CHAPTER TWO

The unbearable heat woke him up; he practically crawled out of the room. The sun was high in the sky. He stretched and yawned; the hot rays touching his face. He circled the room like a guard going out of duty. He went back into the tiny room, got a towel, a bowl, and some water to clean up his face. He searched for the very last coin he had, found it, and went out in search of some fat cakes. Sadly, though, the fat cakes would be his last meal if he did not think of something to make money out.

After an unsuccessful twenty or so minutes of moving from one truck-stop to another, he finally found the fat cakes, bought two for P2.00, and headed back home. He sat under his tree and had his last meal. He had no friends. Since the auctioning of his property, he had lost all his friends; indeed, friends are fewer when the days are darker.

“Why didn’t they say there are no friends at all, tree?”

He addressed the tree as if it could respond. He leaned against its trunk and rolled his eyelids, “Gil,” he called himself. People call you names; they ignore you, they do not even see you as a human being. They see you as a rejection of life. Don’t you have any to change your life? You can go somewhere, look for a job, or you can even… you can even rob a bank or just pick-pocket, do something man. He giggled at the robbing part. His mind was playing games with him. He might’ve been under that much oppression but he wouldn’t steal. Life has left you with no option, you can do it, and you know you can. Say you rob; you get arrested, get thrown into jail. You serve your ten years sentence or whatever sentence you get. You get to eat three times a day!

Come on man, just do something, you have no choice, or do you? I guess not, he unconsciously answered himself. When the stealing thought crept into his mind, he’d treated it as just a mere joke. Now it was growing roots in his mind. An illusion of how he would survive after stealing became more vivid too.

Stand up, sniff around, spot who is vulnerable to attack and robbery. After all, it seemed like robbing would be the fastest way to make money. The thought of stealing for a moment jeered a lot of panic inside him. Was he starting to get off trail? He quizzed himself. What was he planning to turn into? A monster that would put other people’s lives in turmoil? He’d failed dismally at school, highly attributable to his emotional struggle after the loss of his family. After all, he should be smart enough to know not to put his life and that of his prospective victims in danger.

The mention of life made him rethink things. What is life? Is life the achievements you've accomplished or the amount of wealth you have? Or perhaps how civil and humble you were when accumulating that wealth? How can life be defined exactly? Or is life when you wake up, get dressed, and breathe until your precious breath is taken away by whoever is responsible?

What happens after you bite the dust? Do those you left behind to go along with whatever may have described your life? Just like his family, they had had life. Everyone in the village used to talk about it, how they were living a great life. What had happened after they ceased to live? All the life left with them. Leaving him with nothing, and nowhere he was, shouldering the responsibility of finding a way to create his own life.

The creation of life is the exact definition of life. He let his mind wander as much as possible, searching every corner of the world and bringing a list of the people who were currently living their best lives and how they had created that life for themselves. The list was infinite. His findings showed that most of them had built those lives in a very not so legal way.

It seemed to him that to get rich meant you had to bend a few rules, to contradict the law, and be willing to pay a few bribes now and then. And having a mind that will tell you that crime has no aftermath, that it is just a simple way of making a living, as much as the next profession. Why should he shy away from trying it out? What could stop him from trying it? Nothing. He had no family, no girlfriend, and nobody to care for. Many had done it and many more had never gone to trial for what they did, nor had they atoned. They were now living the dream life. He concluded, “I will try it a bit.” And, perhaps, I will be lucky enough to get away with it. Another re-assuring thought had found its way into his mind.

The seed had been planted; after a day or two, he saw a lovely young lady who he recognized as a teacher from the local junior school. She lived alone and the previous week she had bought a new BMW Z4. “Why not just try her, Gil?” The thought intrigued him. “One night, just break into her house and demand her car keys and money, then flee from Rakops for good, and maybe head to the country’s second city. No one will suspect you. They will not even realize that you are missing; they do not give a damn about you. And your absentia will mean nothing at all to them.

But a sickening thought hit him, “What are you to do with the car?” He searched for answers in his mind, none of them being comprehensive enough to give him the green light. And with that he decisively made a mutual agreement with the mind, that fate would decide; he would track the lady down and rob her.

The sun had now climbed high into the sky, shifting the shadow as it did, and thereby exposing him to the scorching sun. He moved his mattress, straightened it out, and laid flat on his back, head resting on the tree trunk. He reconsidered the idea again and again; if I rob that lady I can put a halt to all my sufferings, and turn over a new leaf. He did not bother to think about the repercussions of the crime he was intending to commit. He only focused on getting that flashy BMW. He closed his eyes, pictured himself behind the wheel, stereo volume turned to the maximum. He sighed, a sigh of accomplishment.

