New Mzansi

Ashley Jacobs

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A bass-line pounded from a nearby nightclub invading the window on the fourth floor of a decrepit high-rise in downtown Tshwane, South Africa. The inner city, Sunnyside, had a way of blurring night into day with its perma-blanket of noise and light. KG brought himself to his feet from the haggard red carpet doubling as his mattress.

KG glanced out the window as he grabbed his phone from the windowsill. The opposite flats were barely visible and lights like a fairy town pierced the veil laid down by fires and industrial pollution during the political turmoil of the late second decade of the century. The low-level incandescence of the streets below was a comforting sight to one of their own.

KG flicked out his phone from his jeans pocket on his way out. The edges of the thin, transparent polymer just shorter than his palm glowed green indicating a new message.

“Let’s first check my feeds from last night,” KG muttered, downloading a song sent to him from a local philosopher of the streets—the communication medium of the new era of renegade dilettantes the world over.

<Found the Higgs boson, did it prove anything?

Fix inequality? Did it improve anything?>

The steps down the wooden stairs dropping off to street level once again blended into an eclectic mix of philosophy, science, and hip-hop, in KG’s mind. He slid on his Breather and popped up his hoodie before stepping out. Vapour whipped across the pavement, and music grew louder with each step. Both warmed him up to the day ahead.

Bright holographic screens blinked and scrolled at eyelevel on KG’s left, scrounging off nearby social media accounts wirelessly and displaying them for the world to see. The power arcs for the screens became known as trajectories for their ability to throw freeware opinions across the streets in real-time. KG wasn’t entirely against the whole movement, and besides, he had a few opinions of his own...

The nearby trajectory latched onto his personal account as he made his way across the road and scrolled one of his notes across Skinner Street Corner.

<Tshwane, political capital of ‘Mzansi’—the nation of South Africa. The City takes on a new artificial bloom. Instead of the Jacaranda trees that used to brighten up the city on spring mornings, we now have X-Cell on every street corner. Weren’t those trees an invasive alien species that choked up all the local plants over the years?>

The thought that he should probably reply to Lion’s message was what brought his phone back to life. The sheet illuminated with auto-annotation across his Wernicke’s Lobe Link and sent his deciphered neurochemistry across X-Cell’s network.

He still felt alone in the slums compressed with locals—along with Nigerians, Indians, and the odd remaining white person—gathered together unwillingly like the ingredients of a pungent atchar and polony roll. At least the one friend he did have was expecting him.

“Heita,” KG greeted under his breath, pushing his chin further into the dark hoodie to conceal his eyes, the guy just another makwerekwere, foreigner, he thought.

One of the local girls was being chatted up by the guy, posing with her hips tilted, voice lilted, and heels stilted, whilst playing with her red plastic hair extensions—luminous like a mane on a lioness. The guy looked nervous as he scanned the nearby alleyway and couldn’t hide his intentions towards her or his fear of the South African dark.

The last trajectory before KG’s one-stop back alleyway hooked onto him.

The back entrance to where Lion stayed lit up the dim alleyway that formed a cleft in the vertical amalgamation of oddly shaped apartments and shacks. Both forms of accommodation liberally adorned with illegally erected graffiti trajectories. The asphalt hemmed in by the opposite wall that depicted Mandela sporting a Breather: ‘LONG WALK TO FREEDOM’ tagged underneath.

He turned into the familiar doorway and pushed through the Aggression Scanner into ‘Labuschagne’s Books’. Mr. Labuschagne, working behind the till, caught a glimpse of KG as he slipped into the store.

KG looked up at the dusty shelf of books he thought no one would ever buy. He considered the grey-haired man benignly insane to stay behind and open his personal collection of books, DVDs, and stray forms of data, to a city that lived to extract survival from the lives of easy prey.

“KG, Lion’s in the spare room next to the kitchen, told me you were definitely coming...” Labuschagne said.

“Thanks Mr. Labs,” KG answered stiffly, offended that his loyalty would be questioned.

“Don’t walk away yet! Where’s my last copy of Steve Biko? Books aren’t like your bloody trajectories and feedslates. There’s only one left in the whole of the province!”

KG gave half-smile. A different and peculiar sense of duty clearly bound Labuschagne to stay when people had flocked out of the country during the journo-dubbed ‘2023 Exile’—after which Mzansi had curled inwards like a shongololo millipede protecting itself.

