the shoulder

suddenly, the taxi comes screeching around us. out of the corner of my eye, i see it lurching up onto the grassy bit beside the car and then, too fast for the sounds and images to meet, it smashes, metal on metal, into a light-pole. all we hear is glass shattering above us and then crashing like an explosion. the old man in the front seat is bleeding, the windshield broken and shattered from the impact of his skull. andrew screeches to a stop, head in hands, panicking.

the taxi was headed for khayelitsha, behind the mountain, out of the way of the sun and traffic. "we come to town to work," they say, "bring food and money home to our families." and before any ambulance, before the police arrive, they are gone. scratched and bleeding, they are herded into another taxi and shipped away, limping.