‘How is business? You make a lot today?’

‘Bloody stinking lot of white people. Here is your money and go back.’

‘You’re rich, I know you. You’re richer than me.’

‘Go on back I tell you! Leave a man to eat in peace.’

Tonight Susa was tired, and Morris hardly noticed him when he paid for his food.

It was a cheerless room, and reflected the poverty of a people who measured their essentials and excesses in the smallest unit of the white man’s money. Everything sold in the shop was a multiple of the humble penny. The bread went at twopence a slice, the pudding cake at three, coffee was fourpence a mug, the cold, oily hunks of fish sold at five, meatballs at six and the soup at seven. These prices had been painted on the door of the Bantu Eating House by Sam, the kitchen boy. He had left out the penny sign beside each numeral. He didn’t think it necessary.

The room was furnished with long tables and flat wooden benches for seats. At one end was the counter. On it were two trays, the one holding the heavy, black slabs of pudding cake, the other piled high with slices of bread. Usually there were four trays but the fish and meatballs were sold out. The walls were a sombre, dark green and from the ceiling hung a few flypapers crusted over with the dry bodies of their victims. The only decorations in the room were a calendar advertising a lotion for straightening curly hair and a notice in grammatically bad Shangaan. It had been painted in black on a piece of cardboard by the same untutored hand of the menu. It read: ‘This place knows no credit.’

Morris ate his food in silence. When it was finished he ordered another two slices of bread. When that was finished he crawled to the door and looked out into the street. He saw lots of people that looked like the tsotsi who had followed him, but not one that seemed to be purposefully waiting or watching the eating house. He went back to his corner and ordered a mug of coffee. It was nine o’clock and he felt safe. The Bantu Eating House closed at half past ten on Saturday nights.

Three other men were at a table, talking in low voices. From time to time someone would come in, take something to eat or drink, and then leave again.

Morris finally confessed to himself. You were frightened. He directed his thoughts at the rubbery reflection of his head in the mug of coffee. It was hot and he blew on it before taking small sips. You were frightened. His reflection nodded up and down in agreement. You thought you had no fear. But tonight it was there, like a worm in your bowels. A small fear of death.

When the next thought came it was so great he put the mug down on the chair and rested his head against the wall, as if staring at the flypapers. He saw nothing. I want to live. I didn’t know it. I want to be on the streets again tomorrow. I want to sit through another day on another corner. I want to be coming back here tomorrow night for supper. What’s left of me still wants to live.