EPTThis my story. I am an ex-software developer who left the Computer Industry and joined the Security Forces (in the country South Africa). Initially I worked in a small town, near the mines and farming lands. At the beginning of 2023 I returned back to my home city Cape Town. It was here that I was offered a job working in the African Township, doing armed escort for liquor trucks. The story here describes my return to Cape Town city, and my account of what I experienced in the African Township. Its significance becomes clearer when you understand that less than 1% of the non-african population or the inhabitants of Cape Town haven't even entered the Township before, because they all remain within the Inner City and outskirt regions. I was paid by a man in Texas to produce this story, and now am releasing it online for the interests of any audience willing to know it. Images taken on my cellphone also feature.
PS: Here are links to photos
https://ibb.co/GFYQ1XH
https://ibb.co/9y0RzQJ
https://ibb.co/Jmhn26R
CHAPTER 2 – THE FIRST DAY
I arose that morning around 4:35am, affording the usual routine of preparing plunger coffee that was sipped slowly. It's important for me when consuming any stimulant that I never took it forcefully or in a rush. This brief ritual performed every morning - combined with coffee, light music, and rumination - was my own brand of palliative serving to withstand the day, though I had no idea then what it would entail. I exited my place finding the cold weather quite bracing; soon enough I set out in the car; a quick drive down the dark suburban street; pulling up before the office across the Ford Dealership, I headed inside. There was a power cut in that area that'd probably just begun. As I entered the building, the room was lit by a dull grey light coming from a portable lamp. Several men stood around before the armoury, impossible to distinguish nor mark their profile. I only heard chatter and scuffle; no one acknowledged my entrance. I was not the only one standing around in civilian garb so likely wasn't the only new recruit. At length, the Officer behind the armoury called my name and issued me a 4th Generation Glock with 2 full magazines. Taking a closer look at the ammo; even in the dark light, the rounds looked abundantly gold having the scent of metallic lustre - a symptom of a well-funded company. Soon a man emerged through the protective gate, and bestowed upon me my armour and holster. This particular man I'd discover was named Sheldon Coulson and would duly feature in events to come. He gestured aloud to the shadows, calling a name, and an African guy taller than me emerged from the darkness. "This guy here, Kelly, will be your partner today James." He said. In the pallid light, I saw a smooth thin face wearing a cap, looking upon me; eyes lit with swirling curiosity. Before we knew it we'd climbed into the front seats of a Nissan NP200 bakkie and started travelling into the East via the N2 highway – the same highway I’d repeatedly used those days to reach the Airport. My partner Kelly was steering, him being the designated driver who’d signed the vehicle out. Before we left the office area, he stalled the vehicle at a set of traffic lights. At first I thought it a once-off error; I didn't realize how truly terrible his driving really was.
It's important to know that as one enters a new working environment, the instinct which serves to address bad conduct amongst faulty colleagues is usually ignored. Another fact impossible to overlook is that I was seeing things, for the first time, through the lens of my colleague - united under the same theme of African custom - while being at the mercy of his driving. Perhaps as I relay these events there's a part of me that's become accustomed to what I saw, since I’ve travelled into the township nearly every day since then. My instincts have somewhat adjusted to the state of things, and have become normalized thereto.
Yet there's no doubt in my mind that my first impression of its existence felt something like a nightmare unreal. You cannot understand the state of things without first undoing the axiomatic assumptions of western custom, nor can you rightly grasp its impossible dimensions, especially when placed alongside the balmy lifestyle of upper-class Cape Town. How had I not known that this place existed? If any South African whose upbringing and heritage rightly instructed them in the ways of the land would here speak aloud, they’d all agree that such settlements do exist. But through my 35 years of living in this country I had only ever encountered small backwater settlements, localized to the area in question. Those places are usually dubbed the name Location, and so I was expecting just that - the same bleak, repetitive and featureless layout. The only main difference being the size. Perhaps I simply thought it’d just be 10 times bigger. I imagined it to be, what I’d seen before typical of rural South Africa - a web of low-cost houses joined by a few dusty streets. I expected an undistinguished network of shacks, punctuated by the occasional General Dealer Store. I thought each member of the populace would be timid, more or less crushed by inertia and poverty; and come peaceably emerging from their doorways upon hearing a vehicle pass by, in the hope to try their luck at begging or stealing… I was vividly mistaken.
