Body bruised, broken and bleeding, I’m being tossed around the back of a police van. They’re purposefully driving in secluded roads, buckling the van side to side violently. Hands tied behind my back, feet left to try and gain some semblance of balance I don’t stand a chance of righting myself at the sharp turns and sudden stops. My covered head is bleeding. My ribs feel tender, more tender every time I’m slammed into the side of the closed canopy on the back of the marked van.
I knew I should have stayed out of the main road. But the last time they were patrolling the side streets. I thought I’d figured out their pattern. At least I was alone by then.
I don’t even have a chance to melt into my date. She kissed me. Like actually kissed me at her front door when I left. I beamed at her. Asked her to be my girlfriend right there and then. Exclusive. No more dates. For either of us. I was ecstatic. So ecstatic I didn’t see them until it was too late.
I tried to run. But they had me within a few seconds of taking off. There was a guy waiting for me. They knew exactly which direction I was gonna bolt to. I sank into the floor in defeat as they put the black fabric bag over my head and the zip ties over my wrists, like I’m some kind of package that needs to be secured. Like my skin makes me less man and more animal than them.
With the bag still in place it makes it hard to breath. I’m a hard boiled egg in a mixer of their making. Tossed and turned around with no hope of this torture ending any time soon.
I should have asked her to come for Sunday lunch. But I got scared. Thought I’d scare her away by moving too fast. But she’s it for me and I wanted my mommy to meet her. Will I be able to after this? Will I make it out of here this time?
I hit the corner of something and feel my shoulder dislocate. A scream unleashes from my throat and I bite it back, teeth digging into my lower lip, drawing blood instead of giving them the satisfaction of hearing my pain.
I need to concentrate on something. I think about my mother. She’s throwing me a twenty first party in a month. Everything’s planned. She’s so excited. She kissed the top of my head the other morning and said, “I can’t believe you’re gonna be 21 my child.” Her eyes filled with emotion and tears got stuck on her long eyelashes before she blinked them away and handed me a bowl of jungle oats in daddy’s old bowl. Daddys brown body didn’t survive one of these trips. He left to get milk and came back with death and devastation.
I just have to hold out. For her. For my mom to see me become a man. My body can heal just like it has the last few thirty odd times since these trips started when I was eleven. They do this to keep us in line. To make us think we’re small. They think by breaking our bodies they’ll break our minds. But we have nothing but the will to get up. The grit to think we can survive whatever they throw at us.
Resolve fills the bruises in and on my body just as the van starts driving normally. In a straight line. A reprieve. The black bag over my head fills my wide mouth as breath in and out, trying to get in as much oxygen as I can. It shouldn’t be long now, then I’ll be out of this torture chamber of their making. The van slows to a crawl. I lift onto my knees, ready to get out. Happy to get thrown out. I don’t think I can stand yet after all that bumping and grinding.
That’s when I hear it. Growling. My heart drops to my feet. It sounds like its coming through the doors, all around me. The growling becomes louder. There’s a man shouting.
“Nee baas. Nee bass. Moenie. Moenie. Assebleief bass.”
I wait. Aching shoulder, bruised body, my sense are honed in on what I can hear. Growling has turned into barking. Loud incessant barking. I can almost picture the dogs pulling at their leashes. The man is begging now. Asking to be let go. The barking gets even louder. The growls even more menacing. There’s a loud toe curling scream that moves away and more further away and the monstrous growls and barking follow the sound, making my skin crawl at my imagination.
My shoulders slump when the van starts up again. I hear the faint sound of laughter as one of the policeman says,
“Waars die swart gevaar nou ne?”
Their laughter may as well be the dogs barking for the way my body reacts to the sound.
I sink onto the floor, hands behind me, face covered in a bag. I say a prayer for the man being pulled apart and a prayer for me for not being that body. I’m sorry for him, but grateful for me. How fucked up is that.
My mother said we must celebrate turning twenty-one. Not many of us do. Because these policemen want to break our bodies our minds because it will look bad if they just kill us off. There’d go their labour force.
But we do not consent to being made small. They do not see how we find joy in every breath, fill our hearts with our faith.
The van stops so they can toss me out like a bag of dirt. I lay there for a few minutes unable to think clearly. Listening as the van drives off. Staying utterly still. In case they decide to come back and do this all over again.
I push myself up slowly. At least they took the bag off my face. Looking around, I recognise the field behind my house. I sigh in relief through broken skin at my lips. The last time I had to walk home for five hours.
I put the pain into a part of my mind where I can’t think about it and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I picture my mother waiting for me. I picture being here for my twenty first. Having my girl on my arm.
I hold onto the feeling of the people who love me instead of the inflicted pain of the ones who hate.