a minute while he yapped.
There were a lot of mothers in the queue. Ma quickly exchanged stories with the woman next to her. This lady was immersed in shock because her son stabbed an old family friend dead. She told her story with sad resignation. ‘Our children,’ they both lamented.
Ma turned to me. She asked, ‘Are you not hungry?’
Her scones appealed to me, but I couldn’t eat once I had seen the gash on a man’s head, further up our bench. The wound was right at the top of his skull, not long, but deep and in need of stitches. It seemed to have a pulse, like there was a tiny heart beating just under it.
‘He crept up on me, hit me with a golf club. I had done nothing! I was just drunk and walking by,’ he told people who asked.
‘No, Ma. I’m not hungry,’ I said, looking away from the gash.
In the three hours we were there, Claremont Police Station continued to malfunction. But it was our turn, eventually. I explained our story.
‘The detective is not in. He’ll be in tomorrow,’ said the young constable.
‘After waiting for so long we can’t get help?’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘Don’t you know anything about the housebreaking case against my brother?’
‘No. The proper person to talk to is the detective in charge of that case.’
‘Are you serious? You mean in this whole place there’s no-one else who can help us?’
‘The detective will be in on the night shift. I’ll give you his office number. Call him and set up an appointment.’
‘Are you serious? This is a joke!’
The group of police officers beyond the counter, who were slacking at their jobs, turned to witness my tantrum.
‘If you paid as much attention to your cases, they’d be solved!’ I vented.
‘Shut your mouth! Go outside and wait by the gate,’ Ma shushed me.
I stormed out of there, irritated. In a glance back I saw that Ma had her hands together as she pleaded with them. Our constable, plus two female constables from the slacking gang, now listened to her.
She joined me outside a while later, shaking her head. As we were waiting for a taxi, one of the young female constables called out to us. She ran up and stopped next to Ma.
‘Here is Detective Shange’s cellphone number. Phone him in the afternoon because he only knocked off this morning. And tell your son to stop being so rude.’
In the taxi that took us home I tried the number three times and got voicemail each time. When we arrived home, Aunt Busi was waiting by the gate. She hugged Ma and put her arm around my shoulders. In the lounge they wallowed in maternal sadness.
I went out and did some neighbourhood digging about the driver of the car that Dumisani and Simphiwe had left the wunga merchant’s shack in. I was told it was a green Golf I, the same make, model and colour as the car I had seen burning in my nightmares. I got information from here and there that led me to think that the driver was a certain Sandile.
Sandile was older than both Dumisani and Simphiwe by a few years. He studied land surveying at Durban University of Technology and worked part time on weekends and holidays, a true hustler. His parents had moved to the suburbs, leaving the house in his hands. I’d known him to be a cool guy, one of those people sure to succeed in life. He was wiping down his green Golf I after washing it when I walked up to his house.
He was happy to talk. ‘I know Dumisani from way back, and Simphiwe from karate, but I did not know he was into these things. They told me they had car rims for sale,’ Sandile said.
He took two camping chairs from the boot of his car for us to sit on. I asked for cold water and downed it while he told me how the whole thing went down.
‘It was a smooth, cheap exchange, nice rims too, BBS mesh. I paid them a grand and dropped them off at the wunga merchant. It was there that Dumisani remembered he had money to pick up in Claremont and asked me for a ride. They bought me a six-pack of beers and filled the tank of my car. Off to Claremont we went. It was all smooth at first. Then it just went crazy.’
‘How?’
‘They started with the wunga while we waited for the man with the cash, a taxi owner. They were blitzed by the time he arrived. He let us into his house. Do you know what Dumisani does? He asks for the bathroom and steals an iPhone from one of the bedrooms!’
I downed the cold water, chewed ice, shifted in the camping chair, unsettled by how the story was developing.
‘Dumisani collected the money, then we went to a wunga-smoking den, still in Claremont, where the stolen cellphone was quickly up for sale. They smoked more wunga, I drank my beers. Then they hatched a crazy scheme that would have involved me.
‘We went our separate ways when they decided to burgle a mansion in the vicinity that had its lights off. They thought I hadn’t heard them hatch the plan, but I was right behind them. I knew everything – knew that I was to be the unknowing getaway driver. ‘We’ll send him out for more beer and tell him to park at the gate of the mansion when he returns.’ That is what I heard your brother say. I started my car and left them at that smoking den. I’ll just tell you, Khulekani, your brother changes. He’s quiet, but once he smokes that wunga, Simphiwe begins to speak the language of thieves. That’s the last I saw of them, going to rob that mansion.’
I walked home in the dusk. At least the green Golf I was in perfect condition, not charred like the one in my nightmares. I kept telling myself this, comforting myself all through that sleepless, starless night.
Detective Shange returned my voice messages around four on Thursday morning.
‘I’ve been out since my shift began. I don’t think I will be at the station at all today. Can you meet me in the city? Meet me at the Umbilo Car Licensing Department between eight and ten. I drive a red Toyota Sprinter. Call me when you get there,’ he said.
I was at the licensing department by half past seven. I called him when his car entered the gates. He motioned for me to get in.
‘Do you also work night shift?’ inquired Detective Shange.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You look tired, like you have not slept. Which one is your brother?’
‘The one who escaped the beating.’
‘Dumisani’s reputation preceded him. I knew about a mad, young, handsome killer kid through my friends at Umlazi Police Station. But when we got to the scene, I only saw the harmless child in him begging for his life. He told us everything, you know. Before he passed out, he sang about your brother. But there are things that can be done. We can work the case in a way that will pin everything on Dumisani. Your brother must just lie low. It would be even better if he actually moved away. I’ll search everywhere and won’t find him, even if he is there. I’ll tell the judge he is nowhere to be found… if you get my drift.’
‘He really is lost. We have not heard from him in six days. That’s why we called you. We thought you could shed some light on the case, tell us what really happened,’ I said.
Detective Shange rubbed his bald head and then the side of his face where an old scar was visible. ‘The owner of the house walked in on a burglary in progress. He pulled a gun and walked the two culprits out into the street. The whole neighbourhood quickly converged and doled out mob justice on the boys. Dumisani bore the brunt of it because your brother managed to escape. For sure he is in hiding. But you would not tell me even if you knew where he is. Would you?’
‘Serious, we really don’t know where he is.’
Shange broke into a tired smile. ‘Well, I want to let you know there is an angle we can work in this case. With a bit of cash, of course, a little something for going to the trouble of not finding him. Just R2000 – that’s not much