too much to bear. He sprinted through the door, yelling for his men, threatening them with a cruel death if they failed to stop the man who had dared think he could take his life.
Ngubane half-fell half-slid down the narrow flight of stairs, clutching the balustrade for support, expecting Shozi’s men to burst through the kitchen at any second and block his path. He felt naked without a weapon and longed for a cold Kalashnikov in his hands. When he reached the ground floor he turned from the kitchen hoping he could get out through the front. In several hops he was at the curtain covering the French windows and he drew it aside, relieved when he saw the dark night. Grabbing an iron ornamental cow he smashed it into the glass, breaking the membrane into shards that rocketed away. Behind him he heard the guards enter the kitchen, driven on by the screeching gangster above and he lurched through the glass onto the porch. Partly crippled he went across the slate into the grass that came up to the house, doubling over, knowing the men would soon be on him if they could get sight of him.
Moments later Shozi appeared on the porch firing wildly at a figure he could not see, cajoling like a trooper and commanding the men behind him to take to the grass.
Motivated by the thought of a slow death at the gangster’s hands Ngubane kept going until he came to the kopje , gulping for air, the blood on his shirt expanding concentrically, the petals of a morning rose. The ache in his shoulder was growing and he felt himself getting weaker as he lost blood. Behind him he heard Shozi’s men brushing through the grass in pursuit and at times he glimpsed them against the white house. He thought of his friends and was sure they had escaped. To tackle superior numbers when they did not know how he had fared would have been folly. He huddled amongst the rocks, concentrating his senses to determine the whereabouts of his pursuers and trying to stem the flow of blood from his wounds. A few of the lights downstairs in the house came on and after a while there was no sign of Shozi or his hoard. He did not think the gangster had joined his guards in the chase and he mourned the loss of his knife.
After twenty minutes squatting amongst the rocks, his wounds urgently needing to be dressed and bound, Ngubane moved to the stream , desperate to reach his hideout in the valley beyond. His progress was dogged and slow and on occasion he picked up the voices of the men, but he passed through the night undetected, finally coming to the crest of the hill. He breathed more easily, confident he had shaken them off.
Within 100 metres of the hideout, Ngubane left the track and dropped into the grass. His strength was near its end but he lifted himself on his elbows and cupping his hands together mimicked the hooping call of a night owl, calling four times. There was only the murmuring of the gentle breeze and he called again, this time grateful as an answering cry came to him from a little up the hill.
In minutes Nofomela and Ngwenya were by him and they carried him the last stage down the slope to their resting place. With nimble fingers they sliced the cloth from the wounds and used a kit they always carried in the bush to treat ruptured tissue. When at last they laid him on his makeshift bed Ngwenya spoke.
‘If only we’d had weapons,’ he lamented. ‘They’d have fallen and choked on their own blood.’
‘We’ re not wanton killers. Shozi was the target.’ Ngubane breathed deeply, arranging his frame into a more comfortable position. ‘I failed. The Zulu saw me killing his guard.’ He sighed weakly. ‘Tomorrow his men will be all over this area.’ He spoke to Nofomela. ‘Before dawn go to Umbali and get the guns. We can’t save Dhlamini but we can still kill Shozi.’
Chapter 18
Moses Shozi’s house
Less than two hours after the attempt on his life the gangster’s men returned to the house and assembled in the yard , expecting
Ngubane half-fell half-slid down the narrow flight of stairs, clutching the balustrade for support, expecting Shozi’s men to burst through the kitchen at any second and block his path. He felt naked without a weapon and longed for a cold Kalashnikov in his hands. When he reached the ground floor he turned from the kitchen hoping he could get out through the front. In several hops he was at the curtain covering the French windows and he drew it aside, relieved when he saw the dark night. Grabbing an iron ornamental cow he smashed it into the glass, breaking the membrane into shards that rocketed away. Behind him he heard the guards enter the kitchen, driven on by the screeching gangster above and he lurched through the glass onto the porch. Partly crippled he went across the slate into the grass that came up to the house, doubling over, knowing the men would soon be on him if they could get sight of him.
Moments later Shozi appeared on the porch firing wildly at a figure he could not see, cajoling like a trooper and commanding the men behind him to take to the grass.
Motivated by the thought of a slow death at the gangster’s hands Ngubane kept going until he came to the kopje , gulping for air, the blood on his shirt expanding concentrically, the petals of a morning rose. The ache in his shoulder was growing and he felt himself getting weaker as he lost blood. Behind him he heard Shozi’s men brushing through the grass in pursuit and at times he glimpsed them against the white house. He thought of his friends and was sure they had escaped. To tackle superior numbers when they did not know how he had fared would have been folly. He huddled amongst the rocks, concentrating his senses to determine the whereabouts of his pursuers and trying to stem the flow of blood from his wounds. A few of the lights downstairs in the house came on and after a while there was no sign of Shozi or his hoard. He did not think the gangster had joined his guards in the chase and he mourned the loss of his knife.
After twenty minutes squatting amongst the rocks, his wounds urgently needing to be dressed and bound, Ngubane moved to the stream , desperate to reach his hideout in the valley beyond. His progress was dogged and slow and on occasion he picked up the voices of the men, but he passed through the night undetected, finally coming to the crest of the hill. He breathed more easily, confident he had shaken them off.
Within 100 metres of the hideout, Ngubane left the track and dropped into the grass. His strength was near its end but he lifted himself on his elbows and cupping his hands together mimicked the hooping call of a night owl, calling four times. There was only the murmuring of the gentle breeze and he called again, this time grateful as an answering cry came to him from a little up the hill.
In minutes Nofomela and Ngwenya were by him and they carried him the last stage down the slope to their resting place. With nimble fingers they sliced the cloth from the wounds and used a kit they always carried in the bush to treat ruptured tissue. When at last they laid him on his makeshift bed Ngwenya spoke.
‘If only we’d had weapons,’ he lamented. ‘They’d have fallen and choked on their own blood.’
‘We’ re not wanton killers. Shozi was the target.’ Ngubane breathed deeply, arranging his frame into a more comfortable position. ‘I failed. The Zulu saw me killing his guard.’ He sighed weakly. ‘Tomorrow his men will be all over this area.’ He spoke to Nofomela. ‘Before dawn go to Umbali and get the guns. We can’t save Dhlamini but we can still kill Shozi.’
Chapter 18
Moses Shozi’s house
Less than two hours after the attempt on his life the gangster’s men returned to the house and assembled in the yard , expecting
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