Did you know that the Jukskei River, this river we’re looking at, is 50 kilometers long, rises in Johannesburg and is swallowed by the Crocodile River before it enters Hartbeespoort Dam? Yes, the dam, up north. Jukskei flows northward! You thought rivers only flow south? Did you also know that the source of the Jukskei, which is a natural spring, is unknown? Of course, there are theories about where it is. Some say it is in Doornfontein. Ever been to Doornfontein? No. You only know places where you go to please your madams and baases, and the rurals where your umbilical cords lie buried and where you go to suck on your mothers’ titties.”

It is Thursday. The sun is setting over Johannesburg, leaving hues of red and orange and violet painting the sky. Below, residents of Kingdom, an informal settlement on the outskirts of Alexandra township, gather outside Old School “Home of Champions” tavern, a one-room structure plastered in Black Label and Castle Lager promos, and have arranged themselves on beer crates and empty paint cans and plastic chairs with broken backs. They spill onto the dust road, the main road running through the settlement, partially blocking the way for passing cars and local taxis. Morena Tsotetsi is among them, seated on a camp chair at the far end, watching a man they call Professor deliver his lesson. Morena’s girlfriend, Mercy, sits next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder and occasionally thwarting a mosquito with her red scarf. Today is one of those rare occasions when she has left their shack. The air is sticky and sweet with marijuana, smoked meat and sewage.

“Others insist the source of the river is under Ellis Park Stadium,” Professor continues, his voice raised amongst the hoots, clanking sound of welding machines, children’s voices yelling for someone to pass the ball. “Yes, scary isn’t it to think…? Ellis Park Stadium, ahh, another Johannesburg land- mark that deserves its own history lesson. Where were you on June 24, 1995, when the great man lifted the trophy? Us, Rugby World Cup champions? Those were the good days. Hopeful times. But I digress. Could it be that the Ellis Park swimming pool holds the answer? Or Bruma Lake, the same lake where the police dug up those bodies a few years back? The fact of the matter is none of these fools with their education know where the eye of the river is. Isn’t that something?”

The crowd erupts into laughter. Morena glances at Mercy, but her gaze is fixed on a group of children on an open patch of ground nearby. Their bodies bob up and down, writhing in synchronized rhythm. He notices a slight smile on her face. Professor, lean and upright in blue overalls and black construction boots, stands in the middle of the circle, contemplative. “And what do I say, you ask? I say this river is not the enemy, the government is. Look around you. Each time it rains and the river swells, it swallows our belongings, our people. Is this a way to live? In a few weeks we enter the rainy season. Who will it be this time? How many of you are still rebuilding from the last floods? How many years have we been rebuilding? Some of us have become men while waiting for action. I say this government is not for the people. They say we must pack and go back to where we came from. I say, Kingdom is our home now. The new mayor is finally coming to see us tomorrow. We must go as a united front or lose our livelihoods.”

Professor concludes his talk to resounding claps and whistles. There are murmurs of agreement. Yes, someone echoes, the river is not the enemy. Professor looks at his subjects, proud, having delivered yet another lecture, having empowered his brothers and sisters with a piece of history that makes the city they call home. Someone hands him a pint of beer, which he clasps with both hands, a wide smile wrinkling his bony brown face.

Professor scans the crowd and starts walking toward Morena and Mercy.

“Morena Tsotetsi, my man. You made it,” he says. Morena stands, and they shake hands firmly. “Good. Good.” Professor turns to Mercy. “Mama Tsotetsi, how are you? I didn’t expect to see you. I have bags of beans and avocados at home. They are good for your condition. Morena, come by the house tomorrow to fetch some.”

Mercy adjusts herself on the chair, smiles and folds her arms below her swollen waist and squints at Professor. “Mama Tsotetsi? Don’t make me laugh. You know very well that your friend here has not even written a letter to my family to declare his intentions. Please, call me by my name. As for the boy, he is eager to meet the world. I wish he could wait a little longer, until we are far from this filth. But his father does not seem to feel the urgency. I don’t know what it is about this place that makes people never want to leave. It is like they grow roots.”

“Mercy—” Morena begins.

