Lalla Saves The Day
written by: Frank Meintjies
Since her brother Cosmo’s death, Lalla had mostly stayed inside the Glenwood duplex, rarely venturing out. Every two or three days, she took a leisurely walk to the local tuck shop, a small house shop called a spaza. But she knew she needed to make a change.
The canopy—a makeshift roof supported by eight wooden uprights—that Cosmo had built was mostly dismantled now, leaving only the uprights. Lalla had sold the last beers and jacks of brandy from the house and the shed. Cosmo used to have a good stash that he served to customers under the makeshift roof. The buyers usually came late on public holidays or extremely late on Saturday nights when their bottles ran dry, but they wanted to keep drinking. She recalled one of the last sales. “I’m not selling anymore,” Lalla told a young boy sent by the old-timers.
“Please, Lalla”, the boy pleaded. “Just a bottle of hot stuff. The guys are dry. It’s only 11:30, and tomorrow’s a public holiday.”
“It will be R230 a bottle.”
“Eish,” the boy replied.
“It can even rise to R250. Because you are disturbing my peace. I was getting ready to sleep”, Lalla said, even though she was still in her jeans.
She should have made at least R3000 from selling the liquor, but in the end, she only managed to scrape together R1800. The shortfall was, in part, because she couldn’t resist dipping into the stock—just a sip, or two, or three—with her friend Myra on Friday nights. And then there were the birthdays, hers and the late Cosmo’s, when they celebrated with beer, Fourth Street wine, and vodka. Sometimes, they mixed a Katemba—a blend of Coca-Cola and red wine—a concoction popular with women, though not often favoured by men. The sugar rush from the drinks would soon have them dancing to Elvis Presley, Percy Sledge, the Spinners, and Lionel Richie. When the buzz wore off, they’d switch to songs that were simultaneously sweet and maudlin: ABBA’s Knowing Me, Knowing You, or the Carpenters’ Desperado.
They’d ham it up with mock microphones (usually hairbrushes), singing along: “You ain’t getting no younger, your pain and your hunger.” You could almost imagine Cosmo watching over them, his presence felt through the Stetson and his ashes, silently observing from the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Whether he approved or not was anyone’s guess—he had been a party animal himself, after all.
In the end, Lalla’s money ran out. The electricity meter seemed ever needy, its annoying beep-beep asking for voucher numbers to be tapped in repeatedly. Meat for the braai made inroads into the stash, cheap cuts notwithstanding. Still sluggish from the sadness after Cosmo’s passing, Lalla had neglected to restart her part-time work of cooking curries for local events, a ‘sideline’ that in the past had brought in some bucks and made Lalla feel useful. She started to attend the Apostolic Faith Mission church again, sitting quietly near the back. On many a Sunday, she went in early to help arrange the flowers.
At one stage, Pastor Greggs told her that she could get a cleaning job at the church; he would let her know when the vacancy could be filled. However, over the next few weeks, she heard nothing from him. After some time, she learned someone else had been hired to do the cleaning and, out of curiosity, stuck her head into the church door one Thursday to confirm it. True. The woman, the owner of a bright face and draped in a navy-blue pinafore and holding a rainbow-coloured feather duster, said: “Every Thursday.” She said she travelled to work from Taylor’s Halt, about 30 kilometres away.
“Dammit,” she told her friend, Myra, “How can the man let me down like that?” The next time she saw pastor Greggs at the SaveMore in her area, she said: “Pastor, you said I was lined up for the cleaning job. What happened?” He drew his chest back slightly and touched his chin. “Did I say that? No, no-no. We already have someone, sister.” As he said that, he turned and looked past her before quickly shaking her hand. “Must rush,” he muttered. This was his manner, looking into the distance – like he was scanning for the right word – whenever he felt uncomfortable.
As time passed, some parts of the Glenwood dwelling sagged – the usual atrophy. The kitchen floor tiles cracked, and the gutters became loose. Rainwater spilled freely at a gutter’s dislocated elbow during a Natal downpour. The handles of the kitchen cupboards kept unscrewing themselves. Still, at least Lalla could re-fasten them using a screwdriver from the bottom drawer. Lalla saw the deterioration but didn’t dwell on it. What can a person do? The effects of poverty creep in like ants under the door or blow in like dust with the wind. Others also noticed the deterioration but said nothing. They knew Lalla would have it tough now that Cosmo and his illicit hustling were no more. What to do? Several semi-detached houses on each street showed signs of wear and tear. Here, unemployment lived on every street like a cloned old man with a threadbare coat. And so, life went on.
