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.
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.