“Thanks for the free books, history lessons and stuff Mr. Labs, but seriously I’ve got to get to Lion...” KG rattled off to evade more questions.

“Always in a hurry, ok, go see him,” Mr. Labuschagne said in a warm and hopeful manner.

KG knew Labuschagne thought of him as possible successor to Labuschagne’s book kingdom, but he wasn’t in any hurry to claim it.

KG swore when he took off the Breather to see better in the spare room. “Should never make promises to help people that I actually have to keep,” he mumbled.

The room’s trajectory threw a music video on the wall across the room from where Lion turned fitfully. KG had made the promise that he’d help Lion get his meds if the need ever arose, in exchange for staying in Lion’s father’s apartment block for free. It had all been easy, until now.

Barely anyone KG knew had a university degree. A formal education wasn’t the roadblock to success it used to be, a curious mind could be enough. The kind of mind that left KG feeling emotionally detached as he noted how gaunt Lion’s temples had become; how Lion’s rapid breathing made his neck muscles strain almost pulsatile underneath the white vest covering the prominent assembly of his ribcage. The vapid reality of the portrait in front of him sublimated into comprehension and drained heavily into the pit of his stomach.

Every year these kids go for the Breath of Life to re-kindle a dead immune system. They cram themselves into a ward and wait for someone to open the gas canisters. Fifteen minutes later the nano-particulate inhalant has given them another year. Locals here call it the Mula, from the Zulu verb pephumula that means to breath. Conveniently, it also means hard cash on the streets—mula the icy currency of living.

Maybe drug-resistant TB had finally found him, mass-murderer of the nation stabbing lungs all over South Africa. KG ran his fingers over the grate of the mask in his hand, covering the 40-nanometre filtration slits he’d spray-painted his initials on last week. It felt cold and heavy in his hands, but being able to speak properly to Lion was worth it.

I’ll take my chances. Doing this won’t make it onto the social feeds anyway—boring. HIV is a boring way to die if you’ve seen it happen so many times, KG thought.

“Lion, brother, what’s wrong with you?” KG finally bought himself to ask.

His friend’s eyes were half-open and glazed from the battle for air against his thick cough. “Bra, they want double the cash for the Mula now...” Lion answered.

“Seriously? How long have you been like this then?”

“Had an appointment for last month... Been trying to get the cash but I’ve been feeling a bit crap recently you know.”

KG let out a stunted laugh. When death becomes common it also becomes easier to deal with. “Alright friend, let’s go get you that Mula.”

KG knew Lion didn’t want to be carried all the way to the city centre so he paced ahead of him pensively. Enough eyes pawed on you here to make anyone grow self-conscious, even if those eyes had fallen on a hundred other hopeless cases in the same day. He wondered how Lion was handling the attention, but realised that he was probably the one who felt more embarrassed about making the journey. Awnings of corrugated iron sheltered cowering old women sitting with their stewing pots, surveying the streets as fires burnt on each corner, and music clattered in from every direction. Street vendors sold data bundles and pap meal from mobile stalls, competing with each other using faded digital displays.

The gravel itself was strewn with history, and as they walked, he caught a glimpse of an election poster from before Nelson Mandela’s death: WE PROMISE JOBS AND NO CRIME IN TSHWANE. Lion must have noticed as well because he let out a weak “ha”, which transformed into yet another fleck of blood hastily wiped on the back of his jeans.

Somewhere a screechy feminine voice jumped out at them. “We voted this year to finally get rid of trash like your friend.” KG did his best to brush off the offense as he walked, but eventually twisted around and glared.

Tshwane Central had sunken subterranean roots as if a giant earthworm had scoured Sunnyside for necrotic vegetation. Tunnels sprung up from Gautrain extensions as a way for the existing businesses to expand in the congested city centre. The eastern suburbs of Tshwane were visible in the distance; sleek ivory towers surrounded by digital security like moats that sealed in the surrogate slices of Europe, complete with one mall per sector. The actual tunnels, although similar to those found in cities like New York, London, and Paris, doubled as home for many of the HIV orphans, and a disposal site for political excretion. KG looped his arm around Lion’s waist as they descended the stairs into Sammy Marks Square, Entrance 14 underneath the old State Theatre. Lion mutely leaned on his shoulder for support.

The stairs gave way to a wide hall yawning at least a kilometre in, with exits snaking away ahead. The walls were smooth, layered concrete illuminated via trajectories scrolling ‘DJ SBU TONIGHT’ and ‘CAGE DISKI LIVE. COME TO ZAKE’S BAR’.

