By Any Means

by Kurt Ellis

  The Godfathers were driving up from behind Wesley, so he did not see them coming. Captain dropped the car into a lower gear and accelerated sharply up the small incline. The blue fender had just gone past Wesley when Captain pulled hard on the steering wheel and tramped the brake. The car skidded to a halt, blocking Wesley’s path. His eyes widened with surprise and he took a step back.

  “Come here,” Captain said as he stepped out of his car. “I want to choon with you.”

  Wesley’s response was to turn and run. He kicked up loose stones and sand as he sprinted down the pavement in the direction from which he’d come. Captain sprang into pursuit.

  They had not gone even thirty metres when the Toyota Conquest shot past Wesley for a second time. And just like Captain had done earlier, Spider manoeuvred the vehicle so that it would block off Wesley’s retreat.

  Wesley was trapped. Almost trapped, because on his left was a grassy path that led down a hill into a clearing that was called the Horse Yard. When people needed a good, quiet place to get high, or laid, they descended upon the Horse Yard. The clearing was on an incline and the fences of the three yards around it gave the open field a diamond shape. Wesley sprinted down into the Horse Yard but stopped in the clearing. There was only one way in and one way out. And Captain was calmly descending that single route.

  “What are you running for, Wesley?” he asked.

  “What kind, ek sê?“ Wesley responded, looking up the bank at Captain.

  “Why you running? Calm the fuck down. I’m just gonna choon with you.” Captain spoke softly, but with scary intent.

  Wesley’s eyes narrowed and he circled around, up the bank, so that he and Captain stood on a level. “What are you chasing me for?” he snarled, glaring back challengingly at Captain.

  Captain did his best to ignore the challenge. “I’m hearing you running your mouth, lightie. Talking crap about me. About Nazneen,” he replied as the other Godfathers came up behind him.

  “I didn’t say shit about you or Naz,” Wesley said defiantly. “Whoever told you that is lying to you.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Spider said, taking a step forward.

  Wesley turned to him and scanned him from head to toe. “I ain’t called you shit, bru.”

  “Hey!” Captain exclaimed. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, kid? You got no brus here. You need to watch your mouth before I break your teeth.”

  “Fuck you.” Wesley took a step towards Captain. “I’m not scared of you. You think you’re a dat ou, but you’re fuck-all. I’ll take you on, bru. Me, I baaiser for no one. Do you know who my cousin is? Don’t you know I am Sydenham Mafia? You only chooning shit because you got your backstops here,” he said, gesturing towards the three Godfathers behind Captain. “Me, I stand my ground.”

  Captain took a step back, dumbfounded. Is this boy insane? he wondered. Does he have a damn death wish? But he could not ignore this challenge. “Are you out of your mind, lightie? I don’t give a fuck who your cousin is. You wanna bust it up with me?” he asked, spreading his arms invitingly. “Just me and –”

  Wesley swung swiftly, hitting Captain on the left cheek with a right hook, then on the right cheek with a wild left hook, and then tried another right hook. His hands were fast, but his punches lacked any venom.

  Captain blocked the third blow with his left forearm. He quickly cocked his right fist back, and, with a step out onto his left leg, slammed his knuckles solidly into the bridge of Wesley’s nose. Wesley stumbled back and crashed into one of the concrete fences. Captain grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. He pushed Wesley hard into the fence for a second time, knocking the air out of his lungs. Captain fought hard to master his anger. He knew he could not allow himself to lose control. He shoved Wesley into the fence once more for good measure and delivered a restrained uppercut to his gut.

  Wesley doubled over and dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Captain resisted the urge to deliver a kick to his head. You’ve made your point, the fight is over, he told himself, and he took a deep breath to calm himself down.

  But Wesley saw this as his chance and dived at him from a crouching position. Captain was slow to react. Wesley’s shoulder rammed into his hip and drove him back. He nearly lost his balance, but managed to shuffle his feet quickly to prevent himself from falling over. Grabbing Wesley by the back of his belt and using his hips for leverage, he lifted Wesley off his feet and flicked him down the slope.

  Wesley rolled over once and got to his feet, eyes wide with anger, his right hand sliding into his pocket. There was a shrill sound of metal scraping metal, followed by a sharp click as the blade fixed into place.