One day, Lalla rode with her friend Myra in a taxi in town. Music played – Brenda Fassie, the Rockets, and Kool and the Gang gushed from the speakers – as passengers chattered about events in the township. It was a pleasant midweek day in September and near month-end; everyone seemed cheerful. In town, Myra and Lalla had purchased a quart of beer. Myra insisted on the beer; Lalla’s preferred fix was cigarettes. The taxi wound its way through the industrial area and turned onto the road that led to Nagle Dam. As it made the turn, Lalla noticed two figures moving in the bushes alongside the road. A man’s hand was coming down on someone, striking someone wearing a red top. “Stop”, she called out. The driver hit the brakes, and the passengers were thrown forward. “Reverse!” The young driver, in his 30s, complied. Usually, passengers wouldn’t instruct a taxi driver; if they did, they would expect to be ignored or sworn at. “Hey, are you insane,” the taxi driver might say. “Do you think your father won the lottery and bought me this taxi?” However, this driver knew that Lalla was a friend of his mother, Mrs. Faro. Although Lalla was younger, they had once played in the same netball team.
As the minibus backed up, Lalla pulled open the sliding door. She spilled out even before the vehicle came to a complete stop. The passengers gaped as the lanky Lalla dashed into the woody area alongside the road. There, she saw a young woman who had been pushed down onto the grass by a man. The man sank to one knee and pressed her down while attempting to unbuckle his belt. “Hey,” Lalla cried. When the man turned to look at her, she threw herself at him, pushing him over. Then, she slapped him hard on the left side of his face, followed by another stinging slap on the right. The man’s head shook from side to side. “Hey,” the man called out. He brought his forearms up, trying to block Lalla’s blows before throwing a punch at her. But he was lower on the ground and off balance. Lalla delivered a hard left slap, but he blocked it but connected with her other hand, and she heard it ping against his ears. The girl was now standing, her upper body shrinking backward; there may have been whimpering from the girl’s lips, but Lalla could not hear it above the exertions of the fight.
Finally, the other passengers in the taxi reacted, alighting and shouting. Khanji, the driver, had run around and raced over, and the female passengers cleared a path for him. An older man, someone Lalla would later recognise as Uncle Whitey, real name Mr Witbooi, squeezed out from deep inside the taxi and hobbled to the scene to help. A young woman, also alighting, went to Emily, gently brushed bits of grass off her track top, and then curled an arm around her shoulder.
Khanji and Uncle Whitey descended on the wrestling pair just as the downed man began flexing his legs, thrusting Lalla backward. She could feel the paddling feet digging into her chest. Khanji grabbed the man’s right arm and shoulder while Uncle Whitey clamped the other arm, holding it in a tight grip. The older man’s leg was stiff and inflexible, but it became clear that his upper body sinews and muscles were solid and supple. The fight was over. The passengers watched as Lalla pulled the man’s belt through its loops and tied his hands behind his back while the two men gripped and held him trussed. After this, one of the man’s shoelaces was threaded through the lace eyes of both sneakers, and Uncle Whitey tied a sailor knot. His feet were effectively manacled. Lalla and another woman, one wearing epaulettes, went over to Emily, who was dusting off her pants, still looking shaken. “Are you okay, my dear?” said the nurse. Lalla reached out to take the young woman’s hand and asked:
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” Emily replied, touching her face where two scratches were visible. She pointed to a beer bottle and continued, “We were just having a drink and talking. It was the three of us—Marasta, me, and this guy. But then Marasta had to leave, and suddenly this dude got aggressive, calling me a tease.”
It seemed that Marasta, one of Emily’s close buddies, had a knack for making friends quickly. Together with this new acquaintance – someone he had barely known for a few drinking sessions – they had to this spot to share a beer and a joint. That’s when the incident occurred.
The quarry now sat on the floor, looking awkward; his pants top button and half the zip were still undone. The woman passengers came closer. One pointed a finger: “You pig”. Another said: “I know you. I saw you hanging around the supermarket, loitering. I could see that you were up to no good. I should have known you were a piece of rubbish.” The man mumbled something. A cell phone was produced. Police were called.
