Poor Man You Are On Your Own

‘Black man you are on your own.’ These are the words of the late founder of the Black Consciousness Movement (BCM), Steve Bantu Biko. He was contemplating the socio-political and economic conditions of his time (the late 60s and 70s), and therefore came up with the foregoing opening statement. Blacks were a disenfranchised people who had been shoved to the fringe of South African society (that is the so-called homelands or Bantustans) and, had no business in “whites only” areas unless their passes suggested otherwise.

   But, the gist of this article is not necessarily about the marginalisation of the black community, than it is about the marginalisation of the poor in society. The latter are seldom included in decision making processes that affect their lives, and if consulted, the tendency by governments and other well-meaning non-governmental organisations is to adopt a paternalistic role vis-à-vis their dealings with them. The relationship is often a filial one, where the less privileged are treated as little children, with whom it is important to take decisions for, lest they make the “wrong” ones. The fact that most of the people—for whom the help by these benevolent institutions is meant for—have lived in their communities for all their lives, and therefore, by extension, understand their environment better than anyone, counts for nothing.

   It is therefore not surprising that we have seen a litany of development failures than successes in Africa. My home country Swaziland is no exception. Her development plans since independence have yielded little or no edible fruits at all. At the heart of these development failures in Swaziland is the question of land and its use. There has been no attempt to deal with the issues of land security in areas under Swazi Nation Land, that is, land administered by the King, held in trust for the Swazi nation. Such land cannot be admitted as collateral by most banking institutions should a peasant farmer seek for a loan. Therefore as a result, the peasant continues to engage in subsistence agriculture as a means of survival, as opposed to commercial agriculture, which could result in progress. And, our government, as many in Africa, is no exception; there is a bias towards funding industrial projects as opposed to funding agricultural pursuits in the rural areas that form the heartbeat of our society.

   Currently, the Rural Development Fund (RDF) is struggling to produce the desired impact. For one, the money allocated to this fund is simply paltry vis-à-vis the need in rural communities, and the lack of stringent controls in the manner the fund is disbursed does not make things any better. According to media reports in the country, the RDF has been the target of corrupt activities from many quarters of our society and has been grossly misappropriated. Hence there are no prizes for guessing why we are still confronted by a staggering number of the population scrapping around for consumables below the poverty line.

Related to the development failures of Africa in general is the correlation between the politics of the continent and the growing inequalities between the rich and the poor. Analysts have, in the recent past forecasted economic growth in double digits, yet there hasn’t been fundamental improvement in the lives of the majority of the rural peasantry. Governments continue to focus in the politics of appeasement and co-optation, which is really the game of the elite. Consequently, state security takes the front seat, while the most important kind of securities; food and human securities perch on the rather uncomfortable back seat of the development automobile.

   Indeed, the aforementioned arguments point to a key point: the complacency among the political and bureaucratic elite of many an African state in retaining the reactive state apparatus inherited from colonial governments. At least with colonial governments, the poor knew what to expect: nothing. Yet in the present dispensation, the yearnings of the masses have been a cry in the wilderness, in spite of independence.  Any changes that have been implemented since then, have been superficial and have not served to transform what was essentially a weak and partial state.

   Many African countries, including Swaziland, still need to engage in a deliberate process of transformational politics, where the state: its legislative, executive and judicial arms, serve the majority of its citizens. The disadvantaged must have faith in these arms of government, that is, they must be perceived to be serving a common good, and not only seen as instruments of the elite and those in power. But, as things stand, one gets the feeling that leaders are still content as they were when they first had the sweet taste of power at independence. One therefore, can only hope that with the steady development of civil society and interest groups in African countries—who are more often at loggerheads with the authorities—state configuration and its relation with the governed will be questioned, and by extension the problem of increasing inequality addressed at its fundamental base.

   I reckon Steve Biko would have agreed with me that, as the case stands, the poor man is on his own.

Planned Coincidence

            Planned Coincidence

Her full lips glistened with lip gloss, and all this gentleman could think of was removing it with his own mouth later that night. This lady had noticed this man’s stolen glances at her. She too had her own plans. It was a Friday night—end of the month Friday—and as usual “STONE PHOLA” was packed to its full capacity. This pub-cum-club was very popular here in Mbabane, more especially with the working class, who now felt that the bars and pubs in the townships and ghettos, where they lived, were too grimy for them, and also dens for hobos and tsotsis. That notwithstanding, they still couldn’t afford the posh and ridiculously expensive places up-town like “Rockers”.

