The dimly lit platform was packed with early morning commuters; Cingashe squeezed and ducked in the empty spaces between the rush of bodies. As she made her way: her bag’s strap was tugged, she gripped it tighter against her chest; An unseen hand groped her ass, she swatted it away as she pushed through more bodies. Why doesn’t The Agency provide Messengers with additional protection? She thought in frustration.
When the doors to the MyCiTi bullet train opened, she shuffled inside with the rest of the commuters. Peak-time meant the only space available was at the back, squarely in between a group of rowdy teenage boys, dressed in untucked white shirts, navy-blue blazers, and loose ties. Cingashe squeezed into the seat; wary that this was the best decision but also stuck.
“Unyanisile maan! Jonga.” The biggest boy in the group, proving his point about an argument they were in the middle of, slipped a silver bar out from his pocket and switched on the hologram. The clip blared on.
Cingashe grimaced at the noise which made her headache worse. She rummaged in her handbag for her Darkmodes. Where are they?
She had left Lerato’s place in a rush—gathering the contents of her bag, her shoes and black coat while Lerato moaned softly in her sleep—and crept barefoot until she made her escape. Lerato was good fun, a bit too clingy but not a thief—she wouldn’t have stolen them.
“Mxm.” She kissed her teeth in frustration. They were not in her bag.
Darkmodes would only be invented five years from now, but she doubted leaving them in this iteration would make much of an impression on time.
Unable to use her Darkmodes to block out light and sound for the rest of her journey to the V&A, she patted the shoulder of the boy closest to her.
“Yebo sisi,” he responded, turning to her with a grin. He tilted his head.
“Please lower the volume.” She managed a smile.
He nodded then spoke to his friends, too loudly. While he was relaying the message, they looked over at her; they smiled as they nudged each other. The biggest boy made a show of picking up his device which lay in the centre of the group. He lowered the volume. By one bar.
She groaned inwardly. John Mathebula’s voice, the “revolutionary leader” these boys were watching, became impassioned: “…Our movement has bread and butter issues that it must address, first. Even these feminists, cannot deny that our struggle has been carried by our grandfathers and fathers—it’s just facts.”
The nonsense Mathebula spewed had gained traction. It angered Cingashe, but she also felt guilty. It was her fault he could support his rhetoric with “facts”—a historical record that made no mention of South African women’s role during the Apartheid era.
In this iteration of time, it was true. It didn’t have to be, but The Agency rarely allowed Messengers a second chance to redo their failed missions.
The train slowed as it approached its next stop, the city centre. The boys took their belongings and hurdled out the doors, jostling and laughing the entire way.
Cingashe let out a quiet sigh of relief. She was still hungover—her head felt too heavy, her eyes were sensitive to the light and every noise made her irritable—but it wouldn’t be long before she reached her stop. She glanced at her wrist:
7 July 2045 06:46am
Cape Town Station: 33° 55′ 20″ S, 18° 25′ 35″ E
Riyadh will be irritated that I’m late.
A Messenger arriving late was a bad look, and the Agency had already warned her about her temper and her tardiness. She could try to get to places early, but the anger in her, that was something else…
When the train stopped at the station, Cingashe bolted through the automatic doors— handbag tucked underneath her arm—as she made her way to the docks.
***
There were only two types of ideas: those that took hold, that Cingashe and other Messengers had successfully ushered into the zeitgeist and those that had withered in their hands. She never forgot her failures. They were etched in her mind, despite the countless iterations she encountered. Sometimes she took the pills The Agency administered, to forget, but mostly she wanted to remember. She wanted to feel the weight of each mission.
And hearing Mathebula’s rhetoric triggered her thoughts of the last mission: how her anger had caused her to punch the target, Lisbet, instead of persuading her of The Agency’s message. This stirred Lisbet’s anger and emboldened her to go through with her plans to kill Bertha Gxowa and Helen Joseph. The death of these two women did more harm than even Cingashe could’ve foreseen. And when she arrived in 2045, she felt the harm.
Cingashe nearly missed Riyadh as she ran down the pier. He was wrapped in the early morning fog and his back was turned towards her. He wore a kufi on his head, a black coat and his hands were folded behind him.
As she drew closer, she noticed how he clenched and unclenched his fists.
She stood beside him, overlooking the ocean. “Riyadh.”
He turned to her. “A late Messenger? No,” he said, pretending to be shocked. He wasn’t their team leader, just a deputy, but you wouldn’t know it the way he was always on her neck about everything.
“Did you get the message and the coordinates?” Riyadh continued.
“I’m still waiting.”She was anxious about what it would be, and where it would take her. There must be a reason The Agency assigned Riyadh to meet me. Maybe we’ll be going together for this one?
It wasn’t unheard of for two Messengers to be sent to deliver one message. Usually though, different Messengers from the same team would be assigned to different targets to ensure the message reverberated through time.
