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 in the bigger scheme of things. Call me when you have what can make this go away.’
I ate an orange at a kiosk by the taxi stop, and shook my head over the offer from Detective Shange – selling Simphiwe’s freedom like that. But right there and then I came to the decision that when Simphiwe returned I would definitely pay the bribe. I would beg and borrow if I had to, as long as I could keep him out of jail.
Sango called.
‘Have Dumisani and Simphiwe gone crazy? Those two chose the darkness when living in the light is so lovely,’ he said.
We reminisced about how bright our ambitions were when we were their age. He told me there was indeed a baby on the way, work was perfect, and gave me brotherly encouragement about my studies.
‘I hear Dumisani was seriously hurt. How is he?’ I asked.
‘Dumisani regained consciousness this morning. He doesn’t know what happened or where he is. How is your brother?’
‘Simphiwe’s story is worse, my friend. We have not heard from him in six days. Ma is going insane with worry.’
‘Now that’s what drives me crazy. They worry our parents who should be enjoying their lives, reaping the rewards of decades of hard work. Instead they wake to calls from police stations and hospitals in the middle of the night.’ He sighed. ‘Listen, Khulekani, the visiting hours at Westville Hospital are from twelve to two. Dumisani is in Ward 4C. Maybe he’ll be able to tell you what happened.’
Beautiful, but, most of all, clean – that was my verdict of Westville Hospital. I waited in the foyer for the lift to take me up to Dumisani’s ward, and inhaled only sterile air, not the dodgy smells of government hospitals.
Had we afforded to take Dad to a hospital as good as Westville Hospital, surely they could have detected the impending stroke that struck and halted his life? He was locked in a coma for four days, then he was gone. We cried our eyes out amid the chaos and pungent smell of a government hospital. If we could have afforded Westville Hospital, Dad might have still been alive and Simphiwe would be on the right path. My father loved him. Simphiwe spent his whole childhood sitting on his lap. He looked so relaxed, so sheltered when Dad was alive.
I asked for Dumisani at the reception of the ward. A light flashed on the electronic board behind the nurse attending to me – a patient in the ward was in need.
‘That’s
