He stepped out of the BMW and heard the shrill chirp as he locked it. Drawing eyes like meat flies, the tall black man in his fancy car and city threads. He stood in the lava colored light of afternoon, smelling the old familiar smells. Dust. Dung. Rotting garbage. The stink of rural poverty. Ignoring the blank stares of the vendors who squatted on the sidewalk, selling sweetmeats and snuff and purgatives, alongside baboon skulls and roots and skins. Deaf to the pleas of the beggars with cupped hands and minds numbed by alcohol and disease. Only five hours' drive from Johannesburg, but another world, this. The minister of justice watched Zondi from an election poster tied to a pole. The familiar bullet head, hooded eyes peering out from behind wire framed glasses. The small mouth that looked as if it had bitten into something sour. The man who had put Zondi's mentor into the ground. Zondi breathed through his anger, letting it drain away. That was another battle. For another time. He walked into the phone container.
