By Rebaone Ramonyadiwa
Moagi cast one long leg over the fence, then the other. He reached down, picked up his red cooler box, and walked on. His Converse sneakers were as white as the day he had bought them, and he moved deliberately, careful not to get any dirt on his shoes. As he walked through his neighborhood, his agemates whistled in greeting, while kids ran across the street playing with old jumping ropes and balls made of crumpled plastic shopping bags. Some of the older kids gathered around a pool table, playing or, more accurately, gambling.
His next stop was the liquor store, where he bought two bottles of whiskey and some ice. He put them in his cooler box and then continued on his way to his friend’s place a few streets over from his neighborhood. The difference between the two neighborhoods was vast. The houses on this side were larger and set back behind walls with electric fences and remote-controlled gates. No kids were playing outside, nor was there anyone in the streets. There was an eerie silence, broken by loud music coming from a car parked in front of one of the yards.
Two young men stood leaning against the car; Loago, who was hovering over the car boot, putting his cooler box inside, and Kgosi. Just like Moagi, they were dressed up, though their clothes looked far more pristine and expensive. Moagi walked over to them with a smile on his face. He started singing along to the music, but stopped abruptly when he saw another young man approach them from inside the yard.
“Tell me you did not invite this boy to go with us,” said Ivory, stopping at the gate.
Moagi put down his cooler box. “Who is he calling a boy? LG, you better stop this fool before I do!”
Loago rushed over to his friends, standing between them. “Come on, guys, let’s not kill the vibe. It’s my birthday and I’m trying to have a good weekend. Let’s all be copacetic.”
“Copper-what? English, my boy,” said Kgosi, who was still leaning against the car as he laughed at his own joke.
“You know, English, my boy; COPACETIC,” said Loago, joining in the laughter. “Ivory, let’s let this rest. You are all my boys. We are friends.”
Ivory was stone-faced. Loago’s words did not seem to register with him. “Nah, LG. There is a reason you didn’t tell me this guy was joining us. You know I have to get my lick back. I can’t let another man disrespect me the way he did and get away with it.”
“If you are going to do something, then do something,” said Moagi as he got in Ivory’s face.
The next part happened so fast that Moagi himself could barely figure it out. Ivory pushed him and went down. When he came back up he had a brick in his hand, aimed at Moagi. The other guys jumped in to stop them but Moagi already had his pocket knife out. He was trying to duck and launch himself at Ivory at the same time. His hand made contact with Loago, then a warm liquid coated his knuckles.
Everything seemed to go still. The car was blasting music but all he could hear was ringing in his ears. Loago was on the ground, blood gushing from his abdomen. Ivory ran. Moagi’s eyes became transfixed on his white shoes, patches of blood pooling on them. The crimson red shone in the heat of the summer day.
***
“The greatest possession a man can ever have is his pride. No one teaches you this but they instill it in you. As a boy, they teach you to use your fists to solve any dispute with other boys. They tell you other people should never see you hurt; it’s unclear whether you should never hurt at all or other people should never witness it. No one should ever think of you as weak. A man is his pride before anything else, and then he is his ability to provide. These are the principles that I based my life decisions on. Decisions that had me facing prison at the age of nineteen.”
Moagi read out loud the words he had written on his laptop, then stood up. He grabbed an open bottle of beer on the table and took a swig.
“Lesego, come read this. Does it sound like I am trying to gain sympathy?”
A woman of about his age came in from the adjoining bathroom. She was covered only in a towel and her hair was hidden inside a bonnet, droplets of water still on her skin. She took the seat he had just vacated and read the statement.
“Maybe I should use the speech from last time,” said Moagi.
“No, it’s okay; I will edit it,” she said, and started typing.
It had been three years since Loago’s death. Moagi had spent most of those years in prison, as had Ivory. He had never seen Ivory again; some months after being released, Ivory had committed suicide.
Moagi didn’t like to dwell on the past. Loago’s death haunted him, but mostly his own life haunted him.
“Don’t forget to add the part about being two years clean,” he said.
“Baby, you are not even two hours clean,” said Lesego, with a chuckle.
“Put it in; that is the story that people need to hear,” said Moagi. “No one cares whether I relapsed or not. They need a savior.”
“So you are the people’s hero? You are Superman now?”
“Yes, I am Superman, and alcohol and drugs are the villains,” Moagi growled.
***
16-year-old Katlego sat in the crowd of teenage boys, sober and serious while his stoned friends were joking and laughing next to him.
The assembly at junior school included boys from all over the city, from all kinds of family backgrounds. Most of them had been pushed by their parents to attend the workshop. Some parents saw the guest speaker as the last hope for their struggling children, boys who had been roped into unsavory activities at this young age. They took drugs, drank alcohol and others were even petty thieves.
