Siyanda opens the gate and walks into the yard. He can’t see Sizwe anywhere. He must be inside. The house looks like it’s just been opened after being closed for, like, ten years. Some parts of the yard still have weeds and over-grown grass. In other parts the soil looks newly dug, like someone went at it with a spade recently. It’s drying under the blazing sun.

Sizwe’s mother would’ve never allowed it to get this bad. Her absence is obvious. Siyanda remembers one of the last conversations he had with her. Her exact words have escaped his mind, but he still remembers what she was trying to say.

You look like you’re a good friend to my son. You’re a respectful young man. I thank God for that. He needs a good friend. Watch over him out there. Talk him out of the trouble he likes getting into.

He still remembers his response to her clearly. “People are just looking for trouble where there isn’t trouble, Ma. We just have fun, staying out of everyone’s way.”

But he was lying then, and he’s lying now. The difference is that now he’s lying to someone he loves, to people he loves. Makhulu and Thandiwe. Back then he had a choice. He could’ve told her the truth, told her that they’re in a gang – and Sizwe is the leader.

Sizwe didn’t hesitate to rob people back then, and he still doesn’t hesitate now. Jail hasn’t changed him. Maybe if she was still alive she’d talk sense into him, get him to understand that Siyanda had no choice, that for his own sake he had to get the cops involved.

He goes inside the house. He’s greeted by a fresh smell, a flowery one. Sizwe doesn’t clean. It must be Sis’ Nokuthula’s work. Besides Sizwe’s mother and brother, she’s the only other one Siyanda remembers caring about Sizwe.

Inside, Sizwe is already waiting, sitting on the sofa, with a half-filled glass of water in his hand.

“I was already getting tired of waiting,” he says, with a look of disgust on his face. Then he confirms Siyanda’s fear. “Those taxi drivers don’t know anything. They’re just moegoes, iimpatha. We’re the first ones to do this. And it’ll be easy like when we robbed that kid in 2012.”

He stops and looks at Siyanda, now seated close to him on the sofa, facing the TV. And then he starts laughing. “You stress out when I talk about this nhe. I can see it on your face. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

Sizwe stands up and strolls towards the bedrooms. “Just keep doing what I tell you and no-one will ever know about that kid, what we did, what you did. No-one.”

Siyanda can hear Sizwe from the lounge. It sounds like he is dragging a crate across the floor in his bedroom, and, then, silence. He tries to guess what Sizwe could be doing. Maybe he climbed on top of the crate and is reaching for something on top of the wardrobe. He’s not a tall guy, not a buff guy, just like Siyanda isn’t.

After a few minutes, he comes out of the hallway, something wrapped in purple fabric in his hand. Siyanda takes a closer look. It’s a gun in there. There’s no doubting it. He’s never known their different names, but he’s seen enough guns to know.

“You probably thought you’d never hold a gun again.” Sizwe chuckles. “You were wrong. Fuck your church. Today you’re coming over to my side. We’ll shoot anyone who tries to stop us.” He points the gun at the wall. “Bah!”

He strolls over to the kitchen sink and pours himself another glass of water. “This is my RDP now. You were like a brother to me. If you hadn’t fucked things up, we could be living together here, me in that bigger room, and you in Thabo’s room. But you did. You sold us out to the cops, to Grobbler.”

Brother? Has he gone completely crazy? How was leading the gang, getting all the guys into trouble, messing up their lives, brotherhood? How?

The voices in Siyanda’s head refuse to shut up. He had to give them up, get out while he still could. 2012 and 2013 were messy years, bloody years. He had to involve the cops. He wanted a better life, not the life they were living. Robbing Mr Grobbler’s house was a bad idea from the start. Siyanda wanted a new life and Makhulu has given him that.

Sizwe walks over to the coffee table in front of Siyanda and puts the gun down. “Take it. Prove you can hold it. What we’re gonna do is easy, but if things go wrong, I want the gun to be close. You’re gonna keep it on you.”

Something doesn’t feel right. Why does he want Siyanda to keep the gun? Sizwe has a glove. It’s hanging out of his back pocket. Siyanda doesn’t. Fingerprints.

A voice inside Siyanda speaks again. Kill him. Take it right now and kill him. Shoot him in the head. Nice and clean.

No! Another voice counters. Makhulu changed you. You don’t serve the devil. No blood. No jail. Thandiwe. No, don’t do it. Don’t disappoint them.

“Hhe, man, this is not Maths. Stop thinking. Pick up the gun and point it. Cock it and point it.”

Siyanda slowly stretches out his hand.

Fingerprints. Don’t take the fabric off from round the gun. What if Sizwe wants your fingerprints to get on the gun? What if he’s setting you up?

He grabs the gun from the coffee table, but doesn’t remove the fabric. It’s heavy and solid, like an iron weight. The room is dead quiet, like it’s waiting for the gun to go off so it can amplify the sound. Siyanda can hear himself breathing. Deeply.

Sizwe stands beside one of the sofas, looking on impatiently. “How are you gonna cock it with the fabric still around it? Stop acting like you’ve never held a gun before, man. Take that thing off and cock it.”

Siyanda shakes his head, hesitantly, mouthing a slow ‘no’. He points it in the direction of the hallway. “You got what you wanted. I did it.”

“I’m not even close to getting what I want,” Sizwe says, as he grabs the gun back from Siyanda. “You’re not even asking what we’re doing today, how we’re gonna do it. Maybe you think I’m gonna pull out, say we don’t have to do it.”

Sizwe’s words feel like a sword cutting through Siyanda. Power. Sizwe has all the power. Siyanda has no idea what’s coming.

“What do you plan to do?”

“It’s your plan,” Sizwe chuckles. “We’ll go to a busy rank. You’ll go to a taxi. I’ll stand somewhere nearby, watching you. You’ll wait for it to start getting full and the people start paying.

Siyanda doesn’t respond, his mind doing a thousand calculations at the same time.

“You’ll sit at the front. That’s where all the money goes when they pay. They won’t ask for their change until the driver gets in and the taxi starts moving. You’ll get out before that and we’ll be gone. It’s easy.”

Sizwe pulls out the woollen glove from his back pocket. He puts it on and unwraps the fabric. The gun doesn’t look new. It looks like it’s seen different hands. The black paint on it is mostly faded, with the silver metal underneath showing.

“So yeah … there’s a lot you’ll do. You know what’ll happen if you don’t do it.” He cocks the gun.

Siyanda knows that the worst of the nightmare is just beginning, with no end in sight.

***

Tell us what you think: Can gangsters ever escape from each other? Why or why not?