The water hit the bakkie hard, dust and dog hair sliding off in streaks. Brian leaned into the spray, eyes squinting behind dollar store shades, his faded Jou Ma Se... cap tilted low against the late morning glare.
"Ey, Brian!" came a shout from inside the car wash shack. It was Frikkie, a Boer, built like a boerewors roll and just as greasy. "Don't miss that back tyre, my bru. Last time you left it looking like a alot of kids skated on it!"
Brian raised a middle finger without turning.
"Minute, you always crying, boet. It's a car wash, not a miracle."
"Ja, well, wash better miracles then."
Water off. Sponge on. Wax, rinse, repeat. The hours crawled by, and by 1pm Brian had ditched the wet gloves and swapped out his shirt for a grey vest stained with age and sweat. Now he was pushing a lawnmower on someone's scraggly yard in Wesbank, the sun like punishment on his neck.
"Ey, gardener!" the aunty yelled from the stoep, sucking a Stuyvesant and stirring a pot at the same time. "Don't cut the petunias, ne! My daughter got a wedding next month. They must look fresh."
Brian grunted, dodging the dog crap hidden in the long grass.
"Ja, Auntie. I'm not blind."
Three houses later, he was fixing a loose kitchen tap for some oupa with a breath like old curry and stories older than the township.
"These young mense, they don't fear God, my boy," the old man whispered while Brian tightened the spanner. "The Phionexes used to collect 'rent' on this road. Now it's the Blood runners. Tomorrow? Maybe Martians."
"Ja-nee, Uncle," Brian muttered, half-listening. "The aliens probably charge less."
By the time the sky started bleeding pink across the corrugated rooftops, Brian was walking past the corner spaza in Delft Main, plastic tool bag swinging at his side. His pay for the day? Three hundred rand in cash. Already gone in his head, airtime, petrol money, something for the gym fee.
He was headed toward the taxi rank near Leiden when it happened.
Three skollies sprinted out from behind a pap vendor's stall, shoving a teenager to the ground. One of them had a flick knife. The others laughed, pulling the kid's phone and shoes like it was normal, like it was Tuesday.
Brian didn't move.
Just stood there, watching.
He saw the fear in the boy's eyes. The way he curled up, like a dog expecting a kick.
Brian jaw clenched. But he said nothing. Did nothing. Just kept walking.
Because that's what people did here.
Because that's how you survived.
By the time he got to the taxi rank, it was buzzing, full of shouting vendors and kids dodging between taxis. The air was thick with hot oil, cheap perfume, and the sounds of Kwaito from someone's phone.
"Vetkoek! Two rand vetkoek, ne!" a woman yelled, waving her spatula like a weapon.
"Curry bunny! Just ten rand! Lekker hot, ou! You don't wanna miss this one!"
Brian stopped. His stomach made the decision for him.
"Gimme one bunny, heavy on the sauce," he said, handing over a crumpled tenner.
The aunty looked him up and down. "You from here, ne?"
"Delft side."
"Shame. You okes must be hungry all the time."
Brian just chuckled. " Nie that's a skaal, but we fight for our food."
He bit into the bunny, hot, sloppy, and damn delicious and made his way to the loading taxi.
A skinny driver with a gold tooth pointed to the back.
"Gym boy, ne? You always stink like cheese and sweat, I swear. Climb in, my Bru."
Brian wiped his fingers on his vest and climbed in, settling in next to a lady with a crying baby and a guy asleep with a tik pipe peeking from his jacket.
The taxi pulled off, tires whining, music blasting.
Brian looked out the window. Thought about the boy who got robbed.
Thought about the way he just... walked.
His jaw tightened again.
"Maybe life's too easy," he muttered to himself. "Or maybe I'm just too kak to care."
The gym was waiting.
But something else had started stirring.
The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the gym, Stonefist Combat Academy, a battered double-storey warehouse squashed between a bottle store and a Pentecostal church. Peeling posters of local fight nights covered the front gate. Some old, some blood-splattered.
Brian climbed out, wiping bunny grease off his hands onto his pants. He walked through the gate and pushed open the side door.