On the stage stood Moagi, preparing to give his speech. The parents of these wayward boys hoped Moagi would speak some sense into them to help them change their ways. He read his speech with enthusiasm and gusto, his energy palpable and infectious.
Katlego was one of those who had come because their parents insisted on it. His mother was worried about him. She had made a whole teary-eyed speech that morning before she dropped him off, delaying his usual schedule. He had been late meeting his friends to smoke marijuana as they usually did. By the time he arrived at their secret spot in the school garden the boys were done smoking. So while they were all giggling, he was sober and could hear and understand what Moagi was saying.
What caught his attention was when Moagi started talking about how he had come from an upper-middle-class family.
“After losing my father, who was our sole provider, in a car accident, my family deteriorated. It was then that I started drinking and smoking marijuana. Soon the money ran out.” Moagi was somber as he reached this part of his speech. “My mother and I moved in with my grandmother, and soon afterwards my mother also passed away.”
It was as if someone had taken Katlego’s life story and decided to pitch it as their own, minus the part about the deceased mother and financial troubles. Every other reformed addict he had ever heard always said that their family was poor and their environment just about forced them into that life. None of that was true for him. Moagi’s story resonated, so Katlego listened as the man in the immaculate black suit in the scorching heat of January shared his life.
When the speeches were done, the boys were asked to sit in groups of four and write a list of all the drugs they knew. The speakers would then go around the small groups, checking the work. Katlego and his friends immediately formed one group but their teacher, who was standing just behind them, separated them. Katlego was sorted with three other boys he did not know. One look at them and he knew they were the straight-laced kind who had no business being there and had certainly never broken any rules, let alone taken drugs. As he wrote down the drugs he had seen the other boys watched him with expressions of awe and fear.
Finally, Moagi made his way to their table. He glanced at their list and with a smile on his face looked straight at Katlego and asked him which one he liked most. Katlego’s hand, which was holding the pen, shook a bit. He dropped the pen and made a fist before anyone could notice. How did this guy guess? Katlego didn’t even smell of weed like he usually did.
“That’s rude,” Katlego replied, feeling his anger surging.
“What? That I assume you have tried all these substances or that I am right?”
“I don’t do drugs,” Katlego retorted, but his voice was a tiny bit shaky.
Moagi responded with a chuckle and started walking away.
This rubbed Katlego the wrong way. He stood up quickly and followed Moagi, causing those around him to look his way. “You don’t know me!” he yelled at Moagi’s back.
“Not only do I know you, I have been you.” Moagi turned back to him, his voice calm and steady. “You are an angry boy who goes around picking fights with the world and numbing yourself with drugs because you cannot face what you are feeling.”
Before he could stop to think, Katlego threw a punch. Moagi saw it coming and ducked out of the way. The other students jumped up and started shouting while the teachers ran over. One of them held Katlego by his arms and led him away.
***
In the deputy principal’s office, Katlego sat facing Moagi. They were alone. The deputy principal had stepped out. Katlego’s mother sat in the principal’s office next door. He could hear her gasping every few seconds, her voice muffled. He could only imagine what she must be thinking as the principal told her what had happened.
“Every speaking engagement, every workshop, you will be there. If you are not in school or church you will be by my side,” said Moagi.
“No way!” Katlego shouted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Who did this guy think he was? “You’re not even a teacher! I don’t have to listen to you!”
“Yes, you do,” said Moagi. “Your mother asked me to step in. You heard the deputy principal. You must do exactly as I say, or face expulsion.”
Katlego was so angry he couldn’t even form a coherent sentence. “That’s not… You can’t just… I don’t even… This is so inconvenient–”
“No, this is not an inconvenience to you; this is an inconvenience to me,” Moagi interrupted. “You should be going for therapy. I am sure your parents can afford it but we both know you will be high going in and after leaving the place, if you even make it there. So, I am the only option you have.”
The ride home afterward was quiet for Katlego and his mother, one waiting for a tongue lashing, the other lost for words, having discovered the extent of the anger and secrets her son harbored.
***
Moagi drove home with an angry Lesego, who could not understand why he had to take the boy under his wing.
“Our time together was limited as is and now you’re adding another responsibility?” she shouted. “And on top of that, now we will have to clean up our act every time the boy is around.”
“There was no other route for me to take, Lesego,” Moagi explained calmly. “The boy is clearly too much for his mother and his teachers. Plus I am always out there saying I mentor young boys, what-what… At least now it will be true.”
“What do you care about the truth, Moagi?”
It was not the first time Lesego had attacked his integrity, but this time it stung.
***
For the following months Katlego went wherever Moagi did. He listened to him give the same speeches over and over again, carried his bags, and sat in on meetings, taking notes. Whenever Lesego was around he was told to go into a different room and study.
