Chapter 13 — The Hole
“I ‘m short on black shirts,” I said.
“You always wear black,” Al said, “what about white trousers.”
“Me- white pants- never!” I said, “Maybe you.”
We were shopping in Milan, Italy with our mistresses from the nearby schools. I gave Athena a deserved break to concentrate on her exams. The losers were all over us like flies; we gladly seized the opportunity.
“Why not black coats, “I said, “in fact why not black everything.”
“Mr. Black my ass,” he said.
I bought seven pairs of black shoes, twenty black shirts, and five black coats. Al preferred a color combination of beige, white, and black. The name Don Black suited me both literally and figuratively. We led a debaucherous lifestyle, riding on a phantom wave, living in our little bubble. We were oblivious of law enforcers who were monitoring our movements around the clock.
“Here,” I said.
I gave my mistress a limitless credit card to feast herself to anything her heart desired.
“Spoil yourself,” I said, “get yourself anything.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Oh, Andrea, “I said, “While you’re at it, tattoo my name on your punani?”
“You’re crazy,” she said,” You’re such a narcissist.”
We all laughed.
“That’ll be cool,” Al said.
We were like kids who got their first junk meal after a week of coerced fasting. We grabbed everything we could lay our hands on from wallets, watches to bracelets and even membership cards to elite societies.
“Tattoo is always a great idea,” I said, “We should look scarier.”
“How?” Al asked.
“Get tattoos of panthers, lions, and tigers,” I said.
“The Nazi or the AWB emblem maybe,” he said, “animals won’t cut it.”
“Are you serious,” I said, “we’re not politicians, we’re businesspeople remember that.”
“Or tattoo Andrea on your forehead,” Veronica, Al’s weekend mistress, said.
We all burst out laughing.
We went in some studio on Corso Venetia Street. I permanent marked my left chest with an eagle and inked my right arm with a dolphin. Al transformed his left arm into a tree with branch names of his fiancée -Alicia, his mother — Mama D, his sibling- Phyllis, two of his cousins designed with reserved tree-branches for the names of his future, three kids. Though the tattoos did not scare off anyone as anticipated, they served an artistic purpose.
#
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“You’re hallucinating again, “Al said, “There’s nothing.”
For several nights, having chased away everyone, while Al and I relaxed in the living room, I heard mumbles of people making suspicious turn nearby my house.
“I can’t shake off the feeling that somebody is watching us,” I said.
“You’re paranoid,” he said, “Nobody suspects anything, besides the farm, is far away.”
“I wish I can be as relaxed as you,” I said.
The scouting continued for over a period of six months. On the other hand, the weed farm made our money than we knew what to do with it. We were the first students to have premium restaurant meals delivered to us while the poor teachers savored on their unhealthy greasy sandwiches. One could not help but notice their envy. Ladies stuck to us like iron to magnets. We wore fashionable clothes, drove the best wheels. The teachers were envious, as they could not afford such luxuries with their pittance salary. The addicts were all around. I took notice that some of the students left school to play dice and steal just to support their bad habits. Though it made me money, I was subconsciously embarrassed about what we had caused the society. It took us almost a year, to achieve that status, but for an addict, it only took just two weeks to quit school. Some came knocking at our door for exclusive distribution rights. We were not willing to impose any limitations on our hard-earned proceeds. We knew we had them hooked, and they were bound to us forever like a dog on a leash.
#
“Ian my friend, “Al said over the phone, “we need the King’s green sand.”
“I’ll see what I can do, “Ian said.
Ian Populous, a Greek construction owner, based in Swaziland, did some odd jobs for us wherever he had contracts.
“We need it like pronto,” Al said.
“What’s my cut?” he asked.
“You know my friend,” Al said, “your lion’s share will come at the right time, just be patient.”
“You’re driving a hard bargain — all the time,” he said,” this is risky business — nothing for mahala man.”
Al was unwilling to share the proceeds with people who assisted us. I made sure we did not burn the bridges and create unnecessary evil.
“You’ve my word,” I said.
I leaned over to talk over the mouthpiece.
“I guarantee you an honest piece; you’ve me to blame.”
Ian knew that I would stick to my words. He smuggled in seeds from Swaziland, Lesotho, and Namibia. We created more compartmentalized plantation blocks to accommodate those countries. It was easier to transport seeds as opposed to carrying the dried weed. We offered a variety of up to twelve of the best plants from around the world. We had what everybody needed. The nonsensical fake praises, the cash flow, and the status went to our heads.