   So, a clever and business-minded chap had built something somewhere in-between, just to cater for them, the in-betweeners. Indeed, STONE PHOLA was a modest place situated in down-town Mbabane. At the entrance, overused neon lights flashed around the dust covered club’s name, as a thick tall man, who looked like he didn’t have a neck, stood officiously at the door. He always assumed his current position every last Friday of the month. He checked patron’s tickets, with a lot of zeal, to ensure that the entrance fee had been paid and the patrons got into the club legally. He was flexing his muscles, ready to whirl off the melee at the door, anyone who would try to sneak in unnoticed, especially the guys.

Muzi “Fixer” Shabangu took a gulp of his Hansa Pilsner and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He placed the can on the counter and, stretched a lazy hand to scoop some peanuts and raisins that were in a glass bowl on the counter and began to chew. Then he turned to his friend, Thapelo also known as “Thux”. ‘I’m telling you man, she’s been staring at me the whole time, and I’ll have to make a move very soon, before she thinks I’m a bhari (fool).’ Fixer loosened his neck-tie and took another sip from the can.

Thux waved his left arm carelessly, dismissing the idea his friend had just shared. ‘Which one?’ he asked. ‘You mean her…the one sitting over there, near the V.I.P section? Mf’ethu(brother), can’t you see that she is the kind of woman that can milk you dry? As for you, she can take every cent because you got half-pay.’ He laughed at his friend, as he concomitantly dipped a hand into one of his corduroy blazer side-pockets, and took out a loose Dunhill cigarette. He lit it up and took a long pull of the cigarette, proceeding to blow the smoke into the already stuffy and saturated air in the bar with a good deal of nonchalance. He watched it waft into the air, to add to the already unpleasant odour that filled the place: an acid odour of cigarettes and perfumes and colognes, plus a whole range of other smells.

   ‘Chief, I don’t want people reminding me about what happened at work—half-pay and kaak. If I wanted all of that nagging and whining, I would have gone straight home, and my wife would have done a great job of it,’ returned Fixer, a bit annoyed. The oily dark skin of his face shone in the dim-lit place, the white set of teeth contrasting it noticeably. He barked at the barman on the other side of the counter for another can of beer. It was quickly put in front of him. ‘All I wwant to do is to enjoy myself. I’ll deal with the talking when I get home.’

   Oh, ok…whatever man,’ Thux said. Do what you have to do, but let me tell you one thing; I’m giving no advances this month. No!’

   ‘Ja,ja,’ mocked Fixer, slightly angered by his friend’s lecture. ‘Now this is what I want you to do,’ he continued. ‘Just walk with me to them. I want you to distract her friend, chat with her, whatever, and I’ll do my thing. Look at those lips bra yam’, tjo!’

   ‘Man you’re really serious about this woman, eh?’ In spite of the fact that you don’t know her and, have never seen her here before.’ Fixer gave him a stern look. And Thux said he was in. ‘Ok, ok, I’ll help you!’ he said. His friend smiled.

   Several tables with chairs were arranged around the walls of the hall. These sat a minimum of four people, which could sit to six or above, with demand for space, in peak hours. At the bar were lined up leather-padded bar stools, preferred mostly by the men. The sat and ogled and flirted with the female bartenders, as the latter shuffled behind the counter, serving orders. At the centre was a dance floor where lights of different colours flashed hypnotically in the dim room, as the revelers danced the night away to the selection of the resident disc-jockey (DJ), DJ Wheeler. The speakers blared a song from a popular South African group, and more people surged to the dance floor. The women were screaming in the process; the men just there, hoping to get lucky that night.

   There was a cacophony of sounds. A mad din. The only way one could sustain a conversation now was to literally shout to the person was talking to. Although such a state of affairs may seem odd to those who are not used to such places, for the regulars, the switching to shouting, to communicate, comes naturally.

   ‘Zinhle,’ said Nos’milo to her friend, ‘I think that guy who was checking me out for the past half an hour or so, is coming here.’ Nos’milo stole a peek at him through the dancing crowd.

   ‘Ha! ha!’ Zinhle laughed out loud. ‘What does he want? I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re interested in him. Oh my God, he’s bringing his friend. I’m just not in the mood for small talk with a guy I don’t know.’

