Simpiwe Ramaphosa frightened people but this was of no real concern to him. He was effective and that was enough. Effectiveness was what the city he lived in lacked. It had become a chaotic society, far removed from the promises of the turn of the century. To exist in this Wild South a person needed one's wits. Simpiwe was not content with survival or existence. Simpiwe participated effectively. South Africa's underbelly had developed a paunch, threatening to cripple her backbone.

As he did almost every night, Simpiwe made himself ready for Business. He smoothed the snug black mask down over his eyes, instantly enjoying the welcome anonymity. Confidently caressing the reassuring weight of metal in one of a myriad pockets, he checked the long black cape that hid his tightly strapped leather trousers and lightweight but very bullet proof jacket. Gloves on and he was ready to face another night in the City of Gold; Johannesburg. Better known to her lovers as Jozi; the city hummed with a vibrant energy.

This night was like any other. The smell of traffic, a bitter-sweet hint of bitumen from the road works on Twist Street, the noise of cars, taxis hooting while their drivers shouted, the buildings towering overhead, some new, some old; neon glow and another out-of-order traffic light, newspaper posters giving him an overview of the day's atrocities. The fumes of the city left a familiar - if not altogether pleasant ' taste in his mouth. This was his stomping ground and he worshipped it.

The city sidewalk opened up before him and Simpiwe was on the move, feeling the uneven concrete slabs beneath his steel-tipped black leather boots. The distant rumble of the Gautrain vibrating his soles. He drifted a while, waiting for a sign, looking for a lead to the night's Business. For Simpiwe there was always Business.

Shouts. A scream. Three shots. Simpiwe moved rapidly towards to the noise. The tang of rage, fear and death lead him to a small and sordid apartment block in the back streets of Hillbrow. He slowly went up the sagging and derelict stairs of yet another building with an idle, money-hungry landlord. Wafts of pap and cabbage, urine, beer and the subtler smell of clothes washed in Sunlight Soap mixed. Simpiwe, like a shadow, edged his way to the source of the noise, the smell of the fear. Unless he intended them to, people did not really see Simpiwe. His physical presence was something that absorbed both light and sound, making it a dead spot. This ability had taken Simpiwe some time to cultivate and fine tune; it served him well.

The door to number 35 was open, a dim 40-watt bulb cast its tentative light into the corridor. By the window lay the first body. A very small one. The boy looked like he was three years old, but he was gone, blood had spattered the wall and pooled beneath his back and neck. Near him was a woman. Breathing shallowly and bleeding through her thin T-shirt onto the scuffed pine floorboards. Simpiwe moved to the boy, removing one black leather glove as he went. With his left glove clenched between his teeth, he crouched on his haunches and reached gently to touch the cool cheek, bracing himself for what was to come.

Boy. Mother. Father. Illness. Working. Debt. Fear. The wrong answer to the problem had come to the father. He borrowed money from a Bad Man. Struggling to even pay for food, the debt had slid. Threats. Promises. Prostitution. Wife. Despair. 'I will give you one less mouth to feed then you pay me my money.'� Pleading. Despair. Crime. Weeping. Terror.

And then this.

Simpiwe reached out and Found the man responsible. Not the father. The one who had pulled the trigger. The one who had made the debt impossible to repay with an interest rate of 40%. The boy's father had taken anything offered to pay the bills. Sadly for this family, anything meant debt to a vicious and cruel Nigerian. One who had come to South Africa, seeking opportunity and had found one in the needs of a people mired in poverty.

He found the man. It was simple enough. The Nigerian's arrogance and disrespect meant he did not hide. He had no fear of the police and this family did not have the means to hire a security company. Being an outlaw meant very little in 2017 Jozi. Very few people could lay claim to being totally clean and crime-free. Most people had something they kept to themselves, from the gangs that robbed armoured cash-carrying vehicles to individuals who never registered for tax.

Robert Akinsemoyin did not hear Simpiwe slipping up behind him and probably did not feel the blow to the back of his head that knocked him onto the ground amidst dusty Texan butts and London Pie Company wrappers. From there it was easy. Simpiwe fished the handcuffs from his pocket, securing the man to a lamppost. The man's small blood spatter was not visible against the leather and would clean off easily. Then Simpiwe waited for the boy's father to return from his late shift at the Caltex garage.

Manana Mkhize was startled and frightened by Simpiwe. It was never a portent of good fortune to be accosted by a masked man in the dark streets of Hillbrow. He tried to avoid running into our caped crusader, but Simpiwe firmly approached, blocking the man's path.

He pointed to the man cuffed to the lamp post.

'My gift for you.'�

And Simpiwe left. He did not want to know how this story unraveled. He had done what he could to address the balance. He had used his gift to provide some justice. Or the potential for justice.

The night was young and there was always more Business. He headed to the massive grey structures that were the Johannesburg General Hospital. Simpiwe could always find things to do in a hospital. There were always victims, balance to be achieved. Simpiwe preferred to work from hospitals because the ones he intervened with were not yet dead.