I did not expect a city unto itself, joined by tar roads and robot junctions, encompassing industrial structures, parking lots, and proprietary stores & shops. I saw a population generating a huge amount of civil traffic. You’d imagine when I say the word City, to see towering structures and skyscrapers reaching the heavens. Say rather that it was a galvanized industrial zone: cranes, warehouses, and moderately tall structures forming the scenery. The township did not purport office buildings that siloed any hint of science, academia, or financial bureaucracy. Yet it hummed and buzzed with the same sonorous force powerful enough to rival any 1st world metropolis… But it was resonating in accord with a different custom, a different theme - something more gross and dangerous than anything I’d ever seen before.
We arrived at length within the fortified walls of the primary warehouse. This place was the official Distribution Center, dubbed 'DC' for short. Technically the market outlet that sold the booze fell under the official title Masakane, so those two names were used interchangeably during reference over the radio. By this hour - though only seen by the grey morning light – I’d already undergone a sort of internal realignment, adjusting my senses. The hour was approaching 8:00am and the weather still pleasantly cold. As it was I beheld the DC headquarters; the 3 escort vehicles parked before a massive structural facade. A giant courtyard of faceless brick surface and walls insurmountable formed a rectangular span of about half a kilometre square; A sliding unpowered gate, manned by a battered African elder, employed directly by the distributor. He was referred to as The Madala - an endearing term for an old wizened man. Standing in this place - as it was centralized within the hub of activity - it presented a view one could glimpse over the walls: Towering yellow cranes; concrete chimneys of factory plants; derelict warehouses with wooden frames decaying; Electricity pylons; Occasional trees whose height proved noticeable; huge communication towers; And of course, we were near the airport; so every 30 minutes a plane would either be taking off or landing; at times this sight would prove massive producing huge sonorous noise.
So as it was I beheld the scene that'd constitute our sporadic moments of downtime. We were parked before the entrance of a Wifi company which was not affiliated with the liquor business. They'd rented a sub-section of the premises for their operations. This created an extra strain of civil traffic which we had to unofficially account for. On top of that, countless vehicles entered through the gate, disappearing round the south to reach the liquor outlet and make their purchases.
Thus the Masakane / Distribution Center comprised a huge land span. The loading zone for trucks stood before a massive warehouse, but we couldn’t see this without walking around the initial structure. The overall premises, I would soon discover, was directly adjacent a shopping center called The Plaza (its official name). The Plaza, which I'll describe in proper sequence later, was also contracted by our company, expecting us to station at least 3 armed guards permanently on duty. They’d operate amongst a handful of unarmed guards that were also provided by us. Actually, the management that oversaw the unarmed guards was completely separate from the armed division, we hardly ever saw them after hours. For now, it's enough to know that The Plaza existed; it was reachable through another gate that joined their premises via the DC courtyard. Resultantly, we could never be wholly at ease in our vehicles since an intruder could easily enter thereby. My partner Kelly handed me the radio to report in, and so was introduced to a mysterious voice called The Controller. This was The Controller, whom I'd later discover was stationed nearby. He was an African with a distinctive voice, giving an impression of slow, methodical courtesy; He greeted me warmly from the other end and asked a few routine questions to my partner… and so it began. We loitered within the vehicle for several minutes while the sun completed its morning orbit. Kelly busied himself with WhatsApp, sending an audio message in his language with a moistly affectionate voice, probably to an endearing female (This pastime soon became another pattern of his I'd soon find intolerable). Without precedence, a truck appeared, emerging from the mist, travelling along the courtyard surface towards us. We exited the vehicle and over the general din Kelly discerned its destination. I readied my weapon in my hands, sitting in the passenger seat on the left of my colleague, who with no particular urgency started the engine and kept a nominal presence behind the truck.