#
“You’re short?” Al asked Druza.
“H-H-Hendrik Malherbe s-s-stole some of the s-s-stash,” Druza said,” Veronica s-s-saw him.”
“That kid got some nerves,” I said,” we’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Where were your eyes?” Al said,” must I fuckin’ remove them.”
Al was harsh, he never gave anyone a chance, first-time offenders or not. He held the belief that if everyone owned up to his or her mistakes, our empire would grow rapidly.
“Sorry b-b-boss,” Druza said,” I was c-c-collecting from the b-b-boys at St. Morrison.”
“Where was the security?” I asked.
Some of Hendrik’s entourage were strategically disturbing the security. Hendrik had always had this thing to start a war with us, on a couple of occasions, we gave him the cold shoulder. He was a small fry; we dealt with big fish.
“Hey guys,” Veronica said.
“What’s up with Hendrik?” I asked.
“He said you fucked his girl,” she said,” now he’s fucking your cash-cow.”
We were so popular with the ladies that some form of jealousy cropped up among some of the minor gangs. We laid every willing groupie; I lost count. I could not have possibly known that one of them was Hendrik’s. The way I saw it was that I did him a huge favor by exposing who his girlfriend was.
“Do you know where he lives?” I asked.
“Yah,” Veronica said, “he’ll be home alone this weekend.”
“And how the hell do you know that? “Al asked.
Al was a bit agitated since he was shagging with Veronica.
“Relax big boy her chick is my buddy, we are supposed to chill together this weekend,” she said, “his family is on vacation.”
“Organize the guys,” I said to Al, “and do it fast.”
“Druza, you organize everything we might need,” I said.
“What b-b-boss?” Druza asked.
“I said everything we might need!” I said, “Use your head.”
Hendrik’s younger sister was sleeping over at a friend’s place. He lived in the backyard garden cottage. We saw the opportunity to discipline him.
“Organize the black coats, get the baseball bats, get the golf sticks, get the hats, “I said to Druza,” we need at least two more members.”
We took three of our best cars. Off we went with two in each car. We parked about a kilometer from his house. The neighbors thought we are going to a party, as it was usually the case on most Saturday afternoons.
“Park here and stay put,” I said to Druza, “after about forty-five minutes, come collect us, no excuses, set a clock count.”
“Remove the number plates,” Al said.
We walked down an avenue that had Jacaranda trees on both sides, in an orchestrated manner brandishing nothing to avoid onlookers. Each one of us was holding just about half a liter of petrol under trench coats.
“Wakey-Wakey,” Veronica said.
She knocked at Hendrik’s door as if she came for a nightcap. His girlfriend was not around yet. As he opened the door, Mr. T quickly pulled him by the neck to the garden and pressed him down with military booths. He had him by the grip while Nicky tied his hands at the back with tire strips. Jake tied his arms and legs around the swimming pool balustrades.
“My Boy- the razor,” I said,” give him a nice shave.”
“Sure boss,” Bernice said.
She did not talk much but followed instruction all the way through.
“Where?” she asked.
“Right in the middle,” I said.
“Just enough for me to christen him,” I said.
I poured acid on top of his clean-shaven head. He made a hell of noise.
“Your panties,” Al said, “take it off and gag him.”
“Which panties,” Veronica said, “I ‘m not wearing any, duh.”
“Wow,” the other members said.
“She’s ready for you,” Nicky said.
They laughed like lunatics.
“Guys, please let’s finish our mission,” I said, “we’ll celebrate later.”
I had to use my scarf to mask the noise.
“This is your second christening,” Al said while he poured petrol on him.
“Mmmmmmm,” Hendrik made some sounds.
“By the way, what do they say,” Al asked rhetorically,” in the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost-“?
“Pour guys pour,” I said.
I removed the scarf.
“Any last words,” I asked.
“Let me explain,” he said.
“Explain what?” I said, “we know everything we need to know.”
I covered the pool net to ensure that he did not have anywhere to extinguish the flames. As the others poured petrol on him, I locked his door so he would not run back and burn the whole building should he succeed to untie himself.
“Do you want to do the honors?” I asked Al.
“I ‘m cool,” he said, “you go ahead.”
