From a clear distance beside the man on the floor, I took a cautious look. He wasn’t dead. He was gasping for breath and struggling for his life. “This guy is not dead; where are people?” I looked around; there were few people in the park. They were just looking from a far distance, nobody seems to care. Then I took another cautious look at the dying man on the floor; I recognized him. No mistaking, he is a member of the gang that robs people in the park. One of those guys I despise with a passion. I started feeling like: isn’t his death of more benefit to this community? I tried not to feel pity for him but a voice within will not let me. The voice said to me: hatred is not the way of Christ. I comported myself and move closer to him. I could see he was already foaming and throwing off bloody and salivary substances. It was disgusting.
I looked around to see if I could call on any to join in the assist; nobody gave me the eye of readiness. Then I heard him muttering “help” –apparently he has noticed my presence and concern. I asked him: what is your name? He answered: “George. Please help me.” I asked: what is wrong with you? He gave no answer but squealed in pain, holding on to his belly. I pulled him on his feet, hanging one of his arms by my neck and supported him to the car park about 300 meters away. People just looked at us as we passed bye but nobody offered any support.
At the car park I sat him on the floor, resting his back against my car. I took water from the car trunk, washed the salivary substance off his face, his entire head and as I wash his hands he took out a handkerchief to mop up himself. Only after then few people started coming around, murmuring and asking the “standby-
As I was thinking about how to get him to the hospital, George said to me: “please take me to the hospital.” All the hospitals around are private. I will need cash or “medical scheme” to get him admitted; none of which I have. Even the gas in my car is already on “reserve”. Then I remember there is a public hospital –Steve Biko, about seven kilometres away; sure that my gas could take us there. I laid George in the back seat and drove off to “Steve Biko”. I checked on him as I drove, he was throwing off all over my interior. Thank goodness the seating is made of leather; otherwise cleaning up would have been very costly. Then my mind was asking: what do I tell the cops if George gives up in my car? On stopping by the robot, I saw the cops pulled beside me. I rushed out of the car and told them about the mishap with George at least for reference purposes just in case. They dint even bother to step out of the vehicle. I was expecting something like an escort but they just told me to go on and take him to the hospital.
On getting to Steve Biko, I called on the emergency unit who wheeled George in after our details were taken. Few minutes later, I was at the hospital’s car park, cleaning up the mess on my interiors. It was smelly, horrible and disgusting but I had no choice because I could not afford a car wash at that time. Later I went to the counter and requested to see George. On getting to his bed, he was on drip and has been stabilized. He was conscious and shivering. I laid my hands on his head and prayed for him. I promised to come see him the next day.
The next day I was at the hospital together with my wife. We came with beverages, requesting to see him but we were told he has been discharged by the doctor in the late hours of yesterday. We were surprised but dint give up. We drove to the park to see if we could find him to check on his welfare and hand over the beverages, but he was no where to be found.
The following day after parking my car, I was about to walk into the park when one of the vigilantes (looking after people car in return for steepens) accosted me asking about George’s fate. I told him that George made it and has been discharged from the hospital but could not find him ever since. Then I asked if he has an idea of what actually happened to George that very afternoon. What he told me was shocking: He said some of the gang’s victims stage revenge on them by dumping poisoned food in the trash bin; knowing that the gang do scavenge the bin for food and drinks would likely pick it up and eat. Sometimes the avenger would sit around, make sure that the gang are present and watching, then drop his “Greek gift” in the bin before walking out of the park. Many destitute have died in similar manner. So it was George’s fate to play in the game of “The Hunter Hunted”. He was waiting to make a prey but was made the pray.
I tried to resist justification for such a callous act staged by their victims to get revenge. I tried not to feel like: the gang got what they deserved. But to be honest, I was there: I see what they do to their victims for which I hated them with a passion; how much more if they had done it to me. I tried not to feel like it was justice served; but may be it is. So easy it is to be a Christian when blessed and protected. It is a different “ball game” when exposed and vulnerable to fear and anger. It’s difficult to judge.
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