THE PAINTED DEBT

THE PAINTED DEBT - Chapter 1: The Price Tag My name is Lindiwe Nkosi, but everyone in my street calls me Lindi, the girl who paints on walls. I am nineteen years old. I live in a small RDP house in Soweto, the kind where the paint is peeling and the roof leaks when it rains, but the walls are full of my drawings. I live with my mother, Miriam, who is forty-two and tired, and my brother Sipho, who is twelve and still believes that dreams come true. For nineteen years, I have had only one prayer. Let me become an artist. Not just a girl who draws on cardboard, but a real artist whose paintings hang in galleries in Rosebank. God almost answered that prayer last month. The envelope came on a Wednesday. UJ. University of Johannesburg. Bachelor of Arts, Fine Art. Accepted with a partial bursary. I screamed so loud the neighbors thought someone had died. I ran to Mama in the kitchen, she was washing dishes, her hands full of soap. I hugged her from behind. "Mama! I got in! I got in!" She turned and cried. For the first time in three years, I saw hope in her eyes. "My daughter. My artist. You did it." Sipho jumped up and down holding my old canvas, the one where I painted him as a superhero. "Sisi is going to university!" That same afternoon, I ran to the community hall where we have free art classes. Thando was there. Thando Molefe. Twenty years old, tall, with hands that are always stained with paint like mine. He is the only person who looks at my art and sees what I see. He wants to be an animator. He says my art speaks. When I showed him the letter, he picked me up and spun me around, both of us laughing, paint brushes falling from his pocket. "I told you, Lindi. I told you you were gifted. You are going to be famous, and I will say I knew you when you were drawing on old boxes." That was the happiest day of my life. I didn't know it would be the last happy day for a long time. You see, three months before that letter, my mother lost her job. She worked as a domestic worker for a white family in Sandton for eight years. They retrenched her without notice. "We are moving to Cape Town," they said. No UIF. No extra money. We had savings for one month. After that, we had nothing. I started cleaning cars at the robots after art class for R20, R30 a day. It was not enough. Sipho was sent home from school because we hadn't paid his fees. He came home crying, his shoes broken, his books held together with plastic. One night, I woke up at 2am and found Mama in the kitchen, sitting in the dark, her head in her hands, crying silently so we wouldn't hear. The next day, she did something she swore she would never do. She went to Mr. Dlamini. Every kasi has a Mr. Dlamini. Ours drives a black Toyota Hilux that shines like a mirror. He is fifty-two, with a big stomach, a bald head, and a gold tooth that glints when he smiles. He smiles a lot, but his eyes never smile. He lends money to desperate people. Fast money. No papers. But his interest is a monster. If you borrow R10,000, you pay R20,000 in two months. And if you can't pay, he takes your TV, your fridge, your house. Some say he even took someone's daughter once. Mama borrowed R30,000 from him. On paper, she had to pay back R50,000 in ninety days. She used R8,000 for Sipho's fees and uniform, R12,000 for food and rent arrears, and R10,000 she gave to a cousin who promised to help her start a small business selling vetkoek. The cousin disappeared with the money. Ninety days came. We had R0. Last Tuesday, at exactly 7:13pm, he came. We were eating pap and cabbage, the three of us sharing one plate. There was a hard knock, then the door pushed open. We didn't lock it, the lock is broken. Mr. Dlamini walked in wearing a black suit, even though it was hot. His gold watch caught the light from our single bulb. Two young men stood behind him, arms crossed, looking at our small house like it was already theirs. "Miriams," he said, his voice soft but heavy. "You have been avoiding me." Mama stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. "Mr. Dlamini, please, just one more month, I am trying-" He didn't look at her. He was looking at me. From my face, to my chest, to my legs. I was wearing my old orange dress, the one with paint stains on the hem. My hair was in a messy puff. I felt dirty under his eyes. "Who is this?" he asked, though he knew exactly who I was. "My daughter, Lindi. She is-" "How old is she?" "Nineteen, sir." "Nineteen," he repeated, and his gold tooth shone. "And very beautiful. Like a painting. Does she have a boyfriend?" Sipho moved closer to me, holding my hand. I found my voice. "I am a student. I am going to UJ." Mr. Dlamini laughed. A short, dry laugh. "UJ? With what money? Your mother cannot even pay R30,000. How will she pay university?" He stepped closer. He smelled of strong cologne and money. "I have a solution, Miriam. You know I am a generous man. I have no wife since my second wife left. I need a new young wife to give me a son. Your daughter is perfect. Innocent. Young. An artist, she can paint my house." The pap in my mouth turned to stone. "No," I whispered. Mama gasped. "Mr. Dlamini, please, she is just a child-" "She is nineteen, not a child. And she will save you," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. "If she marries me on Saturday, your debt is finished. I will clear it. I will even give you R20,000 for lobola, so you can fix this shack. And little Sipho will stay in school. If not..." He looked around our house. "On Monday, my boys will come and take everything in this house and put you on the street. You choose." He placed a small red envelope on our table. Inside was R1,000. "For your preparations. Buy her a white dress. I like white." Then he walked out, his men following. The Hilux roared away, leaving dust in our house. We didn't speak for an hour. Sipho was crying quietly. Mama was shaking. "Lindi," she finally said, tears running down her tired face. "My baby, forgive me. I didn't know. I thought I was saving us. Please... if you don't do this, we will have nowhere to sleep. Sipho will suffer because of me." I looked at Sipho. At his broken shoes. At his school report on the wall that says 'Excellent Learner'. I looked at my acceptance letter from UJ, pinned next to it. I looked at my brushes, my only treasure, lying in an old ice cream tub. I don't want to be a wife to a man who is older than my father. A man who looks at me like I am a thing he bought. I want to be an artist. I want Thando to kiss me in the art gallery on our first exhibition day, not this monster touching me. But how can I choose my dream when my family's survival costs R30,000? Mr. Dlamini is coming tomorrow with his family to pay lobola. The whole street will be watching. I have twelve hours to decide. Do I run away and save my dream, or do I sacrifice myself to save my family?