A Matter of Choice

I was a virile young man of eighteen; he was a feeble old man, well into his seventies; he definitely was no match for me!

I pressed my back against the wall and waited for the old man to come round the corner; as soon as he did I grabbed him. I could feel his skeletal body beneath his clean but well-worn grey striped t-shirt.

Speaking in Afrikaans, my mother tongue, I screamed "Wat wil jy he, ou man?" What do you want, old man? I gave him a good shake. 

 He looked petrified. Who wouldn't be? Not only was I a strapping young man but a large tattoo on my neck identified me as a member of Die Sluipmoordenaars, The Assassins: a gang well known in the Cape Flats, an area of Cape Town in South Africa. 

The Flats, as we called the conglomerate of township communities, were noted for their high crime rate, a direct result of rampant poverty and widespread gang-related activity.

Although I was a gangster, it wasn't my Modus Operandi to attack penniless old-timers, on street corners. So, why did I do it? It was a culmination of events that began the previous day...

The day had started like any other. Due to the nature of our activities, the Assassins were nocturnal creatures and our day typically started at about 5 p.m.

I lived in a one-bedroom cottage with my septuagenarian grandmother and my ten-year-old sister Henrietta (Henny) 

Our mother, a chronic drug user, had overdosed when Henny and I were two and ten years old respectively. 

Many so-called 'coloured' or mixed-race children living on the Cape Flats were not raised in a nuclear family arrangement. In fact, both my father and Henny's, disappeared not long after our conception.

On that afternoon, I woke up and went outside to roll-up and smoke a 'spliff' - I smoked cannabis cigarettes as frequently as other people smoked tobacco cigarettes. 

My public persona was that of a streetwise and cocky man but behind closed doors, my grandmother lovingly but firmly ruled the roost.

I had to abide by my grandmother's domestic by-laws: the smoking of weed or indeed, using any narcotic, inside our humble abode was not permitted. 

I had just lit my joint and taken a deep drag when I first saw the old man, standing under a mango tree a little distance away from our house. 

He had short cropped white hair and a thin, slightly stooped body. I surmised that in his youth, he would have matched me in height.

However, I was struck by an odd feeling when I looked at him across the dusty lane that separated us.

I was pretty sure that I had never seen him before in my life and yet he seemed familiar to me, in some unfathomable way.

I held up my joint, and shouted, "You want a drag?" I laughed loudly as he walked away, disappearing behind one of the numerous little hovels that looked identical to ours.

Dusk was falling as I strolled to meet my partners in crime at a tavern called 'Auntie Sally's', a popular rendezvous.

 The dim lighting, loud music and cheap booze made it an ideal place to conduct business; the threadbare pool tables and skimpy dressed women were an added attraction. 

I found that a dozen of my clique were already there. 'What's up, bra!' I said to them and gave each one a customary handshake, which involved pulling the other person toward myself and bumping the insides of our shoulders; ('bra' was a diminutive for the Afrikaans word meaning 'brother').

"What's up Marley!" they responded. At home, I was called by my given name, Damian, but everybody on the street called me Marley; a reference not only to the name of the Jamaican singer Damian Marley but also due to my waist-length dreadlocks, a Marley family trademark.

My pencil-thin dreads were my pride and joy and I always kept them clean and neat. 

My grandmother's mantra was 'cleanliness is next to godliness' and it certainly had an effect on me because personal hygiene was important to me.

The combination of my piercing green eyes and boyish good looks garnered a lot of attention from the fairer sex but I was careful not to capitalise on that. I wanted to be recognised as a gangster not a playboy!

 'The General', a high-ranking member of the Assassins, said loudly, "You ready, youngster?"

"One hundred percent, General!" I responded. 

In less than seven hours time I would turn eighteen, the age at which members were inducted into the gang.

 The time had come for me to prove my allegiance, however, I was yet to learn exactly what was required of me.

The General laughed, "Time to separate the men from the boys!" I joined in the laughter but my mirth disappeared when I caught sight of the same old man I'd seen earlier. 

He was standing next to a burnt-out shell of an old car that stood on the roadside, about 100 meters away from Auntie Sally's. He was staring at me through a large open window.

I stood up abruptly, intending to approach the stranger and tell him, in no uncertain terms, to quit tailing me. 

However, at that moment, the General said, " Let's talk business!", the term 'business' referred to various criminal activities ranging from the hi-jacking of cars and burglarizing of warehouses; to the sale of narcotics and weapons; to patrolling our 'turf' to make sure that no rival gangs were overstepping any boundaries.

