Chapter 9: The Forest Rendezvous

…continued from 18 May 2026...

He did not fear death at all, in fact he wanted to die, he believed, had to believe, that there was something else besides this shit hole of a life he had been delivered into. In the meantime, he would wreak havoc and revenge on a God he believed was taking the piss out of him by allowing him to exist in this hell on earth.

Whitey had absolutely no sense of sophistication, he grunted instead of talked, he mostly ate with his hands, and his dress sense was distinctly American ghetto.

Track suits, lots of flashy jewellery around his neck and on his fingers, and of course the eternal sun glasses. He always wore the most expensive sports shoes available. His vehicle of choice was a flashy Lincoln SUV, which he had shipped to Cape Town via his contacts in Columbia after seeing Michael Jackson’s entourage on TV, back then, arriving at his child molestation trial in a convoy of the huge intimidating vehicles. Instead of the slightly subdued black of Michael Jackson’s convey, Whitey had ordered a Scarlet Lincoln, which literally stood out like a sore thumb.

All the cops knew he was dirty, but they also knew he was insane and that if provoked he would not only kill them, but their families too. He was too well-protected to take out, as well. So mostly they turned a blind eye, unless his activities overtly entered the public arena. Like the time an innocent 8-year-old girl was killed in crossfire, the police chief was so incensed that the subsequent manhunt forced Whitey into hiding for three months. Eventually he had to placate the police chief with a huge bribe.

The only real way to get to Whitey was through Themba, his lover. And this wasn’t too easy either, since the two were seldom apart. Themba, though, did have a love for gardening, which Whitey detested, but allowed his lover to indulge in. Secretly he enjoyed receiving flowers from Themba every now and again.

So, from time-to-time Themba could be found at the local nursery, stocking up on fertilizer or new plants. Needless to say, he would be accompanied by a few body guards.

Shawn had sent one of his most reliable gangster buddies to tail Themba for a few days, to get his routine and the lay of the land so to speak. Themba and Whitey’s headquarters were in Sedgefield, close to George on the East Coast. Tebogo, Shawn’s man, was an ex uMkhonto weSizwe surveillance specialist who had grown disillusioned with the ANC’s military wing after the fall of apartheid. It wasn’t difficult for him to follow Themba, but the bodyguards were on him like black on night all of the time.

Themba shrieked with delight when the sales lady at the nursery informed him that he had won a mystery prize for being such a loyal customer. However, his joy quickly turned to fear and confusion when he opened the envelope and realised that it contained instructions to hand over the package to Whitey.

Whitey read the note again, then he looked at the pile of cash, R50 000 in hard cash. And the note said he would receive another R50 000 if he agreed to meet someone who had a plan to make him legit. But Whitey liked being a criminal, why would he want to go legit?

Whitey looked at the number on the note and allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He dialled the number. The voice on the other end of the line sounded vaguely familiar, Whitey was sure he had heard it on TV before.

“Is Whitey wat praat,” he grunted into the phone.

“Dankie, is jou fone safe?”

“Ja, of course.”

“My naam is Johan Baatjies, en ek het a business proposition vir jou,” Johan slipped effortlessly into Kaaprikaans (the local dialect spoken by the majority of Coloureds, which is also sometimes referred to as Kaaps or Afrikaaps).

“Ek luister,” Whitey suddenly remembered where he had heard the voice and recognised who he was talking to. This was a legitimate business man, a very wealthy individual, why would he be seeking to do business with a gangster like him?

“Ek kan more in George wees, kan djy my optel by die airport,”

Whitey was even more intrigued. “Okay, maak net sieker djy’s aleen, ek wiet hoe lyk djy.”

The small plane landed at George airport at 06:30, Johan flew under a false name, and he was scheduled to fly back to Cape Town at 08:30.

He was relieved to see that Whitey had shown some intelligence and had sent an inconspicuous VW Jetta to collect him at the airport. The sun was climbing out of the sea slowly and a warm orange dawn cloaked the horizon over a calm sea.

The driver did not say much except to confirm that Johan was who he was. They drove for 30 minutes before the driver suddenly veered off onto a dirt road. Fifteen minutes later he stopped among some very tall pine trees in the middle of the thick coastal forest. Seemingly out of nowhere, Whitey appeared all flash and glitter in his track suit and jewellery. He was flanked by four very ominous looking guys. Two of them stood slightly behind him while the remaining two stood squarer-on and a few metres ahead of him.

Johan knew that he was expected to stand directly in front of Whitey. He got out of the Jetta and approached Whitey with his hand extended. Despite Whitey’s palpably evil aura, Johan showed no fear. Whitey seemed perplexed by Johan’s obvious lack of fear and involuntarily stretched out a hand to accept his greeting.

Later, sipping on a cold drink, 30 thousand feet above the Indian Ocean en route back to Cape Town, Johan marvelled at the crude ruthlessness of Whitey. He was no fool, that much was obvious. He was also extremely focussed on his own interests and had wasted no time in asking Johan what was in it for him. Johan had expected this; in fact, he knew that he would have to “pay off” all of the gang bosses with substantial long-term investments if they were going to be a part of his plan. Whitey warmed to the idea of legitimately owning prime real estate on the coast between George and Knysna.

But that would only be the beginning.

Continued tomorrow 20 May 2026, before 12pm