Gangsters, Meth, and Mercy: a Butterfly in the Ganglands
Memoirs of Mayhem Episode 3 - A Tale of Survival
FIRST AN IMPORTANT PSA:With the utmost, overwhelming gratitude, I want to thank the anonymous donor who has impacted my journey in more ways than one! I now have all the supplements required for the full duration of the protocol! AS WELL AS liver and kidney test kits! This is such a huge gift that I find expressing my gratitude challenging - I don’t believe the dialogue exists to do so effectively. Besides the obvious help and contribution, your kind donation has also added a layer of motivation and accountability to my efforts - from this moment on, if I fuck up, I’m not just letting myself and my son down, I will be letting you down too! And, as with all the amazing things in my life, the courier couldn’t have arrived at a better time! I really needed a pick-me-up today! You have also reassured me that I’m gaslighting myself when I think that humans simply don’t care about others, especially strangers (and I am sure that you are a stranger since only 2 or 4 of my subscribers know me personally).
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Update: To complete the protocol as planned, the only products I still need are the peptides (NAD+, SS-31, MOTS-c, BPC-157, TB-500, GHK-Cu), Lion’s Mane and ethically sourced Iboga (microdosing)! - this feels so much more obtainable now! THANK YOU!
TRIGGER WARNING:
This essay contains information related to potentially triggering themes of
Violence
Explicit Drug Use
Gender Based Violence
Murder
Discrimination
Sexual Assault
Human Trafficking
This story is in a slightly different vein than the usual trip report (one of many that doesn’t actually involve psychedelics) but is still a “trip” down memory lane. A mere <11 years ago; it feels like another life.
I found myself homeless in the southern suburbs of Cape Town after falling victim to a sneaky mechanic who repeatedly sabotaged my car until I was broke and forced to abandon it at his workshop. Losing the autonomy and safety that came with that car marked a pivotal moment in my downward spiral of the 2010s.
I acquired a tent and moved onto "the yard," a large plot of land next to Andrew’s home, located at the first intersection you encounter when turning off the M3 into Kirstenhof. The yard was in Lakeside, a stone’s throw from Lakeside Police Station, even closer to Lakeside Train Station, and a quick hop, skip and jump from Pollsmoor Prison. Three blocks north, separated by Military Road, lay Steenberg—a small, coloured community rife with gang activity. It’s relatively safer for an outsider to venture into during the day than places like Lavender Hill, just 2 kilometres east down Military Road. You are bound to encounter more gangsters affiliated with the nommer (notorious numbers gang in prison) than non-affiliated citizens, but they commonly stick to their non-prison gang names: Mongrels, Junky Funky Kids, The Americans, The HLs (Hard Livings), and Dixie Boys among others.
Several others lived on the yard. An older couple settled there for years and had a queen-sized bed and an impressive army tent. Then there were the guys in the "magic truck"—a wheel-less, part-less blue VW Kombi housing three men aged 27 to 50. I found the oldest, Shane, fascinating. A wealth of wisdom, he came from money, held a university degree, and had successful years as a chef and restaurant owner behind him—an ex-wife and two beautiful adult daughters to show for it. I loved listening to him talk late at night (he loved the sound of his own voice, too). He’d share insights on planets and stars, wildlife facts, music production, world history, Judaism and Christianity, and the latest gossip about local psytrance DJs, festivals, gangsters, dealers, and police officers.
Andrew, who owned the house, let us all stay. I pitched my tent toward the back, out of public view, near the edge of the Zandvlei Estuary Nature Reserve. Though the plot belonged to the municipality, Andrew had extended his home to include a bedroom, small kitchen, and bathroom. He’d let me bathe there every other night and use his facilities. When he went out, he’d leave his bedroom key in a secret spot so I could escape the others and crash on his couch. A kind man, he looked out for me. When Cape Town’s winter hit and weeks of persistent rain soaked everything—my bedding, clothes, even my pillow (my tent wasn’t waterproof)—Andrew strung a line from his kitchen to his bedroom so I could dry my things. He lent me clean linen and a pillow and let me crash on his couch, where we’d spend nights slamming and smoking meth and mandrax (methaqualone), crafting and creating, and laughing.
