriedly, they took up their positions, Sergio checking the load on his weapon, the familiar taste of onions, brought on by a surge of adrenalin, filling his mouth. He noted with some concern, that Sipho never checked his weapon, although he did appear to have it pointed in the right direction! Perhaps it was safer that way!
The tension grew until finally, and right on cue, the blue bakkie drew to a halt only metres from their hide-out. As the door opened, Sergio broke from cover. At the same time, Sipho’s eyes grew wide and he issued that despairing Zulu groan of “eiish…” When the driver emerged, he knew at once that they were about to bite off more than they could chew and quickly noted the location of a tall and easily climbable tree.
Jake Munro stepped from his bakkie.

Although he had heard Sipho’s cry, Sergio didn’t know Jake and had no cause to be concerned. He rushed forward, catching Jake off guard. He was shouting and brandishing his weapon, pulling Jake by the shoulder. His surprise was complete and for now, Jake didn’t know what was happening. Sergio was shouting at him to lie down, but his mind was still struggling to comprehend the situation. Then Sergio kicked him – hard- on his left thigh. The pain shot through him and he fell heavily to the ground. But instead of lying there to be robbed, as Sergio had expected him to do, Jake went wild. He rolled over and leapt to his feet. “Sonofabitch!” he roared and came flying at Sergio. Still with his gun pointed at Jake, Sergio was all attack and no defense. The first punch lightly touched his chin. The second hit him so hard, it snapped his jaw in two places, buckled his legs under him and sent him crashing to the ground. Jake’s left leg, still numb from the kick, gave way and he too, fell. He saw the gun on his way down and scrambled to regain his footing and press home his advantage before Sergio could recover. Seething, he turned on Sergio who was still in never-never land. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with his unconscious assailant and hesitated for an instant. Suddenly, a shot rang out and the hitherto peacefully sleeping Sergio sat bolt upright, howling like a wolf under a full moon. His shoulder struck Jake in the face, sending tears streaming from his eyes and for the second time in as many minutes, Jake lay on his back in the dusty earth. NOW he was mad! Wiping his eyes with a hairy, dusty forearm, he quickly regained his footing and launched another attack at Sergio who now had his arms wrapped around a blood soaked knee, still howling mournfully. Jake charged in and almost kicked Sergio’s good knee off his leg as he struggled, once again to assess the situation. Then, off to his left, he saw a movement. It was Sipho, the village idiot and he had a gun in his hand. “What the hell…?”

Sipho, realizing that his partner and prospective supplier of much beer was in dire trouble, had decided to fulfill his role as back-up gangster. One piece of vital information that he had not imparted to Sergio earlier was the fact that he had never fired a weapon in his life. Nevertheless, he had taken aim at Jake, as he remembered doing through his hut window, squeezed the trigger and the gun had roared and leapt up in his grasp, giving him the fright of his life! But instead of sending Jake to his maker, the bullet had hit Sergio in the knee. Now, it was a damn fine shot, it must be said, given the distance, the angle and the size of the target, but Sergio would draw cold comfort from that! Thanks to his help, Sergio was well and truly in the shit! And, even worse, Jake was pissed off – and heading straight for him. Panic stricken, he was doing everything he could think of to make the damn thing shoot again. And the longer it took, the closer Jake got and the more he panicked. He remembered the time when Jake caught him setting a snare – how angry he was and where he threatened to stick the next snare he caught him with. The mere thought of it had given him nightmares for weeks! Now, he was sure that his gun was heading for the same destination! Finally, with Jake only metres away, his nerve broke. He threw the useless lump of iron at Jake, turned and ran instinctively for the big tree which he had scoped earlier.

Now every white man who has regular dealings with a black community is given a “Zulu” name – sometimes two. One is a complimentary name by which he is addressed and is based on some or other characteristic, whilst the other is usually a derogatory name used behind his back. Jake had only one – Mahlanyane, the mad one – and when he heard it called cautiously behind him, he turned to see old Phineas the headman standing nearby on spindly legs, dressed in flannels and a brown jacket, one of only two he had ever seen him wear – the other was a navy blue one which was reserved for “official” functions. Their greeting was friendly and sincere as they had known each other for many years, but when Jake quickly outlined the details of his encounter with the two would-be robbers, old Phineas lost his composure and cackled like a hen which had just laid an egg. He shouted to the group of villagers who had gathered around Sergio and they too, hooted with laughter. The problem now was what to do with Sipho. Despite Jake’s change of mood, he could not be coaxed down and each time Jake tried, he simply climbed higher. “We can’t just leave him,” he explained to Phineas, “because he shot someone and this now becomes a police matter.” Phineas burst into guffaws of laughter once again as he was reminded of the story, but then quickly assumed an authoritative air. After carefully summing the situation up, he turned to his nephews who were standing at his side and issued a brief instruction. Jake was horrified but was powerless to intervene. To have done so would have undermined the headman’s authority and shown great disrespect. So Jake bit his lip and watched as the two young men galloped off to the village to get axes. Phineas had told them to cut the tree down!

