“Speak to me, Mzi,” his sister pleaded in the taxi on the way home.

“Why? What’s there to speak about?” He re-fused to look at her. Instead he stared out of the window.

“It could have been far worse. This way you get to go back to school.”

Why did his sister have to be so damn optimistic all the time? What was good about going back to school? Mzi hated Harmony High. And right now he hated his life.

When they got home he pushed past his sister and slammed his bedroom door in her face. What he wanted was to be alone. His life was none of her business. “Mzi!” she knocked on the bedroom door, but he ignored her. He had had enough of answering to people for one day. What he needed was to share a beer with his friends – and to forget.

“Soon I’ll be sending Olwethu to his great-great-grandfathers. Olwethu and that bitch, Ntombi, are the reason I’m here,” he cursed. Life was out there on the street, not in this prison his sister called home.

He could hear laughter as the guys strolled down to Jake’s Tavern, smoking and chatting in the early evening. Not so long ago he would have been with them, talking and joking. He would have been the first to buy a round of drinks from his friend Mandla, the bartender. He had money to flash around, a stash of crisp notes in his pocket, from Zakes’ last job. Now he was stuck with tea and some stupid TV show his sister was watching. Things had to change. What kind of man would he be if he cowered like a dog and let Olwethu parade around with Ntombi? He had to get people to fear him again. He was Mzi Mlongeni and nobody messed with him.

But how? He had four people watching him. And any one of them could report any bad behaviour that would decide his fate at the court case. The social worker had already arranged a counselling session for him. The probation of-ficer lived in the neighbourhood, as well as Sergeant Ndebele, who was known as a rough cop. And his sister, he couldn’t trust her. She was probably reporting every move he made … Every time he left the house, had a drink, went to the bathroom … She had always been the ‘good girl’ in the family.

*****

Mzi stared at the ceiling hoping to get an an-swer – a plan of how to bring Olwethu down. It seemed impossible. The only thing he saw made his skin crawl. A big female cockroach looking for a hidden place to drop and hide her massive eggs was crossing the ceiling. He jumped up, grabbed his old flip-flop sandals from the floor, and smashed the cockroach with so much vigour and hatred: “Phelandini! Ndiyalicisha eliphela linguOlwethu!”

His sister was in his room like a flash.

“What is it, Mzi?” she exclaimed.

“Cockroach,” he answered. “I’m surrounded by cockroaches, and Olwethu’s the biggest one.”

“Mzi, you can’t keep blaming Olwethu for what has happened to you. You got yourself into this mess. You’ve got to live with it. Keep out of trouble until the court case. I’ve already lost one brother to crime, I can’t lose another.”

“Ag, thula!” he shouted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t feel my pain.” He jumped up off the bed and pushed past her into the lounge where he paced up and down like a caged animal.

“How dare you speak to me like that! Can’t you remember what happened to Themba? Is your memory so short? Where is he now, Mzi? Rot-ting in some jail – his children running the streets barefoot.” Then her voice softened. “Mntakamama, you can still mend your ways. There is still time.” And when he didn’t answer. “Why are you so angry with life?”

But they both knew the answer. It was Themba, Mzi’s brother, who had tried to protect Mzi from their father. It was Themba who had car-ried Mzi back to his bed and comforted him af-ter his father had beaten him to a pulp for no good reason – for a spilled glass of milk, for not greeting him because he was drunk, and some-times just because …

And now Themba was gone and Mzi had buried the hurt deep, deep in his heart and covered it with so much anger that no one could reach it.

“Themba is Themba. Mna ndindim! Get a life,” he shouted.

Mzi heard his sister’s sobs as she went to her room and closed the door on him. He should go and comfort her but he couldn’t do it. Themba had been his hero. How dare she talk of him like that?

He found an old stash of cigarettes under his bed, lit up and started flicking through the pag-es of the glossy magazines he had bought. There it was. All the shit he dreamed of, and was so close to getting – the flash cars, the styl-ish cellphones, men’s designer suits and bling. Yesses, nab’ubomi. No cash, no wheels. What life is that? No – there was only one way to get it back, the dream, and it was Zakes’ way – a life of crime.

He picked up his cellphone and sent an SMS to Vuyo – his friend, his partner. He understood. He had also worked for Zakes – probably still did.

M out. Wat’s up? We nid 2 tlk.

Mzi pressed Send.

Vuyo could help him. A plan was forming in Mzi’s mind. His screen lit up.

No wrk – Priscilla wnts 2 knw wat’s up with u. Jy weet mos. She lyks da bad boyz.

*****

Mzi thought of Priscilla. She was a sexy, smart woman – not a girl like Ntombi. “Vuyo and Priscilla are my guys,” he thought. As if Priscilla read his mind, his screen lit up for a second time.

Mis ur killer smyl. C u 2morw.
xxx P

He lay back on his bed and laughed. Vuyo and Priscilla – they were the plan. They would help him to get to Olwethu. And when he did, Ntombi would be pleading with him to spare Olwethu’s life. Everyone would know he was back on top. Nobody messed with Mzi Mlon-geni. Nobody!