At first he was scared of Moagi. He demanded samples of his urine and said he was going to test it for drugs, so when his friends indulged, Katlego refrained. A few weeks in he figured out that no tests were being done, so he deduced there was no way Moagi would know whether he smoked or not. He went back to hanging out with his friends in the school garden every morning and during lunch time. Everyone lived their lives, with the lies they had woven around them protecting them from the harshness of the truth.
One day a ray of light broke through the dark web of lies.
They had all just come from a workshop Moagi had been a part of. The hotel room they booked had two separate rooms, one for Moagi and Lesego and the other for his young protégé. After saying their goodnights both parties retired to their respective rooms. Sometime in the middle of the night Katlego heard the door open and the sounds of Moagi and Lesego leaving their room. He waited some minutes in case they turned right back, then he went over to their room and made straight for Moagi’s bag, hoping to find some loose cash to take.
Since the incident at school, his mother had stopped giving him his weekly allowance and only gave him enough for transport back home when she dropped him off at school. Whenever he needed anything she bought it herself. His hand was rummaging in the bag when it felt something soft. Curious, he pulled it out and held it up. It was a small, clear sachet with a white, powdery substance inside. If one did not know any better one might think it was flour, but Katlego knew better. This was not his first encounter with this substance, or at least what he assumed it was.
With the hastiness of a teenager in a room he should not be in, with something he should not be touching, he put a finger inside and then rubbed the little powder that coated his finger on his gums. He spotted a pen so he took its cap off, dipped it into the powder, and brought it to his nose. With one finger covering one nostril he inhaled the powder and then repeated the process for the other side of the nose. He was about to put back the sachet when a thought came to him.
Moagi was not supposed to have drugs since he claimed he was sober, and if he found them missing there was a good chance he would be too afraid to approach him about it. With this thinking, Katlego put the sachet in his pocket and made for his room. He was about to get into bed when he thought better of his bright idea. Instead, he went back to the other room and repeated the process with the pen cap, this time taking a bigger dose. He was about to put it back in the bag when he started feeling groggy. The room was spinning and his feet could not keep him up…
***
Moagi knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door to their hotel room. He rushed to the bedroom, Lesego hot on his heels. They both came to a crashing halt when they saw Katlego lying on the floor.
“Oh god! He found my stack,” said Moagi. He fell to Katlego’s side and lifted him onto his lap. “Wake up, wake up! Dammit, Kat, wake up!”
“I am calling the police. No, the ambulance! What’s the number? 998, right?” said Lesego, who was equally frantic.
At her words, Moagi jumped up and started looking through his bag. “Are you crazy? Do you want us to go to jail? I am not going back there.” He pulled out a small bottle, lifted Katlego’s head up, placed the nozzle in his nose, and sprayed, then did the same thing for the other nostril.
“What is that?” Lesego asked.
“It’s Narcan; it will help him. I got it from a doctor friend of mine,” said Moagi. ” He is not waking up. Why is he not waking up?” He started pacing the length of the small room, rubbing his clean shaven head.
“I still think we should call an ambulance or something.” Lesego was sitting on the floor, her eyes trained on Katlego.
A few minutes later he let out a small cough and they both rushed to him. Disoriented, he hoisted himself up until he was sitting.
“You damn near scared me to death,” said Moagi. “Are you okay?”
“How many fingers?” Lesego raised three fingers in front of his face.
“I am fine; what happened?” Katlego asked.
“You overdosed. If we had not come back when we did…” Moagi let the sentence hang in the air. They all knew what could have happened.
They made sure Katlego was fine before they allowed him to go to bed. Moagi flushed the rest of the powder down the toilet. He stayed up all night, unable to sleep as his mind raced and raced.
When morning came they got in his car and made their way back to the city. Moagi was the first to break the silence.
“I was nineteen when I first went to prison. That’s where I had my first overdose. You are what, sixteen? And you have already had an overdose. You won’t make it to twenty-one at this rate. Yesterday when I saw you on the floor, with my coke right next to you, my breath caught and for a moment I was frozen. I thought I had killed someone… again.
“I took you from your mother, promising her that I would take care of you and I would help you get better, but instead I have taught you to follow in my footsteps. Last night I stayed up all night thinking about my life, how I ended up here and where I want to go. I don’t want to be fifty and still going around the country claiming to be reformed while I secretly take drugs.”
He glanced at Katlego through the rearview mirror. His hands shifted uncomfortably on the steering wheel. “My lies will catch up with me one day and I will overdose or go crazy and end up on the streets. I don’t want you to turn out like me. You are too young and you have a great future ahead of you. I want to do better for myself, and you. I want us to do better, to be better. I want to do what I promised your mother I would do. I want to help you quit, and maybe you can help me quit, too.”
“After losing my dad, I am angry all the time,” Katlego said as he wiped away the tears coming down his cheeks. “I don’t want to always be this angry. The drugs help take the edge off. When I am high I don’t feel angry or sad, I just feel good.”