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Simpiwe Ramaphosa had not set out to become a super hero. Yet any bystander should have seen it coming; his ancestors could not have produced any other combination of genetics and his country could not have led him to a different understanding of what should be done to save his society.

Simps had spent his earliest years in a small rural community in Mpumalanga, the grandson of a respected and powerful Sangoma, who in turn had come from a line of healers and future-viewers. His mother, father and younger brother had died when Simpiwe was six years old and he had been raised by his aging grandparents until he reached high-school age. A great many people had stopped breathing in those terrible years between 1990 and 2015, victims of a disease that ravaged people regardless of age, wealth or colour. While deeply painful for family and loved ones, it was considered simply 'the way of things.'� As a result, Simps spent many hours watching the elders from his village weeping and ululating as their youths were planted in churchyards.

An otherwise ordinary child, Simps had an extraordinary knack for Finding Things. When Mam' Dhlamini lost her bank book, Simps Found it. When Mam' Hlatwayo's fatted and delicious-looking calf mysteriously vanished from her backyard, Simps found it already slaughtered outside Mr Shilowa's backdoor with the coals already lit and the skewer just waiting. Mr Shilowa vigorously denied the offence, but after Simps whispered in Mam' Hlatwayo's ear that there could be no doubt a swift and heavy clip around the head was delivered by the indignant lady. She stomped off down the dusty path to her own home, shouting and berating the stunned and contrite Mr Shilowa. The reciminations did not stop well into the sunset.

There were at least a hundred more similar incidents in his small community. Simpiwe was a valuable member of his village. There were, naturally, some resentments but these were held largely by the 'criminal element' and Simps was protected vigorously by the ample-breasted women who all viewed him as their Special One. The men of the village, always hiding some secret or other, wondered what Simps could see. They were wary because of these petty crimes, judging themselves. Could he see the indiscretion with a wife's sister, the theft of a few Rand from a friend or the dishonesty of a certain bet? The simple truth was that Simps did not look and if ever he caught a glimpse, he did not dwell on it, choosing rather to ignore the simple nature of human beings. He did feel their wariness, however, and stuck to the women.

As a result of this favouritism and petting, Simps spent many hours listening to the women and older men tsking about the state of society as they read newspapers or listened to the radio. The vanishing traditional values of family, morality and virtue were a prime topic of conversation. Mam' Ramaphosa would jabber excitedly and with the tone of one who sees impending doom when she saw stories of young women raped, young men murdered, theft and the booming sex industry after prostitution had been legalized. Gangs of street children, intendane ' parentless ones - aggressively roamed the city, mugging even pensioners for a few Rand to buy glue.

All this debate and news swapping would end with everyone agreeing how much better it was to live in the country, where the biggest criminal investigation was whether it was Mr Dhlamini or Mr Kaba who had urinated on the mielies in back of Joseph Mawata's plot late on Friday night.

This idyllic life ended up abruptly when the bodies of Veronica, Thandi and Gloria were discovered by Mam' Hlatwayo. These three young women were found naked, raped, battered and strangled to death in a field close to the village. Shock quickly turned to a deep and vengeful rage for the occupants of the village and debate was heated over the correct course of action.
'Who is going to call the police?'�
'What good are they? Useless bastards that have never helped us.'�
'This is murder, we must report it!'�
'They care nothing for us. From the beginning of this country they oppressed us and now they are worse than useless.'�
'If they even catch the criminals there will be no justice. These madmen will just get the usual short sentence after years of trial.'�
'How can the families of these girls sleep or eat until they know justice for the blood of their young?'�
'What is wrong with this country?'�

Then the crazed eyes of Veronica's mother lighted on Simps, listening on the edge, as usual.

'You! YOU. You find the people who did this. Find them. Help me.'�

The shattered pain so clearly visible on her face, Simps caught a glimpse of those who had committed this unspeakable act. Youngsters from a nearby town. He found them. clearly in his mind. In that moment there was no doubt where or who they were. Or what they had done.

Young. Angry. Drunk. The crime a simple one. Primal urge. Satisfaction. Fear of capture. Murder. Relief. Escape. More drink.

He blurted out the names and told the men of the village where to find them. He had no clear idea of what would happen, choosing in his naivety to believe the men would catch these boys and take them to a police station.

That night the screams of the boys seared through his head. He hid his head under his school jersey and tried to block his ears with the torn off corners of single-ply toilet paper.

The village was quiet the next day. Nobody spoke about the incident, but Veronica Samatla's mother walked with her head held high and the rest got on with their day with a grim determination. The pigs ate well and the mood of solidarity lasted for several days.

Simpiwe had questions. Mam' Ramaphosa answered firmly and resolutely.