The tree was set on a slope, a short distance from the waters edge. Between it and the dam was an old, gnarled tree which had been struck by lightning some time ago. Phineas had banned anyone from taking firewood from it for fear of them in turn, being struck! “Strange old bird,” thought Jake, but he respected the man’s superstitions even though it made no sense to cut down healthy trees and leave such an abundant supply to rot. The dam itself, although large in surface area, was not very deep, but it served the community and their cattle very well. It was also reasonably well stocked with fish and Jake had managed to convince Phineas to outlaw gill nets as they would surely have spelled the end for the fish stocks. Instead, he had taught some of the youngsters how to fish with rod and line and had supplied them with several sets of tackle. Their daily catch was enough to feed the villagers (who mostly preferred goats’ meat, chicken and the occasional chunk of beef anyway) and there were always enough fish left in the dam to keep Jake happy too!

Jake was pulled from his reverie by the arrival of the two boys who attacked the tree with gusto. Their axes hissed as they flew through the air, cutting a large wedge from the base of the doomed tree. Soon, they were glazed in sweat, their tight muscles glistening in the afternoon sun. They traded shot for shot, neither wishing to be the one to show signs of fatigue and finally, with a loud crack and a series of squeals, the great tree started to fall. All eyes were raised as the villagers looked for Sipho. But as the tree continued on its terrible descent, there was still no sign of him. The big tree accelerated now, faster, faster, but the weight of Sipho’s body made the top branches lag behind, so that the trunk was bent backwards like an archer’s bow. Ever faster it fell until, suddenly, with a great “whoosh” it stopped, caught in the boughs of the old “lightning” tree. Today, however, was not Sipho’s day. He was still traveling at top speed, trying to catch up with the bulk of the tree. In an impressive explosion of leaves and twigs, the top branches burst open and Sipho was catapulted clear, hurtling through space like a cross between Orville Wright and the rocket man! A unified cry of “HAAU!” went up from the onlookers and it was as if time stood still. Jake was reminded of a comedic scene from a movie he had watched on TV and wondered if Sipho too, could see his house from up there! As he experienced first hand, the wonder of flight, his arms and legs were flailing, and he tried desperately to change his attitude. But the weight of his large torso turned him into a “head first” position, which was how he hit the shallow water, in a huge muddy splash. The assembled masses on the bank were paralytic, shrieking with laughter. Many of the young maidens stood with crossed legs to avoid wetting their pants whilst others simply could not stand and rolled about on the hard ground. Jake too, was in near hysterics, but he soon became aware of Sipho’s precarious predicament. For as the spray cleared, all that was visible were Sipho’s legs, thrashing wildly, trying to escape from the thick mud into which he had plunged and in which he was now firmly plugged. He would surely drown if not rescued soon. Jake ran into the water, half swimming, half wading, striking out to reach Sipho who had still not managed to extricate himself, but who was now kicking even harder than before, much to the amusement of his fellow villagers. Jake finally got there and reached below the muddy surface to grab a handful of Sipho’s clothing, but the big man would not budge. The harder he pulled, the deeper his own feet sank into the mud and it seemed to him that the fight was lost. Just then, more willing hands joined his – those of the two men who had obliged by cutting the tree down in the first place – and slowly they managed to free Sipho and turn him right side up. He blew two jets of muddy water from his nostrils which were now flared like those of a race horse, splashed water in his face to clear his eyes, and then sucked the foul smelling air into his lungs as if it were the finest French perfume. He then beamed a smile which almost split his face in two, looking victoriously over the crowded banks as though he had just won the world heavyweight boxing title!