   ‘What am I going to do?’ asked Nos’milo. ‘Perhaps I gave him the wrong idea.’

‘I don’t know, you’ll have to sort him out. I’ve his friend to worry about.’

   Presently the two gentlemen greeted the two ladies who sat opposite each other. Thux sat next Zinhle, and Fixer next to the lady with full shining lips. He couldn’t look at anything else but them. Nos’milo was a very attractive woman and, she wore a hugging top that slightly revealed the cleavage of her big breasts. Her jet-black dreadlocks with streaks of blonde were neatly tied behind the back of her head, ponytail style, and she donned silver studs on her ears. She had full eyebrows that almost met in the middle of her forehead, and her eyes were clear, with a lazy stare. Zinhle, her friend, was not at all an unattractive woman, neither could it be said authoritatively that she was beautiful, and Thux found that consoling. There was nothing that he hated more than making small talk with an unattractive woman, especially in such an arrangement, where it is part of the plan and obligatory—a favour to a friend.

   ‘So what are you ladies doing here all by yourselves?’ asked Fixer self-importantly. The alcohl was now swimming in his veins and wafting in his mind. His tongue had loosened.

‘We’re just hanging out, you know,’ replied Nos’milo. ‘But we were just about to live, to go back home now, ‘cause it’s getting late.’

‘Really?’Thux added helpfully, for his friend, ‘but it’s so early!’

   ‘It’s not, for us, you know,’ said Zinhle. ‘We’ve other responsibilities.’ Thux nodded assent and Fixer let out a short dry laugh.

   ‘The party is just getting started!’ shouted Fixer. ‘What are you ladies drinking? Savannah? Storm? Name it.’ Zinhle glared at Fixer with a sort of disdainful eye, and Nos’milo slightly smiled.

   ‘We don’t drink alcohol,’ Nos’milo said politely. And, there’s no need for you to buy us anything. We’re sorted.’

   ‘Oh, okay, fine! We’ve got ourselves Miss Independents,’ he said in a sing-song voice.

   Fixer was not a patient man. The fact that these women had declined his offer for drinks, and that they didn’t even drink alcohol, was reason enough for him to now leave. He made eye contact with Thux, and gave him the “look”, which was their signal for leaving or aborting a plan because it was not working out.

No’smilo saw Fixer’s restlessness and suddenly said: ‘We can hang out with you guys for another ten minutes, if you want.’

   ‘Listen here,’ Fixer replied, ‘I didn’t come all the way here to hang out. I just thought you were a hot babe and just wanted to explore my chances of sucking away at those lips, and perhaps getting more!’ He then downed his sixth can of Hansa Pilsner and wiped off the beer froth from his lowly-cut moustache with the back of his hand. Thux let out an uncomfortable laugh, and tried to downplay his friend’s outburst, saying that he was quite a joker. Fixer told them that it was no joke: that is was the whole truth. Thux sat there with a plastered smile, waiting for the ladies’ reaction.

Zinhle shook her head, visibly annoyed, and pulled hard at her fruit juice with a straw, as Thux tried to ask her something inconsequential and irrelevant, which she ignored.

   ‘Ha, you haven’t even asked for my name, and I don’t know you, and now this,’ said Nos’milo. ‘Do you always do this to women you meet in pubs?’

   ‘Eh, I don’t like the sound of that,’ answered Fixer. ‘Thux let’s go man, we’re wasting our time here.’

A while previously, Nos’milo had excuse herself from  the company, on account of an important call she had had to make to someone. Presently, her phone rang again, and again she left the table. Fixer looked at her disappear into the crowd, towards the door, or perhaps the ladies’ room—he was not sure. He lamented that he wouldn’t have a piece of her. He sat meditatively, looking up at the ceiling with the flickering tiny bulbs, and opened a can he’d just ordered. Tonight had turned out bad, he concluded inwardly. It was time to go home. Thux himself was now tired of the useless small talk, and he too felt it was time to leave.

Nos’milo reemerged from the crowd with another, rather statuesque woman.

‘Hi again, Fixer,’ she said, emphasizing his name. ‘I just brought your wife here, to join us. By the way, she happens to be my cousin.’ Fixer and Thux sat transfixed, mouths agape, and their eyes fixed on the bustling and breezy Nos’milo and her demure companion in train. The two girls exchanged knowing smiles.