Of course, we were all armed and ready to shed blood, as and when the need arose.

As we dispersed from Auntie Sally's, I looked out for the creepy old man, but he had disappeared into the night.

I was at the 'smoking zone' outside my house earlier than usual the following day. I was filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. My day of reckoning had arrived: my eighteenth birthday.

I knew that my future with the Assassins was hinged on the outcome of that day; I also knew that I would be expected to do something that I had never done before. I had reached the crossroads.

Although the Assassins forbade initiates from revealing the details of their rites of passage, I had heard whispers about (and seen the bloody results of) gang-initiation rituals: random slayings and brutal rapes seemed to coincide with the eighteenth birthdays of a gang-members. 

Although I secretly hoped that my initiation would not involve any violence toward women or children, I realised that there was a distinct possibility of this .

During the previous four years, I had been involved in uncountable incidents of violence, but I had never taken the life of anyone. Nor violated any woman.

Some of my brothers in crime questioned my mettle and teased me about my living arrangements. 'What type of gangster lives in a house with an old lady and a little girl!'

I felt conflicted because, on the one hand, I had deep affection for my sister and also my ouma, grandmother, who had lovingly taken us in after our mother's untimely demise; on the other hand, I had deep loyalty towards 'my fam', the gang that had given me a sense of purpose and belonging.

I was perturbed to find myself feeling 'torn' on such a momentus day. I decided to go to the beach, which was a short bus ride away from where I lived. To me, it was an ideal place for contemplation.

 There was something hypnotising about the choreographed motion of the vast expanse of cobalt blue liquid and the swishing sound of the water as it flowed and ebbed, teasing the golden sand that lay quietly on the shoreline. 

The feel of the sun caressing my skin was pure heaven.

I nurtured fond memories of going to that beach with my mother when I was a little boy. I had decided long ago, to obliterate the bad memories of her: all the drug-fuelled rampages.

Perhaps the fact that I had so few truly happy memories made them all the more precious.

Or maybe a piece of my heart was buried in the sand where she and I had built castles in the sand so many years ago. That's why I kept returning to that spot, time after time.

On that day, I was thinking happy thoughts as I sat on the sand. It was still early in the day and the beach was deserted. 

I looked down at my hands and envisioned running hand-in-hand with my mother into the Atlantic Ocean. 

All of a sudden, a feeling of uneasiness washed over me and I perceived that I was not alone. 

As I turned my head, I saw him again! The old man. He was standing too far away for me to see his face. But I knew it was him.

I felt enraged. How dare he intrude on my sacred place! I got up and began to sprint towards him, my dreadlocks flittering in the wind as I ran. 

He turned and slowly began to walk away from me. Did he not realise that I was capable of inflicting great harm on him?

 I reached into the pocket of my shorts for my revolver. But as I tried to yank it out, I lost my footing and went sprawling onto the sand. 

When I looked up again, the old man was gone! My heart was pounding furiously in my chest and a crimson ribbon of blood trickled from my bottom lip which I had bitten during my fall. 

I lay on my stomach on the warm sand and let out a scream of frustration. What the hell did he want? Who was he? How could he have just vanished into thin air?

I caught a bus back to Michells Plain, the area where I lived. I went straight home and sat outside the house, rolling a fat joint. 

My mind was racing. What would the Assassins say if they knew that I had been spooked by a wraith of a man?

I didn't hear my sister creep up behind me. I almost went into cardiac arrest when she threw her arms around my neck and whispered, "Happy birthday, Damian!" 

I dropped the small tray of weed that was on my lap and watched in consternation as my high-grade Marijuana fell into the ankle high grass.

"Henny!" I was about to scold her but when I saw her beaming smile, my annoyance fizzled out.

I quickly turned and grabbed her, pulling her down to sit on my knee. "You frightened me, you little monkey!" I said, tickling her. She squealed with laughter.

"Why didn't you go to school today?" I asked her.

 Henrietta was a bright child who excelled in school. I, on the other hand, had dropped out of school at the age of fourteen, much to the dismay of my grandmother. 

"Because it's your birthday! I wanted to spend time with you. I begged Ouma to let me stay home." 

I felt a lump rise in my throat and quickly said, "Well, you know what? An eighteenth birthday is different from all the others. Today, I have to buy you a present".

