A statement made by the President of the SRC had many students outraged...
Four hooded figures stalked the corridors of Breyton’s Bay Technikon.
It was 2.12 a.m.
They wore soft shoes so as to make no sound. They wore all black.
All four were in balaclavas.
They roamed the corridors tightly, silently, like a pack of wild animals on the hunt.
They turned the corner of a corridor, which housed the staff offices.
At the end of this corridor, was the SRC President’s office.
A tall member of the group stood forward to inspect the door.
Taking off his glove to feel the lock, he took out a slender piece of wire.
The group stood in complete silence while he jimmied the lock.
After about a minute, a tiny ‘click’ sounded.
He looked to the others.
They entered the office, closing the door behind them.
Using only torches, they surveyed the surrounding.
First to go were Buhle’s posters, many of them pronouncing extracts from the Bible.
One poster was torn off the wall, then handed to a group member, who tore it in two, and tossed it on the floor.
They then proceeded to tear off the posters next to it, clearing the entire wall.
Each poster was systematically torn to bits and tossed aside.
The smallest, most agile member of the group knelt, zipped open their black satchel, and retrieved a can of spray paint.
She shook the can.
Then she stood at the wall, and, with the light of torches illuminating her hand, wrote, in large blocky capitals:
THE REVOLUTION IS HERE
Florence arrived at the laundry at 3.PM.
She was stopped in her tracks by something sitting in the doorway.
An enormous bouquet of flowers.
She picked it up and inspected it.
Carnations, begonias, roses, lilies – it was a beautiful, expensive piece.
“Someone sent you flowers!” she exclaimed with a grin, as she placed the beautiful arrangement on the counter.
The machines were whirring in the background.
Blessing took in the arrangement, surprised.
“For me?” she asked, incredulous.
“Look, here’s a little card,” said Blessing.
She plucked out a small envelope, which was partially hidden amidst all the blossoms.
It was small – half the size of a bank note.
She opened it, and pulled out a little card.
She read it out loud:
“To the stunning owner of our street’s best new business. Your lovely smile brightens up our neighbourhood.”
Flo’s mouth fell open.
“Aunt Blessing! You have a secret admirer! Does it say who it’s from?”
Blessing turned the note over in her hands.
“No, it’s anonymous.”
Ntobeko exited the Shoprite.
He’d just done his grocery shopping for supplies – toilet paper, bread, milk – and was carrying two parcels.
As he was coming out and walking through the vendor’s stalls that fringed the exit, a man burst through the crowd, causing an eruption of complaints and exclamations.
His clothes were grimy; he wore a sporty cap concealing his eyes.
The man was running from something.
Five seconds later two policemen were visible, trying to catch the man.
Neither policeman was particularly athletic.
“Stop that man!” shouted the one, but most people were in a daze, too surprised to react.
Instead of trying to fight his way through the crowd, he turned the other way, to where a line of cars was parked in a row.
He clambered onto the bonnet of one, then jumped to the next. He ran over all the bonnets as a shortcut to cut the criminal off.
The criminal, with his limited vision, but also probably stricken with fear, did not notice him.
As the criminal ran past below him, Ntobeko leapt.
He tackled the man, who fell like a sack of potatoes.
The wrongdoer thrashed under Ntobeko like an angry snake.
Ntobeko notice his hand grasp a knife in his pocket.
He bit the man’s upper arm furiously, almost removing flesh.
The man screamed out like an animal being killed.
Ntobeko then nicked the knife out of the pocket, and flung it aside.
It landed in a heap of rubbish.
‘Get off me!” the assailant hissed. “I’ll kill you.”
Ntobeko wasn’t interested.
He delivered a swift, neatly placed punch to the side of the man’s temple.
The man fell unconscious, instantaneously.
Ntobeko sat on him, like a guard.
Thirty seconds later the policemen arrived.
A crowd had gathered, vendors and shoppers.
A young woman was clapping.
“We need more people like you!” she called.
Ntobeko felt a deep sense of pride.
The first policeman, a chubby coloured man with a downy moustache, leaned his hands on his legs, trying to get his breath back.
The other man, a white guy who looked a bit sunburnt with straw-coloured hair, took out his walky-talky and said something Ntobeko couldn’t hear.
The first policeman, the one hunched over trying to get his breath, looked at Ntobeko.
“You’re fast,” he said.
“I’m smart,” answered Ntobeko. “Are any of those cars damaged?”
The blonde policeman put his walky talky back into his pocket, looked at the bonnets of the cars, then looked back at Ntobeko. “No. We’ll take care of it.”
Ntobeko didn’t move.
“You heard us buddy? I said we’ll take it from here.”
“You’re welcome,” said Ntobeko with a grim tone, getting to his feet.
Does Ntobeko’s heroic act encourage him to do more?