‘Skollie’ arrested for housebreaking
He and his cohorts spend three weeks in custody before appearing in court
Ilooked at him and saw the fear lurking in his eyes. “Is djy be**k? Wat as os hom wit bene maak?” (Are you f ***** up? What if we kill him?) I checked through the peephole again. Two detectives, one white, the other coloured, entered the shop with the white store manager in tow. Both cops were armed with shotguns, which they held close to their chests. “Twie speurders en nogge wit
ou, Gimba,” I informed him again. (Two detectives and another white guy.)
The detectives moved from one office door to another and the white cop banged on each one with the butt of his gun and shouted, “Julle hier binne, as julle roer stuur ek julle bokveld toe!” (You inside, if you move I will kill you!)
The manager then unlocked the door of the office next to the tearoom, where we were hiding, and it was flung open with force. They moved in, coming our way, and I had a sudden urge for nicotine. I patted my shirt pocket and found one battered cigarette. “Gie ’n light daa, Gimba.” (Give us a light, Gimba.)
Gimba shrugged. “Ek het f ***ol nie.” (I’ve got nothing.) I put the cigarette in my mouth. We were going down and I was willing to go quietly. The white cop shouted another warning, the door to the tearoom banged open, the detectives pointed their guns at us and I said to the coloured detective, “Hettie ou nie miskien ’n light daa vi my nie?” (Do you perhaps have a light there for me?)
The detective was caught off-guard by my request and the raging manager stepped up and slapped the cigarette out my mouth, grinding it underfoot. My hatred for all white people exploded. I went after him, grabbed him by the shoulders and head-butted him in the face, twice in succession.
The white detective slammed me in the kidneys with the butt of the shotgun and I hit the ground face first. Gimba stood transfixed by the sudden violence. The coloured cop hauled me up, handcuffed us together and frogmarched us outside. A crowd had gathered, some in their night clothes. The flickering light of the police car, a green Studebaker Lark, threw weird shadows across the curious crowd. Shorty appeared and mingled with the onlookers. Our eyes locked for a long moment. I indicated with my eyes that he should tell my parents. Shorty nodded that he understood. The police car roared off as a live band across the way rendered a Beatles song, This Boy.
At the police station, we were charged and fingerprinted, then escorted to a big cell. We entered to find Gif already there, his mouth swollen and bloody. Gimba ranted at him, “Djy’t bos gelos, jou tief!” (You squealed on us, you bitch.) Gif took offence and snarled at him, “Moetie ko k** praatie, Gimba, die boere het gewiet julle’s daa innie die winkel!” (Don’t talk s**t, Gimba, the cops knew you were inside the shop!)
I stepped into the fray. “Lossit, Gimba, os twie staan man virrie saak. Gif was byte, os was binne, soe os kennie vi hom nie.” (Leave it alone, Gimba, we take the rap for this case. Gif was outside, we were inside, so we don’t know him.) Gimba was not happy, so I reminded him: “Man vang, man staan, my mieta.” (You get arrested, you take the rap, my friend.)
We appeared in court the next day and were remanded back to the cells at Athlone police station for three weeks, so that the cops could investigate if we were connected to any other burglaries. For the next few days, every prisoner who was brought to our cell was searched for tobacco or any other valuables and substances in their possession, which we would confiscate. Most of the prisoners gave it up without any resistance when approached by Gif. He was mean and prone to violence ...
After three weeks in the cell, we appeared in court. As I entered the courtroom from the holding cells below, I did a quick scan of the gallery and saw my parents, Gif ’s aunt, Shorty and Mr C, who was at the prosecutor’s table probably trying to bribe him.
The prosecutor waved him off and he slunk towards his seat. Mom was holding her Bible close to her breast, her eyes closed in silent prayer, while Dad stared straight ahead of him.
The magistrate entered, perused his file then looked up at us. “John Fredericks, Richard Carelse en Tyrone Felix, julle is aangekla vir huisbraak en diefstal. Wat pleit julle?’” (John Fredericks, Richard Carelse and Tyrone Felix, you stand accused of housebreaking and theft. How do you plead?) “Skuldig, u edele,” I said. (Guilty, your honour.) “Skuldig, u edele,” said Gimba. “Onskuldig, u edele; ek ken nie die mense nie,” said Gif. (Not guilty, your honour; I don’t know these people.) The magistrate looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “Is dit reg wat hy sê. Ken julle hom?” (Is it true what he’s saying? Do you know him?) I looked at Gif as if seeing him for the first time. “Nog nooit vir hom ontmoet nie, u edele.” (Never met him before, your honour.) scribbledThe magistratein his file. He nodded knew we his were head lying. and He turned to Gif, “Jy mag afstaan, Mnr
Felix.” (You may stand down, Mr Felix.) Gif left the dock with a tight smile on his face but happy for freedom.
The magistrate addressed the prosecutor and told him to go ahead.
The prosecutor checked his file and addressed the court. Because the two accused had pleaded guilty, he said, the case could now be finalised if it pleased the court.
The magistrate nodded his head and told the prosecutor to continue. The prosecutor gathered his thoughts, then said, “Ek vra vir ’n skuldigbevinding, u edele. Twee jaar gevangenisstraf en ses houe met die swaar rottang.” (I’m asking for a guilty verdict, your honour. Two years’ imprisonment and six lashes with the heavy cane.)
The magistrate stared pensively at us and then said that accused number one (which was me) looked very timid and that two years in Porter Reformatory would do me good.
The prosecutor begged to differ, pointing out that accused number one was in fact a few months older than accused number two. We were both 17 years old.
The magistrate scribbled in his file some more, looked at us for a long moment, then declared: “Beskuldigdes nommer een en twee, ek vind julle skuldig aan huisbraak en diefstal. Ek vonnis julle tot twee jaar gevangenisstraf en ses houe met die swaar rottang.” (Accused number one and two, I find you guilty of housebreaking and theft. I sentence you to two years’ imprisonment and six lashes with the heavy cane.)
My body whipped in shock at the mention of lashes with the heavy cane, which I’d heard older gangsters speak about with trepidation. They said that one lash was the equivalent of one month. I blurted out, “U edele, ek sal eerder nog ses maande verkies in plaas van die ses houe, asseblief.” (Your honour, I would rather have six more months than the lashes please.)
The magistrate looked at me in disgust. “Ek het klaar gepraat, jy mag afstaan!” (I’ve finished speaking with you, you may stand down!)
With tears streaming down her face, Mom gripped my hand as we were led down the well of the court. We were loaded into a big yellow truck and we set off for Pollsmoor prison. I stood at the back of the truck, holding onto the small window bars, and watched the outside world go by. The truck pulled into the yard of the prison. A sign read ‘Welcome to Pollsmoor’. I was filled with dread of what lay ahead.
● This is an edited extract from Skollie by John W Fredericks, published by Zebra Press at a recommended retail price of R250.