Prologue

About the times of the End, a body of men will be raised up who will turn their attention to the prophecies, and insist upon their literal interpretation, in much clamor and opposition.

Sir Isaac Newton, 1642 – 1747

It is this prophecy that The Holy Trinity took guard and dedicated it to subduing the messianic people's rise. To them, the end of the world could be delayed for as long as no true salvation of mankind occurred. And this salvation was supposed to be brought forth by this kind of people. The Holy Trinity assumed the custodianship of worship in the world. One-third of the group’s leadership was a representative of the Vatican. This meant that they had control of mainstream Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and most popular similar religions. Only one problem haunted them: the off shooting of black independent spiritual groups that emerged throughout the world. They did not want a group to exist without their supervision.

In 1896 rose a movement from Gunthrie, Oklahoma was established by William S Crawdy. The Black Hebrews movement shook The Holy Trinity’s ground to tremble. Crawdy claimed he received several visions. The visions were telling him that black people were descendants of the lost tribes of Israel. With this, Crawdy proceeded to create the Church of God and the Saints of Christ. And started preaching in Gunthrie and set up terbanecles in other cities. In 1903, he bought 40 acres of land in Suffolk, Virginia, and called it Canaan. During this time, he was arrested 22 times by US law enforcement, which is part of The Holy Trinity. As time went by, he purchased more land in 1905 he sent Missionaries to South Africa. The Church of God and Saints of Christ grew in South Africa and in the now Eastern Cape region. A man named Enoch Mgijima rose to prophesy about Judgment Day through the pandemic. He gathered his people in thousands to wait for it in unity. In their wait, it happened that they squatted in the state’s land. And the white imperial colonial government sent them removal notices. Now, it must be noted that the British colonizers of South Africa were also part of The Holy Trinity. Prophet Mgijima and his congregants did not heed the governor’s calls saying that the land was God’s land. He further argued that the Africans were the custodians of their native land and not the British. Mgijima was alone in fighting against this injustice, eviction by foreigners from the land of his ancestors. The South African Native National Congress which now is the ANC only persuaded them to go back to their homes and avoid bloodshed.

The police and the soldiers of the segregation regime armed with machine guns, a canon, and artillery, shot and killed more than 500 men, injuring the rest of the thousands who were later arrested along with their leader. Prophet Enoch Mgijima was also accused of disillusion because of his prophetic claims of the mass destruction of mankind. But a few months later the world was engulfed by the pandemic which killed millions of people globally…

The movement however continued to grow as slowly. It was followed by a wave of the rise of other great activists like Marcus Garvey, W E Du Bois, and Ben Ammi. In South Africa, it was Mama Nontetha Nkwenkwe who raised Trinity’s eyebrows. They couldn’t stand her, so they devised a plan to kill the prophetess. Nontetha was born in what is now known as Makhanda in 1875. She was an herbalist who later became a prophet of African spirituality. And she was never baptized. She was influenced by the Ethiopian Church of Dwane which was connected to the AME Church. After the Influenza pandemic which she had also prophesied about all was well with Nkwenkwe. She prophesied people by looking at their hands and healed them through miracles. During all this, the authorities welcomed her although they were harsher towards her counterparts such as the likes of Mgijima. However, after the Bulhoek massacre, authorities' attitudes to any larger-scale black gatherings became paranoid. Farmers reported that members of her group were reluctant to work. It was also reported that she called for the unity of traditionalist natives and the learned ones, amaqaba [1], and amagqobhoka [2]. This conflicted with the colonial powers' wishes but it was when she called for the boycotting of the Western churches that they went for her. They arrested her and committed her to a mental hospital. This enraged her supporters. The authorities decided to take her away from them transferring her to Pretoria. Her supporters walked for 1000 km for 55 days to see their leader in a walk from the now Eastern Cape to Pretoria. When the supporters tried to do that again they were arrested for traveling without passes. And so, the pilgrimage was cut short. Five years later she was announced dead, and her family who were notified by telegram never saw either her body or her place of rest. The Trinity-led colonial government had fed her with slow poison as they did with everyone.