  The sight of the knife infuriated Captain. “You dare pull a fucking gonie on me?”

  The other Godfathers all took a step forward, but Captain turned to them. “Back off,” he hissed at them. “Back off.”

  Wesley tried to circle Captain again to get to level ground once more, but Captain moved from side to side, keeping the higher ground. Wesley had no choice but to attack from the less favourable, lower position, which was exactly what Captain wanted. The second he was within striking distance, Captain kicked out with his right foot, catching Wesley squarely in his face. Captain leapt down at him, but tripped over a brick that he did not see and stumbled. They both tumbled further down the bank, grasping at each other. The next thing Captain knew was the sharp pain of metal piercing his flesh and Wesley’s weight holding him down. He had not felt the blade enter his shoulder, nor did he know how Wesley had ended up on top of him, but the pain cut through his last restraints. Anger swallowed the pain in his upper arm and a bright, white light flashed behind his eyelids. He grabbed a handful of Wesley’s hair from the back of his head and he yanked it to the side, using his hips to push him off. Wesley rolled off Captain. In a blink, Captain dived on top of him and drove his forehead once, twice, three times into Wesley’s face. As Wesley’s hands went up to his head, Captain sat up straight. The knife still protruded from his shoulder. He yanked it out and drove it down into Wesley’s torso. The scream was ear-splitting. Wesley’s hand clawed at the blade that protruded from the point where shoulder meets chest.

  Spider and Bruge were the first to react. They tried to pull Captain off, but he struggled back. It took all their strength to restrain him.

  “Talk more shit now, you cunt!” Captain hissed, trying to pull himself free.

  “Captain! Enough, bru! Too much!” Spider said.

  But Captain had lost all control, and in what seemed like a moment of superhuman strength, he broke free and delivered a vicious kick to Wesley’s head where he lay on the ground. “Say something else!” he growled. “Say something else!”

  Wesley said nothing at all. The kick seemed to have knocked him unconscious. Bruge and Wahied grabbed at Captain again. This time, they managed to drag him up the hill.

  “Los me!” Captain said. “I’m cool. Let me go.”

  As soon as they let go of him, Captain made another attempt to get at Wesley. Bruge managed to hold him back just long enough for Wahied to grab hold of him once more.

  “Ouens,” Spider commanded, “take him away to calm down. I will sort this out.”

  Captain’s mind was still blank with rage as he was led back to his car, leaving Spider standing alone next to Wesley’s bloodied and beaten body.

  Bruge pulled the passenger door open and Captain sat down in the seat. It was the smell that made him look down at his hands. They were coated with shiny blood.

  24

  Captain was still furious. His hands shook like those of a drug addict going through withdrawal. It had been years since he’d felt so insulted. So angry. How dared that punk think he could take him on? What was going on in his mind to pull a knife on Captain? The fucker must have mistaken his kindness for weakness.

  “I am Captain, God dammit!” he spat out, startling Wahied who was driving his car. “Who the fuck is he?”

 
It took a lot for Captain to lose his self-control. It had been years since he’d last been this angry. He hated it, because he never enjoyed hurting someone else, but sometimes he had no choice. It was a necessary evil, something he had to do or risk losing everything he had built up and would build up in the future. He’d had more fights than he could remember, and he had never been on the wrong side of a beating. Sometimes he thought it was because he was too scared of being beaten that he always fought harder. And he always fought longer, and he never backed down. He never surrendered. Just like his grandfather wanted. He never quit. No matter how bloodied and how battered he was, he would never lie down. Never. His pride would never let him.

  Captain knew he was not Kyle. He was a realist. He would never escape this prison called everyday life for a coloured youth. He did not have any special talents. He wasn’t particularly intelligent. He did not doubt for a single second that Kyle would escape this place, into a life of money and fame. He, though, had no chance. This was his home, and he had to make sure no one dared disrespect him on his own turf. He could not allow that.

  25

  “It doesn’t take much to pull a knife and stab/ or grab the handle of a gun if that’s the weapon you have/ you’re a man if you stand up for what you believe/ you stare death in the face and you still rolling up your sleeves.” Bruge, the resident rapper, was free-styling on the pavement while the other Godfathers congregated around him.

