Max Annas - The Wall

The white man had shot him, Moses. That had been his intention.

He had to know what had happened. He slowly lifted his head. Used his arms. Peered over the short wall.

The other man was lying there. Moses looked at him and began to tremble even more. That was him lying there.

Maybe he was still alive. Moses shifted his gaze. The woman was gone. Maybe she was calling the police.

No, the police were already here. She didn’t need to call anyone. The white man was also gone.

The great shootout finally stopped again.

Moses stood up. Looked around one more time. He sprinted the few steps over to the man. Leaned down. Turned him over. Damp crotch. He was dead.

Turned him back over. Caught sight of the hole in the back of his head. The bullet had lodged itself there.

Moses began to cry. Who was this guy? Someone… some man… wrong place, wrong time… some black man, he thought, too. Some black man. He now caught sight of his shoes. Converse knockoffs, years of wear, tattered. The hole at the shoulder of his shirt. The rip in the seat of his jeans.

Some poor black man. Moses straightened up. He would avenge him.

“Completely secure.”

That’s what the voice had said.

Thembinkosi scratched on the wardrobe wall. At the same moment, Nozipho did the same from her side.

“Did anyone hear the other shot?” Outside.

“Shot?” A different voice.

“I did.” Another voice.

“No.” Numerous voices.

“Something happened.”

“Car backfire.”

“A shot. Unmistakable.”

How could a single shot be so important? he wondered. What could have possibly happened to make all this less important? Thembinkosi looked around. The attention outside was no longer focused on the room. He moved his head. Outside, footsteps moving away from them. Asphalt. High Voice was completely mangled. His clothes were barely recognizable. His head was a pulp, his arms which he had used to shield himself no longer had any attached muscles. All his blood had leaked out. And to think the media was locked in a debate about whether the South African police took their work seriously , he marveled.

“Yes, a shot.”

“But where?”

“Really?”

“Couldn’t have been a shot. Not on your life.”

“From over there.”

“…go over…”

Deep Voice hadn’t fared any better. His feet were gone, and his blood was now mingling with High Voice’s. Thembinkosi looked away.

The voices outside were fading away.

“Go search the house!” a male voice ordered.

“Yes, sir!” came the answer.

Thembinkosi again heard Nozipho’s scratching behind him.

Moses looked around one more time. No faces in the windows. Good Lord, someone had just been shot out here. And not all that far off, there’d just been… just been… a massacre. The people should all be staring out their windows. Were they hiding? Or were they really all still at work?

From somewhere, he heard footsteps approach. He also heard a car. No, make that two. He quickly jumped back behind the wall he’d been using. Flipped around as he crouched down. One eye above the top of the wall. Just in time.

An entire army came around the corner. First the cops on foot with a dog, two police cars, followed by a couple of security vehicles. A bakkie, too. Don’t think about it , Moses told himself. Don’t think about the chap who’d tried to run him over earlier. Then two Polos. Behind the security cars came the guards. Two of them in civilian clothing.

Too many for Moses. Many too many. If he was lucky, he might manage to slip away. He turned onto his stomach and crawled along the wall until he reached the shadow of the house.

“We got him,” someone cried.

Moses gave a start, but then realized that they meant the other man. The dead man.

More crawling, dragging himself through a dry bed. Holding back a cough. More voices behind him. Chaos.

“Finally.”

“But who was that in the house?”

“…escaped…”

“…won’t rob anyone else…”

“…ran away…”

“…didn’t have to end like this…”

“…a job here…”

“…the police…”

“…their responsibility…”

“…heard a shot…”

“But who shot him?” a woman’s voice asked.

Everyone fell silent. The dog barked.

Moses turned back, knelt down beside an ornamental bush, and watched the scene. The people in the cars had now gotten out. They were all gathered in a circle around the body. Nobody said anything. A police siren briefly chirped somewhere in the distance. The people in the circle studied each other. It wasn’t clear if they were searching for a hero or someone to blame.

One of them turned around. Then another. Slowly, the whole group turned to face the direction from which the dead man had just come.

Moses could see their bodies tense up. Still no one was saying a word.

And right on the edge of his line of vision, Moses saw the white man come to a stop. Club in the one hand. The other hand empty.

He stopped, legs spread. Began to hit the club into his other palm.

“I took care of the kaffir,” he cried.

Thembinkosi raised his head and looked through the splintered door. Where the window had been… All that remained were a few remnants of the wooden frame. He carefully stood up. Nobody outside was looking into the room. Instead, he heard people moving around the front door.

“We have to get out of here.” Nozipho was looking out of her half of the wardrobe. “They’ll do the same thing to us.”

“Yes. But where?”

Someone was slamming into the front door. They heard a cracking sound. They didn’t have much time to figure out a solution. Nozipho’s voice was right against his ear. “I know where…”

“Where?”

“There’s only one place!”

“No!” Thembinkosi cried. “No!”

“Yes. Take your shoes off.”

“Why?”

Crash. The front door was starting to give way.

“Let me try,” a voice outside insisted.

“Do it. Take them off.”

Nozipho was already holding her shoes and standing in her socks in High Voice’s blood. She stepped over him and onto the bed where she began to put her sneakers back on.

Thembinkosi loosened the ties on his leather shoes, yanked them off, and copied Nozipho’s movements. On the bed, he stuck his blood-soaked stockinged feet back into his shoes.

“Jump!” Nozipho said.

When he hesitated, she gave him a little push.

The door was splintering under someone’s shoulder.

Thembinkosi leaped over Deep Voice and landed in the hallway. His feet made a squishing sound in his shoes.

“One more time,” came from outside.

Nozipho spread the bullet-tattered bedspread out so their bloody footprints were out of sight, then she also jumped.

“Go!” she urged as she wiped away a drop of blood that had spurted out from Thembinkosi’s shoe. “Go!” She now shoved him hard.

The front door broke apart. Someone tumbled into the lounge. Nozipho quietly opened the door to the garage, pushing Thembinkosi inside. She shut the door and hurried over to the freezer. She held the lid up and waited.

When Thembinkosi didn’t react immediately, she said: “We don’t have a choice.”

“And don’t even think that you’ll be lying on top of me,” she added a second later.

2:53:17

“I took care of the kaffir,” the white man yelled.

Legs spread, smug, a trace of a grin on his ugly face. Jay-Jay Dlomo held Nkosi tightly against him and said nothing. Nobody in the circle made a sound. But the dog wanted something. Dlomo could sense it. Nkosi couldn’t speak, but made up for that in his ability to run and jump and bite. Jay-Jay knew this dog and adored him. He had molded him into his own image as much as you can do that with an animal. And Dlomo was completely certain the dog was feeling what he was feeling right now. Loathing. Loathing toward the white idiot. How arrogant he was. How he stood there waiting for something to happen. Dlomo slowly leaned down. He caressed Nkosi’s head and murmured: “Go ahead.”