Dada 157

Only one incident stands out. Towards the end while my counsel rambled on, I heard the thin tunes of an ice cream cart in the street, a small jangling sound of bells and chimes that cut across his flow of words and empty paraphrase. A rush of memories went through my mind of the red sunsets in the dry season, memories of a life that was mine no longer but was dissolving in the actions of these puppets of the State. Memories that had once provided me with the surest, humblest pleasures, the warm smells of summer, my favourite streets, the space by the water where the sky hung low at evening, even the rain that brought a deeper green to the trees and a cooling balm like sandalwood to the air by the river; Mo’s clean clothes and his laughter bubbling up and singing through those bright teeth with his hair swept back. How beautiful it was. How beautiful he was. The futility of what was happening here seemed to take hold of me by the throat and slowly throttle me. I had only one thought, to get it over as soon as possible. To get out and be in the space between the court and the police van when I could take my two breaths of freedom under the unmoving sky. This was my aim before the return to my cell and to sleep, sleep, sleep. My lawyer was finished, only one verdict possible he declaimed, that of homicide with extenuating circumstances. His voice drained away. The court rose and he sat down and looked exhausted. Some of his colleagues came up to him and shook his hand. ‘A magnificent fight, well done’ one of them said. Another even called me to witness the performance. ‘Fine wasn’t he’ he indicated. I nodded my head but said nothing. I had nothing to say. I was far too tired to judge whether the performance had been good or otherwise. To my mind it was all the same.