The braai stand on the balcony of the Menlyn Maine penthouse was usually reserved for lamb chops and boerewors. Today, it was a funeral pyre for a tuxedo.
Zweli watched the flames lick at the black fabric. The smell of burning wool and expensive cologne drifted into the morning air.
Beauty stood in the sliding doorway, wrapped in her gown, watching him.
“You really burnt it,” she said softly.
“It felt… contaminated,” Zweli said, poking the embers with a tong. “I told you. I am done with that world.”
“But that world isn’t done with you,” Beauty warned. “Josephine isn’t the type to let a rejection go. And you threatened a Magistrate, Zweli. A Chief Magistrate.”
“He’s corrupt, Beauty. He won’t go to the police because he knows I have dirt on him.”
“Corrupt men don’t use the police to find justice,” Beauty said, walking over and resting her head on his uninjured shoulder. “They use the police to silence the truth.”
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The heavy front door of the penthouse shook.
“POLICE! OPEN UP!”
Beauty jumped back. Zweli sighed, dropping the tongs. He looked at the burning suit, then at the door.
“You were right,” Zweli muttered.
He walked to the door and opened it.
Six tactical officers from the Hawks stood there. But they weren’t the usual crew. These men wore balaclavas. Behind them stood a man in a cheap grey suit holding a piece of paper.
“Zweli Masilela?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a warrant for your arrest under Section 54 of the Intimidation Act, and a secondary charge of Grand Larceny regarding the theft of R2 million from the residence of Ms Josephine de Klerk.”
Zweli narrowed his eyes. “Theft? That was a loan.”
“Ms de Klerk filed an affidavit this morning stating you held her at gunpoint and forced her to open the safe,” the officer smirked. “You are coming with us. No bail. Flight risk.”
They grabbed him.
“Don’t touch him!” Beauty screamed, rushing forward.
“Stay back, Ma’am!” An officer shoved her.
Zweli’s eyes flashed dangerously. He tensed, ready to break the officer’s arm.
No, he told himself. If I fight now, I validate the narrative. I become the violent thug they want me to be.
“I’m going,” Zweli said, raising his hands. “Beauty, call Comfort. Don’t go to the site. Stay here.”
As they handcuffed him and marched him out, Zweli saw the officer in the grey suit smiling. It was the Magistrate’s clerk.
Pretoria Central Prison: Isolation Block – 10:00 AM
They didn’t take him to a holding cell. They took him to “The Hole.”
A damp, windowless concrete box in the basement of Pretoria Central. No lawyer. No phone call.
Zweli sat on the cold floor, meditating. He regulated his breathing, slowing his heart rate to conserve energy.
The heavy steel door clanked open.
The Chief Magistrate walked in. He wasn’t wearing his robes. He was wearing a golf shirt and jeans, looking casual and cruel.
“Mr Masilela,” the Magistrate chuckled, the sound echoing off the wet walls. “You look less… elegant than last night. No tuxedo?”
“I burnt it,” Zweli said without opening his eyes. “Just like I’m going to burn your career.”
The Magistrate laughed. “My career? Boy, I am the law in this city. Your lawyer, Mr Sindane, is currently running around the High Court trying to file an urgent application. But guess whose desk it landed on? Mine. I denied it.”
He stepped closer.
“You threatened me about the diamonds. That was a mistake. Now, you are going to disappear. The charges will be upgraded to treason. We found ‘evidence’ linking you to the bombing plot at the Monument. You will rot here, Zweli. And your wife? Without you, General Mbatha will eat her alive.”
Zweli opened his eyes. They were dark, bottomless pits.
“You think you are the player,” Zweli whispered. “But you are just a piece on the board. And you just moved into check.”
“Who is going to stop me?” The Magistrate sneered. “God?”
Suddenly, the Magistrate’s phone rang.
He frowned. “I told them no interruptions.”
He checked the screen. Private Number.
He answered. “What?”
A voice spoke on the other end. It was distorted, digital, and cold.
“Magistrate Venter. You are overstepping.”
The Magistrate froze. “Who is this?”
“You are interfering with my game,” the voice said. “Zweli Masilela is not yours to break. He is mine.”
“Is this… The Architect?” The Magistrate whispered, his face draining of color. “But… you are in military custody.”
“Custody is a state of mind,” Darius replied from his high-security cell, using a smuggled nano-phone. “You have become a nuisance. You are attacking the King before I have finished testing him. I don’t like interferences.”
“I… I am just doing my job!” the Magistrate stammered, backing away from Zweli.
“Your job is over,” Darius said. “Check your email.”
The Magistrate fumbled with his phone. He opened his email.
A video file.
He clicked play.
It was CCTV footage from the casino night. But not just of the game. It was a clear, 4K shot of the Magistrate accepting a velvet pouch of diamonds from Josephine de Klerk in the hallway.
“I have sent this to the Judicial Service Commission,” Darius said cheerfully. “And to the Sunday Times. You have about ten minutes before the Hawks come for you.”
The Magistrate dropped the phone. He looked at Zweli with pure terror.
“You…” the Magistrate gasped. “You are protected by him?”
“I told you,” Zweli stood up slowly, the handcuffs rattling. “I have contacts.”
Sirens wailed outside the prison. Not for Zweli.
Two minutes later, the Warden rushed in, looking panicked. “Magistrate! You need to come! The Anti-Corruption Unit is at the gate! They have a warrant for you!”
The Magistrate ran out of the cell, leaving the door wide open.
Zweli walked to the doorway. The Warden looked at him, confused.
“Am… am I supposed to stop you?” the Warden asked.
A phone rang in the Warden’s pocket. He answered it. He listened. He went pale.
He handed the phone to Zweli.
“It’s for you,” the Warden whispered.
Zweli took the phone.
“Hello, Nephew,” Darius’s voice came through.
“Darius,” Zweli said. “Why?”
“Because you are boring in prison,” Darius said. “And because that Magistrate was a fly on my painting. I swatted him.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Zweli said.
“Oh, but you do,” Darius laughed. “I cleared the board. I removed the legal threat. But now, the game escalates. I’m bored with construction sites, Zweli. I want to see if you can survive the wilderness.”
“What wilderness?”
“I have arranged a little detour for your release,” Darius said. “The Warden has his orders. You aren’t going home to Beauty. You are going to be… transported.”
The line went dead.
Zweli handed the phone back to the Warden.
“Where am I going?” Zweli asked.
The Warden pulled a taser. Behind him, four guards in riot gear appeared.
“Transfer orders, Mr Masilela,” the Warden said, apologising with his eyes. “Maximum Security Transport. Limpopo Province.”
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