Fifteen years later
It’s fifteen years later but the words, the emotion, as though it happened yesterday.
Fourteen days before his tenth birthday a little boy was murdered. Murdered for his bicycle. He ran away in fear but the bastards they ran after him, hit him from behind on his neck and threw him into the river to drown.
They took the bicycle, sold it for R30 (less than $4) and used the money to buy booze.
They felt that a helpless 9 year old boy’s life was worth R30.
I saw his father today and maybe because Quintus is just 9, it hit me more but I cannot stop the tears. I cannot. I cannot stop putting myself in the dad’s shoes. I cannot help thinking what I would do if it were MY son.
Fifteen years later and his dad is still a broken man. That little boy still dead. Those men free.