He sensed that I was a bit scared to burn someone alive. I then threw the cigar on him, and he burned slowly from the head. I lit another cigar to relieve my anxiety and as I shivered, the lighter fell on Hendrik. He burst into flames, and everybody backed away.
“Relax man,” Al said,” he deserves it.”
“I ‘m cool,” I said.
I was still shaking.
Al was calm with that kind of deeds; one wondered if he indeed had a heart like the rest of the human species. Some neighbor looked over the wall. Al pointed a gun at him, and he quickly went back frightened. They did not see our faces since we had hats and sunglasses on.
“Time to move,” I said.
As soon as we got out of the yard, Druza was already waiting, and within minutes, we disappeared like a fog.
#
The following night, I developed nightmares. I was the one who made the first cut. Trafficking marijuana was one thing, taking someone’s life was something else. It did not sit well with my inner spirit for quite some time. I woke up in the middle of the night with images of the burning man. Among ourselves, we defended it as justice, though I failed to see anything just by taking someone’s life for stealing an illegal drug from some bad guys with heaps of money than they needed. The punishment was extreme; it did not fit the offense.
The following night I dreamed free falling out of space engulfed in a cloud of fire. The funny part of it was that the fire was as cool as ice. When I woke up, I could smell the burn on me. One day I dreamed free falling into a never-ending hole until I woke up with a splitting headache. The third night after that I dreamed a shark was attacking me. It bit my upper arm, and then suddenly an army of dolphins chased the shark away. In most of the dreams, I was a man in trouble and eventually I got saved. I had flashbacks of the bullying experience during my primary school years.
I confessed to Father Albert Gunther, one of Mr. Brooks’ spiritual advisors, who swore to secrecy. He regularly visited me. He was a Father from a nearby Catholic church, originally from Stuttgart, Germany. In his previous life, he lived and worked at the Vatican City for over eighteen years. He was fond of the people of South Africa and liked the weather so much that he chose it as his retirement residence. He had gray hair that was long but thinning and was of moderate height. He had a little hunch though he walked straight up; only close people noticed his handicap. I called it the bag of wisdom. I confessed to him about my past horrible deeds and the recent murder.
#
“Wakker jou kaffir.”
I heard a voice one Saturday morning. I was sleeping on a couch after a hectic night of partying. The person poured cold water on my face. As I was about to make a run for it through the kitchen sliding door, something banged my head hard. I thought I was dreaming. It was a rifle swung hard on top of my head. I did not fall. Blood splattered like a fire extinguisher hosepipe.
“Die kaffir is hard,” someone said in Afrikaans, “vandag is die dag.”
I tried to fight then I felt someone grabbed my throat with a rough and hard grip. The grip was so tight I could not breathe and resort to raising my hands in a cry for help.
“O — Kay –O — Kay,” I said under my breath.
I tried to give up; I attempted to remove the hands around my neck, but the man had the grip tighter. I waved my hands all sides indicating to the next person that I surrender. At first, I thought it was some robbers, but then I realized they were the police. We could have bribed them, but it might have made things worse.
“Jou donder,” someone said.
Three men wearing police uniform came charging towards me.
“Cuff him,” another one said.
I realized they were ultimately onto us, and they were serious.
“Here’s another rat,” another officer said.
He walked down the stairs holding Al by the front of his pajamas; the trouser twisted so tight that Al got bruises after the release. Apparently, one of the kids on the next block alerted his father, who was an undercover police officer. The officer was present during the arrest; he must have taken them to us to ensure they got the right people. He nodded as a confirmation that we were the culprits and left. The guy was slick. He associated with us to gather accurate insight. He greeted us with a huge smile on a daily basis. One day he even attended our barbecue. I guess he needed to cement his findings. I had my premonition. I regularly heard voices around the house, but Al dismissed it as paranoia. I should have stuck to my gut feeling, but it was too late. The moving in and out of people and cars and even the constant parties were on camera. Among other observations I heard from some of the clan members was that the officer always went to work around six in the morning and came back to stay at home around ten. Later in the afternoon, he went to the police station and then in about thirty minutes he would be back at home. We were complacent and did not make anything of his routine until later. The undercover officer bugged our house, and all the weed farm discussion were on record.
“You think you’re a smart ass,” an officer said.
He had more medals than the rest of them. He must have been their chief commander.
“We got you today,” he said, “You’ve nowhere to run.”
