As he walked on, he thought about that man leading the mob. He reminded him of himself when he too had a crew, with whom he wreaked havoc in the streets under the cover of night. Their appetite was like that fire; it got bigger the more they consumed. They quickly moved from mere muggings to hijackings, to armed robberies.

However, at home, he was a sweet boy. He would work the lawn in the morning. It was nothing for him to be huddled over a stove, mixing bubbling red tomato soup, whistling a happy tune. He would dish up, kiss his gogo’s cheek and then go out into the night again.

The usual questions would come up every time, before he went out.

“What is this work you do at night?” His grandmother would ask. “You hardly come home anymore and the people at church have been telling me -”

“-lies!” he’d cut in.

“Your behaviour lately, I don’t know what to believe.”

“I already told you gogo. I’m a security guard.”

“But I’ve never seen you in uniform.”

“That’s because I leave it at work, you know that.”

She always seemed to accept this explanation with a smile, and then kissed him on the cheek. “I pray for you son.”

Suddenly he awoke from his thoughts in front of a familiar house. 

How did he end up here? He thought. 

Absent-mindedly, his legs must have carried him here to the foot of this familiar door. The house was humble, three roomed, plastered not painted. His bowels tightened.

What time was it anyway? He questioned himself in vain, for he hadn’t a watch nor a phone.

He began to walk away but soft murmurs coming from the open window pulled him back. A soft, melodic voice, singing – undoubtedly. He scurried towards the open window, but the curtain was closed.

He could sense the pain, resilience and warmth in the voice moving in a deep rhythm. It caressed his ears. He found himself charmed, listening under the moon’s shade like a cobra charmed by a flute. His focus was fully submerged in the hymns.

From nowhere, something crashed into him from behind. He sprawled in the ground. Reaching out to ward off whatever had hit him. He received a withering blow on his hand. More blows fell on his head and shoulders. With some effort, he got to his feet. A hard blow crashed on his face. He felt his nose break as he swallowed his own blood.

“Bloody thief! What are you doing here?” The man was heaving.

A woman was yelling from behind the house. “Umthakathi!”

The man’s onslaught did not stop nor lessen. Jack Mthimkhulu hurled himself to the man, trying to wrestle the weapon away from him.

“Thief!” The man yelled. 

They rolled on the ground. Noxolo finally came out, with a doek around her head and a sleeping gown, armed with a slipper. She had heard voices in her yard and grabbed what was close to her reach before she had gone out.

“What is going on here?” She demanded.

The burly man was still thrashing his stick as hard as he could on Jack Mthimkhulu. She recognised the lumber man who had almost toppled a tree on top of her a few weeks ago.

“Bab’ Ndlovu, wait! I know this man.” 

She wedged herself between them. Bab’ Ndlovu was still hurling his insults just as his venomous stick had done earlier.

“I said stop! I know him.” 

Bab’ Ndlovu ceased for a second and then said, “I found him snooping around here, when I was going to check if I hadn’t forgotten to lock my car.” He was still panting, his nostrils flaring.

Jack Mthimkhulu laid unrecognisable on the ground; his eye swollen, nose crooked as a question mark, his hand limp, his cheek cracked, with a broken rib.

“Are you alright?” Noxolo asked the injured Jack Mthimkhulu. 

He rose.

“What!” Bab’ Ndlovu blurted out in disbelief. “You’re helping this thing? We should call the police. Better yet, let me finish it off.” 

He hurled himself again towards Jack Mthimkhulu.

“I said enough!” Noxolo said as she brought her slipper to his face. “I thank you for your neighbourliness, but this is my yard. Now back up!”

“What’s going on, honey?” Bab’ Ndlovu’s wife called.

He exhaled deeply and retreated. But not without a final word, “if you want to harbour tsotsis, fine. But I don’t want this thing anywhere near my yard, or else. I’ve lost too many valuables because of these damn crooks.”

Then he turned to Jack Mthimkhulu. “If I see you anywhere near my house, boy, it will be more than the stick next time. Noxolo here won’t be able to save you.”

Noxolo stood rooted in front of Bab’ Ndlovu; firm, unyielding like a baobab.

“Come now, honey!” Bab’ Ndlovu’s wife called.

“Won’t you get inside the house already, woman,” he called back as he walked towards her. “Can’t you see my stick is hungry!”

He knocked a rock and fell on his belly, got up and waddled back to his house.

Noxolo helped Jack to his feet. “Can you walk?”

He nodded, clearly dazed. 

He took two steps then crumbled to the ground.

She sighed and stood for a moment, as if sizing him up. She had developed little trust for men along the years, even a wounded one. She knew very well that a leopard became even more viscous at its weakest.

So, why help him? She was confused. Her head spun. She didn’t know what to do.