His unexpected thunderbolt kick took Sphizo by a shocking surprise. The kick connected just as Sphizo was bringing the carton of the delicious brew to his mouth, splitting not only the box container but also Sphizo’s lips – oh shucks! Chibuku spewed all over Sphizo’s shirt – his new white shirt. Blood spluttered on his shirt like stippled brushstrokes on a clean canvas. As he toppled off the half brick on which he was sitting, Sphizo could hear gasps of aahs and oohs around him. His ass was suddenly on the ground, hands grabbing the earth for support. Anticipating further assault, Sphizo crawled backwards on all fours, like a mechanical crab. The small group of men that had been sharing with him the sweet Chibuku remained seated, somewhat nonchalant, and not offering any form of arbitration. The smell of fermented beer tainted the air, giving it a heavy flavour that could inebriate even the hovering flies.
Sphizo raised his eyes. The man who had kicked
at him did not attack further. He stood there glaring down at Sphizo, awaiting his
reaction with a contorted face grim with anger. Two-six, that’s what they
called him. Even Sphizo called him that. From Sphizo’s eye level, Two-six was a
self imposed tower, yet in reality he was much shorter than that. The midday
sun bounced off his clean shaven head which, as it was known by all, had the
shape of a rugby ball. His face gleamed with perspiration. Like a race horse, Two-six’s
nostrils flared with emotion, his chest heaving in sync. He was drawn in a
fighting stance, his fingers curled around a cement brick.
“Two-six!” MmaBoi, the owner of the drinking
hole, screamed from across the yard. “O ‘ira eng tota? O tshamekela mo ntlong
pula e sa ne! Motho yoo o tla go bolaya kana! Waitse tota?” Her voice was a
wavering concoction of fear and anger.
Sphizo looked down at his bloodstained murky
shirt. His swelling lips were throbbing, and he suspected he had a broken tooth
or two. When he looked up at Two-six, a dog barked, twice, rather a chilling
sound that could have come from Sphizo himself. Somewhere, a baby cried.
“Two-six!” MmaBoi squealed again, cutting
through the dense heat and thick silence under the Moloto tree. “O batla go re
bontsha eng tota? Sphizo o tlo go go thuba tlhogonyana e okareng bolo ya maburu
eo!”
The obdurate Two-six did not flinch. He stood
his ground, carefully watching his adversary, ready to launch the brick held
tightly in his grip. Blood dropped steadily from Sphizo’s battered lips. He made
no attempt to wipe them off. It was time to make a move. To make the move. For
reasons he could not fathom, Two-six had stirred the beast in him. He simpered,
only briefly yet calculated, and then jumped on his feet just as Two-six fired
the brick at him. Effortlessly, Sphizo ducked and the hurling bullet smashed on
the stem of the Moloto tree, scattering shrapnel. Sphizo’s hand reached into
his back pocket. Everyone knew what he was reaching for; the Okapi Three Star.
MmaBoi screamed. Roosters skedaddled, fluttering
wings in failed attempt to fly away...
