City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘They will not think of Msizi.’ I was the one who came to their front door just before the police arrived. They would remember that. ‘Grace,’ I said, ‘they will believe that I took the money and it is best that they think that.’

  ‘They will look for you.’

  ‘I know. I shall go and hide with my uncle. You must take this money, Grace. Use it for the shelter.’

  ‘Siphiwe?’ Grace’s eyes had gone soft and she reached for my hand. ‘You are a good man.’

  A good man? I didn’t want to think about my brother – how I had left him to die. Perhaps it was true, what Grace had said. One good deed could make up for many bad things done. I glanced at Msizi, who was still finding hundred-rand notes in his clothes.

  ‘Will you be safe with your uncle?’ Grace asked, frowning. ‘You cannot keep running forever,’ she said and started to gather the money from the table.

  ‘You can buy a new TV for the children,’ I said. The old one had a problem with the colour, sometimes turning people’s faces green. Why did I think of a television at a time like this?

  ‘Haw, I shall not waste money,’ Grace said. ‘Msizi!’

  Msizi had disappeared down the hallway. He now came running down the corridor, his arms filled with his possessions. A plastic soccer ball dropped from his arms and rolled under the table.

  ‘I’m going with Siphiwe,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Grace said. ‘You will stay with me.’

  My phone rang. It was Adrian.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, what happened?’

  ‘We’ve got them.’

  ‘All of them?’

  Silence.

  ‘Adrian?’

  ‘Missing one,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Matthew Obembe.’

  I closed my eyes. Obembe was still free. He would be looking for revenge. Grace was right, I could not keep running forever.

  ‘I’ll come and pick you up, bru,’ Adrian said. ‘Just sit tight. I’ll take you some place safe.’

  Some place safe? Running to Lesotho or hiding with the cops would make no difference. Obembe would find me. He’d find me or he’d go after those I loved, like he went after Hope. I did not want to think what would happen if he came to the shelter.

  I put my hand over the phone, turned to Grace, and said, ‘There is a small problem. I shall deal with it. Keep Msizi inside, draw the curtains, lock the doors.’ I spoke into the phone again. ‘Adrian, you must get someone out to the shelter to look after the children.’

  ‘Siphiwe?’ Grace said.

  She was scared and it was all my fault.

  ‘I shall sort this out, Grace. I have a plan.’

  I went outside, felt the sun on my skin. The wagtail flew up from the lawn when it saw me, dived low and disappeared round the corner of the house. I made a phone call. The phone rang five times before it was answered.

  ‘Jackson Zebele,’ I said, ‘you owe me a favour. You owe me big time.’

  I told him what I wanted. He said he’d phone me back. I phoned Adrian again.

  ‘I’m not staying here,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to visit my uncle in Phuthaditjhaba.’

  ‘Where the hell is that?’

  ‘Witsieshoek,’ I said. ‘You white people are slow. The name was changed a long time ago.’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Siphiwe,’ he said. ‘Phone me if you need anything. Anything. OK?’

  I went back inside to explain to Grace what would happen.

  ‘The police will be here soon, Grace. They will send someone to go and get the children from school this afternoon, they will have two cars outside, watching out for the Nigerians. I’m going out. I shall see you later. Msizi, you stay inside.’

  ‘I want to come with you,’ Msizi said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Do as you’re told.’

  Grace stopped me at the door, ‘Be careful, Siphiwe. Don’t do anything reckless.’

  I kissed her on the cheek and left though the back door. I went to Melville Koppies, taking a taxi, because it was too far to walk. I had to make sure I stayed away from the Nigerian’s territory, although I knew there were no safe places for me now. At least I had a plan. But my plan depended on a young tsotsi whom I did not like and did not trust.

  39

  PROGRESS HAD FOUND a puppy for Lucille. A brown sausage dog. He also bought food and a bed for it – a little round thing with a pillow in the middle. All this he got from a pet shop in East Gate and he paid far too much for it. But Lucille was pleased. She kissed him on the mouth and then kissed the puppy.

  ‘What shall I call him, Progress?’ she asked, holding the puppy in her arms like a baby.

