CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
It was Student Constable Dlamini’s third day of training and he had arrived at the station ready for duty one hour early. November Whisky 50 had booked on duty and had been patrolling for the best part of the morning. The radio was quiet – so quiet in fact that Night had checked in with Lisa twice by mobile phone to inquire as to whether anything was wrong with the radio network.
“Everything’s fine” she had said. “Besides, you should be happy when the radio is quiet because it means that nobody’s becoming a victim of crime and that you are winning the war.”
Unfortunately that is not how a policeman’s brain works. And for good reason too, Night told himself for when he checked the station’s Occurrence Book at the end of a shift for cases registered he often found that there were indeed acts of crime being committed while the radio was silent. The truth was that fewer and fewer people of South Africa were calling on the police to deal with acts of violent crime. The population of South Africa was losing faith in the police and turning to private security firms to give them safety and security. So much so that South Africa has the largest private security sector on the planet.
“Stop and search gentlemen” announced Sergeant Night. “If the radio is quiet we are going to stop and search every dodgy looking character from Hillbrow to Alex -- starting with those three hooded thugs over there!” He pointed to three youths who sat on a low wall next to a petrol service station on Louis Botha Avenue in Orange Grove. Constable Shaka pulled the vehicle in to the garage and the police officers debussed.
Night and Dlamini approached the three boys, who all sported baggy jeans that exposed their underwear. Two of the boys were white and wore hooded tops and sunglasses. The third, a younger, black boy bore a red t-shirt and baseball cap.
“Hands! Let me see all of your hands!” commanded Night.
The younger boy’s hands shot up into the air immediately. Probably used to being searched by the police Night thought to himself sadly.
“Didn’t you little twerps hear my General! Put up your bloody stupid hands!” put in Student Constable Dlamini.
“It’s Captain actually, Dlamini” said Night nonchalantly.
Stanislov and Shaka looked at their Sergeant quizzically. “I’ll explain later” Night answered.
The two white boys stared at the young Student Constable and started to laugh. “And you are calling us little twerps!” one of the boys said.
Dlamini felt his face redden and was about to say something when Stanislov pushed past him. “Here, hold this” he said while handing Steven his R1 assault rifle. Dlamini’s face lit up in a wide grin while looking down at the weapon.
Stanislov used both his hands and reached around to the boys’ backs to grab their low hanging pants below the back where the belt buckles should have been on the reverse side. He used his prodigious strength and hauled the two youths off their feet, simultaneously turning them around to face the wall. As they fell face forward about to make impact with the wall their hands swiftly came out of their pockets and they grabbed the wall.
“See, we told you to get your hands out of your pockets!” said Stanislov. “Watch and learn Dlamini!” he said while using his right leg to kick apart the feet of each of the young men. “You kick them wide apart, like this. It affords you more protection for if your suspects try to take their hands off the wall and turn on you they will fall because they are off balance, see.”
Stanislov kicked hard and started to search the boys aggressively but in total Control. He wanted to scare them.
The young black boy started to laugh quietly while he stood motionless in his post with his hands still firmly in the air.
“What’s your name boy and what’s so funny?” said the giant Zulu who walked over to the young man.
“My name is Nkosinathi sir, but everyone just calls me Kosi and I was laughing because we saw you drive past earlier and my friends said you wouldn’t search us because they are white.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they said that. How wrong they were. Nkosinathi is a fine Zulu name boy. You must be proud of it. I am going to quickly search you to make sure that you aren’t carrying any weapons” said Constable Shaka.
“I’m not, sir.”
The Constable quickly but thoroughly searched the boy and found him to be free of weapons or any illegal substances.
“You can put your hands down now, son.”
Meanwhile Constable Stanislov was searching the two white boys who were being uncooperative and mouthy. They obviously knew that they had nothing on them so thought they were safe from prosecution, Stanislov supposed to himself.
“You can’t touch us! You don’t have a warrant!” said one of the boys. His friend also put in: “We know our rights! We gonna sue yo asses!”
“Really, ‘You gonna sue our assess’ ha!” said Stanislov, his Russian accent coming out now. Night knew this was either because he was becoming annoyed or amused. He hoped for the boys’ sake it was because he was amused.
“And vot makes you think we need a warrant to search two vanna be gangsters like you?”
“I know the law man and you need a warrant to search us or a legal reason at least. My dad’s a lawyer you know” said the taller of the two boys.
