I first took notice of The Racist shortly after I moved into my new apartment, a breezy seven-room affair situated on Allmendstrasse. It was the day after I had officially been recognised as the new occupant of the residence, and I was busy smashing the cartons that I had used in the move, making them ready for the garbage truck that would soon grumble its way around the corner. I must have been concentrating on my endeavours because I hadn’t seen him arrive: the bastard! It was not the first time I had encountered this sort of thing.

 

He stood there, on the sidewalk, on the other side of Allmendstrasse and continued to watch me while leaning on his walking stick, as if he had nothing else to do. I followed him from the corner of my eyes and pretended not to notice him, wishing that he would go away or preferably experience a heart attack and pass on, right there. He did suffer from long coughing bouts now and then, I was pleased to notice. I turned my back to him and selected one of the cartons and slammed it on the floor with exaggerated violence, hoping to impress him. He stood his ground and did not bat an eyelid; that, apparently, was not impressive enough. So I straightened up slowly and turned to face him.

 

He must have been about 68 years old and sported a long flowing grey beard with moustache to match. He was of medium height and stooped a little, which probably explained the walking stick. He carried a military-coloured rucksack on his back like a hunter, with a white Fidel Castro cap jammed down his head. He had his two hands stuck in each side of his light green winter jacket, identical with his wife’s, jackets which I strongly suspected they had snapped up at a warehouse fire sale. His trousers and shirt were of the same light green colour. The only surprise in his ridiculous appearance was that he did not see fit to complement his circus outfit with prescription goggles, considering how much he squinted and moped at other people -  especially if he suspected that they were foreigners, or possessed a different skin colour, like me.

 

We continued to stare at each other, our hatred of one another evident on our faces. I could see his breath in the cold air as it left his nostrils, like an ugly hairy buffalo. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat loudly as if in warning and continued down the street. I had the strongest urge to run after him and give him a well-deserved shove from behind. The Racist, obviously, did not take kindly to idle lazy foreigners. It was a Monday morning, when the army of hardworking obedient natives had all trooped out religiously to their various places of labour, in their daily struggle to keep up the hallowed standard of living. How was the bastard supposed to know that I had worked through the whole night myself?

 

They would simply stop there, on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, him and her, and study me as if I was an exotic being, deserving of special attention. During the course of their sojourn on the sidewalk they would whisper to one another, pointing their walking sticks at me, at my house, at my garden, and then smile at one another. Sometimes they would shuffle a few steps, stop, and then repeat the whole process again, until I was forced to flee inside the apartment. Then, they would pat one another on the back in congratulation and proceed to shuffle down the street.  Oh, how I wished and prayed for their demise!

 

In the mornings my wife leaves for work early. Then, after the daily excitement of preparing and dropping the children off at school, I return home and try to calm myself down on the balcony with a steaming cup of strong coffee. Today, at breakfast, no milk had been emptied on the kitchen floor and no glasses were broken. My daughter and son, aged nine and six, had only thrown their cornflakes at one another, the son not taking kindly to his sister’s allegation that he snored in his sleep.

 

While I sip the coffee, I usually lay my plan for the day. Questions like, what would the children accept for dinner without making faces, occupy me. Should I first vacuum the apartment and later fold the clothes that had been piled up in the bedroom in a corner for a week, is another perennial. Should I summon up enough courage and finally place a phone call to that factory in response to their latest job offering in the newspapers, is yet another. I allow wrinkles to appear on my forehead while mulling over such difficult inquiries. And it was usually at this juncture, precisely at this time, when all my powers of concentration must be brought to bear, that the two apparitions usually make their appearance, throwing me off. No, they didn’t just throw me off; they terrorized me. And it went on for a long time until I realized: -  ‘Am I not an African, eh? An African used to overcoming adversities all his life?’

 

I had to defend myself. My first idea, to purchase a dog of very dangerous pedigree, was shot down by my wife before I could finish formulating the sentence. After her exclamations of surprise at my sudden love of animals, she killed off the idea by reminding me that the beast must be escorted – regardless of the weather situation – at least three times a day, to say the least. And regarding the cost of dog chow...’ she didn’t bother to finish the statement. And, ‘Do I need to say anything concerning the veterinarian doctor...and the licensing costs for pets...eh?’

‘Okay, I get the picture, ’ I had snapped in irritation. My wife, as you may or may not have guessed, is also native-born and I was yet to let her in on my raging war with the racist and his ugly wife.