Perhaps the gods would smile down on him, and he might get away with a couple of thousands of Pulas. I’ll get it, run away and turn my life into a fortune. He replayed his plans over in his head all day long under the tree, trying to decide which will be easier to implement. Finally, after hours of contemplating, he made up his mind.

A team of boys, roughly eight to twelve years of age passed by him. He checked his watch, something he rarely ever did. “Five o’clock,” one of the boys shouted, “Mr. Tree!” That was one of the names he was subjected to, especially from those little creatures. He watched as they lined up on a nearby field to start a football match. At least he had something to refresh his mind with; he watched as they rolled the ball from one player to another. When they passed by him they’d been just boys and now that they were on the field they were players, how things change in the blink of an eye! So it was possible to make things change, just like those boys had changed their status within a second.

His mind flashed back to the time when he was a young boy, around the same age as those he was watching now. He used to play some childish games with his late brother, his cousins (most of whom had now relocated back to South Africa), and the other children in the streets. They would play from dusk to dawn, consequently making his granny very cross. The thought of his cousins brought back another inexplicable type of anguish; the family had lost contact with them years back.

The game ended prematurely. A fight had suddenly erupted and one of the boys had a bleeding nose. He had to calm the situation down, and they listened to him, and like a mist, they disappeared. They were all gone and again he was dragged to solidarity. Being alone meant he had only his mind for company and conversation. He headed sluggishly back to the tree to relish the sight of the now golden sun as it sailed slowly to its resting place.

I have to act tonight, he engaged his mind. The sooner he acted the better, lest he starts getting cold feet and forever remains in this state. He rose and went to the room, returned with a coffee mug, and had coffee from the previous night. He sipped on it slowly since it was cold and bitter. All the while he was digesting, with a mixture of anxiety and excitement all at the same time, wicked thoughts of how he was going to deal with his target.

As a young boy, he’d hated crime, doing everything in his power to stay away from mischief. Life had screwed all that up, that damned life; it had left him no choice but to perpetrate crime. Whatever would happen would decide his fate. At that point he wondered what fate was, is it being lucky enough not to be caught, or fate is when one is so misfortunate as to have things turn ugly for him? To him, fate was both unlucky and lucky. Maybe he would be lucky and escape the police. The thought of the cops made his heart miss a beat; thoughts of life in prison, what it must be like, the inmates, as well as the rude wardens.

The stories he had heard as a young boy about the inmates almost had him drop his mission. Prison life was just a thing not to be imagined—the fights, homosexuality, and general brutality of man in prison. He thought about it, to him having a sexual relationship with a person of the same sex was a sin far worse than stealing. Maybe he could be lucky and disappear without a trace, say for five or so years, making sure to use whatever stolen goods as wisely as possible. If he could manage a few years without being apprehended, at least he’d have dodged the ills of prison life for a while.

A gecko rushed down the tree and startled him. He rose slowly and returned to his room to prepare for a bath, which was meant to refresh his mind which had been on overdrive all day long. He poured cold water into the tub and drew a towel from a line that hung just above him. He was forced to take the bath without soap as there was none. In the tranquility of the water, his mind was a bit at peace. After the long bath, he felt a bit relaxed; he dried his body, applied the Vaseline lotion, and changed his clothes. Sadly, though, he had only two denim jeans, a pair of shorts, and three T-shirts. On his way out of the room, he brought with him a bucket to fetch water. A walk to the standpipe would perhaps distract his mind from dwelling in his thoughts. He tried to forget about his plans for a while.

A young boy passed by, just as he was about to leave.

“Hey buddy,” he called to the boy. “Yes,” the puzzled boy responded.

“Can you go and fetch some water for me?”

“Under one condition, if you give me coins for an ice pop,” the boy laid retorted wittily.

Gil searched for the charged amount from his pocket. Luckily he still had a P0.50 left on him. He tossed the coin to the boy. “There you go.” The boy grabbed the bucket and rushed to the standpipe.

“Hey.” Gil almost shouted, and the boy turned to face him. “If you return and I’m not around just place the bucket by the tree over there,” he signaled.

In a muted tone, “Yes Mr. Tree”. The boy left. Late evening was fast approaching when the boy went to the standpipe. He disappeared behind the thick bushes, and Gil went back to his shelter. He thought it opportune to go check out his prospective victim’s place while she was still out. And with that, he closed the door and followed the path that led to the lady's house. At the main gate, he knocked twice, and without being invited in he pushed the gate slightly, peeping in through the narrow opening to check for any sign of presence. There was none. He stepped in and carefully tiptoed around the yard. “Okay, here I am, no dogs, this means only one thing Gil, easy-going huh,” he motivated himself.