The guys on the yard were protective of me. They shared food and lent a hand or an ear when I needed it—always respectful, never crossing boundaries. In return, I cooked, cleaned, and showed up if anyone was arrested, a reliable face at court with a cigarette and a train ticket home. Then came Franco. Naturally, the first misogynist to enter the space was the one I fell for. Everything about him was off, but I soon convinced myself I loved him.
Two gangsters—Shorty and Richboy—started appearing more often. Americans on the outside, they were 26s (members of the Numbers gang) on the inside. At first, I avoided them. I’d met my share of Numbers over the years and learned that 26s are often underestimated—a deliberate part of their "game." My experience taught me that they’re generally cunning as hell and far smarter than anyone credits them for. I won’t delve too deeply into the Number Gang, as I’m not at liberty to do so, but I will say that its rich mythology and folklore, largely confined to members sworn to secrecy, are its greatest assets. Their history stretches back centuries to when young Black men left rural villages for work in South African mines.
Historically, the 26s handle currency in prison—money, contraband, drugs, tobacco—master smugglers and manipulators. The 27s uphold the gang’s law, feared and fiercely dedicated. The 28s are traditionally associated with violence, physical and sexual. Ironically, I found 28s the most honourable, sincere, and composed when unprovoked.
Shorty and Richboy’s reputations preceded them. Both had served time for drug dealing, trafficking, grand theft auto, and petty crimes. Shorty’s rap sheet included grievous bodily harm, murder, and multiple rapes—one victim had been my roommate years earlier. Richboy brutally killed several people, including a cousin he said was "like his brother," in cold blood. Both had pending cases across a spectrum of crimes. Fearless, they weren’t fazed by prison, torture, or death. As I’d soon learn, the only thing they feared was Shorty’s grandmother, whom I regrettably never met.
One fateful evening, the yard was quiet—new moon, dark, below freezing, mid-month. Hustling had failed, and the cold kept everyone from opportunistic crime. Franco was desperate to score, but our resources were thin. We checked the yard to pool money for a score, planning to walk into Steenberg, obtain pille (mandrax), and share them on return. No luck—those home were asleep, the rest gone. As we headed back to our tent, Shorty and Richboy appeared. Smooth-talking, gangster-walking, they convinced Franco to hand over the cash, promising a better deal in their territory. How could he trust them? By sending me along—they’d have to return, right? Or didn’t he trust me? They offered Shorty’s cell phone as collateral. I signalled Franco every way I could—No! What the hell? I don’t want to go!—but, like the fool he was, he insisted.
I’ll never forget that moment. Flanked by gangsters, each offering an elbow like smug gentlemen, I walked off the property. Richboy grinned, “So dis hoe Franco staan vir sy vrou! [So this is how Franco stands up for his wife?] Tonight we show him how far you can trust a gangster, a real man. He doesn’t deserve you—sold you for a dummy phone. Fucking idiot Frans! [person with no gang affiliation] “Little lady from Jo’burg, tonight we take you on a Cape Town gangster adventure!”
I knew they’d use Franco’s money for drugs and not return, but why they dragged me along was unclear.
In Steenberg, every block had young gangsters huddled, talking smack, waiting for clients. They’d shout demeaning comments my way—after all, Steenberg’s streets after dark aren’t safe for women, let alone a white girl—but Shorty and Richboy shut them down, violently if needed. “This white girl’s off-limits, under the Americans’ protection, manskappe van Grey [26 Numbers Gang members outside prison]” they’d say.