“Professor, how long have you lived in this squalor?” Mercy cuts in. “Years. Don’t you wish to start a new life elsewhere? You can’t fix this rot. No one can. It is too deep. Like you said, the government is not interested. But here you are, the good Professor hoping for a miracle. Maybe I don’t believe in miracles.”

“Mercy, please, not now,” Morena hisses at her, then turns to Professor. “She is not herself these days.”

“I see you have a strong champ growing in that oven of yours. Our future leader.” Professor laughs. “She is right. The problem is, I care too much for the city and this place with its imperfections, although I cannot say with certainty my love is reciprocated.”

“We are both the victims of love, Professor,” Mercy says. “We are fools for allowing feelings to rule our hearts and our heads.”

“Enough, Mercy,” Morena bellows. “Enough.”

Professor leans over to Morena and speaks in a hushed tone. “I’m counting on you to be there tomorrow?”

Morena nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Good. Good.” Professor bids Mercy farewell and moves to join the group at the butchery’s outdoor braai stand next to the tavern, holding lean brisket cuts and boerewors in Styrofoam trays, and waiting for their turn on the grill.

“Did you have to speak to him that way? You know Professor means well.” Morena slumps on his chair, then reaches for the small cooler box and takes out a can of beer. “He is one of the few people I know who cares about this community. And where is ‘elsewhere’ for him? This is the only place he knows.”

Mercy shrugs. She has opened a pack of crisps. She scoops a few, pops them in her mouth and licks her fingers, one at a time. “Which part of the truth was I meant not to speak? The letter or this dump? If Professor wants to stay here, that is his choice. He must not drag you into it.”

“Professor is not dragging me into anything.”

“Then why are we still here?”

Morena lifts his hand, the one holding the beer, and shifts his body slightly, turning his attention to the dice game that has started next to them. He watches as the men throw five rand coins and ten and twenty rand notes on the table, winces at their cries as they watch their daily wages wiped out. One or two screams of jubilation are drowned by someone shouting for those without zaka to make room. Another voice responds that cash is not a problem, that they can bet with their shacks or partners. More giggles and claps. Mercy lets out a loud sigh and shakes her head.

The game carries on for a while. More people throw notes on the table. Morena steps away and joins a group sharing smokes. The mayor’s visit weaves in and out of the conversation. The man will not come. He hates the poor. He will show up if he knows what’s good for him. The settlement will burn. The settlement has been burning. There is nothing more to burn. Hollywood across the river must burn next.

Mercy begins to stir next to him. She rubs her stomach and yawns. The moon, full and bright, makes an appearance. Morena finishes his drink and shoves the can in the cooler box, folds their camp chairs and throws them over his shoulder. He guides his girlfriend through the narrow, dusty alleyways of semi-organized rows of plastic and wood and metal structures, over half-buried electrical cables and rivulets overflowing with waste, to their shack on the edge of the Jukskei traversing the settlement. A naked light bulb flickers in the distance.

“You heard Professor. Soon the rains will come,” Mercy says when they are away from the noise.

“I know,” Morena responds, his shoulders stiffening.

She draws in her breath. “And?”

“I’m working on something.”

“You’ve been saying that since the beginning of the year. It is October now. December the rains—”

“I said I’ll find us a better place. Give me a few more days, okay?”

“I’m due in two months, in case you’ve forgotten. My child will not be born into this poverty, Morena Tsotetsi.” She peels her hand from his and hastens her pace. “I would rather go back to my parents’ home.”

Morena slows his steps, creating a distance between them.

“My father can help us,” Mercy says over her shoulder.

“I don’t want your family’s help. Have I not been taking care of us?” Morena snaps back. “Don’t you dare run to your father about our problems.”

“We can take one of the backrooms, pay my parents what they get from the tenants.” She stops, and when Morena has caught up to her, speaks in a soft tone, almost pleading. “Our baby will grow up in a big family. I can return to work sooner. Think about it.”

“What are you saying? What kind of a man feeds off his girlfriend’s family like he has no honor to his family’s name?”

“It is a temporary solution. Why are you so stubborn?”

“No.”