They were instantly welcomed by the panoply of Africa’s finest fong kong, Chinese knock-off wares, being peddled from discreet curtained-off stalls filling the market sprawl. A tide of odours rolled towards the entrance where they were standing, carrying the surf of sweat, spice, and smoke from the shisa nyama barbeques crackling between the stalls. Infectious drumming came from the troupes of tunnel dancers fused together in hypnotic concerto as their bodies shook to grinding afro-house. The market was bustling with people browsing for bargain technology or clothes, its edges lined with friends eating and reading each other’s social feeds displayed above the public tables.

“Hello my friend! You... ah, you want this? You want Strike?” asked a towering giant in ornate purple and green with skin like soot. He pushed himself into KG’s path and reached into his coat to bring out a packet of yellow powder.

“Doctor Zingi got the best Strike for you!” Zingi said, leaning down and whispering spittle into KG’s face.

Bastards, KG thought, he’s like a hijacker sitting behind a bush. He tucked his head further into the hoodie to avoid the vitriol in his eyes earning him trouble. Looping his arm around Lion’s waist, he pulled away from the good doctor.

“You know what the drug Tik did to the Cape Flats Lion...” KG said into Lion’s ear.

Strike, the drug Efavirenz, was originally used as part of the most effective HIV treatment regimens when the old style of treatment was at its peak. Even though doctors knew it could cause madness in rare circumstances. If you ground it up, singed it with a match, and inhaled the smoke your mind would shoot off into the sky. The drug was abandoned after the influx of nano-inhalants, yet expired surplus still made its way into places like Sammy Marks Tunnel by demand.

As they moved further down the cold tunnels, the density of the shops and bars lining the walls lessened. Several children were idling around fires lit in barrels. They stared at Lion, figuring they probably shouldn’t ask for money this time, given the current visible circumstances.

“Bra... you give money to those kids and you only donate... enough... to separately buy the lighter, bottle, and Strike,” Lion expelled, another speckle of red escaping onto his chin.

“Lion, I know what’ll make you feel better!” KG said, as he figured a way to lift Lion’s spirits and assuage his growing guilt for not being there to help sooner.

The chicken joint they collapsed into was one of at least twenty branches in Sunnyside. Tattered red couches belied the novelty of the transparent service chutes lining the circular walls.

Three Cage Diski players, shirtless mounds of muscle, smirked at them from the opposite booth. The table lit up as KG sat down next to Lion, revealing a touchscreen menu underneath the congealed greasy memoir of previous customers. The batter-wrapped drumstick next to CHICKEN FEAST 2 did an awkward jive under KG’s finger.

“Hey, what’s a skinny laaitie like you doing ordering two pieces? You sure you don’t want that free toy with the kiddies meal?” said one of the Cage Diski players who was wearing a cap with the baby blue colour of the provincial team. He’s big enough to be a defender KG thought, before he realised whose attention he’d caught.

“Stuff off man, can’t you see he’s sick?” KG answered, after a moment of calculating risk against loss of dignity.

“Do you know who I am small boys? I’m the Mamba! I’m the king of the Loftus Stadium Cage!” Mamba shouted back across the room. He extended his sculpted arm, pointing to the trajectory.

“Sorry, never heard of you, I guess you Cage Diski guys who aren’t good enough for mixed-martial arts just aren’t popular enough yet?” KG replied feeling offended on Lion’s behalf.

Mamba returned to his bucket of chicken in front of him, his ego deflated.

KG knew of Mamba; renowned for his ability to slam opponents on the way to the goalmouth, cheered for his wrestling ability, but derided for not knowing what to do with the ball. The trajectory was showing a promo of Mamba entering Loftus Rugby Stadium alone, the pride of Tshwane. The arena was square-shaped with spectators in stands peering steeply down onto the cage’s astroturf. Cage Diski was mixed martial arts combined with the local love of Diski soccer into a gladiator sport, merely a lion or two short of its ancient Coliseum counterpart.

KG placed his phone by the empty meal carton waiting for the map to stream while he wiped his hands and watched Lion gag down the last of his chips. He’d hoped the meal would cheer up Lion and give him some strength to make it through the next part of his plan.

“How far are we from the clinic?” Lion asked.

“Don’t worry about that Lion, you’ll make it there,” KG replied.

“You don’t understand, they don’t just give the Mula without money there... it’s expensive. It’s like someone stole one of the private hospitals and left it there to hide.”