If they failed to buy them, they would kill them. Ntsikana they bought, Makhanda they killed. Ntsikana was the first Xhosa prophet to be converted to Christianity. When the ancestors gave him the gift of seeing he started to prophesy. Missionaries recruited him and he was forced to abandon polygamy. All false prophecies were bestowed on him posthumously. The Trinity promoted the Christian bible by claiming that Ntsikana prophesied about it. They used this so-called prophecy to have people reject all money. They claimed that Ntsikana said:

A vicious tribe comes from the sea, pale with hair as maize silk. They are carrying a scroll and a coin. Take the scroll and leave the coin.

This was not even a prophecy because when Ntsikana was born, Europeans were already in the land. It is propaganda like the story of Nongqawuse.

These stories are still being used to discredit the African culture of the AbaNtu and their belief system in favor of Western religions and economic systems. The Holy Trinity did not end here but showed how they were not prepared to tolerate independent African thinkers when they chopped them off the face of the earth in the cases of Martin Luther King Jnr, Malcolm X, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Robert Sobukwe, Steve Biko, Chris Hani, Thomas Sankara, Amilcar Cabral, Dedan Kimati, and Patrice Lumumba. Nelson Mandela was killed by the 27 years of prison, like Nxele and Maqoma. These like Maqoma were but the embodiment of Shiloh along with Frantz Fanon and Winnie Madikizela-Mandela. The spirit of salvation was sent to keep the light burning among the people, like the spirit of Shiloh that is burning in Julius Malema, Joshua Maponga, Loyiso Nqevu, and many others. It is evident that God has not forgotten us. Following is another story of its reincarnation.

A Curse in A Blessing's Wrapping

I In the southernmost part of Africa lies a dark island where no man has ever gone to return. No single soul has ever told a story of the menacing island. Legend fathoms it to be misty, shady, and petrifyingly spooky; although that has not been a burden for anyone to prove. An account full of unforgettable events follows. As I tell all about how I found myself on that damned island.

When I drive my latest Polo Vivo 1.4, in cherry red, those who don’t know me presume me as a well-off guy. But those who know me will tell you that Red Lily is not my car. A pauper like me could never own a car like that. At least not in such a sudden instance unless I won the lottery. And well, I don’t play the lottery. I had dreamed of owning a car when I still worked at the airport’s car rental company in Cape Town. At the valet's, I drove all my dream cars into the vacuum. I decided to save my driver’s license. I dedicated myself to saving money for a car, a VW Citi Golf to be exact. I wanted a blue one. I worked overtime every day, week in and week out, without taking a break. No time to enjoy the festive season, with thoughts of owning a car overwhelming my heart.

The holidays are only good for work when you stay in the slums of the Cape. That’s what you prefer when your neighborhood tops the ranks of murder stats in South Africa. You are merrier sober than drunk. You are freer in the wild bushes than in the streets; safer with animals than man. Remember Diwali, that tourist who came here and hired hit men to murder his wife: an irony of a traveler’s paradise yet rotten inside. When you are home, you either lock yourself in the house or step on someone’s toe and die. It’s that rough. A small piece of land shared by too many people will result in a stampede. Now add crystal meth, alcohol, and guns in their midst while they starve. What do you get? It’s the simplest way to create hell. You get fired, that is how I lost my savings of R32 000.

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After my shack burned my money, I fled back to my hometown, Gqeberha, where young men stand all day next to shops begging for 5 bobs and R1. Here, every second young man is a junkie that is ready to snatch your phone and run away.  I printed twenty CVs and applied to Markman, Straundale, Deal Party, and Perseverance. I sent other CVs via email and also uploaded my CVs online but to no avail. I applied to government departments, retail stores, and restaurants but nothing happened. My shoes are now wearing out and instead of paying for taxis with my money, it’d be better to eat. I made money from recycling cans. Not an easy job. You collect a hundred cans each day and get eighteen rands. That is only enough for a small packet of maize meal, a nip of cooking oil, and R1 sugar or Drink o Pop. Then you are covered for the day. If it’s a public holiday, you may not eat. On weekends, you rely on collecting empty bottles. Some taverns don’t buy empties on weekends. You must travel long distances. Then I found this job. After my first salary, I vowed never to let it go ever.

