CAPE TOWN RIOT (Jack Hanger excerpt) Normawetu Mhlangu looked at the sign-in register, the pile of uncompleted

paperwork behind the desk, and the brown package that had been standing there in wait of its recipient for more than two hours. She was tired of running around, doing this and doing that. The soccer frenzy had been unkind to them all. Working hours had increased, shifts had become a topic of frustration to everyone, and overtime benefits would soon become unimportant when contemplating employment elsewhere. The refreshing scent of peeled orange rind and peanut shells wafted up from the tiny office dustbin under the information desk. It relaxed her. Her lunchtime was two minutes away. She couldnt wait for it. Coffee! Biscuits! Time away from here superseded time spent here in this hellhole. What an awful place. What an awful work. The World Cup was starting today, and it made everything awful for her. She couldnt even try to see the positive aspects brought on by the event. The international exposure, the monetary benefits, the publicity, the world coming to South Africa. She couldnt see it. She distrusted her own government so much that she could not believe a single word any politician uttered on the news or in the press releases. She was fed up with the lies. Officer Samson Joba flew by in a hurry, speaking in Zulu to his wife on the cell phone. He gave Normawetu a big smile, winked seductively, and blew an invisible kiss at her while telling his wife that he would be a little late tonight. Bastard, she thought. That beautiful bastard. He had had affairs with three other women already. Normawetu sure was flattered that she was now officially Samsons next conquest. If only it didnt feel so wrong to flirt with a married man. He looked so sexy in that tight blue police uniform. She cleared her mind, and wondered briefly if she should apply for a transfer to another department. Kyalitsha was so much closer. She lived there, but how much would she risk by working and living in the same violent township? He kicked me! a woman screamed unexpectedly, stumbling into the Athlone Police Station. It was a coloured woman about forty years old. She wore torn, dirty clothes. Tears, snot and blood dripped from her worn, tired face. She made her way to the information desk, crying uncontrollably, and stinking of cheap brandy. She looked up at Normawetu, who had been startled by the abrupt commotion. He kicked me! she bellowed at Normawetu, accusingly pointing a crooked finger at the door. She just wanted to go to lunch. She was not in the mood for this. Not now. What happened, lady? she asked slowly, not wanting to know. It was better to live in denial than to face the harsh truths, she had realised. Circumstances hardly got better, and situations never changed. What an awful life. What an awful world. Ill kill you! someone else screamed from the entrance. Samson heard the tumult, and headed back to the information desk to see what was going on, saying goodbye to his wife in the process. He kicked me, she repeated, pointing to the open cut on her lower lip. Her drunk husband near the door appeared to have been attacked, too. They were both heavily intoxicated, bleeding profusely, and screaming obscenities at each other. Normawetu sighed. Another domestic disturbance. Similar types of family disputes or social unrest occurred almost hourly. Get drunk and assault the person sharing your drunkenness. There was no reasoning in this form of thinking. What an awful reality. What an awful eventuality. You stupid bitch! the drunk husband screamed. I kill you!

Sir, Samson said. Please calm down. He was good at defusing situations like these. For years now, Normawetu had seen him bring calm to potentially raging family feuds. No! She steals it every time. Look. The drunk husband parted his wet shirt, trying hard to stand on his own. He showed his bare scarred chest to Samson, and tried focussing his red eyes on the officer. It was my fathers necklace, and the bitch took it. By this time, a small crowd of police officers had assembled in the entrance foyer to view the spectacle unravel. They were all charged up on the fuel of rage. They hungered for trouble. They yearned for the bomb to go off, the big bang. Kak! she retaliated, using the derogatory Afrikaans substitute for faeces. Spittle flew in every possible direction when she spoke, and she attempted to stabilise herself by holding onto the large information desk. I took nothing. He lost it. Her allegation enraged her drunk husband beyond measure. His face contorted with anger, and his stomach tightened and convulsed. A type of malice appeared to grab hold of him, and evil flowed into his hands, breeding a very real thirst for blood. You took it! You took it! he screamed vehemently. I fokken kill you dead, woman! This time, I kill you for sure. Sir, Samson said, and gently took the drunken husband by the arm. He pulled free from Samsons grip, and slugged haphazardly at the officer, hitting him squarely on the jaw. Five other officers quickly came to his aid, and chased the enraged drunkard outside the department. They tackled him to the ground, and kicked him close to senseless in the parking lot. The sound of ribs breaking and apologetic screams were hardly audible over the hateful mutterings of a group attack. By the time Samson got back to his feet and joined his fellow officers in the parking lot, an entirely different evil had manifested itself. The six officers stood over the badly wounded husband, huffing and puffing, and suddenly very worried. About ten metres away, near the edge of the parking lot, a group of angry civilians had amassed. Two or three of them looked like gangsters, and the others looked like office workers, waiters, mechanics, gardeners, road workers, shop owners, teachers or construction workers. There were twenty of them, thirty, then forty. Before long, the mob was fifty-strong and madder than mad. They were the pulse of the city, pulsing together, murmuring in unison, moving closer as one, uniting. The drunken husband took a strained breath, coughed his last cough, and passed away in plain sight of everyone. Officer Tandi Joba, Samsons older brother, stepped back and reached for his sidearm. A subtle gesture when viewed in context, but a very literal threat to a pack of wild dogs. The response was quick. The attack was bloody. The consequences were unimaginable. So it had begun.