She grinned and said, "Damian, you're such a liar!" 

I threatened to tickle her until she told me what she wanted. She eventually disclosed that what she really wanted was 'a-pencil-case-with-a-picture-on-it-of-Elsa-from-the-Disney-animation-called-Frozen!'.

After spending some time at home with the two 'women' in my life (something that I seldom did), I caught a bus to the city centre, to buy a pencil case for one of them.

I purchased it and was on my way to catch a bus that would take me back to Michells Plain when I caught sight of the old man's reflection in a shop window.

'He's not getting away from me this time', I thought to myself.

As I gripped him by the shoulders, I pulled him up close to me and looked him in the face. I was so taken back by what I saw that I immediately let go of him.

His eyes! They looked so familiar! They were exactly like mine: emerald green with little flecks of gold. 

But what left me even more gobsmacked was the sight of the tattoo on his neck. It was a replica of the tattoo on my neck, albeit slightly distorted by wrinkles. Had he once been a member of the Assasins? Impossible!

"Who...who are you?" It was barely more than a hoarse whisper. 

"Don't be afraid Damian. I mean you no harm." 

"How do you know my name? Who are you?" Every hair on the back of my neck was standing at attention. I felt weak at the knees and feebly placed my hand against the wall for support.

"Come, let's find somewhere to sit", he said. He took me gently by the arm and led me across the street to a park bench.

He shuffled as he walked, probably due to arthritis of the knee or some other age-related condition; I shuffled as I walked due to my 'spaghetti legs'. 

My mind was foggy. Everything around me seemed surreal. 

I dropped down on the bench, grateful to be off my wobbly legs. He looked at me, "Are you alright, Damian?" 

I managed to nod my head. I was anything but alright. "Who are you?" I could think of nothing more to say.

He smiled. His lips, the cleft in his chin, the bone structure of his face....

"I think you know who I am, Damian."

 And at that moment I did know. I knew it with every fibre of my being. 

"Me," I said.

Time passed. Or maybe time stood still. I wasn't sure. 

All I knew was that my present self and my future self were sitting side-by-side on a bench in the middle of a park in Cape Town!

"How?" I finally managed to ask.

"Damian, 'how' is immaterial; what is of paramount importance is 'why'?" 

As he spoke, I looked at his arms. He had all the tattoos -and scars- that I had. But I did not have all the tattoos -and scars- that he had.

"Today is my birthday; of course", he pointed at me, "you know that. Seventy-eight years old. Do you know who remembered my birthday?" I continued to stare dumbly at him. 

He reached out; and I instinctively flinched. He touched my dreads, sliding his fingers down the length of them. I saw a flicker of light in his eyes. 

Then he said, "No one." His hand dropped back onto his lap. The light in his eyes disappeared.

"I have no one. I spent almost six decades locked away behind walls three metres thick.

When I eventually came out, there was no one waiting for me. The world had gone on without me."

Tears welled up in his eyes. "A lifetime of regret. A lifetime of waking up every morning and knowing that I had chosen the wrong path".

Tears welled up in my eyes. I had to know: "Henny..?" 

He shook his head slowly and as he did, a crystal tear rolled down his face and landed on one of his hands. 

They were scarred and the skin was crumpled, but unmistakably, those were the same hands that I had looked at earlier in the day, at the beach.

"Henny met the same fate as mother- only difference was that Henny wasn't even out of her teens when it happened to her."

"No!" I heard myself wail. It was a plaintive sound that emanated from the depths of my heart.

I thought about the pencil case that I was carrying inside the breast-pocket of my jacket, so close to my heart, and I broke down. 

And I cried like I had never cried before...

"Hoekom huil jy, Oupa?" Why are you crying, Grandpa?

I look down at the little child sitting on my lap. She's the youngest of my three beautiful great-grandchildren.

"You shouldn't cry on your birthday, Oupa!" 

She reaches up and wipes a tear away from my cheek. I kiss the top of her head and tell her, "These are tears of joy, my darling".

Another child comes running across the beach, "Oupa, it's time to cut your cake! Ouma sent me to call you."

A few minutes later, inside my sun-kissed house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, I look around at the smiling faces of my family, all gathered to help me commemorate my eightieth birthday.

I look at Henrietta standing beside her husband and their children and their grandchildren; I look at Cynthia, my soul-mate and spouse of 55 years; I look at the three generations of our offspring...

And I know that I chose the right path.