This is not your ordinary everyday job. Its notoriety compels me to kill you if I tell you about it. After my granny passed on, may her precious soul rest in peace. I had to find something because she had gone with her social grant. I ate water. In the Gqebera townships, a job is as scarce as a legitimate child. You won’t find it unless you sell your soul to the devil. Available jobs here are prostitution and selling drugs. If you are lucky, you can do cash-in-transit heists where you can win big or die. Other than that, you can kiss ass and live. Before I got this job, my arms resembled drinking straws. The wind drove me away and my pants fell. I opened a new hole in my waist belt every few days. And my stove stayed cold as a dog’s nose. Then a Good Samaritan came and offered me the job. God had sent him to save my life. Now I am here, a recruiter of girls for The League. We recruit girls and send them to the company’s site in Markman. After an induction, they get redirected to their workstations. We are also transporters. We transport them from wherever we get them and send them to the factory. In my kind of field, no one ever applies. Members are headhunted and to complete the target, they must be on the team without joining.

My clumsy colleagues have been laid low because of reports in the media in the past weeks:

“Girls watch out, there are men in nice cars that snatch girls at nightclubs around PE…”

This post trended on all Facebook groups of Port Elizabeth. And people commented vowing to capture the culprits. In that event, they would deal with them ‘mob justice style.’

This has come to burden me as I’m now left with loads of work. And my bosses tossed their hopes on my back, the promising protégé. On many occasions, they referred to me as the future of the company or the revelation. My boss applauds himself for finding me.

People from Kamva know me; I’m not a stranger. That’s why sometimes my job becomes the easiest hard thing I have ever done. I’m a pleasant gentleman; I wear expensive labels and I have a sweet tongue, but am a bit scared of girls, just a little. Okay, let’s say: I grew up being afraid of girls because of my background, but now that I have decent clothing, I have the guts. Yes, I don't have a good place yet. I don’t need one; at least not yet. To be honest, I can’t afford one. I already have a big phone. All I need now is to pretend like I’m rich and all the girls will follow me, especially now that I’m driving the latest car. You can drive a Fiat Uno; they will come to you. You can drive the hearse; they will come to you. You can even drive a jikeleza; the girls of Gqeberha will follow you. In the olden days, our fathers used to charm them with donkey carts or horse rides. As a little boy, I drove an invisible car with a paint lid, and they followed me. 

Discipline thrives as the best prerogative in this industry. Your phone has to be on all the time. On weekends, I receive a media message with a photo of the next recruit. I then gather information about the girl and monitor her social media activity. Maybe get to know her habits and routines. Thereafter, design a plan on how to find her and deliver her to The Point without any hassle. We call that fulfilling an order. An order looks like a soft copy job card with all the necessary information about the job. A proper order would be something like this:

Guest: Palesa Kaleni

Whereabouts: Zwide

Delivery destination: The Point

Date of delivery: 12-October-2026

When you have hidden intentions, girls seem to see right through you. It feels like everyone looks at you with an eye of suspicion. One girl once said:

“It’s you… Hey, Charmaine, come see. It’s the guy on the phone.”

“What? No, I’m not him. Who’s that?”

“You are Gift, my Facebook friend. It’s good to see you.”

“Wow, okay. Good to see you too.”

You become so defensive. This always delays the process, but some days are better than others. For example, on the weekend of the 1st of April, it was a Friday, a month-end weekend. And kasi girls don’t have money on that day, but they want to be in the groove. They will do anything for anyone who will buy them booze. Remember those who got peed on by some Nigerian guys? Girls can give away their dignity for a little nice time. That’s where we come in. In the past week, my target Palesa Kaleni drank at Melisizwe in Zwide Township. A light-skinned girl with long thick dreadlocks. You could see that she used to be a yellow bone. I asked her what she drank. She said:

“Savannah.”

‘In your days,’ I thought.

I asked her where it was. She looked down and ate her nails. She was at my mercy, an easy target. Sometimes they are the opposite. You’d dig a whole mine trying to convince one girl, a poor single girl who will go with you in the end. I excused myself and came back with a pack of Black Labels dumppies. I invited her to drink. She smiled and joined me with no hesitation. At least it was better than drinking dankie dops. We stepped onto the dance floor a few times, then I took her ‘home’.