By all accurate report, I can say that the morning was a blur. It was a blur of scenery taken in steadily, absorbed at a rate that was not quite an onslaught going too fast, but rather sensory overload where within the mind cannot rationalize any trace of what it’s seeing. In my own clumsy terms, I was unable to interpret the decay before my eyes nor compute its deficit economy. Because in economics usually any source of decay can be traced to a definitive node of cause. And yet it was not so, for what I was seeing was by no means anything on the brink of death or about to collapse, and by all accurate judgement seemed to be an actual thriving community... but the destruction! It was a community happening on a magnitude that managed to produce and sustain its harmony, while simultaneously meeting an equal level of output destruction. But this output wasn't powerful enough to demolish itself or implode. It was a different quality of lifestyle happening in real-time, commencing before my eyes, in an overt, legitimate fashion. The formula that defined its economy had been brought to life and functionalized, with unbelievable success.
It's critical to know I was weighing the scenery anent how I'd survive in relation to my career and new-found position; the first terrible notion of course being the traffic. We were designated to escort the truck to the region Nyanga - and I recall this vividly due to this one robot junction being stuck in my mind. We reached the intersection; to my horror, Kelly simply charged through the lights and turned, without indicating or heeding the lights. The streets themselves were flooded with vehicles; the majority being Quantum minibus taxis, and the lesser-sized Toyota Avanza types. These two token public transport vehicles were called Quantums and Avanzas respectively, being their proprietary names (though I did think they were simple African appellations invented due to their pronunciation). The latter Avanzas were called ‘Cockroaches’ by the African people – a term expressing contempt for the vehicle drivers themselves; it was pronounced Ko-kor-roch with a 3 syllable enunciation. The word Avanza too, was pronounced Ah-Vun-Zah, sounding appropriate to their manner of English. In any case, these vehicles dominated the scene and were statistically the most feared, being used for most crimes.
We entered a flustered street brimming with activity. I saw established upon the pavement on the roadside, dozens of undistinguished market stands. More notably, at least several different braai fires erected, mostly manned by large-bosomed matriarchal women. The flames ablaze came from the top of those makeshift contraptions typical to the area (a barrel sawn in half forming a base) and gave a satisfying fume of burning iron and charred pig-flesh. Along this road too, were dozens and dozens of blue plastic barrels piled in clusters marked on sale; I tried to divine what they contain and have asked others since then; to this day I haven't discovered their contents. The Nyanga site was distinguished by a layer of waste and garbage that coated its outer wall. A fuel station was down the street, and immediately across were houses, actual liveable structures built from stone bearing an official presence - that is, they were not informal settlements erected impermissibly and had a physical street address. A few of those houses had been turned into businesses, thus sported a painted mural accordingly, like a Take-away shop and Hair salon located directly across the site’s gate. I saw wooden poles carrying electric wires and street lamps, of which my partner wasted no time in reversing into. We had successfully arrived and I reported so over the radio. We deployed accordingly exiting the vehicle and became a visible presence within the street; the truck drove slowly into the metallic entrance. Incidentally, a police van passed us by on the road taking a corner into the parallel street. It transpired that there was indeed, right next door, the official Nyanga police station within earshot of this site. However, as an axiomatic rule of contempt, we are never allayed by any ease or sense of reinforcement whenever encountering the police; apparently numerous anecdotes and clips attest to this. In fact as it happened I did imagine us, while being nearby those shops, to be somehow untouchable within their proximity; that these places magically rendered the area safe and its people demilitarized. One doesn’t usually associate terror and death with meals and haircuts. But even these places, I would hear, are never a bulwark against criminal attacks. Regardless, I did feel assured whenever encountering any agent of the law – something I called an environmental reinforcer.
The most disarming thing about the Nyanga site was the devastation of litter that unaccountably filled the street. I'd discover later that some waste truck did periodically come once a week to carry the waste off. It hardly mattered though, since the theme of litter reigned unsurpassably throughout the township. There on the street I saw these feeble, nameless green plants protruding through the waste against the wall. One usually thinks that the miracle of plants is a conscious entity with an unknown purpose… while mankind is the unconscious non-entity who carries on without knowing his purpose. But it seemed to me then, that the litter & waste was consciousness, crushing the plant thing that grew unknowingly. The consciousness of man had triumphed through his instinctual directives.
