I follow blindly out the door and back into the night.
“Cecil, kom hier jou fokken rot.” Cecil come here, you fucking rat.
He calls down the road to the man still skulking around in the shadows. A silhouette comes into the middle of the road and walks towards us. Eiran places a gun in my hand, our eyes meet and he nods his head. I can see that Cecil has a gun in his hand; the shadow on the street gives his intentions away.
“Fix this, Francis, the boys will clean up and we can talk when they done.” Eiran takes one step back and stands against the wall.
With hands up, but one still grasping a gun, Cecil steps into the light in front of me.
“You shouldn’t have come home.” Cecil smiles at me. “Things changed while you were gone, Francis.”
I hear him but I’m not listening, his lips move but my brain doesn’t process the sounds .Eiran slips behind him and shoves him to the ground, and I feel a rush as if I never left this place.
The street life that I had before returns with a roar through my veins when I shoot him in the head, where he lies. Blood oozes from his skull and stains the pavement red. Instinct makes me look around for witnesses, and I see Engela’s eyes through the gap in the curtains.
The high is replaced with a devastating low.
The light feeling of sleepwalking returns as I go inside and shut the front door on the world outside. Confined between four walls and a leaky roof, I am safely ensconced, and the monster that got to escape for a few minutes is imprisoned within my bones again.
Eiran and myself talk until the sun rises, and he tells me how the company works, what they do, and what exactly I will do. He tells me about our beautiful boss and what she did to him, how she took her kidnapping and used it to control the streets.
The boy I left behind, and the man I sit with now, are very different people. Trust doesn’t come naturally to me and I am weary of all these new things around me. I haven’t had a chance to digest the deaths of my family, to place the feelings inside me. I survived twelve years inside possibly the worst prison on earth and I walked out a free man, yet the freedom scares me the most. I don’t know what to do with it.
“You need to forget the gangster Francis and be the person.”
Eiran’s last words, as he gets on his motorcycle and starts the engine, hang in my mind like a winter rain cloud over Cape Town.
Dark and low.
It turns out my team are all from the street; gangsters, criminals and misfits. It would also seem that they are moving in and I have a company car. I am being made into a human, changed without my consent into a person, not a number, not a prisoner, but not myself either.
I have no idea who I have become, as the weeks outside the prison pass I get more and more lost. All the years in the gang, the guns they just came from ‘somewhere’. Once a month they just appeared. I now know where somewhere was, and I have become a part of that bigger thing that keeps them fighting.
We were never the ones running the streets like we believed, maybe inside Pollsmoor the gangs rule, but this is a business out here. A very well organized corporate structure. It’s eye opening just how deep crime goes.
We had a funeral for my sister, in the big church with a choir singing songs, and people came; twenty-eights, twenty-sevens, my new work team, Eiran. They all came.
Auntie and Engela organized food and tea for people afterwards. They all look sad, but I catch the glances and unspoken threats as one number eyes the other. They make peace on days like today.
She was one number and I was another.
Now I am nothing.
Engela cries, and holds her son so close I’m sure she is squeezing the life out of him. She stinks of fear and I wonder why?
The fresh earth piled up over Felicity’s coffin is decorated with bright plastic-flowers that all the Aunties in the neighborhood have brought. I watch the older generation of women as they all get along, no matter whose son murdered whom.
They all rally together and I wonder how they do it. Put all that anger and hate aside and just smile. Forgiveness, I am told, is a powerful thing, but I have never forgiven those who wronged me. I haven’t even forgiven myself. I have accepted myself, but not forgiven. I am not worthy of even my own forgiveness.
They are all wearing their best Kerk rokke church dresses, hats and stockings. My mother told me that my generation knew nothing of hard times and that I shouldn’t be so angry at the world. In the aunties wrinkles I see years of hard times making track marks across their once pretty faces.
I have a deep respect for these women who try to hold the community together when the men are all either dead, in jail, or long gone. The next generation, my generation should be taking care of them, instead we are fighting on the streets with guns and knives.
I grieve my sister, but as I look around I feel the death of an entire generation, and the next one weigh down on my conscience, pulling me deeper into the nothingness that has become my life outside of prison.
As the last funeral guests leave in this afternoon I stand silently under a faded blue gazebo in the church yard, and wipe away a single tear, shove my hands in my pockets, and prepare to go home. The wind whips dust about the sandy space and the church aunties packed away their white plates and cups in crates.
I am alone in my sadness, so very alone.
They were all sad, but I am alone.
Engela watches me as she folds up tablecloths that flap and fly in the wind, her cheeks still wet with tears. I try to force myself to remember them as children, two little girls playing dolls and giggling together. My memories don’t go so far back, they stop when I put a bullet in her brother. All the good stuff before that is gone, buried under the things I have done. Wiping her eyes and dumping a crumpled tablecloth in the dirt at her feet, she walks over to me, slowly, nervously.
“I’m sorry Francis.” She whispers softly as she steps into my personal space, her dark brown eyes well over with more tears.
“Me too Engela, me too.” I put my hand on her shoulder, not sure how to comfort someone.
