The cold seawater ebbs away. The pilot light dries out. The tinder crackles with dry potential. Now the furnace is alight again, and Shadrach, Mesach and Abednego face imminent immolation. The fire roars through my body in a cleansing sheet of flame, reducing me to cinders.

* * *

Eugene behaves well afterwards. He lies with me without speaking after dropping the condom into my waste basket. He doesn’t check the time. He doesn’t allow restlessness to twitch at his limbs. He holds me in a way that mimics affection. I am the one who breaks the spell by sitting up. When I come back from the bathroom, he hasn’t moved. Perhaps he is dead.

“I think it might rain later.”

Not dead, then.

“Maybe,” I say.

“The air smells like rain. And I thought I heard a rumble of thunder.”

Cape Town is traumatised by the memory of a drought. People who normally don’t talk about the weather are obsessed with the will-it-or-won’t-it of precipitation.

“Goodness knows we need it,” I say, according to the accepted formula.

I start putting my clothes back on, which Eugene takes as his cue to do the same.

“Have you made up your mind yet?” he asks.

“About what?”

“About whether you are going to testify, and for which side.”

“Oh, that.”

I forgot that I used that dilemma as a pretext for luring him here.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve decided. I know what I’m going to do.”

He glances at me, but I don’t elaborate. I have decided, and that is enough.

CHAPTER 18

Jacob of the Journal of African Literature of the Diaspora has been pestering me to commit to a time when he can interview me for his special edition.

I flirt with the idea of insisting that I will write the paper myself, rather than be interviewed for it. It would be a foot in the door if I ever wanted to return to academia. The problem is, I’m not sure I remember how to write like an academic. It is a particular discourse that you lose if you don’t use it for a few years. It’s like becoming rusty in a foreign language, and I am very rusty indeed.

Two years ago, I could not only understand phrases like “heuristic meta-analysis,” “empiricism of hubris,” and “collective locus of agency,” but use them correctly. Now I fear I would confuse my logocentric assumptions with my epistemic violence.

I could take the time to brush up on some of the most used catchphrases, but time is what I don’t have. The deadline for submission is rushing towards me, and hurrying is something I’ve become bad at. Perhaps it would be easier to submit to the process of interview.

I message Jacob and let him know I am available to be interviewed. My phone rings almost immediately.