I was heading home. I’d just knocked off from the
Quick Mart, a double shift, and my feet were
aching. I saw the crowd at the end of Steve Biko
Street, way at the end near Mma Shabba’s
shebeen.
I thought about going the long way home, I didn’t
feel like being involved in all of the drama, but that
would have meant an extra four blocks, and my
feet refused.
I got up to the crowd and saw the ambulance and
police were already there. It was clear someone
had driven their car into Mma Shabba’s wall. The
car was bashed up really badly, and the wall, likely
built by Mma Shabba’s useless husband who
called himself a builder, had collapsed.
I tried to push my way through, tried to get to my
house around the corner, to take my shoes off and
sit down, to have a cup of tea. But as I got into
the middle of the crowd I heard something familiar
and turned.
“I bet it’s that no-good Raphael.”
I turned and saw my mother’s church mate, Mrs
Jentile.
“So what happened?” I asked her.
“Oh Mondi, it’s horrible!” Mrs Jentile said, always
wanting to put the most dramatic spin on things.
“That crazy boy stole a car and drove right into the
wall. Knocked it over right on her.”
“On who?” I asked.
“The little girl, Bontle, Mma Shabba’s
granddaughter.”
I knew the girl, she often pushed a pink plastic
motorbike up and down the street, sometimes even
around the corner past our house.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
I followed Mrs Jentile’s gaze to the covered
stretcher the ambulance people were carefully
putting in the back. I looked away. Raphael
couldn’t have done something like this. Never.
“And Raphael? Where is he?”
“He ran off, the coward!”
“People saw him do it?” I asked.
“No,” Mrs Jentile said.
“But who else could it be? Everyone knows he’s
no good.”
I pushed through the crowd and rushed home. I
didn’t want to know any of it. I wished I had gone
home the long way, gone home and put my feet
up, and drank my tea knowing none of it.
I had known Raphael since that first day at Nokeng
High School. I sat alone at break. I opened my
book and read while I ate my lunch. Raphael sat
down on the bench with me, but said nothing at
first. He ate his apple as he looked out over the
dusty grounds of the school.
“I like that guy,” he said to the air in front of him
after some minutes.
I looked up. “You talking to me?”
“I mean that author, Kevin Brooks. He’s good.”
Raphael wore his school uniform in every way he
could, to make it not look like one. The bottom
edges of his trousers were tattered, his shirt
sleeves were rolled up to show his biceps, his tie
was slung over his shoulder. He didn’t look like a
reader. He looked like a thug.
I glanced at the cover of the book as if I was just
discovering the author, even though he was one of
my favourites.
“Yeah, he’s good,” I said and went back to
reading.
“I got Black Rabbit Summer if you want to read it.
It’s his latest.”
And that was how it started. I didn’t know anything
about Raphael except that he liked the same books
I did.
It was later when I learned the rest. When
“concerned” students came to me, saying how it
wasn’t a good idea to spend too much time with
him. He stole, broke into people’s houses. They’d
long painted him with a wide brush and no one
could see past any of that.
But it was too late by then – I knew the real
Raphael. The Raphael who loved reading and odd
quirky films.
The one who kept a pet hamster named Bella; the
one who cried all night when Bella died. I knew the
Raphael who wanted to be a teacher one day – so
he could show his pupils that there were all kinds
of people, not just the kind the world likes to hold
up for us to follow.
He had a brilliant mind, a compassionate heart,
and sure, he’d gone through some rough times,
but that was over now. The most important thing
was he was my friend, the best one I’d ever had.
To be continued . ..
Quick Mart, a double shift, and my feet were
aching. I saw the crowd at the end of Steve Biko
Street, way at the end near Mma Shabba’s
shebeen.
I thought about going the long way home, I didn’t
feel like being involved in all of the drama, but that
would have meant an extra four blocks, and my
feet refused.
I got up to the crowd and saw the ambulance and
police were already there. It was clear someone
had driven their car into Mma Shabba’s wall. The
car was bashed up really badly, and the wall, likely
built by Mma Shabba’s useless husband who
called himself a builder, had collapsed.
I tried to push my way through, tried to get to my
house around the corner, to take my shoes off and
sit down, to have a cup of tea. But as I got into
the middle of the crowd I heard something familiar
and turned.
“I bet it’s that no-good Raphael.”
I turned and saw my mother’s church mate, Mrs
Jentile.
“So what happened?” I asked her.
“Oh Mondi, it’s horrible!” Mrs Jentile said, always
wanting to put the most dramatic spin on things.
“That crazy boy stole a car and drove right into the
wall. Knocked it over right on her.”
“On who?” I asked.
“The little girl, Bontle, Mma Shabba’s
granddaughter.”
I knew the girl, she often pushed a pink plastic
motorbike up and down the street, sometimes even
around the corner past our house.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
I followed Mrs Jentile’s gaze to the covered
stretcher the ambulance people were carefully
putting in the back. I looked away. Raphael
couldn’t have done something like this. Never.
“And Raphael? Where is he?”
“He ran off, the coward!”
“People saw him do it?” I asked.
“No,” Mrs Jentile said.
“But who else could it be? Everyone knows he’s
no good.”
I pushed through the crowd and rushed home. I
didn’t want to know any of it. I wished I had gone
home the long way, gone home and put my feet
up, and drank my tea knowing none of it.
I had known Raphael since that first day at Nokeng
High School. I sat alone at break. I opened my
book and read while I ate my lunch. Raphael sat
down on the bench with me, but said nothing at
first. He ate his apple as he looked out over the
dusty grounds of the school.
“I like that guy,” he said to the air in front of him
after some minutes.
I looked up. “You talking to me?”
“I mean that author, Kevin Brooks. He’s good.”
Raphael wore his school uniform in every way he
could, to make it not look like one. The bottom
edges of his trousers were tattered, his shirt
sleeves were rolled up to show his biceps, his tie
was slung over his shoulder. He didn’t look like a
reader. He looked like a thug.
I glanced at the cover of the book as if I was just
discovering the author, even though he was one of
my favourites.
“Yeah, he’s good,” I said and went back to
reading.
“I got Black Rabbit Summer if you want to read it.
It’s his latest.”
And that was how it started. I didn’t know anything
about Raphael except that he liked the same books
I did.
It was later when I learned the rest. When
“concerned” students came to me, saying how it
wasn’t a good idea to spend too much time with
him. He stole, broke into people’s houses. They’d
long painted him with a wide brush and no one
could see past any of that.
But it was too late by then – I knew the real
Raphael. The Raphael who loved reading and odd
quirky films.
The one who kept a pet hamster named Bella; the
one who cried all night when Bella died. I knew the
Raphael who wanted to be a teacher one day – so
he could show his pupils that there were all kinds
of people, not just the kind the world likes to hold
up for us to follow.
He had a brilliant mind, a compassionate heart,
and sure, he’d gone through some rough times,
but that was over now. The most important thing
was he was my friend, the best one I’d ever had.
To be continued . ..
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