A shot fired leaves lives in tatters in gang war
THE boy seemed no older than 16. He was below average height and wore a black fez on his head.
That was about two Fridays ago, in Court 4 at Wynberg Magistrate’s Court in Cape Town. I was sitting through a lot of postponements while waiting for a case I was reporting on to be called.
The boy appeared after his name was called: Zaakir Barendse. He was no boy; he was a man of 20. And the charge was attempted murder.
In court’s public gallery that day were two women. One kept mut- tering quietly. It was hard to hear what she said, but her anger was clear. At first I thought Barendse was her son.
With the case adjourned, Barendse descended the steps to the cells. As he did, he turned and looked at the angry woman. There was a grin on his face.
The woman hissed (loud enough for me and the presiding officers to hear): “Jy lag nog jou n**i! My kind is verlam!” (You laugh, you f**k! My child is paralysed!)
I asked her: “What did he do?” She told me the young man had shot her son, a matric pupil who had been waiting at a bus stop.
Her son was not the target. He is not a gangster. He was just caught in the crossfire of a gang war.
During the adjournment an elderly, haggard woman walked into the court and made a beeline for me. She looked cold and dirt poor. Her flimsy dress offered little protection against the Cape Town cold.
“Did Zaakir Barendse appear yet?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. “He appeared briefly and the case was postponed until September 17, to give him time to appoint a legal aid lawyer.”
Her face fell at the news. “I so much wanted to see him. I wonder if they’d let me see him,” she said. I told her to speak to one of the orderlies. I was sure he was still in the holding cells. While we were waiting she told me about the morning of the shooting.
“His friends came to call him at five o’clock. Then, at about eight, people were trying to break down my door.
“They said Zackie shot a boy and paralysed him,” she said.
“It was an accident,” said the woman. “Zackie did not mean to shoot him. The boy’s mom is very bitter, but maybe he would also have been a gangster one day.
“You never know how life is going to turn out. I mean, I can’t help it if my son is a gangster. I’m not a gangster . . . ”
The tears started rolling, she shivered, took a roll of toilet paper out of her bag and blew her nose.
“I took them to the police station. Him and my younger son. I gave them up. But they let my younger son go because he was not with them.
“I’m sorry, but the other boy’s mom is blaming me. We used to talk and greet each other in the street. Now I get dirty looks.”
Eventually an orderly came over and took the packet of tobacco that the woman had brought along for her son.
“Miss, next time, don’t bring tobacco. We’re not allowed to give them tobacco any more. Cigarettes, yes,” said the orderly.
When she left, without having seen her son, she touched my shoulder, as if I was the one who needed comforting.