They faced the sea, neither of them saying anything. Seagulls squawked overhead, and the waves crashed into the rocks. Workers on the large ships that had already docked, trudged back and forth carrying equipment.
Cingashe’s timepiece vibrated. She raised her wrist and read the message:
9 June, 1956 06:46am
Atteridgeville: 25° 46′ 24″ S, 28° 4′ 17″ E
M: Lisbet Manamela doesn’t have to go through with her attack on Bertha Gxowa and Helen Joseph—there’s another way.
Reading the familiar coordinates and message caused her heart to sink. Why was The Agency redoing this failed mission? She wanted the idea to take hold, to have Lisbet believe that she didn’t have to be impimpi, an informer and saboteur, but what would be different this time around?
Riyadh broke his silence, “You know, it’s rare that the Agency is giving us a second chance. See it as an opportunity.”
“You knew our team had to redo the mission and you didn’t tell me?” Cingashe turned to him. “Why? And what will be different this time around? “
“It’s your duty, Cingashe. The outcome must be different.”
“Yes, it’s my duty to make sure messages take hold, but if people don’t want…” She shrugged. “Why does it have to be on me.” She knew the message was important, but she also knew herself. “Look, I tried, and I failed.” And that should have been the end of the matter.
“You didn’t just fail to persuade the target, you actively interfered with iteration 236.6B by punching the woman! What if you had gotten hurt, or killed? And the gadgets on you were left in that iteration?”
“Right, because it would be a disaster if I left my tech behind, never mind my life!” If Riyadh or anyone found out about the Darkmodes I misplaced…
“Luister, this is hard on the whole team—not just you. We all have to go back and redo our work to make sure things happen as they should. Just get it right this time.” His words dripped with condescension. Of all her teammates, Riyadh found his way underneath her skin the easiest.
“I won’t, because I intentionally move between time periods fucking shit up.” Cingashe’s voice was raised, and her fists were clenched.
“But. You. Do.” With each word, he shoved his finger in her sternum for emphasis.
Cingashe swatted it away. “You touch me again, and our team will be fishing for your index finger in the Atlantic.”
“You’re scared, and you’d rather feel anger. I get that.” His words seared through her rage, making her feel even more shitty.
He’s right. She was afraid; afraid of what The Agency would do if she interfered with the timeline out of anger, but she also didn’t want to live in an iteration where the Mathebula’s of the world felt justified in their misogyny.
Riyadh continued, “You can do this.”
The reality was that she didn’t have a choice.
***
9 June 1956, Atteridgeville
Cingashe walked between the box-shaped brick houses with corrugated roofs. All the yards were enclosed with mesh wire. “The street” was a dirt path that had emerged from years of bicycles, donkey-carts and pedestrians trudging along this route. Kwela—with its upbeat tempo and the melodic pennywhistle—blared from one of the houses further down the street.
She passed a yard where, inside, an elderly woman hung clothes on a washing line: a baby blue cloak, a matching long skirt, and a white shirt. The uniform revealed that she was Mme wa seaparo, a member of one of her church’s sodalities.
“Dumela Mma,” Cingashe greeted as she passed. The woman greeted in response. It wasn’t much of an interaction, but Cingashe had to repeat everything she’d done in this layer. She had to stick to the same path she used to reach the target’s house and change little of how she had manoeuvred—minus punching Lisbet.
She had changed to a pleated skirt that went beyond her knees and a blouse that was period appropriate before she travelled.
To travel, Cingashe had to arrive at the right layer, the one that pressed the most against the moment she wanted to change. Time was not a long string, with the past on one end and the future at the opposite end. It was layered; the past lay beneath the present, which was beneath the future. So, she caught a flight to Lanseria International Airport, took a taxi to Atteridgeville before travelling down to this layer.
And if her message took hold—if, because she still wasn’t sure how this mission would be different—then the new contours of this layer would create the impression The Agency needed in 2045.
By the time she reached Lisbet’s house, the streets were filled with more pedestrians and a group of children at the end of the street played a game: they huddled in a circle, then launched a ball into the sky. They shrieked loudly as they dispersed before it was caught.
Just like the last time, Cingashe thought as she stared at them for a moment, waiting. If she could, she would happily swap places with another Messenger: she didn’t want to be here, she doubted she’d succeed but there were a number of principles The Agency maintained. These were principles that made it impossible for another Messenger to take her place even if she’d messed up the mission the first time around.
Once an idea was assigned to a Messenger, it couldn’t be re-assigned; it would have to flourish or wither in the hand that had received it.
As she’d expected, the ball—made of newspapers wrapped tightly in multiple layers of thick plastic—struck her on the shoulder. Cingashe knelt, picked up the ball and held it out to the girl who was running towards her.
“Are you Ousi Lisbet’s new friend?” The girl took the ball.
Cingashe laughed. “No, I’m just going to all the houses to sell products.” It was a stupid excuse, she knew, but it was the same one she had used the previous time.