You Want To See More?

The kombi drivers and the conductors caused a mad racket as Fikile strode across the crowded bus rank of the capital city, Mbabane. These men, standing in haphazard groups around the within the rank, shouted snide comments at her. Each one of them felt they had something to say concerning the way Fikile was dressed. Most of their rantings were insulting and unpalatable, yet, notwithstanding that, the latter seemed to swallow them up without the slightest problem.

   On-lookers and passers-by stared at her too. Others looked at her absent-mindedly, as they rushed to wherever they were headed and some, mostly the idlers, too keen interest in the unfolding events. Part of the latter mumbled their disapproval in what these men were doing, although a majority of seemed to share the same view with the raucous drivers and their counterparts.

   ‘She ought to be castigated and discouraged for such unwomanly behaviour,’ said one of the women   vendors who sold fruits and vegetables in the bus rank. There were a growing number of these vendors who sat around the fringes of the terminus, selling their goods. In fact, they now seemed to outnumber the public transport for which the structure had been constructed. The city council rangers had tried in the past years to forcefully remove the former from the terminus, but in vain. They would only disappear for a few hours, and one-by-one—like vultures on a dead carcass—they would come back. The local authorities must have grown weary, so they now let them be. Although the influx of people selling various articles in the terminus meant bad news for those who did business in the legitimate market built by the authorities, the general public silently approved. Now one could easily purchase the items that were short at home without going to the expensive market a few streets away, without risking being left behind by the bus or kombi. Now who wouldn’t want that? This was the musing of most of the people who used the bus rank.

   ‘How dare she dresses up like that? With everything showing like that!’ said another one of the women. She proceeded to scoop ligushawith a rusted tin and filled it into a black plastic bag and, gave it to her customer. ‘That will be three emalangeni, thank you,’ she said as she received the coins. The two speakers and those that had heard her former comment broke out in a loud cackle.

‘These young ones have the nerve, I tell you,’ the first woman speaker replied her friend. ‘And to make matters worse, she doesn’t care a single bit! Look at how she is walking, tall and proud.’

Indeed, Fikile hadn’t the slightest shame by the looks of things. She strolled proudly amidst the hullaballoo her dress style had supposedly caused. She sported a white boob-tube top that clung—as if for dear life itself—to her plump body, and exposed slightly the cleavage of her breasts. The skirt she donned was held her tightly on the buttocks and hips and, was a few inches above her knees. Her slightly hairy thighs rubbed against each other as she continued walking. She also wore make-up, and it made her look a bit older than she was—nineteen.

   Although the fear of imminent danger crossed her mind, seeing the place filled with a bunch of perverts, she didn’t think there was anything wrong in the manner she was dressed.

   ‘It is summer for crying out loud!’ she mused. ‘What must I be wearing? An all-weather coat and an ankle-length dress?’ she continued her musing. ‘This is not the Stone Age for Heaven’s sake!’

   She now came near the kombis that ferried passengers to Eveni, her place of abode, and other areas in the vicinity. She got in. There were a few spaces that were unoccupied when she got in, and these were filled quickly after that. Seeing the kombi full to its capacity, the driver rushed in, ignited the old Toyota engine and drove out. No sooner did the kombi start to move than a man clad in blue overalls and a leather flat cap resumed the discussion on Fikile’s sense of style. He had shot an eye laden with disdain when she had got in.

The man went on a tirade regarding how today’s children had lost respect for adults and themselves too. As he developed his discourse, he proceeded to lick his calloused index fingers and cross-locked them as a sign of solemn vow to his great-grandfather Matamatisi, that if his daughter would ever dress like Fikile; he would be jailed for homicide. The driver joined in the discussion. He gawked gleefully at the overall-clad man on the rear view mirror and would occasionally steal a quick glance at Fikile.

   Some of the passengers let out incomprehensible grumbles and, the women shook their heads slowly in disapproval of the image the young girl was portraying. Most of these women were clad in pink or powdered blue tunics and worked in the suburbs as domestic servants. Fikile sat two rows from the driver’s seat and as the “lecture” continued, she kept her eyes glued on a novel. She had raised her eyes from it only once, when the man had sworn that none of his children would be seen dressed like her, so long as he breathed oxygen. To that comment, she had partially grinned much to the vexation of the man.