Inside was heat, leather, and sweat. Punching bags swung. Ropes slapped the floor. Grunts and shouts bounced off the corrugated walls.
"Ey, Brian!" called Coach Solly from the office window, clipboard in hand and a wet towel around his neck. "Late again, my laaitie. You wanna be a champion, but you keep coming here like you work for Pick n Pay."
Brian smirked. "I was busy being broke, coach."
Coach Solly just laughed. "Ja-nee. Come, go stretch. You running today."
Brian nodded and jogged over to where the others were warming up. Most of them were township okes like him, scrappy, sharp-eyed, full of edge. A few were older guys who'd seen jail cells and maybe found something cleaner here.
"Ey, Brian!" yelled Ziyaad, one of the flyweights. "You eating bunny again, ou? You smell like a Durban taxi rank!"
"Better than you, my guy," Brian shot back. "You smell like boxer's regrets."
The whole crew laughed.
After stretches, Solly barked from the front: "Group one, roadwork! Quick pace, ne! You think criminals gonna wait for your fitness?"
They hit the road, pounding through the streets of Epping. The sun was going down, the traffic thick. Brian ran at the front. Breathing even. Eyes forward. He passed a drunk uncle arguing with a robot pole and some kids kicking a flat soccer ball.
He thought of the boy from earlier.
Then Solly's voice rang out again when they returned: "Cool down, glove up! Kickboxing today. Controlled, sharp. Brian, you got Brent."
Brian nodded and slid on his gloves and shin guards.
Brent was a broad-shouldered bastard from Elsies. Heavy kicker. Always trying to prove something. He smirked across the mat.
"You ready to catch hands, Brian?"
Brian didn't answer. Just touched gloves.
Ding.
They circled.
Brent struck first, fast low kick to the thigh. Slap.
Brian checked it and returned a snappy teep to the gut. Brent grunted. Came forward again, swinging a looping hook and catching Brian's ribs with his shin.
Brian backed up, then stepped in, one-two jab-cross to the body, then pivoted, delivering a sharp roundhouse to Brent's head.
Crack.
The class shouted "Ey!" as Brent stumbled.
Brent recovered, eyes wild now. He launched a spinning back kick, missed, and Brian punished him with a clinch, knee to the ribs, then another. Pop. Pop.
Coach Solly stepped in. "Break! Lekker intensity! But no egos here."
They separated, panting. Gloves dropped.
Brent clapped Brian on the back. "You nearly kicked my soul out, boet."
Brian just grinned and pulled out his gum guard. "You've got no soul. Just ego."
The rest of the guys laughed and took to their stations. Brian sat on the edge of the ring, toweling off, his body sore but alive.
Solly came over and handed him a bottle of tap water. "You okay, boy?"
Brian nodded, still catching his breath. "Ja... but things outside, coach... it's heavy, ne?"
Solly raised a brow. "What happened?"
Brian leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.
"Earlier. I saw this kid getting robbed by some okes. Skollies with a knife. People watching, but no one helped. I didn't help."
Solly stayed quiet.
"I just... walked. Like it wasn't my business."
Solly looked at him, quiet for a while. Then he spoke.
"This place," he gestured around, "this is where you fight the right way. Out there? It's a different ring, my boy. No rules. No ref. No one coming to save you. You make your own justice."
Brian didn't answer. Just nodded, eyes lowered.
Solly patted his back. "Get some rest. You're sparring with the pros next week."
Later that night, Brian got off the taxi in Delft. The streetlights were dim, half of them dead. Dogs barked. Somewhere nearby, someone was shouting.
He passed two uncles playing dice under a flickering bulb, and a teenager selling loose Stuyvesants from a bread bag.
Brian walked down a narrow passage between two houses and into the back yard of one. There stood a battered Wendy house, tin roof, wooden frame, padlock broken.
His home.
He unlocked the door, pushed inside. One mattress. One cracked radio. One steel trunk. A few books. His gloves on the floor.
Brian sat down, pulled off his shoes, and lay back.
Outside, gunshots cracked. Sirens echoed.
He stared at the wooden ceiling.
His knuckles still stung from sparring.
His heart was quiet. But something in his mind wasn't.
Something angry. Something tired.
Something... waiting.