As my gogo signs, rain splashes onto the eviction notice, and red ink streaks across the page like fresh blood.

“Man. You people,” sneers the uniformed muscle-man with a shake of his head, as he yanks the paper out of her hand, then turns to leave with the rest of his men.

“You–!” Aphiwe clamps her hand over my mouth, stopping the curses that I was about to scream at them. My whole body is trembling. I’m angry and I’m scared at the same time. Rain starts to fall harder. Earlier I was enjoying the wide-open sky above us, but now it makes me sick with dread. Soon we won’t have a roof over our heads. My life has changed in a heartbeat.

“Pheliswa! When will you learn that you can’t always rock the boat?” my gran snaps angrily at me.

Then she picks up her basket of washing, grabs Jabulani from me and hurries towards the stairs. She knows I won’t follow, that I can’t handle being inside our tiny flat, crammed with mattresses and people, when I’m this upset.

“This is so unfair, Aphiwe!”

She just nods. It makes me even madder.

“Don’t you have something to say? Me and my family have just lost our home and you just nod. We’ve got nowhere to go. We’re going to be homeless at the end of this month! My brother and I are going to become street kids, and you just nod!?”

Aphiwe gives me that look – the one she gives me when I’ve gone too far and hurt her feelings. She’s right. I shouldn’t have said that. I feel so bad; everything feels so bad. I pick up a clothes peg and throw it down as hard as I can. I do it again. One more time. It breaks apart, splintering into plastic fragments, and then the tears come and I start to sob.

“I’m sorry Aphiwe, I just don’t know what to do. Those guys just walk up here and turn our lives upside down. They don’t care! My gogo doesn’t deserve this. She’s old and she’s worked so hard. And Jabulani … we need a home.”

“It’s OK Pheliswa. I know. You’re right, it’s totally freaking unfair. I was just trying to think… And maybe, well, there are so many people around here who just stay, and don’t pay rent. Maybe you guys must just refuse to leave. I don’t know…”

“You mean become squatters? Stayers-not-payers? Here?”

“Well, other people are doing it.”

“Didn’t you see those security guys? They’re bad news. Our landlord wants us out, and he sent his thugs to show us he means business. I’d be too scared to stay. It’s too risky.”

The rain is pouring down but we don’t care. We just shout over it.

“What about those other buildings around here? You know, the ones that gangs have taken over from the landlords? Maybe they can do that here, and then they’ll protect you from the landlord.”

“OK Aphiwe, I’m sorry, but that’s a really bad plan. If a gang takes over our building then the same thing will happen here that we’ve seen happen in other buildings.”

“You’re right. That is a really dumb idea.”

Aphiwe looks depressed. She wipes her arm over her face to get the water out of her eyes.

“Are you remembering what I’m remembering?” I ask her, doing the same.

“I don’t know. Are you thinking about The Confiscator?”

“Yes. How he told the people in the block next door that he would take over the building from the landlord, and fix it up and make sure their lives were better…”

“Yes. He made himself out to be such a people’s hero. But now his gang runs the building and there are all those rumours that he’s getting people in the building to sell drugs for him?”

“JJ who lives there tells me it’s true, Aphiwe. And that The Confiscator’s making some of the women who live there do him and his gang ‘favours’. The girls can’t say no, because he’s got control of the building and they’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Oh my God. That’s terrible, I–”

A bloodcurdling scream cuts Aphiwe off mid-sentence. Even with the noise of the drumming rain we can tell it came from the building opposite. A flash lights up a room, accompanied by a dreadful bang.

Not thunder and lightning, but gunfire!

We run, and crouch down next to the wall at the edge of the rooftop for safety. There are gaps between the bricks and my breath catches in my throat as I see a TV hurled out of the window opposite us.

“No!” I gasp.

It’s incredible that it lands on the pavement without killing anyone, because it’s chaos down there. It’s the end of the day and commuters are pouring out of the taxis, looking like swarms of insects from way up here, scuttling through the rain to their broken-down buildings. Drug dealers and sex workers huddle damply in doorways, not letting the rain interrupt their trade. But the TV-bomb, with its shrapnel of glass, metal, plastic and wires does briefly interrupt business as usual.

“Watch out!” screeches Aphiwe in useless warning as a dirty old couch follows the TV. People scatter frantically. Kaboom! The couch smashes apart on the tar, sending shards of wood and ripped fabric and foam flying. Car alarms start to scream.

Next come armfuls of bedding and clothes that float briefly, and then crumple and drop hard, like failed parachutes.

“Oh no,” I moan.

I’ve seen gangs ‘evicting’ people from apartments before and I’ve always found it unbearable. But this time it’s more terrifying than ever – because it really could be us.

Lightning flashes and thunder bangs; something in my chest feels like it’s ripping as I realise that even at its height, my wild, strong thunderstorm hasn’t stopped the evil happening here this time. An awful, sickening feeling fills my stomach.

The entrance doors to the building burst open, and a mother and her small children sprint out into the rain, screaming and crying. They’re wearing only their dressing gowns and their slippers, but they keep going. The bad feeling creeps up towards my throat. I wonder what they did to get this treatment. Whatever it was, they’re running for their lives right now. I can’t bring myself to watch a moment longer.

An ambulance siren wails mournfully on the streets below. I turn my back to the wall and put my head between my knees.

Those poor people – that could be us. The thought keeps repeating itself, while my heart bangs against my ribs like a runaway train.

I stare down at the tiny, shallow streams of water running over the rooftop, wishing this nightmare would stop. My family…

The rain that’s drenched me feels like hot sweat.

I turn away from Aphiwe and vomit.

What are we going to do? What on earth am I going to do?

***

Tell us: Have you ever seen violence like this? How did it make you feel?