The Magnitude of Small Things

By Lungisa Mtshali

The whole point was to send a message. If he dies, its a bonus.

Nothing is as it seems in the lives of three young and intelligent South African adults who are tirelessly chasing love and money in an attempt to realize the dwindling African dream.

The lives of infamous millionaire playboy Sizwe Motha and final-year journalism student Mandisa Sangweni intersect after a mysterious road accident takes place and a frantic search for the truth is initiated by two senior journalists at a local news editorial.

Meanwhile, Philani Zungu, third-year BComm student and poet, seems intent on getting the girl of his dreams while making the rare opportunity of being in university count.

Is anything still possible in a country at war with itself while carrying the hopes and dreams of the Dark Continent on its shoulders?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482863536

Lungisa Mtshali

Lungisa Mtshali is a twenty-three-year-old qualified English and mathematics teacher. He obtained his bachelor of science in education at the University of Johannesburg and currently lives in the city.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Siyethemba Mtshali.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-6355-0

                Softcover        978-1-4828-6354-3

                eBook             978-1-4828-6353-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Contents

Sizwe Motha, the playboy

Mandisa Sangweni, the final-year journalism student at UJ

Philani Zungu, the UJ student who loves poetry and girls

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Philani

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Philani

Sizwe

Philani

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Philani

Sizwe

Philani

Mandisa

Sizwe

Philani

Mandisa

Sizwe

Philani

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Philani

Sizwe

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Philani

Sizwe

Philani

Sizwe

Mandisa

Philani

Mandisa

Philani

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Mandisa

Sizwe

Philani

Mandisa

Philani

Sizwe

To Miss Strydom

May her soul rest in peace.

Not all teachers are Einsteins,

but they all have hearts like Mother Teresa.

Unknown

H I, THIS IS ACTUALLY NOT even part of the book, so you’ll forgive me for this rude intrusion. It’s just that I’ve always figured the most important thing in life and in the world is for people to speak their mind. No matter what, we must always speak our minds. I just thought I should pop in and ask a burning question. Again you’ll forgive me because this is preaching to the choir, but why is it that most people don’t like reading? The last time I checked, the hype is all we live for. Why not also be hyped up about books? #IgnoranceMustFall

I have a small hunch that since you went as far as getting your hands on this particular book, you will go on to finish it. If my hunch is right, the last thing you need to know is that your world will probably end now! In the age of attention-seeking smart phones and intoxicated friends that need to be picked up from a club in Soweto or Rosebank (don’t even get me started on having to keep up with the Kardashians), having a book you actually plan on finishing will be the greatest inconvenience to you and your loved ones.

You’ll be doing yourself a favour though, believe me. I think the fact that people don’t read could possibly be the root of all the stupid problems we have in South Africa in the first place. So you’d also be doing our Rainbow Nation a big-ass favour too.

If you happen to disagree with any of the expressed views above and actually decide to never ever go on to finish this story because (in fact) the real problem in the world is the people like me who insist on the fact that reading is important, goodbye, bro, at least we can talk about these four paragraphs should we ever bump into each other, high like crazy, somewhere in Amsterdam.

Sizwe Motha, the playboy

I T WAS AN UNUSUALLY QUIET Friday night for the characteristically busy N3 highway. It was likely because of the week-long showers that had drenched the city of Johannesburg. The showers had effectively discouraged the masses from their various outdoor activities throughout the week so that only the few with erratic working schedules were forced to brave the wet weather. From the distance, assuming you were standing at one of the high-rise buildings standing on the small hills lining the highway, one could see those few cars steadily navigating their way to their respective destinations on the beautiful wet road. The cars looked splendid as they took turns passing under the blue e-toll lights. One has to admit, despite the sheer ridiculousness and controversy around them, how marvellous the e-tolls look. They pull you into the city. They bring along the relief of finally reaching your destination together with a feeling of excitement which suddenly comes from remembering why you stay in the metropolis, why you call Johannesburg home. That’s for us who stay there, of course, or frequent the city of gold. It nonetheless is a wonder for newcomers too. It’s different, a sophisticated yet simple aesthetic.

Apparent to Mr Smith, who was staring outside the window from the third floor of the Nashua building he worked at, was a white Chevrolet Lumina utility with its V8 engine bringing a total but pleasant end to the peace and serenity surrounding the quiet business district. It was Sizwe Motha, the millionaire playboy who lives as many lives as the many people who gossip about him care to imagine. Sizwe was a fast driver because he was a man who valued time and so led by example by always being punctual. He did whatever he had to do to make it on time, even if that meant sometimes having to run red robots and drive at way over the stipulated speed limit. He was also a thoughtful and considerate man however. At the age of twenty-six, Sizwe knew that to be successful at everything you do, you need to keep a good balance between all the aspects of your life. He valued that balance and he therefore never gave too much consideration to a certain aspect of his life only to care less for another. To him that just didn’t make sense at all. He was intelligent, hard-working, and responsible. So responsible, in fact, that he knew way better than to drive at 210 km/h on a wet road!

