The diary of detective Linda Marang

After my squad and I return to the police station from our regular rounds and hear the prison's doors being locked up with prisoners’ moans and groans in the background, I go to my office for a brief respite. As I find a moment to contemplate about the days’ success and challenges, I then begin to page through my diary which I keep my thoughts. The success of the day was arresting one convict for attempted murder, a rapist, three found in possession of drugs, two for cases of house robbery, group of prostitutes and a case of assault. As I continue, I pen down the day’s challenge of still having to find people on top of these crime cartels such as drug dealers and pimps. My mind gets revived as I think of the main task that lays ahead as a detective; that is doing more investigation and interrogation on victims and the convicts.

Being a detective, let alone a woman detective, has become the buzz question I always get. People are always bombarding me with questions about being a female detective in a once perceived “males only” job. Due to my busy schedule, I hold my breath and give them those pompous answers about following my talent and handling my responsibilities.

But of course deep in my heart I know it’s all about passion. Paging through my diary, I note that I have always transcribed my career as a passion that motivates me. This has driven me over the years to carry my duties with dedication, integrity and determination. I guess I could say my passion was instilled in me over the years but could be attributed to one fateful day and my friend’s sad fate. Turning back the pages of my diary, I could vividly reminisce about the events before that day.

It all started when my family and I moved into the city, coming from the rural area of the North West province. My father a devoted farmer got discouraged by the rural landscape which largely consisted of forests, its soil mainly sand, rock sculptured hills and scarce dams or excess to water resources. We moved into the Johannesburg city for better opportunities and my parents wanted to be successful business people. By that time my two siblings and I were just teenagers. I was the youngest as I had an older brother and sister before me. I remember the dreams we had as a family and I really saw myself being a medical doctor. With the prospect of living in the city and the new political developments in South Africa after 1994, we had high hopes. The city offered a different lifestyle from the rural countryside. There were lights in every corner, lots of different people and the daily routine was fast. If I was not mistaken it seemed half the country’s population was there in search of the popular commodity “gold”. Most people seemed to be aiming for the promised glitz and glamour life; while others seemed to walk in despair and disappointment as there was a high level of unemployment. The lifestyle also consisted of those wanting power and money, and this was evident from the boom of informal businesses such as hair salons, restaurants, food stores and a high volume of pastors with their “tent” churches. On the other hand the poor seemed to be driven even lower as street corners in town were congested with hawkers and beggars.

Like many families who move into a new area, we did not know anyone in the city. Fortunately my father got in contact with one of his distance uncle who migrated to the city as a miner a long time ago. So we initially moved in to live with my father’s relatives.

One Sunday afternoon while sitting on the balcony over drinks and looking at the bustling street with passersby and traffic, I listened to my father and his uncle talking about Johannesburg city.

"Well motlogolo, Johannesburg is like a magnet and a big hovel that swallows you. Look at me growing old...I came here in search of gold, but never possessed one and I am still stuck here searching for it" stated my father's uncle known as uncle Benny, as he sat down with his walking stick next to him. He used the stick as he couldn't walk proplerly from overworking in the mines and suffering from lung infections.

"What a pity..." said my father as he handed him a glass of lemonade. "With such a great number of people from inside and outside South Africa still flocking into Johannesburg, what's in for this generation?" asked my father curiously as he sipped his drink.

"In my times, I have seen it all. Johannesburg is forever evolving with people and opportunities and everyone chasing this and that dream. It's always about the day's socio-political and economic changes," said uncle Benny while gazing into space. "You have to fight hard to get something, for your rights and to get ahead. Forget the promised glitz and glamour. It depends, when you think you have figured it all, you are bound to fall, sometimes. It can be a dog eat dog world."

"I see..." answered my father in a reflective tone." I guess all that glitters is not gold."

While we appreciated the accommodation at uncle Benny's house, it was somehow not good, as the five of us had to share two rooms. In that space we had to squeeze in a kitchen, dining room and two bedrooms. The order of the day was that we, the children had to wake up early, prepare for the day without disturbing anyone and while at the same time maintaining that privacy because the space made anyone’s movement bumpy.