  ‘It’s a bitch,’ Progress said.

  Lucille lifted the puppy to check. ‘A girl, yes, I see, what shall I call her? Come, Progress, think of a name.’

  He couldn’t think of anything but how beautiful Lucille looked. Radiant, that was the word to describe her. He’d asked her out for dinner, but she’d said she felt like a night in. ‘I shall cook for us,’ she’d said. ‘But you must help. Show your skills around the kitchen.’ That made him nervous. He knew nothing about cooking. He could use a frying pan. He could fry something. Steak, eggs. What else could be fried in a pan?

  His phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered anyway. When he heard Siphiwe Modise’s voice on the other end, he wished he hadn’t. What did he want? But then Modise told him the good news. He could hardly believe it.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said and turned to Lucille. ‘Sylvester Abaju is dead. The cops killed him.’

  Lucille came over and gave him a hug, her hand squeezing his buttock. ‘Cause for celebration,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Modise?’

  The boy then told him the bad news. Obembe was still alive and Siphiwe needed his help to get rid of him. Obembe had treated him like shit that day in Sandton. Ignoring him. Flirting with Lucille. He’d not mind killing him, but it was none of his business, not his job to solve Modise’s problems.

  ‘Let me call you back,’ Progress said.

  He explained to Lucille. ‘That was the boy who helped me to arrange that meeting with Abaju. I told him then I owe him. Now he wants me to help him. He wants me to kill Obembe.’

  ‘Who is Obembe?’ Lucille asked.

  ‘That man who went down in the lift with us, the flashy one who kept staring at your breasts. He will take over from Abaju.’

  ‘Oh, Matthew,’ she said and laughed. ‘He will take over? Are you sure? He’s not in Sylvester’s league.’

  ‘No, but he’s vicious, and smarter than he looks.’

  Lucille went silent, then said, ‘And can you kill him?’

  ‘The Modise boy is talking about an ambush. He said he’s got a plan. But I don’t want to get involved in his business.’

  ‘This is an opportunity, Progress.’

  ‘An opportunity? What for?’

  ‘Think about it. This man knows what you look like. He knows me. He can cause us trouble later.’

  ‘Competition.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Go and fetch this boy, let’s hear his story, then we shall think of a way to get rid of Obembe.’ She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Be careful, Progress. I don’t want to attend another funeral.’

  He went to pick up David first and David’s brother, Benny. The boy was keen to be of use and it was about time he learned about business. Benny was strong for his age, and smart. Progress knew he had to think long term. He had to surround himself with men he could trust, like the men Letswe had had around him.

  40

  JACKSON ZEBELE CAME to pick me up in a big white BMW. The car pulled in next to me and the driver kept the engine running. Jackson was in the front passenger seat. He let the window down.

  ‘Get in,’ he said.

  ‘Did you steal this car?’ I asked.


  ‘No, this is my car. Get in, Modise, you are wasting time.’

  They had stolen the car somewhere, I was sure, but getting caught in a stolen car was the least of my problems. Still, I did not feel comfortable about it, especially since there were two other people with him; one of them, the driver, looked me over and then offered me his hand.

  ‘I’m David,’ he said. ‘So you’re the one who got Abaju killed? That’s something, eh? Abaju dead. Letswe dead.’

  The one who got Abaju killed? Me? David eyed me in the rear-view mirror, judging me. I did not say anything. The third person in the car was a young boy of fifteen or so, short and stocky with bright eyes. He was David’s brother and he seemed keen to show how tough he was, glaring at me as if to scare me. They took me to a house in Soweto, a large house with a brick-paved driveway and a flower bed full of bright yellow daisies. They pulled in behind a metallic-red RAV4 and walked round the house to the back. There was a washing line with two tea towels drying on it, a patch of soil where nothing grew but weeds, four chains with dog collars attached to them, bowls for dog food, but no dogs.