Taking a moment to describe my colleague - for by this time I'd seen him emerge and walk around the inner yard of the Nyanga premises. He was engaging in talk with the staff and seemed quite cheerful at ease. He was taller than me but not quite towering. He had a smooth brownish-tanned skin that suggested zero bodily hair. His face naturally smooth and if he did shave, there was no residual trace of it; he always had a cap on and carried himself usually with both thumbs hooked behind his armour straps. His body was thin and almost skeletal, yet layered with dangerously agile muscle that was probably strong under duress. Kelly, by all rightful standards was truly hilarious. He made jokes, had sudden bursts of on-the-fly realization, remarking aloud more to himself than to me; he had a terrible habit of pointing his gun at hawkers who stalked traffic junctions – an act so illegal if discovered would’ve vaporized his career.
(photo below of Kelly pointing his firearm, which had a round in its chamber, at his woggle)
https://ibb.co/gFH4L3M
It is important to know those hawkers were not found within the Township; we only saw them in other areas, whilst driving back to base or passing areas that left the township. There is no such thing as a beggar in the township - they do not exist. These beggars and hawkers we encountered, were not only African but also fell under the bracket of
being dubbed Coloured - the coloureds are a different strata of people forming another demographic, of which whose nature will become clear later. Also, our routes and escort itineraries were not strictly localized to the Township.
Up to the present time, when I describe the Township, you might've imagined the population to be downtrodden, crushed with poverty and emaciated, walking around, ravenous or zombielike, as if desperate, hungry, aimless, or just simply destitute. Nothing could be more misleading. About 98% of the people seen walking, travelling, or standing are all attending to some function or heading to some known place. Quite possibly the reason why beggars exist within upper-class regions, is that a beggar is able to survive off their charitable alms. But make no mistake, by the standards of the typical upper-mid class these busy people do not meet the criteria of being well-off. It was this core difference which in its disparity, created a rift impossible for me to reconcile or embrace. Wherever we drove, wherever we went, there were dozens, hundreds, thousands of metallic shacks; all of them found under an aligning array of wooden poles connecting power-lines, usually siphoned off some giant pylon; almost every residence sported a DS-TV satellite dish. At one moment we were driving up a road where the view beyond was hidden by a green hill mixed with dirt that looked like sea-sand. I made a joke saying aloud "Yay! we going to the sea!" Halfway through those words, as we mounted the hill and the scene beyond became visible, I saw a metallic sea… an ocean of shack houses, endless, several thousands at least established upon the surface plain; all under an endless network of power cables and pylons; all distinguished by satellite dishes erected on the rooftops. Later, while back in the urban industrial area closer to Plaza and the DC, I saw men laying foundations for what appeared to be more shacks; they had spades, tools, and a pile of debris nearby. I discovered from my colleague that they apparently takes about 3 hours to build.
I began supplying him with more questions, which cast better explanation onto things, his response was: "They don't live in the City, bra. The City cost too much rent. Why buy house when you can live here bra?" - It did not really occur to me what he truly meant. In actuality he was alluding to successful, affluent men who chose to live here; those who owned expensive 2-seater sports cars, and parked them outside their metal shacks - I didn't believe it until I saw it myself one day and actually spoke to the man who received me cordially. To the present, we had left Nyanga and headed back to DC. By that time, it'd become clear that Kelly's driving was abominable; he had the most appalling habits, the worst being, jolting the car to a sudden halt and showing no finesse unto pedal-control. Another was how, whenever we arrived at our destination, he'd slowly and torturously take time to methodically reverse and place the vehicle into a cunning position. Needless to say we were exposed during all that dither and blither and I could never climb out whilst he did that. I was unduly suffering under these conditions, however the adrenaline brought about by the new job and novel environment, made me temporarily immune, but nothing could stop the petulant narrative anent running through my mind: What's wrong this idiot? He just burst through that stop street! He's stalled the vehicle about eight times! How thoughtless! How imbecilic!
