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Published on January 4th, 2011 | by George Wyngaardt

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My days as a Drug Dealer

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The streets are  alive, sounds of tooting horns emerge over pounding music reverberating from car stereos.

People have travelled from far places to let it all hang out

Long Street, a place for the damned and disillusioned, unknowingly engaging in a cult of communal self mutilation

I revel in  their anticipation as they impatiently queue outside busy nightspots. In their world they are kings and queens celebrating another  conquered week. I toast to their demised, because this is my world and they are merely sheep.

Through my eyes this world resembles a busy food market in which to trade ,if they feel alive enough I could make a killing.

I am not the only one who unwearyingly gazes upon them, there are many other dark figures who lurk in the night, dressed in their own invisible cloaks.

Though we are all here to do the same thing for seemingly different reasons , I do not see them as brotherhood.

They lack tact and are extremely unpredictable, destitute illegal aliens whom are comprised of mostly Nigerians and Tanzanians.

Being approachable and inconspicuous would be to my advantage , dressed very neatly, wearing a trademark leather jacket that subtly whisper “dealer”,

Let me take you back  to  3 months ago and tell you how it all started.

A close friend of mine had bumped into a mutual friend from Malawi , since he does “Coke” he bought a few grams from our mutual friend whom I will refer to as “Mooney”. My mate and I would hang out and occasionally go to parties together and he would pull out these enormous amounts of cocaine. He would pretend to score the “Charlie” from our dealer and charge fellow users R250 per gram, which they had no objection paying because the shit was very good.

Personally I am not a drug person, I saw an opportunity considering the amount of money he was making and wanted in. My mate would say where he was getting it from until one day I bumped into Mooney while clubbing in Long Street.

We arrange to meet and setup a agreement, I had money put away that I had been saving for a pair of Nike sneakers.

I wanted to do this shit right so I bought 10 grams straight, you kind get how cheap the shit was from that figure right?

I found it extremely hard to sell the coke due to my constant paranoia and inability to move freely with drugs in my neighborhood.

A few days later I was promoted to Bar Manager at a dying restaurant in Long street , the spot was ideal as it was hidden but had a lot people coming in and out all the time.

I was now able to move the goods from the comfort of my bar counter. I sold my first  10 grams in 3 days on consignment and would regularly restock my supply. I had a hard time with collections and not being a violent person I asked 2 of my college mates to help out at muscle , they did a fantastic job. Business was booming so I decided to bring in my new girlfriend who worked at the clothing store next door to help out.

She would move the stuff and occasionally steal a couple of scoops from the stash but I didn’t mind business was good. I had so much of the stuff that I didn’t know what to do with it and eventually started using it wastefully.

I would snort huge line before, during and after sex,

My girlfriend become a junky but  I could tell that she wasn’t new to the underworld , she would disappear with strange characters in fancy cars.

I way over my head, things got scary and people started talking. How could they not? I was student working part-time but blew R800 per day like it was nothing.

I got sloppy and my collection services couldn’t not account for most of the money that was missing.

Things had been going pretty decent for myself in the last two months, I decided to head off to a club and celebrate with my junkie of a girlfriend.

I stuffed her bra with a few grams just in case I had any clients at the club we were going to.

We had several lines by that time my body was immune to the effects, I drank myself to a limo caused by the mixed Hi –low factor.

This night was electric but enormously perturbed so I sent her off ahead while I  stood outside the club.

A reached for a cigarette in my leather jacket and habitually  scanned the setting for cops, clients, women fuck sakes it had become bare instinct.

Who had I become?

I need some time alone so tucked my money into my shoe and walked down an alley close to Erica Park , a bee hive for Nigerian miscreants.

I  was being followed but my pride would not let me run, the shadows became pounding figures and there I laid , beaten to a pulp.

It was time to get out….

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George Wyngaardt

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