The JRB presents an excerpt from Canary, the highly anticipated second novel from Onke Mazibuko.
Canary
Onke Mazibuko
Penguin Random House SA, 2025
Read the excerpt:
26 August 2024
The gun pointed at my head is one of ours. A black Beretta 9mm pistol. I know this because my job, up until a few months ago, was to procure weapons on behalf of the South African government. I respect this model of weapon as much as I respected my job. That was before they took it away from me.
The Beretta 9mm used to be standard issue for armed forces in many countries around the world. The go-to weapon for hitmen in the underground criminal world. It takes something special to design a product widely regarded as the best of its kind by characters on both sides of the law.
As for me, I’m no longer on the side of the law I always believed I was on. Not that I’ve committed any crime that I am aware of, but have been persecuted as if I have, which is why I now stand here with a gun pointed at my forehead. The law, I have learned, is open to interpretation and it is those in power who decide what is right and wrong. Forget democracy. Forget fairness. Forget justice. Just don’t forget what you stand for.
The cold consolation I cling to in this moment is that I’ll be killed with a weapon I respect. Maybe I can find some honour in that, not that I think I have any left—they’ve taken that away too. But this is my story and in these final moments I can tell it in the way that makes most sense. I mean, why not?
Everything is a story, right? The law. The history that created it. The reasons people give for their actions. Anything is believable if you tell it a certain way. The facts are for the birds. The birds are there for the taking. For a long time now, they have witnessed the endless taking and taking and taking.
I hear them now—the birds—as I stand here outside before sunrise. They chirp and sing. They urge us to listen, but we don’t. They know things they shouldn’t. Nobody notices them. Most of what they know goes untold. The birds perch on their branches ready to witness my murder. Nobody cares what they have to say. Nobody will care if I die—especially for this.
‘Close your eyes,’ the man behind the gun says. His voice is as steady as his arm. He’s dressed in dark clothing, a grey hoodie pulled over his head. His face is fully exposed: hard, unshaven and determined.
I look up to the sky. If this is how I meet my maker, then so be it. For a while there, I had lost my faith; only recently has it returned. Not even this can take it away and for that I am grateful.
The trigger clicks.
Chirp, chirp.
The birds sing.
A cold wind blows.
The man’s stance is steady. He has used the weapon before. He will not hesitate.
‘Don’t do this,’ I say, more for him than for me.
‘Shut up.’
‘You’re making a mistake.’
He sneers, takes a step closer and raises his arm.
And so I close my eyes. A shiver runs down my spine. I’m not begging. I’m not even sorry. I’m trying to help him. But he’s the main character in his own story, and I’m just the same in mine. Is it fair when main characters die?
‘Don’t do it.’
‘This is what you get, you son of a bitch!’
The birds go quiet.
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.
~~~
- Onke Mazibuko is a psychologist, author and educator. He has experience working in state owned entities, which informed the writing of Canary. His first book, The Second Verse, received glowing reviews from the press and public. He lives in Johannesburg.
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Publisher information
Maks Ntaka has a target on his back.
After years of loyal work for Arms-Tech Industries, Maks has found proof of serious corruption in his department. Tender fraud, illegal kickbacks, inflated contracts, the same old story. Maks wants to do something about it, turn whistleblower. What else can a good man do?
But who can he tell if he can’t trust anyone? The people in charge seem complicit, while the rest turn a blind eye. Soon suspicions cloud the office, and all the knives are out for whoever turns on them first. As Maks prepares his disclosures, he discovers that his longtime mentor has implicated him in the illegalities. Not only is he being set up by his company, but some foreign nationals with deep pockets are also on his trail looking for their cut. For Maks, the walls are closing in, and danger waits at every turn. Meanwhile, his own private indiscretions are coming to light, and soon his life starts collapsing around him.
In this compelling and harrowing account of a whistleblower, Onke Mazibuko creates a nail-biting, paranoid thriller about a good man pushed to the limit. Drawing from all too real instances of corruption and collapse, this book shows what such a system does to those who still listen to their conscience.
What is a good man to do when your own company made the bullet with your name on it?
