There’s a mossy reek that clings to his fur and his claws, but it’s earthy and clean compared to the choke of stewing garbage and black mold floating up the stairwell. As I pull back the gaudy sunflower print, Sloth blinks up at me sleepily from his roost, like a misshapen fur coat between the wire hangers. The cupboard is not much more than an open box with a piece of fabric pinned across it to keep the dust off my clothes-and Sloth, of course. Calling it a cupboard is a tad optimistic, like calling this dank room with its precariously canted floor and intermittent plumbing an apartment is optimistic.

Leaving the Mongoose to scrolf at its flank, I duck under one of the loops of rope hanging from the ceiling, the closest I can get to providing authentic Amazon jungle vines, and pad over the rotten linoleum to the cupboard. The Mongoose realizes he has urgent flea bites to attend to. Hunching his stripy shoulders, he hisses at me, teeth bared. As he starts to fall, he contorts in the air and manages to land feet first. He wakes with a start, tiki tavi claws scrabbling for purchase. At thirty degrees, the Mongoose starts sliding down the front of the laptop. I take hold of the laptop on either side and gently tilt it over the edge of my desk. Let’s just say I’m precious about my work. Like he doesn’t know that my computer is out of bounds. The Mongoose in question is curled up like a furry comma on my laptop, the glow of the LED throbbing under his nose. They say he walked all the way from Kinshasa with his Mongoose strapped to his chest. Benoît doesn’t so much as stir, with only his calloused feet sticking out from under the duvet like knots of driftwood. Shielding my eyes-morning has broken and there’s no picking up the pieces-I yank back the sheet and peel out of bed. Or a reminder that I really need to get curtains. Morning light the sulfur color of the mine dumps seeps across Johannesburg’s skyline and sears through my window.

Zoo city book review