by Ian Patrick
He changed his position, fiddled in his pockets, struck a match, and drew deep into his lungs the pungent fumes. He felt the nyaope burning into his chest, reaching down, as if burrowing into his bloodstream and slowly filling his veins with imagined power.
He turned his head again to the left. As he did so, the last glimmer of the setting sun bounced off his forehead. The dassie poked its head up out of its hiding place to stare at him. Now, as the sun glinted in Thabethe’s eyes, revealing the knotted purple veins against the unusually large yellow eyeballs, the animal froze for an instant then disappeared again into the thicket. As if in response, the clamour of insects ceased.
Out of the murkiness of the west came a trail of headlights as the traffic built up and became one long continuous stream of light. All of the vehicles had now switched on against the engulfing darkness as they made their way from the setting sun toward the ocean, as if struggling impatiently to leave KwaDukuza.
He filled his lungs again with the toxic smoke, and contemplated.
KwaDukuza. Place of the lost person.
GLOSSARY
ag - ah, oh, well
aikona - no, no way, not there at all (see also haikona)
amaphoyisa - the police
aweh - hello, how is it?
babelas - hangover
bakgat - great, excellent, fine, good
bantoe - corruption of bantu, associated with racist usage
blerrie - bloody
bliksem - hit, punch, strike
boere - (referring variously to) farmers, Afrikaners, policemen
boet - brother, male friend, dude
bok, bokke - buck, bucks (bokke as in Springboks)
boykie - boy: diminutive, little boy
bra, my bra - brother, my brother
braai, braaivleis - barbecue
breek - break
broer, bru - brother
bulala - kill
charra, charro - slang term for person of Indian ethnicity, often racist
china - friend, chum
chune - to tell someone
daarsy - there it is, there you are, that’s it, dead right
deagle - desert eagle
dis reg - that’s right
donner - hammer, hit, beat up
doos - box (lewd, meaning vagina), fool, idiot
dop - alcoholic drink
dronkgat - drunkard
dubula - kill him, kill them
dwaal - in a daze, lost
eekhoring - squirrel
eh-heh - yes, affirmative
eina - exclamation expressing pain
eish - interjection expressing disappointment, regret
ek sê - I say, I’m telling you
fok - fuck
fokall - fuck-all, nothing
fokken - fucken, fucking
fokoff - fuck off
gatvol - fed up
geld - money
gemors - mess, disarray
gif - poison, marijuana
gogo (see ugogo) - old woman, grandmother
hamba kahle - go well, go carefully
hambani kahle - go well (to more than one person)
hayi - no, no way (see also tchai)
hayibo - no, no way
hamba kahle - go well
haikona - no, no way, not there at all
hau - expression of surprise (what? hey? oh?)
heita - hello, howzit, how is it?
helluva - ‘hell of a’ (as in helluva long time)
hunnert - hundred
ibhunu - the Afrikaner, the farmer
impimpi - sell-out, informer
isigebengu - bandit, criminal (see skabenga)
isiphukuphuku - idiot, fool
isiphuzo - drink, booze
isibhabhalazi - zulu for hangover (see also babelas)
isiNgisi - English
ja - yes
ja’k stem saam - yes, I agree (ja, ek stem saam)
jeez - jesus (exclamation of surprise or frustration)
jirra - exclamation of surprise derived from ‘Here,’ Afrikaans for ‘God’
jislaaik - expression of astonishment (see also yissus)
jong - young man, friend
jou - your, you
jy - you
kak - crap, shit
kêrels - guys, chaps, police
khuluma - talk
khumula - undress
kif - great, cool, nice
klaar - finish
knobkerrie - short wooden club with knob at the end
koeksister - (lit. cake sister) braided dough sweet delicacy
kugel - refers here to affected, overly groomed, materialistic young woman
kwaito - genre of music; mixture of hip hop, disco, reggae, house, R&B
laaitie - lighty, young one
laduma! - score! (celebrating a goal scored in football)
lalela - obey
lami - to me
landela - follow the example of
lanie - fancy, posh
lank - long, a lot, very
lekker - great, nice, tasty
lus - long for (I was lus for: I longed for, I really wanted))
mal - crazy, mad
mina - me
mfowethu - brother
mampara - fool, dolt, idiot
manne - men
mense - men, people
moer - murder, kill, beat up, also the moer in (‘fed up with’)
moerse - large, big time, huge
moegoe - idiot
muti - medicine, from (u)muthi, tree,
my bra - my brother
naai - screw, poke, copulate (lit: sew)
nawe - with you
nca - nice, appreciative (click, tongue in proximity to the teeth)
nè? - not so?
nee - no
nek - neck
ngi - I am (as in ngi-Ntombi: I am Ntombi)
ngifuna - I want
ngiyakuthanda! - I love you!