“You’re right boy we do need a legal reason to search people and we had vone to search you two little shits!” Stanislov knocked off each of their hoods and removed their sunglasses and threw them to the ground. Underneath all the hip hop gangster paraphernalia and attitude the police officer found two scared pubescent kids. One of the boys had freckles and scruffy red hair. The other was blonde with feminine features and a Justin Bieber haircut. Both were stick thin and had acne.
“That’s better. Now you both look a lot less suspicious and lot more like the young kids that you are” said Night.
Stanislov had swung both boys around to face the officers and both hung their heads to the ground and stared silently at the floor, their bravado falling from them as their shields of hood and sunglasses were removed.
The young Nkosinathi spoke once more. “Excuse me sir but may I ask why you have searched us?”
“Yes you may ask us. But your question surprises me Nkosi because you seem to be used to having the police search you” said Constable Shaka.
“Yes sir I am used to it – at least once a month I am stopped and searched by cops but never while being around white friends. So why search us? Why this time, with them?” said Nkosinathi while looking at his young white friends who now stared silently at the floor.
“Quite simply because of what they are wearing Nkosinathi and because of what you are wearing but to a lesser extent” said Shaka.
“But that can’t be legal can it officer, you can’t stop and search somebody just because of what they are wearing, can you?”
“Yes we can. You see we are allowed to stop and search any citizen we believe looks suspicious. And before you ask, the reason you young men look suspicious is because you are all hiding your faces. Your friends have hoods over their heads which in colder weather we could perhaps understand but at the same time they wear sunglasses. It is warm this morning but not sunny enough to need sunglasses – as you can see its overcast. And you wear a baseball cap in cloudy conditions. We can understand your cap but combined with your friends who almost completely cover their faces in balmy conditions you look suspect. And to top it off you all wear pants that are far too large for you. Are you an ex prison convict signalling to other men that you are open to and available for sexual intercourse?”
“What no, of course not but…”
“But nothing. Why else would you not wear pants that fitted you properly or at least wear a belt. The reason prisoners don’t wear a belt is because they are not allowed to because their belts are taken away in case they may be used to hang themselves. So wearing baggy pants that make you walk like a crab and look like ex-convicts will get you stopped and searched all year long in South Africa, my boy” said Constable
Shaka.
“And we police by the numbers young man” said Night. “Statistics and experience tell us that the vast majority of armed robbers cover their faces while robbing people and businesses via the use of a baseball cap and less frequently while wearing hoods. And you three young boys are doing exactly that while loitering only a few metres away from a petrol station and cash machine. And did you know that loitering without purpose is also an offence in South Africa – an arrestable offence?”
The radio burst into life: “Control, this is Bravo Lima 14, we need back up! Back up Control, send us back up!!”
Sergeant Night looked at his crew and simultaneously they walked fast to their vehicle, Stanislov taking his assault rifle back from Student Constable Dlamini on his way.
“What’s going on Stani? What’s happening? asked the student.
“We are responding to the most important call you will ever here!” said Stanislov.
Constable Shaka stopped momentarily and spoke to young Nkosinathi and his friends. “You boys must go home now and don’t let us see you here later or ever again. If we do we will arrest you immediately for loitering and you will be introduced to real prisoners who have no choice but to dress like prison wives. And Nkosinathi, you are a good Zulu boy, don’t be influenced by these white kids or those American rappers. There is nothing African about dressing like little insecure thugs! Be proud boy and show people your face and let people know that you have nothing to hide!”
Night thought about his partner’s parting words to the young men and he thought about the rioting that had occurred in London - more like shopping with violence he had heard it more accurately described. What drew his thoughts now were the remarks of a respected historian who appeared on a television talk show discussing the rampaging. Night had agreed with almost everything the man had said except that the young blacks and whites who took part in the thuggery had done so by adopting black culture. Black culture of gangsterism, rap music and materialism obsessed with brands, baggy jeans and hooded clothing.
Well in all his life Michael Night had lived in Africa he had never experienced a “black culture” like that. A more apt description, Night thought, would have been to say that the rioters had adopted an American gang culture of foul slang vernacular and bad body language, perpetuated by the idolised “gangsta” rappers and hip hop stars who sang about slapping their bitches up and putting a bullet in a police officer’s head or rather “busting a cap in his ass.”
There was nothing African, if black could mean African, about the London riots. It was down to poor parenting, a welfare state and the constant bombardment of negative, destructive music let loose upon Britain’s youth. Noise that applauded sin and encouraged anti-social behaviour. Left unaddressed, there was more shopping with violence in store for the Great British Capital.