Excerpt from Canary

The gun pointed at my head is one of ours. A black Beretta 9-mm pistol. I know this because my job, up until a few months ago, was to procure weapons on behalf of the South African government...

This story could begin at just about any point in the last eighteen months. But the moment that makes the most sense is about five months ago. With that performance review. It was all I could think about in the weeks building up to it. The days creeping closer. The last night’s sleep before the big day.

Whatever I did, from the moment I climbed out of bed – still tired and short of sleep – felt like I had a hundred pairs of baleful eyes watching me. I didn’t know whether to brush my teeth first or take a dump. I stood in front of the mirror, crusted sleep caked around my eyes and dried saliva at the corners of my mouth. My bowels were solid with concrete.

A run was imperative, despite the grogginess. It was still dark outside; the best time to run. My neighbourhood was under constant development; new, bigger houses always coming up, and grander, more expensive complexes sprouting everywhere. Private schools. State-of-the-art hospitals. Malls. Coffee shops.

It was the place to be for people on the move. The streets were wide and even. The hills were moderate. I blitzed eight kilometres in forty minutes. It was a push. I should have only done five, but I was trying to outrun the anxiety. A monkey at the circus. A hamster on a wheel. A cog in a machine. Pavlov’s dog, classically conditioned. Against the wind, I put one foot in front of the other.

Nausea. I fought it like I fought the fatigue. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t allow it to get me. Couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever. The pain in my muscles was ecstasy. The burn gave me hope. My reward was a good, relieving shit.

I took a cold shower afterwards. I thought of times in my life when I had little to no luxuries. When I still had the hunger of a person striving. Hustling. Persevering. Wanting. I needed that fighting spirit. The cold water and pain through my muscles helped bring focus. The nausea, though, persisted.

Nevertheless, I smiled as I put on my navy suit, the one from Top Man. I had bought it many years ago when the store was still in Sandton, before the entire brand left the country for good. A plain white shirt – Ben Sherman. Yellow tie – Armani. Brown shoes – Kingsley Heath. Natty. My power suit.

I usually didn’t eat a big breakfast, unless I had something important to do that day. My mother always taught me to face my troubles on a full stomach. And considering what I had to face, a farmhouse breakfast was what I needed now, but my stomach was not up for it.

The queasiness stayed with me even as I sat behind the wheel of the Mustang still parked in my garage. If anything could give me confidence, it was this vehicle. Masha was yellow with two thick black stripes running over the length of her body; she was a beauty.

My daily affirmation helped bolster belief:
I possess the focus and clarity needed to navigate any situation.
Challenges are temporary; my resolve and spirit are eternal.
I am fully aligned with my goals and manifest them into reality with each step I take.

The nausea was still there, though, even after my third recitation, my palms clammy against the steering wheel. ‘We can do this,’ I said. Masha the Mustang didn’t respond – not in words. She did provide comfort, though, as she always did, her engine purring as she carried me through the early morning to the office.

Even though it wasn’t far, I still liked to get there early, before anyone else. It was the third Wednesday of March. Right before the Human Rights Day long weekend. Technically it wasn’t supposed to be a long weekend, but most people had planned to take the Friday off to make it one. The day promised good, sunny weather. No wind. Few clouds. Just dry highveld air. Nosebleed stuff.

I greeted the security guards with a smile and a joke about the local premier league soccer midweek fixtures – something I didn’t really care about but followed for the sake of office banter. I bought the daily paper from the vendor downstairs and holed up in my office with a large cup of tea – two tea bags of vanilla chai from Woolies and three teaspoons of honey. Everybody needs their fix; this was mine.

A story on page two made me spill a little of the chai: Whistleblower murdered outside her home