  Wahied had driven them to Hay Place, a cul-de-sac in Sydenham that was like their second home. It was the most elevated road in the area and offered them a great view of the entire neighbourhood. John’s white Golf and German’s Jetta had been waiting for them when they’d arrived.

  The anger Captain had felt earlier had since subsided and was now replaced with regret. Perhaps he’d gone too far? He looked down at his hands. His palms were coated with flakes of crusted blood. It was no longer red, but now a dark brown. Crumbly.

  Captain walked over to German’s house to wash his hands at the outside tap. The road itself was short, with no more than ten houses. German’s was the only house that did not have a fence. A neighbours’ mongrel came sniffing at Captain’s hands, but it quickly fled when he opened the tap.

  It required a lot of scrubbing before Captain got all of the blood off and before he felt comfortable using his hands to wash his face. As the cold water splashed over his skin, he spotted Spider walking down the driveway towards him. Spider’s right hand gripped the neck of a quart of Black Label. He handed Captain the bottle and Captain swallowed a large gulp of the cold, golden liquid.

  “How’s the punk?” he said after a loud burp. “You called an ambulance?”

  Spider sighed. “There was no need for that, ek sê. He’s dead.”

  Captain almost dropped the beer. “What?”

  Spider slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what happened, bru. The guzzie was flowing like a fountain from where you stabbed him. Blood everywhere.”

  “But … I …” Captain stammered. “I stabbed him in the shoulder.”

  “I don’t know, Cap. You must have nicked a vein or something. Or maybe it was the kick in the head that did it. All I know is, the ou was not breathing when you left. I took the knife, though. I have it with me and it’ll waai into the sea tonight. So you don’t need to worry about that.”

  I’m not worried about the damn knife, Captain thought, I’ve just taken a life. His hands trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself. Fucking idiot, he thought. How could you have lost it like that? He felt his anger rising once more. Anger at Wesley for challenging him. Anger at himself for not being in control of his rage.

  Steps approached from the top of the driveway and a tall, lanky figure descended. “Howzit, bru? You doing aight?” Wahied said, walking over with a cigarette between his lips.

  Captain faked a smile. “No flops, ek sê. All good.”

  The three of them walked back to where the group was, but Spider and Captain chose to sit in Captain’s car. In silence. The only noise was a guttural gulp of beer every few minutes.

  “We got ourselves a problem here,” Spider said eventually.

  “I know.”

  “I gave Lazarus a call and told him what happened. He’ll make a call to one or two of the cops he has in his pocket. We will sort this out. We’ll cover you up.”

  Captain nodded, then reached forward and twisted the knob of his front-loader and turned the volume of the music up. He let the hard beats and lyrical gymnastics of rap music numb his brain. He pulled a knife on you, Anthony, he repeated to himself. It was self-defence. It was self-defence. But no matter how many times he repeated it, he still could not convince himself. He had crossed a line – he had let his anger control his actions. I didn’t have to stab him back. I didn’t have to kick him. I didn’t have … His lungs became heavy. It was as if cold hands had crept up and taken hold of his throat. And they squeezed. Tighter and tighter. Captain could not breathe. He felt as if the car was being crushed with him inside. He felt trapped. Fingers fumbling, he finally managed to get hold of the door handle. The door swung open and Captain burst out into the open. Into freedom.

  “You okay, Cap?” German asked, concerned.

  Captain took a moment to compose himself. He forced a laugh. “Yeah. Beer just waaied down the wrong pipe.”

  Captain joined the rest of the Godfathers in the open. Thankfully, there was no discussion about what had happened between him and Wesley. Slowly, more beer bottles began to come out from the boots of the cars. The marijuana was unwrapped from the newspaper, mulled and finely ground before being rolled into zol skyfs and smoked.

  Captain snatched at the first joint that came his way and pulled hard on it. The fumes burned and swirled in his lungs, and with each exhalation, it felt as if some of his troubles were floating away on the grey plumes of smoke. The music was turned up and soon the Godfathers were joined by friends of both sexes who lived in the road or nearby.