Mercy hooks her arm to his. “I am not fighting. This place is not good for you, for us. Remember when I met you? You couldn’t wait to leave. You promised me six months, the reason I agreed to move in with you. My mother and sisters thought I was possessed.” She chuckles. “When did you last send an application? Put on your suit to attend an interview? You don’t even try anymore. I’ve been quiet. I’ve been quiet for a long time. This madness must end. I’m tired. I’m alone. My body is on the verge of collapsing. If it is not my feet swelling like an elephant’s, it is my bladder. I can’t even hold my pee at night. There is no shame in admitting a setback, in letting others step in to help.”

They fall into an uneasy silence, and when they reach their shack, Mercy goes inside. Warm light fills the room. Morena sets up his chair outside. He knows to leave his girlfriend alone when she is feeling this way. It is the hormones, everyone tells him. He knows it is not only the hormones. He has not kept his promise to her. Morena listens to her movements until the light switch clicks, hears her groan as she collapses on the bed, the mattress squeaking under her weight. The house is still against the constant hum of the settlement. He cracks open his last beer, warm now, and gulps it in a single go. His eyes move across the river to the open field and the high stone wall separating them from the golf and country estate, where he holds piece jobs, which is lit like the Christmas tree at the shopping center. He does not allow his mind to dwell on the coming rains and the events of the previous summer, instead thinks of the following day’s meeting. Things were not looking good for the residents. The new mayor had met with people from the estate after they signed another petition calling for the relocation of the settlement. He promised to treat the matter with absolute priority. The mayor’s message of cleaning up Johannesburg and its suburbs, of restoring it to its former golden glory, of creating a world-class cosmopolitan city in Africa, vibrated in all corners, leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of Kingdom’s residents, who had signed their own petition with a list of grievances and called for the meeting. He was busy, his office replied. The residents had acted in the only language they knew the government understood, barricading roads leading in and out of the entire township with burning tires and rocks. For two days, no one left. For two days, no one entered. The mayor’s office gave them a date.

Mercy.

Where else would they go? The few places he had viewed were no better than where they were or the rent was impossible, with Mercy taking early leave due to her back buckling under the pressure of long hours of standing. The fact is, he has no plan.

…

Morena wakes up with a start, as he often does. He has lived in the settlement for two and a half years but has failed to acclimatize to its rude way of waking: the heavy footsteps too close to his shack, someone’s cell phone alarm blasting “Finding Galaxy,” the smell of vetkoeks from stoves in other shacks wafting through their home. He walks over to the other side of the room where the water bucket is to fill the kettle and sets it to boil. Mercy turns and lies on her back but does not open her eyes. Morena unlocks the chain and padlock fastened to the door, steps outside and stretches out. The air is breathable at this time of the day. He remembers the bedpan that Mercy uses at night and goes back inside to get it. Leaving the shack, he walks along the footpath, passing the forming queues to the taps, toward the communal portable toilets where he empties the urine and relieves himself. He comes out of the cubicle, nose screwed, and doesn’t breathe for another minute.

Their shack is modest, with a double mattress propped on large bricks, a steel locker where they keep their clothes and shoes and valuables, a mahogany dresser with chips on its corner balancing a small television, a table with a red plastic cover holding the two-plate stove, kettle, pots and a single-door wooden cabinet where Mercy keeps the cups, dishes and cutlery. There are two black bags bursting at the seams, gifts from Mary Whitaker and Julianna George, the madams from the estate he works for. Mondays and Fridays belong to Mary. Julianna takes Tuesdays. Morena recalls the day he announced the pregnancy, how they had clasped their fragile fingers and shouted, “Oh wonderful, Morena, just wonderful that you and Mercy are going to become parents. We are going to spoil the little one rotten!” The following week, he came home with two bags full of baby clothes, fluffy bears and bunnies, boxes of nappies from newborns to tiny tots, fragrance-free wipes and creams, medicine.

“Oh, oh, it is like a baby store in here.” Mercy had spread out the items on their beds and stood for some time looking at them. “What a lucky child.” Morena had fallen in love with her again at that moment.

Morena places water in the plastic basin, lathers his body with soap and quickly rinses it off. He dumps the gray water on the concrete gutter running behind their shack. He puts on black jeans and a red golf shirt, squats next to Mercy, who is looking at him with eyes full of unreleased tears. It is the same look his mother gave him when he finally left his village and followed in his father’s footsteps. Even as he promised not to be like him, not to be swallowed by this city, he felt her give up on him.