  Jackson led the way in through the back door and the kitchen to the living room where the woman waited. A beautiful woman with honey-brown eyes, but she was not like Grace. She was cold. Her name was Lucille. She wore a black dress and there was a black wide-brimmed hat on the table in the dining room, as if she’d attended a funeral, but she was not in mourning. She was smiling, laughing, chatting on the phone about a shopping trip. She winked at Jackson when he walked in and when I noticed the way Jackson Zebele looked at her, I thought: Jackson Zebele, you are out of your depth. This woman will have you for breakfast.

  Lucille had a puppy, a brown sausage dog that kept curling around my feet. When she spoke to Jackson she called him Progress. That made me smile. I did not have to spend long in her house to know who was the boss. But at least her mother cooked a very good chicken. We ate well that night and after dinner Lucille asked me about Obembe. I told her how I’d met him. How he had tried to kill Hope and had killed my friend, Lucky. I explained my plan.

  ‘Melville Koppies?’ Lucille asked. ‘In the nature reserve? Are you sure that is a good place for an ambush?’

  ‘A very good place,’ I said. ‘I know it well. And early morning it will be deserted. But I cannot do it alone. I need Jackson’s help.’

  ‘I like your plan, Siphiwe. Simple plans are always the best. And he will fall for it. He is such a silly man, that one. I know how to pull it off. Do you still have his number, Progress?’ And then she phoned Obembe.

  ‘Matthew,’ she said, her voice even huskier than before. ‘I hear you had some trouble. It’s Lucille. I hope you remember me . . . You do? Good. I am sorry to hear about Sylvester’s death . . . Are you now the man to talk to? . . . Do you want to find the boy who told the police about you?’

  She winked at me. Jackson scowled. He was jealous. I ignored him and pretended that I had not seen the wink.

  ‘I can give you information,’ Lucille said. ‘But it won’t come cheap. Ten thousand.’ She laughed. ‘No, you pay first, Matthew. Phone me when you are ready to talk.’

  Her phone rang fifteen minutes later. She told him she knew where I was. I shivered, thinking she might give me up. She could tell him to come to her house and kill me, but she didn’t.

  ‘First thing tomorrow morning, you pay the money into my account, Matthew, then I tell you where to find him.’ She listened to him. ‘I shall need proof of payment . . . Yes, OK, five thousand tomorrow, the rest when I tell you. I know many things that can be of value to you, Matthew . . . No, you don’t need to hand the money over in person.’ She laughed. ‘A drink? Perhaps another time. Take care of your business first.’

  Jackson’s face looked like a thundercloud. Lucille reached over and patted his hand as if he were a sulking child. ‘I told him I want proof of payment, so you have some time. Tomorrow you must go and look at the place Siphiwe talked about. See if it will work for an ambush.’ Her eyes became solemn. ‘You must kill this man, Progress, or he will make trouble for us. Don’t let him get away.’

  There was something about her that reminded me of Letswe, a threat of violence, only with her it was hidden beneath beauty and charm. I had thought I’d come to ask Jackson Zebele’s help. I’d thought that he was all I had to reckon with. Now I knew better. I felt Lucille’s eyes resting on me and shifted in the chair.

  ‘Don’t worry, Siphiwe,’ she said. ‘Jackson will look after you. He will take care of this man.’

  Jackson got up and left the room, only to return within a few minutes with a gun in his hands. An AK-47.

  ‘This is a man’s gun,’ he said. ‘I shall show you how to use it and then we shall go and kill the Nigerian. You will come with me, Modise. We go together. You do your bit. You cannot hide behind me.’

  41

  THROUGH JACKSON’S BINOCULARS, I watched Obembe and his two men hike up the hill. Obembe was wearing a suit and tie. They hadn’t come prepared for what awaited them. Next to me, on a rock, the AK-47 rested. Behind me, higher up the hill, Jackson Zebele and his two friends waited. I glanced at the gun again. Zebele’s words echoed through my head. It was easy, he had said when he showed me how to use the gun, how to put a new magazine in, how to aim and fire. I had three magazines, but he’d said I would only need one. Every magazine took thirty 7.62mm bullets and each one of these bullets could kill. I recalled that day in the alley, when I had stood with the gun in my hand, aiming at the boy, unable to pull the trigger.