Two black BMW 3 series sedans, driving at equally high speed, seemed to complete the plot. The sedans, without licence plates, were hot on Sizwe’s heels!

Sizwe was making his way back from doing business in Durban. With the good company he kept—owing to the fact that he always mixed business with pleasure—he could not have possibly prepared himself for this! They just appeared behind him about ten minutes ago and Sizwe knew they meant business when they fired two shots. One bullet smashed one of the tail lights and the other bullet hit the left-hand side mirror.

‘Who are they?’ he thought with a mind that was in turmoil and in part could not believe this was actually happening. He continued to push hard on the accelerator. The characteristic hum of the sexy, sleek, and sporty van’s V8 engine which Sizwe loved so dearly seemed now to be the only thing that could keep him alive.

The engines of the three cars roared furiously in unison. Sizwe had managed to open a considerable gap between him and the pursuers. Then suddenly four shots cracked in succession! There was the sound of glass shattering followed by the sound of screeching tyres. Then there was the sound of metal slamming into tar and cement, and the sound of pieces of glass shattering as the laws of physics mercilessly tore the Lumina apart. Then within split seconds everything was still again.

The two black BMW sedans came to a halt near the wreck. Two tall, well-built men dressed in black emerged from the cars.

‘I need the Uzi so we can make 100 per cent sure,’ one of them said in a deep, sadistic voice.

‘Relax, you bloodthirsty fool. You can’t use that kind of weapon here—it will raise too much suspicion. That’s not good for business,’ the third one who had emerged behind the other two said calmly while delightedly lighting a cigarette. ‘The point was to send a message; if he dies, it’s a bonus. Let’s get out of here.’

Confined to what was now a ball of metal and feeling head-searing pain, Sizwe heard the simultaneous and furious taking off of the fleeing cars. He now knew his life depended on emergency services. He, in that moment, drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.

The flashing red lights looked so tragic passing under the beautiful blue e-toll lights. A red Netcare 911 Volkswagen Golf 7 GTI and a white Volkswagen Crafter ambulance not too far behind were answering to a call made by a Mr Smith, who claimed to have witnessed what seemed to be an orchestrated accident. As they drove, the young paramedic sitting at the back was thinking how the more tragic it would be in the turn of events that proved the circus of sirens and lights was a wasted trip, to find that all they would find was another statistic to add to the growing number of road deaths.

Mandisa Sangweni, the final-year journalism student at UJ

I WASN’T ACCUSTOMED TO WAKING UP anytime earlier than 8 a.m. because I had the absolute fortune of not having early classes. My earliest class was at 10 a.m. and it was on Tuesday. So it came as no surprise that it took me more than an hour to eventually leave home. Thato, the cute cab driver with a smile that sometimes convinces you that he’s not the player he actually is, added to my frustration when he took his own time making it to my place.

Being a fourth-year journalism student at the University of Johannesburg (UJ), I threw myself in at the deep end by finding a mentor in the ruthless and ‘first on the scene’ journalist Bianca Strydom. I wasn’t betting she’d take it literally when I said I wanted to tag along every time something big happened. I think the problem was also that we didn’t have the same interpretation of what ‘big’ actually is. An idiotic playboy crashing his car was not big news to me. I didn’t care much about Sizwe Motha until Bianca and my ringtone rudely ended my sleep at 5 a.m. ‘Check channel 403.’ Her voice sounded distant and it took me a while to piece together the instruction.

There was a helicopter too. I bet that’s why everyone was suddenly going to be convinced this guy was important. But then again after seeing the footage, I saw how it could be news because he made it out of that wreck alive. The camerawork was great too! The cameraman masterfully zoomed into the golden, commanding badge of the Chevrolet at just the right time for dramatic effect. The mortality of human creations—it almost seemed to mock it now.

‘Mandisa are you planning on coming here anytime today!?’ Bianca’s text message read. It’s horrible how it has become a norm for us to be late and disorganized. It makes everyone absolutely hate working with us and many private companies are always reluctant to hire us. I tried my luck with a reply which I felt was good enough considering the circumstances. ‘I’m on my way. The cab driver seems to be driving slowly on purpose. ’

I managed to make it just