The Shebeen Soil: An Essay
The Shebeen Soil
By Taaraa Lakay
Inspired by YoungstaCPT's "Pavement Special"
A stray drop of the golden liquor escapes his lips, straying over his chin and onto his shirt. The shirt itself carries the burden of stain and stress—evidence of years of wear and many mornings like much like this one. Stained with the acid and bases of grapes and sorghum, which now form the shapes of odd dinosaurs and maggots.
“Another,” he groans gesturing with a hand for another
bottle.
Before another bottle can find its way into his hand, the piercing
rays leave him with wincing eyes and a reformation of his scowl. The ground
beneath him suddenly seems to feel harder than before, wetter than before,
colder than before. His layers now cling to him uncomfortably and it seems as
though the mere ants which walk beside him seem to have an inexplicably large effect
on his already worsening mood. The sullied soil beneath him is littered with
cigarette buds, broken lighters and dead grass.
“Where is it?!” The words seemed to tumble out of his mouth
at a rate for which he was not ready.
His eyelids now attempting to fully open their blood-tinged
selves, but not before he hisses at the sharp pain which serves only to lull
him into a deeper sleep. Footsteps sound beside him and in his blinking frenzy,
he spots the tattered takkies—fresh from the cornstarch.
“You need to hurry up if you want to get any money from them
today, it’s a good job this one, better…come now, brother.” His words are
coarse but affectionate, so unlike the man on the ground.
Unlike the man on the ground, against the wall—propped up to
face the backdoor of the shebeen, like an observer.
“Get away.” The observer spouts, the remaining liquor
leaving his lips in sprays to go with his words.
“Didn’t you hear me? Get up,” the affectionate boy bends to
help the observer up, “don’t you want to see her again? Hey? Come now, her
birthday is coming up, isn’t it? You gonna go to the party?” The boys’ words
come out in a firm hush, soothingly crass and provocative.
‘Why me?’
The man keeps his head low but lets himself be hoisted up
by the boy. The soil seems now softer than before. The sound of squelching
boots made its way to his ears as they both trudged into the backdoor of the shebeen. In and out, they walked, passing the few tables and chairs that
never seemed uniform in the eccentrically mellow establishment.
‘Please Lord, I pray to you every day. Please. Just for
once, answer my prayers.’
The boy drags the man over the road, down a street, and into
a house. People buzz around and float to and fro, the walls never seeming to
hold them in place.
A doorless entryway and a sullied bed.
“Come now. We still have time. You must wash and then get dressed, neh. Come, uncle.”
He leaves the room and then returns with a bucket of water
in hand.
“You mos have the soap here? Come, brother, wash and then
dress. Then we go together, oraait?”
The observer's eyes had found a mark on the wooden floor and
had not left it until the question came his way.
“What makes you think she is even gonna want to see me? Huh?”
The hoarseness of his voice mingled with the quelling of tears deep within
himself.
He took deep breaths, forcing the stale air into his
darkened lungs.
“Come now, just get done, neh bru?” the boy replies.
“Ja, okay.”
'Just this once, please.'
。。。
The end...
This is a reminder not to steal others' work! If you would like to use it (in any form), please credit me. I hope you have a great day, honey! Also, what do we think? I wrote this with the song by YoungstaCPT (Pavement Special) in mind, give it a listen! It speaks about the state of life which the youth of South Africans face. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoyed it!
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