As I sit with my eyes almost shut, I sink in my drunkenness, I sit and fade into my own space, I kick back and relax. The music still plays and I console my thoughts with movement, and sway my neck. My arms raise themselves and they sway, it feels so good, and I realize that the crux of my problems has melted with my dance. I move steadily and my waist allows the rhythm to control all, I get up and dance to this song, you might not know it, but it's an old-school song for people like myself that loved that song. I've heard a lot of people call in to these stupid radio shows on Y-FM and claim that these songs define a moment in their lives, Radio Bob was my thing but then those were my days and they were lived.

The song that played that night defined me; "Juicy Fruit" rocked me and I loved every single note in it. That was playing and I couldn't help but dance to it, I was conscious of the situation at the time but it felt so good that I didn't care, I still don't. That song had so many memories, from the time I experienced my first love to the time I finally understood how the Hi-Fi at my house worked. I remember how excited I was when my mother told me that she bought a sound system at Russell's. Good bye mini-radio-with-no-cassette; plus the airwaves weren't clear enough to hear anything, if you wanted to hear any sound at all you had to place the radio in a diagonal way, and when you were in my shoes you wanted to hear every single song that Bob would play. I was in an adolescent stage and wanted to hear every single new and old song that played, or maybe I just loved music. I still do, although I don't get to hear most of it.

Anyways, that was my theme song, it made me introspective. I realized that I was grateful for what and who I am and that I didn't regret any decisions that the next person might think were wrong. Mother still thinks that I could've thought about it. I didn't regret it. I even told Edwina who widened her eyes and shook it off with the next sentence. She paused, took a deep breath, "Mmasabata listen you can't even get a chance if you speak like that." I looked at her and smiled. I like her, and her efforts to rescue me, a lot. Shame, Edwina. She still visits and brings me stuff, including stories. I'd say, "problems", but they're stories - I remember how she came in after my journey was decided. Her first story was so sad I couldn't bear the thought of hearing more of it, but I put on a brave face and continued to listen to someone that needed me more.

"Sabata I had no idea of what to do next", she said as she tightly held my hands with tears glowing in her big brown eyes and a scar on the top of her left eye. She continued, "Eish, I stood there and thought I should calm myself but I couldn't, I stopped him nee, and asked him where was he off to and she answered that they were going out and it wasn't where I was heading. I told him to drop me off but he didn't care, he said that they'll stop a taxi for me. In my car, Sabata, mine! The good thing is that Thando was sleeping and didn't get to see her father."

I remember how I held her soft moisturized hands. If there was anything I respected about her it was how she always took care of herself, how she never let herself go, pity she had to get hitched, but now she isn't any more and we are deeper into our friendship.

I danced and swayed my arms and moved around the dance floor, I was taken and couldn't stop I decided that I will not stop till they join me in this rhythm, and by the will of the universe they did. With the corner of my eye I could see the yellow cars pass by and I could hear the commotion and I ignored it; they came in and stared. They were startled and wondered how could I dance in a situation like that. I wouldn't have cared if they pulled me into the car; I sat in the chair and smiled at their confused faces. Remembering how my mother carried on about how she hated cops, how she'd rather die than kiss a policeman I thought it was because of how they affected her life when she was only 18 and pregnant with me. Her story was that when she was walking down the street at night from my father's shack she was followed by a van that soon stopped in front of her. She held her belly to show that she was pregnant and wasn't looking for any trouble! But they didn't think so. They questioned her and she trembled and screamed so loud that they hit her and she screamed louder so loud that the whole community came out and watched the circus - the clown being my heavily pregnant mother. They stood there in shock and my father fought with all of them, that's when he passed; well obviously, he had no gun.

Anyways the "blue baikies" came in and took my hands and tied them together, I didn't give them hassle. They spoke in their language; which I learnt later in life that it isn't theirs but the coloureds' language and that the first book that was written in Afrikaans was the Qu'uran. That great piece of information I was given by a newfound friend in here, Nashie. She's coloured and she came in after me. We spent hours talking with her, I didn't ask questions neither did she, I think our silence brought us closer.

They kept on asking why did you do it? I looked at them and muttered some words and they slapped me, they thought that would get me out of my drunkenness, so they kept me in their dirty cells hoping that it would sober me up. It did, the moment I realized that my heart was finally free.

"Guilt," I explained to the panel that got to decide my fate, "is wasted energy, it's like hate and now that I realize that it took so much effort out of me, I am glad to realize how it all doesn't matter!" They thought I was high or drunk but how? Because prisons don't have any substances that can get you out of your insane state of mind. Again, they continued to beat the crap out of me, and I admitted to it. I was in such a state, the smell of my blood got me dizzy.

Then they took me to the nurses and claimed that I was giving them shit, which in fact was true. I can't imagine being a white police officer that hates black people for no reason at all, trying to figure out what led me to disliking them. It might be the influence that my grandfather and his forefathers had on me but, I'm a grown man and I'm capable of making my own decisions, but I chose to kind-of-like hate them. I shall hate them and I will continue to do so. Now, imagine you are this white man that has to interrogate what seems to be a drunken black woman about why she did what she did? She could've been your maid, and you don't like the one you have right now. This is what I thought of the man that was beating me to pulps and this is what I think he thought of me.

Today, I'm wasting another ten minutes of my life by thinking of what has been done. The guard will soon come in and get us all into the garden, she has this thing about her that reminds me of Nthabiseng, I don't know what her name is, she's new and I don't like her. She talks a lot with Michelle and her crew, she's like them: beautiful and stupid with a gangster's mind. She has an incredibly huge ass and a clear face that has no blemishes, but wait until she speaks, she has a squeaky voice that could pierce through your ear drums and crooked teeth, and bear in mind that she likes to speak a lot. I'm sure somebody has complimented her about her teeth and her ridiculous voice, maybe that is why she can't stop talking shit.