We moved constantly—gang member homes, lounges, bedrooms, carports—facing 7 to 15 strangers, aged 14 to 65, at each stop. Older men glared until my escorts explained why I was present. They shared meth from "personal" Pyrex pipes and smoked insane amounts of mandrax with low-grade cannabis in broken bottle-neck pipes. Suspicion hit when Richboy kept pushing me to smoke the "cream"—the first, strongest hit—even after I’d had enough and felt "dwanky.” [someone or something that is lame, stupid, uncool, or generally undesirable.] I’ve never been a stoner; the weed alone overwhelmed me.
I lost track of how many stops we made. But I had spent enough time around gangsters to have a rudimentary grasp of Sabela—their language, born from South Africa’s eleven official languages (Afrikaans, English, Xhosa, Zulu, etc.), blended for prison communication. More crucially, I read body language and rooms well. Their kindness and "protection" were a ploy to gain my trust. They planned to sell me to a group running human trafficking and prostitution rings.
During another move, I got my phone out and messaged a friend near the yard—a 27 who knew Steenberg’s gangsters well. Confused, lost, unsure if we were even still in Steenberg or as far as Lavender Hill, I trusted Donny-Dog to find me. Like an idiot, he called. Shorty snatched my phone before I could hang up, answering, “Hosh Pakamiesa Nkiliki-jaan! Minute Donny!” He stated I’d left willingly, no kidnapping involved—classic 26 tactics: accuse or suspect them, and they’re entitled to do it, blaming you for "bringing it on yourself.” He handed me the phone and instructed me to confirm his story to my friend, Donny asked yes-or-no questions. Yes, I didn’t want to be there. No, I didn’t know where I was. Yes, I was scared. Yes, I was too high to talk. Yes! I needed him to come and find me! Shorty confiscated my phone. The pace quickened. They were nervous. A police van appeared; Shorty grabbed my hand—“Run!” Shorty was by no means a short guy, yet, at a mere 1.54 meters, I kept up with his 2.2-meter strides, leaping a low wall like an Olympian hurdles athlete. Mid-air, he yanked me back, slamming me to the ground. “Shhh,” he signalled, pressing me against the wall. The van passed. We laughed nervously. Richboy shushed us—“This is Shorty’s gran’s yard. If the auntie catches us, we’re dead.”
We sneak out of the old lady’s property, and Shorty scans for police or any other activity. The coast is clear. We head to yet another house. Richboy creeps around the building and knocks on a bedroom window. A skinny, sleepy guy opens the door, cussing us for disturbing him at this hour, but he lets us in after Richboy explains they’ve taken me and the boere (law enforcement) are looking for us. The homeowner leads us to a bedroom where his woman is sleeping. He slams on the light; she moans, oblivious to the situation. He wakes her rudely, punching her in the face. She bolts upright, startled, to say the least. My chaperones laugh, flinging insults about her being a lazy woman who sleeps when she should serve. She gets up, and quickly puts the kettle on. The guys chuckle. Richboy looks at me, flashing a sly smile, showing off his gold grills. “It was about three years ago we took her, just like we took you tonight.” The woman glances at me—expressionless at first, then disgust and dismay creep onto her face, her split lip spilling a few drops of blood.
We smoke another pipe, maybe four. We’re spent. Stoned. Exhausted. It’s almost sunrise. We can’t stay. We need to move one last time. The sun peeks over the Hottentots Holland Mountains, anxiety thick between us. The boys are nervous—daylight makes us easy targets for eyewitnesses or police, and a white girl stands out like a sore thumb here. I’m anxious because I know Donny isn’t coming. Nobody is. My window to escape was narrowing by the second.
We arrive at the last house. I don’t see anyone else or know whose it is, but it’s clean—everything stark white. We collapse onto a beanbag and the carpet. For the first time since leaving the yard, the boys relax. We start talking like old friends, eating peanut butter straight from the jar and smoking cheap counterfeit cigarettes. I’m fascinated by the unequivocal differences between our cultures, what we consider “common sense” and “general knowledge.”
