Thirteen Cents. K. Sello Duiker

and bruises all over her face. Her clothes are also torn. He grabs her by the scruff and bundles her to his flat which is on the same road. People walk by.

      “What the fuck do you want?” he says as he walks past me.

      I show him forty bucks. That’s the only thing Allen understands best – money. He doesn’t answer. He just calls me with his head. The white girl is bleeding but she doesn’t cry.

      “I should naai you for all the shit you cause, you stupid bitch,” he says and throws her on the couch that looks flea-ridden. The cats scurry away. She doesn’t say anything.

      “Go clean up before I fuck you up again,” he yells, the devil in his eyes. He kicks her hard in the ass as she gets up. She falls on her face and starts crying.

      “Get up, you cunt! Poes! Fokken naai!”

      She gets up slowly and goes to the bathroom.

      “Now what the fuck do you want? And who said you could sit down? Fuck off your naai, get up,” he turns to me.

      “Allen, I need shoes,” I say looking at his feet.

      “Fuck off, why didn’t you come yesterday?”

      I wait for him to slap me but he doesn’t.

      “Hey, what’s your fucking problem? Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He straightens my head by the chin.

      I look at him, hiding the terror in my eyes.

      Unexpectedly, he smiles and shows off his mouth of mostly gold fillings.

      “You’re my my laaitie, you know that? Where’s your money?”

      I give him the moistened notes.

      “Wait here,” he says. “Don’t sit. I’ll have a look in the bedroom.”

      On the floor around me there are boxes of stolen items, things that Allen or whoever it was got from house breaking. A pair of Reebok tackies that look like my size stare at me from the corner. Allen returns with ten-rand flip-flops. He throws them at me and says I must return in three days’ time to get proper shoes. What he means is that I must return in three days’ time with more money. And when I do I must not say anything about today, otherwise he will beat the living shit out of me. He’s like that, Allen; you must never remind him of anything. He knows everything. I take off my shoes with holes at the bottom and put on the thin strops. Give me those ones, he orders me. I nearly hesitate but give him. What is he going to do with them? I walk out his flat and try not to think of my money as wasted but as protection money.

      I can walk a little safer knowing that Allen has my money. Money is his language. It’s the only thing he remembers, everything else is unimportant. I wouldn’t be surprised tomorrow if he asked that girl who beat her up. Of course she would be forced to say that someone else beat her up in fear of upsetting him again. And then another stupid argument would start and more blood and tears. He’s totally messed up, Allen. I don’t know if he’s crazy or just likes playing games.

      I feel tense and walk towards the bridge hoping that Liesel will be there.

      I’ve learned something from Allen and that is money is everything. It’s everything because you can get a house and call the shots. When you’re dressed properly grown-ups give you a bit of respect. But as long as I’m me and have no home and wear tattered clothes Allen will never give me proper clothes because that would mean that I can look like him. And no one who knows Allen looks like him. He makes sure of that. Even if it means he strips you himself. He always has to outdress you, outsmart you. It’s his way. It’s the grown-up way. He only wears Nike shoes and expensive jeans and tops. He always gives me clothes that are just about to fall apart, so that I’m always dependent on him. So that I will always go back to him for more and spend my money on him. But I understand. I have to do it. It’s the only way I can be safe on the streets. There are too many monsters out there.

      4

      I get to the bridge and find that Liesel is not there. So I hang around Ma Zakes’ spaza shop with Sealy. He buys me mageu and rolls a joint.

      “Keep an eye out for the pigs,” he says.

      “Sure.”

      “Where were you last night?”

      “Why?”

      “Gerald fucked up this one guy with a goni because he called him driver as he got into his cab.”

      “Who was that stupid naai?”

      “Liesel’s outie. You checked him. He thinks he’s hard because he’s in Hard Livings.”

      “Ja, I know him. He’s a real poes.”

      “I checked you like Liesel.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Don’t give me that shit. You only buy your stop from her.”

      “Ja, because she doesn’t make me wait like you ouens.”

      “Ag voetsek, you just want to naai her.”

      “It’s not like that.”

      “Ay but you’re full of kak. You never know what’s going inside your head.”

      He lights up the joint and takes a long drag. TKZee belt out “Shibobo” from Ma Zakes’. I take a sip of mageu and let it settle at the back of my throat. Sealy bobs his head in rhythm. He’s a bastard on the dance floor. He can outdance anyone and he’s got style. That’s why Gerald likes him. Gerald comes in with his white Ford Grenada. He makes a lot of noise before he parks it outside his shack not far from where we are sitting.

      “Away, Sealy,” he shouts as he gets out of the car.

      “Away, Gerald,” Sealy says and gets up to dance. I watch him from the bench, his feet shuffling pantsula-style, a cool sleepy look on his face. Just before he goes to Gerald he gives me his joint and another stop.

      “Swaai us another pilletjie, ek sê.”