Across his table was a burly man, he didn’t recognise. The man had two tables joined together. Drinks flowed like a stream from his table. He was the only man among a flock of beautiful, young, tipsy girls. Their clothes, tight like a second skin.

A real peacock, the man was. He had on a bright floral shirt that threatened to explode under the pressure of his belly. Every one of his fingers gleamed with a gold ring. His voice was boisterous, and he used bank notes like serviettes. 

Jack Mthimkhulu’s mind began to work as if a motor drove it. Sure, he had just made some good money, but he reasoned to himself: one could never have enough money. People may judge you. They may cry that you don’t respect or fear them. They may even say you don’t earn your living honestly. But they too will, sooner or later, come to the undeniable fact that a man must do what a man must do.

Besides, what was he supposed to do when they were flashing it in front of him like that? It was practically an invitation.

So how would he, Jack Mthimkhulu, get it? 

The burly man stood up, gurgled gin in his mouth and smacked the nearest girls bottom and fondled another before he stumbled off to the toilet. Jack Mthimkhulu felt his pocket and smiled to himself in confirmation.

He found the man hunched over, spraying urine on the steel wall. When he turned, Jack Mthimkhulu motioned to hug him and stuck a blade between the man’s ribs. He pulled it and water, not blood, spurt out of the man’s belly.

A powerful stench instantly hung over the tavern. The man was silent. Jack Mthimkhulu took the money from the man’s pockets and shoved it into his own, then slunk away, cool as a cat.

It didn’t come as a surprise when the police came knocking two weeks later. He found out that the man was actually a businessman with influence.

The kettle hissed and Noxolo got up. She poured the boiling water in the basin. Jack Mthinkhulu watched the steam rise.

She disappeared to get a clean cloth. He looked at the water and there it was, instead of his reflection, his gogo was grinning at him. He jumped up in shock. Without a moment’s thought, he stormed out as if he was sleepwalking. His mind was made up.

In a few minutes, he was in his yard. He walked through the front and locked the door. He rummaged through his bottom cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whisky. The cold breeze crept in again and his grandmother appeared.

He took a long swig.

“Gogo, I know what I must now do.”

His gogo’s image appeared perplexed.

“Please recite the story of when I was born,” he asked, his voice abnormally calm.

“But you know that story, mos. I’ve told it to you countless times.”

“Tell me again!”

The bottle broke into a million tiny pieces as he smashed it into the floor. He walked over to the cupboard and took out his whole supply. He opened two bottles at the same time and walked around the house drawing a liquid trail. His grandmother, gliding along his side as he limped around the house. When the bottles were depleted, he took another one and did the same thing.

“What are you doing?”

He did not respond but carried on pouring the liquor on the floor.

She looked at him quizzically before she spoke, “son, your mother had finally left her toxic relationship with your father. But sadly, it was too late. She wanted to come back home, so we accepted her. When she arrived here, her belly was already mature. Your kicks were so violent; I knew then you were going to be a strong man.

“You were washed into this world on a great tide of tears that you cried just as your mother left it. They spilled from that tub in the bathroom and flooded all the way across to the lawn. That afternoon, when your uproar had finally stopped and the water had dried up, I was the one who swept up the residue. There was enough salt left for us to use for nearly a whole month, and that’s how I knew you were a special child.

So, when I heard you had committed these heinous crimes, it was too much for my old heart to bear. See, you were raised by these hands. Not the prettiest, I’ll admit. But they sure did try their best. But you were ashamed of them. You were ashamed of who you are.”

At that moment Jack had emptied his whole supply of liquor on the concrete floor. He took out a box of matches from his pocket and struck it. As the fires drew a trail following the liquid, he pressed his eyes shut and saw the image of all those fateful nights.

He saw the mother he never knew. He saw his grandmother, then he saw Noxolo, surrounded by her children like the goddess of the earth. He let himself go to her. Closer and closer, until he could almost touch her.

The fire finally caught his limbs and his body began to throw off sparks. The small house was transformed into an erupting volcano. The hard walls finally caved in. When the bricks reached a high temperature, they exploded into a kaleidoscope of lights. The blaze burned everything to the ground.

Plumes of phosphorescent colours ascended to the sky like fireworks on the birth of a new year until they became a single spark. The heavens opened and let down showers that put out the blazing fire. A layer of ash covered the ground. Under those ashes, there was the most fertile soil, where every kind of life flourished.

All that remained of what had been Jack Mthimkulu’s house, was a leaf blade. And from that blade, a stem, which had quickly grown to be that lemon tree overlooking Richmount settlement.

He lived as long as that tree stood and there was someone who plucked the lemons from it. Seasons came and passed; the leaves shrivelled in winter and bloomed again in spring, bringing with it, new life.

Children of Richmount would munch on the sweet lemons of the tree throughout all the seasons. Thirst and hunger was a thing of the past. They even hung a rope there like a swing and played on it all day long. Times were golden in this beautiful settlement.