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club, past the tourist zone, where the rubbernecks come to get their taste of poverty and their photographs with the kiddies, maybe some love muti from the sangoma, or a taste of mqombothi beer shared around in a can between men who are only there to lend the scene authenticity, to earn a little cash to buy a Zamalek, real beer in a real bottle, because no one cares about tradition anymore. The tourists don't venture too deep into the heart of it, which means they're missing out on the drop toilets and spiderwebs of illegal electricity connections in the newest parts of the sprawl, where council hasn't got to yet.
       Ash would point out the good stuff they're missing too, the stuff he tried to show our hombre friends, the barbershop strip in Chinatown and jazz at the shebeen and the soccer club and the boxing society and the entrepreneurs hawking minutes on their cell phones (illegally with the new SIM ID laws in place) and the sense of community and how transformation has been real and important. Like it's not a total wank, where people are just as economically fucked as they were before, only now they're sick as well, or, worse, trying to escape being sick and bringing it in with them from the Rural. And that leads to spates of outbreaks all over and crackdowns, just as bad as those bad old days when the police came storming in to quarantine and deport whole neighbourhoods.
       Ash takes my hand as we reach the soccer pitch next to the club, really just a scrap of dirt that the community housing committee cleared for development, so uneven that the ball catches on clods and goes wide or random. It's good practice for the kids, Ash says; when they get to play on a real field, they'll have the advantage. We're trying to get it permanently instated, which requires more funding, more waiting, more neo-colonial cocks, no doubt.
       He fiddles with the ring on my finger. 'Do you really have to wear that?'
       'Don't start with that now, please,' I say.
       'But all the time?'
       'And what am I gonna do when Home Affairs comes knocking? And interrogates me on why I'm not wearing my wedding ring?'
       Ash snorts. 'In light of all the other transgressions? The heady whirlwind of the entire week-long romance before you got married? Or that she lives in a totally different part of the city? Or, you know, that minor detail about you not being female-inclined? I'm just saying.'
       'Then you don't need to be uptight about it. Jesus, Ash. She's a fucking refugee. Have some compassion.'
       The club smells decidedly funky, like too many sweaty kids have simply dumped their gear post-game in a pile, which turns out to be exactly the case. Ash starts plucking up the shirts and pants to take to the laundry vat just down the way. The place is looking more rundown than usual, the Kaiser Chiefs poster curling at the edges from the damp seeping through from the DIY-rigged shower next door. It's been like that for eight months already. We've applied for additional funding to get a real one, after the uniforms, after we get Streets Back back on schedule.
       I go into our room to find Zuko playing video games on my machine, when he knows full well it's only available for homework, and besides, I'm supposed to be meeting skyward* online.
       'Uh-uh, bro. Off. On the pitch. You can round up some of your playmates and practise for a couple of hours.'
       'What about the thing?' Zukes asks, because he's tagging along tonight. Ashraf doesn't like me to involve him in the extra-mural, being a minor, but between the soccer and our 'special projects', I keep him distracted, off the streets, out of the kind of trouble I got into at his age.
       'Don't sweat it,' I tell him. 'We got plenty time. We're only leaving here at nine-thirty. So hit the field already.'
       'What?' Ashraf freezes mid-scoop, sweaty crumpled shirts dangling from his arms. 'We're not still going?'
       'Chill, baby. Toby's got a friend who