“I will make it right for you and the baby,” he says to Mercy.

She nods. Morena grabs his backpack containing his phone, wallet, an orange and a water bottle, feels for his pocket knife and shuts the door gently behind him.

Before moving to the settlement, he had stayed with his second cousin from his mother’s side in an apartment in the city center. The stay was cut short after his cousin took him aside and, over a beer at a Congolese pub below the apartment, pointed out the obvious—there were already eight people living in the two-bedroom space, and his wife was starting to run her mouth. He said he had arranged a job at the estate up north, and Morena could start the following day. He left that morning, his belongings stuffed in a threadbare gray Nike backpack.

He is angered by his naivete, for believing that with a university degree in Economics, he would not struggle to find meaningful employment and be reduced to pruning roses, mowing lawns and walking Labradors. That at 27 years of age, he would have more than the clothes on his back, a framed degree that has turned yellow at the edges and an ex- pecting girlfriend. How many resumes printed and dropped off? Hundreds emailed from the internet café at the local shopping center where he met Mercy. Interviews that have led nowhere. Once he had summoned courage and followed up with the lady who interviewed him for an internship.

“Something will come up, Morena,” she said. “It’s not you. The market is saturated with graduates like you. Keep looking.”

Except for the money he sends his mother every month, he has not been back home. He dreads his mother’s phone calls, wanting to know when he will visit, him promising soon, knowing it is a lie.

“Look at it this way: the settlement is a stepping stone to bigger things. We are all on our way out of here. Well, except for Professor. That one is not going anywhere. Why do you think he fights so much?” Morena’s friend, Sticks, said. He had met Sticks, a car guard from Lesotho, on his first day at his new job at the estate. Sticks gave him directions to the estate’s south gate, where workers and contractors entered. Morena had passed him again after work. Sticks had wanted to know how his first day went and where he was headed, where home was. Morena hesitated, then said he didn’t know. They left the parking lot together. Sticks took him to his shack, laid out a small mattress on the vinyl sheet covered floor and said it was no Holiday Inn, but better than sleeping in the open field. Over the next few days, Sticks helped him buy second-hand corrugated iron sheets and a window frame, and collected wood pallets, car boxes, garbage bags scavenged from the estate and shopping center bins. They spent a day building the structure, joined to Sticks’ shack, roof balanced with rusty nails and heavy bricks. He paid R200 to have an electrical cable run through his shack. This is home now, Sticks said. Morena cried. Sticks introduced him to Professor, the settlement’s historian. No one knew which of the surrounding townships Professor came from, though rumors were he was a family man and had been a teacher. Over smokes and beers and deliberating on the latest news, he and Sticks hatched their plans to escape the settlement, watched as each deadline came and went. Mercy came into his life a year after his arrival.

…

Morena walks the three kilometers to work, the long route parallel to the highway. He passes familiar faces: the waste pickers pulling their trolleys along the tarred road, taking up space and offending car drivers; cashiers and packers in their black and crispy white and blue uniforms; tradesmen with their placards reading: “PLUMBER,” “ELECTRICIAN,” “PAINTER,” “HANDYMAN,” “TILER” rushing to the building warehouse opposite the shopping center; gardeners like him, incognito in their khaki chinos, branded shirts and gold necklaces; domestic workers in pumps, handbags tucked under their arms and schoolchildren on their way to good schools across the river.

Mary Whitaker is waiting for him in the driveway, her Labrador standing next to her.

“Morena,” she calls out, her face brightening up as if she has been waiting for some time. She once told him Mondays and Fridays are her favorite days.

He is not entirely certain of Mary’s age but guesses late 70s. Her body has grown frail in the years he has worked for her. Her bony arms can barely tighten the grip around the dog’s collar.

“Fuckin’ cancer,” her friend Julianna had whispered to him. “It feeds on your flesh, chews and chews until you are bones. Then you die.”

He had asked Julianna where Mary’s family was—why, besides people from Hopelands Care Center, no one visited.

“Ever heard of the saying, ‘Family isn’t always blood?’ Well, Morena, we are her family now.”

When he got home, he told Mercy. He heard her pray for Mary before she went to sleep.

