Chapter 2 - The Street Came Out

PART 2: THE STREET CAME OUT

By the time I pulled up to Kane's detail shop, the parking area was full.

Not with customers.

With spectators.

Because kasi people love three things: a good shisa nyama, somebody getting cussed out in public, and being able to say, "I was there when it happened."

There were aunties in folding chairs.

Folding chairs.

Somebody had brought a speaker and amapiano was thumping like it was December. Sipho, the kota man, had parked his trailer across the street like this was a festival — the man had a queue at 8am on a weekday, which told you everything about the economy of spectacle. I saw my cousin Peaches standing near the fence with sunglasses on and a smoothie in her hand.

I got out of my car and stared at her.

She waved. "I came for emotional support."

"You came for mess."

"Both can be true."

Starla spotted me before I spotted her. She was pacing near the entrance, still in those pink biker shorts, now holding a can of Sprite like it was a microphone. Her lashes were flapping in the morning breeze, and her ponytail was so tight it looked like it was trying to pull the truth out of somebody.

"Ohhhhh!" she yelled. "Here comes his little good girl now!"

The crowd turned.

I hated everybody.

Kane stood near the garage door with his jaw tight. When he saw me, his whole face changed.

"Winnie," he said.

That's me.

Winnie Vilakazi.

Mama named me after Winnie Madikizela, the Mother of the Nation, and Daddy named me after his favourite street in Soweto, which tells you everything you need to know about how confusing my childhood was. I got politics before I got a personality.