I climb the steep slope behind our house towards the loud, pounding music coming from the shebeen. As I reach the top I see some girls dancing with their arms in the air, their boobs nearly wobbling out of their vests.

They say Bra Radebe puts Omo in his beer. It’s quite funny, really. Down the hill in our lounge my mom washes people’s minds, while up here the gangsters wash people’s bloodstreams with bad beer, poisoning them. Of course, who do you think is the richest?

Bra Radebe has a double-storey brick house with the whole bottom part turned into a bar. They have a smart blue Yaris in their garage.

I stand on the edge of the dance floor, sweating from the climb. My yellow dress is sticking to my skin. Bra Radebe is behind the bar cooking potatoes and trotters in a huge pot to feed to the drinking people. His son Sabelo is busy with his turntables and a CD player, mixing sounds with his fingers. His jeans are low on his hips.

My mother always says, ‘What holds their trousers up? Tell me, Nolu. This is one of God’s greatest mysteries.’

I shuffle along the wall towards Bra Radebe. He has blue tattoos, even on his fingers, and a glittering gold chain on his chest. He is a member of the 28s, a prison gang.

I know what gold means. Gold is the mark of the gangsters who steal. Silver is the mark of the gangsters who kill. I suppose we are lucky our neighbours don’t follow the silver commandments of killing, but Bra Radebe went to prison for armed robbery last year. Now he’s being kept under house arrest, which means he’s not allowed to leave home without telling the police.

Sabelo glances up from his DJ desk and I notice his eyebrows fly up in surprise as he spots me on the other side of the bar. He turns the music lower, walks over to me.

“Hey-y.”

His gangster father swings around from the stove. “Ooh, look. The Jesus Girl,” Bra Radebe says, laughing.

“Tata, leave it,” Sabelo says.

Near me, Franco from Duiker Street has a moustache of beer foam on his top lip. The whites of his eyes are yellow, probably from drinking Omo.

“She’s sexy when she sweats,” he says.

Sabelo punches Franco hard on the arm. That shuts him up.

“I need to buy some beer,” I say with fake confidence.

Bra Radebe laughs like there’s no tomorrow. “Your mother has finally fallen from heaven?”

“It’s not for my mother.”

“Ah. You want to experiment?” he guesses.

“No thanks. I’ve seen what your beer does.”

“Tata, let her speak,” Sabelo says.

“I need something for my pig.”

Now they all laugh like I climbed all the way up the hill over slippery stones to bring them happiness. I feel the heat swamping my face. I turn away. I’ll have to think of something else.

***

Tell us: Do you think Nolu should have gone to the shebeen to get alcohol?