I explain the lifecycle of a butterfly. They hang on my every word like preschoolers, mesmerised. They describe the basic hierarchy of a typical Cape Flats family and how people in Ocean View—a name that’s self-explanatory—reach their twenties without visiting the beach unless their father’s a fisherman.
I ask if they’re religious. They’re Roman Catholic. It catches me off guard; I choke on bottleneck smoke from sudden laughter. They’re unimpressed. Then it hits me: of course, they’re Catholic—weren’t infamous mobsters like Al Capone, too? I redeem myself with an epic sermon: their past deeds haven’t damned their souls. There’s no ultimate “right” or “wrong”—it’s all circumstantial, what’s right or wrong for you at the moment. Every wrong act has a situational motive, so they could easily debate their way into heaven. “Evil” is just a concept, like Satan—he doesn’t “rule” hell; he chose free will and got banished from heaven as a consequence.
They ask what I believe in, if not the Christian God or Satan. I say I’m “spiritual.” In short, I believe in a higher power, a universal source that doesn’t condemn souls to hell or reward them with heaven forever. This life on Earth is Hell—where we suffer to learn key lessons necessary to evolve into divine beings. It takes multiple lifetimes, reincarnating until we reach divinity and merge with the source—heaven.
Shorty bursts out laughing. Reincarnation? The funniest thing he’s ever heard. But he’ll humour me—what would I choose to reincarnate as in the next life? I think for a second. “A butterfly.”
“A BUTTERFLY?!” he exclaims, disbelief and amusement in his tone. I wait for him to settle. I respond slowly, my voice soft and deliberate: “Yes my dear, because nobody would ever bedink a butterfly.” [Nobody would suspect a butterfly of wrongdoing—it’s inconspicuous.] He stares blankly for a moment, then says with conviction, “Jo’burg, you’re a fucking genius. A criminal mastermind!”
He shifts closer, too close, gets right in my face, muttering something about being horny and not needing my permission for sex—but he asks anyway. Uncomfortable, awkward, terrified, I exhale a huge cloud of mandrax and cannabis smoke in his face, giggling. He scolds me for being morsig [messy] and promptly passes out on the beanbag, snoring loudly. I sigh with partial relief. In the bathroom, I dig into my Wonderbra’s padding for my secret stash of meth and a small pipe—hidden even from Franco—grabbing a small disposable lighter from the other side. I take several big hits, holding them in, double-clutching like my life depends on it (it feels like it does), then cool the pipe on wet toilet paper. I stash everything back, splash my face, and sneak out, hoping Richboy’s asleep too.
No such luck.
I collapse against an empty bookshelf. Richboy joins me, his demeanour shifted. “My lady, tell me—what would it take for a man like me to get a wife like you?” Startled, I soften deliberately, smiling. “Richboy, I’m flattered. I can’t imagine why a man like you would want a woman like me. But if you’re serious, I can’t speak for others, but for me? Kindness, softness—like you are now. Compassion and trust—trust you wouldn’t turn on me, sell me like Franco, or beat me like that woman earlier. Love and respect, Richboy. Worth more than riches.”
He whispers, “Shorty said earlier he’s sure you’re an angel, sent from heaven. Here, take my hoodie—cover your head. I’ll show you how to get to the station. I can’t walk you there—the boere are waiting for us—but if anyone stops you, say, ‘Minute! Richboy will vedala you,’ and walk fast. I’m sorry, my lady.”
I walk back to the yard as fast as my legs can carry me. When I arrive, everyone stares, eyes wide. I head straight to my tent, collapsing in tears and laughter, unsure what I feel… One fact stands though: Franco’s going to wish his daddy used a condom!
Eleven years later, I still haven’t decided if it was the most terrifying or exciting night of my life.
—x—
You absolutely astound me. I feel like you’ve lived a hundred lifetimes in this one *life*
DAMN you could make a movie out of this one night.