The last time Brigadier Siyabonga Mabena set foot in Johannesburg, he was a fresh-faced captain with crisp epaulettes and big ideas. Straight out of university and deep into his first year in the force, he had never shared his colleagues� romantic obsession with the so-called City of Gold. Egoli, they called it�with a shimmer in their eyes and tales of fortune on every corner. But even then, he�d seen through the glitter.
To him, Johannesburg had always been chaos. The noise, the heat, the press of bodies and exhaust fumes, a city constantly on the verge of eating itself.
Now, years later, he returned to a place that had only decayed further�more bloated, more broken. Johannesburg had become a pressure cooker, its lid shaking violently. Cracked infrastructure, gridlocked arteries, Power outages like hiccups - a city too heavy for its own skeleton, one step away from collapse.
They crawled through Rahima Moosa Street�once called Jeppe Street�in a drab, unmarked 2016 Volkswagen Polo Vivo, civilian plates. No sirens. No lights. No help. The city�s traffic was a steel river, thick and unmoving. Inside the car, frustration simmered.
They were late. But this unit didn�t make noise. Deep undercover, Operating far from official precincts, in a city steeped in whispers of betrayal, secrecy was armor. Announcing their presence would be suicidal.
Their rendezvous point was a sterile coffee bar tucked between government buildings and corporate fortresses�banks, courts, old apartheid-era offices now cloaked in democracy�s varnish. It was the kind of place that smelled of polished floors and recycled air. A neutral zone, Safe, for now.
Only one person had clearance to know of their arrival: Captain Luhwani Kgole, liaison from Johannesburg Central Police Station�formerly John Vorster Square, a building with ghosts of its own.
The Polo glided into a parking bay with a quiet groan. From behind the tinted windows, they had a clear view of the coffee bar. Floor-to-ceiling glass exposed the interior�an easy scan. Sparse midday patrons, few moving parts, clean.
Mabena fished out his phone, never taking his eyes off the caf�. He dialed. The rhythmic beep of the ringing line was the only sound in the car.
Then�movement,