They took us to some yellow police van. There were up to ten police vehicles outside.
“You’re going to a hole,” another officer said, “for the rest of your natural life.”
I was baffled by his words. We did not have our day in court yet, but he concluded that. They must have known that we were at our most vulnerable; it was up to the racially biased courts to decide our fate.
#
A dozen of community members and some of our allies chanted songs in our support on our much-anticipated day in court for a verdict. The judge barred the entourage from entering the courtroom. Nevertheless, they stood in support outside. Their presence was necessary to us.
“Don’t you think you had a choice young man?” the judge said.
He was an old white man wearing a sheepish headgear with a black coat. I was standing on the witness podium supposed to narrate my account in my defense. I took the gesture as smokes and mirrors. Our lawyer advised us that it could work in mitigation of the sentence even though it seemed obvious that we were going in the hole.
“I ‘m dead sure Your Worship if you had limited choices that I had, you would commit the same crimes,” I said, “let’s turn the tables now and see.”
There was a lengthy pause.
“Choice is an illusion created by people with privileges like yourself and your fellow men. Individuals who deem themselves superior,” I continued,” Of course, I had choices, and here they are; to steal or to die of hunger or to cultivate, I chose the latter. I couldn’t take from a fellow human being; I opted the natural way out, Your Worship. For many years, our ancestors cultivated natural herbs for medical purposes. I take pride in the fact that I got my meal from the earth.”
People in the courtroom made noise, some begun to laugh and giggle.
“Order-Order!” the Judge said.
He banged the gavel on top of the wooden desk.
“Even the bible states, as one of the Ten Commandments that one mustn’t steal but reap what one sow, “I continued, “don’t we consider ourselves Christians in here?”
I paused for a second as if someone would raise his or her hands.
“Raise your hands if you’re a Jew, or a Muslim or a Hindu,” I said.
There was dead silence in court.
“Any Buddhists in here,” I said.
Again the courtroom was as still as an undiscovered cave.
“I know I’ve crossed lines, lines that the western master drew for me, yet they don’t apply to them. I’m crucified for taking bread away from corrupt officials. I know I have caused some families harm and for that I apologize. I don’t, however, plead guilty for cultivating,” I said,” I grew, and people liked my crop, that is all. “
At that point my lawyer looked at me with piercing eyes, the look could have killed me. He crossed his pointing finger across his mouth indicating that I should shut up.
“Your time’s up,” the Judge said, “now take this two cockroaches to their cells.”
“I ‘m not finished,” I said, “hunger pushes most of us to look for an alternative way of life-.”
“Get him out of that podium,” the judge said.
Two police officers flung towards me.
“Wait until you’re in my shoes, and then we’ll-,” I shouted.
Father Albert requested the permission to pray for us. It was the longest five minutes of my life. I could not wait for him to finish so I could get used to my new life. We were sentenced to ten years each a few weeks from that day. During sentencing, the judge said because we were not yet 21 and were first-time offenders otherwise he could have given us more. We did not rat out our fellow members. We needed them to push the struggle outside and to continue somehow with the business wherever they could. It was the state against us and no witness to intimidate. The state’s case was tight. The undercover cop had bodyguards around the clock and eventually relocated.
The hole was no child’s play. We dealt with the prospects of death each day. Yes, we did the crime, and we had to do the time though nothing could have prepared us for the gruesome environment. During my prison tenure, I witnessed many horrible things, the kind of stuff made for horror movies. One night an inmate was bludgeoned to death with a silk stocking that had three Viro locks attached at the end, it was called the helicopter. Just two hard strokes on the head that was all it took to knock a huge man out, that was the end of it, the meeting with your maker. They swung that thing and hit the victim on the head. Blood splattered all over; other inmates sang to mask the cries that might reach the prison warders. Diehard inmates were used to the lifestyle. They got bored out of their skull if nothing hectic happened on any given day. No human being deserved that kind of treatment. Some of it masqueraded as initiation. Inmates formed groups for all sorts of reasons, protection being chief among them, then money, food and mostly power and control. I bought myself out of any sticky situation. Incarceration was terrible. The fact that one got packed in a small room with lots of smelly inmates must be deterrent enough for people to avoid it at all costs. The fact that one could only take a maximum two meters walk, that one ate what someone had decided, that one gets to eat when told, that one gets to sleep when told, that one wakes up when told, must send shivers down the spine of lots of people. We needed space literally and figuratively. When one had few relatives, and your best friends were your fellow inmates, the visits become rare, and that added injury to insult. As far as the sunlight was concerned, we could only see it less than four hours a day. The ability to move a little over a kilometer was a privilege afforded only during training sessions. I did not belong to a gang though I got protection from some. I bought my survival kit the same day I was taken in. Many prohibited items made their way in, either through the guards or some tactics from visitors. It was easy to find drugs smuggled in small supply just to get by. Well the same as in the outside, the survival was only of the fittest.