Moagi understood all too well what Katlego was talking about, but the boy needed to look beyond the momentary highs and recognize the devastating lows. It was a realization Moagi couldn’t have on Katlego’s behalf. It had to come from Katlego himself. So Moagi waited in silence for a sign that the teen was ready.
After some time, Katlego finally said, “I don’t want to die. I also want to be better. So let’s help each other, like you said.”
Moagi exhaled in relief.
***
The following weeks were hard for both of them. As for the speaking and workshops, Moagi decided not to continue with them until he was a lot more stable with his sobriety.
Moagi and Katlego both saw a therapist every week, found a Narcotics Anonymous (NA) group and attended twice a week, and discovered their mutual love for football and went out to games. Katlego joined his school team and Moagi… Well, he joined a gym. Weeks turned to months and they both kept each other in check.
At first, Katlego struggled at school. It was hard to be with his friends when all they did was smoke but his therapist told him to accept that they were on different paths now, that he was no longer one with them. In the end, he stopped spending time with them and was by himself a lot. Eventually, he made new friends on the football team. Gradually his mother loosened the reins and went back to giving him snack money every once in a while. After a therapy session they attended together, she opened up to him about her grief over losing her husband. They talked, small conversations, sometimes meaningful and at other times just chit-chat, but they talked and it felt good. Katlego now felt like he had his mother in his corner, and she had him in hers.
One Monday evening, Moagi received some sad news; a friend from his old neighborhood had passed away. Throughout the funeral, he could barely tell what was happening or make out what was being said. The last time he had seen Kgosi was in court when he had testified about Loago’s death. The word on the street was that he had died in a car accident, and that he had been driving while drunk. None of them had ever been the same since Loago’s death. Kgosi had been a party animal before, but he seemed to get worse after, out every day and spending his money faster than he was making it.
After the burial, Moagi went to his grandmother’s house. No one was home. The old woman must have still been at the funeral, but the spare key was where she always kept it. He went to his old bedroom, dropped onto the bed, and cried. He squeezed himself into the foetal position and cried until he fell asleep, raw and tired.
The next day he packed a bag with some of his belongings and went to his house, where he was meeting Katlego for their weekly check-in.
***
Katlego walked in to find Moagi in the living room, his eyes fixed on a pair of white Converse shoes in front of him and a faraway look on his face. After trying to call him a few times to no avail, Katlego finally went over to him and knocked him with his knuckles gently on the head.
“Hey, what?” Moagi became agitated.
“I have been standing here for an hour,” Katlego fibbed. “What’s up? And why are you staring at those shoes?”
“These are my old shoes. I used to love them so much.” Moagi stroked the shoes gently. “I haven’t worn them in years, not since the day I lost someone I cared for because I was stupid.”
“Is he the guy whose death you went to prison for?” Katlego asked as he took a seat next to him.
“Yes. His name was Loago. He was a good friend of mine, a pretty cool dude. He did not like violence, but unfortunately he hung around guys who did. That was his only fault. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about him. They are all gone now, Loago, Kgosi, and Ivory, and all over something so stupid. Did I ever tell you why Ivory and I fought that day?”
“No,” said Katlego.
“A week before that incident,” said Moagi, his eyes never leaving his shoes, “I met his girlfriend at a bar and took her number. Sure, it was a dumb move on my part, but I never followed through. But then he kept making it a big deal as if I had done something with his girl and so I stood my ground, never clarifying anything. It was such a stupid and unnecessary fight. Now these shoes are a reminder of how far we can go if we let our arrogance lead us. You see this red blotch here – that is his blood. I washed these as hard as I could and it still wouldn’t come off and now I’m glad it didn’t. I will never forget him.”
Katlego, feeling unsure of what to do, placed a hand on Moagi’s shoulder. When he did not react, he gave him a gentle squeeze.
“These past few months, you have helped me. I mean you brought me back from the brink of death. Maybe that makes up for that,” said Katlego.
“I don’t know if it works that way.”
“I am saying you are here, you are trying and that counts,” Katlego tried again. “Now, let’s start with a prayer.”
They held hands and bowed their heads then spoke in unison. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”
Rebaone Ramonyadiwa is a fiction and poetry writer whose work explores themes of identity, ambition, and emotional resilience. Passionate about storytelling that captures the emotional depth of everyday experiences, they also work as a freelance ghostwriter, and occasional performance poet. Their writing reflects a strong focus on mental health, personal transformation, and the intricacies of modern life.
Writing credits include:
– Anatomy of Emotions (Poetry Anthology, Amazon, 2020).
– Various ghostwritten fiction and nonfiction projects
– Occasional poetry performances
Facebook: Rebaone Writes.
Petlwana Journal of Creative Literature and the Arts 
Gorgeous piece of work, this. Definitely demands some introspection on the reader’s part indirectly. Powerful.
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