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Canary – Onke Mazibuko's nail-biting thriller

In Canary by Onke Mazibuko, art imitates life in a nail-biting read on corruption and whistleblowing. In Canary, Onke Mazibuko presents a thriller where corruption and collapse meet conscience, and one man must decide if he will risk it all to blow the whistle. Read an extract from the novel below. MARCH 2024 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. I had procured her four years ago, after being promoted from Senior Manager to Executive Manager. We were a unit: Lone Ranger and Silver. Together, nothing could stop me and my steed. 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 The Golden Daily Whistleblower Gabriella Simelane was slain outside her Waterfall, Midrand home in the early hours of yesterday morning. Neighbours, alerted by the sound of gunshots, found her body in the driveway. She was dressed for jogging, apparently set for her routine morning run. Simelane came to prominence in October when she disclosed high-profile acts of corruption in the state-owned entity, Eleckor SOC Ltd. She had been a loyal civil servant in the organisation for sixteen years. The alleged criminal activity she exposed involved high-ranking executives in the organisation as well as politicians with significant influence in the ruling Democratic Party for Change (DPC). There seems to be something deliberate and calculated in the untimely death of the Executive Manager who worked in the procurement department of this once proud state-owned entity. Although law enforcement is yet to release an official statement with the details of this brutal slaying, sources have speculated about possible connections between her murder and the spate of recent killings of whistleblowers. A rogue faction within the ruling DPC has given breath and life to a group of overzealous people who call themselves Iintloko Zeenyoka, which translates to Heads of Snakes. This unscrupulous group is allegedly responsible for the assassination of whistleblowers who stand up against the cartels that have turned the procurement landscape of state-owned companies into their personal feeding troughs. The death of the woman known simply as Gabby to those who loved her most, seems intended to send a strong message… The nausea returned, stronger than before. I couldn't finish the chai. I dashed to the men's room to splash water on my face. I wasn't sure what affected me more: a story about yet another whistleblower slain, or the fact that this one lived in the same neighbourhood as me, was also a morning jogger and also worked as an executive manager for a state-owned company. What were the chances? Iintloko Zeenyoka. Heads of Snakes. Overzealous Supporters. Unscrupulous. In the photo accompanying the article, Gabriella Simelane looked so unassuming. Smiling, eyebrows raised, as if she would've preferred not having her picture taken. She doesn't look like someone who created problems. She doesn't look like a whistleblower. She doesn't look like someone who knew what she had coming. Like someone who would die in a barrage of bullets. I didn't want to face anyone that day. It seemed to be more than just coincidence that I came across that article. Its contents lingered in my mind right up until the time for my performance review. Late afternoon. The office was deserted. Most of my colleagues had taken off early. Outside the boss's office. Laptop in hand. Not a second late. I was ready, even though the doubts still hissed furiously around my head. On the other side of the glass, the big man swivelled on his chair, chatted casually on the phone and ignored me. Knock-knock. The sound echoed off the glass as if the office were an airlocked chamber. He glanced up in my direction. I raised a hand. He turned his back. The building, this late in the day, was funereal; subdued by an expanding vastness. A vacuum cleaner wailed from the floor above. A printer choked and spluttered from behind a closed door. Whispers from the security guards floated up from floors below. Keys jangled like bones down a shaft. Unmanned workstations gaped like empty caskets. Minutes lapsed. My shoulders sagged. The sun was setting. I massaged my temples. Eventually the boss beckoned with a flick of his fingers. The office was warm and stuffy. Barnabas Rivombo rarely switched on the aircon. The blinds were closed, casting the corner where he sat in a semi-gloom. 'Barnabas,' I said, staring down at him with no more sense of power than a man on the banks of a river looking down at a crocodile. 'Mlungu,' he said, exhaling through flared nostrils. I hated his nickname for me, but what could I do? He was my boss. 'My performance review was scheduled for' — I checked my watch — 'seventeen minutes ago.' He watched me through filmy eyes. 'You have thirteen minutes left.' I sat down, set up my laptop on his desk and stretched my neck from side to side. I had been preparing for this moment all week, expecting at least forty-five minutes of discussion. Sweat dripped from my armpits. Nostrils and throat dry. I cleared my throat. 'This past year has been a great one for my team,' I said, finding my voice, despite the choking feeling. 'Two of my members have been promoted. Our expenditure has been lower than any other department. We have fewer audit findings than the previous financial year.' He checked his watch. 'If you look here.' I turned the laptop screen towards him. 'Tell me what you want, Mlungu.' He spoke without taking his hooded eyes off me. A distinct body odour hit my nostrils. I couldn't tell if it was his or mine. 'The past two years I have turned down a bonus. I haven't requested an increase.' I cleared my throat again. 'So?' Double heartbeat — a sharp pain in my chest. 'My department is still the best performing.' 'And?' Triple heartbeat — a numbness in my shoulder. 'I think I deserve' — swallowing spit — 'not just my annual bonus but a 12 percent salary increase.' He leaned back in his seat; it squealed as he forced himself back into it. He watched me in silence. The smell around us intensified. I was certain it wasn't coming from me. 'But that's not what you really want, is it?' he said. 'It's my humble request,' I countered. He smiled. The pockmarked flesh of his face the scaled exterior of a reptile. I squirmed. The numbness spread. Pins pricked my skin. 'Take over from me,' he said. 'You' — he pointed — 'the new Chief Procurement Officer. Me gone.' He blew his fingertips for effect. I waited. Double heartbeat. He wasn't serious, was he? I thought for a moment while he smiled. Triple heartbeat — a wobble in my liver. 'Are you being sincere?' He scoffed. 'Ah, Mlungu, Mr Fancy English.' He chuckled precisely five times before the smile dropped from his face. 'You people think you're better than the rest of us.' 'You people?' 'Clever blacks. Just because you schooled with the whites, you think you have an advantage.' We stared at each other, neither of us speaking. The heat in the room pressed against my eardrums. Despite feeling like I might cry, my pupils felt dried out. He whistled. Four sharp notes that could have come from a bird. Chirp-chirp. Chirp-chirp. It almost seemed impossible for a person — especially one so large and grotesque — to make such a musical sound. I stared at him, not sure what to do next. He whistled again, eyes still on me. Chirp-chirp. Chirp-chirp. Again, I didn't respond. 'What should I do about an informer in my team?' he said, in a voice that might have been mistaken as friendly. I drew in a deep breath. 'I don't know. Maybe find proof? Irrefutable proof?' 'And if I already have that?' He sat forward in his seat. Again he whistled. Triple heartbeat. 'I'd confront the person.' 'And?' 'Give them a chance to explain.' His odour hooked me by the nostrils, drawing me involuntarily closer, as he lowered his claws on to the desk. 'What if you don't deserve that chance?' 'Who are you to decide?' Double heartbeat. Boom-boom. 'So… you are guilty?' I couldn't breathe. Boom-boom. I needed to escape this predator's den. Boom-boom. 'Are you accusing me of something?' He leaned forward, closer still. Chirp-chirp. Chirp-chirp. The heat. The silence. The stare. What was I doing here? Rivombo grinned as if he'd snatched up something between his teeth. 'Your time is up,' he whispered. Boom-boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. DM