   The kombi swerved to and fro as it attempted to dodge the innumerable pot holes, as deep as rubbish pits, along the road to Eveni, a plush suburb undoubtedly exclusive for the well-to-do. The much respected residents of the place had complained—some even going to the extent of threatening to default on their rate taxes—about the deteriorating condition of the roads, and the city council had responded with the unconvincing measure of filling up the holes. This was ineffectual because every time the rainy season came, new holes, deeper than the previous ones would develop again. Presently the holes were very much a nuisance to the road users and the local authority was yet to respond.

   Fezile looked up and signaled the driver that she was to get off at the Eveni bus stop.

   ‘Good riddance!’ yelled the driver. He changed down the gears and the engine let out dark choking cloud of smoke from its exhaust pipe. Through the rear view mirror he looked at his collaborator for support. And, this was not the type of chap to disappoint.

   'Yes! You must tell your parents to teach you how to dress little girl, you hear?’ he howled and wagged an accusing finger at Fikile.

   Fikile disembarked quietly and stood at the threshold as she handed the four emalangeni fare to the driver. Then abruptly, she said to the driver and the man: ‘Hhey’ nine, do you want to see more?’’ As they were still stunned by her sudden outburst, she pulled down her skimpy top and exposed her dark-nippled breasts for them to see. They bellowed and tried to cover their eyes. But it was too little too late.

Imagining a 'New' Swaziland

                                                       Imagining a 'New' Swaziland

The ultimate yardstick for democracy and multi-party politics in Swaziland, once ushered in, will not be the fact that an undemocratic government would have been ousted. Rather, it will be the strides taken by those who will be holding the reins of government at that time, to liberate the majority of the people from grinding poverty and deprivation. Take a casual glance at the rest of the African continent, and you will see that the foregoing is easier said than done—many promises have been made, but actions fall short.

   To extricate a people of a country from such social vices as deprivation and hunger, does not involve the paternalistic policies that most African governments have adopted in pursuance of this goal. Rather, an open political system, where all individuals and groups can participate freely in governmental processes becomes imperative. I must emphasise, though, that this does not happen with the wave of a magical wand. Such requires the existence of class-conscious politics within a country. The people and the leaders must understand that, as Mukoma wa Ngugi aptly noted, ‘that there is an inherent contradiction in a wealthy elite subsisting on the majority poor…’. This state of affairs—though prevalent in Africa, and obtaining in present day Swaziland—endangers the stability of a society, and further accents socio-economic inequality.

   I think that nearly everyone understands that there isn’t, necessarily, a direct correlation between multi-party politics and an improvement in the lives of people. But, I hasten to add that, a pluralistic society gives a better chance to people to impact on policies that affect their lives, and in the process, bettering their lives. Succinctly put, the aforementioned social system affords a greater chance to the elusive principle of democracy in our society. Therefore, what is needed in a “new” Swaziland is not only the people’s right to elect different political parties into government every after a fixed period. That will not be enough.

   A desirable new dispensation of politics in this country will be one where both government and its people will understand that, the democracy needed is not only of the ballot box, but, where conscious moves are made at alleviating poverty among the masses, encouraging creativity, and fostering debate on all issues that affect the people, without fear of intimidation. We have had enough of unique democracies, and those that serve certain cliques. As Mahmoud Mamdani asserts, ‘So long as democratisation drives are dominated by urban lawyers and churchmen and do not engage with the rural patrimonial structures that remain intact, they are unlikely to alter the political basis of the African state significantly.’ This quote begs an important question applicable almost throughout the continent: Is the lack of development in Africa a failure of democracy, or the failure of the state? I digress.

   Any politics—regardless of its hue and proffered ideas---that will still have people cast in chains of deprivation (of various freedoms) will not be acceptable.

Haunting Memoirs

I looked myself in the mirror, but I couldn’t see myself because the kerosene lamp burnt dimly in the huge room. I could only see my silhouette—or I thought it was mine. Then I said to myself: This is what poverty does to people; it makes you lose your identity and character, because to most of those who “have”, you are nothing but a shadow passing by—something of absolutely no consequence.

Suddenly the kettle started rattling on the gas stove as the water rapidly boiled in it. I was thus roused from my musing. I hurried and switched off the stove. Then I made myself a cup of coffee, in my favourite mug, the one I had just bought a few days ago. It was its super-size that attracted me to it; it could carry just enough coffee to warm me up every freezing morning in this dreadful winter season.