On his way back, he spotted the lady at one of the talks at the market. Despite the darkness, he noticed her; she had the BMW parked in one of the shop’s parking lots. He paused and stole a long stare at her before resuming his journey. He had his head down to avoid eye contact with her. There she was: his target. She was stunning, beautiful, and sexy. Perhaps she was around a hundred and seventy centimeters tall, a rare height for ladies.

Her beauty had him hesitating about the idea of robbing her for a split second. Why he do such a terrible deed to such a beauty? He quizzed himself on the way back to his shelter. It was almost seven-thirty, supper time, when he arrived home. Slightly exhausted as he checked the water, it was there. He carried the bucket into the room and put the bucket at the far corner. He pulled the mat and sat down. Now that he had assessed the situation there was no turning back. For a moment he forgot about the beauty of the lady. He rekindled his thoughts, and one thing was clear; he had to do it. The only thing left for him to do was to take action. He placed the pillow against the corrugated iron wall to support his back, straightened his legs in front of him, and rested his back on the pillow as he listened to the village night sounds. A baby cried somewhere in the distance, rock’n’roll music was playing in the distance, too. He recognized the song, ‘Feel of the dark’ by Iron Maiden and finally a dog barked; to him, all these sounds were very disturbing.

He wanted them to subside so he could creep out of his room to the lady’s yard knowing people were fast asleep. “What if she has a boyfriend?” he thought, something he’d not thought of the whole day. He wondered how it had not occurred to him, amidst all his plans. It was on very rare occasions that a smart lady like that one could be single. He now had to adjust his thoughts and decide whether to abort his mission or just go there with the hope that she did not have a visitor tonight. The urge he had overpowered and dismissed other disputing thoughts. He would snake his way to the teacher’s house and deal with the unexpected if any.

The clock was ticking away extremely slowly for him today, and with each passing second, he heard his heartbeat even louder, drumming violently against his chest. He planned to start the dirty workaround twelve or one when the village streets were quiet. If the plan ran as planned, he would be far away from Rakops by dusk. Was he losing his path? The question rushed to his mind. By robbing was getting derailed again? He pushed the question aside. God has a plan for us all. It must be his plan for me to steal. He believed that God, just like an author, writes down your life and you have to do and follow whatever He has authored for you. He assured himself that he was following God’s manual for his life.

23:30

He got himself ready; a mask to hide his face, gloves for the fingerprints, and then sharpened a dagger for any unexpected turn of events. He placed it in its sheath and finally tied his cowboy boots.

23:45

He was now ready to leave. Hitting the dusty path that led to the house, he passed through a thick acacia bush; the path snaked its way through this bush. A dog barked and a cricket chirped somewhere in the bush. The noises flustered him. Despite the coziness of the night, he was trembling. He moved carefully, fighting back the fear.

The path now branched its way through overgrown grass. He stopped after almost every three steps to listen to if there was any change in his surroundings. A thorn pierced him. “What the…!” he cursed. Distant lights cut short his sentence. He missed a step and had his foot caught in the undergrowth. Then surfaced the thought of giving up or trying the next day, which he dismissed. It’s now or never.

Something urged him to proceed. There was a debate between his heart and mind, he listened to the heart. The mind is a coward, he told his heart. He made his way to the building. He paused behind the camel thorn tree, a few steps away from the gate. He carefully gave a security check. His hair jolted, panic wedging itself into him. There was something unexpected at the gate: a human figure at the entrance. He waited for a few seconds and regrouped his breaths, carefully examining the figure. It seemed to be a guard. And this guard was facing east, his back to Gil. Gil moved a few steps closer, ducking behind another nearby tree, the name of which had eluded his mind. He examined the silhouetted figure again, more carefully this time. He took quick light steps toward the person; One, two, three… Three steps were enough to combat the person on guard.

Gripping him by the throat, his other hand was over his mouth to muffle his scream as he dragged him to the nearby tree. He then took out his knife, placed it on the man’s throat; the plan was to slit it open.

“Do not kill, Gil,” he mused.

“Who are you?” the frightened man asked. Without answering Gil wrestled him to the ground, tied his limbs using his shoelaces, and stripped him of his shirt, stuffing it into the man’s mouth. He tiptoed to the main door of the house where he was met with voices from the television. He knocked twice and dodged to the side of the door. A key turned and the door opened. “What is it, Jerry?” the lady quizzed, apparently thinking it was the guard. With much zeal Gil jumped out and pushed the lady back into the house, instantaneously closing the door with the heel of his boot. He drew his knife and signaled the lady to keep her mouth shut.