NEO•GRIOT

Lerammoux: The Dung & Beetle Project 

The Dung and Beetle Project is a creative collaboration between Writer, Lerato Mmutle aka Lerammoux and established Music Producer, Gabi Le Roux. Every short story has a song. The lyrics are informed by the narrative and the beat grooves to the tempo of the story. Written, composed and produced in South Africa. Lerato Mmutle is living in Europe.

 

BIG PRETENDER: the song

BIG PRETENDER: the story

“Smash, bang, zoom, aaaaah!” - sounds from next-door echo through the corridors of Mr. Mothusi’s suburban mansion. He feels something is wrong, he knows something is wrong but chooses to do:  . He paces around his house like a plucked chicken with no sense of flight. He argues with himself, “You want me to get killed?” The compelling question reverberates in the acoustic silence.

He spends the whole night playing ‘hide and seek’ with his own truth, his conscience is too good at this game. He tries to locate his courage but finds sleep instead. The sounds dissipate as he falls deeper into oblivious slumber. Awoken by dawn, he comes to. He habitually switches on the TV morning news, sits up and tenderly nurses his morning glory as it protrudes over the female presenter’s head. He scratches his scrotum with a yawn and walks over to the bathroom. Three seconds later, he hears these words:

“One only wonders, where were the neighbours of number 56 Glen Road when they needed them?”

He stops dead in his tracks; a sudden machete of shame attacks his chest as he realizes that he is the neighbour - who did absolutely. He strips naked and turns on the emotional waterworks, coming at him relentlessly. He shakes off the imposing regret and watches it flow down the drain in the shower. He recalls the night before, how he so wanted to go out and save them, how he should’ve, how he could’ve, how he didn’t!

During the night before, he had turned off the lights, opened up the blinds in his lounge and watched them. He remembers what he had seen; four men with balaclavas run in and out the backyard with three black bags. He knows he has no alibi, he had been home, the neighbours had also seen him park his ostentatious Jaguar into the driveway and without acknowledging them, go straight into his house and shut the door. This is not good, he ruminates as he swallows his half-masticated cereal. He's having guilt for breakfast.

He walks out of his front door and notices the policemen and tape around the entire yard of his next-door neighbour's property. He is panic-stricken, what if they want to question him? What would he say? He manages to leave undetected.

After a hard day at work - imagining all sorts of horrible scenes of the night before and reading about them in the local newspaper - he comes home. He parks his car but instead of getting into his house, he stays in the garage and pulls out his hosing pipe - fixing it to its lethal partner. He starts the engine and idles, idling and idling, waiting and waiting for the gas to come into his lungs and take him away from this torturous contrition.

In the local newspaper, he read that two children and a woman were murdered during the break-in. He had heard everything and now, sitting silently in the seat of his pain, he conjures images of a braver man, a man who would not have thought twice, never mind a thousandth time. A man who would have taken his licensed gun into the yard and risked his life for the three that were stolen. While his thoughts became a foggy blur, his neighbour to the right was nurturing suspicion. She, a widowed nurse who had married well - Mrs. Rapulana - was off duty and hearing the car idle for what was too long a time, looked through the window to see the garage door ajar.

Rapulana decides to investigate and discovers a pipe attached to his exhaust. He is unconscious in the car, asleep and awaiting his redemption. She crawls in and pulls the pipe free. Shit! The doors are locked; he is not getting any oxygen. She runs out to summon the few policemen still investigating the crime scene and they manage to open the garage door.

Mothusi is unaware of the collaborative commotion around him. Stuck in his reverie, he is holding his gun and stands outside his neighbours’ back door. The door is cracked wide open, he lets himself in, careful not to crush the glass and covertly creeps into the house. He hears a woman screaming. “Please, please!”

He takes a deep breath and walks into the room, his gun aiming straight at the perpetrators - one of them fondling the woman. They are shocked, caught unaware. The woman is holding her children for dear life on the Persian mat.

“Whoa! Whoa! Hold it, man.”

“No, you hold it! Let them go,” he commands.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the neighbour.”

“The neighbour,” the two rogues laugh. “But you guys never do anything!”