With the dog plan killed off, I realized that my life would be better if I was spared the sight of the couple on a daily basis. From Jumbo, a hardware do-it-yourself shop catering to everyman’s hobby, I bought six young pine trees and with these stuffed the gap in the fence that enabled pedestrians to see directly onto my balcony. For eight long weeks that summer it was pure bliss. I did not once notice the two nauseating and wicked beings. But my sense of wellbeing was short-lived.

Winter came, and made nonsense of all my summer endeavours. Before one could say,  ‘Oh, how very cold!’ all the trees in the fence, with the exception of the evergreen pine trees, had lost their leaves and I was standing there again totally naked for all to see! And look they did, especially...you know who!

This time, they brought their friends along with them; another wretched and withered couple with wrinkles all over. They would stand there for what seemed like the whole morning on the opposite sidewalk talking and gesticulating with their walking sticks and wrinkled hands in the general direction of – who else? – Myself! The wife of the new couple, Bird-woman I called her in deference to her close resemblance to a vulture, usually had a telescope suspended from strings on her neck. And once she spotted me on the balcony drinking my coffee and smoking my cigarette, she would stop, and reach for her husband’s hand in excitement as if to say, ‘Oh, dear me, look! There he is again! The African!’ – and then she would take up the telescope and begin to observe me!

At first I thought she was taking pictures of me to scare her grandchildren with, as I heard these racists did. I was about to abandon both my coffee and my reservation in order to accost her, when I heard her say to her husband, who reminded me very much of an ageing jackal,

‘Hon, I am unable to focus this telescope. Are you sure it did not fall down the last time you used it?’ 

‘Of course not, dear! ’ said Ageing Jackal, denying the accusation,  ‘Otherwise I would have told you.’

Bird Woman did not quite believe him and grunted her doubts, a horrible woman. But I was not surprised in any case. They were exactly the kind of couple The Racist and his wife would select for company.

 With my coffee drinking exercise on the balcony laid bare by winter and no longer shaded from public view, I resorted to other tactics to discourage incessant pedestrian gawking. I emptied on the sidewalk, at that particular spot where The Racist and his wife normally stood to gape, in the middle of the night, several litres of used cooking oil that I collected from the restaurant where I worked. And the next morning I almost missed the action!

The first thing I saw as I hurried on to the balcony was The Racist squatting on his buttocks on the sidewalks like a troublesome fat rat finally caught in a trap! He had probably positioned himself at his regular spot to continue his daily sport of tormenting me when the used cooking oil did the rest and felled the bastard! And his wife? The Witch was holding on to a pole in the fence behind her for support and was bleating like a goat for help! Their pals, Bird Woman and Ageing Jackal were nowhere to be found today. They had probably taken the day off from their African Peep Show to rest their weak eyes. What a pity. It would have made for a most memorable photo album for my children to laugh over, the four friends caught on film at the time of their greatest distress!

The Racist looked even more ridiculous than ever, sitting there in the middle of the used cooking oil on the sidewalk and looking around in desperation trying to find a way to get up. His walking stick was lying a few metres away, out of reach. Very good!

He was trapped.

 Felled.

 Defeated.

 Oh, it was a sight I will never forget. It was the moment of my greatest triumph. How the mighty are fallen! 

I had to cherish the moment.

I ducked back into my apartment to avoid detection when I noticed that there was no help in sight, lest I be asked. I wasn’t sure I could resist their bleating for help if they spotted me and began to moan in my direction, the way white people always do when they need urgent assistance and realize that the only one around who could rescue them is a black person. The only time they actually show any kind of humility at all. No, I wasn’t going to give them a chance to be more abusive. I stayed where I was.

As I watched from behind the curtain, I realized with surprise and pleasure that my prayers might actually be working, and that given enough time in the oil pool, The Racist might actually catch pneumonia and thankfully die off from the complications, considering his advanced age.

The rain. Where was the bloody rain? That was the only thing missing in the equation. If only it would begin to rain now! Until a few days ago it had rained for two weeks without stop! Now would have been the time for it to drench the two and hasten their demise, trapped as they were. Another opportunity like this may never present itself again. I decided to invoke the rain myself. Am I not an African, eh, capable of making rain? How did that song from this South African musical group went again, eh...? I had to think hard before it came...

 

Rain, rain, rain, rain,

Beautiful rain.

Rain, rain, rain, rain,

Beautiful rain.

Oh! come to me,

Beautiful rain.

 

Try as I might, the rain refused to come to me. Must have something to do with the negative influences of living in Europe, I realized. I gave up and hurried to my living room to retrieve my camera. I reasoned that half a loaf of bread was better than nothing. The least I could do was to capture their fall on film for my children’s entertainment; in the unlikely event that The Racist and his wife failed to catch pneumonia. I didn’t want to lose out completely.

