My house looked small and lonely in the starlight. I looked at it like I might be seeing it for the last time. Ma had left lights burning for me, but her bedroom was in darkness. She gets up before crack of dawn to do her baking every day so she’s usually in bed early. And what with no sleep last night she was probably deep in dreamland.

We tiptoed in, careful not to wake anyone. Last thing I wanted was mafutha boy starting up his screaming.

I left the ‘Wanted’ poster on the table where she’d see it first thing. I wrote on it in black kokie:

“Sorry about the mess. You’re better off with me gone for a while. At least you know where Ansie is now. Hope they give her back.”

It felt like a cowardly thing to do, to be running out on her in the middle of the crisis. But she’d already lost two sons to the hood. This way at least I’d stay alive. Where I was going to go, I had no idea. I’d worry about that tomorrow. For tonight I’d bed down in the back of Fabian’s brother’s truck. That way, if they came for me, I wouldn’t put the rest of the house in danger.

I packed by torchlight, stuffing things in my tog bag without caring what they were. My school uniform I left behind. The dead don’t need no education.

It all felt so unreal. One moment I was on the way to stardom. The next, running for my life. That’s how it is in ikasi.

“Let’s go,” I whispered to Fabian, who was waiting for me in the hallway.

We’d almost made it out when a piercing blast of rap song came belting out of nowhere, nearly electrocuting my heart. I must have jumped about ten metres. So did Fabian. A child starting wailing even louder than the rap song.

A wild-haired figure emerged from Ma’s bedroom, swinging a frying pan. I only just ducked in time to stop it connecting with my head. “Ma!” I yelped. “It’s me!”

The kitchen light went on and for a while everything was bedlam. Ma was yelling and the fat boy was screaming and the rap was belting out full volume from Fabian’s clothing. I recognised our song, from the time that Fabian had recorded it on his phone, before he left the Rockit Os. Even in the chaos, I could hear how good it sounded.

Fabian fumbled in his trouser pocket and the rap music shut down.

“Hello?” I heard him say cautiously.

He listened for a moment. Then held the phone out to me with a shaking hand.

“It’s for you, Wesley,” he said.

I took it from him. A voice came on the line. Not one I recognised. But the menace in it was signature enough.

“You’re dead, Abrahams.”

***

Tell us: Do you ever worry that cellphones contain too much personal data – like the example of the gang finding Fabian’s number on Wesley’s phone?