We lived in this uncomfortable condition for three years until we were finally offered a bigger house in part of a township through government subsidy. My parents were semi-employed as they were sometimes hired to do odd jobs such as laundry, ironing and cleaning. My brother and sister had finished high school and were waiting for a bursary or some help to go to college. My brother who finished two years before my sister had been waiting for three years. In order to pay up for water and electricity services, we started running a small cafeteria or what was locally known as “spaza shop” from the yard of this new house. We stocked and sold goods that were basic necessities in the daily running of households. The spaza shop proved to be much needed around the community, as the shopping centers were far away and one had to use transport to get there. So everyone around the area and from the street, appreciated the fact that they could get access to small, “last minute” and much needed groceries from just around corner. Running a home business seemed to be the order of the day in this township, given to the country’s economic recession. My friend’s mother who lived down the road, ran a “guest house”. It seemed successful as there were always people in need of accommodation. Then there were gossips amongst the township elders, about the guest house being an unsafe environment for bringing up a child especially a girl child. Well I didn’t take much heed as my friend who seemed bashful at times, didn’t tell me otherwise. Besides, I always thought that she was safe as she stayed with her extended family members who took good care of her. All I saw most of the time were decent people going in and out, mostly gentlemen.

Anyway, with regard to the running of my family business, the spaza shop, all the family members were involved. Everyone played their part. According to the timetable, if one was not doing stock taking, one would be doing bookkeeping or packing or selling or tidying up.

I could vividly remember being in my final year of school and returning home to often finding my mother reminding my older siblings about the importance of prioritizing the business than friends. Her words were,” This is our bread and butter. Take a look around, there is high unemployment rate and most of your peers cannot get through high school. So take this opportunity seriously, it might take you somewhere.” This statement was mind boggling but as I was always at school during the day, I didn’t take it to be that serious.

It was during school holidays that I had come to notice my siblings’ group of friends. They were mostly around their age and made a habit of hanging outside the spaza shop. Most of them were high school graduates, a few were high school dropouts and were all loafers. But the group that interested me the most or rather made me more inquisitive was the one that had the main character nicknamed,” Razor”. I often wondered if this name was attributed to the scar which streched across chin.For being unemployed, the group seemed to be doing well. They were always dressed up in the latest lavish fashion, carried lots of cash, expensive cellphones and drove around in a flashy convertible. I guess this was the glitz and glamour that always attracted people to the urban-city life.

As time went by, I finished my high school and had to work full time in the shop, while waiting for a chance to advance my career as a health worker. My first choice was being a medical doctor of course or at least a clinical psychologist. Most high school graduates had to wait for an opportunity to study at college. Overtime, it seemed the high hopes about finding better opportunities in the city and living in the democratic political era had frizzled off. My friend from down the road, withdrew from socializing with us, her circle of friends. I learnt that she was involved in the running of her home business and mysteriously led a glamorous lifestyle. She was rumored to be in a relationship with an older man who supported her financially at a price of her emotional wellbeing and innocence. At times she would go missing with this man and when she came back, she had bruises on her face. Most people in the community turned a blind eye as the mother seemed like one of those dignified women, who went to church every Sunday. She carried herself well in public and was very soft spoken when approached. Another mistake that was made by the community was that it was a taboo for young women to press charges regardless of whether there is any abuse. With this perception and no action taking place, it was difficult for law enforcement to intervene.

While working at the shop as part of my new routine, I had come to notice my sibling’s change of behavior. My sister was withdrawn or rather seemed to be always absent minded. My brother showed the similar change of behavior but he was more rebellious, ate and slept less, had hideout places and always carried huge amount of “unexplained” cash.

It was a day during the summer that everything became blurry and clear at the same time. I was due for duty in the afternoon and my brother was in charge of the spaza shop in the morning. As I was about to finish one of my household chores of cleaning, I could hear an argument coming from outside the spaza shop. As I hurried to look, it was my brother, the usual Razor’s gang and some other gang who seemed older, arguing. My sister was cuddled into a corner with her hands covering her ears and seemed to be in a trance. As I stood there trying to understand the gist of the argument, I could hear some words about some “staff” being the real deal and needed to be shipped out. Some character called “Dragon” from the other gang held a black suitcase and was shouting something about having the real staff and not wanting to be played. While being mystified by this happening, I then heard police siren coming from a distance.

In a flash, I heard raucous crackling noises, and caught a glimpse of a shadow of several gangsters holding guns. I cuddled with my sister and we squeezed more into a corner. I heard more cracking noises and shots from guns, women screaming from a distance, people movements scuffling around and police in their loud speakers ordering people to disperse and for the gang to put their guns down. I am sure the dreadful fiasco lasted for about ten minutes.

