and began to wave goodbye. Then suddenly I signalled at them to stop the car, as if I had forgotten something inside. I put my grocery bags down and approached the driver’s door, while they both looked at the back seat to see if there was something I had left there. I took my Walkman out of my pocket; the record and play buttons on it were still pressed down, and the red record light was flickering. I showed it to Sergeant Viljoen.
“What now?” he asked, perplexed.
“Are you stupid? Can’t you see that our conversation is recorded on this cassette?”
“Shit! You fucking bastard! You will pay for this.”
“Hey! Mind your language, Sergeant Viljoen! This thing is still recording.”
“F-fuck!” swore Sergeant Naicker from the other side.
“He’s only trying to scare us. There’s nothing there,” said Viljoen to console his colleague.
“Suit yourselves, I’ll see you in court then.”
I turned my back and pretended I was leaving, but before I could go very far they called me back. “Hey, you! Come here, you.”
Within the blink of an eye the two officers were out of the car. I thought they were going to negotiate a deal with me, but that was not the case. Suddenly Naicker’s big hand was around my balls and I was standing on my toes with pain. Viljoen grabbed the Walkman from my pocket. I tried to resist, but Viljoen’s fist struck me across my mouth. I tasted blood. Naicker let go of my balls and I staggered and fell down. I lay still on the pavement pretending I had lost consciousness, but Viljoen’s boot struck me in the ribs. A few minutes later I was handcuffed and bundled inside the car.
“Never fuck with the police again, my boy,” warned Viljoen as the car turned past Hillbrow Hospital.
I didn’t have the nerve to utter even a single word. I looked at my grocery bags on the floor of the car next to my legs. The brick of butter that I had bought had melted and was almost flat. One of us must have stepped on it. The bottle of mayonnaise had been broken and there was the smell of it inside the car.
At Esselen Street the car turned to the right in the direction of Berea. Ahead of us were about half a dozen police vans with flickering lights parked next to a tall block of flats. The handcuffs were very tight and I felt like the blood wasn’t circulating properly in my hands. I looked at the time on the dashboard. It was already twenty minutes past seven in the evening. I had missed my dinner at the Y.
“These things are too tight, please loosen them,” I pleaded.
“That serves you right, boy,” said Naicker as the car came to a standstill next to the other police vans.
There were lots of people standing around. All eyes were on the block of flats. Policemen were all over the place with sniffer dogs. Naicker and Viljoen got out of the car without saying a word to me, locked the doors and walked towards the entrance.
After about an hour some policemen came down through the door with some guys who were handcuffed. Deep in my heart I was hoping that Naicker and Viljoen were amongst them, but they weren’t. I sat there wondering what the guys might have done. They had probably been arrested for a much more serious offence than mine. I looked at my plastic bag again and spotted the Black Label. No more drinking, I told myself.
At about ten minutes to ten, I spotted Viljoen coming towards the car. He opened the driver’s door and sat inside. “Where do you stay?” he asked.
“YMCA,” I answered.
Without asking my permission he opened one of my Black Label dumpies. He drank about half of it without taking a break and gave a loud disgusting belch. “Do you want some?” he asked as if he was going to give me the one that he was holding in his hand.
I nodded, but all that I really wanted was for him to set my hands free. In a while I saw Naicker coming towards the car as well; he stopped in the middle of the road and lit a cigarette. Viljoen put the bottle on the dashboard and searched his pockets. He took out some keys and unlocked my handcuffs. Naicker opened the front door and within seconds we were on our way back in the direction of Braamfontein. Viljoen tossed a cold beer to me and I twisted the bottle open. Naicker offered me a cigarette, but I found it too difficult to smoke with my swollen lips.
At half past ten they dropped me at the entrance of the Y with my plastic bags. My ribs were still very painful. My front teeth were loose and my left eye was nearly shut. I had lost my Walkman, my beers and my money.
Seven
YEA, THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH I FEAR NO EVIL
I lay on my single bed, under the full glare of a dazzling bulb reflected from the white ceiling, reading the sticker on the door of my wardrobe. The ink had faded away on the third line and all that was legible were the words “Psalms” and “David”. But I knew from my religious education at primary school that the words were taken from the Good Book, Psalm 23 of King David. We used to be forced by our teachers to memorise the psalms that were prescribed in our Bantu (Blacks Are Nothing To Us) syllabus. Because of that my head is still heavy and addled with the psalms like a traveller’s jumbled suitcase.
I was alone in my room at the Y as my roommate Dworkin hadn’t come back the previous evening. I guessed he was out jolling, as ladies were never allowed in the residence except those employed by the Y authorities to do the laundry for us.
I had woken up at five o’clock that morning and taken a long warm bath. Since I knew that I was naturally not an early riser I had arranged with Dunga the day before to come and wake me up at half past six. We had planned to be at the Braamfontein Civic Centre by seven o’clock to vote. But that morning I didn’t need Dunga to wake me, I was too excited about voting for the first time.
By half past six I was getting more and more impatient. I thought that if we left immediately, as arranged, we would arrive there earlier than everyone as it was only about five minutes’ walk from the Y to the Braamfontein Civic Centre.
In order to kill time while I waited for Dunga I was finishing off the last chapter of Animal Farm by George Orwell. I still enjoyed the story although I can’t recall how many times I had read it previously. It had been one of my favourite prescribed novels when I was still doing standard nine in the late 1980s. As I read I could hear a Zulu struggle song being sung outside my window.
| UMandela uthi ayihlome | (Mandela says let the warriors get ready) |
| Uthi ayihlome ihlasele | (Yes, let’s get ready) |
| USisulu uthi ayIhlome ihlasele | (Sisulu says let the warriors be ready for the battle) |
| UDe Klerk asimfuni | (We don’t want De Klerk) |
| Yebo, asimfuni | (Yes, we don’t want him) |
| Siyaya. Wemkhonto we sizwe ePitori, yebo may’mhlome | (We’re going. You the spear of the nation in Pretoria, yes let’s be ready for the battle) |
There was the sound of whistling and the rhythmic beat of clapping hands and stamping feet from the crowd coming down Rissik Street. They were on their way to the Civic Centre.
“Bopha, comrades! Stop, comrades!” shouted a voice from the crowd, probably the leader. There was silence for a moment but it wasn’t long before another struggle song began.
| Phansi ngo De Klerk, phansi! | (Down with De Klerk, down!) |
| Phansi! | (Down!) |
| Phansi ngo De Klerk, phansi! | |
| Phansi! | |
| Phambili ngo Mandela, phambili! | (Forward
|
