His Sunday night now, come in a warm cloud of smoke and darkness in the streets and moths raging in soft storms around the lamp; come under a velveted spread of smudged stars and a promise of the moon in the east where a white radiance is already leaping off the rooftops of houses that way; come at last after the hazy end to a day that loitered its way lazily through sunshine and prepares now for sleep with the widest yawn and longest stretch of the week. And wherever the people are gathered together in drowsy knots, in rooms, around fires in backyards, on street corners or drinking in the shebeens, words are thrown out dispiritedly like a dice game without a stake. The prospect of sleep and the passing of time recur like lucky numbers, but no one gets excited because no one stands to win. They lack of other things as well, like the news of the world, the weather, or women, but somehow it always ends up humming the same theme.

‘This baby wants bed.’

‘Me too.’

‘Same here.’

‘Forty winks man and no dreams.’

‘Today took its time all right.’

‘Makes you tired, and tomorrow is another day.’

‘Monday man.’…early morning Monday, the blue day and back to back-bending work and the beginning of another week.

‘I’m asleep man. I’m telling you I’m asleep as I’m sitting here.’

‘Me too.’

‘Same here.’

…But they sit on, moodily, and mumble some more about Monday and how the days come one after another and time passes and you get old.

‘Ja! I’m telling you a man gets old these days before his time. Look at me. One good Saturday night and I’m finished.’

‘Trouble is it comes at the end of a week. You’re all worked out. Should be the first day, I say.’

It was as if the flame of everything that burned in the township—love and laughter, even hopes and fears—had been trimmed down low until even the talk was no more than a smoulder of life, pulsing as soft as the coal in the braziers which they dug out to light their pipes. With time even that goes out and they curl up in their blankets. The moon rises and the dogs break out into a chorus of yelping and barking. In a sleep no longer than any other night, the world winds itself up again to go running through another week.

Tsotsi sat through it all, wide awake through all the time that had passed since the woman left, still wide awake now with sleep lapping like a black tide through the township streets. The baby had cried once and he’d carried it until it stopped, then put it back on the bed and gone to his seat in the corner. He had no desire for movement. He was frightened of anything that threatened to disturb the memory that had come to him from a long time away. So he kept quiet and sat in the dark and remembered it again from beginning to end. He remembered it again and again, pausing only in the deep silence between each reliving to wonder how he had ever forgotten.