The death of Bra John Matshikiza has left me with a major dilemma as a self-appointed mediator in his almost year-long battle with Spiderman, the street-dweller whom the writer used as a symbol for a Jozi declining under a crime wave. Spiderman’s complicity in crime loomed large in John’s last columns.
Bra John wrote about his hijacking, assault and repeated threats, which had ultimately forced him to move from Melville, the suburb in which he finally died. He wrote bitterly but as always beautifully about the man he believed had orchestrated his troubles — he named his nemesis Spiderman.
He provided a detailed description of the foul-mouthed, crippled drunken thug, who masquerades as a car guard; who urinates and shits everywhere, a vile untouchable under the protection of Melville police. Bra John told his readers where to find the despicable spider. I got curious.
One evening I accosted the Spiderman. I asked about his vicious criminal activities against Bra John. The spider looked at me; he spoke, he leaned against a car; he spoke and he swore and threatened. He denied everything; he asked with pain in his broken voice: ”What have I done to Bra John to deserve this?”
His version is that one Saturday he saw Bra John driving a new car. He asked whether Bra John had bought a new car. Bra John didn’t speak to him. He said he knew Bra John’s old car and it was natural to ask when he saw him driving a different car. In short, I found ÂSpiderman’s story highly plausible. I thought Bra John was barking up the wrong tree.
The anti-Spiderman columns continued to roll and the Spiderman collected them all. He had hoped to sue Bra John for ”defamation of character and loss of income”. The Spider told of how, since the columns appeared, people avoided his side of the parking.
I could not understand why Bra John would want to fight a defenceless broken ”hobo” on the pages of newspapers. I wanted to make peace between the now viciously bitter Spiderman and the paranoid Bra John. I thought healing would do both men some good. So the last time I saw Bra John I broached the subject. ”You believe a man like that at your own peril,” said John. It was the end of the road for me as Âmediator. I wished for Thabo Mbeki’s mediation capabilities.
A day after the death of Bra John I went to break the sad news to Spider. I found him in a drunken stupor, rolled into a miserable heap in the gutters of Melville. It was not even six in the evening and the Spider was poep dronk; next to him was an almost empty 750ml bottle of Coconut vin Coco. Does he know already? I sat next to him. I told him. He raised his head, gathered his legs and crutches. He certainly sobered up a little. He faced me and slowly said: ”Unbelievable!”
”Bra John may your soul rest in peace,” he said looking heavenwards. He said: ”Buddy lam, if you think I’m happy because Bra John is dead you are wrong.”