to hand over the credit cards and now he’s in intensive care. She got knocked around but not so much. No rape. It’s the same pattern – two men, faces covered, not the usual gang stuff. They know what they’re doing. They’re there to clean the place out. And later, when they use the credit cards,’ she added, ‘they hide their faces from the cameras.’
‘How do they get in? What about alarms, security?’
‘That’s the thing. We don’t know how they’re getting in or what cars they use to get away. The community watch people are sending hundreds of photos of anything they think might help. We haven’t even started going through them yet.’
‘Ja.’ In the end, security means nothing, thought Schalk. People had to come and go, and at some point they had to turn off alarms, open doors and gates. He pocketed the phone.
‘Christ!’ he said.
He was commenting on the size of the throng in the Company’s Garden. Government Avenue was full of people all going the same way, talking and strolling in the balmy evening air. Schalk and Mbotho joined them. Before they got there, they could hear noise coming from the top of Adderley Street. They shoved through to the front and saw two groups, a larger group in the street facing a smaller one on the steps of St George’s Cathedral.
The smaller group lined up in ranks like a school photo. About 50 of them, all white, all ages. Their theme was vaguely military, a few older men in safari suits and the rest, including the women, in a uniform of pants, khaki shirts and army-style khaki baseball caps. Some of the group carried placards with big Afrikaans headlines proclaiming Volkskrag! South Africa for South Africans! Reclaim our Country! Stop the Genocide! Above the slogans sat a photo of the Reverend Hans Toebroek, three-quarter profile, responsible, wise. On the top step stood the real thing, Toebroek himself, a reduced version with hair slicked back and ears at right angles to a battered face.
Facing Toebroek was the full Cape Town contingent, a crowd of black, white, Malay, Indian, tourists, locals. Young and old, they sported everything from T-shirts to turbans, including here and there the distinctive red berets, tops and overalls of the Economic Freedom Fighters. Placards and flags covered a range of issues, from union power to anti-rape, but most focused on corruption.
Aparthate Stole Our Past, Corruption Steals Our Future! they read, and Corrupt Government Must Go!
Near the front, a squad in ANC yellow, black and green carried versions of the poster Schalk had seen on the truck, their candidate Gideon Radebe gazing benevolently out, urging people to Vote Gideon Radebe, ANC, The People’s Choice!
The crowd surged and bubbled, some toyi-toying, some singing, a rock-concert sea of phones in the air. The mood was charged. It felt like a party but people were arriving by the minute and Schalk knew how quickly crowds could turn and things get ugly. He stretched his neck to see where the police were. Three Metro cops leaned against the Crypt wall, each hunched over a cellphone. So much for police presence. He plucked at Mbotho’s sleeve. ‘Call for backup. Not the riot squad, we don’t want to start a war. And make those guys get their fingers out. Now.’ She dived off into the mob.
There was movement on the steps. Behind a standing mike the Reverend Toebroek raised a hand, bellowed. ‘Vriende! Friends! I come here to talk to you about the way forward for our beloved Suid-Afrika, the way out of this terrible hell we are in.’ He clasped his hands under his chin. ‘O liewe here – O lord,’ he switched from Afrikaans to English as he went, accenting words in a sing-song rhythm, ‘bless with your presence all the people here tonight, all the lost souls of our homeland. Let them see the way, the true path, the path our fathers and forefathers took when they trekked into the dark heartland of this country, when we made it our own.’
The other group didn’t like this. They muttered and shoved, here and there a shout. The Boers had indeed won the country, over the many bodies of people who got in their way. Toebroek didn’t notice or didn’t care. He stretched his arms upward. ‘Now, my brethren,’ he cried, ‘come sing our lied, our anthem, together with me.’
His followers broke into the old national anthem.
Uit die blou van onse Hemel
Uit die diepte van ons see…
From the facing crowd, more foot-stamping, more yelling, all languages. People at the back surged forward, forcing those in front right up against the Cathedral steps. The shouting – some singing as well – grew louder, angrier. One by one, the singers on the steps realised they were in trouble. The song petered out. Only Toebroek and a lone soprano kept going until the end, ‘Ons vir jou, Suid Afrikaaaa!’
Pressed from behind, a couple of people stumbled forward into Toebroek followers, who pushed back with their placards. Shoving started, to and fro. What Schalk feared was starting to happen. He looked for Mbotho but the crowd blocked his view. Then he spotted her, phone to her ear, too far away.
Meanwhile, in the front row, two opposing supporters engaged. Punches were thrown, clothes torn. More people joined the battle. Things were seconds away from disaster and Schalk had to do something.
‘Come on!’ he bellowed, at the top of his voice. ‘Police! Stop now!’
No effect whatsoever. So he plunged in, thinking at the same time how stupid he was being. Two of the Metro cops materialised, guns drawn. Shit! That could only mean disaster.
Schalk saw a Toebroek follower step forward. A kid, a teenager, reddish hair. He was shouldering a rifle, looking down a barrel aimed into the general mass. Schalk couldn’t get to him. His hands were full trying to pull a big EFF man away from a Volkskrag supporter, at the same time fending off blows from people who saw a white man attacking one of their own. He was thrown to the ground, kicked hard. Around him was chaos, feet and bodies and noise and he could see himself being trampled to death.
A voice came booming from the distance, a caramel voice amplified like the word of God. ‘Comrades,’ it said. ‘Stop. We are better than this. Are we so small we cannot hear another point of view? Are we turning into our enemies?’
The voice fixed everyone in place. The crowd opened to let through a man in slacks and a Mandela shirt. He was holding a megaphone.
Schalk, on his knees, recognised the face from the ANC poster. Gideon Radebe. He was as tall as Schalk but built like a barrel. Not young. Calm, in charge.
Radebe cut through the action like Moses parting the Red Sea. For an instant his eyes met Schalk’s. He stopped directly in front of the boy with the rifle, waited. The boy looked to Reverend Toebroek for guidance but the Reverend, hands frozen in benediction, stared down at Radebe. The boy turned back to Radebe who kept waiting. The boy lowered his rifle, broke it.
There was a space around Radebe now, enough for Schalk to get up. His shirt was torn and his elbow grazed. Near him, Mbotho had somehow returned and was making a Metro cop holster his gun. Good move.
Radebe climbed to the top of the steps. He turned to face his people, voice reverberating through the megaphone. ‘Friends,’ he boomed, ‘I understand your anger and your frustration, but Reverend Toebroek has every right to be here. He is standing for election just as I am. So you should listen to him very carefully. We are a democracy, after all. Who knows, perhaps he will convert some of us to his cause?
Here and there people laughed, a mixture of relief and admiration. Then a shout from the crowd, a woman, ‘Ja, what, you and him, you’re all the same, just out for yourselves. We’re sick of being run by criminals