I am not used to these sorts of interactions and am awkward. We stand, staring at each other, my hand on her, and we just cry. She steps closer to me as her weeping turns to a sob, she puts her arms around me and I freeze. Her face is buried in my chest, and her tears and snot are ruining my only smart shirt.
My arms hang at my sides, unsure of what to do.
No one has hugged me - or held me - in more than a decade. It’s strange, and comforting at the same time. I want to shove her away, but I also want to hold onto her tightly. I do neither. I just stand and let her hang onto me, while I try stop my own crying.
How on earth did life get this broken?
“I forgive you, Francis.” She pushes away from me, wiping her nose on her hand and sniffing away the last of her tears.
I don’t forgive me Engela, you shouldn’t.
“You shouldn’t, I don’t deserve your forgiveness Engela, but I will take it. And maybe one day I will feel worthy of it.” I answer her as she turns, tucking her curly hair behind her ear.
She smiles and shakes her head. “Ma says come have dinner at our house tonight. Sy sê jy lyk honger.” She says you look hungry. She laughs a little, looking me up and down.
“Dit sal lekker wees, dankie.” That will be awesome, thank you.
The thought of a really good meal actually makes me happy. Really it is the company that makes we want to go, I have become fond of the baby and Auntie.
“Sien jou later, Francis.” See you later, Francis.
Bending down to pick up the tablecloth she dropped I can see her Ma watching us with a smile on her face. Auntie just gives me a little nod, and I go home.
That was weeks ago now. I see Engela getting ready to walk to the bus this morning. It’s pouring with rain out, and the winter clouds sit so low that it’s like we are inside them.
I haven’t been back over there. I keep to my side of the street. She i
s struggling with her bag and umbrella as she tries to lock the front door, and has dropped her keys three times now.
“Engela!” I call out to her. She gets a fright and drops the keys again. “Wag ’n oomblik en ek sal jou werk toe vat. Mens kannie in die weer loop nie.” Engela! Wait a moment and I'll drive you to work. No one can walk in this weather.
I go inside to grab the keys of the work bakkie (truck) and my wallet. I shove my shoes on without socks and go back outside; she isn’t there. I look down the road and the stubborn girl is walking in the deluge of rain to the bus stop.
Climbing in the car, I drive after her. I pull next to her, careful not to splash her with water from the giant potholes. “Get in, Engela.”
I unlock the doors and glare at her. She is holding her raincoat closed against her chest and her face is already soaked. She doesn’t argue, just pulls her umbrella down and opens the door to get in.
8
Engela
hides from the truth
After that night, things changed so much. Ma became sad again.
She was like this when my brother died, and again, now that I think about it, when Francis was sent to jail. She went to court every single day while he was being tried for his crimes, her and his Ma would go together,
I never really understood what those two women meant to one another. When Francis’s Ma died, she cried for weeks. She went on a similar crusade to try save Felicity, but there is no saving someone who has been kissed by the life of the gangs and their drugs.
That’s when Ma started to watch, just sit and watch it all. She knew I wouldn’t easily fall into the trap of drugs, but I fell into one far worse. Sex. I always wanted to feel wanted; loved. Somehow, I thought if I could make one of them love me, they would change.
I was so stupid, so naive. People don’t change even if they do love you. Nathaniel was ‘that’ boy, the big fish with the Sewes (Sevens) and he noticed me, he pursued me, he wanted me. I took Felicity with me into their world - we were supposed to be our support system - the way not to get destroyed.
We both had our weakness. Mine was Nathaniel, and hers was drugs and jealousy. I fell hard for him, so hard I didn’t see my friend dying. I didn’t see her being swallowed up by the gang, sucked into it, because I was in love with a bad boy. I was his meisie (girl) and it became my whole world. I thought he would change for me, I believed me and my magical vagina could lure him away from them and we could have a future.
When I told Nathaniel I was pregnant he beat me nearly to death. Ma called Martin, trying to help, but not get me in deeper - more dangerous trouble - than I already was.
That night, as my mother cleaned my cut up face and grazed knees, I made a deal with the police, a stupid deal, but one that would keep me and my unborn child safe. I knew, that no matter what, as long as I didn’t get caught the Sewes (Sevens) would let me be while Nathaniel was in jail, because I had his child. It seemed so simple, so easy, but freedom is a very expensive commodity.
I quietly fed the police the information they needed to arrest both Nathaniel and his Father. Little bites of information I would overhear, because I was just a dumb pregnant girl that Nathaniel hardly ever noticed anymore, unless he was angry or high. No one, ever for a second, suspected me. In fact, two other guys were killed for being the ones who told the cops.
I just went on with my life. I cried in court when Nathaniel was sentenced; I really did love him. I visited him when I could, I kept appearances perfect so that I would stay protected by his gang family, and my son would be safe.
Then Francis was set free, his charges are worse than any that Nathaniel faces and yet he is free, out and invading my life, changing things, making them see me. They are taking notice, questioning my loyalty, and that frightens me.
