He saw the man again quite by accident. Someone had dropped him a penny and he was pretending to be looking at something across the street while feeling around with his hand for the coin.

The man was standing in the doorway of a shop, and he was watching the cripple now with frank and open interest.

‘You stool of a whore!’ Morris murmured. ‘You foul- smelling stool of a diseased whore.’ Morris Tshabalala was a man, and now, only half the man he was, he is still enough for you. The night is long, and you will need patience, dog! He dropped down onto his hands and shuffled off.

The lanky, sad-voiced one called out after him: ‘Your money, Little Father.’

Go to hell, Morris thought.

‘Little Father, your penny!’ He threw the coin in front of Morris who let it roll away into the gutter.

Here I am safe, he was thinking. Where there is light and people I am safe. This world keeps its lights and people until late. He can still lose patience or meet friends. A policeman might stop him and ask for his pass. Please God, let a policeman stop him and ask for his pass.

Now that he was on the other side Morris was able to watch him without having to stop. For the first time in six years the cripple did not notice the length of the street and the time it took him to reach the corner where he turned to the left. A lot of thoughts came to him, but many of them had no meaning. Are his hands soft? he would ask himself, and then shake his head in anger and desperation at the futility of the question. But no sooner did he stop asking it than another would occur. Has he got a mother? This question was persistent. Hasn’t he got a mother? Didn’t she love him? Didn’t she sing him songs? He was really asking how do men come to be what they become. For all he knew others might have asked the same question about himself. There were times when he didn’t feel human. He knew he didn’t look it.

The small side street that would have brought him out near the eating house was an unanticipated and major problem. It was deserted and badly lit. Its very shortness was its danger because even when people turned into it, they were out again in a few seconds, and then it remained empty for a long time. Even if he were to follow someone in, he would be sure to be left alone. He knew from experience that even the slowest walker was too fast for him. On top of this was his hunger and thirst. Without realizing it he had been exerting himself and now his armpits were clammy and had soaked right through his old coat. Drops of sweat shone like jewellery on his wrists and throat. Tsotsi was still on the opposite side of the street, watching his victim through the gaps in the traffic rushing past. Morris knew that if he was caught in that street alone, it would be the end. There was a solution of course. To leave the money at the first lamp-post where it could be seen. He despised himself for this thought, almost as much as he despised himself a long time ago for taking the money.