It’s a damn shame, is what it is, but Muzi doesn’t expect much more from Elkin’s dad—part workaholic, part drunk, total asshole. He’s mumbling to himself, nearly passed out on the couch, when he’s supposed to be driving them to their rugby match across town. Muzi’s nervous enough as it is. It’s his first game back since his circumcision, and he’s pretty sure two weeks isn’t enough time to heal, but he’s their star pivot, a solid arm to pass to either side of the field. They can’t afford to lose any more matches if they plan on making it into tournament play this season.
“Come on. Papa Fuzz can take us. I swear, he’ll be on his best behavior.” Muzi cups his crotch and gingerly gives it a lift. “He owes me. Big-time.”
Elkin curls his lip. “My mom should be home any minute. You can go if you want.”
“It’s not like Papa Fuzz hates you.”
“It’s not like he doesn’t. I’m the only one who calls him on his bullshit, and he resents me for that. You can’t say two words to him without him suddenly being a damned expert on everything! Everything!”
“He’s not that bad,” Muzi says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“You tell him how you just got back from a nice hike in the woods, he tells you about how he once climbed a mountain, barefoot and blindfolded, with wild dogs chasing him the whole way.”
Muzi shrugs. “So he likes to embellish the truth a bit. I think it’s endearing.”
“He’s so into his Xhosa culture, yet he gave you a Zulu name . . .”
“He named me after the man who saved his life in a township fire.”
“I’ve heard it before. Biggest fire in the province’s history. So hot, it burned the soles off his shoes and the hair off his head. Have you ever met this man?” Elkin says, his brow pulled tight.
“No, but—”
“Whatever, bru. You look at him and see no faults.”
“Ha, if I had a rand for every time Papa Fuzz said the exact same thing about you.” Muzi furrows his brow and punches Elkin in the shoulder.
Elkin winces and touches his arm tenderly.
“What? You turning into a cake or something?” Muzi says, giving Elkin another tap on the arm. “Or maybe I just don’t know my own strength.”
“Eina! Okay. It’s nothing. Just tweaked it last practice. It’s nothing.”
But Muzi’s heard this lie before, Elkin covering up for a father who didn’t deserve to have him as a son. Muzi’s fists ball up tight, nails digging into his palms. He wants to tell Elkin that he knows what happened with that black eye. The memory is so sharp that his own eye socket starts to ache. His mouth opens, but the words refuse to come out. How could he even begin to explain?
Elkin leans over the back of the couch and flicks his father in the ear. His father moans incoherently, the lager so strong on his breath that Muzi can smell it from where he’s standing. It’s bad enough Elkin has to deal with this shit on a daily basis. Maybe he can’t say anything, but no way is Muzi going to let him suffer through it alone.
“I’m staying,” Muzi says. “As long as it takes. Besides, we’ve still got a chance of making it on time the way your mom drives.”
“Ja,” Elkin says with a mild chuckle.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea to pass the time.” Muzi takes a vial of godsend out of his alphie’s secured compartment and snorts a small dab before Elkin can object.
“Shit, Muzi. Show up to the match late and gaffed, why don’t you?” There’s real anger in Elkin’s voice, a baritone tremor that echoes through Muzi’s chest. Sure Elkin likes to blaze up, probably more than what’s good for him, but he never lets it interfere with rugby. He’s got detoxing down to a science. He’s too good to get caught. Maybe even good enough to get a university scholarship.
“Just a little parlor trick. I’ll be fine,” Muzi says, laying a hand on Elkin’s chest. This will be good. For the both of them. “Mr. Rathers,” Muzi says in a commanding voice. “Stand up.”
Elkin’s shit-faced father stands at attention with the grace of a drunken marionette. Elkin’s eyebrows converge into a sharp scowl. “What are you doing?”
“He’s my puppet. He’ll do anything I tell him. Anything.”
Elkin grabs Muzi’s arm. “Stop it. He’s going to be furious.”
“He won’t remember a thing. Not unless I want him to. Mr. Rathers, cluck like a chicken.”
And Mr. Rathers does an impressive imitation of a chicken, flapping his wings and clucking and pecking at nonexistent feed.
“Hayibo!” Elkin exclaims, his jaw dropped. “You taking a hypnotics class I don’t know about?”
Muzi shrugs nonchalantly. “I can control people’s minds when I’m on the godsend.”
“Bladdy sick.” Elkin licks his lips. “Hey, can you make him slam his shin into the coffee table?”
“Ja, my pleasure,” Muzi says, and a quick command makes it so; a pyramid of Castle Lager cans crashes, aluminum clinking and clanking against the black lacquer tabletop. They laugh as Elkin’s father marches around the room, running into furniture and stubbing his toe until Elkin’s laughter turns timid, then disappears.
“That’s enough,” he says.
“Come on. A little more.” After what he’s done to you, Muzi almost adds, but then he’ll have to tell Elkin about the visions, about how he made him forget. Those visions, they’re becoming indistinguishable from his own memories, sharp like knives every time his thoughts pass over them. Muzi has to remind himself that he’s not the one seeking vengeance, and respects Elkin’s request. “Sorry,” he says. “Got a little carried away. Mr. Rathers, have a seat. You won’t remember any of this happening. You just had a clumsy evening after too many drinks.”
Mr. Rathers falls back into his threadbare spot on the sofa and teeters for a long moment before passing out. Muzi smiles broadly. The fucker deserves so much more, but that doesn’t stop Muzi from reveling in this minor triumph.
“Hey,” Elkin says all of a sudden. His eyes narrow. “You’ve never used that on me, have you?”
The smile drops off Muzi’s face.
“What? Are you serious?” Muzi says, his voice squeaking. “Hey, is that your mom?” He turns, looks out the window. “Nope. False alarm.”
But Elkin sees right through him. “You did do something to me, didn’t you? Shit, Muzi, we’re supposed to be best friends!”
“It was an accident!”