Mountain Rise police station was only a few kilometres away, but people knew the cops could take a while to pitch up. How often hadn’t they heard the excuse, “No vans here now.” These were days when, in the public sector, transport to serve citizens was in short supply, especially when it came to ambulance services and police work. “I’m watching you,” Lalla said, still glaring at the man. She lit her cigarette. Then turned and spoke to the young woman. The girl shivered even though it was a warm day. The young woman was Dutton’s daughter. Some of the female passengers edged closer. It emerged that the girl was 19 years old and had finished school the previous year. Lalla borrowed someone’s cell phone and called Dutton. “Something happened, can you come …”, the others heard her say into the phone. They heard her explain further. She ended the call and turned to the young girl: “We had to tell him. ” She put her arm around the girl’s shoulder.
Dutton primarily worked in the print room at the Natal Witness, where his main job was proofreading. He would check the lettering after the typesetting process, ensuring everything was correct before printing. On Saturdays, he freelanced as a sportswriter, covering soccer matches, particularly when local teams faced off against squads from Durban or Kokstad. Unfortunately, the newspaper only allotted him a few paragraphs; in a segregated city, stories from his community took a back seat to news from the white side of town. Dutton had a distinctive style, without fail describing high-scoring games as ‘ding-dong affairs,’ a stock phrase that amused readers who had come to expect it. Dutton also habitually called tight matches, ones in which a single late goal was scored, “nail-biting.”
On hearing of the incident involving his daughter, Dutton’s colleague, Janie, arrived in Glenwood the next day to photograph Lalla. Janie came with a cub reporter who later would draft a small story. The cub reporter, who told Lalla it was his second day on the job, only had the confidence to add two paragraphs to the opening sentence. “Quick action foils rape,” the headline read. The article didn’t mention Emily’s name but noted that a man had been charged. Not many people saw the article – it was in an obscure place, in a corner of an inside page. The story was buried in an obscure spot, tucked into a corner of an inside page, and not many people saw it. In this community, male readers usually skipped straight to the horse-racing section or the back pages emblazoned with images of victorious sports gladiators. On most Mondays, young men from Lalla’s neighbourhood searched for Dutton’s column, typically sandwiched between the classifieds and the headline sports stories.
Nevertheless, the message percolated. Lalla was “in the papers.” She was famous. She had saved the day. Lalla had stopped a crime against a vulnerable young woman. All this attention rekindled a spark in Lalla. She no longer treated people with bored eyes and took the trouble to ask about their health and wish them well. Mr Dutton’s brother was on the committee of the local creche. Lalla was called in for an interview, which was little more than a chat with Aunt Jasson, the one in charge. Lalla knew very little about childcare, but anyone who looked at her could see that she was nippy and energetic, and got a sense that she liked to get things done, chop-chop. Lalla was employed. From Monday to Friday, she helped make sandwiches for the children. While the other staff members wiped snotty noses, potty-trained the infants or watched them clamber up and down the two jungle gyms, Lalla toiled away in the kitchen. Slices of bread were buttered, and jam or peanut butter was spread. Oros orange juice was mixed in four jugs. Each day, Lalla left work by 2:00 p.m. The rest of the staff remained behind, watching over their charges, who slept in neat rows on their little mats.
Lalla met pastor Greggs one afternoon as she exited the supermarket with a loaf of bread. He scratched his head and said, “When are you coming to the house of the Lord?” She ignored his question. “I just wanted to tell you, Padre“ – his eyes dilated and his brow puckered as he looked at her – “that I managed to find work.”
“I’m glad…” he started saying, but she cut in. “You couldn’t help. I understand. ”
“It’s a pity. I so much wanted to work in the house of the Lord. I would have also been handy to cook biryani and chicken curry for church events.” She added.
Pastor Greggs looked like a man who knew he often made promises he did not keep or, more generously, usually forgot promises glibly dished out. He looked at his watch. “Bless you, bless you, sister. I’ve got to go.“ He rounded his car’s bonnet and quickly hopped in without looking back. The brown Cressida’s engine sprang to life, and it made a U-turn before accelerating away. Lala smiled. She thought of calling in on her friend Myra on the way home. Her steps on the sidewalk felt light and easy.
- Lalla Saves The Day - February 23, 2025
