The news report showed police forensic officers combing the scene outside the cigarette wholesaler, yellow tape sealing the area, and blood on the tarmac where Padlock took his last breath. The report cut to the burnt shell of the Toyota bakkie on a gravel road. Then it cut to a male reporter standing in front of a mansion in Umlazi Township. The reporter rushed to the driver’s window when Mpilo’s black S Class Mercedes Benz approached the gate.
He shoved the microphone in Mpilo’s face and said, “Mr Hlengwa. Can you tell us how your family is holding up?”
Mpilo answered with an intense scowl that made the reporter and cameraman take a step back. The taxi boss removed his glasses and looked straight into the retreating camera.
“No comment,” he said and drove into the grounds.
Imaginary gunshots rang in my head. Pictures of the robbery flashed in my mind. I ran to the bar fridge and gulped down cold water. I sat on Owethu’s bed and watched my baby while she slept.
“Tomorrow we must get a cellphone,” I said. “We can get a RICA’d starter pack from the hawkers at the taxi rank. I need to call Mpilo.”
“Mpilo looked mean on screen. He was not like the reasonable man I met the other day. I have a bad feeling about him after what you told me about him, Spha.”
“I want to do this for my conscience, babe. I want him to know what happened. Taxi boss or not, I believe he also wants to know the truth, especially from someone who was there when his brother died.”
“I’m scared of taxi owners since I began watching Isibaya.”
“Isibaya is fiction. The reality of their world is much worse. Back in Msinga my father had a little stall at the taxi rank. I used to help him out sometimes and I got to see the world of taxi owners.”
“You never told me that,” said Linda.
“Taking a life is nothing to these people. People were killed over the smallest differences in opinion. Yet, about the only thing young men like me strive for in Msinga is to be a taxi driver or a taxi owner. Or a gun for hire in the taxi industry. This industry goes hand in hand with guns, babe. My father had organized for me to drive for his taxi boss friend, but that’s not the life I wanted. That’s why I left that place.”
Linda embraced me tightly. “We will find a way out of this, Spha,” she said.
In the morning I took R2000 from the stash in the bag. I turned to see Linda in front of me. She had her hand out.
“I’ll go out to buy the cellphone and starter pack,” Linda said and took the money.
“No, you stay here with Owethu. I’ll be quicker,” I said.
“No Spha. You can’t leave this room in broad daylight anymore. I can’t lose you. The news report said a suspect was still at large, and that suspect is you. We can’t risk you being out and about. Not until we get a phone and see what is happening out in the world.”
She pulled her straw hat low to hide her face, and left. I scrolled news channels while Linda was out. There were no updates on the robbery. I paced about in the room and only stopped when Owethu grabbed on to my leg. She looked up at me with sad confusion.
I caught my face in the mirror and saw that all the worries in my mind had contorted my face into a mean frown.
Tell us what you think: Will Spha’s bad conscience and the anxiety of being on the run get worse, or better, as time goes by?