“Don’t worry gazi, I know this girl that can help us. She owes me. Finish your chips, take it easy.”

The smallest of the three Cage Diski players shouted to KG, as he hoisted Lion off the couch. “Howzit brother! Forgive Mamba here; they pay him to be huge and a bit stupid. Us zinger wingers are small so we must be smart hey.” The other player tapped his skull in solidarity, above his cauliflower-ear badge of apprenticeship in the business of pain. “Lekker Muay Thai and shooting skills hey! Take care of your mate bro!” he added as KG and Lion walked out the sliding doors. It was good to hear some optimism.

By now, Lion was heaving from somewhere deep within his chest and his forehead was searing hot. An attenuated gagging noise made KG glance at Lion, who met his gaze with wide eyes expectant of some great hope to appear. What KG wanted was to be as far away from the situation as possible. He wanted to wake up and realise he had all of his life to himself with none of the weight of another human life on his shoulders. But finally caring, finally risking his heart and mind for something, made him feel alive. Standing up to the Mamba for Lion’s sake meant that he could do this, he could get Lion the Mula.

A memory jarred his thoughts as they waited for a robo-taxi to take them out of Sunnyside. He recalled a pavement lined with dirty shopping bags, a copy of the Sun newspaper splayed open, and sun beating the street like a Zulu dancer’s feet. He was a little boy watching his father bellowing into a taxi rank in Soweto. Fat taxi mammas were about their business cramming into the box-cart Toyota sixteen-seaters. Vagrants gazed at the familiar sight of the politician-turned-preacher, loved by some, hated by most. That was the official day of the roll-out of the Amended South African Constitution and the street was starting to fill with supporters that CNN would later dub as rioters and looters.

KG let the memory fade.

Outside the taxi window, the riptide Tshwane wind was now heralding a coming Highveld storm, the passion-orange sky contrasting puffy charcoal harbingers tumbling onto the cityscape from the mountainous Magaliesberg region. As he helped Lion out of the taxi, the air felt ominous around KG, simultaneously cold and humid with distant thunder rumbling towards them.

They swam through multi-coloured reflective beads that made up the door to Ubuntu in downtown Stanza Bopape Street. Ubuntu was one of the older cafés in the flattened east area of the metropolis, located just before the city thinned into isolated suburbia leaning off super-highways.

The entrance foyer was dim and lined with couches and bookshelves on the three opposite walls. A current of coffee and blues swirled gently around them, inviting them into the main area divided by more beaded partitions for privacy. In the centre of the room were touchscreen tables with 8x8 grids and holographic chess pieces linked to trajectories broadcasting the games and social blurbs around the café. Staccato bursts of applause came from behind the furthest partition indicating a tournament was in progress. KG scrunched his eyelids searching for Pumi. She’d know what to do, he hoped.

Pumi was wedged into her favourite corner with a purple cushion, mug of roobois tea, and the backside of a transparent feedslate constructing a fortress to dissuade interested gamers. Not that she minded engaging in the odd conversation, as KG well knew, it’s just that she did mind the odd idiot who tried—they normally had about twenty seconds to say something profound before she’d place them in her ‘non-stimulating pile’.

When she saw KG she asked, “KG, you seen this yet?”

Pumi held up the transparent slate and switched it to reverse display so that he could read the headline: NOVEL VIRUS OUTBREAK SPREADS TO CAPE TOWN FLOOD DISTRICT.

“Three thousand dead already,” she stated.

“You can’t put work away can you? Probably feel sorry for all those people you’ll never even meet,” KG hastily responded.

A split-second motion of her eyes to seek solace behind her dreads covering her face meant he’d hit home. Her arms folded around the pinstripe-patterned trench-coat firm enough to crease the tough fabric. “Well between the two of us has someone has to actually give a-” Pumi began.

KG interrupted. “Look, you’re doing a good job with the HIV counselling here in Sunnyside... for all you know there’s someone just like you working the outbreak, so it’s going to be ok, but only for those bergies who’ve learn to swim hey.”

She lowered her gaze at him as her arms slowly unfolded. Her posture softened and she placed her mug of rooibos tea on an unoccupied chess slate. They both watched the steam dissipate from the mug as her precious tea edged away from optimal drinking temperature. With that, KG knew he’d made it into the ‘you have two minutes’ pile.

