I had not been to the shacks in two years and was surprised by how much the community had grown in such a short time. Boy Boy’s directions were spot on: I saw it from the top of the hill, the neat shack at the bottom of a long, winding road.

Sunday morning unravelled as I made my way down. A young mother hung the last of her infant’s clothes up on a line. An old woman tossed water from a bucket on the pathway just after I passed her shack. I walked faster to avoid the stream of soapy water. I recognised a few faces from high school.

Unlike most other shacks made of timber and metal roof sheets, Bheka’s was built properly with concrete blocks and roof tiles. Straws with the poison – wunga – were in his overall pockets. I watched as he made a sale to two boys about my brother’s age. Young slaves to the first high, they were their family’s Simphiwe.

“Your brother exchanged his cellphone for a lot of wunga. He took his SIM card with him. I don’t know where he went because it gets busy here on weekends, but he was here. He started a fight. It wasn’t in my yard; it was down there at the cul-de-sac. Tell the boy to cool it. He’s still young and the things that come out of his mouth are too old for him.”

I sat on the steps and smoked a cigarette, my mind processing the information about my brother. A wunga boy stopped and shook my hand like he knew me. It took me a while to recognise him. As he let go of my hand I realised it was a friend’s brother. He had grown unhealthily thin. After greeting, I asked if he had seen Simphiwe.

“He was here on Friday with Dumisani. There was a fight. Dumisani started the whole thing. Simphiwe was fighting for him. Wunga hits us in different ways. For most of us it zaps energy, but Simphiwe gains energy. He is everywhere: dice game, cards… Your brother doesn’t know when to stop. And he never backs down. We broke the fight off but your brother just kept pushing it. It’s his karate that makes him think he is invincible. It’s worse since he became friends with Dumisani. Your brother uses Dumisani’s reputation as a shield, but the boy whose nose he broke is just as bad, if not worse.”

“Dumisani who?”

“You know him, he lives near the butchery. You went to school with his brother, Sango.”

“You mean that fat boy?”

“He is thin now, after what happened last year and his time away. You know what happened, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Anyway, I’m in a hurry. Good to see you. You have five rand for me? I need to get my day going.”

I don’t remember if I gave him the money or not. Not much registered besides the bolt of shock going through my body as I connected the name to a face. Dumisani was Sango’s younger brother: the killer kid.

***

Tell us what you think: What was the fight about?