Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (19 page)

The Chinese have a saying: ‘Don’t trouble trouble, unless trouble troubles you’. As much as we tried, and for reasons that only the powers above knew, trouble had a habit of following us wherever we went. When we entered the dimly lit apartment, which had a quaint furnished entrance hall, I could see that there were at least 30 people already in the flat. The lounge area was fairly big and there were streamers and balloons all over the walls. Hanging from the lights was a banner with the words ‘
Happy 21st Greg
’ written on it. Oh how cute, I thought sarcastically. So a 21st might be a milestone in a person’s life, but surely getting totally fucked out of your mind with the boys had to be better than some faggoty little party! In fact, I decided, Greg deserved to get fucked up.

When we showed up, there was a Bob Marley track playing and quite a few people were vibing to the song. You should have seen Greg’s face when we waltzed in, with me hopping on my crutches. The expression on his face read: Disaster Waiting to Happen.

Derek went straight to Greg to wish him happy birthday, while the rest of us, before he could kick us out, quickly split up and mingled with the crowd. Not that Greg would have had the balls to throw us out, nor would we have gone without a fight. One of our crew, whose name was Fred, was from Durban and he had only recently joined us. He was renowned for being wild. Once Fred had a couple of drinks inside him it was guaranteed there would be a fight. He also became almost childlike when he was out of it and would often steal something, not because he was a thief but more out of sheer mischief.

Somehow most of us had worked our way to the bar, which was out on the balcony. As we usually did, we downed our drinks as fast as possible. As everyone knows, after a quick couple of shots, alcohol soon numbs the brain. We couldn’t have been there for more than an hour when Fred tried to steal a bottle of whisky. I was standing inside the flat, but right by the balcony, when an argument broke out between one of our birthday boy’s friends and Fred.

The next thing I knew, Fred started hitting anybody and everybody within his immediate radius. I don’t know what the fuck happened then, but, probably because there were so many people on the balcony, the balustrade collapsed and Fred, along with a handful of other people, went over the edge and plummeted to the ground. Among the casualties were at least two girls, who were quite badly injured, and one guy who was bleeding profusely. I managed to get a glimpse over the edge, where I spotted Fred, who had landed on his back on top of the broken bricks. He struggled to his feet and I heard him say ‘Where’s my fucking flip-flop?’ Then he plucked the shoe out of the rubble and walked off. The party had come to a sudden end. We all left before we were thrown out. Derek, who had got a mouthful from his friend, was the last to leave.

My close friend Mark was a tall, lanky fellow who was not at all aggressive, let alone physically strong. For some unknown reason, a while back Mark had badmouthed a guy named Jeffrey Anthony. Jeffrey was the leader of a Lebanese gang in Joburg at that time. Although we were rivals in the marijuana trade, generally there existed a mutual respect between us, and Jeffrey operated by a code of honour that most old-school gangsters adhered to back then. I still don’t know why Mark did what he did, because Jeffrey was largely feared by his peers, and especially by those who were younger than him. In any event, the word was put out to have Mark fucked up.

One afternoon, when I was still on crutches, Mark and I were bored and so the two of us and Russell got in the car and started driving aimlessly around town. We were cruising down Louis Botha Avenue when Russell and Mark decided they wanted to play Space Invaders at Pan Burgers near Corlett Drive. I reminded them that Pan Burgers was where a lot of the younger Lebanese guys in Jeffrey Anthony’s crew hung out. They said we’d just drive past, and if it wasn’t too busy, we’d go and play. I was quite friendly with most of the Lebanese guys, so I wasn’t too concerned about myself; it was Mark I was more worried about.

Apart from one or two youngsters, we found the place more or less deserted, so we went in and started playing on the machines. We’d hardly got started when the Lebanese boys gradually filtered in. Before we knew it, we were outnumbered by at least three to one. Two of the guys grabbed Mark and started threatening him. Leaning on my crutch, I grabbed the one guy by the shoulder. ‘Take it easy, china!’ I told him. He turned around and told me in no uncertain terms to keep out of it. This was not my problem, he said, and pointed out the obvious, namely, that I already had a broken leg. The next thing I knew, Russell was trying to make a run for it, but not before he got a punch in the face. He jumped into the car; I followed on my crutches, and by some miracle Mark also managed to get away. Before we could get moving, though, one of the senior Lebanese guys – I didn’t know the guy myself – walked up to the car and motioned to Mark to open the window. I told Mark that he shouldn’t but he did anyway, and this guy just gave him one punch square on his nose. I actually heard Mark’s nose crack and break.

At that time, between the Lebanese and ourselves, the marijuana trade was divided fairly. I met up with some of the guys from my own crew and shared with them what had happened to Mark. We discussed whether we would take any action, but most of us knew that Mark had brought what had happened to him on himself, and so to involve all of us in retaliation would disrupt everything. A couple of days after that, about six of us were walking out of the Killarney shopping mall when out of the blue we bumped into Jeffrey. We stopped to talk and the subject of Mark came up. Jeffrey said bluntly that Mark had deserved what he’d got. We just let it ride and we went our separate ways.

Months later, after a full recovery, Mark was once again in a fight. He got beaten up so badly he ended up in hospital. When I visited him there, I was shocked at his condition. I told him that if I found the guy who’d done this to him, I was going to fuck him up.