'We expect nothing from this structure we live in. The police seldom capture people and those that are jailed walk freely again. How is this justice? For this crime committed here today, even a prison cell for twenty years is not justice. The only justice can be that of balance. These boys took the lives of three young girls. They robbed their families and our village. Balance is for us to take the same.'�

Simpiwe pondered this. 'But what if I had been wrong and those were not the ones?'�
'Wrong? Simps, sugar, you are never wrong. You Find things. That is how it is. Before you was your father and your grandfather and his grandfather before that. This is the African way. Some small crimes are balanced through shame and knowledge. Others require more. This was such a crime.'�

'But then I am responsible for the death of those boys. How can I live with that?'�
'No. You just found them. Justice belonged to the families. You have done nothing wrong.'�

Simpiwe spent a lot of time thinking about this and eventually, he saw that Mam' Ramaphosa was correct. His gift was never wrong. He found people and things without any error.

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As he grew older and became more aware of current affairs, reading for himself rather than letting everything be interpreted by his grandmother, he saw that justice was scarce in his country. The police and the courts were not adequate. He came to see the law as a tangled mess of words, through which anybody with a good lawyer could walk with impunity. This was not effective.

A move in his teens to Wits University in Jozi had marked a clear turning point for Simpiwe. He read of child rapes, the perpetrators handed short-term sentences because their acts were deemed 'not brutal.' He watched as families disintegrated and learned to live in fear of the criminals. A child hurt could never be truly restored to innocence or an absence of fear. The families felt no justice had been done. Their pain was palpable.

The first criminal Simpiwe found had raped a four-year-old girl. He had beaten her and left the small body bleeding in a field not far from her home in Alexander Township. In those days, Simpiwe had not had a costume. He covered his head with a balaclava and went to drag the man from the shebeen in which he slouched and slurred.

Simpiwe made no judgement. He inflicted no pain. He efficiently dragged the man out and into his ancient Toyota. Finding the child's home was easy, an aroma of grief and confusion radiated from the small house, fuelling a rage that threatened to boil the blood of its inhabitants.

He did not knock at the door, choosing rather to push it firmly with his foot, shoving the stumbling drunk before him. The family looked in silence, too engrossed in their guilt and fear to be worried about the large man with a balaclava. They looked at the drunk, repulsed by the stench.

The drunk was confused, his head hurt as though a hundred weasels were racing around in that small space smashing hammers against his skull. His mouth tasted like month old yoghurt and even greater vintage cigarettes. He fumbled for the dead spots in his memory. What had he done? Was that blood on his shirt? What had he said? Who had seen him like this? Who had he called? What messages had he sent? What time was it? Was he bruised? Pounding fear rose in his chest. Who were these people? The last thing he could remember was standing at the hotel bar with Abel, discussing soccer. He wanted a beer.

'This is the one that hurt your child.'�

Simpiwe turned and left. Perhaps this one would find forgiveness. Perhaps not.

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Over the years of his education, Simpiwe made a name for himself. He excelled at business and was, after graduating, sought after by multi-nationals eager to earn credits for having a black man at the helm of their business. Simpiwe wanted for nothing financially. The work was a means to an end ' a way to feed his real passion for justice and equality.

South Africa had met a fork in the road socially and politically in 1994. It had chosen the lighter of the two paths. Successfully, for the most part. Life was better than it ever had been for people who lived in the country. The only plight was a continued gap between the people who knew enough to fully take advantage of the new nation and those who simply expected to have possessions and wealth granted them. This has always been, and always will be, the case in any country.

Added to the woes of his beloved Jozi, was an overwhelming globalization. Brand names became the symbols of success. A young person just entering the workplace went into debt so he or she could own the latest BMW. Those that did not have work, did their very best to take from those that did. Feeding a desperate desire to be seen as successful.

Simpiwe could not predict the future, so his gift had little preventative ability. What he did was find the guilty, with absolute clarity and certainty. It was not exactly illegal, to transport an individual from one place to another, but Simpiwe understood that if his activities came to light he would be stopped. So, with patience and determination, he modeled his life on those of the Marvel or DC Comics super heroes. He worked hard at being fit, quick, balanced and competent at all martial arts. His costume was understated, but very effective. He carried no weapon. Years of yoga taught him balance and the ability to move silently.

Simpiwe took his diet very seriously, knowing that he should eat for optimal energy use and to develop his muscles. He ate no miellie pap, choosing rather the less sleep-inducing imported rice. Otherwise a committed patriot, Simpiwe could not be effective if he was tired and sluggish after food.

On the few days that the city was silent, there was always Business in the hospitals and Simpiwe wielded justice with accuracy. Some things were considered crimes by the legal system, but Simpiwe did not view them that way. He cared only for violence committed by one individual against another. He acted on drunken drivers who caused pain, people who killed, raped or assaulted and, vilest of all ' the molesters of small children.

On the darkened streets of Jozi he had a name. A whispered name. Never public. Never in the media. They called him Umthunzi, the Shadow. Simpiwe Ramaphosa frightened people but this was of no concern to him.

Ends

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