#
“Mr. Black, do you guarantee the three of us sitting here that you’ll undergo the necessary training afforded to you by the Republic of South Africa to assist you in your rehabilitation,” a parole board interviewer asked.
“Guarantee- I ‘m not sure about that, “I said, “I’ll do my best to adhere to the training schedule.”
“Are you sure that you want freedom. Do you want to be released Mr. Black, “a heavily bearded man asked, “or do you want to spend more time in here, with your friend?”
“Sir, Life has no guarantees,” I said, “like I said, I’d do my best.”
“Mr. Black, you’re sucking yourself into quicksand,” the man said,” We need assurance that once released; you won’t go back to your old ways.”
“I don’t have a crystal ball, sir,” I said, “and I sure don’t enjoy prison.”
“You aren’t convincing,” the man said, “given your good record and behavior, the odds are for your release.”
“Release me, don’t release me, it’s your prerogative,” I said, “You already know what you’re going to do either way.”
At that point, I was used to prison life. I could not beg for my freedom. I figured I could finish my remaining sentence. I had not figured out what I was going to do past that life. I was released on parole. I went back to my dilapidated house after serving three of the ten years sentence. I found that thugs had helped themselves to everything possible. Even the fridges, the washing machines, and the built-in stoves were gone. The municipality cut the electricity connection. I owed about forty thousand in municipal rates and taxes. The grass had grown to about two meters high. I was stupid not to hire out the place before I left; I guess one never anticipates such things when one is fighting for their lives. The drain was puking green and brown slimy sludge. The street kids must have found an excellent shelter. It was filthy and worse than prison.
“Hey, buddy, good to see you, “I said to Al.
He was released eight months later. It was not as if I missed him since I visited him every week. He was the one, which afforded me the confidence of a bounce back. I was the head; he was the tail and without each other we could not function. We needed each other to complete the coin.
“Ma leader,” he said,” it’s good to be back.”
I collected him from prison. His family wanted nothing to do with him. Hence we arranged to stay together. Most of his assets suffered the same fate as mine and relatives squandered some of them. The bank repossessed all the luxury cars, most of which were on lease. All the vanity gadgets were gone. We got bored stiff playing monopoly and chess for days on end.
“Oh shit man we down,” he said.
“Yes we’re, but we’re not out, “I said, “You know what they say about the bottom?”
“Yah,” he said.
“The silver lining of the bottom is that, should you decide to lift yourself up, there is no other direction to go but up,” I said.
“You reckon we’ll bounce back?”
He posed the question as if to gauge if I still had the survival instinct in me.
“Yah for sure,” I said.
“Legally or how?”
“Does it matter?” I said, “Who determines morality, ethics, and legitimacy? Those’re the gatekeepers’ weapons against the little Davids like us, do they adhere to them, I doubt.”
“Now you’re talking my language,” he said, “prison made you give less of a fuck, I like that.”
During the nights, from Thursdays onwards, we had no choice but to patronize mediocre nightclubs. It was an excruciating experience for people who were used to dining and drinking in high profile establishments.
“We have to make a move, and fast,” Al said.
“Relax, “I said, “We need to take our time.”
“Shit I can’t take this anymore,” he said.
He downed a can of hot Lion lager and angrily squeezed the can and threw it hard into the dustbin. Everybody looked our direction murmuring to themselves. The two mightiest had fallen. Though we had a little cash stashed away, we could not be seen spending immediately. We wanted to assess our old friends’ loyalty. We regrouped our men and played needy for a while. For people who thrived on planning strategic moves, it was the most grueling passive time of our lives. We were dormant; it felt like we were dead. We were no longer afforded invitations to elite events anymore. We contemplated new lease on life every night, but nothing ever materialized. We tried harder to find legitimate ways to get back to the top. Personally, I avoided being pinched ever again in my life.
