There’s only one thought in my head as we run away from the scene of the crime. I’ve never seen so much blood! It was like my friends had slaughtered the guy.

Apparently, Siyabonga, one of my buddies, pushed the guy head-first into the park bench’s arm rest. Of course, in his words it sounded something like: “That kid should thank God, cuz he was pretty close to being knifed in the neck.”

Bandile didn’t like this kind of talk from Siyabonga. He shouted, “Shut the hell up man! Your stupidity always gets us into shit! We could’ve just held the guy’s arms so Mzi could make him a punch-bag.”

I didn’t really get why Bandile was so pissed off; Siyabonga saved my ass out there. If he hadn’t intervened, I’m sure I would’ve been the one who was lying in a pool of blood.

The thoughts of blood are no longer in my head now; it’s the apologies that I owe Noluvuyo and Dr McNamara that are. I worry about how I’m going to break this story to the Doc. I can already imagine the concern on her face; her motherly voice telling me: “Mzimasi, young man, you and I are going to teach the world that young people listen when they are spoken to properly. Violence is never the answer.”

Lord knows, I don’t even want to think about the horror that Noluvuyo went through, watching us lay into the guy. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking now. I don’t want to think about how angry she must be or what she’s doing with the guy lying on the ground in a pool of blood. What the hell came over me in that moment when I laid the first punch?

We are close to the campus exit now. I look up and see the security cameras. “Shit!” I exclaim. “Kukh’ iicamera kalok’ pha bafethu and ziza kubona le group ingaka.”

Bandile agrees. “Let’s split up guys. Mzi’s right; there’s cameras at the exit and they’ll know something’s up when they see our group running, just after someone was attacked.”

With no time to waste, our group splits.

Siyabonga and Denver (a.k.a. Mr Quiet) plan to cut through the bushes and find a fence far from the security guards to go and climb over.

Bandile and I have a simple plan: avoid the cameras as much as possible – even if that means lying about not having student cards – so that we can avoid having to swipe in the line of the camera’s view as we exit the campus.

Not even a single word is spoken as we make our way towards the security guards. The one guard is tall, bulky and broad-shouldered. The other is shorter, and barking out orders over his walkie-talkie. I am shaking with nerves. You can probably smell the fear on me.

I hear Bandile whispering: “Relax mf’ethu, or you gonna get us caught.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I respectfully take my hands out of my pockets. The last thing I need is to feel even more like a tsotsi than I already do. Shit! my mind exclaims, the guy’s blood could be on the jacket I am wearing. I look down in horror. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Bandile itching to tell me to just relax. Surreptitiously I brush the sleeves and the front with my left hand – my strongest hand – then wipe the hand inside my left trouser pocket. There’s surely no blood visible now.

For some reason, the bulky guard runs off. Maybe the tall one will just let us go without a search?

No, he’s not letting us go through. “Nganisondele manene,” he says in a thunderous voice, calling us closer. He starts the search with Bandile. The guy’s a true giant. His hands almost look as if they are crushing my friend. Luckily, Bandile is clean – nothing suspicious is found in his pockets.

Now he’s coming to me. Each and every one of his heavy steps pounds into my ears. He lifts my arms to a cross-like position and he runs his hands down my sides and legs, finds nothing. But he’s not done yet.

He feels my chest pockets, stops, and looks at me for a second. “Yinton’ le mhlekazi?” he asks, but I raise my shoulders to shrug, feeling as if the words, ‘I don’t know, Sir’ are not good enough for me right now. He reaches into my right pocket, withdraws something. It’s an Okapi knife! That fucking Siyabonga has gotten me into some real shit now. This is his jacket, not mine!

The guard handcuffs me and Bandile. How the hell am I going to explain my way out of this one, I wonder as he marches us to the security office.

***

Tell us what you think: Are Bandile and Siyabonga good friends to Mzi? Why or why not?