“Oh hoh,” the girl responded, eyeing Cingashe’s small handbag—which obviously contained no products—before running to join her group of friends.
Cingashe let out a deep breath before entering Lisbet Manamela’s yard. Like the last time, she would be alone. Cingashe walked to the open door.
“Ko ko,”she said, announcing herself.
“Ke mang?” Lisbet demanded from inside. Her voice was tense, suspicious of unexpected visitors.
Just like the last time. From the doorway, Cingashe used the same cover story: she was an activist and ahead of the visit by Bertha Gxowa and Helen Joseph from the Federation of South African Women, she was speaking with community members about the role they could play in the movement.
“Come in,” she said in Setswana, still sceptical. “Are you talking to all the women?” Lisbet was seated at a wooden two-seater table, drinking black tea. She looked as if she was in her mid-twenties. She wore a dress with a faded pink floral print and her hair was wrapped in a red doek.
Cingashe took a seat. “We’re talking to everyone.”
Cingashe tried not to stare too much as she noted how everything was in the exact same place: the plastic fruits on the stone bowl at the centre of the table, the coal-fired stove with a cream-coloured enamel kettle on the upper left plate, and the brown pattern vinyl floors.
Riyadh’s voice came to mind; see this as an opportunity. She nearly scoffed at the thought. She was so worried about messing up the mission that she had resorted to quoting Riyadh—of all people.
“Ousi Lisbet, our organisation knows you’ve been approached to disrupt today’s collection of signatures.”
She jumped from the chair. “Get out.”
Cingashe stood up slowly, her hands in front of her. “I won’t tell the community—I just want you to know that you can still change your mind. Don’t go to the meeting.”
She laughed. “That is not how it works, I have to—” she stopped herself, shaking her head.
“You don’t have to take any innocent lives.”
“Am I not an innocent life as well?”
Calm down, calm down, Cingashe thought as anger threatened to cloud her judgement. “Please, what you’re thinking of doing…it’ll cause so much damage.”
Lisbet waved at her dismissively. “There’s always a protest, always a petition—it doesn’t amount to anything. And this small petition these women are bringing also won’t amount to anything.”
“But it will, it can,” Cingashe said, her voice high-pitched from desperation. She couldn’t check the time—her device was stuffed deep inside her handbag and it was too distinct—but she knew this conversation had to end. She glanced at the open door; Lisbet’s mother would walk through soon. She had to accept that the target wasn’t buying into the message. She had to walk away.
But I can’t. “You don’t understand—even if it looks like resistance amounts to nothing, it eventually will. It’s all important.”
Lisbet shook her head, unconvinced. “I used to think the same way but after—”
This person. Cingashe scanned the room as Lisbet droned on. Punching her hadn’t worked the last time, it had only annoyed her more. I should just leave.
“…And you’re a beautiful girl. Why are you wasting your Saturdays running up and down the streets? Politics isn’t the place for—”
Lisbet crumpled over, spilling the remainder of her black tea across the table; she groaned in pain.
Cingashe had struck her on the head with the stone fruit bowl. Plastic green apples and oranges rolled across the vinyl floor.
What have I done? What have I done? Cingashe couldn’t see any visible injuries and the groaning meant Lisbet was at least conscious. But I’ve actively interfered with this iteration—again. She laid the bowl on another counter, away from Lisbet.
I just need to make sure that this time, Lisbet doesn’t leave. She noticed the glimmer of keys dangling from behind the door. She grabbed her purse, the house keys and locked the door behind her. So long as Lisbet was trapped until after the women’s meeting, just before lunch time, then the effect on this iteration would be the same as if she had been persuaded of the message.
Cingashe approached the group of kids. She called out to the young girl.
“Is your mother going to the FSAW meeting?”
The girl nodded.
“Then hold these keys.” Cingashe laid them in the girl’s hands. “You’re not allowed to give them to anyone except Mama neh.”
The girl looked at the keys in her hand and then at Lisbet’s yard. She nodded.
Cingashe walked to the bus stop, she’d travel to another layer from there. She didn’t know how The Agency would respond when they found out. The thought worried her, but if she succeeded, how much had things changed?
***
6 July 2045, Cape Town
“I can’t believe you’re making me walk in these.” Lerato wobbled in her heels, partly because they were outrageously high but also because she was tipsy. She pushed her braids from her face. She wore the glitter navy bodycon dress that Cingashe liked.
Cingashe took her hand. She was just as tipsy but had worn a more practical pair of heeled boots. As they walked down the street, stumbling and giggling as they neared the club, Cingashe felt different, safe.
In another iteration, this street would’ve been considered unsafe for women—let alone openly lesbian women. She didn’t know the full impact of actively interfering in the previous layer. She hated that she couldn’t convince Lisbet that resistance could amount to something, that it pushed against the present, shaping its contours for the better.
But she would think about that later, tonight, she was focused on groove.