Subsequently I can vaguely remember a hand trying to drag me off the corner, where I was cuddled up with my sister, who had collapsed. As I was struggling to get up and my eyes being blurred by my tears, I could see that it was a man dressed in paramedics’ uniform leading me to an ambulance. I also managed to notice a mess of shuttered glasses, groceries scattered all over, lights from ambulances and police vans, few bodies lying in funny positions and red liquid flowing from them. The chaotic sound of guns was now followed by sudden silence. One could only hear meek sound from some sobbing women, whispers from passersby at a distance who were asking questions about the event and then there were police walkie-talkies communicating information about the scene.

The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital. I guess I was in a dazed state for some days as I suffered a massive headache and a stiff neck for some times. As days went by, I started to move and my mind was becoming clear. This could be attributed to the supportive network I got from my parents and nursing stuff. They always desisted me from stressing and assured me that everything was fine, including the wellbeing of my siblings.

One afternoon as I was recuperating, I got a visit from two police. One introduced himself as a detective from violent crime police unit and that he was investigating the multiple murder case of that day. The police were asking me to give account of events that took place that day. I told them exactly what I remembered and they scribbled my statement. In their statement it was said six people died, four from the gangsters and two customers who were trying to buy from the spaza shop and while some sustained different wounds from a shooting between gangsters and police. They emphasized that it was two groups of drug gangsters involved and one belonging to Razor, but they suspected there was an unknown drug lord involved. They arrested two for culpable homicide but were not trialed yet and were out on bail. Razor was arrested on suspicion of drug dealing and assault but was later released due to lack of evidence. From the statement it also appeared that my siblings, like most youngsters were to be used as drug mules. Upon hearing their statement I could hear that there were loopholes. I had endless questions running through my mind. Who were the people on top of these crime, the drug lords? Why was there lack of evidence for incarcerating people like Razor? Why were those arrested as murders easily released on bail? I wanted to know why my siblings got involved. Was it to fulfill their dreams or get better opportunities? It bothered me that I actually saw the signs that my siblings were struggling with drugs. I further pondered about the level of secrecy involved in drug rings and this triggered my mind to join the police force. After my hospitalization, I registered myself to a police college within two months.

Fortunately my sister and I survived with minor injuries from that crime scene. But I later learnt my brother was shot at a back towards a spine and was sadly placed into a wheelchair. Both my siblings and some gang members were confined into the hospital’s drug rehabilitation center for months. Through routine check, the hospital stuff found that they were heavily addicted to cocaine. After that formidable ordeal, my family unity and wellbeing was shaken to the core. My mother developed a medical condition that has to do with the heart. My father suffered deep depression, nearly drowned himself into alcohol but had to be strong for my mother. The spaza shop was shut down due to the traumatic event and bad memories associated with it.

While completing my police qualification, I learnt that my friend committed suicide in her mother’s house. She had left a suicidal note which revealed the reason for her suicide. It said something about no longer being able to cope with all the lies and abuse she was exposed to in that house. It sounded like she blamed her mother for introducing her to drugs and older men. It was discovered that her house was actually a brothel, disguised as a guest house. It was rumored that wanting power always coincided with criminal activities. Those posing as powerful businessmen were said to be either drug dealers, pimps and or pseudo pastors that hid behind some form of church. One had observed how it would take drastic and tragic events such as death, for the truth to be retrieved and the record to be set straight. I also learnt that young women, like my friend were somehow prohibited from pressing charges against older men or drug dealers who abused them.

So when looking back and hearing people ask me why I chose to be a woman detective, I hold my breath and give those braised answers. But paging through my diary into my thoughts, it is that day’s event and my friend’s suicide that influenced me to be a policewoman. The fact that so much crime was happening right under my nose. The fact that there are at times lack of evidence for police to actually incarcerate the perpetrators. I further thought that so many innocent people could still be hurt in future by such crime rings. So each time I succeed in incarcerating a drug dealer or rapist, I am doing it for women such as my sister and my late friend. I become so gratified when I help to rescue young women who get caught in the unfortunate drug rings and who befriend wrong people like Razor.

Every day I put on my blue uniform and my firearm on my waist, I do so with pride, responsibility and commitment. Every spare time I help out in the community projects, I am building awareness on drugs and drug crime. I want the innocent, especially the youth to stay away from this sad ring of crime. In addition, I build awareness on women abuse and femicide. I always emphasize the fact that the onus lies on us as women to report cases of abuse. But at the same time I educate society to be responsible in changing their behavior and perception towards women abuse. Every day I get called out to look into criminal cases, I do so with passion and determination. I am Detective Linda Marang.

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