“Ok Pumi, I need your help... It’s my friend Lion. I need to get him into your clinic’s ward for the Mula. Mahala, for free. And he doesn’t have much time, he’s in the bathroom now, but I’m worried about what will happen if he doesn’t get the Mula,” KG said.

“What about your whole only-looking-out-for-yourself thing you’re always on about?” Pumi replied, sounding sceptical.

“Ja well... maybe I do care about Lion,” KG trailed off. “I had a plan to use your pass to break into the clinic and get him the Mula myself.”

“KG, I’m just the neurocounsellor, and I’m not even supposed to be there today... So you’re planning to break into a clinic and steal the treatment, isn’t that both illegal and stupid?”

“There isn’t another way... At least, I can’t think of one.”

“KG... What if you get caught? The head of the clinic, Dr. Singh, will kick my ass and then fire me. I actually like my job you know.”

“You like sticking people into scan chambers and stuffing around in their heads? What happened to just sitting down and talking like the old days you know?”

“Hey, did you read that article I sent you about the neurobiological approach compared to traditional counselling, was it too confusing for you?”

Lion staggered out from the bathroom interrupting the argument. His jeans were dirty, crusted and ludicrously oversized. KG saw her shift her gaze to Lion eyeing the holes in his tattered vest with disbelief, moisture showed in her eyes.

“Alright, before I change my mind, here’s my ID key,” Pumi finally said.

KG softened his posture, which had grown uncomfortably tense, grateful that she’d risk her job for him, actually more for Lion who she hadn’t even met before.

“The main entrance has credit analysis, so you’re going to have to sneak around the back to the staff entrance,” she added.

Pumi helped them to the entrance and watched as they reattached their Breathers before stepping outside. The now brick-coloured sky assaulted KG’s eyes with flashes of lightning bolts in the distance. KG said goodbye silently, the two locking eyes for a second. Pumi let out a pained sigh and turned on her heels back towards her corner. KG wondered, as he got into the taxi, whether her tea was still warm enough to drink or not.

The path to the clinic was inside a fenced-off area in downtown Sunnyside. A pervading odour of caked blood and vomit came from the people queuing for the main entrance. Friends and families tended to the sick as they lay waiting for access to the physicians inside the clinic. Dr. Singh’s face flickered on the display above the clinic. “Dr. Singh’s Clinic is the best place to get your treatment. We offer a comprehensive HIV and TB program where for just 10 000 Rands you can have your HIV cured for the year!” He had a Bollywood quaff perched above eyes glinting with deception and a moulded white-tooth smile. “Nowhere else in this city can you get this special offer and if you bring your friends you can even get half-price for next year!”

Who is this man, KG wondered. By now, the whole day was starting to piss KG off. The queue stretching ahead towards the mesmerising neon Clinic sign made the voyage seem endless. Mr. Labuschagne had told him how the healthcare crisis had gotten so bad hospitals would have signs saying: estimated waiting time nine hours please be patient. But what that must have felt like hadn’t occurred to him until now.

Closer to the entrance he could see walls garrisoning off a single front gate. The walls were made of solid concrete, bleak totalitarian regime style, making a large crescent that disappeared off into darkness on either side. It was lit by a row of streetlights and light raindrops from the earlier storm were visible in the soft glow.

Feed trajectories ran health education info on either side of the gate reflecting on two guards stationed at the clinic entrance.

KG picked Lion up to get him through to the entrance of the clinic. However, he hesitated as he remembered the last words of his father: ‘We were given freedom by our mothers and fathers, and we have given them back the gift of sickness, apathy, and crime! We have inherited corruption from our leaders, but if we allow it to continue then is the corruption not us? What we need now is a new Mzansi!’ Directly afterwards, a panga struck the back of his father’s skull and his body rushed to greet his shadow on that dusty street.

One of the guards looked down on KG. “You don’t look like you and your friend can afford Dr. Singh’s Clinic? You sure the credit scanner will let you through?” He asked, and was not angry, merely quizzical with well-disguised concern KG realised. The guard let them through the metal gate leading to the main entrance of the Clinic.

They came to the side entrance, fortunately shielded from the guards by a large yellow dumpster branded with a DR. SINGH CLINIC sign above a biohazard logo. KG held Pumi’s ID key to the scanner at the single door. ‘WELCOME NEUROCOUNSELLOR LUTHULI’ scrolled across the door display.

