Lauren Beukes - Zoo City

As we're heading back towards the stairs, Sloth chirrups. "My thoughts exactly," I say, stepping back into the anonymous hotel room, which is not in fact a guest room. I open the cupboard and face an array of pretty preppy clothing. White sundresses and Afro-chic numbers by Sun Goddess and Darkie and Stoned Cherrie. Perfect for a hip teen kwaito queen. But not for a Gothpunk Princess Barbie. There are empty hangers, like a gaptoothed smile. Wherever Song went, whoever she went with, she had time to pack.

I ransack the room for lost things, digging under the mattress, in the back of the cupboard. There are only dust bunnies and some spare change, a hair band. Nothing lost. Nothing to lead me back to Song. Which means I'm stuck with the investigative journalist angle.

"Uh-oh. Fweag aled," Arno says nasally as I approach. He's looking considerably less stoned, likely courtesy of the pain in his nose, although his eyes are still bloodshot.

"Just ignore her. Maybe she'll get the hint." Des lines up the tee, once, twice, and then swings hard, neatly chipping out a clod of earth to join the other clods of earth gathered around his trainers, which are not regulation golf shoes. But then, neither are mine. I've left distinctive tracks across three holes: the common kitten-heeled hustler.

"You play golf now as well as Blood Skies ?" Des says, mockingly.

"No. I hate golf. It's the genteel version of seal-clubbing, only not as much fun."

"What do you want?"

"Background stuff. Colour."

"Is bad a whide joke?" Arno bristles.

"As in painting a picture of iJusi's life. The people they hang out with, what goes down."

"You're bod gonna wide about de guns ding, are you?" Arno looks worried.

I laugh. "What was that?"

"It was the dope. He gets lank paranoid. Doos ." Des smacks Arno upside his head.

"Don't worry, I'll make that incident 'off the record'." I take out my notebook and pen, and look at them expectantly. "So tell me about you guys. How do you know S'bu?"

They look at each other uneasily.

"If this isn't a bad time for you. Wouldn't want to interrupt your…" – I look down at the pitted grass – "gardening." They have the grace to look sheepish. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink at the clubhouse."

Turns out Des and Arno already have a well-established reputation at the clubhouse. "Oh no," the waiter says, wearing a bowtie and gloves, like this is Inanda instead of Mayfields. "No shirt, no service. And no animals."

"Hi there," I say, sticking out my hand. "Zinzi December, journalist for The Economist . You've heard of The Economist , I trust? I'm interviewing these young men for a piece on the South African music industry, and I'd really appreciate it if you could accommodate us. I'd hate to have to include something in my piece on the appalling service at Mayfields."

"Do you have a business card?"

"Not on me." I give him my best fake-tolerant smile. He considers this, then breaks out his best fake-obsequious smile in return. "Right this way, madam. But please inform the young gentlemen that we won't be serving them alcoholic beverages. We confiscated their fake IDs the last time they visited with us."

We sit outside overlooking the gentle rolling greenery of the course. A shrike eyes our table, checking out the scraps. Also known as the butcherbird, it has a habit of impaling its prey on barbed-wire fences. People tend to think animals are better than humans. But birds have their own serial killers. Chimpanzees commit murder. The only difference between us is that animals don't feel guilty about it.

"How many of these people actually play golf?" I say, waving my glass of Appletiser at the townhouses.

"Dwo?" Arno guesses.

"Three max. It's like gym," Des says. "Everyone signs up and goes for like a month and then never goes again."

"So, who are you guys? Tell me about you."

"Um. Anoo Wedelinghaze. Dad's Har-he-duh-he-," he spells out, leaning over my notebook. Listening to him speak makes my eyes water.

"Redelinghuys. Got it," I wink. "How old are you? Arno?"

"Fifdeen."

"And you, Des?"

"Twenty-two. And it's Desmond Luthuli."

"You go to school with S'bu?"

"I do!" Arno chirps. "Bud Des moved hewe wid him. He's da woombade. I jusd hang oud and sleeb over sombedibes."

"Moved out from where?"

"Valley of a Dousand Hills? In Kwa-Zulu Naddal? Dey, like, gwew up dogeduh, besd buds."

"I can speak for myself, Arno." There's something hungry about Des. I get the feeling reflected glory isn't enough for him.

"Sorreeee, dude. Shid."

"Yeah, so S'bu and Arno are only, like, friends from two years ago. They both go to Crawford," Des says. "But me and S'bu, we grew up together. Tiny little village called KwaXimba in the Valley of a Thousand Hills. So ja , when iJusi signed and S'bu and Song moved out here-"

"How'd they get signed?" I interrupt.

"You don't know?"

"I just want to get your take on it. In your own words." Actually, Maltese and Marabou filled me in on the way. There was a big hoo-ha after they aced the Coca-Cola Starmakerz auditions when they were still a tender fourteen; the youngest contestants ever to qualify, and from a desperately poor background that almost immediately made them the great bright nation-building hopes of the contest. But they had to drop out just before the semi-finals, after their grandmother died of lupus, barely two years after they lost both parents to Aids-related complications.

They were adorable. They were tragic. They were at least half-talented. And the song they chose to sing was a wrenching cover of Brenda Fassie's "Too Late for Mama". How could the General Public resist? There was a massive rallying around them. Radio 702 started a fund-raising drive to pay for granny's funeral costs and establish a trust for the new orphans. Coca-Cola put them up in a hotel for the duration of the competition, arranged minders to look after them, and gave them as much free Coke as they could drink. And hopefully paid for their dental work afterwards.

