‘But can’t you really let me put up here for the night?’ Johannes Venter asked for the umpteenth time.

‘Goodness gracious, no, Mr Venter,’ Sipho answered. ‘Can’t you understand? If you’re unable to leave tonight, under cover of darkness, you have no chance of coming out alive tomorrow, in broad daylight.’

‘But things may have changed in the morning.’

‘Yes, for the worse. Don’t you realise, sir, that those children only let us go because they know me? They may very well start boasting in the streets. And when the older ones hear the story; there’s no telling what will become of us all if they find out you’re here.’

Sipho’s children peered into the sitting-room where he and Johannes Venter were talking.

‘Hambani niyolala nina,’ he said.

They darted back to the kitchen but did not go to bed as he had instructed.

‘No, you just can’t sleep here, Mr Venter,’ Sipho said. ‘We simply must think of a way of getting you out of the township with a minimum of delay. Oh! Yes, I think I’ve got it. I’ll go and report your presence to the police. They’ll be able to escort you safely out of the township. I’ll be back shortly. Just make yourself at home. My wife will keep you company till I return. Would you like something to eat?’

‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’

‘Okay, some tea then. Won’t be long, sir.’

Sipho hurried into the kitchen. His wife, Daphne, and their children were huddled together around the coal stove like a brood of chickens.

It was blustering wintry weather. The wind howled and lashed violently against the windows. Gushes of cold air entered through the numerous cracks on the walls, especially where the walls met the roof. The ill-fitting door was stuffed with paper and cloths to keep out some of the cold air.

Daphne was listening to the children’s accounts of the day’s events when Sipho entered. He closed the door after him.

‘Will you stay with him until I come back!’ Sipho said. ‘I’ll go and call the police.’

‘He can’t sleep here,’ Daphne said.

‘I’m trying to see to it that he doesn’t,’ Sipho said.

‘Kodwa wena ubumusa kuphi lomuntu?’ Daphne asked. Sipho thought what an unfair question it was. How could she conceivably ask why he’d brought Venter, as though he’d had any choice in the matter?

‘Please, let’s not go into that now,’ he said.

‘Where will you find the police?’ she asked.

‘Where else? At the police station, of course. That’s what they should be doing, protecting people instead of mowing down children.’

‘Baba, they burnt down the police station this afternoon,’ Sandile said. He was their eldest son and was ten years old. Sipho looked at Daphne. She nodded.

There was a loud knock at the door.

Johannes Venter sprang to his feet and made for the kitchen. He stood trembling at the door.

‘Excuse me, there’s someone knocking,’ he said, ‘Do you think they’ve come for me?’

‘Nkulunkulu wam!’ Daphne exclaimed. ‘What did I say? There’s only one thing we can do now,’ she continued in Zulu. ‘You’ve got to hide him outside, in the coal box.’ She quickly sized Johannes Venter from head to foot. ‘He’s not such a big man. He’ll fit in all right. Quick, we’ve no time to lose. Get him out before whoever is knocking comes round to the back door.’

They were talking in whispers.

Johannes Venter was shaking uncontrollably. How did one live under such constant threats? He was made to feel even more forlorn by being left out of the conversation which went on in a language he didn’t understand. Nor did he feel the least reassured by being ignored each time he asked to be told what they planned to do with him. Was he going to be surrendered to the mercy of those savage children they’d met running riot in the streets? Why hadn’t he simply dumped Sipho at the entrance to the township and driven home to his wife and children? But how could he have known that he’d be trapped in this infernal place?

‘Risky! But I can’t, for the life of me, think of anything besides simply letting him out through the window,’ Sipho said.

‘My God! Do you want a white corpse in our yard in the morning?’ Daphne asked.

‘No, no, not that. I guess your plan will do. But don’t open the door yet. While I get him out, you and the children create as much fracas as you can. Get them to sing something at the top of their voices. And start shouting to whoever is at that door that you’re coming. Take your time opening that door.’

‘What shall I ask them to sing?’

‘Oh, anything. “Rock of ages” or something.’

‘But they don’t know that one.’

‘Get them to sing something else they know then.’

‘I know what we’ll sing.’ It was Nomsa, their five-year old daughter. ‘Let’s sing that new song Sandile and Sizwe taught me today, the one I heard the Black Power (only she pronounced it “Powder”) children singing when they came back from fighting the police. Sandile and Sizwe were there, baba. They were all shouting “Black Powder! Black Powder!” and, “Amandla! Amandla!” Start it Sizwe.’

‘I don’t know which one you mean,’ Sizwe said. ‘There were many songs we sang today.’