father about his stars. Dad looked at me with regretful eyes, shook his head, and said, “It is just a fairy tale, son. My boy, never believe in fairy tales.”
I also knew that the tattoo Musa showed to the Cold Heart indicated a high rank in the 26s. It was neither pretty nor clean, but rugged jail art. I knew at that moment that, during his time in Johannesburg, Musa had spent time in jail, and, as an all-rounder, had excelled in that side of life too – so much so that he was badged a general. The Cold Hearts were gone, but Musa was still scowling.
It dawned on me, as I looked at him, that Musa’s life had unravelled in a peculiar manner.
* * *
Musa was born in Nongoma, true dustlands where the tropical flavour of coastal KwaZulu-Natal is just a figment of the imagination. He arrived in Power, aged ten, to stay with his aunt who was not really his aunt because there was a break in the bloodline when their family tree was properly traced. Musa lost both his parents to tuberculosis the year he turned ten. The lady who took Musa in was a childhood friend of his mother. When Musa arrived in Power, his aunt was also close to my mother because they attended the same church. This was way back when the religious bug was still strong in Ma. Musa’s aunt also helped out with household chores while Ma was recovering from giving birth to my sister, Nu.
Musa arrived in Power to a crowded shack, for his aunt had children of her own, as well as other children who were distant or imaginary relatives sent to her – just like Musa.
Musa was different from the other children of Power. On the dusty patch we used as a soccer pitch, the other boys ran bare-chested. They wore only shorts, citing the heat as the reason for their dress code. But we all knew they could not afford T-shirts. Musa always wore T-shirts. In twenty-cent soccer games, Musa never lost. He was different.
The teachers in school loved Musa because he was blessed with an absorbent brain. It was as if he were in class to prove false the concept that says repetition is the father of learning. Musa heard it once and never forgot. On weekends, he was never short of gardening offers from our teachers. Most of us begged to clean their gardens and yards for pocket money, but the teachers always chose Musa. When Saturday lunchtime matches began at the dusty pitch, Musa always had money in his pocket.
Life was hard at his aunt’s shack. Sometimes, when I woke up too early for school and just sat in our back yard, I saw all the children who lived at his aunt’s shack leaving for school and wondered how all of them managed to sleep in such a small space. With the proceeds from his gardening gigs, Musa bought what a child should not have to buy for himself – food and clothes. There was something too mature about him. I never saw a child take care of himself like Musa did.
Unlike me, he was an all-rounder. I was a good soccer player but a dismal student. Musa did everything well – school, soccer, he even did athletics for our school. He was good at everything, and when the shoplifting bug infected the township Musa caught the most acute strain. He excelled at shoplifting too.
When Musa dropped out of high school, three teachers crossed the stream to his aunt’s shack. I was in the back yard at home and saw them talk to Musa for over an hour. A few days later, he passed by my house with a hurried step.
“I am going to Joburg. I hear things are better there,” he said.
“When?” I inquired.
“Now,” he said.
For a year and six months, that was the last I’d heard of him. The crouching duel in number lore with the Cold Heart had taken place on only his second week back from Johannesburg.
* * *
“Drive me to F Section, I have to see a friend there.”
The look of revulsion was still on Musa’s face.
He neither spoke nor flirted with girls at bus stops and on the pavement. He just smoked, with a scowl so vicious I did not dare ask for a puff.
“It was just something to direct, Musa, R800 for hardly fifteen minutes,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.
Apparently there was something very wrong with my attempt to break the ice.
“Do not tell me about things to direct. All of a sudden you know the Cold Hearts. My friend, peel your eyes because you are rolling with me. Or should I peel them for you?”
His tirade continued when I shook my head.
“I think I should. One – you are with the Cold Hearts – by association you are guilty. In a stolen car with no licence disc, no number plate. What were you thinking, Sipho? They call themselves 26 but spill blood like 27s. Their code is kill for whatever. Do you know what happens when you are arrested in a situation like this? The police beat you up before they hear your story. They won’t care that you had nothing to do with the stealing of the car you are in. They put you in this thing called a tube and suffocate you. After that, all you can muster is a confession. Then comes the hard part – the bail money, the lawyer fees. A lousy R800 you were never going to get anyway is not worth all this trouble, because the Cold Hearts don’t pay. Country crooks who came to the city for money; the only thing they know is how to take.
“I don’t want you riding with these snakes, Sipho. Because they saw you spinning yesterday they will approach you looking for a getaway driver. If anyone comes to you with that shit, tell them to come see me. None of them will pay you. I will put you on in a scheme for money if you are fearless. Remuneration for bravery must make sense. Fuck their schemes. I will put you on a sweet scheme.”
By the time we reached F Section, Musa had cooled off a bit.
“Stop by the third house on your right. Vusi lives here,” he said.
The crooks who lived in F Section called it France for no other reason than the letter “F”. The streets bustled like most sections of the township, but F Section did so with greater hustle. Three boys who were hardly thirteen years old stood opposite where we parked.
“Ask him,” I heard them whisper as we closed the doors of the 325is. Musa turned to them.
“What do you say, nephews? What do you have for me today?” he said.
“A stereo, bra Musa, one of the latest ones with a face that flips.”
“I’m never buying from you again. The stereo you sold me last week does not work. How much for this new one you are talking about?”
“R300,” they answered simultaneously.
“Your price is too high. If you can work out a better price, maybe I’ll buy it when I finish here.”
“But, bra Musa, we are three – a hundred for each.”
“Go collect it so I can see it, and maybe we can work something out.”
The boys ran off.
“I am at the back!” Vusi shouted from the back yard as Musa was about to knock on the front door.
Vusi sat on a stripped-out car seat, both feet resting on an empty beer crate. A dumpy sweated on the ground next to him.
“You have good timing, brothers. I have just returned from town, hardly thirty minutes ago. How are you?” Vusi said.
“Alright. Where were you?” said Musa.
“At the chest clinic in the city. My uncle, Sazi, had an appointment.”
“How is he? The last time I saw him, he was really sick.”
“Considering then and now, I will say better, but he is still sick. Most of the time he is in bed, like now.”
Vusi offered beer, but we both declined. I accepted his cigarette, though – and the deal he put on the table.
“It is good you are here because I will need your help. I have to finish stripping this car by two in the afternoon. If it was not for Sazi’s appointment, I would have finished a long time ago,” Vusi said.
In the shade of a makeshift