Indeed, at some point he overtook an Avanza that was diligently waiting at a secluded 3-way junction, upon which a Quantum emerged, nearly colliding with us. The only reason we weren't destroyed was for their driver slamming on brakes, who too mind you, was in the wrong. You can imagine the driving exhibited by my partner, combined with the frustration lent from hope that a mere intelligible switch of mind could solve the problem. But I soon realized it was actually done on purpose; it was literally stylized. For he told me he'd been an Avanza driver previously. And you could see, in his mannerism. A manner that refused to move with urgency or adopt a responsible attitude. All of it was haphazard, and yet luck somehow carried him forward sparing him every day from accidents that could’ve been fatal.
As the morning progressed, we passed at least 2 vehicles that crashed. There weren't any emergency units on the scene, the wreckage was simply left there. It turns out however that, due to me having a front-row seat to Kelly’s driving, I couldn’t see then that not all members of the populace drove like this, but at the time I was deadly anxious thinking that sooner or later I’d have to contend with this type of traffic.
We returned to the main DC site and parked within the confines of its giant courtyard surface. Immediately Kelly buried himself in his phone, but 2 minutes later he nudged me saying "Come, let's go. I wanna show you Controller. Let’s go meet the controller." Exiting the vehicle and walking around the structure we drew into an area I'd never seen before. This was the back-end of the aforementioned Wifi company, but also the Distribution Center. A metal fence designated the truck loading zone, and I glimpsed about several trucks; some being loaded, some standing idle. For descriptive accuracy it must be known that this place was in fact the main distribution center. In other words, all deliveries from the liquor companies arrived here since the dimensions of this place could accommodate all the trucks and their load – The other sites were lesser depositories, selling liquor to extended areas. But this place was not the Head Office where the CEO resided, which was situated in the region of Epping - a more coloured than african area.
Epping was an industrial zone distinguished by its huge array of businesses situated there, since it officially did not suffer the power-cuts typical to South Africa the area hosted countless establishments operating within. The Head Office in Epping had at least 18 trucks stationed on its premises. As it was, we walked over the tar and brick surface, rounding the structure to the Northern side of the facility; mounting some wooden stares reaching a higher surface. On this elevated level multiple pieces of miscellaneous equipment lay visible; scattered pieces of metal used for the construction of wifi installations. We opened a door that entered a dim well-lit room. I saw a large computer console with 3 screens. Sitting before was a man who turned to acknowledge us. Here I met the sturdy, courteous auspices of The Controller, going by the name Ndanda, was distinguished by a manner slightly urbane. A mouse and keyboard lay on the desk, which gave him control over the cameras. It turns out that most of the sites had cameras, and though I'd noticed them this morning, I didn't know the signal was beamed to this outpost. Indeed, make no mistake about the manner of the controller, he did not purport responsibility marked by anything elderly or altruistic. It was a different kind of responsibility, one merely gained through knowing the work and his business. It came out in the clear, audible, and even rate that he talked - especially over the radio. If you could only know the inflection and timbre of the African accent when it delivers English, you'd understand its distinction thereby. In the days to come, whenever downtime availed itself, I'd find myself in the control room, sitting in a corner while he busied himself, overseeing the operations.
As it was, the day followed through with a blur of events, and a few more escorts attended to. Some of the escort routes were quite short, yet despite that still needed an armed presence. I was beginning to think that maybe these primal forces had deigned to spare me, for so long as we remained inside the warm cacoon of our vehicle, nothing could go wrong; the job seemed quite doable. I was soon ruffled out of this notion.
The radio suddenly erupted with a female voice; it was the controller from head office who reported directly to the unarmed guards. Obviously something was happening at The Plaza "All escorts, escorts report to Plaza, they're robbing the ATM!"
At this my colleague started the engine and set off exiting via the main gate, taking us onto the road that’d round the corner and bring us into The Plaza’s entrance beyond the parking lot. I had no time to vocally determine what's going on. Instead, I readied my weapon and trained my eyes, scanning the scenery ahead. I heard 2 successive shots, and saw ahead to the right, midst the cars parked, a Green Mini Cooper with 3 guys huddled behind it. We had crossed the boundaries of the gate and within 3 seconds, I exploded screaming frantically into Kelly’s ear "STOP THE !#$%ING CAR, STOP." I roared; he was driving blindly straight towards them - apparently he'd gone into some shock-induced trance. The vehicle grinded to a halt; I emerged scrambling out, taking position immediately behind the hull; no official emergency vehicles were in sight I remember thinking. But as I looked ahead, what was readily clear is that the 3 men for some reason had capitulated. 2 had fallen upon the ground and the other was standing arms out-stretched yielding in desperation supplication.
