FIFTYI AWOKE THE NEXT DAY in my hotel at about 2pm, sprawled face down on the bed like a teenager who had just had his first bad night of drinking. The bedding was crusted with blood from wounds I didn’t know I had. I was bruised and sore and muddied all over, but nothing seemed broken or infected. Still, I spent a good long time under the shower. The man in the mirror looked even stranger than before. He had a bruise on the side of his face and a big scratch on the side of his head running into the hair. My hips and knees and ankles and wrists and shoulders were stiff, but okay. Pain killers could do miracles.
I only contacted Diana after showering, using the Nokia. Nothing I had taken to Mazibongwe the night before had made its way back with me.
She still had the feed from their CCTV a