  I waited at the place where the path became narrow and steep. Only one man at a time could get up. I crouched behind the boulders. From my hiding place I saw them taking the bend in the path. It would not be long before they reached me. In the sky a hawk circled. Beneath me, spread out, filling every angle of my view, was Johannesburg: Hillbrow Tower, Ponte City, the Nelson Mandela Bridge in the distance.

  The path would bring them straight to me. A stone clattered down. One of them cursed. I waited until they were below me, about fifty metres away, and then I stood up.

  ‘Obembe,’ I shouted through cupped hands. ‘Go home. Go back to Nigeria.’ My voice cut through the silent morning. A pair of rock pigeons fled from the cliff to my left. The three men froze. Obembe’s gaze searched the boulders for me. He directed the others to spread out. Rock Star went left, down the narrow path that was a dead end. He would have to turn back soon. The other one – a man I’d not seen before – went right. Unless he could climb like a goat, he too would have to turn back. There was just one path leading to my hideout. That was why I chose this place. They couldn’t sneak up on me or surround me.

  Even so, as I crouched behind the rocks, my heart was beating fast and my mouth was dry. Rock Star joined up with Obembe again, but the other one had disappeared. The wind was cool against my skin. I looked up and saw the hawk again. If only I had the hawk’s eyes.

  I spotted the other man below me, searching for a way up. I grabbed a stone and threw it at him, heard it clatter on the rocks below. He laughed and called out to his friends, talking in their language.

  ‘Go home,’ I shouted. I started to creep back, the gun in my hands now, expecting them to rush me. I scrambled over sharp-edged rocks, squeezed though a gap between a thorn tree and the cliff face, not looking down. I did not have a head for heights.

  They were closing in on me. The last stretch of path I had to face before reaching the clearing was steep and slippery, because of the dew on the grass. I lost my footing, slipped, and almost lost the AK. A shout sounded behind me. They were closer than I’d thought.

  I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. At the thorn tree already, Rock Star leading their pursuit. I scrambled up the path. My lungs were burning by the time I reached the clearing. Jackson’s face popped up from behind a rock. He gave me a thumbs-up sign, as if we were friends. Two young tsotsis, a boy and me, facing three angry drug dealers. We didn’t have to wait long before Obembe appeared at the other
end of the clearing, scowling at me through the boulders.

  ‘Come out and die like a man,’ he shouted.

  ‘Go home,’ I shouted and threw a stone at him.

  More laughter, but he didn’t show himself. I stayed hidden, gripping the gun so hard my fingers were hurting. The third man had given up trying to climb to me and now doubled back to join Obembe. I wiped my palms on my trousers. They had to cross the clearing to reach me, and I had the gun. Thirty bullets in each magazine. Three magazines. Ninety bullets. Three more AKs to back me up.

  ‘This is your last chance,’ I shouted. ‘Go home now or die.’

  ‘You can’t kill us with stones, boy,’ Obembe shouted and his voice bounced back at him. ‘It’s no good hiding like a coward. Come out here. We don’t have all day.’

  My heart was still beating fast, but the fear had faded. I could tell them that I had a gun, but I didn’t want to. They came here to kill me. I remembered how Obembe had stabbed Hope, how he had killed Lucky. He was a man who liked killing. After today, he would not kill anyone again.

  ‘I shall cut out your tongue first,’ he said and stepped into the clearing. Rock Star moved to his left. The third man had now joined them and fell in on Obembe’s right.

  I rose and met Obembe’s gaze. He stepped forward. Unafraid. The sun reflected on the blade of his knife. I had known all along that he would bring his knife. Fool. The two men behind him had guns – pistols – but they seemed at ease, as if they thought they had already won. As if they thought I would not put up a fight. Rock Star put his pistol back into his belt and crossed his arms like a man ready to watch a performance.

  ‘Boy, today I’ll cut your throat like a dog’s,’ Obembe said, sneering.

  He’d walked all the way up the hill with his fancy shoes to tell me this. I recalled the time he had kicked me and spat at me and the moment I’d first seen him. Who’d have thought it would come to this? At this point I could have told him that I was not a boy. I could have told him that I was a man, but I said nothing.