Sponsors leapt to look after them. They got free clothes, free medical aid and free tickets to rugby games, where they got to sing for the Springboks and the President. And they got signed before the semi-finals even went to air, and dropped out of the competition on the advice of their new label, Moja Records.

Des sums this up succinctly: "Like, they were in Starmakerz and then they got signed and Odi paid for them to move."

"Acdually, de creeby bird lady and be dog guy came do dalk to dem eben befowe."

"Before Starmakerz?"

"Dey said dey were dalend scouds."

"Yeah, but I told them they shouldn't just take the first offer they got, even if it was from Mr Odi Bigshot Huron," Des interrupts. "I got them to audition for Starmakerz instead. Worked out. They got more exposure and we landed with Odi anyway."

"And they just did what you said?"

"Yeah, I'm kinda like S'bu's manager."

"You're twenty-two."

"So?"

"His mbom is deir legal guawdian," Arno pipes up.

"Yeah, that too. When they came to Joburg, we moved up with them."

"Mrs Luthuli. Right. So, where is your mom? Is she okay with you guys smoking weed and drinking beer?"

"Yeah, she's really chill. We earned it, man."

"You mbean S'bu earned id," Arno interrupts.

"And where's Songweza in all this? I couldn't help noticing that the house felt very… masculine ."

"Song's a sduck-up bidch," says Arno, with all the venom of someone who has tended a secret crush in the basement of his heart, only to be met with a sweetly patronising pat on the cheek the moment he brought it out into the sunlight of her attention. The seedling might have been burned, but that doesn't mean it's dead.

"Shut up , Arno. Song has got her own thing going on. She's only there a couple of nights a week. Maybe."

"And the rest of the time?"

"Who knows? Who cares?"

"Shouldn't your mom care? Considering she's the official guardian?"

"She cares. She looks after those two better than their own family."

"Oh?"

"Buncha money-sucking vampires. But that's private. Off the record, hey?" Des jabs his finger at me, just like a real manager, all grown-up.

"No problem," I soothe. "So tell me about this management gig, Des. What does that involve?"

"I got some stuff going with the clubs, some sponsorship deals, and me and S'bu are working on a clothing label for men. Controller."

"But not Song?"

He ignores me. "T-shirts and accessories, but quality stuff, hey. None of this cheap rip-off crap. Got some stores that are interested. The Space. YDE even. It's not just about the music anymore, it's about the brand. You gotta be smart. CDs don't count for squat. It's all about the cellphone downloads."

"Wow. You want to be my manager too?"

"Depends." He assesses me seriously, for the first time. "What you got?"

"Not a whole lot, let me tell you. How about you, Arno?"

"Be?"

"No, shit-for-brains, the other fat white boy." Des smirks at me as if we're in on this together.

"I jusd, you know, hang oud."

"What do you enjoy most about him?"

"Uh. He's weally funny? And cool. And he's weally good ad gambes."

"He seems pretty tense about his sister, though?"

" Ag . They fight a lot, but they love each other. They're just pulling in different directions and S'bu's kind of… sensitive," Des answers, getting antsy at no longer being in the spotlight. "Are we done here?"

"Yeah, okay. I might want to check in with you guys some other time though, if that's cool? Here's my card."

I hand over an old card to each of them, from FL. Cringingly, it reads:

ZINZI DECEMBER WORD PIMP

That's just the kind of cocky idiot I was. "Wordsmith" was too wanky. But why I couldn't have just gone with "writer" or "freelance journalist", only my cocky idiot FL self knows. At least I managed to keep my old number.

"What's a word pimp? Like you rent out words by the hour?"

"For dodgy assignations in tacky motel bedrooms. Yeah."

"That's so random."

"I'm planning to get new cards."

"As your manager, I'd say that's a very good idea."

"Yeah. Id's jusd… lambe," Arno says.

"I'll take it under advisement. Thanks."

When I get back to the townhouse, there is a red Toyota Conquest parked outside, with the boot open as if ready to swallow the woman who is leaning into it to retrieve the shopping bags inside.

"Give you a hand?"

" Ngiyabonga, sisi ," says Prim Luthuli, emerging from the car. She manages to contain her double-take at seeing Sloth, and hands over three bags in each hand, loaded with two-litre soft drinks and frozen mini-pizzas and chips. She is in her late forties, a large mama in a floral skirt and an over-bleached white blouse.

"Just a guess. Teenage boys?"

She smiles wanly, but there's a tightness to her face. "I try to cook healthy for them, but, hei , teenagers are difficult."

She fumbles open the lock, while balancing four bags, and bumps the door open with her hip, revealing a mirror layout of H4-303. The walls are a warm yellow, leading into a bright red kitchen with a corkboard against the wall, plastered with family photos and news clippings featuring iJusi.

I set the bags down on the counter, nearly knocking over a vase of white roses which Mrs Luthuli deftly saves without comment.

"Do you live in the complex, dear?" she asks, opening the fridge and shelving a pack of strawberries, the milk, carrots, chicken pieces, tomatoes. "I don't think we've spoken before?"

"My name is Zinzi December. Odysseus Huron sent me to talk to you about Songweza."