Dog Eat Dog: A Novel

twenty-three

twenty-three We were on the main road through Orlando West, next to the Hector Peterson commemorative stone and opposite UncleT om’s Hall. Dunga’s forefinger pointed down to stop taxis bound for Bara Hospital. That’s how it’s done in the township. Fingers are the only means of communication between the driver of a minibus-taxi and the commuter on the street. If you’re in Soweto and your forefinger points skywards it means you’re going to town (Johannesburg ). If you lift both your middle and forefinger it means you’re going to Highgate Mall. Five fingers means that you are probably lost because it means Lenasia, which is in the opposite direction. The midday taxi was empty and we both sat up front with the driver as he hooted at all the pedestrians on the side of the road, trying to find passengers to fill up his taxi.Through the windscreen I could see the July wind raising red dust across the valley on the untarred side streets of Orlando East. As we crossed over the railway bridge that links the East and West sections of Orlando we passed a large red and white billboard on the side of the road: PEPSI WELCOMES YOU TO ORLANDO EAST Along Mooki Street, which is the first street in Orlando East after the railway bridge, the taxi turned left in the direction of Orlando Station. ‘Short left!’shouted Dunga to the driver before the police station . That’s the way to stop a taxi in Soweto; ‘short left’ simply means that you’re getting out of the taxi at the next street on the left. 183 Slowly Dunga and myself walked past the police station and crossed Mooki Street before we got to the post office. Ahead of us a crowd was standing in a circle. ‘I wonder what’s happening there?’said Dunga. ‘I wonder too. Look! Can you see police over there?’ I said, pointing at the three police vans next to the crowd. We jostled our way through the crowd to assess the situation for ourselves. In the centre there were three people lying motionless with deep gashes all over their bodies. Their clothes were soaked with blood and one of the victims was still choking out a death rattle. Next to the victims were all sorts of weapons that had been used by the angry crowd of men, women and children. I saw pangas, spades, pick handles, axes and garden forks. For some reason I was immediately reminded of a biblical film I had watched when I was about five years old, in which Stephen was stoned to death for spreading the word of God. ‘By the way, this is the township,’ Dunga said, as if to remind himself. ‘Life is cheap and death is absolutely free of charge.’ ‘But it’s a cruel thing to end another man’s life in this painful way,’I said, as if I knew of a better way of dying. ‘What have they done?’Dunga asked one of the vigilantes. ‘They are thieves,’ she answered with one brief uninterested look at Dunga. ‘But where were the police?’ ‘Don’t tell me about those bastards – all they know about is taking bribes and buying stolen goods themselves,’said the vigilante angrily. About ten police officers were busily taking an official statement from one of the senior citizens standing there. But it was obvious that by the time they arrived the three victims were already somewhere between heaven and hell, although the police station was just down the road. As we stood there, I caught a glimpse of one of the victims’ bloodstained face. My heart sank as I realised that his damaged 184 face was familiar to me. He was one of the guys who had come to my home on the day of the national elections to negotiate the sale of some sound equipment. I looked at Dunga to see whether he had also recognised the man. ‘So crime indeed pays,’Dunga whispered. ‘Yeah, they were caught at their game.’ ‘Remember what I was tellingThemba the day he bought those stolen goods?’ In a wink we were out of the mob, for fear that the victims might miraculously come back to life and point us out as their customers. As soon as we were out of the crowd Dunga and myself were faced with the...