work fast, get the job done, take my cash and disappear in fifteen minutes. But the car supposed to take me to G Section was also stolen. This added an unforeseen, worrying dimension to the matter. The ride to G Section in a stolen car was not part of the calculation.
The Cold Hearts went wild with the car’s gadgets, like children let loose in a toy shop. Thick fingers poked the sunroof button, while the taller and younger one set the air conditioner to full blast. I needed fresh air, but thought of fingerprints being dusted off the window button and quickly cancelled that idea. The younger Cold Heart turned to me in the back seat, a dead gaze on his boyish face.
“What is your problem? Why are your eyes bulging out?”
I pointed to the windscreen.
While they were playing with all the gizmos inside the car, Musa had parked right in front of us, blocking the way. He got out, his face a mask of revulsion. He spat on the tarmac and called over the older Cold Heart. They crouched in the space between the two cars. Musa did not answer my greeting, and he just stared at the gangster. The ball of fear in my throat dissolved when he spoke.
“You are trespassing, brother. This here is my soldier. There must be a very good reason he is in your car. You better be giving him a lift or something.”
Musa had his thumb in front of his face. When 26 gang members crouch to resolve issues, the raised right thumb is the sixth digit, on the presumption that all fingers of the left hand have been counted. Musa had his thumb up. The sign of the 26 gang. That six briefly turned into a seven when he pointed at me.
“Nice party at Lamontville yesterday,” replied the Cold Heart. “And I must say it was nice when you played your cars, though personally I find it to be plain showing off. But girls like it. We are brothers, you and I, money lover. The very thumb you raise up, I was raised on it. My body is a gallery of medals. We can go there from dusk till dawn, Musa. You have never seen your kind wild like me, two and six.”
The older Cold Heart rolled up both sleeves of his shirt.
“You see, Mr Superstar from nowhere, everything written on this body tells a story. I am a captain, I have led teams and pushed schemes in and out of prison. Do not fluke me because I know this: the law of the number says it does not matter if it is my soldier or your soldier as long as we get money. Or has the law of the number changed? I hear in Westville Prison you can buy the number these days. Did you buy it, Mr Superstar? Who are you, to speak of soldiers? What do you know about the thumb you raise to my face?”
“It is all the same, money lover. It is still as I say: my soldier is coming with me. We have money to make,” Musa said.
“Money lover, we were also on a mission that was smooth sailing until you came along. Who do you think you are? Do you know you can die for this?”
“Man from the east, money over everything. A captain never talks to a general like this. I am a general here; in essence, I run things.”
Musa took off his T-shirt.The tattoo over his heart showed two playing cards: a two of spades and a six of flies. Its appearance averted the threat of violence, for the younger Cold Heart had climbed out of the car with a knife in his hand. He silently moved away.
“It is as I said – my soldier is coming with me.” Musa crouched firm.
Tattoos in prison are like certificates in society or medals in the army. The Cold Hearts were ready to take out Musa, yet the law of the number proclaimed him untouchable. The older Cold Heart stood up and retreated with a shake of the head. Musa parked the 325is on the side of the road. I realised, as the Cold Hearts sped off, that the ball of fear had vanished – and that my father’s pliers were gone.
I am a township child; I knew what Musa and the Cold Heart were on about. I knew that what I had just witnessed was the law of the number of convicts, as laid out only briefly in number lore. I knew what the stars tattooed on my father’s shoulders stood for. I knew that the stars were emblems from his past life as a lieutenant in the 26 prison gang. I knew that the 26 gang was for the money. When I was about twelve, I asked my 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,
