It was a chilly winter evening in a township of South Africa. The mini-taxis flashed past each other on a crowded dusty street, barely missing children as they sped off on the small road. Empty faces and hollow bodies clutched their purses closer to their bosoms. The sun had become an eclipse on the horizon and was replaced by a cold breeze that had rendered people as nothing more than dark figures, making the movement of hands ever harder to follow.

I watched on without much interest as I fastened my pace. My mind was glued on Apollo, who had morphed into a unique old creature. I used him as my escape from this wretched place. My soliloquy was distinguished by a glance at a figure standing on the corner of the street, straightening his beanie and pulling up his loose-fitted jeans. I shuffled and motioned, turning back, but it was too late, he had seen me long before I saw him. It was Dion, my oldest friend. The wary smile immediately lit up his coarse face as I walked up to him and dangled my hand.

“General!” he says, as he molests my hand, “It has been a while, boy.”

I did not answer. I just threw my head back. I wanted to get away from there as quickly as I could. Dion was a net and I, a fish. I knew him for almost all my life and very well. I knew what was going to happen if I stuck around for a while. We both attended the same school and graduated right around the same time, although Dion was a few years older than me and had started before me. We had both spent the past decade attending the University of Life – where you never graduate, but advance in degrees. Though I was a fool to think I could break that cycle, I was determined to try.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, boy?” he enquired as he looked at me from the corner of his eyes.

“Apollo’s,” I said, as I wiped my lip with the back of my hand.

A loud guffaw burst, “That crazy old man?” he asked, “The same stinking old man who pushes a trolley filled with tins? And then drives an imaginary car through the township that lifts dirty children,” He says while shaking his head.

“He’s an artist.”

“Get real, General.”

“He sings, man. He collects those cans to eat.”

“He’s a clown. So are you telling me, you quit the game to join a circus?” he says.

As he was saying this a small boy in a hoodie handed him a note that he squashed into his pocket and disappeared. He then came back with a clenched fist and unwrapped it quickly upon the little boy’s hand.

My temperature rose at the sight, “Don’t tell me you are selling that poison to children now.”

“Do I look like a social worker?” he asked violently, “Besides, I’m just supplying a demand.”

This is exactly what I wanted to get away from. Unfortunately, it’s easier to fall into these depths than to be helped out.

The sun had now completely dropped out of the sky, and I had to go. I was ready to tell him I had to go when he rubbed his hands together and spoke.

“Listen, the streets miss you, boy,” he said, “Things are not the same without you, ntwana. These rookies have been messing up, big time. I need you, boy.”

His words opened up old wounds and threatened to undermine my prospects. That decision to start a new life did not come easy. Sure, the money was almost worth it, but the risks involved made it unbearable.

“Like that last job when we had to take down that cash – in transit vehicle. Two guys got left behind, and only you and I escaped, narrowly, and for what? For blowing ten grand a night with people you hardly know and then wake up to piss it all in the morning. I can’t anymore. I made my choice.”

He laughed again, “Come on, you’re the General, man. Remember when we did the jewelry store in town? Those back up securities didn’t know what hit them. You, alone, ntwana, cleared the way for us to make an exit. This thing comes natural to you. It is a gift given to a chosen few, I tell you.”

“How long can that last? We won’t live forever,” I cleared my throat, “I am going to be a father, man. . .in three months.”

Dion threw his head back and grimaced, “Eish, Hadi (Sorry) Ntwana.”

“I am actually glad, man.”

And that is when he lowered his voice, “There’s a job that is going down this Friday.”

“No. I am done with that.”

“Calm down. This one is easy. We get some jewelry and anything valuable from this ngamla’s (white dude’s) house over at the hills, sell it off to some suppliers, and get paid. That’s it. Nobody has to get hurt.”

“How much are we talking?”

“An easy 50 grand split three ways. I’m close with some pawn shop owners down in town. Not bad for one night.”

It is not a bad start, I thought, I could stash a fraction for my baby’s future, give some to my mother and use the rest as a boost. This could be my final- wait. Wait. There is not going to be a job. I have new plans now. I am doing it by the book. I am going legit.

“I am done,” I said with unconvincing authority. I could feel the sweat rolling down the side of my head. I had to get away.

“Come on. I need you,” he said as he clasped his hands together in prayer, “Don’t make me beg.”

I shook my head and blocked out his words by thinking about something else. I made away with my heart pounding. I heard him screaming, “Call me!” in the distance as I walked away.

Tell us : Is being poor always an excuse for crime?