The Springbok: Part 4

Two Thieves in the Night

It started like any other evening. The lights flickered once, twice, and then went out. The television died mid-sentence, plunging the lounge into silence. Ben sat cross-legged on the floor, halfway through a drawing of a dragon curled around a crumbling city. His mom cursed under her breath, fumbling for the matches.

Outside, the air had the brittle edge of winter. Without the low hum of electric fences and refrigerator motors, the silence felt ancient. Willem lit a candle and set it in a saucer. Its glow flickered on the peeling kitchen walls.

“This is the third time this week,” Elsa muttered.

Willem only grunted, twisting the dial on his old transistor radio. Static. He tapped it. More static.

Finally, a faint voice emerged, clipped and crackling.

“Stage six load shedding expected to continue through the weekend…”

Ben didn’t fully understand what stage six meant, but he knew it was bad. Worse than usual. Worse than the week before. Maybe even worse than last July when the substation near Malvern exploded.

Willem turned the volume down and leaned against the kitchen sink. He looked tired. His hair had gone completely grey at the temples, though he was only in his early forties.

They ate cold sandwiches by candlelight. Afterward, Willem went outside to check the gate motor. Ben followed him, clutching a flashlight. The air buzzed with generator sounds from houses a few blocks over, those that could afford it. Not many in their area had one anymore.

The gate was stuck. Again. Willem kicked it in frustration. “Blerrie useless thing.”

Ben shone the light over the wall. A dog barked somewhere far off. Then another answered, closer. A car drove by slowly, windows tinted so dark that Ben couldn’t see inside. His dad stood still, waiting until the car disappeared around the corner.

“Go inside, Ben.”

Ben didn’t argue.

That night, he lay in bed, watching the shadow of a moth flutter across the ceiling. The candle on his desk had burned out, but moonlight spilled through the window bars. He couldn’t sleep. Not really. He hadn’t slept properly since last month’s shooting.

He’d been at the park with Elsa when it happened. They’d heard the shots, sharp and surreal. A security guard had been gunned down two blocks away. Someone said it was a gang initiation. Someone else said it was a robbery gone wrong. The newspapers didn’t bother clarifying.

Suddenly, he heard something. A crunch. Footsteps? His breath caught.

He slipped out of bed and padded to the window. Peering through the bars, he saw two figures moving across the neighbour's yard. Slow. Deliberate.

“Mom!” he hissed. “Mom, wake up!”

Elsa came rushing in, her face pale. Willem was already at the window, a cricket bat in hand. Ben had never seen his dad so tense.

For a full ten minutes, they stood frozen, barely breathing. The figures moved past their gate, paused, and then disappeared into the dark.

“We need to call someone,” Elsa whispered.

“No one’s coming,” Willem said. “Not for us.”

He was right. They tried the emergency number, but the line was dead. The neighbourhood WhatsApp group was full of frantic messages:

“Saw movement near corner of Albert and Becker. Two men.”

“Generators stolen from no. 36 and 42.”

“My dog’s been poisoned. Please be careful.”

Willem locked the bedroom door. Elsa sat on the bed, holding Ben tightly. He could feel her heart racing. He didn't cry. He wanted to. But he didn't.

When morning finally came, the power was still out. So were the neighbours. The front door of no. 18 had been kicked in. Glass littered the porch. A trail of muddy footprints led back to the street.

The cops didn’t show. Instead, people walked from house to house, checking on one another. The kind of solidarity born out of desperation.

Ben returned to his room. The dragon on his page looked different now. More skeletal. More tired.

He added a candle to the drawing. A small light in the middle of the city. Then he wrote, beneath it, in shaky capitals:

Don’t go out when it’s dark.

Don't Go Out When it's Dark

The Springbok: Part 4 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.