Out in the street, he was like a stray dog in heat. He ran, trying to get away as far as he could. Down the street he went, past mam’ Sibongile’s shebeen. 

It was already closed but Mam’ Sibongile’s bold voice was still audible as she demanded her last customers, stubborn as bull frogs, to go home now. He looked on at that place and memories threatened to burst in his mind. But he supressed them and moved on swiftly.

In the dark street, it was like Jack Mthimkhulu was staring into a giant mirror…. 

It was at fifteen when he discovered that there was nothing better than the sound of coins in his pockets. And so, he decided then to attend school no more. He figured he was grown up. A question he once posed to himself returned to him: If he could learn so much about life in books, how much could he then learn from life?

He passed a lamppost he once anchored himself under every night, wary of the long arm of the law. From errand boy, to debt collector, to robber, there wasn’t anything he didn’t delve in.

This was the way to learn about life, he thought to himself. You make a choice and live with the consequences. Besides, weren’t these jobs also a particular science that required some level of thinking?

He passed the church, and lights flashed before him. They lights got brighter and brighter. And before it was too late, he realised it was a car speeding towards him. He dove out of the way in the nick of time. The driver sped off, hooting and hollering obscenities.

Jack Mthimkhulu turned down a dusty road. A sea of corrugated-sheet houses created a labyrinth with small, twisting passages before him. It was dark and eerie. The thick dust that rose with each step made its way into his nostrils.

He wandered aimlessly, trying to forget about the big hole inside him.

He zig-zagged through the grimy maze, until he found himself in front of a mob, waving sticks and chanting loudly in a chorus, “burn witch! Burn!” Thick, black smog pierced the clouds. A roaring blaze was gobbling up a small shanty before them.

There was a stout, bald man dancing with a stick in front of the crowd. Jack Mthimkhulu was about to walk away when he heard kitten-like screams coming from the burning shanty. He circled the burning dwelling to get a peek and saw four kids, choking in the black fumes.

Beyond the fear distorting their faces, he recognised it was those kids who ran around the streets barefoot, begging strangers for any spare change. He knew they lived with their grandmother, who was always cooped inside her home. He never bothered to think why. He figured she was too old to be wandering out anyways.

He cut his way quickly through the crowd and made his way to the centre, where the man was. The crowd gasped. The man stopped his fiery speech as he recognised Jack Mthimkhulu. He grabbed the man by his lapels.

“What the hell is this?” He asked, his bloodshot eyes staring dangerously into the man’s.

“We’re purging our peaceful community of this wretched old witch and her little beasts,” the man squeaked. He was shaking like a leaf at the mercy of a strong wind. “We’re just against wretchedness, that’s all.”

Wretchedness? Jack Mthimkhulu thought. Was ignorance rooted so deep in this man, that it paralysed his reasoning capabilities? What harm could a half-blind person, who could barely tell the difference between a man and a scarecrow, possibly do?

Jack Mthimkhulu shoved him on his back side. The crowd backed up. Jack Mthimkhulu took off his overall top and covered his face from the choking fumes.

He circled the house again, trying to get a better look. He saw the children coughing wildly. They were like trapped gazelles, their eyes livid. They stood over what looked like a burnt body. He kicked down the door engulfed in flames. The fire had gutted the shack and was greedily gobbling anything left.

He kicked away the shattered cupboard blocking his way and reached the terrified children. The eldest was no older than eleven years. He spread his arms like tree branches as they climbed while others tightened their grip on his shoulders.

The roof shirked and threatened to collapse, but he quickly went out. He put the kids on their ground, as he coughed. His eyes pierced the stunned crowd. He ordered the kids to run to Mam’ Sibongile’s and call the police. They were weeping uncontrollably as he stumbled away. The jarring feeling was still stabbing at him.