sergeant’s bear-like arms. And the sobbing single mother whose son stayed out all night, missed church, and finally arrived with a wound in his neck still ‘
meth befok’
, as the sergeant explained later. He had spoken to the boy sternly, like a good father might have, ‘Next time I’m taking you to the station for a drug test, you hear me?’ Bella was always worrying about her staff and about the community. The sergeant and his colleagues had to be not just enforcers of the law but also counsellors, psychiatrists, and surrogate fathers and mothers. The needs of the people of the Flats went way beyond where the next meal was coming from.
‘Sergeant, your vest … you’re not wearing it! You think it’s a drive through the wine lands that you’ve been on, or what?’
‘Sorry, Captain, my locker was broken into yesterday … nothing missing except the vest. I’ve done a report but you know how long it takes to replace stuff.’
Bella sighed. Bullet-proof vests were like gold to gangs. Vests made them feel invincible and they paid top dollar for them. The theft of Vince’s vest pointed to the possibility of crooked cops at the station. Just days earlier Detective Warrant Officer Quentin Philander had said, ‘Bella, I’ve got my suspicions but I can’t prove a thing, not yet … how terrible to look at colleagues and wonder if they’re in the pockets of the gangs.’ He’d shaken his head – thoughtful, a little desperate. ‘That’s the thing about corruption – no smashed window, no body, no knife or gun, no blood, no fingerprints – it leaves
nothing
behind. Corruption talks softly, it’s educated, earns a salary, wears a suit or a uniform …’ Philander had been consumed by it to the detriment of his cases piling up like Table Mountain in his cramped detective’s office at the back of the station. Just as well the likes of Bella worried about the safety and well-being of the operational staff.
Bella looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 6 pm, the end of her day shift. Around her on the walls were reminders of what her life was about, had been for so many years – photos of police top brass, a poster on the rights of children, pictures and descriptions of missing persons, a help-line poster for those with drink and drug problems, a notice offering a reward for the recovery of a quad bike, an ad for a debt counsellor, a HIV-Aids educational poster, a prominent board with the words,
We are committed to quality service. Are we delivering?
We welcome your suggestions
, and below it a poster advising citizens on how they should go about lodging complaints and compliments.
Captain Bella Ontong loved her job even though she knew she would never win the big war out there. She took it battle by battle in the knowledge that where she could, she made a difference to the lives of those who reported to her and those who lived in despair all around her.
•
Bella was packing up in the OC office when Detective Warrant Officer Philander walked in wearing his metal-grey suit that picked up the grey spreading around his temples. Of his three suits she liked it best. What she liked least was his uniform which he was required to wear on Wednesdays – it made him look like just another cop and reminded her of the difference in rank between them even though they were almost the same age – she 37, he 40 – and had both been in the force for 18 years. She knew the reason all too well. When he was 12, Philander’s blue eyes and wavy hair had prompted a concerned, zealous apartheid official to apply the comb test and thereafter to declare him White. The comb test worked like this: if a fine-toothed comb (which many officials carried in their long socks) ran through a person’s hair easily he or she was classified as White; if it got stuck the person was non-White. This was in spite of the fact that Philander’s father, brother and sister
looked
Coloured (there had been some doubt about his mother).
meth befok’
, as the sergeant explained later. He had spoken to the boy sternly, like a good father might have, ‘Next time I’m taking you to the station for a drug test, you hear me?’ Bella was always worrying about her staff and about the community. The sergeant and his colleagues had to be not just enforcers of the law but also counsellors, psychiatrists, and surrogate fathers and mothers. The needs of the people of the Flats went way beyond where the next meal was coming from.
‘Sergeant, your vest … you’re not wearing it! You think it’s a drive through the wine lands that you’ve been on, or what?’
‘Sorry, Captain, my locker was broken into yesterday … nothing missing except the vest. I’ve done a report but you know how long it takes to replace stuff.’
Bella sighed. Bullet-proof vests were like gold to gangs. Vests made them feel invincible and they paid top dollar for them. The theft of Vince’s vest pointed to the possibility of crooked cops at the station. Just days earlier Detective Warrant Officer Quentin Philander had said, ‘Bella, I’ve got my suspicions but I can’t prove a thing, not yet … how terrible to look at colleagues and wonder if they’re in the pockets of the gangs.’ He’d shaken his head – thoughtful, a little desperate. ‘That’s the thing about corruption – no smashed window, no body, no knife or gun, no blood, no fingerprints – it leaves
nothing
behind. Corruption talks softly, it’s educated, earns a salary, wears a suit or a uniform …’ Philander had been consumed by it to the detriment of his cases piling up like Table Mountain in his cramped detective’s office at the back of the station. Just as well the likes of Bella worried about the safety and well-being of the operational staff.
Bella looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 6 pm, the end of her day shift. Around her on the walls were reminders of what her life was about, had been for so many years – photos of police top brass, a poster on the rights of children, pictures and descriptions of missing persons, a help-line poster for those with drink and drug problems, a notice offering a reward for the recovery of a quad bike, an ad for a debt counsellor, a HIV-Aids educational poster, a prominent board with the words,
We are committed to quality service. Are we delivering?
We welcome your suggestions
, and below it a poster advising citizens on how they should go about lodging complaints and compliments.
Captain Bella Ontong loved her job even though she knew she would never win the big war out there. She took it battle by battle in the knowledge that where she could, she made a difference to the lives of those who reported to her and those who lived in despair all around her.
•
Bella was packing up in the OC office when Detective Warrant Officer Philander walked in wearing his metal-grey suit that picked up the grey spreading around his temples. Of his three suits she liked it best. What she liked least was his uniform which he was required to wear on Wednesdays – it made him look like just another cop and reminded her of the difference in rank between them even though they were almost the same age – she 37, he 40 – and had both been in the force for 18 years. She knew the reason all too well. When he was 12, Philander’s blue eyes and wavy hair had prompted a concerned, zealous apartheid official to apply the comb test and thereafter to declare him White. The comb test worked like this: if a fine-toothed comb (which many officials carried in their long socks) ran through a person’s hair easily he or she was classified as White; if it got stuck the person was non-White. This was in spite of the fact that Philander’s father, brother and sister
looked
Coloured (there had been some doubt about his mother).
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