John Matshikiza:WITH THE LID OFF
I’m summoned to appear in the magistrate’s court at 8.30am. It’s a simple matter. My car was broken into, the culprits were caught a few minutes later with my property still hot in their hands, and the case has finally come before a magistrate. I am obliged to testify.
The prosecutor is not around when I reach the faded, wood-panelled splendour of court number five. There is only a police sergeant reading The Citizen and the court interpreter, a fat young woman eating a fried egg sandwich wrapped in a piece of newspaper. They look at me with sullen disinterest.
When the prosecutor finally appears, his hands are shaking and his dark features have the texture of putty. It’s been a heavy weekend. He looks at the file and says it’s an open-and-shut case, so why are they bothering with a defence? He’ll try and get my case over as soon as possible, but the defence attorney has asked him to hold back until 10.30am as he is tied up elsewhere.
So someone else’s case is to be played out ahead of mine in court number five. It’s a murder trial.
The white magistrate in his red robe is an anachronism in this black-on-black-on-black saga. Nevertheless, he tries to appear interested as his fat neck swivels from the prosecutor to the accused to the accusers. His only point of access to the case is the highly subjective version of what witnesses and accusers are saying in Zulu, translated for his benefit by the woman I had earlier surprised over her breakfast.
The accused is a young woman in a bright, summery dress. Her name is Zodwa.
The main witness is a murderous-looking young man with knife and bottle scars all over his face. His name is Sipho.
His story goes like this. Zodwa was drinking with Sipho and his cousin, Zabalaza, at a certain shebeen in Bertrams. At some point Zodwa and Zabalaza went to Sipho’s room. When they came back they were quarrelling. Zabalaza accused Zodwa of “not getting used to him”, and the argument escalated to the point where Zodwa pulled a knife out of the waistband of her skirt and stabbed Zabalaza to death.
Zodwa is conducting her own defence. She asks Sipho to explain how the argument started.
“Didn’t you hear him [Zabalaza] call me a prostitute because I refused to sleep with him? And then he hit me.”
“Yes, he hit you, but I didn’t hear him call you a prostitute. He only complained because you were refusing to get used to him,” says Sipho.
“So you think it was all right that he was hitting me? That’s why I ran away from the table. But he followed me, so I pulled out the knife.”
Magistrate (interrupting): “What kind of knife?”
Zodwa and Sipho: “An Okapi.”
Magistrate (writing): “Very well. You may continue.”
Prosecutor: “What happened next?”
Zodwa: “Zabalaza fell on the ground. He was bleeding. Then Sipho and the other people in that bar started beating me.”
By the time it got to the bit where somebody finally called the police, the magistrate had had enough. He abruptly adjourned and disappeared for an hour. I seized the chance to ask the prosecutor about my case.
He looks frustrated and speaks of the hopeless justice system we have in the new South Africa, where criminals get away with murder.
He grabs a can of Coca-Cola from the interpreter, tears open a sachet of Grandpa powder and throws the contents on to the back of his tongue. He washes the powder down and hands the cooldrink back to the interpreter, who carries on sucking the straw where he left off.
His bleary eyes stare at me over the top of his glasses. “She claims,” he says, “that Zabalaza fell on the knife. The coroner says it would be impossible for that kind of wound to be caused by someone falling on a knife. She obviously stabbed him. I’ll destroy her case in a few minutes and get to you. I can see you’re a busy man.”
The court resumes. The prosecutor, revitalised by Grandpa, takes off: Perry Mason reincarnated in downtown Johannesburg.
He punches holes in her story, but Zodwa is adamant and oddly impressive in her own defence. She looks serenely confident that she’s going to get away with it.
She probably did too, but I didn’t wait to find out. I started getting rude with the prosecutor, whenever I could catch his eye. He eventually arranged for my case to be heard in another court while he got on with his one-man show.
My case was an anti-climax after that. One guy was sent down, the other was acquitted. A whole day had been wasted.
As I drove away, I caught a glimpse of Zodwa standing on the court steps. She was staring up and down the road. She looked like she didn’t have a care in the world.