The fucking phone dropped to 1% it felt like it was a bomb that will go off at 0. So I quickly looked for the charger and found it in the drawers. Too late, though, because as I was plugging it in, the screen showed: “Shutting Off.” I guess I was supposed to be in pieces right now. Not that I would mind, I mean I was starting to feel like life is overrated and the ones who are dead and at peace are looking down at us, laughing their heads off. I put the fucking phone in the charger and began to look for my cigarettes. “Where’d I put them?” I asked myself, tried to remember but my brain wouldn’t let me, too many stuff in there. I probably thought I had bought a pack last night when in actual fact I didn’t.
So I gave up looking for shit I couldn’t even tell was there. My damn room looked like it had been visited by a tornado. I checked my pockets and found some coins in there. I went out the house to buy some smokes. The sun was refreshing, my mouth just smiled on its own. You know the outdoor usuals; exchange greetings with people you walk past on the street. Me I ain’t do that shit. Even the ones I know I don’t greet them; they greet me. Outdoor greetings are embarrassing.”good day, Lee,” they would say. Okay let me clarify something here, I’m not Chinese or Asian. My name is not Lee, it is just a short nickname derived from my real name Leroy. I swear to God I hate the nickname, even Roy sounds better despite being corny. I told people not to call me Lee or else I’ll ignore them but that shit didn’t work. .
Walking without the company of any song to my ear felt so strange, like I was moving in the nude. After what felt like a walk from Soweto to Jozi, I arrived at this Indian tuckshop. The remaining coins in my pockets got me five cigarettes. These were supposed to last me until evening, depending on how fucked up things will get. I get so sad sometimes and nothing bad would have happened. But the sadness, bro…it just comes. As I turned to go back home I bumped into Sizakele. We called her Siza. Shwaty was thick as butter; thick as fuck.
“Where you off to?” She asked without greeting. I’ve always known she had a crush on me. I would’ve dated her but there was one problem: her face.
“Home,” I told her. She looked at my ciggies as I carefully covered them in a soft fist.
“I got some sack to roll and there’s no one to share it with,” she said.
“Why you wanna share?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I’m kinder bored.” She fiddled with her hair, it was apparent she’d come straight out of bed. She bought some paper to roll with then she invited me to come over to her crib so we could chill and smoke. “We could play some music too,” she added. She knew I liked to have some dope music wherever I chilled.
Judging by some shit she done did before, I knew “chill and smoke” meant more than that. Siza had some secret agenda, she always has. I knew her. She had a crush on me, the only difference was that she didn’t say it, but you know how girls be like. They will give you signs which are confusing at first but as time goes, the signs become clearer and clearer and before you know it, you out there telling her you like her; she has gotten you where she wants you.
I don’t quite remember how I met Siza. She was always asking for my time, coming over to the house to check up on me (I didn’t even know how she knew where I lived, I hadn’t told her) grandma thought she was my girlfriend. And she’d always give me money even though I didn’t ask for it. Then she’d go on to tell me how she wished she had a nigga like me. I’m serious! The signs had gotten way too clearer. But unfortunately I could only love her as a friend, but I never told her that. No matter how much I ignored her signs, Siza never got tired of giving me more. When would she ever learn that my deliberate ignorance to these hints meant that I didn’t want her?
She invited me to her house for some weed, I asked her who was at home.
“Nobody,” she answered truthfully. I accepted her invitation because there wasn’t much to do at home, except browse through Facebook and read 200+ comments of people arguing.
I swear to God Siza was really thick. I’d often ask myself if that ass is real. I felt a bit intimidated walking alongside her. Felt like I’m unseen, walking on the street people kept staring at us. Staring at her, I mean. She didn’t seem to care. I figured she was used to this sort of thing in a way; all thick girls are.
“Why you home alone?” I asked her.
“They went over to Sello’s house for the funeral preparation.”
“Sello? Oh, yah. Did he…really do it? I mean, shit sounds unbelievable don’t get me wrong.”
“He really did it, Lee. He was found by his uncle,” she said. “Hanging in the air, rope all around the neck, feet swinging.”
I didn’t appreciate her vivid description. It triggered my mind, I could see Sello’s lifeless body held by that rope. “That nigga was a fucking cheeseboy,” I said.
“Tell me about it. Maybe he was depressed, who knows?”
“How the hell you gon’ be depressed when you coming from a rich family?” My question was not meant as a joke but Siza replied with laugher. Perhaps it was funny, although to me it was intriguing and intricate. This guy Sello, lived opposite of where Siza’s home was. If the sneakers were brand new and expensive, you’d see them on his feet. The gadgets, the phones, the clothes; nigga was really flexing. I admit there were times I felt jealous of him. Bitches loved him. Last year on his sweet sixteen birthday his father, a stoke broker, bought him a Polo. A fucking Polo! My dad was still using the bus to get to work sometimes he would miss work because of lack of transport money.
Anyways, Sello was dead now. Suicide. So all that money and those gadgets? Who would drive that Polo now?
“Will you go to the funeral?” Siza asked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t do funerals.” Imagine I’m there and I see all these people in black clothes, crying their asses off, shovels digging and the lowering of the coffin. Nah, that’s not my scene. I’d rather be buried as well. The only time I’ll ever be in a funeral is when I’m dead.
“Why would I? Me and that nigga weren’t that close,” I said.
“Yeah, me too I won’t go,” Siza said.
A part of me knew she would say that. If I said I’d go, I knew she would’ve said she’ll go too, even come up with the idea of going with me. I knew her. This issue regarding her face; she was really ugly. Okay, that was impolite, let me just say her facial beauty wasn’t of the standard of someone I’d date. Her face failed to reach my requirements. She was a three.
She was such a nice person, though, to call her ugly –internally or in her abscence– would make you feel bad about yourself. I’d gotten used to her but she wasn’t somebody I pictured myself dating. Sorry, but I go for looks. What if we have a baby? What if we are seen together?
As for her body…well, you know how it is. If she’s thick then she’s ugly. If she has no ass and figure, titties look asleep, then she’s hella cute. If she’s thick and cute then she’s stupid. If she’s ugly then she’s smart as a whip. And Siza was smart. Very smart.
Tell us: do you agree with Leroy’s opinions about girls?