‘Ja. Milk!’ and this time there was anger and impatience, so much of both, so clear, that with an effort Cassim pulled himself together and found something else to say.

‘But what sort of milk?’

‘Baby milk.’

‘Yes yes yes…I see…Baby milk,’ and with another fart Cassim tore himself away from the counter, and disappeared, running through all the rooms and doors to the last, which was locked, and behind which his wife was cowering with her children. Cassim dropped to his knees and whispered, ‘Baby milk!’ But his wife, thinking that Cassim had just been knifed, started crying, and the children joined in. Without knowing it, they saved the day, because hearing them Cassim remembered, wiped away his tears and ran back to the shop.

The young man was still there, still alone.

‘You mean condensed milk,’ Cassim cried. He saw the young man hesitate and a frown pucker his eyebrows. I’ve got him, he thought. By God I’ve got him.

‘Yes yes, you mean condensed milk,’ and before the man could think enough to answer or argue, Cassim had the tin down from the shelf and on the counter.

‘One-and-fourpence-halfpenny,’ Cassim said, being careful to phrase his words as if it might just interest the other to know the price.

The young man was still hesitant, and made the mistake of picking up the tin and scrutinizing the label. He couldn’t read and Cassim realized this.

‘Very good baby milk.’

He paid Cassim, who gave him back the correct change, being very careful to be very correct, and he then left the shop.

Tsotsi stopped outside the shop. He stopped deliberately, forcing himself to do so, and looked at the tin of condensed milk, rolling it from hand to hand. I’m looking at it, he said to himself. I’m looking at this tin I’ve just bought. I don’t give a damn about nobody. But he didn’t see it. He was conscious of his back, and of Cassim’s eyes behind it, watching him. For that matter he hadn’t seen Cassim either, or his wife, or anything else in the shop.

Buying baby milk—it hadn’t sounded right. He hadn’t heard anyone say a thing like that before. When he had paused long enough to prove that he didn’t give a damn, he turned left on the pavement and walked his way and not once did he look back. He would have liked to run, to get away as quickly as possible from the shop and the two frustrating hours he had waited. Twice he had tried to just go in and ask. But each time he had got as far as two steps inside the door and no further. Buying baby milk! It didn’t sound right. Two hours, until at last the shop was empty. Now he wanted to run, but again forcing himself, he kept walking.

At first he didn’t see the street either. But C. Ramadoola, General Dealer, was a long way from his room. (He had chosen it for that reason.) And a few minutes after leaving the shop he felt better. No one was watching. No one was laughing. No one had pointed as he passed and shouted, ‘Here’s the man who bought the baby’s milk!’ He looked around and registered the time and place.