Along with the Amagqudu team, half the carriage jumped to their feet in reaction to the train’s whistling screech. Disappointingly, though, the train was just slowing down to honour the accident scene where a suicidal lady and her kids had, earlier, been struck.

With the same freakish sixth-sense as Siyanda had earlier shown, the team immediately knew what the accident was about. And with a deep-felt empathy, they confirmed it amongst themselves. “No doubt bras, it’s another one.”

“Shack City is too much for anyone,” observed Sizwe further, while the rest of the young men nodded in agreement. And almost as if timed by Satan himself to add further hopelessness to the moment, a newspaper salesman strolled past with a stash that sported the headlines: “SHACK CITY: POLICE VS YOUTH” and “NEW STUDY: THREE DEATHS PER WEEK”.

Like everything else that comes, stops and goes, it was inevitable that a stopped train would eventually move again. And sure enough, the train momentarily gave its usual jerk before beginning a slow ascent to full speed again.

“Finally!” exclaimed Sizwe, and, with this, showed that the baking sun and grilling stares had clearly been keeping the group on the edge of their seats.

Feeling a pain in his neck, Siyanda finally gathered enough bravery to look up. In his mind, though, there was still no way he would dare to look back at his stare-givers, and so the train map above the door was the perfect little escape. He could at least study that and forget about the judgmental eyes.

Almost immediately, upon looking up, he felt a rush of blood up the back of his neck. Clearly, his neck muscles did not like the long stares he gave the floor. He wished he could make them understand that not staring at the floor would mean that he would have to confront the angry looks directed towards him by the passengers.

Just when he had given up hope on spotting a distraction from the angry passengers, he saw the farmhouse near the train route. Now he had something on which he could focus his thoughts with all the strength he could muster.

Why would a white man condemn himself to living here? was his million dollar question. The thought of a farmer leaving his comfortable bed in favour of sleeping amongst his animals seemed completely outrageous to all the passengers who had heard the murder story.

“Maybe, like us, he was born with a plastic spoon in his mouth, instead of a silver one,” reasoned Sizwe to Siyanda, smiling ever so slightly.

With no hesitation, Sihle forced himself into the conversation. “Hey man! Stop talking nonsense. That guy chose to live with poor people, but we were born into this.”

Siyanda immediately interjected. “So? Does that mean no rich people can live with us without getting killed?”

Sihle’s dismissive attitude made Siyanda realise that what he had hoped for was wishful thinking on his part. Nothing’s changed; these guys still hate rich people…

An instant shift in focus came in the minds of the passengers when the train entered the first town. The chatter amongst the groups was no longer in whisper mode, and the stares changed into worried looks.

Everybody began to brace themselves for any roughness that might have been awaiting them in the workday that lay ahead. But worrying formed only part of the thoughts; they could not help but celebrate being employed, at least, for yet another day.

For Siyanda, a key moment was now coming.

Let’s chat: What do you think will happen next?