Sharp pangs of pain and deep anger washed all over me as I returned to my hiding place behind the curtain leading to the balcony. The Racist and his Witch were standing on their feet and leaning on their walking sticks!

Now that cannot be true! How did that happen, eh?

They had been rescued by a passing couple, who probably saw themselves as Good Samaritans doing mankind a favour.

Who asked them to interfere, eh? Foolish idiots!

As I watched further, boiling with rage, the two idiots of a couple guided The Racist and his Witch away from the oil pool on the sidewalks to safer ground, denying me my chance to capture the event on film. What’s more, the two Samaritans were squealing and yelping about ‘two adorable and helpless old people left to suffer like this!’

I had to laugh out loud at that in spite of myself. Did they say two adorable and helpless old people? I concluded that the do-good-idiotic-couple must be possessors of a perverse sense of humour. If only they knew even half the truth!

For a short while afterwards, life was easy and pleasant. I couldn’t recall seeing The Racist and his witch for a while after their Great Fall, and I was all the happier for it, until I was woken up from sleep one early morning by the equally racist police. They didn’t actually wake me up, for I was already on the balcony daydreaming over my coffee and cigarette when they arrived.

The police unit, a man and woman tandem, were doing their best to pin the crime on me while concealing their racism. But I was equal to the task and deflated their underhanded insinuations with a yawn.

“Good morning, Mr. ehm...ehm...” The woman police officer couldn’t pronounce my last name and I didn’t help her. Let the bitch earn her salary. She looked up, and bestowed on me what she probably thought was a charming smile, and said, ‘Well, Mr. ehm...you probably must have guessed why we are here...haven’t you?’

I smiled wickedly. ‘No, I haven’t,” I said. “Besides, Mr. Ehm doesn’t live here. Never met the guy before.’ The woman must think that I was an amateur. Probably hoping to panic me into incriminating myself with such childish tactics.

She smiled. ‘Mister Ehm...I must tell you right away that the Attorney General and the subsequent judges who decide this case do take into consideration a heartfelt guilty plea. That means that an early enough plea for mercy carries a lot of weight in the final sentencing. If you know what I mean.’

‘No I don’t,’ I said.

‘Surely you must know. We are talking about the crime.’

‘How very interesting,” I said. “Tell me about it.’

The two police officers looked at one another knowingly.

‘Now, Mr. Ehm...there is absolutely no point in continuing in this manner. You know perfectly well what we are talking about!’ It was the male police officer, and he said it in a very stern voice, no doubt to frighten me.

It occurred to me then that the two officers must be in the mood for humour, for there was no other way to explain their interrogation methods. So I decided to oblige them with my own sense of humour. ‘If I know the crime, I am not saying it, just like you two. Unless of course you want to make a bet to see who will name the crime first, no?’

I have learned to place “no” at the end of a every question from my Vietnamese work colleague who was determined to learn English at all costs.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” Male Police Officer said. ‘You are really not taking us very seriously, are you, Mr. Ehm?’

‘Everything depends on the magnitude of the crime committed,’ I said.

‘What kind of car do you drive, and what colour does it have?’ It was Lady Police Officer taking over again. Either these two officers were drunk or they were mad. ‘Excuse me?’ I said, not understanding.

‘Okay, lets take it one at a time.’ It was Male Officer. ‘What kind of car do you drive?’

‘You know that already. I am sure you have it in your records.’

‘Please answer the question.’

‘Bob Marley and the Wailers.’ I said.

‘What?’ male police officer was completely thrown.

‘BMW.’ said lady police officer, coming to his rescue. 

Male Officer was pissed off and was trying to hide his street-smart ignorance under his anger. ‘Mr. Ehm,’ he snarled, ‘I warn you to answer the questions in normal language!’

I wasn’t going to allow him to have the last laugh.

‘But your woman partner understood what I meant. Maybe you are the one who didn’t know the language, no?’

‘What is the colour of your car, Mr. Ehm?’ Woman police officer had taken over again.

‘European Colour,’ I said.

Male Police Officer was about to throw another tantrum but his partner stopped him with a raise of her hand. ‘So Mr. Ehm, you drive, in other words, a White BMW. Did I get that right?’

‘Yes.’ I was almost beginning to like this woman police officer.

‘That confirms, in this case, the information we already have.’

‘Surprise, surprise! What else did you find out about me?’

It dawned on me suddenly that The Racist was behind this, in his bitter drive to extort his pound of flesh for his Disgraceful Downfall.

