Brian limped out the back of the cab, one hand on his ribs, the other gripping the bag of meds and cheap hospital slippers. The Wendy house sat at the back of the dusty yard, same as always. Corrugated walls. Crooked satellite dish. Half-dead aloe plant leaning against a car battery. It should've felt comforting.
It didn't.
The door was open.
And laughter spilled out.
Brian frowned. He hobbled forward, then stopped.
Inside his house... his tiny Wendy, barely enough space for two people and a cockroach... four brasse he didn't know sat around an upturned crate, playing dominoes like they owned the place.
There was smoke in the air. Weed. One of them had the audacity to be using Brian's Tupperware as an ashtray.
And right in the middle of them…
Mark.
Wearing Brian's Springbok hoodie.
"Six-love, my ou!" Mark shouted, slapping a domino on the crate and laughing like he'd just won the Lotto.
Brian stepped into the doorway and said nothing.
He just walked over…
…and kicked the crate over.
Dominoes flew.
So did Tupperware ash. Weed. Someone's pie.
"HEY! Jou ma se...!" One of the brasse jumped up, fists half-raised. "Who the hell's this lighty? Is he Jas or what?!"
Mark shot up, holding his hands out like a bouncer at a shebeen.
"Woah! Chill, chill, my mense! Dis my boy, Brian, the one who got stabbed."
Brian glared. "In my own house."
The guy with the pie said, "So now you gonna disrespect the game 'cause you a ghost back from the morgue, huh?"
Brian didn't flinch. "You eating in my bed, bra."
Mark waved his arms. "Okay, okay, everyone relax. Pack up your things, gents. We'll continue dumbs by Jerome's shack next time. His mom works night shift. Peaceful vibes."
The brasse mumbled, glared at Brian, and started gathering their dominos like mourners at a funeral. One of them muttered, "Next time I'm bringing my pitbull." Another looked Brian up and down. "You don't even look stabbed."
Brian lifted his shirt slightly, revealing the stitched scar.
"Eish. Okay, that's real," the guy said, backing out.
When the last one left, Brian shut the door and let himself collapse onto his bed. He groaned. The mattress still had the same spring poking him near the kidneys.
Mark walked over, arms spread. "My bru! You're home!"
Brian didn't look at him. "You a kak friend."
Mark blinked. "Wha...?"
"You didn't visit me once, bro. Not once in that whole dusty, Dettol-smelling, piss-soaked month."
"I brought you grapes," Mark said weakly.
Brian sat up. "You left them with security. In a Checkers packet. And they were already brown."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "You're being dramatic."
Brian stared. "Dramatic? Bro, nurses washed me like a toddler. No warning. No gloves. One of them called me 'shamepies'."
Mark tried not to laugh. Failed. "Ag, I'm sorry, bru. It's just, look, I thought you were saat. Like, finished-finished. So I took the liberty of… claiming your residence."
Brian clicked his teeth so hard it could've opened a bottle.
Mark shrugged, sat on the edge of the bed. "It was either that or your cousin Enver was gonna move in and start charging rent."
Brian groaned. "I hate that lighty."
"Exactly. You should thank me."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Brian muttered, "You still owe me rent, though."
Mark looked shocked. "For real?"
Brian looked him dead in the eye. "One week of me getting sponge-bathed by a nurse named Auntie Denise, and you think I'm just gonna let this slide?"
Mark scratched his head. "Okay, okay. I'll contribute. But I'm paying in chips and loose draws."
Brian flopped back on the bed, exhaling.
Same old shack.
Same old chaos.
But somehow… it felt good to be back.
Even if your best friend was a squatter.
Mark stood up. "You hungry, my bru? I still got some viennas and that ghost chicken from Shoprite. Expired, but it slaps with chutney."
Brian laughed. "Only if you cook it."
"Say less," Mark grinned, heading to the hot plate like he was on MasterChef Delft Edition.
As the pot sizzled and the faint sound of dominoes echoed from down the road, Brian lay there, looking up at his patched ceiling.
He'd been stabbed.
He'd been stitched.
He got a girl's number.
And now he was home.
Scarred.
Sore.
But alive.
And somewhere in the back of his mind… the war drums were still beating.
Quiet now.
But steady.
They ate off paper plates, hunched on opposite sides of the tiny room like soldiers in a trench.
Viennas boiled until they split. Ghost chicken fried hard in oil that smelled a bit too vintage. White bread soaked up the chutney like it had a job interview.
Mark chewed loudly. "Yoh. This expired thing is slapping, my bru. Like... mwah. Michelin star. My tastebuds are dancing."
Brian didn't laugh.
He was staring at his scar again.
Mark frowned, wiping his mouth. "You good?"
Brian nodded, then looked up. "You really wanna know?"
Mark leaned back slightly. "Now I'm scared."
Brian put down his food. "You asked me back then… if I was serious."
Mark blinked. "Okay…"
"I was. I am. I went through with it, bro."
Mark stopped chewing. "Wait... you mean…?"
Brian nodded. "Yeah. And I want you to join."
Mark stared. "You Jas, bro. I don't wanna end up like you. Nearly died for what? A clap on the back and a prayer from Auntie Maureen?"
Brian leaned forward, eyes hard. "What if there's a way to do better?"
Mark raised a skeptical brow. "What, like vigilante 2.0?"
Brian smirked. "Nah. Like… vigilante with a business plan."
Mark laughed. "You're cooked, bru."
"I'm serious." Brian leaned closer. "We make content. We dress up, save someone, real people, real help but we record it. Make it look cool. Edit it with those old-school cartoon sound effects. Wham! Boof! Kapow! Add music. Upload to YouTube, Insta, Facebook. The whole works."
Mark paused mid-bite.
Brian pressed on. "Not too violent. Just enough to go viral, you know? Like… dude pulls a knife, we disarm him with style. Maybe throw in a backflip. We censor the hectic stuff. Keep it fun. Like a cross between Batman and TikTok."
Mark sat back, eyes wide now. "That… could actually work. People love that kind of stuff. Even the aunties who say 'violence is wrong' will be resharing that thing on WhatsApp with emojis and everything."
Brian grinned. "Exactly."
Mark scratched his chin. "We'll need a cameraman. Someone who can hold a phone without shaking like a leaf."
Brian nodded. "I was thinking Jermaine. He still owes me airtime, so we can guilt him into it."
Mark leaned back, staring at the roof, a crooked smile forming. "Damn. We really gonna be heroes with hashtags, huh?"
Brian whispered, "Heroes of South Africa…"
Mark snapped his fingers. "That's the name! That's the name, bro!"
They both burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that hurts your ribs if you've got stitches. Which Brian did.
He groaned, clutching his side. "Okay, okay, laugh less, stitch more."
Mark stood up, hype building. "I'm gonna design the logo tonight. Maybe like… us in silhouette, fists raised, with Cape Town in the background and Table Mountain behind us."
Brian raised a hand. "No capes."
Mark nodded solemnly. "No capes."
As the night air crept in through the corrugated walls, and the sound of sirens passed like a distant wave, something new settled in the Wendy house.
Not peace.
Not safety.
But purpose.
And purpose, in a place like this, was a dangerous thing.