* * *
“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 carport, a top-of-the-range Nissan Sentra stood on bricks.
“You can steal cars for other people, Vusi, but I have to beg you for my M3. I placed my order with you when I was in Joburg. What did you do with the mag rims of this car, anyway? I know someone who has wanted them for months.”
“You should have told me. I gave them to someone who has not paid me yet. So will you help me or what? The buyer has called me three times already confirming the time.”
“How much will my cut be?” Musa said.
“The guy will buy everything for R8 000. I’ll give you R3 000. You can put in the quiet king of drifting and cut half with him. I am serious, Musa, this is an emergency job. We should be on it as we speak.”
Musa looked at me with an inquiring smile.
“What do you say, Sipho? Are you down for R1 500?”
I just nodded my head.
“Good then, Musa. You will be on the doors, bonnet and boot. Sipho, you will be inside, and I can take the engine apart.”
“No ways,” Musa said. “I have money to collect and people to see. I’ll check you grease monkeys after two.”
It was just after eleven when we started. From his room in the back yard, Vusi salvaged a tool box my father would have died for, an angle grinder and a six-pack of beer.
“Is beer alright? I have water and cold drink if not.”
I settled for water.
“You have to be neat, now. The buyer owns a scrapyard so he is looking to resell the parts.”
Vusi handed me a set of screwdrivers and small spanners.
He changed into overalls, the top half rolled and tied at his waist, but the gold remained. I took off my T-shirt and sat down on a beer crate for balance inside the car. The front seats were already stripped out.
Vusi was short and thin. Tiny in a way that made it a certainty that not much about his frame would change in the future. Musa and I looked young, but with elongated frames. Vusi looked fourteen. What he lacked in stature he made up for in boundless energy.
Vusi looked young, yet his words were driven by a force twice his real age. There was a smooth way to his demeanour that strongly hinted at criminal experience. His shoulders were strong and muscled in a weird way, too defined for the rest of his body, like they developed too soon and the rest was still catching up. He went through the task with a relaxed face, but worked fast, with controlled energy, like a person