ngizo shaya wena - I will hit you
Nkalakatha - The big boss (song)
nkosi - chief, lord, master
nooit - never
ntombazana - damsel, little girl (used as an insult)
nxa - no, disapproval (click, tongue touching back of the palate)
nyaope - street drug (see also whoonga)
oke, ou, ouens - bloke, blokes
ouma - grandmother
ou toppie - old man, father, old person
pallie - diminutive for ‘pal,’ friend
poep - fart
praat - talk
reg - right
sawubona baba - greeting an older man
sawubona mama - greeting an older woman
Seffrika - South Africa
shaddup - shut up
sharp, sharp-sharp - OK, yes, quick-quick
shibobo - fancy footwork (sweet moves, like nutmeg) from football
shweet - sweet, cool
sies - sis, expression of disgust
sizobona futhi - we will see each other again
skabenga - crook, criminal, no-good
skelm - thief, crook
skollie, skollies - crook, gangster (from the Greek skolios: crooked)
skrik vir niks - scared of nothing
snoeks - little fish, term of endearment
sommer - simply
soutie, soutpiel - derogatory term for English South African (salty penis)
spookgerook - (lit.) ghost-smoked, stoned to the point of paranoia
steek - stab, poke (with knife)
struesbob - as true as Bob
sug - care (‘you think I sug/care?’)
suss - to have suss - to be sharp or streetwise
swak - weak, broke
tchai - no, no way (see also hayi)
thinantsha - we are the youth (title of freedom song)
tjaila - time to go home
tjommie - chum, good friend
toppie - see ou toppie: old man, father, old person
trap - stai
rs, staircase
trek - pull, leave, exit
tronk - jail, prison
tsotsi - gangster
uclever - the clever one
ugogo - old woman, grandmother
uitlander - outlander, alien
ukukhuluma - to talk
ukukhumula - to undress
umamamkhulu - grandmother
umlaza - sour, fermented milk
umlungu - white one, white man (vocative: mlungu)
ungahlala phansi - please sit down
uxolo - please excuse me
val - fall
van - from
vilapha - (v.) be lazy
vrek - die, dead
vrekked - died
vroeg - early
vuilgoed - dirty thing, muck, rubbish
vuvuzela - plastic horn noisemaker, prominent at football matches
wat - what
weet - know (jy weet? - you know?)
wena - you
whatchamacallit - what you may call it, thing, object, whatever it might be
whoonga - slang for nyaope
woes - very angry, wild (pronounced voes with a hard ‘v’)
yebo - yes
yini? - what?
yislaaik - variation of yissus
yissus - expression of astonishment, derived from Jesus
zamalek - urban slang for local ‘Carling Black label’ beer, referring ironically to the Egyptian football club
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After working as an actor, director and teacher in theatre, film and television, Ian Patrick turned to an academic career, publishing scholarly essays in a range of international academic journals. He believes that his years as an actor, director and researcher play a modest part in his writing.
‘My fiction is based to the best of my ability on research and field work. I have to believe every word my fictive characters say, every action they undertake,’ he says. Which explains why he has accompanied detectives to the front line, interviewed forensics investigators, and spent many hours scouring actual locations for his crime scenes: many of them based on actual events.
‘I endeavour to make my fiction plausible and authentic. This requires exhaustive work and detailed research. It takes me up to a year of full-time work to write an eighty thousand word crime thriller. In my view although it is clearly desirable to arrive at one's destination by bringing a work to publication, it is the journey that is the really exciting and enjoyable part of writing. I can only hope that readers will also enjoy the journey of discovering my characters and their foibles, their actions and their experiences. I hope, too, that they will inform me about and forgive me for any lapses in my work or any errors of detail.’
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If you enjoyed Gun Dealing, try another book in The Ryder Quartet here
Read on for an exclusive extract from the thrilling action-packed sequel to Gun Dealing:
SUNDAY
00.25.
The four men smashed their way through the undergrowth. They headed toward the surf, still at least four hundred metres away. Occasional flashes of moonlight out on the water guided them as they stumbled in panic through the blackness. The whipping sound of 9mm bullets spitting into the trees and foliage on either side of them prompted rapid changes of direction as they zig-zagged their way through the bush.
Screams and shouts from the five pursuing cops forty metres behind them mingled with the crackle of radio. Orders were called out from the detective still sitting in one of the two police cars back on the road. In the distance, five hundred metres southwest of where he waited, he saw reflections of flashing blue lights in the treetops as a third police vehicle skidded to a halt halfway up the hill. He barked radio instructions to the new arrivals. In response their doors sprang open and two more cops joined the charge through the bush and down toward the beach, creating a second line of pursuit from the south.
The pincer was in place. The detective mused: impondo zenkomo. The horns of the bull. Shaka would have approved.
