Three black Mercedes-Benz sedans come to a screeching halt outside a supermarket perched high on a hill in Umlazi Township. Four men — two from the front and two from the back — get out. All four men run, guns drawn, to the supermarket entrance. The menace of their steps is matched by the scowls on their faces.
Inside the supermarket, the owner, Khulekani, has heard the screeching tyres and looks up. As soon as he sees the cars, he runs to the entrance and tries to lock the steel gate. Too late. He is within a centimetre of clicking padlock to lock when the men kick the gate wide open. The force of their kicks sends Khulekani crashing to the floor near the shelves in the aisle. The four men ransack the store. Cooking oil, flour, sugar — all of this spills on Khulekani and the floor. Two men stand in front of him while the other two step on his chest, pinning him down with their Converse All Star takkies.
In the middle sedan outside there are two men. Bongani is looking at the supermarket, gleefully watching as his henchmen manhandle Khulekani. The other man, Mandla, looks at the Toyota factory in the distance, beyond which the mass of the blue Indian Ocean hardly seems to move. Mandla wishes for the peace of the tranquil ocean he is watching. He looks into his innermost thoughts and wishes he wasn’t the brains of this drug-dealing crew led by Bongani. This crew, the Scorpion Gang, is involved in a hostile takeover of the drug business in Umlazi Township. And they are winning.
Mandla, through shrewd planning and his intergenerational connections in the drug world going as far back as his grandfather, has transformed the Scorpion Gang from a small criminal crew to a high-earning drug-dealing outfit.
Bongani is full-on laughing as he watches his henchmen beat up Khulekani. His smile is gone in an instant when he sees that Mandla is looking the other way.
“Hey!” says Bongani. He has to actually tap Mandla on the shoulder to get his attention.
“Yeah, what?” says Mandla, still looking at the ocean in the distance.
“Yeah, what? Yeah, what? You cannot be serious,” says Bongani.
Mandla regains his bearings. “Oh, yes! We are here,” he says.
“What is wrong with you, Mindlos?” asks Bongani.
“Nothing is wrong.”
“We are about to take over the drug game in Umlazi but you are not even paying attention.”
“I’m here, Bongs, don’t worry. I’m with you!”
“I doubt it. Are you really here?”
“Of course I am. I was just admiring nature.”
“This is not the time for that. We are about to take over Umlazi. I need you to be on your game now! Can I count on you?”
“Of course, Bongs.”
“You better be. I have put my head on the line for you. We have all sacrificed a lot to get to this stage.”
“I know, Bongs.”
“If you did you’d be psyching yourself up. Getting ready to play your role. Getting ready to explain the mathematics of dealing drugs to Khulekani.”
“Come on, Bongs. You know I’m ready.”
Bongani looks him in the eyes. “You better be. All your calculations better be correct. All your suppliers had better pull through.”
“They will. Don’t worry.”
“OK, let’s go then.”
Together they walk into the supermarket and Mandla delivers the speech he has been delivering at all small drug spots in Umlazi Township.
“You will be buying from us now. You will never be bothered by the police again. You will make more money than you have ever made in your life,” says Mandla.
“And you don’t take this offer at your own risk,” Bongani adds.
Mandla is the brains behind the takeover, Bongani the brawn. As Khulekani nods in agreement, the takeover is now complete.
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