“How are you today, madam?” Morena asks when he reaches Mary. The dog comes to him and licks his hands.

“Terrible,” Mary’s voice quivers. “Awful things are happening, and I don’t know if my weak heart can take it anymore. I want you to know that I did not support the petition. Human lives are worth more than the prices of our properties. I asked, why can’t we help those poor people? You know what the response was? Not our problem. That is what the government is for. Not our problem! What happened to humanity? To ibuntu.”

“Ubuntu, madam.”

“What happened to that? The world is a cruel place, my dear. Here you are, a good working man who is only trying to put food on the table for his family and…” she pauses, shakes her head. “What are you going to do? Is there anything I can do to help?”

It occurs to Morena that there is something the madam could do to help. “We need a safer place to stay. For the baby,” he hears himself say. “For a few months, until I can find a permanent home. The maid’s room, madam. Mercy will clean the house, cook. She is an excellent cook. She will wash and iron. No complaints. The words tumble out of his mouth.

“Oh, no, no, no, Morena. That is not what I meant—” Mary pulls the dog’s collar, takes a small step back.

“You won’t even know we are here. No friends. No visitors.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Two and a half years madam, I’ve been working for you. I’ve never missed a day. Never made problems for you. Not once.”

“You must have misunderstood. Oh, Morena. I really wish it was that easy.”

“We will care for you.”

Mary shakes her head and utters repeatedly, “I am sorry.”

A moment passes.

“I understand. It was only a thought,” Morena speaks quietly. He keeps his eyes glued to the ground.

“Of course, yes.” Mary laughs, nervously. “Come, your sweet tea is getting cold. I made scones. Your favorite. I thought we should continue planting seedlings. I went to the nursery yesterday and couldn’t resist the zucchinis. Do you like zucchinis, Morena?”

He follows her and the dog to the back of the house.

…

It is late when Morena makes his way home. He will not be on time for the community meeting. He takes a shortcut, passing the narrow, low-lying bridge linking the settlement to other

suburbs. He hasn’t used the bridge for nearly a year and knows

he has made a mistake coming this way.

Last summer.

The rains had fallen steadily for more than a week. Each day the residents woke to a roaring river, spilling over across the veld. People from the homeless charity crisscrossed Kingdom, knocking door-to-door, begging them to move to a temporary shelter. Only a handful left. The Jukskei surged. That night, Sticks spoke to Morena across the thin zinc wall separating their houses; they had to move to the shelter.

It happened so fast. A child, a 10-year-old boy, had slipped crossing the bridge. Sticks went in to save him. Their bodies washed up further down the river two days later.

Morena heads toward the entrance of the settlement, where the mayor will address them. There is no stage set up. The residents mill around, hands across chests, muttering amongst each other. He spots Professor and walks over to him.

“Good turnout,” Morena says.

“Yes,” Professor responds.

“The mayor is late.”

“They always are. Is everything okay between you and Mercy?”

“The usual.” He shrugs.

Professor regards him for a moment, then places his hand on his shoulder. “I think you should go home first. Government people are never on time, anyway. They have no regard for us ordinary citizens.”

“Mercy is fine. The madam says not everyone in the estate has voted for the resettlement, maybe—”

“Go home, Morena.”

More people are coming toward the entrance. He weaves through them, raising his hand or nodding his head in greeting, and when the crowd thins, hastens his pace. He checks his phone; he last messaged Mercy about two hours before to remind her that he would be home late. She had responded with an “K,” followed by a black heart.

The door to the shack is closed, the chain fastened and the lock in place.

“Mercy?” he calls out before letting himself in. “Mercy?”

He notices first the empty spot where the two black bags with baby stuff sat. Then the absence of her red suitcase from under the bed. He looks around the shack. Everything else is in place. Morena sits on the edge of the bed, squeezes his eyes shut and screams.

…

The crowd is disbursing when he finally makes his way back to the meeting. Professor is standing where he left him, staring at the spot where the mayor would have addressed them.

“What happened?”

“The mayor can no longer make it tonight. Something urgent came up. Something involving the Premier’s office. His people said they will give us another date soon.” Professor’s response is void of expression.

“Mercy is gone.”

“I know. I know. Question is, what are you going to do?” Professor pats his shoulder and turns toward the settlement.