On Saturday, I arrived at Ezinyoka in a place called Emaleydini Tavern dressed up in all leather. And dark sunglasses for disguise: my eyes couldn’t stand other people’s eyes. In no time, I became the center of attention as people admired my Matrix outfit, which woke my hair. I scanned the room and spotted her, Sihle Khasayi, a short-brown-eyed girl with caramel skin who looked like an Indian angel. She knew me from high school. We all crushed on her at school, but no one had the guts. And I was out of the question. All the girls scared me. I had a crush on Yanelisa Koma for eight years and never proposed. I only had a girlfriend in my final year. I proposed, she agreed, we kissed and that was it. I never went back. I had never approached Sihle until that night. The fear remained, but a job is a job. I danced next to her for my first move. She had lost some weight but beautiful as ever. It couldn’t be Aids. Looking at her face I could sense the stresses of life had haunted her dry. The bones were visible. Like that song Abantu song, Nontsundu. I asked her if she remembered me. She looked at me and smiled:

“Yes, from high school. How are you?”

She was such a socialite with a television smile. Her smile was meant for TV and her voice for the radio.

“I’m good, how do you do?”

She remembered, well great, but my heart melted just for the opportunity to talk to her.

“I’m good, you’re grown.”

“We are the same age. Don’t act old here,” I said, laughing.

She knew exactly who I was as much as I knew what she meant. Sihle was our age mate, but she matured quicker than us in the matters of dating and money. When we were sweating in the fields of play, she flirted with cool guys on her iPhone making video calls. When we were eating fat cakes, she ordered pizza for delivery. And after school, BMWs, Mercs, and Audis fetched her from the gate. Do you know those shiny pantyhose, weave, and face-paint girls who were dumb at books? She looked like such; the only difference was that she was clever. She was also streetwise. She could get any man to pay for her needs at any time. Sihle knew class and no one would fool her to fall for anything less. She knew the game more than I did, but you see: knowing your opponent improves your good fortune, especially if you acknowledge your weaknesses.

That way you could win any match-up. Remember: beautiful girls like Sihle are often lonely because guys are scared of them. Sometimes they are available, but no one is brave enough to approach them. She had to trust me to drink what I gave her. I reminded her of how we used to compete for marks in class. We were always the highest in almost all the tests, with me or her taking the top spot. The teacher would give chocolates to the highest and I always gave mine to her. That’s why she could never forget my face. We had a wonderful time together, drinking and dancing. We also posed for a photo with the camera. The tavern posts its photos on its social media page every Monday.

‘It would be bad for a lost girl to be last photographed with me.’ I thought.

So, I looked away when the flash sparkled. Sihle accepted my drink offer provided I would give her a lift to Motherwell because that’s where she lived too. She passed out in the car and woke up at the Point. Sihle sure was a beautiful girl, but they got her too late. She certainly had Aids. Her Aids was young thou. It was those little harmless kinds of Aids that didn’t infect anyone. Inexperienced Aids, unlike the stanch Aids of Shane. Shane died in 2010. He had been admitted to the hospital for the third time in eighteen months. His Aids was ruthless. His girlfriend is still alive thou. Kelly: What a strong girl. She endured the fervent attacks of her dangerous variant of Aids, the bull. At one point, her skin was dark but light at the same time from the dandruff. She wore a huge jacket at 30 degrees Celsius. She took eight hours to walk a twenty-minute walk. Her boyfriend slept on the bed, and we couldn’t find him. We thought he was not there. He didn’t make it, but she still survives, healthy as a racehorse. That’s how you survive real Aids. This Aids of Sihle is struggling. She has hardly changed. 

On Sunday, my target didn’t drink. I tracked her using what my boss called Social Engineering Tactics; you send phishing emails or messages that appear legitimate asking your target to click on a link and provide personal information in the hope of a desirable prize. There are many ways to do it. You could get someone’s date of birth by simply asking them “If we can subtract ten years from your age, how old will you be?” People will comment “14”. We know you are 24, which means you were born in the year so-and-so. We are going to check your birthday. This could be your password. We will get your number by maybe promising to send you free data. We will look at your photos and see your area from your background. You are wearing a school uniform. We know where you go to school. We will find you.

Lelo was lonely and vulnerable. She needed companionship. Her suicidal ways ‘thou were her only demons. A village girl from Butterworth who refused to go home without her diploma. She stayed with her roommate in the students’ rez in town and attended classes at the North campus.

