view3: A Short History Of Mob Justice
She dies amongst the lush tall green grass and the trash of an unclaimed urban pathway winding cramped between two buildings, her last breath choking out bloody through split lips and sobs of, ”I didn't take it, please, het nie gevang, he' nie.” A theory had surfaced that she was there when the phone went missing and it gained life, became a surety. Her whole life for a phone theft theoretical.
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view2: The Corruption Of My Understanding
Hands locked behind our heads we are sitting on the cold concrete floor in front of each others laps, our elbows on the knees of the person behind us, stale invective spits from the cops searching the curtains, the mattresses, every broken item in the room is broken, they search the door frame cracks for crack, cracks in everything – they tear the newspaper coverings on the broken windows letting the light in.
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view1: In Defence Of Street Crime.
Phezula! and he's running with the genius of bravado, snatched out of her hand as she sat in the minibus hurtling down through Hillbrow – decaying concrete, decaying daylight, toward Bree street rank. The taxi pauses for a minute and he lightening grabs through the window the cellphone she's paying off, her whole life is on that phone, and he vanishes through the cars and alleys and filth. There isn't even the time for anyone to scream Vimba.
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