I just needed to stay a little longer, make it seem that I was innocent, then I could move away, move on and just disappear. To save my son from the future he was damned into by birth and love. No one would care if I just moved away silently one day, but now with him watching from across the street and the strong whispers of a new turf war beginning, I am losing the hope I was holding onto so tightly.
I have forgiven him for his past, because the hate was hurting me and the anger was affecting my son, now all I feel all day is fear. I hugged him after we buried Felicity and told him I forgave him, and he said I shouldn’t. He is right, but I do, I needed to. When I put my arms around him it just felt right. Letting go of my brother’s death was hard, but hanging onto it was worse.
Francis drove me to work today. It’s pissing with rain outside. He drove me so I didn’t have to walk and take the bus. Winters are cold and damp here, and the weather has started to turn. This is the first cold front of the season.
I didn’t talk to him at all, just a thank you when I got out in front of the terminal building in the drop and go area. I willingly got in the car with a murderer. I know who he is, I know some of the things he has done, not even all of them, but I know that he is a killer. Yet, I don’t see the evil monster my imagination has painted all these years. I was a child and I imagined him into this horrendous creature that lurked in my nightmares.
Francis is different, and there has not been one single gang member on our street. A strange misfit looking bunch of men moved into Francis’s house, and they come in and out in bakkies and cars at all hours of the night and day. He told Ma that he has a paying job with them - cleaning. I don’t believe it for a minute. I am just waiting for the cops, or someone’s dead body to show up across the road.
I peep out my windows at night when they wake me with voices and rumbling engines. They don’t look like gangsters, none of them look like they are druggies or criminals. I am curious, but my gut tells me I don’t want to know what really goes on on that side of the street at night.
A twelve hour shift at the check-in counter is enough to make even the most friendly person hate people with a passion. Every plane ticket is printed with rules on it, why can no one just follow them?
I am off for four days after this shift, and I look forward to spending time with my son and not having to get up at stupid o’clock in the mornings.
The day is gone when I emerge from the building after six in the evening, the sun has gone and the clouds hide the stars. Taxies and shuttles speed in and out as I stroll towards the bus pick up. I see the people saying hello and hugging goodbye as they come and go from here.
I have a deep longing to say goodbye to this place. But I am trapped, stuck with nowhere to go to and no one to hug me goodbye or hello. It’s just me and my little boy.
The rain has stopped but it is still wet and cold outside. I hug my chest and shiver as I wait for the next bus, it shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Even though it’s cold, and polluted with exhaust fumes, the air out here is so much better than the air-conditioned and recycled air we breathe while we work all day.
An advertising light buzzes behind me and moths fly around it, pointlessly banging into the plastic. My body is tired and sluggish, my feet ache, and I stand here imagining the nice cup of tea and my slippers waiting for me at home.
Seven more minutes and a bus should be here, they feel like an hour. I push past another passenger to get onto the bus as fast as I can, it’s cold and I am dying to sit down and rest my feet. He glares at me, but doesn’t say anything.
I close my eyes and rest as we pull off and start the drive home, clutching my belongings to me and hoping for an uneventful ride. Squealing brakes and a jolt forward wake me from my almost doze. I mentally shit all over myself for falling asleep as I look outside to see we are at my stop. I stumble down the isle and off the bus into the night.
My attention finds the next streetlight that is on and I aim for it, like a life saving beacon in the darkness. I do this all the way home, from one light to the next, because in the darkness I fear I am always being watched.
I grab my keys as I get close enough to see the stoep light is on, and I rush towards my ho
me. I push the door open with my hip, the lights are on and the smell of my Ma’s cooking is dragging me in further. I lock the door behind me and drop my bag on the floor, shucking off my shoes right next to it. The relief is instant. I can hear voices as I get closer and I wonder if Ma has a visitor, maybe an Auntie from the church.
Pulling my hair loose I snap the rekkie (elastic band) around my wrist and turn into the kitchen. It’s not a church Auntie, it’s Francis, and him and Ma are talking like they are friends - when really he killed her son.
They both look up to see me, my disdain must have been very visible because my mother gives me a scowl as she greets me. “Naand my kind, hoe was die werk?” Evening my child, how was work? I look between them and start towards the kettle.
“Dit was werk, Ma. Lank, en ek is moeg.” It was work, Mom. It was long and I’m tired. I pour hot water over a teabag that has already been used once, and go to get milk out the fridge.
“Het jy vir Francis dankie gesê, jy sal sop nat gewees as hy jou nie gewat het nie.” Did you thank, Francis? You would have been soaking if he didn’t give you a lift.
Her question bugs me. I have manners, but really my thanks shouldn’t be in question, his intentions should be. No one is nice without wanting something from us. I hit the start button on the microwave to heat up the dinner that I know is waiting inside for me, I hear it sizzle as it gets hotter, spattling all over the inside - that I will now have to clean.
“Nog ’n koppie, Tannie?” Another cup, Auntie? Francis asks my mom holding his cup up.
“Nee Dankie seun, ek gaan in die bad gaan klim, daai kind was woelig vandag, ek is sommer dood moeg.” No thank you son, I’m going to bed, the baby was full of beans today, I’m dead tired from trying to keep up.
28 Boys Page 6