It was about 0530hours and it was still dark. Mist still enveloped the mountains near our house. Rocks protruded on some parts of the mountains and their haziness in the dark and misty morning made them look like a scary monster ready to devour anyone that dared walked in that direction. I slowly sipped the coffee in deep thought. Here I was, before the crack of dawn, getting ready to go to work, work that I didn’t enjoy, being matter-of-fact. Why was I even doing it? These numbers and numbers, and numbers that I punched all day at Corporate Services International (CSI) were not my thing. Everybody knew that I was an artist. A writer. And that was what I believed I was born to do.

Ah, anyway, I told myself that it was just a ‘passing gig’. Eventually I’ll get my work published and become a professional writer, I nursed my hopes. ‘Oh! Look at the time,’ I exclaimed, as I rose to my feet hurriedly. I was running late. My musing had taken all the time and I had hardly drunk half of my coffee. Oh my God, that nagging pain-in-the-arse supervisor of mine will skin me alive today. If he had it his way, he would do that literally. That bugger. I had worked there for only two weeks but he had already lambasted me innumerable times, for something I don’t really recall. It was probably nothing.

The repulsive part about these attacks was that he always spits on you when he speaks, because most of his front teeth, as my colleagues and I would say, needed to be called into order. They were just a careless cluster that overcrowded his mouth, and affected his fluency and diction. Notwithstanding that, he boasted a British accent that he made sure to flaunt to everyone that cared to listen to him as he churned out the trash that he mostly did.

After brushing my teeth, I grabbed my laptop backpack and headed for the bus stop. I dreaded every minute I spent at that place, but you know what they say “A man’s got to do what he has to do”.

To be continued....

Short Story of My Life

Short Story of my Life

O, what a journey it has been!                                                                                                                                 I am not that old, but I’ve seen,                                                                                                                            A lot of things. A colourful variety.                                                                                                           I’ve experienced the “Swazi-dream”;                                                                                                                  Bright lights, shiny cars and spectacular lodgings.                                                                                     I’ve feasted on food fit for kings and queens.

It seemed like a dream, for in that midst,                                                                                                        I found myself in the squalid conditions,                                                                                                         Of the township, where poverty is no fiction.                                                                                                             In the “past-life” fancy electricity lights,                                                                                                                           Dangled from the ceiling and illuminated the big house every night.                                                                    But now, a kerosene lamp burnt dimly,                                                                                                              Its light struggling to cover the overcrowded two-roomed flat.

In that past life I had not known that water,                                                                                                 Came anywhere else, apart from tap in the house.                                                                                                 Now, I trudged for a kilometer, heavy-laden,                                                                                                         To acquire such a commodity.                                                                                                                   Blessed is the soul of a child, for to me,                                                                                                               This was an adventure. It seemed a bit funny.

Today, I look at those days, in sheer amazement                                                                                      And I am dumbstruck by such a contrast,                                                                                                                In one person’s life.                                                                                                                                            Yes, I came out stronger.                                                                                                                                Fate has a strange game it plays.                                                                                                                    Now I have a piece of mind in the village.                                                                                                                My soul is a peace. I can manage.                                                                                                                        So you see? I do not lie when I say:                                                                                                                       “What a life it is I’ve had!”

Not Good At All.

‘These days, business is a bit slow, neh,’ Zwakele aka “Two-fingers” thought to himself, as he counted the paper-money clutched in his calloused hands. He licked his thumb with his tongue protruding through his fat dark lips, to lessen the friction between the money. He continued counting.

Nobody knew how he came to be known as “Two-fingers” in the township. Nobody asked. There were quite a number of rumours that sought to explain the nickname. Amongst the bulk of them, one held most sway. This is the one that held that, he was so good at pick-pocketing in his early days, you would have sworn he put the world to a standstill to do it: one minute your wallet  and other possessions would be in your pocket, the next it would be gone! He was considered the best.

Now, at the age of twenty-seven he had ‘retired’ from active crime. He had two boys that worked for him. Their street names were Situation (real name Mzamo) and Bond (Marko). Well, the streets have to christen you with a name. It means you’ve earned it (for the wrong or right reasons). Now, these two aspiring tsotsis stood in-front of their boss—whom they admired greatly—as he took stock of the day.

