The Springbok: Part 1

A Springbok grazing in the golden hues of South Africa

Ben du Toit was ten years old when the weight of the world began to press on his narrow shoulders. He lived in a fading white suburb of Johannesburg called Kensington, where cracked sidewalks ran beside high fences and broken gates. His father, Willem, a former electrician, now sold used appliances out of their garage. His mother, Elsa, used to teach Afrikaans at the local school before she was retrenched.

Ben spent his afternoons on the balcony, watching the world through rusted iron bars. He could see Hillbrow's skyline in the distance, dirty concrete towers scraping the sky, promises made and broken.

Johannesburg wasn’t the same place it had been when his parents were children, and he was reminded of it every time his mom locked the door, even in daylight.

The du Toits lived in a modest single-story house, its paint faded and chipped, the garden long given up to dust and weeds. Once, long ago, it had been beautiful, bougainvillea climbing trellises, a koi pond gurgling beside a brick path. But the drought had come, and the pond cracked and dried. The fish had died. And no one had the energy to replant anything.

Ben's room was small, but it was his refuge. On one wall, he had taped a giant map of the world. He liked imagining the names: Patagonia, Iceland, Cairo, Sydney. He’d ask his mother questions at dinner, like, “Why don’t we move to Ireland?” or “Do kids in Canada have to lock their doors, too?”

Elsa would smile gently, the kind of smile that tried to hide pain. “Maybe one day, liefie. But this is our home.”

At school, Ben sat between Tshepo and Riyaad. They played soccer together and swapped lunches when the teacher wasn’t watching. Tshepo once asked him why his dad never smiled. Ben hadn’t known what to say. Adults rarely smiled anymore. They were tired in a way kids couldn’t understand. There was always something breaking, the car, the gate, the electricity, the trust.

He remembered one day vividly. It was a Monday, and their teacher had just told them to put away their math books. A loud bang echoed through the school corridors. Everyone froze. “It’s just a car backfiring,” the teacher said too quickly. But the principal appeared minutes later and quietly locked the classroom door. For the rest of the day, they stayed inside, and recess was cancelled.

That night, Ben asked his mom what had happened. She said someone had been robbed near the school. “It’s just how things are now,” she said, her voice distant. “But you’re safe.”

Ben didn’t feel safe. He hadn’t in a long time.

He started drawing at night. Sketches of monsters and cities, floating islands and flying trains. His drawings were wild, full of colour and imagination. They were places where kids could be free, where no one locked their doors, and the skies were always blue.

But when he looked out the window in the morning, all he saw were bars.

Ben drawing floating cities

The Springbok: Part 1 is the property of the Author and must not be plagiarised. Legal action will be taken against those who copy, download and/or use for monetization purposes.