There were days, of course, long, unconscious stretches of time when he didn’t realize it, or had forgotten it in the way men lose their deepest convictions in the morass of their daily lives. Then, when something else happened that nearly got him remembering, like the time he watched the spider spin its web, or when he smelt damp newspapers, it was back again and his eyes, as if given the miracle of real sight, saw the truth.

But never had the experience been so intense, so focused as that twilight time when he walked out of Terminal Place. Ahead of him crawled the truth as he had never seen it before, rolled up, convoluted, twisted into itself in one human parcel called Morris Tshabalala.

It was not long before Tsotsi realized that he had made a big mistake in letting the cripple reach Main Street. He’d known all along of course that once it happened he would have to wait for another dark and deserted spot before he could take his money. But he thought it would only be a question of following his man and being ready when the right moment came.

Then he discovered that something else had got involved. It happened when Morris Tshabalala rested at the corner where the man was selling newspapers. Tsotsi saw him look back, straining for a sight of his pursuer, and something of his relief when he thought he had shaken him off. With even greater clarity he saw his fear a few minutes later when he spotted Tsotsi on the opposite side of the street. This was the moment, and what happened was a feeling. It was totally unlike the hate he had felt when he first saw him in Terminal Place. It was also not the disgust that had welled up so strongly when he followed him. It was a feeling he seemed to know, and yet could not say he had felt before, and it had come when he saw the other man’s fear. It came again when Morris Tshabalala dropped down and dragged off. It came yet again when he saw how much faster the cripple was trying to move, as if what lay ahead was better than what he had left behind. It occurred more frequently as time passed, so that a few blocks down the feeling was coming as measured as his heartbeat

Tsotsi knew that something was happening to him. But when he discovered the real nature of the feeling it had gone so far it was too late to do anything about it.

They had stopped again. It was obvious why. But maybe even if that dark little side street hadn’t been there he would still have stopped, because he needed the rest. He looked even more like a dog when he was out of breath. His body had the same rhythmic up and down movment as when it panted. At that distance—Tsotsi was still on the opposite side—the light sometimes played tricks on his eyes and he imagined he saw a long tongue lolling out of the bent head. When he looked up, either to see down the side street or at Tsotsi across the road, or back over his shoulder, you thought he was going to howl, the way dogs did in the townships, sitting on their haunches in the empty streets when the moon was bright. One short and dark side street, and the cripple too frightened to crawl into it. He was right of course, Tsotsi knew that. If the cripple moved down it, the time would have come to act.