In September last year a friend of Rompi, Shaya, was arrested. An argument at a party had led to a guy smashing his car window. In a
fit of rage, he beat up the guy!
When Rompi heard about this from Shaya, he dropped what
he was doing to see him and to organise bail for him. Shaya could not afford to
spend another day in custody. He had to go to work that evening.
Shaya, his accomplice who goes by the name Matrapa, and
their rival, Kuru, were led out of the holding cell to the waiting room to meet
Rompi. Shaya’s leg had a gash. The brick which Kuru had used to smash his car
fell on it. He was inside the car when this happened. Matrapa was nursing
swollen knuckles. As for Kuru, he had bruises around his eye and lips.
On the day of a court hearing, the world where the wheel
of justice grinds at its own pace opened its doors. There were more bums than
there were benches. Other people were standing against walls. The proceedings
started an hour late. The court officials had been sorting out mounds of files,
and whispering among themselves.
The first two rows were reserved for those who had been arrested; the suspects. Boys and
girls of between 16 and 21 filled up those benches. Most of them were wearing faded
clothes. Their heavy eyes, perhaps due to hunger, or lack of sleep or recent
hours of substance abuse, stirred Rompi.
When a boy
of about 19 years heard that his case had been dismissed, he happily dashed to
the exit in a flash, stabbing the air with the fist to express the thrill he was in. A woman stood up two rows in front of where Rompi was sitting. She shouted the insults at her son; the one who was dashing to the exit. That
human-less daily grind of releasing arrested bodies back to their gloomy
existence was punctuated.
There were also foreign Africans nationals whom were in custody. A translator took up
his job with enthusiasm. From what Rompi could hear, stolen goods had been found in
the possession of one tall and dark brother.
‘In the aftermath of the recent lootings of shops in the
townships, and violent skirmishes which ensued, perhaps that is what a typical day
at the Magistrate Courts is like these days,’ says Rompi as he reflected on the
goings-on. ‘The youth who’ve been arrested in a week-long orgy of dying, and
looting, are being marched in and out of court to hear their fate,’ he said.
These are the days when women, like the one who insulted her son in 2014, will be watching helplessly as economic hopelessness puts on a “just” face. They will be separated from their children who will be either in custody or on the run from the helplessly overburdened yet vicious might of the police force.
Foreign African nationals are on the run, or in jail, or under police protection. Africans, who have lost trust in one another, are separated until the situation gets back to “normal.” It always does, except that normal is, whichever way one looks at it, abnormal.
Politicians are already jamming media platforms. The MEC for
Economic Development in Gauteng came on radio to outline plans for economic renewal of townships because, according to the information he had, the skirmishes were the result of economic competition. They will be rolling out training of youth entrepreneurs whom they will be placing
in government departments and in the private sector companies, he said. The logic leaves
people horrified, and dismayed.
Professionals, most of whom are employed and are
separated from township life by the monthly pay check they receive, by the N1
and M1 highways, will jam social media to debate. That is how far their
contribution to helping the situation goes. They are all working damn hard to
escape township gloom.
We will be back here again, to preach plans to salve the wounds, while we give ourselves full marks, and standing ovations, for arresting bodies, for maintaining township gloom. Rompi, how I wish you were wrong.
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