Lelo Maci had lost her NSFAS funding. Without telling her parents, she decided to fund her studies through sex work, which solved her problem but brought more others. Her so-called clients violated her. She couldn’t do anything, fearing that her parents would know about her secret trade if she laid any charges. Her roommate had caught her cutting her wrists. She had also turned to drugs for solace. A pregnant junkie and she didn’t know who the father was. She had gone to the hospital for an abortion, but they couldn’t help her. Her stomach was getting bigger, which spoiled her business.

We met in the park where I asked for her services. After we agreed on the price, she drugged herself, but when we got to the car she passed out. Driving as fast as I could, I wanted to deliver her in her sleep and elude trouble. A few miles away there, the girl woke up with her eyes pulled out and her hair all messy.

“Where are we going?”

“To my place.”

“No, I don’t want to go to your place, put me here.”

“Miss, I can’t stop here, this is a freeway.”

“I don’t care, put me down. Put me down. Put me down now,” she yelled and banged the windows.

We were on the N2 freeway, and the car cruised through others at 160km per hour. The sound of the door opening and again closing came before a daunting silence haunted the car. Traffic went fast, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the road.

‘Crazy girl.’ I thought.

 I headed to The Point to lie low for a while. I feared that someone could have taken my registration number.

“What if I’m in trouble with The League itself? What do they do to people who are in trouble with them? I could be killed.”

I made a turn to Markman towards The Point.

“Damn Lelo, where are you?” I shouted with frustration.

“I’m hear, hear, I’m here… Who’s asking?”

“You are here… Thank God.”

Lelo had blacked out in the back seat due to her drug problem. It was probably those junkie blackouts that came with amnesia.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You must go to your client behind that gate. Go, go on.”

“Okay, what’s his name?”

“Ask for a Gift; tell them you are looking for Gift.”

“Okay, thank you.”

She handed herself into The Point…

The day is Friday, the 8th of April. The time is 8:23 pm, and I’m driving to Thole’s Tavern, a cozy little place in a nearby neighborhood called Kamvelihle. A warm settlement of government RDP houses built for the poor. The place is an addictive bottomless pit for the junkies of a fun time. Once you come in here you never want to get out again. Where every kind of girl roams: from the slay queen to the ncuvist, from the bhesha to the girl next door. The stars reflect against the shiny zinc roof of the rainbow-colored RDP houses. The big bright Somali-owned spaza shops stick out in every ten homes. Most people in this area get around on foot. And a smell of happiness tastes from the air of the place. Kamvelihle never ceases to invite visitors to chill; it’s a Vegas of Motherwell, a groover’s paradise where music plays all night up to dawn.

I drove past a drunken couple who stirred their index fingers to me. Thinking my car was a jikeleza, shame on them. I drove past them while they shouted at each other. The lady shouted at the man to be exact. It is always the case around here. By the way, how could such a beautiful car like mine be a jikeleza? Those people must have been out of their minds. Plus, taking them home would be a waste of my time. Such couples here were usually in two or three-hour-old relationships. And could bring you trouble in an instant. In such a new relationship, one is expected to get laid off because they have spent a lot of money buying booze for the other. The other would not be willing to deliver in those early stages. And the blesser would get irate and show animosity towards the blessee. If this happens in your car, you could end up getting involved in that kind of unnecessary stress.

Up and down, to and fro in those dark streets, I drove looking for Amanda Sizani, a big-eyed, dark-skinned girl with medium-length natural hair. Short, and had a curvaceous petite body. A black beauty, I could say. In the township, predicting who can know who you’re looking for is easy: birds of a feather flock together. Remember, the people of the township are not good at giving directions. They will tell you about everything else but what you’ve asked.

Thus, it is critical to know the categories of girls and their different behaviors. I call it profiling.

Amanda here would be one of those quiet girls, easygoing and friendly, especially when drunk. They have controlling friends: ugly friends who pretend to be protective. Those friends will give you a tough time chatting with her, especially when they have money. The same friends drink by selling this kind to the highest bidder in the grooves. They don’t want her to leave with a stranger, but given a chance, they’d fly away with the unknown guy into the deep of the night at the eye's blink. For them, you buy a few beers and ask to borrow their friend for a minute. That’s sixty seconds, they will forget about her in fifty-nine.