  Although Captain had washed his hands clean of the blood, he could swear that he still saw the stains. The flaky brownness in the creases of his palms. He glugged down more beer and looked at the people who surrounded him, most of whom had been his friends for at least ten years.

  Wahied and Bruge were having a debate about hip-hop and rap music as they leaned against the car. “It makes me naar, ek sê,” Bruge said. “These ous on TV. These fucking private school rappers. They rapping about my life after they read about it in the papers. Making millions talking about shit they don’t know.”

  Lester and German were in John’s car, fixing the electronics of the sound system, which had cost more than the vehicle itself. They were sharing a zol skyf.

  His outies. His brothers. He had let them all down when he’d killed Wesley. What would his grandfather have thought? He took another sip and felt his face getting numb, as a deceitful calmness embraced him. He was truly glad about one thing, though. That Jimmy had not been there to see him at that moment. He felt as if his head was being submerged in a tub of warm water. As if he was floating away from everything. From everyone. He felt at peace.

  That peace was abruptly broken. At the bottom of the road, there was the sound of a bottle being smashed, followed by a barrage of curses. A man and a woman faced off with each other, nose to nose. Captain knew them as Shelly and Knocks, a married couple of he did not know how many years. They were both alcoholics and had been so for as long as he could remember. The effects of liquor and cheap drugs had permanently ravaged their faces. Their cheeks were constantly swollen and their lips were always blistered.

  One of the scariest sights from Captain’s childhood had been when for the first time he witnessed Shelly experiencing what his mother called “Die Ding”. Her body had convulsed on the ground as if she was having an epileptic seizure. Then she’d gone as stiff as a board. She had those fits often – probably because of the damage to her nervous system, Captain guessed.

  Knocks was just as bad. When his drin
king budget was exhausted, he’d offer men blow jobs for just a few rands. Some punks, like the Sydenham Mafia, would offer him a beer bottle filled with urine. He would gulp down half the contents thirstily before he would realise that it was piss.

  Through their alcoholism they had still managed to produce nine children, but Captain was sure at least half of them were not fruit of the inebriated Knocks’s loins, but the result of other bums taking advantage of a passed-out Shelly. Two of them, girls of seventeen and fifteen, were now prostitutes who walked Point Road at night for their Nigerian pimp. The whereabouts of one of the middle children was unknown, and the youngest, who was only a few months old, was on his mother’s hip at that moment as she threw the empty cane bottle at her husband.

  “Your mother’s poes, man!” she cursed. “The whole thing? You drank the whole thing? You nothing but an alkie! You better get me another one.”

  Captain’s companions all roared with laughter.

  Something within Captain snapped. “Ek sê, this shit isn’t funny!” he spat out.

  “How? What kind, bru?” German asked. “Why’re you so serious?”

  “Open your fucking eyes, bru!”

  “What’s up with you, Cap?” Lester asked, looking puzzled.

  Captain rubbed his forehead hard, as if he was trying to physically clean his thoughts. “Are you kidding me, guys? Seriously? We see a woman, an alcoholic woman with a fucking baby on her hip, throw a bottle at her alcoholic, dick-sucking husband, and we find that shit funny?”

  “It is funny,” Wahied laughed.

  “It’s not, Wahied. Am I the only one here who sees how fucked-up things are for us bruinous?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” Captain shook his head in disbelief. “Ek sê, it’s time for us to wake up. We’re a fucking joke in everyone’s eyes. Do you check how they portray coloured ous in the media? It’s always as a fucking toothless fisherman praating Afrikaans, or as a moms, with her hair in rollers and in a dirty floral nightie with a lot children. It’s a fucking … What did Mr Jeffers call it? A stereotype? Ja. That’s it, a fucking stereotype, and it’s shit like this that keeps it going. This fucking rainbow nation” – Captain raised his hands and made quotation marks in the air – “pisses on the real rainbow people. You and me. There’s nothing wrong with the ballies in the Cape being fishermen, but not all bruinous are fishermen. Guys, we’re at the bottom of South African society. We’re fucking jokes to other people, and it’s shit like this makes them see us as jokes.” He pointed down the road at Shelly and Knocks.