‘Laaities,’ Two-fingers roared at the two young boys. They flinched. ‘This is shit! The whole day in town, at the busiest place, the bus rank, and all you bring back is this lousy two-clips and five-blues (E250)?’

‘Two-fingers,’ Situation blurted, his eyes darting from side to side, trying not to make direct contact with his boss, ‘believe us man, that’s all. You know we can never steal from you mfethu,’ he ended.

‘Ja, man, Situation is right. The people were wakker (alert) and the police were scattered all over, because of the festive season kaak, you know,’ Bond added. His voice was crackling with fear. He held his “Samson” hat in his hand. It was a sign of respect.

‘Voetsek boys!’ Two-fingers screamed, his face closer to the boys. Foam had accumulated in the corners of his mouth. His eyes were frighteningly bloodshot from excessive drinking and smoking. He moved back, reached deep into the breast pocket of his black dickies shirt—which he had on with matching trousers of the same brand—and took out a cigarette. He lit it up and he leaned on the makeshift shelter used by vegetable vendors during the day in the township. He went on to puff away. ‘Schools are closed and you’re supposed to be making me money and all you do is bring these peanuts! Voetsek! Just go home, because tomorrow I want more, or, there’ll be hell to pay.’

The two boys nodded desperately and scampered-off in the dark after the harsh scolding from their boss. It was about 1830hours, but it was already dark because it was winter. The July air blew unwelcomingly, and there were a few patches of clouds in the sky. The crescent moon began to tear up on one of the clouds and peeped through. It, too, seemed afraid of the biting cold.

Candlelight flickered in most of the stick-and-mud houses. Only in a few houses did the electric light bulbs shine bright in the chilly night. Situation and Bond were brothers. Bond was two years older than Situation. They were fifteen and thirteen years of age, respectively. They only had a mother, who had been bed-ridden two years. Although, their mother was bed-ridden by tuberculosis, word in the township was that she was HIV positive. Well, she did not look good at all. Everyday seemed to be a turn for the worst. Their father had taken to his heels with another woman as soon as the boys’ mother had fallen sick, and was never seen again. That was nine years ago. They never heard from him since.

Part of the reason these boys attended school was that the government had introduced the so-called free primary education policy, in all primary school grades. Perhaps the main reason for their going to school though—just as is the case with all other orphaned and vulnerable children (OVCs, as they were called)—was that there was food provided at school. Sometimes that was the only meal they had for the day. Or, when Two-fingers was in a good mood (which was very rare), he would give them some money, with which they’d get something to eat, and possibly keep some for their mother. Things were not good at all.

When they got home, they attended to their mother. She asked how they were, how school was, and life in general. These were just perfunctory questions. Was not a parent expected to show interest in the goings-on in her children’s life? Although the hardships had erased the child spirit in these young men, when they spoke to their mother, it was resuscitated. They, too, needed to be cared for. They needed that soft motherly love. Were they not children themselves? The sweet, soul-caressing voice of their mother was enough for them. It melted their hearts.

Their mother had last eaten in the morning when they left, supposedly to do some yard-cleaning work at someone else’s plot in the township. Their mother had heard that his boys were hanging out with the gangster Two-fingers, but she had neither the energy nor the courage to talk about it. The women and other neighbours would hint to her when they came to visit her.

‘Thank you my son,’ she murmured, as she drank the tea Mzamo (Situation) had made for her. She nibbled slowly on the bread that they’d also served.

‘Mama, you look much sicker today,’ Marko (Bond) noted. He wasn’t really expecting an answer to affirm that from her. She never said she was getting worse, but you could see that something was eating her up with every day that passed by. The children were noticing it too.

‘My boys don’t worry about me,’ she said, staring eerily into the cup she drank from, as if expecting all the answers to her woes to come jumping from there. ‘You boys go and rest. I am sure you had a hard day cleaning up Malisa’s yard,’ she ended, as she put the cup on the side board, where a tattered bible lay. She took it and, after a few hysterical coughs, begun to read.

‘Goodnight mama,’ Mzamo and Marko said. Their mother smiled and nodded lazily.

They moved to the other room of the two-roomed flat, where they both slept on a worn-out double bed, and closed the door behind them. They were both distressed. It was written on their faces. After they had stripped their clothes off, they lay on their bed, quietly. They looked at the rusting corrugated iron and oiled rafters that roofed their house. At least they had shelter. Some folks hadn’t. Rain started falling softly on the roof, creating a soothing sound; the lullaby sung by mother-nature herself. Then suddenly Bond said something:

‘Situation,’ he whispered to his brother, nudging him right on the ribs, ‘we’ll have to steal, or should I say, keep some of the money we make from the score in town, man.’ He waited for his brother to answer.

