Beautiful Screaming of Pigs by Damon Galgut

long break, smiling coyly at each other and rubbing hands. There was a lot of sexual energy in the air. He didn’t seem cold to me – there was
no reserve in the way he touched the back of her neck, or draped his arm possessively over her shoulders. Their mutual absorption allowed me to study him properly for the first time. His skin was
deeply and strikingly black, making his big teeth seem vividly white. His hair came down into a sharp widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead.
    When the food came he transferred his attention from my mother to his plate. He ate voraciously, with single-minded attention. She was just getting warmed up to the game and was a little put out
at being neglected in favour of a steak. So she turned serious:
    ‘What’s the mood in the country?’
    ‘The mood? Can’t you see?’
    ‘Well, we only arrived today. It’s hard to draw conclusions.’
    ‘People are happy,’ he said shortly, and went on chewing.
    ‘It’s a big moment,’ she said.
    ‘Sure. For us, it’s a big moment.’
    ‘Not just for you, Godfrey. For the whole continent. It’s the beginning of the end, we all know that. South Africa’s going to follow soon.’
    He made a snorting noise that could have been agreement or dismissal, and ordered another beer. My mother was miffed and soon after went lurching off to the toilet. Godfrey and I were left alone
together for the first time. We tried not to look at each other.
    He gave a soft belch. ‘So,’ he said.
    ‘So.’ I smiled. ‘I know your voice from the telephone.’
    He smiled too, but he wasn’t going to follow this line of conversation. ‘You said you’d been here before.’
    ‘Not to Windhoek. I was up on the border.’
    ‘Yes. Fighting.’
    ‘I wasn’t much of a fighter,’ I said.
    He adjusted his T-shirt, so that I could see more clearly the image of the clenched fist, the slogan. I wasn’t sure whether I was being baited, or whether the talk was innocent. I had no
desire to talk politics, much less the politics of the South African war on the border. I said:
    ‘I had a little crack-up there. I don’t know whether my mother told you about that.’
    He was watching me, and I noticed he had a fleck of blood in the corner of one eye, such as one finds in a fertilized egg. He seemed about to answer, but then my mother came back and the
conversation veered off in a safer direction.
    There was a heavy storm brewing as we drove back to the hostel. Lightning fizzed high overhead, throwing the streets into sharp relief – streets usually struck into
torpor by flies and dust, now full of frenzied activity. Even late at night, cars and people were moving everywhere. From remote and forgotten corners of the country, from points on the globe I
could hardly pronounce, soldiers, officials, observers and voters converged in gathering droves. Bunting lined the streets. Election posters crammed onto poles and trees. YOUR VOTE IS YOUR SECRET.
VOTE FOR TRUE PEACE. I THINK THEREFORE I VOTE. SWAPO flags and DTA banners, bits of graffiti, discarded leaflets. The feeling was poised somewhere between a party and a riot.
    At the hostel the night guard gave us a cursory glance and let us through. But as we walked over the grass I saw somebody watching from behind a curtain. My mother was quite drunk and making a
lot of noise, screaming with laughter and hanging onto Godfrey’s arm. She kept telling us to keep quiet, though we weren’t making a noise, and then going off into fits again.
    We hadn’t even got to our rooms before the bald man, the manager, was there. ‘I’m afraid we don’t allow visitors after eleven,’ he said. ‘It’s a rule,
I’m sorry.’
    My mother was suddenly sober. ‘He’s not a visitor,’ she said. ‘He’s staying the night.’
    ‘You didn’t make a booking for him.’
    ‘It’s my room. I made a booking for my room.’
    ‘I’m sorry. It’s not allowed. This is a same-sex hostel.’
    ‘A same-sex hostel,’ she said,