The decision hung in the air of the glass-walled office like smoke. Beauty Masilela stared at her husband.
“You want me to hire Voster?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “The Bulldozer? The man who tried to whip me in at the gate of this very site? The man who threatened to break my legs for 30%?”
“He is a thug because the system gave him no other role,” Zweli said, leaning against the desk. “The General has blacklisted us. No legitimate worker will set foot here. Voster’s men don’t care about blacklists. They care about cash. And they hate the police.”
“They are criminals, Zweli.”
“They are available,” Zweli countered. “And right now, Shongwe Enterprises is a sinking ship. We don’t need sailors, Beauty. We need pirates.”
Beauty walked to the window. She looked at the idle cranes. She looked at the eviction notice crumpled in the bin.
“Fine,” she whispered. “But we do this my way. No guns. No whips. They sign contracts. They pay tax. If they work for me, they become employees, not gangsters. If Voster breaks one safety regulation, I fire him myself.”
Mamelodi Hostel: 11:00 AM
The Mercedes V-Class rolled into the heart of the Mamelodi Hostel complex. It was a world away from the glass towers of Menlyn. Dust, corrugated iron, and the smell of roasting meat and exhaust fumes filled the air.
Zweli drove. Beauty sat in the passenger seat, clutching a folder of employment contracts.
They stopped in the middle of a taxi rank. It was Voster’s territory.
Within seconds, they were surrounded. Men in faded overalls and leather jackets, holding knobkerries, circled the expensive van.
Voster “The Bulldozer” Nzimande emerged from a shack. He looked older, tired. The fight with Zweli weeks ago had cost him face.
He spat on the ground as Zweli stepped out.
“You have nerve, Masilela,” Voster growled. “Coming here without your helicopter.”
“I don’t need a helicopter to talk business,” Zweli said. He opened the passenger door. Beauty stepped out.
The mood shifted. Voster’s men whistled. Voster narrowed his eyes. “The Queen Builder. You come to gloat?”
“I came to offer you a job,” Beauty said, her voice projecting clearly over the noise of the rank.
Voster laughed. “A job? You think I dig ditches?”
“I think you are starving,” Beauty said bluntly. “I hear The Architect cut your funding after you failed to stop us. I hear the General is squeezing the taxi routes, fining your drivers for breathing. You are losing money, Voster.”
She threw the folder at him. He caught it.
“That is a labour contract,” Beauty said. “Shongwe Enterprises needs 200 general labourers, 50 welders, and a security detail. We pay union rates plus 50%. Full benefits. Over time.”
Voster looked at the papers. He looked at his men. They looked hungry.
“And the catch?” Voster asked.
“You protect the site,” Zweli stepped in. “The General is going to send trouble. We need men who don’t run.”
Voster grinned, revealing his gold tooth. “We don’t run, Masilela. We chase.”
Menlyn Construction Site: 14:00
General Mbatha stood on the balcony of his temporary command post across the street. He was watching the Menlyn site through binoculars, expecting it to remain empty.
Instead, he saw a convoy.
Fifty minibus taxis, blaring Kwaito music, roared down the street. They smashed through the plastic road cones the police had set up to “blockade” the site.
They poured into the construction gate. Hundreds of men jumped out. They weren’t wearing Titan Security uniforms. They were wearing mismatched overalls, football shirts, and beanies. But they picked up shovels. They picked up welding torches.
And standing on a pile of bricks, directing them like a conductor, was Beauty Masilela.
“He hired the rats,” The General whispered, lowering his binoculars. “He actually hired the Mamelodi underworld.”
His aide, a nervous Captain, spoke up. “General, we can arrest them. They are likely wanted for outstanding warrants.”
“If we arrest 300 taxi drivers,” The General snapped, “the Taxi Association shuts down the entire province tomorrow. They will burn buses. They will block the highways. We cannot touch them politically.”
The General’s face hardened.
“If we can’t use the law… we use the cleaners.”
“Sir?”
“Call the cleaners,” The General ordered. “Tell them we have a mass eviction order for illegal squatters on the site. Tell them to bring the shields. And the rubber bullets.”
The Clash: 16:00
The work was progressing fast. Voster’s men were rough, but they were strong. The slab was being prepped.
Then, the sirens wailed.
A fleet of heavy trucks pulled up to the gate. They were painted bright red.
The back doors opened. Men in red overalls spilt out. Hundreds of them. They wore helmets with visors, carried heavy plastic shields, and wielded crowbars and whips.
The Red Ants.
They were infamous in townships such as Atteridgeville, Church Street, Alexandra, and other informal settlements. They are an eviction force used to clear the land that had been taken over by informal settlers and to reclaim hijacked buildings. They were known for extreme violence.
“Squatters!” The Red Ant commander shouted through a megaphone. “Vacate the premises immediately! This is a lawful eviction!”
Voster stood by the cement mixer. He picked up a shovel. He looked at Zweli.
“Boss,” Voster said. “Do we hold the line?”
Zweli looked at the Red Ants forming a phalanx at the gate. Then he looked at Voster’s men—gangsters, yes, but today, they were building something.
“We hold,” Zweli said.
The Red Ants charged. They banged their shields, a terrifying drumbeat of war.
Voster’s men roared back, grabbing bricks and rebar.
It was about to be a bloodbath. A full-scale riot in the middle of Pretoria East’s most expensive business district.
Beauty stood on the first-floor balcony. She saw the Red Ants advancing. She saw Voster’s men preparing to throw Molotov cocktails they had quickly assembled from diesel bottles.
If this fight happened, people would die. And Shongwe Enterprises would be branded a terrorist organisation. The General would win the PR war.
“Stop!” Beauty screamed, but her voice was lost in the noise.
She looked at Zweli down below. He was ready to fight. He was assuming the stance of the Dragon.
But Beauty knew that violence was exactly what the General wanted. He wanted footage of “Beauty’s Gangsters” attacking “Security Officers”.
She had to change the narrative.
She grabbed a megaphone from the site office.
She didn’t run away. She ran down.
She sprinted out of the building, past Voster, past Zweli.
She ran straight into the middle of the driveway, directly into the path of the charging Red Ants.
“BEAUTY!” Zweli shouted, lunging after her.
She stopped ten metres from the Red Ant shield wall. She stood alone, a small woman in a hard hat against a wall of red violence.
“HALT!” she commanded into the megaphone.
The Red Ants, surprised by the sudden appearance of a woman in a business suit (under her vest), slowed down. They didn’t stop, but they hesitated.
“I am the owner of this site!” Beauty shouted. “And you are attacking unionised employees!”
“We have an order!” The Red Ant commander yelled, stepping forward. “Move or be moved!”
He raised his whip.
Voster’s men surged forward to protect her.
“Stay back!” Beauty ordered Voster’s men without turning around.
She looked at the Red Ant commander. She looked at the General watching from across the street.
She dropped the megaphone. She reached into her pocket.
She didn’t pull out a weapon. She pulled out her phone.
She started live-streaming to Instagram.
“Hello South Africa,” she said to the camera, framing herself with the Red Ants looming behind her. “I am Beauty Masilela. I am building a hospital corridor. These men in red… sent by General Mbatha… are about to attack innocent workers. Watch with me.”
She held the phone up high.
The Red Ant commander froze. He knew the power of social media. If they attacked a woman live on camera, while she was narrating, the political fallout would be nuclear.
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