Tuesday, 9 February 2016

5.30 p.m.

The police van screeched around the corner and Nolitha was thrown against the hard edge of the bench. It was safer on the floor than on the bench; at least that way she didn’t whack the back of her head against the metal side of the van whenever the cop driving took the corner on two wheels. They had their siren on and, probably, lights flashing, as they sped through the streets, but they weren’t taking them anywhere, hadn’t been for at least five hours. Nolitha looked at her watch. They’d been in the van since 12.30 that morning. At some point they were going to have to bring them to the station, and charge them, but until then who knew how long they’d continue playing these pathetic mind games.

They’d stopped once, and Nolitha had peered through the metal bars and grimy Plexiglas of the window. A spaza. The cops had got out and bought themselves a Coke and a Bar-One. She’d taken the opportunity to bang against the door of the van.

“Hey! Wena! You can’t do this to us. It’s illegal. You have to charge us.”

“All in good time, all in good time,” one of the cops laughed. “Ungxamele phi? What’s your hurry?”

“We know our rights,” Nolitha said.

The cop laughed. “We’ve got ourselves a clever one. She needs a bit more of a tour.”

That had been two hours ago.

Nolitha buried her head in her hands.

It wasn’t that she was surprised by the way they were treating her. Her friends had had their fair share of brutal treatment from the police during the university protests. Nolitha had seen the pictures, watched the video clips on the Twitter revolution. She’d gone to join them the moment school was over, gunning her little car hard, getting there to support them as fast as she could. But by the time she got there, the police vans were full and the smell of tear gas was bitter in the air. Posters lay crumpled on the ground:

REVOLUTION: NOT CREATING HISTORY – MAKING OUR FUTURE

WHEN A CRY FOR AFFORDABLE EDUCATION IS CALLED TREASON

DEAR SAPS, ARE YOU NOT PARENTS?

Jama had been arrested. Pulled towards a van. She had watched as a policeman klapped him, so hard that his head jerked back and a line of blood ran from the side of his eye.

And even then Jama didn’t resist. It had taken three frantic weeks to get him out, his bail had been set so high, and all the while they were learning: what rights they had to protest, what police were allowed to do by law (what they were actually doing), how to make sure that political parties weren’t using the protest to their own ends, how to understand the Gathering Act, and how to use it when cases came to trial.

She looked at the students huddled around her. Babalwa, Weziwe and Fungile, Bonelwa, Dalumuzi, Khanyiswa and Mandla. Seven matric students, all working against impossible odds to get a decent pass. She thought of all the students in her class, how they studied by candlelight (candle wax leaving greasy blobs on their homework), how they’d begged her for extra lessons, the study groups they organised after school, weaker students learning from stronger ones. How she watched from her classroom door as they made their way home in the dark, laughing, happy, filled with irrepressible optimism.

And now here they were, shoved into the back of the van with her, no one listening when she’d said, “They’re minors. They weren’t doing anything. Take me instead.”

She’d grabbed at the policeman’s arm, trying to stand between him and her students. They had been milling around the vans, shouting, pushing forward, their faces alive with rage.

“Don’t worry, lady, we’ll take you too,” the cop had said. Then he’d pushed her in, sending her sprawling onto the ridged metal floor. “Time for you all to cool down,” he said and then laughed.

It was a baking-hot day and the air inside the van was thick with the heat of eight bodies, laced with the feral smell of fear.

Weziwe whimpered.

“Are you okay, Wezi?” Nolitha said.

“My leg, Miss, it really hurts.”

***

Tell us what you think: Why are they in the police van? What do you think has happened?