It turns out that some unscheduled maintenance was being performed on the ATM of which these men, saw an opportunity to enter and intrude upon, and had done just that. They came in through the vault door that was somehow open and unprotected… or perhaps the guard appointed there left to buy a soda. It turns out they hadn't taken anything since no money was at hand, and the cash chassis within hadn’t been unlocked thus wasn’t exposed. But they entered and gun-pointed the technician and hence things went terribly wrong. You might wonder how such negligence ensues within the bureaucracy of handling money, but it does. Even me having previous experience in Cash-in-transit couldn’t grasp how that happened. Yet these were the details we heard later via Chinese whispers – another frustrating aspect being that feedback after events was never always officially distributed to the personnel.
Within 10 minutes police had arrived; me and Kelly, having not gotten involved nor discharged any rounds, soon returned to the site, and handed the situation over to the Plaza guards. I was quite ruffled by that episode, and it’d become obvious that to feel at ease or complacent was an impossibility. And yet within several minutes I was satisfied by the absence of any failure, and amongst my colleagues the mood returned to normal… but the day had not ended yet.
Approaching the hour of noon, around 01:00pm, Kelly grabbed the radio requesting permission to drive out to purchase lunch. Here at the drive-thru window, he tried his luck, with success, on yet another female serving him, and so got her number, adding it to his seemingly exponential database. I could not believe how he wasted no time advancing upon a girl whenever he encountered one. In fact, on one occasion we walking through the butchery in Plaza, and a girl was there presumably with her younger sister. She had a light flowing garment on her with arial flora patterns that showed the shapeliness of her body; magnificent braids formed a giant pony-tail tied neatly; her skin was more the darkened shade of almond, with a hint of brownish-gold. But the most alarming thing was how evenly crafted and supple her body really was, boasting erect legs meeting a deadly curvaceous posterior, and her smooth limbs combined with a perfectly beautiful face. And what! Unbelievable! Kelly, he managed to get her number! The scoundrel![/i]
Such were the propensities of most of my colleagues, yet Kelly's rate of acquiring females was definitely above the usual level.
In regards to his driving, I was of course trying to banish it from my mind, making some illusive compromise thereto. I tried hard to reduce him to a caricature - imagining him to be some Venusian-Humanoid I'm working alongside who's utterly oblivious to his incompetent piloting skills, but it was impossible. Since he really was a Man! A man with all the instincts and urges of any male specimen, and he shared the same mind and brain. All the more frustrating to think nothing in a flash could impose reason onto his driving.
The day reached the hour of 3pm. The wintry weather subsided bringing about a partly yellow sun. We had a moment of downtime residing within the DC yard; the men seated comfortably in their vehicles tethering off the signal the WiFi business gave them access to. Here I had a moment to pace and ruminate. At length a truck emerged which fell upon our rotational turn to take. So we did, with the usual urgency of adequate precaution. However en route it became clear over the radio that some suspect had been apprehended at the Head Office in Epping, and was being brought back to DC for interrogation. It seemed this suspect had a few days earlier attempted to rob a high-level manager, one ill-timed night in that region, while entering his car. There was even footage and a photo of him, taken off a powerfully accurate surveillance camera. Later it would prove – and to any realistic eye inclined to sanity – that the resemblance was unmistakably a perfect match. But of course, one usually finds within the bounds of primitive logic, that a mind who repeats a lie, again and again, usually hopes that each iteration brings it closer to truth. Kelly and I continued travelling to the area of Blue Downs, reaching a site called Wagon Burner (a region far-removed from the township thus exiting its bounds via a busy highway) and completed our business there – the truck was secure, and the radio exchange continued. From what I could hear one of the other escorts were bringing him back to The Distribution Center. They actually bringing him back to our base to interrogate him!