They pushed through into a long corridor top-lit by swirling blue lights. KG’s heart raced, and Lion clutched onto him. The bright blue UV lights on the ceiling used to kill airborne micro-organisms were disorientating. The only sound was the faint plod of KG’s worn shoes and the sweeping of Lion’s red sneakers across the smooth floor. The clinic corridor that led to BREATH - WARD ONE was sparsely decorated and lined with linoleum benches punctuated by plastic plants. The ceilings were still lit by trajectory feeds even though this ward wasn’t in use at night.

“Almost there friend, this was easier than what I thought...” KG whispered to Lion.

The ward had one entrance with an ID feed linked to credit status on it. Pumi’s card automatically registered her presence: COUNSELLOR LUTHULI, YOUR HIV STATUS IS NEGATIVE. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PROCEED TO THE WARD?

KG pushed ‘yes’ on the decontamination chamber door, which opened into a blinding blue light. For a second, he held Lion and gazed upwards, blinded by the spotlights, deafened by the roaring negative pressure vacuum. He felt caught up in a transcendent moment as if awaiting a triumphant reincarnation on the other side.

“Good evening, can I help you?” a voice from inside the ward resonated.

KG made out the visage of Dr. Singh pushing his fingers together, smiling with only the left side of his mouth before straightening out the cuff of his grey suit.

“I believe you two will need me to activate the four gas canisters you see in the corners, yes?”

“Look Dr. Singh, I know what this looks like... All I want is to get my friend the Mula just this once... I think he’s going to die if he doesn’t get it tonight,” KG stammered.

“Let me ask you this, young man, do you think he’s the only one? Do you think this is the first time someone weaves me such a sad tale of terrible tragedy? This clinic is the only thing that survived the collapse of the National Health Initiative in the heart of Tshwane for a reason.”

KG was silent, left defenceless. Dr. Singh continued, “Every day the desperate come here after having their Wernicke’s Lobe Links cut out for hard cash, or after selling their Gautrain passes; anything to get into Dr. Singh’s clinic!”

He could see Dr. Singh seated in an oversized chair behind a luminescent control station.

“You know what we are here? We are the new plague doctors, and these tanks are my precious fresh leeches. Do you think we have enough for every piece of rubbish like your friend here?”

KG felt a sudden loss of weight on his shoulder as the grate in the centre of the ward clanged. He looked down to see Lion sprawled, staring upwards with a frantic look in his eyes. A trickle of blood made its serpentine way to a flawlessly reflective black shoe. Humiliated, KG grabbed Lion’s hand, squeezed it and pulled him back onto his knees in front of Dr. Singh.

“Dr. Singh... Please...” KG managed to ask, bending down to gather Lion into his arms.

“Let me ask you this, do you really think the Mula, as you scum call it, really only works for one year? A cure of mine that only works for one year? Ha! Saving your friend’s life here will change nothing; I don’t even think it would change one of you kids for the better.”

KG felt sick and dizzy taking in Dr. Singh’s words, which struck him as horrific but close to the logic he might have employed if he were in those shiny black shoes. With that, Dr. Singh walked calmly past them as the ward lights flashed red and the air was cauterised by blaring alarm horns. KG loaded Lion onto his shoulders, put his head down, and ran down the corridor to the main entrance. The guard who spoke to him earlier made a move towards him but only pretended to reach out to stop them. Outside the clinic, the storm had arrived in full force.

“KG...” Mr. Labuschagne gasped as KG tumbled through the door with Lion.

“I tried Mr. Labs...” KG choked, still breathless from the journey.

“It’s ok my boy, get some rest. I’ll take care of Lion for now.”

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The sun finally awoke KG sleeping in Mr. Labuschagne’s store. Lion... he thought, and the previous night’s events came back to him.

KG stumbled downstairs grabbing onto the banister to stop from falling. Mr. Labuschagne was kneeling next to the bed. The happy cartoon figures on the bed sheet contrasted Lion’s wide, white eyes staring back at him, his face pulled gaunt and sucked of all life. A deep rift widened in the depths of KG’s soul when his eyes met with Mr. Labuschagne’s and locked there in fragile horror. He crashed out the store knocking shelves to the ground.

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Days later, the Skinner Street trajectory hooked onto a young man walking through Sunnyside next to a girl with dreadlocks.

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Ashley Jacobs is a young South African doctor on a quest to write Science Fiction in his spare time. Ha, spare time. ‘New Mzansi’ is his first published short story. He has a love of international Science Fiction and various eclectic subjects such as hip-hop, philosophy, and combat sports. Both career and future story interests include weird diseases and nanobots.