“Let them go.”

“That’s not gon’ happen.”

A shot goes off, the woman and children run quickly out of the house. Another shot rings, and another and yet another. No one in the house survives, a fair exchange: three lives for three.

“C n you h  r me?”

Mothusi feels someone slapping his face and registers only the sting of the sun as he opens his eyes. All his neighbours and a couple of paramedics are surrounding him, looking worried and morbidly entertained at the same time.

“He’s alive!” someone says and with that a great cheer follows.

They are smiling at him. He is quickly reminded of his shame.

“I did!”

“What, wait! He’s saying something! Shhh!” insists the nurse.

Silence allows him the space: “I did... nothing!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I did nothing! I heard everything but I did nothing!”

All the neighbours looked at each other and lowered their heads. They had all heard the woman’s cries.

“Well,” she paused. “Today, we all did something!”

 

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LONG FASHIONABLE NIGHT: the song

LONG FASHIONABLE NIGHT: the story

In one night on Long Street, I danced with a pink-haired Asian; shared a whiskey with an Italian in a suit; talked politics with a Boer in skinny jeans; had a minor altercation with a scantily clad Xhosa girl and savoured a conversation with an authentic Maasai man who had walked barefoot to South Africa, all the way from Kenya.

The nocturnal creatures of Cape Town and beyond came out to hang in the Long Street playground, dressed in their finest and their worst. I’d decided to wear my necklace of spoons, which drew attention. But I remained tame next to a gorgeous African with a Minnie Mouse bow tie on her head and her companion who felt inspired enough to don a bright pink tutu. For the night, the city had turned into a comic book and we were all superstylish-heroes.

Wafting from hip-hop club to jazz club to house club, I ran into a fellow outside the hotdog stand. The aroma of the frying halaal sausages teased my senses as we confabulated in the queue.

“This is such a different space from Jozi, it’s so... it's so... liberal! People just seem to wear whatever they want. I see the strangest outfits every time I come here. Hey, are those spoons?” asked he in neon red stirrups.

He went on to apprise me of the upscale Pop the Bottle parties in Johannesburg for the ‘who’s who'. To lubricate your entry into the hired mansion, an expensive, prestigious bottle of alcohol would do the trick and the men attending wore suits. I pondered to myself that Long Street was so diverse there’s simply no space for exclusivity. Everybody is somebody in Cape Town and every one around me has license to experiment.

After devouring my unhealthy indulgence, I finally took a seat at the Waiting Room where I bee-bobbed my head to the infectious Funk music and looked around at the 60’s inspired setting. At the corner of eye, I spotted the oddest specimen, glittering in gold sequins. In her ensemble, she looked like something out of a '92 matric dance photo album. I searched the room for disapproving stares but there were none. In Cape Town, she was simply an individual with a queer dress sense.

After a few uncoordinated moves on the dance floor with the pink-haired Asian, Sukti, I moved on to yet another club. Long Street knows no concept of time and when I finally glance at my watch, it’s 4h20am. I should have known the night would run away with me. ■ 

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 Writer: Lerato Mmutle Producer: Gabi Le Roux Photographer: Goran Lizdek

Inspired by images from: Moeketsi Moticoe

Cover Design: Willie Els  Styling: SHEYOU

 

 

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Secrets of A Little House: the song

Secrets of A Little House: the story

Two white Egret herons peck through the fertile grass of the playground on Rochester road. Their pristine white feathers offset the colourfully painted steel formations that are made to amuse the young of heart. Standing in position, they look like spaceship domes of pleasure, patiently awaiting to thrill the next rider.

The birds gracefully go about searching the best worms of the day. The herons are fair and agile, with extended, slim necks and lengthy, black legs. They stroll through the grass, elegantly perusing through the fog of the spring morning. The fog will clear up shortly and they’ll find all that they’re looking for. 

Opposite the park, stands a Victorian house, number 106. The inviting exterior creates a façade for those whose business it is to mind their own. To the casual passerby, it seems like a normal home but what transpires through that door, under that roof is anything but!

