When he stopped again he was almost at the end of the street. He rested like a boatman hunched over his oars. A few yards away the rapids were whirling past on the pavements of the main street. A lot had happened since his last rest. The wind seemed to have wandered off and got lost. The day was finished. Around him the stones of the pavement, the street itself, the walls and the sky had merged in grey, ashen lines. Behind him the street lamps, alight now, walked back to Terminal Place. It was at last deserted. From time to time the dust and litter still rose and turned balletically before falling back like the last survivors of an orgy. It had been a busy day.

Much nearer Morris Tshabalala and sitting as he had sat earlier, on the doorstep of a shop, scratching disinterestedly on the pavement with a matchstick, was the same man. At first he did not pay him any attention. Then Morris realized there was something strange about his being there. For a few more seconds it eluded him. Then he found it. The man, sitting on the doorstep of the shop, scratching disinterestedly on the pavement, was roughly the same distance from him now as he had been four blocks lower down. He examined him with quickened interest. There was something else about him. He also found that after a few minutes. He was the one who had tramped on his hand in Terminal Place.

They remained like that, the cripple and the young man, a long while, and in that time Morris Tshabalala saw many things, like the slim arrogance of the body, the soft, idle hands and the head that pretended not to look but was doing so all the time. There was also time for other thoughts, like: Why did he choose me? and Tsotsi shit! and Has he been with me all day counting my money? Then he dragged himself as quickly as he could to the crowded and well-lit Main Street of the city.

The money, he thought. The money! I was right to despise it, because he wants it and if I am not careful he will kill me for it.

The money! But how else could I buy bread to eat and butter for my hands? Did I not try?

Yes you tried, Morris Tshabalala. On that first day of the summer six years ago you tried and said: Missus please. Even if it is just the weeds in your garden. But you could see that they were not really looking at you. They pretended to be staring hard at something else on the ground, but not at you, and you knew already what it meant.

When night came and you picked the dirt out of your blisters you were still without work. Having nothing else to do, you counted the pennies and few tickeys that had come your way and realized that there had been five shillings, starting with the old woman with the white hair and the fat dog; five shillings up to the last penny and who had that been? You hadn’t even looked up to see, but thrown it away like the others.