Meanwhile the fugitives had burst through the final line of foliage onto the beach. Clear white sand gleamed silver in the moonlight. It was only then that they realised their error. At least the bush had provided some cover. Now there was nothing but the open beach between them and the surf. Instinctively, without pausing, they turned right rather than continue the hopeless sprint for the water. Maybe they could run forty or fifty paces southward along the edge of the bush before doubling back into a thicket further down.
Too late. They travelled only twenty paces, slowed down by the softer sand of the beach, before they saw the flashlights of the two constables from the third car, who had made it down the hill and were already approaching the beach from the southern end. Having had less of the thick bush to tunnel through, these two policewomen hit the shoreline even before the main group of pursuing cops.
The four fugitives switched direction again, sharp left this time. The water was now all that was left as a possible escape route.
They ran past an outcrop of anthracite rocks protruding onto the shore from the surf. One of them glanced momentarily toward the outcrop as he saw movement from what he thought must have been a startled seal, its wet black body glimmering in the moonlight as it slipped behind a rock.
As the men reached the water the first lot of policemen burst through the bush and hit the beach from the north, joining with their two colleagues in closing down the options for the escapees. The four fugitives considered doubling back to the rocks, which provided the only visible cover. But the two policewomen from the south were approaching too rapidly. The men switched back toward the open water. It was a lost cause. They were fully exposed in the surf with a bright clear moon overhead.
All seven cops slowed to a walk as they joined up and approached the water’s edge to watch the fugitives wading, as if through quicksand, through the surf that was now halfway up their thighs. The breathless pants and wheezes of the police now gave way to jeers and jokes as they watched the four men wading out hopelessly in the direction of Australia.
The cops lined up on the edge of the water, laughing and cat-calling as they waited for the four men to accept the futility of their efforts. They did. All four of them turned, wearily, in despair, and raised their hands above their heads. Two of them still held their weapons, pointed upward at the sky.
The detective leading the first group of cops was a giant of a man with a deep resonant voice that echoed over the silent scene. He pointed his Vektor SP1 at them as he called out, his words intended for the two men who weren’t holding their weapons above them.
‘Take out your weapons and hold them above your head. Now! I won’t be asking you a second time!’
The two men looked at their companions already holding their pistols overhead, one of whom snapped out an order.
‘Yebo. OK! Make like he says. Quick, wena! I know this cop. I seen him once before. Don’t mess with him!’
His two companions slowly, painfully, drew their weapons, one from his belt and the other from a holster strapped under his arm. Slowly, carefully, they too raised their pistols above their heads. The cops sniggered and joked as they did so. The four men knew the game was up. They thought only of the lengthy prison terms ahead.
The detective watched them carefully. They were still fifteen to twenty metres out in the water, and starting to wade in, slowly and dejectedly, weapons above their heads, as the detective spoke quietly and with intimidating authority to his colleagues, four men and two women.
‘OK people. Tell me, now. Who wants to spend a couple of hours filling in forms? Spend a few hours in court? Hear later that someone paid a bribe and bought the dockets for these men? Or watch some clever lawyer get the
m off so that they can do the same stuff all over again? How many of you want to do that? Tell me.’
There was a chorus of chuckles and laughter from his colleagues and a refrain of ‘tchai, not me, Captain,’ ‘hayibo! Captain,’ ‘hayi, boss, not me.’
‘S’what I thought, guys. So, OK. Each and every one of you is a part of this. OK?’
The cops reacted as one and readied their weapons. The detective called out to the four men, now only ten metres in from the water’s edge.
‘OK stop there!’
The men stopped.
‘Now I don’t want to take any chances with you guys, so lissen to me very carefully! I want you four men to empty your pistols. Hold it! Don’t move!’
He barked out at the first man who had immediately started lowering his pistol with the intention of ejecting the magazine. In response to the detective’s angry shout, the man froze.
‘I don’t want you fiddling with any magazine. Keep your hands above your heads! Pistol in one hand only! Pointed up! Up! I want each one of you to point your gun at the moon, and I want you to fire off every round remaining in your weapons!’
The four men exchanged shocked looks but were brought back instantly into focus by the detective’s voice.
‘I don’t want any of you putting a foot on this beach with a single bullet still sitting there in your gun. Now! Go on! Fire your pistols. At the moon! If you lower your gun while you still have a single round left, you’re a dead man. Go on. Now. Shoot!’
There was a moment of stunned silence and then the first man obeyed. He pointed directly above his head and fired once. Twice. Then, rapidly in succession, another and another and another until he had fired off nine rounds altogether and then the weapon clicked. Nothing left. His startled companions stared at him, bewildered. The detective continued, as his fellow cops sniggered.
‘Good man! Nine rounds. Good. Hope you didn’t hit the man in the moon, hey? You can go to the tronk for that, you know? Now the rest of you. Go on! Go on, I’m telling you! Fire now! At the moon.’