Mr. Ali Shiram Mohammed Hisham, a staunch Muslim man lives there with his submissive wife and three children. The wife, a bruised woman of small build chooses to wear a burka, not mandatory for South African Muslims, only in order to hide the scars of a battered marriage. Her mother has survived that same fate and has no sympathy to spare her daughter. During moments of courage and fleeting triumph, her mother sends her back with bitter words, “Know your place, please your husband and raise his children.”

Mr. Ali Shiram Mohammed Hisham would often say, in a deep gam accent, so exclusive to the area of Cape Town, “Ek is die baas in my home!”  But that is not what’s strange about 106 Rochester Rd. What perturbs the birds, for they see everything from their playground vantage point, is that whenever the children come out of the house, they feign happiness. Such pretence, ingrained at such a young age can only have dire consequences but the birds were not the kind of species who judge.

The song of the mosque rings hollow through the empty corridor. He, dedicated to his unforgiving religion, insists that his household should pray every time it is heard. This is even applicable in the wee hours of the morning. By now, the kids - all boys - have developed an internal clock that helps them rise on time. If they’re even a minute delayed, they will be severely punished.

Their punishments are very often sadist because their father makes them punish each other. If one boy were to be caught hiding his food, the others would each have to beat him with a stick. This is often an incredibly painful process for the boys because they are very close and although they try to be lenient with one another, their father will not relent until he is satisfied that they have all learnt their lesson. The mother is powerless in their father’s presence and will often leave it to her silence to curse him. She seems to shrink whenever he walks into the room with his debilitating stature and terrible posture.

One day, the children play in the park. Shaheed, Shubaid and Shihaam run straight to the playground after school. They know they should change into their muslim ‘dresses’ first and that he forbids playing in uniform but it has been such a good day at school plus it’s a Friday. Surely, Father will also be of good spirit?

Meanwhile, in the cosmetic factory, Mr. Ali Shiram Mohammed Hisham sits in his office, with his hands over his ears. He is the manager and as he takes a deep breath, he hears sirens blaring in the background, throbbing for attention like a 2 year-old boy intent on receiving his toy. He is running out of breath and as the next few intakes struggle for a smooth passage, he coughs and stands up.

“Something has to be done,” he bellows. With that, he walks out.

As he reaches the underground, heavy machinery emit smoke and chug with difficulty. The space is dim and the only light is the red beam consistently signaling a hysterical crisis. A man in heavy overalls comes rushing toward him.

“We did the best we could do! It looks like it’s all system’s shut!” he glances toward his superior and for a moment, in his mind’s eye, he proudly mounts his high horse. “I told you not to increase production. All that was needed was simply an organizational boost to motivate the workers but no... you know everything, right! Well, here it is. Now, what do you want me to do?”

Mr. Ali Shiram Mohammed Hisham composes himself and takes the salt and wound in his stride.

“Gary, I’m going to need you to man up! Call Head Office and tell them everything.”

“Everything?” asks Gary.

“Everything.” He moves away from Gary and shifts into solution gear.

By the time he returns home, the day has been long. Mr. Ali Shiram Mohammed Hisham pulls up in front of his yard, the first thing he sees is his children playing in their uniform. He misses the joy that spreads across their faces as they play tag. He misses the camaraderie that exists between his three boys and he misses their laughter that permeates through the whole neighbourhood. He misses another breath and catches it with the next exhale, a long sigh escapes his lips and his posture worsens.

He opens the car door. One of the boys turns sharply toward the familiar sound and makes a sudden halt. The other two boys wonder and follow his eye line to see a heaving monster marching to the playground. Their father is already working at his belt, slowly taking it out of his pant loops.

Two nights before, the brothers had made a pact that they will no longer suffer at the hands of their father. With a unanimous nod from all three, they attack their father and when he loses balance, they run in the same direction and do not dare to look back. This is the last day Mr. Ali Shiram Mohammed Hisham sees his progeny. Now, the Egret herons peck through the memories in the empty park opposite 106 Rochester Rd, Observatory.

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Writer: Lerato Mmutle Producer: Gabi Le Roux Vocals: Lerammoux

Photographer: Goran Lizdek Cover Design: Willie Els Styling: SheYou