We pulled back into the facility and exiting the vehicle headed to the Control Room. So we entered, and The Controller blithely updated us on the developing Scenario; He was trying to establish casually if any of us had pepper spray at hand – they did. I remember him saying in a lax tone without turning away from the computer screens: “Yes, I want my spray to cook… I need to fry my fish”. If only you could have heard the slow methodical delivery of those words, which contained nothing more than ardent warmth and innocuous deliberation. I exited the room and loitered outside. Sure enough, within minutes the other escort bakkie pulled up and I caught the sulking shape of a downtrodden specimen inside. This is really happening! They brought him out the back of the vehicle. In that second, I got a glimpse of his presentation: Dressed like any impoverished rogue with garb that allowed quick movements during winter, some murky vest and denim trousers. He had on his skin those typical, dingy tattoos done in awful green ink, and a countenance of a sort of puerile virility; His genetic configuration fell upon the strand of being a Coloured mixed with African… but unfortunately for him, when he opened his mouth, the unmistakable accent of butchered afrikaans came out – They had no doubt in their minds he came from the area in question. They’d already searched him and found no firearm; the intervention of the Police was unnecessary; but it was clear that handing this guy over to the Law, only to be processed via the pipeline of bureaucracy wasn’t enough for them. For some reason they searched him again, and produced out his pockets a pipe and a crude stabbing weapon, somehow missed. By this time all the escort guards had gathered on the scene. Then in a manner almost ritualistic they positioned him on the tar then stepped back - officially handing him over to The Controller, who strolled lazily over while asking the question “Hmm? why you try shoot our manager – where’s the firearm?”
With a surprising swiftness He tripped the guy while simultaneously lunging him forwards, colliding a fist into his face. What came out next was a rapid, explosive stream of words ending with a supplication – a plea shouting the words “Mummy!!!”
What ensued next, little need be expounded since the scene ebbed and flowed during various stages of intensity, but within the first minute all the men had joined in and distributed pain evenly to their target. I saw the suspect surrounded midst a brutal squadron of powerful men, donned in their combat gear, and whose appearance in that brief flash looked all the more terrifying under the sunlight. It was the hour of doom – 3pm – and the indiscriminate beating proceeded. The first iteration of pepper spray truly surprised me, it had had no real effect. The second iteration however reduced him to a convulsive wreck spluttering in pieces. That’s more like it... that’s more believable...
I always imagined its effects to be utterly devastating. In fact, me hovering around the peripheral while observing, had to fall away both times the spray issued, squawking, spluttering and wiping my eyes. The question the party repeatedly asked their target was simply “Where's the firearm?”
He seemed not to yield however you could tell he was slowly wearing down, since he finally began implicating another name, someone who stayed at a residence called the pavilion. But the overall response seemed to revert automatically to the phrase “: “I don’t know menier!” (menier been an Afrikaans term for an authority figure). At some point they sat him down on some debris, with one guard wielding a metal bar whereupon with each unsatisfied response they struck him; it produced a dull thud that marked the sickening introduction of bone to iron. Eventually his countenance was marred and his mouth oozed with blood.
I cannot explain the adrenaline that this scene unleashed within me. And yet any scruple, any predetermined subject parameter, marked by individual superiority, had to be discarded. Here in this place, you cannot stupidly produce a phone hoping to capture footage that’s weaponized later through righteous outrage. For this man was of criminal ilk: these are the people who smash car windows, who kill indiscriminately, who steal ID books and phones and reduce you to waiting in queues being forced to start over. Eventually the scene subsided. Whether they were satisfied with their information I wasn’t sure – he was loaded into a bakkie and dumped somewhere half-conscious, no doubt to arise again licking his wounds and probably continue the next day unabated. What struck me was how little he had to lose - no ordinary man would risk incurring such damage, especially to his facial profile. It occurred to me that such things are not assets amongst the ignorant.
Such were the events that encompassed the first day within the township; I was musing and brooding over who I was midst this whole business, and how to distinguish myself in accord. There was no answer: I was an instrument, an instrument playing a part within the harmony of urban warfare and its economy, which seemed a mere exchange of money disguised as violent perspiration - Violence being the ultimate currency midst its interplay. Who had the final dominion? For there were many parties in play: The police, criminals, government agencies, businesses, the security industry, and the people themselves. There must be a party whose interests and strength gave them power thereby… having monopoly over the economy of violence.