‘What?’ Situation exclaimed. ‘Two-fingers smokes dope, and strangely you get high, nhe? He would rip out our bowels and eat us alive if he’d find out—.’

‘Well, how the heck would he find out?’ Bond interjected. ‘It’s just you and me, man. And mind you, o’lady (mother) has nothing to eat and it doesn’t do her any good. Whatever we score, we’ll just keep a little for ourselves, mf’ethu.’

There was silence. Situation really didn’t like the idea of stealing from their fierce boss. Not at all. Bond didn’t like it too. It was not stealing anyway, if you gave it a closer look. They stole from the people they pick-pocketed and snatched handbags from in town. Taking a minimum sum from the illicit proceeds and giving the lion’s share to Two-fingers was fair. Very fair.

‘Man’ Situation said. He breathed a heavy sigh. ‘It’s not a good idea, I’m telling you, but if it’s for o’lady, I guess I’m game. We’ll do it.’

‘Good, man,’ Bond answered. ‘Besides man, Two-fingers always gives us shit regardless of the score we bring to him. It may be a thousand bucks or a bloody million; He’d still talk kaak anyway. He’d tell us it’ not good enough.’

‘Ok , I think I can get the point,’ Situation said. He proceeded to rub his eyes. He was sleepy. ‘We’ll do it man. Can I sleep now?’ he ended.

‘Yeah man, whatever,’ answered Bond as he pulled his blanket over his head. They fell into a deep sleep, which they had so much yearned for.

They woke up early. At 0600hours the boys were already moving out of the house. They made their mother tea, filled it in an old thermo flask and placed it, a cup and a sugar pot on the side-board that stood next to the bed and, went off. Their mama was still asleep. They didn’t want to disturb her.

The day began slow, but picked up as the hustles and bustles of the city ensued, in the usual way. The two young boys did what they always did, perhaps with much more effort. Who knows? There was a motivation this time around. As the sun turned red, and crept slowly behind the mountains west of the city, taking its time, it was time to go back home and report to their baas.

As they approached their usual meeting place with Two-fingers at the township, the two boys were nervous. Nonetheless they tried to act cool; they put up stern faces, the ones that wouldn’t give them away as soon as Two-fingers blazing red eyes took a hard glance on them. They really didn’t need that.

‘Two, man,’ the boys greeted their master.

‘Things were a bit better today man, definitely better than yesterday,’ Bond said.

‘Laaities,’ Two- finger said, rather nonchalantly. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got me today, and you Bond, don’t come here and tell me what’s better and what’s not boy, verstaan (understand)?’ His tone raised a pitch.

‘We were just saying—,’ they both mumbled.

‘Then say no more, bring my score.’

‘Ok,’ Situation replied. He reached into the back pocket of his denim jeans and took out E450 and a cellphone and handed these things two Two-fingers.

‘Ja,’ grinned Two-fingers. He counted the money and then began to admire the cellphone. ‘You boys have worked hard today. I’m quite impressed,’ he ended.

‘Thanks bra Two,’ the boys said. They breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

‘It’s better than the kaak you brought in yesterday.’ He handed them a 20 emalangeni note. ‘Now get going laaities, tomorrow is another day. I want something this impressive again.’

Just as they turned around to leave, Two-fingers called them again.

‘Bond ntwana (boy), where did you get that dorie (hat)?’ Bring it here boy, I want to see it. It’s definitely my type, the boss-man type,’ said Two-fingers.

‘What? No man we must get going now,’ answered Bond as he shuffled his feet. ‘Maybe tomorrow’ he muttered.

‘Yeah,’ affirmed Situation.

‘Voetsek boy! Hand me that dorie,’ exclaimed Two-fingers. He marched towards Bond and violently snatched it from his head, after a tussle with the young man. There, two 100 rands notes fell off Bond’s head; they floated lazily in the winter air until they lay on the ground.

Bond and Situation were dumbstruck. They looked at each other and then contemplated the beast before them. Two-fingers’ eyes were bright red. He brandished his Rambo knife and it shone in the dark. Hell was about to break loose.