This is a two part series story. I hope you enjoy it. And don’t forget to leave a comment. Enjoy!
As I sat huddled up, my knees drawn up to my neck and hands folded across my shins, I allowed painful thoughts scream through my already pain ravaged head. They had me cornered alright but I earnestly prayed that these brutes don’t discover the room behind my shop where I laid my head at nights after sales. The door connecting the room was covered by a grocery filled shelf. Not that I couldn’t afford a better accommodation: ofcourse after five years of trading in the suburbs of Cape Town, I have made and saved enough from my income to rent a bigger and better apartment. But I had my plans and dreams. Perhaps it was always going to waste. You have to see the mess these South Africans brutes turned my grocery shop to.
I looked up. The four of them were still here, hovering around me like angry and impatient vultures. They were still waiting for me to tell them where I hid my money. Somehow, they knew I didn’t keep my money in the bank. I mean, they had to know from the way they had persisted, clubbing me to near death. If I told them, they would know about the room and Vanessa. Vanessa! Yes, she must be shitting bricks inside my small room now. I had pushed her into the room and sealed the entrance with the mobile shelf. My mind churned through the numbness. I had to do something! But what? I seem helpless.
I could still hear screams of the other helpless non citizens outside who were being brutalized for the simple reason that they were foreigners with black skin. Blacks violently attacking fellow blacks. Blacks destroying the wealth of fellow blacks and stealing what they consider valuables. And for what? No reason in the whole world could rationally explain the craziness that was being exhibited here. And where are the security agents and government officials when you need them? Xenophobia my foot! Where in the hell did they get that word from?
‘Where did you keep the money, stranger? We haven’t got all the time’.
One of the brutes screamed at me. He seemed to be the leader. He had been the one talking and dishing out orders since they came in. His English was impeccable. That told you he was educated. An educated Xenophobian? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I just have to do something before I lost control and spill words that would lead to my demise. I gingerly lumbered up. I faced the man who asked me the question with an effort, my head throbbed with pain; one of my eyes puffed up so much it was all I could do to keep it open. Blood was still dripping from various parts of my body where they had cut me with knives and beaten me with clubs.
‘You can kill me for all I care. What have we ever done to you? Yes, a few robbery here and there, a scam now and then and perhaps some murders too. But not all of us are bad people’.
‘O yeah? Go ahead and talk all you can but remember to save enough energy to show me the money because we aren’t leaving here without it’. The leader replied with his marijuana laden voice. He wasn’t done. ‘Who the hell are you to lecture me on judgment? A few crimes you mean. How dare you come into my country to usurp power and wealth by all means and you have the guts to question our actions? Wait until we finish, all of you remaining rats will be begging for crumbs if you don’t run back to your dirty countries’.