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WHAT BECOMES OF US
The rain has been falling incessantly for the past three days, reminding me of normalcy- the way things used to be. The impending nostalgic moment is cut short by a dread inspiring wail coming from the footpath beside the ruined RDP house I have been hiding in. I rush to the window nearest to where the commotion emanated, careful to remain incognito. I feel for my lifeline, the Sig Sauer 9mm pistol resting against my lower back. The tear-streaked window makes it hard to see anything at first, but then slowly, an all too common scene becomes visible: a young boy had ventured too far beyond the safety of his hideout in search of sustenance and had been caught by one of the local gangs. I would help, but I have lived that painful reality before. The jagged scar across my left cheek being a very real reminder of my loss. The boy would be given an ultimatum; join them or suffer a slow, agonising death. My Danny had to make that choice…
* * *
November 2020, 1 768 000 deaths. Fear had been gnawing at the minds of the global populace for eleven months. The virus had mutated into a much more deadly adversary. The promised vaccines had long since been tabled as failures. World order had been unravelling amidst the international blame game on who had actually caused the rapid spread of CoVid-19. South Africa’s outstretched, car-guard hands had been slapped away by the West. Democracy became a dictatorship, and then a sinking ship. The diseased politics in the country was soon cured by the actual disease. Fear became the driving force of a nation that never had the infrastructure, financial stability or the discipline to survive any sort of lockdown. Survival became priority, therefore crime became obligatory.
* * *
I try my best to remain as quiet as possible as I sneak between the ruined buildings of what was once a community housing project. This site was ruined long before the world turned to manure, it was financed by a poached government tender and therefore never completed. In some ways the world is better now, with one’s only choice being between survival and meeting one’s deity. That simple fact motivates me now as I follow the young gang members to their base of heinous operations. The leader of the gang, a tall boy with bleached hair, had tied a rope around the unfortunate new recruit’s neck and was dragging the last dregs of hope out of him. I am forced to pause behind a burnt down mini-bus as the straggling gang members become amused by a small mongrel feasting on the rotting carcass of a much bigger mutt. These are the times we live in, where expressions become reality. The smallest of the group pokes the small mongrel in the ribs with a panga, which sends the opportunist yelping down the road. Most survivors are no different, we only come out of our hiding holes when opportunity shows itself. I snap out of my reverie as the stragglers move off again. I have to remember why I am doing this! I have to find the Red Man! I want to choke the life out of the brute who slaughtered my Charity and took my son.
* * *
June 2021, 6 805 000 deaths. Trump had stopped Tweeting, signalling...
* * *
November 2020, 1 768 000 deaths. Fear had been gnawing at the minds of the global populace for eleven months. The virus had mutated into a much more deadly adversary. The promised vaccines had long since been tabled as failures. World order had been unravelling amidst the international blame game on who had actually caused the rapid spread of CoVid-19. South Africa’s outstretched, car-guard hands had been slapped away by the West. Democracy became a dictatorship, and then a sinking ship. The diseased politics in the country was soon cured by the actual disease. Fear became the driving force of a nation that never had the infrastructure, financial stability or the discipline to survive any sort of lockdown. Survival became priority, therefore crime became obligatory.
* * *
I try my best to remain as quiet as possible as I sneak between the ruined buildings of what was once a community housing project. This site was ruined long before the world turned to manure, it was financed by a poached government tender and therefore never completed. In some ways the world is better now, with one’s only choice being between survival and meeting one’s deity. That simple fact motivates me now as I follow the young gang members to their base of heinous operations. The leader of the gang, a tall boy with bleached hair, had tied a rope around the unfortunate new recruit’s neck and was dragging the last dregs of hope out of him. I am forced to pause behind a burnt down mini-bus as the straggling gang members become amused by a small mongrel feasting on the rotting carcass of a much bigger mutt. These are the times we live in, where expressions become reality. The smallest of the group pokes the small mongrel in the ribs with a panga, which sends the opportunist yelping down the road. Most survivors are no different, we only come out of our hiding holes when opportunity shows itself. I snap out of my reverie as the stragglers move off again. I have to remember why I am doing this! I have to find the Red Man! I want to choke the life out of the brute who slaughtered my Charity and took my son.
* * *
June 2021, 6 805 000 deaths. Trump had stopped Tweeting, signalling...
