and residents were cowering behind doors – an order by Hannibal that included no calls to the police, for their own sake, he had said, for who else but the Evangelicals, God’s fighters, would protect them from the invaders? And to his men: ‘Defend the neighbourhood even if it means death!’ The boy and the other new recruits formed the frontline as part of Hannibal’s ‘man test’, the boy struggling to make out the enemy in the new moon, wanting to throw himself on the ground and make himself small but staying upright to prove he was at last a
man.
No drugs to bolster him, to give him the courage and the heart to kill because the Evangelicals weren’t into drugs then, only God. The gun shaking in the boy’s virgin hands, his entire body flinching in anticipation of being pierced by bullets, the sudden flashes, thudding and whining around him, his trigger finger pulling and pulling – unfired cartridges would make him fail the test – not in anger or hatred but to be accepted and respected, to feel part of
something
, to feel that for the first time in his eighteen years he was
somebody
. The boy on his right suddenly screaming, ‘
Jissis, Jissis
,
help my!
’ tottering then going down hard like a tree felled. Screams everywhere – death was never interested in taking sides – sirens wailing, blue lights flashing, Hannibal’s thundering voice, ‘vamoose!’, figures scattering, zigzagging with hooded heads like guinea fowl racing low through long grass, leaving behind bodies and the acrid smell of fired guns.
To this day Zane did not know if he had actually killed someone. He had fired his gun, yes – at an enemy
out there
rather than at a target he could see – and he had aimed high so that he wouldn’t hit anyone. But the barrel jerked up and down so violently that it was impossible to tell. In the end five people lay dead – two of Hannibal’s men and three from the other side. Zane was questioned for days as were other youths, but gangs never talked, preferring revenge to laying charges against rivals. Then suddenly all went quiet. Hannibal shrugged off rumours of a police payoff, smiled in his devastating way, embraced Zane on a job well done, and carried on his love affair with Zane’s sister, Chantal. Zane was free – but not from Hannibal or the knowledge that, captured in police files, were his name and personal details, open-ended, hanging over him. His had been a freedom bought, not earned.
As the tyres of Zane’s bike squealed softly on the shiny passage floor to his apartment, he felt as if the Flats had followed him across the line in the shape of a willowy girl with fire in her eyes. He had left
Kapie-taal
behind him with its funny-sad overtones of failure and desperation, speaking English in shops, on the trains, at BAT, and to Bernadette. Now it was with him again, in his apartment, in his bedroom, its sounds carrying his dismal past.
Much later, his mind a maelstrom, Zane suddenly sat up from where he was lying on the lounge couch. How dumb to carry on using the train to get to work! What if Curly had seen them get off at Wynberg? All Curly had to do was hang around the station at peak time and wham! Sooner or later they’d stare into each other’s eyes again. Zane decided that for the next ten days he’d use a bus or go by bike. At least it was summer and he wouldn’t have the rain and the cold and the dark.
•
Three days later she was gone, nothing left of her in the flat but rumpled sheets and pillows and some dirty dishes in the sink. No note, nothing. He had returned from work carrying food and groceries and called her name expecting her to be there. Although her wound had responded well to the antibiotics she had still limped badly. What did he expect, he now asked himself – for her to stay longer, and when she was ready to go, hug him and say thank you? She wasn’t the kind. But he had no idea what kind she was. All he knew was that he felt a strange and
man.
No drugs to bolster him, to give him the courage and the heart to kill because the Evangelicals weren’t into drugs then, only God. The gun shaking in the boy’s virgin hands, his entire body flinching in anticipation of being pierced by bullets, the sudden flashes, thudding and whining around him, his trigger finger pulling and pulling – unfired cartridges would make him fail the test – not in anger or hatred but to be accepted and respected, to feel part of
something
, to feel that for the first time in his eighteen years he was
somebody
. The boy on his right suddenly screaming, ‘
Jissis, Jissis
,
help my!
’ tottering then going down hard like a tree felled. Screams everywhere – death was never interested in taking sides – sirens wailing, blue lights flashing, Hannibal’s thundering voice, ‘vamoose!’, figures scattering, zigzagging with hooded heads like guinea fowl racing low through long grass, leaving behind bodies and the acrid smell of fired guns.
To this day Zane did not know if he had actually killed someone. He had fired his gun, yes – at an enemy
out there
rather than at a target he could see – and he had aimed high so that he wouldn’t hit anyone. But the barrel jerked up and down so violently that it was impossible to tell. In the end five people lay dead – two of Hannibal’s men and three from the other side. Zane was questioned for days as were other youths, but gangs never talked, preferring revenge to laying charges against rivals. Then suddenly all went quiet. Hannibal shrugged off rumours of a police payoff, smiled in his devastating way, embraced Zane on a job well done, and carried on his love affair with Zane’s sister, Chantal. Zane was free – but not from Hannibal or the knowledge that, captured in police files, were his name and personal details, open-ended, hanging over him. His had been a freedom bought, not earned.
As the tyres of Zane’s bike squealed softly on the shiny passage floor to his apartment, he felt as if the Flats had followed him across the line in the shape of a willowy girl with fire in her eyes. He had left
Kapie-taal
behind him with its funny-sad overtones of failure and desperation, speaking English in shops, on the trains, at BAT, and to Bernadette. Now it was with him again, in his apartment, in his bedroom, its sounds carrying his dismal past.
Much later, his mind a maelstrom, Zane suddenly sat up from where he was lying on the lounge couch. How dumb to carry on using the train to get to work! What if Curly had seen them get off at Wynberg? All Curly had to do was hang around the station at peak time and wham! Sooner or later they’d stare into each other’s eyes again. Zane decided that for the next ten days he’d use a bus or go by bike. At least it was summer and he wouldn’t have the rain and the cold and the dark.
•
Three days later she was gone, nothing left of her in the flat but rumpled sheets and pillows and some dirty dishes in the sink. No note, nothing. He had returned from work carrying food and groceries and called her name expecting her to be there. Although her wound had responded well to the antibiotics she had still limped badly. What did he expect, he now asked himself – for her to stay longer, and when she was ready to go, hug him and say thank you? She wasn’t the kind. But he had no idea what kind she was. All he knew was that he felt a strange and
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