 ‘Our investigations showed that you rammed your car into Mrs. Sutter’s wagon last night damaging the two left-side doors, and without reporting the incident to the appropriate police authorities as you are bound by law to do, you removed yourself from the scene and proceeded home as if nothing happened. So now, you are not only being charged with the accident, you are also being charged with the offence of Leaving The Scene of an Accident Without Permission.”

‘What? Leaving the what...?’ I was dumbfounded. ‘My car wasn’t moved the whole of yesterday.’

 ‘Leaving-The-Scene-of-an-Accident-Without-Permission.’ repeated Male Officer slowly, spelling it out contemptuously. ‘Or, Hit and Run, as it is called in street language.’

Male Police Officer was still smarting from my under-the-belt-jab and was obviously determined to take his revenge.

‘There must be a mistake somewhere!’ I yelled.

‘No mistakes, ‘ said Male Officer. ‘We recorded the residue of colour on the bumper of your car before we came in. A perfect match.’ He was smiling. ‘So sorry.’

I felt outsmarted.

Hounded.

Trapped.

 I didn’t want The Racist to win.

From the corner of my eyes I noticed some movements on the street, so I stole a quick glance.

Talk of the devil!

The Racist, his wife The Witch, Bird Woman and her husband, Ageing Jackal, had assembled themselves at their regular spot on the sidewalk and were talking in an agitated manner, in celebration of their imminent victory. The Racist, the centre of attraction, was even talking on his mobile phone and was yelling into the mouthpiece, expansively summoning his friends to the feast, no doubt boasting and bragging how he has placed the Cheeky African back in the place where he belonged. Down.

I was going insane with despair.

The Racist must not be allowed to win. He must not be given another chance to proclaim once again his alleged superiority. Should I take to my heels and bolt from there? Bad idea. The bastard would probably break down in derisive laughter, with shouts of ‘Coward! Coward! All hail the coward!’ to boot.

‘So Mr. Ehm,’ I heard Woman Police Officer saying as if from a dream, ‘If you don’t mind, would you please dress? We would like to take you with us to the station for further interrogation.’

Oh God, help me! My panic was beginning to rise. The Racist was on the verge of yet another victory. I didn’t want him to witness my humiliation of being escorted to the waiting police car flanked by two officers like a criminal, head bent low in capitulation and shame. He probably had a camera waiting to catch the moment for posterity.

I was determined to stall. I was determined to deny him and his assembled fellow racists their feast.

‘I don’t care what you would like!’ I managed to say. ‘I said that it wasn’t me! And I am not going with you to any blasted police station!’

Male Police Officer bared his teeth in all his ugliness. ‘Are you trying to resist arrest, in that case, Mr. Ehm? Should I call for reinforcement? You decide. How would you like it?’

I realized I was losing the war, but I was determined to go down fighting. I have to give The Racist a piece of my mind. To tell him what I think of him. So I turned to face the sidewalk - to finally confront the beast.

But The Racist had crossed the street and was heading directly towards my house, followed closely by a man I have never seen before, then his wife The Witch, Bird Woman, and Ageing Jackal.

The Racist was fuming and was coming to complain about the police delay in placing me in handcuffs!

The cheek of these RACISTS! I may be living in their country but enough was enough! A man’s home was his castle and they have clearly violated mine.

I pumped out my chest. The swine was about to learn that the slavery days are long over.

Close up, he was even uglier than I had thought. And the apparition was speaking to me! He was pointing at the unknown man behind him and was saying,

‘It was a lucky break. This man here is Mr. Braun, my lawyer. I was able to catch him with this mobile phone here before he could leave for his office. One of the few advantages of this invention, if you ask me,’ he said, waving the mobile phone in the air.

He searched my face intently. I looked away. Couldn’t bear to look at the beast. I had to stoke the hate.

 ‘If you don’t mind,’ he continued, ‘I am placing him, at my expense, at your disposal for the duration of this farce.’

With ‘farce’ The Racist had pointed at the two police officers.

I staggered and leaned back on the wall for support, my head swirling.

‘Eh?’

‘For a long time we have been trying to tell you how happy we are to have you in our midst but couldn’t find the courage, and ...’  It was The Witch.

 

I began to slip, slipping down slowly until I slumped totally on the floor. I was having difficulties breathing.

‘Oh, dear me,’ said Bird Woman, apprehension in her voice.  ‘I hope he is not sick. I am afraid we may have bothered him too much.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ said The Racist. ‘We have a retired doctor in our midst, don’t we?’

As I began to fade away, I could see Ageing Jackal’s face hovering close over mine. He had grabbed hold of my wrist and was feeling my pulse urgently. ‘It will be okay, son.’ I heard him say.

Over and over again.