July Writing Competition Winner: Spaces – Wayne Roux

Each month, SAIAA members are encouraged to partake in our Short Story Competition. July’s winner is Wayne Roux with his short story, Spaces. If writing short stories and connecting with other writers sounds like something you’d love to do, but you’re not a member of SAIAA, consider joining one of our Writing Room Chapters. It’s a space for all kinds of writers, whether you’re a poet, a journaler or simply someone who enjoys putting words on the page, this space is for you. It’s free to join!

The first time it had happened was on a Tuesday.  

Vincent Jali knew this for certain because he had been looking forward to watching Orlando Pirates play Kaiser Chiefs later that evening. The plan was simple; close up the stall by four-thirty, and then hop a taxi back to Quarry Road West, the informal settlement he called home, and then, grab a quick bite to eat before settling down for the soccer match by seven.  

By four-twenty-five he had started packing up.  His food stall, which was just a fancy name for a small fold-up table and a 20-liter plastic bin of fried ‘vetkoek’, was located on the fringes of the Victoria Street taxi rank.  He had been selling the traditional yeast dough bread, which the locals called ‘igwinya’, at the rank for about as long as he could recall.  

Nomvula, his wife, had initially come up with the stall idea.  Six days a week she would get up at three every morning, deep-fry fifty or more vetkoek, pack his see-through plastic bin, and then send him on his way with taxi fare and a kiss before the sun was even up.   

She had been gone for almost six months now, taken by that God-awful disease that had eaten at her soul and then her body, until there was nothing left but the memory of her in spaces she used to fill.  

So, on the Tuesday in question, about a month after she had passed, he had ended the day with only one vetkoek left in his container.  He was prepared to take the leftover bread home and include it in his evening meal, as he always did. However, just as he was closing the lid to leave, someone had stopped in front of his table,  

The customer had greeted him in Zulu. “Do you have any left?”  

Vincent had nodded, smiling.  “Just one.”   

He accepted the Five Rand coin and handed the last vetkoek to the stranger. Instead of walking away after, as customers usually did, the stranger had hung back, surveying the rest of the busy rank while biting into the bread and chewing absentmindedly.  Vincent had ignored him as he sealed the bin once more, folded the little table and stacked it up against a nearby wall.   

“I can’t believe Pirates lost 3-0,” the stranger said, between mouthfuls.  

“Excuse me?”  

“Pirates versus Chiefs.”  

Vincent had shaken his head, chuckling at the man’s error. “That game is only later tonight.”  

He wasn’t sure if the stranger had heard him then or not, because he had simply scoffed down the last of the vetkoek, and then walked away – disappearing into the growing throng of commuters. Vincent had brushed the moment off and then headed home, by which time he had all but forgotten what the stranger had said.  It was only later that evening, when Pirates lost to Chiefs by three goals to nil – the exact same score the stranger had predicted – that Vincent recalled the earlier encounter with disbelief, fear and some wonder. 

That Tuesday was only the beginning… 

In the five months since, at the end of every single day, the person who purchased the last vetkoek in his bin would talk about things that were going to happen, but which hadn’t yet…  

…how it would rain the next day,  

…what the President would say in his speech that evening,  

…how a taxi would crash and kill four students the next morning.   

Random predictions mentioned without much thought, and yet, with incredible accuracy. 

 Five whole months. A hundred and nineteen premonitions give or take.  

Every one of them coming true.  

Vincent had not tried to understand how or why it was happening, or how come it was always the last vetkoek in his bin that inspired these strangers to tell him these mystical things.  Instead, he had settled into a rhythm of eagerly awaiting the next premonition, and then the one after that, day after day like clockwork. And at night he would share them with Nomvula, as if she was still there.  

He was down to his last vetkoek again today, and although he would usually be packing up and heading home by now, he knew he would not do so until he had sold it – even if it meant that he would still be here after dark, which was never a good idea.   

He just could not allow himself to leave without knowing… 

The customer was a plump, robust African woman, balancing a heavy plastic bucket on top of her head, and scrounging in her bra for loose change as she approached his table. Vincent eagerly removed the final vetkoek and handed it to her.  As expected, she ate it immediately, and as she chewed he could see that familiar dazed look appear.  She stopped chewing for a moment, then turned to look at him with a serious, almost frightened expression on her face.  Leaning closer to him, she whispered: 

“Do not come here tomorrow.” 

At first Vincent thought he had misheard her, but before he could respond she had turned and disappeared into the crowd.  He stood there for several moments in confusion, finally shaking it off and packing up his stall. 

Later, as he turned down the paraffin lamp at his bedside, he lay in the dark and stared up at the ceiling.  The woman’s words had stuck with him.  Was something going to happen to him if he went to the ranktomorrow?  Was his life in danger this time?  

The next day, despite the almost overwhelming curiosity, he stayed home.  

Returning to the rank the day after, everything seemed normal.  No disaster had occurred, nothing seemed out of place.  Everything was still exactly the same…  

Except it wasn’t.  

He realized this when the last customer of the day just paid and walked away.  And so did all the rest on all the subsequent days.  

And somehow, at around the same time, the spaces had filled.