As the days passed and Mark recovered, I got the name of the fucker who’d done the actual damage. I learnt he was an amateur boxer called Lance who was undefeated in ten fights, which pissed me off even more. Mark was really such a harmless guy. It was also rumoured that Lance had the reputation of being one of the to-do guys on the street. I already had told several people of my intention to fight him.

By now my schoolgirl girlfriend Tessa and I had parted ways and I had hooked up with my friend Russell’s sister, Katy. One weekend, while I was at their place in Atholl Oaklands, Russell had one of his friends over, and who should it be but Lance, the very person who had fucked up Mark! The guy was right there in the living room and apparently, so Russell told me, had heard I was looking for him. I followed Russell to the living room. As I walked in, my adrenaline was pumping.

In situations like these, I’m not much of a one for words, but the guy was dressed in a suit!

‘Are you the guy who beat up Mark?’ I said to him without any preamble.

Lance nodded and gave me a challenging smirk.

Motherfucker, I thought, moving closer.

Then he quickly added that he lived around the corner and asked if I would mind if he went home to change into something more comfortable to fight in. What the fuck? Was this some kind of
date
? I was ready to take him out there and then, and I didn’t think he’d given my mate Mark any chances. But being the gentleman that I was, I agreed, although with some reluctance.

And so Lance left. I still had a hangover from the jol the night before, so I decided to have a bath while I waited, and while I was happy and relaxed in a tub of hot water Russell came into the bathroom and rolled me a joint. He pleaded with me to go easy on his friend. Whatever happened, he said, please don’t kick his head in. I didn’t say anything, but I kept having visions of Mark’s beaten face. Soon after my bath, Lance returned, dressed in tracksuit pants, sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of running shoes. I was dressed again, too, but now that the joint had taken effect, I was kind of mellow, and not nearly as angry as I’d been earlier.

Lance and I were about the same weight, although he may have been about an inch taller than me. I saw that he was sweating; he had clearly been warming up. My friend Derek was there, and Russell acted as referee. Russell stood between us, we squared up, and the next thing I knew Lance rushed me. He jumped up in the air and started throwing a series of punches to my head, one after the other. I held both my fists up to my face in an attempt to block his punches, but they just kept coming. What the fuck, I thought, what’s this guy trying to do?

With my left hand I grabbed his hair on the side of his head and in one swift motion pulled him to the ground. Then with my right hand I pounded him exactly three times on the side of his face. Lance shouted, ‘Stop! Stop!’ just when I was thinking of finishing him off with a kick or two to the face, and I vaguely remember Russell asking me not to.

Fuck, I thought, the fool was surrendering already.

As a child, when I was in Arcadia, whenever we fought – and we fought a lot – if you were forced into submission and you uttered the words ‘I give up’, it signalled an immediate end to the fight. On principle you stopped as soon as your adversary admitted defeat.

I had no choice but to let the bastard go, but what the hell – at least I had kept my word to Mark. Revenge had been exacted. I remember wondering to myself how this guy had gained the reputation of someone you shouldn’t fuck with when he’d capitulated so easily. Anyway, he apologised for what he had done to Mark and put out his hand, which I shook. Then he left, satisfyingly humiliated.

Russell, Derek and I wasted no time: we quickly made another pipe.

I hoped Mark would learn to stay out of trouble, but that was wishful thinking.

Rags to Riches

Soon after recovering from my motorbike accident and coming to the end of my two years’ military service, I got my first real job. I started working in the rag trade as a salesman. My chief motivation for pursuing this line of business was the company car that came with it. Strangely enough, Derek and I both applied for positions in clothing sales at the same time, although independently. We both got the job. Having my own wheels and being out on the road all day tied in well with my other line of business. So my life as a salesman at Terryvette clothing began. My hours were from 7am to 5pm five days a week. Before very long I was seeing and servicing up to 40 agents per day. I was earning good money, too: between R4 000 and R7 000 a month. Accountants weren’t even earning that in those days.

And on the weekends I partied hard, drank, went to clubs and got high. Girlfriends came and went and generally life was good.

According to the doctors who had attended to me during my stay in hospital, I was probably going to have a limp for the rest of my life. Being a fighter, I was determined to prove them wrong. When the plaster was removed, my leg was as thin as my arms, the skin flaky and peeling. I was advised against playing any contact sport and it was also suggested that I see a physiotherapist. Instead I joined a martial arts club in Doornfontein called Goju Ryu Seiwakai. It was run by Shihan Booth, a 7th dan who was married to a Japanese woman, also a black belt. My legs were weak, and at first I struggled to keep up with the class. Goju Ryu was full contact; at the end of every lesson we would have to free-fight, and Shihan Booth was not happy unless blood was drawn. If it wasn’t, he would personally call one of the students up and draw blood himself.

With time, I grew stronger and I lost my limp. I attained the level of brown belt. My best friend at the club was a guy named Pat. He was a grade higher than me and had a lightning-fast roundhouse kick. We agreed that when we came up against each other in a free-fighting session we should use only our fists and not our feet. I knew I would have no chance against him otherwise. Then one day the occasion arose and we were pitted against each other. While we were fighting, out of the blue Pat kicked me square in the face. Luckily I managed to turn my head to the side, so most of the impact was on the side of my head and nose, but I still saw stars. Thinking that my nose was broken, I instinctively put both hands to my face. Shihan went mad. What would happen if I was being attacked in the street, he shouted. Would I tell my attackers to wait a second while I checked if my nose was okay?