Brown Paint
Dobsonville
Pick n Pay. R43.20. Children's paint. Brown. Raw umber they call it.
Dr. Marais Monday 2PM R250: "Why children's paint."
"It's what they had."
Lie. They had oils. Acrylics. R300 a tube.
Thabo would be ten now. Still seven though. Always seven. Chris Hani Road. Wednesday morning. Toyota Quantum.
Painting with fingers. No brushes. Finger straight in brown. Smudge.
Can't see his face anymore. Try. Can't.
Patience walks in: "Sies, Grace."
"What."
"Looks like shit."
"It's Thabo."
"Where."
Good question.
Paint under nails. Three weeks. Won't come out. Good.
Woodstock
Community center. Art therapy free. Teacher: Pieter. Says he went to Berlin. Lying. Can tell.
Fadima sits down: "I'm painting Mandy."
"Who's Mandy."
"Was. My daughter. Tik."
"How old."
"Sixteen."
"Mine was seven. Thabo."
We paint. Both brown. Both fingers. Both shit.
"No brushes?" Pieter asks.
Don't answer.
Week two. Three. Four.
Someone stole my painting. Wet. Still wet. Always wet this cheap paint.
Fadima: "Who takes that."
"Someone."
Man comes. Gallery owner. Wants to buy.
"How much."
"Three hundred."
"For this?"
"Each. Want three."
Rent is R3500. Behind two months.
"Fine."
Painted three more. Same. Brown. Smudge. Thabo somewhere in there.
Rosebank
Gallery opening. Plastic cups. White people.
Young man. Black. Clean shoes: "I'll take them."
"All?"
"Yes."
"Why."
"My brother died."
"Of?"
"Does it matter?"
No.
Gave him the paintings. Still wet. Will stay wet.
"Lungile," he said. "His name."
"Thabo."
"I know. I can see him."
Liar. But okay.
Dobsonville
Pick n Pay Tuesday now. Wednesday I can't.
Same cashier: "Heyi mama. Paint again."
"Ewe."
"For what."
"My boy."
She looks at me. Knows. Scans. R43.20.
Dr. Marais: "The paintings sold?"
"Ja."
"How much."
"Nine hundred."
"How does—"
"Like nothing. Nine hundred is nothing."
"But you sold them."
"Someone wanted them."
"Why?"
"Dead brother."
She writes something.
"What."
"Notes."
"About?"
"Nothing. R250 worth of nothing."
Home. Paint. Brown. Orange now too. Mine dump orange.
Thabo's school uniform was brown. Meadowlands Primary. Still have it. In plastic. In wardrobe.
Can't paint his face. Try. Just smudge.
Phone. Pieter: "Last workshop Thursday."
"Why."
"Going to Berlin."
"Really this time?"
"Ja."
Thursday. Everyone painting. Fadima using red. Just red. Rebecca doing flowers again. Perfect petals. Stupid.
Old man next to me. Never talks. Painting black squares.
"Who?" I ask.
"Everyone."
Fair.
My painting: brown. Orange. Hand prints. Wet.
"What is it?" Pieter asks. Last time.
"Wednesday 10:47."
"That's a time."
"Ja."
"But what—"
"That's what I painted. Wednesday 10:47 looks like this."
He wants to say something deep. Doesn't. Good.
Took it home. Hung it. Still wet now. Week later. Month later.
Good.
When it dries it's over.
Never over.
Pick n Pay. R43.20.
Brown paint. Raw umber.
Again Tuesday.
Can't do Wednesday.
Wednesday is 10:47.