An uneventful day was drawing to a close as Captain Ncube reclined in his typist’s chair, preparing for the short drive home over rough, dusty roads to his own piece of paradise – a patch of land which housed his goats, a few cattle and a vegetable garden which was a veritable horn of plenty and his pride and joy. He glanced up at the station house clock once more and was just about to stand up when a disturbance at the door caught his eye. He groaned in deep anguish as Jake walked in, followed by his entourage. Sipho was escorted in whilst Sergio was carried in and placed on the small wooden bench against the far wall. “Eish, Mahlanyane, what have you done now…?” He hung his head and openly bemoaned his fate!
Jake briefly explained that, this time at least, he was the victim, but glancing at Sipho who was caked in dry mud and Sergio, who sported a heavily bandaged, blood soaked knee and a jaw which looked like a sack full of potatoes, Captain Ncube was hard pressed to believe that story! It took old Phineas and a host of witnesses to convince him, before he finally and laboriously, took down their statements. It was dark by the time Jake got home. His favourite fishing rod had been trampled into many pieces by the villagers who had accompanied them to the police station and later to the clinic. Bone weary from the day’s events, but not too tired to get angry, Jake punched a dent into the side of his bakkie. Then, angry with himself for doing so, he stalked off to the kitchen for his customary meal of tinned spaghetti and meatballs…

The following morning Jake emerged from his house after a fitful sleep and a “breakfast” of thick, black coffee, to find old Moses holding court. He had his back to Jake and was relating, in animated detail, the events of yesterday. His fellow workers were awestruck, especially when he added a few extra attackers into the mix! Bullets were flying thick and fast, mostly from Jake’s gun and the attackers scrambled up gum trees to escape Jake’s fury. Each shot was accompanied by a loud “clock” sound and Moses’ audience was riveted. Jake was not surprised as he knew Moses to be a story teller of note. What did surprise him was the fact that he never portrayed himself as the unsung hero who saved the day!

For the rest of that day, Moses acted strangely. He was up to something; Jake knew it, but what? From a distance, he watched Moses talking on his cell phone, casting furtive glances in Jake’s direction. His face broke into a broad smile as he hung up, but he quickly recovered when Jake approached him. Donning his best “hang-dog” look, he said, “it is my aunty, she is very ill.”
“Yeh, that’s why you’re smiling, you lying old bugger,” Jake replied.
Compared to the previous day, this one went really well. For a change, Jake was dog tired solely from hard work and not from the “after burn” of a tantrum and so, it was with mild annoyance that he answered a knock on his door at about 6pm. “What the hell do you want now? Can’t you leave me in peace until tomorrow?” He opened the door and got the shock of his life…

He hadn’t seen or heard of Cindy since she left, but here she was, standing in front of him, a small suitcase in her hand! “Say something, you big oaf!” For once, he was speechless. “I, I…” He reached out to hug her, but she held him at bay with an outstretched arm. “Hold on there tiger. I’ve heard some disturbing stories about you recently!”
“Moses, you conniving old sod!” The picture was slowly becoming clearer. The cell phone; the sly behaviour. “He phoned you, didn’t he?” 
“Many times,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. He was worried about you – said you needed help or you would go crazy.”
He thought of a hundred things to say, but finally, all he could say was “he was right.”
“As you can see, Jake, I’m traveling light. I will stay as long as you behave yourself. I’m prepared to take it one day at a time if you are, but I’m warning you, no histrionics!”
He felt as though he was seeing the sun rise for the first time. “Come inside,” he said. “Our spaghetti and meatballs are getting cold…”

Post script:
Sergio gave his testimony through clenched teeth, but the judge ruled it to be a pack of lies and sentenced him to 8 years in the slammer. He took into account the fact that he had suffered greatly in the commission of his criminal act, and advised him to choose both his accomplices and his victims more carefully in the future, if he were planning to pursue this particular line of work!

When Sipho related his version of the day’s events, he had the judge in stitches. All charges against him were duly dropped on the grounds that he was “clearly not well!”

Jake worked really hard at controlling his temper and, whilst he didn’t always succeed, he at least resisted the urge to “go walkabout” and destroy things.

Cindy gave him all the love and support he needed - and cooked him proper meals!

One year later, Jake junior arrived.
Two years after that, he had a tantrum and threw all his toys out of the cot! That night, he had his first taste of tinned spaghetti and meatballs…




A short story by Terry Rizzato, inspired by the hair-raising experiences of a close friend.