"Now you say your trust's gettin' weaker, probably coz my lies just started gettin' deeper." - The Black Eyed Peas

I was walking home a couple days ago and came across former Amasango pupil *Zambuxolo.

I couldn't quite remember his name. I'm stopped a dozen times a day by kids who want money, food, clothes or just somebody to talk to, and I wasn't particularly keen on slowing down for this guy since I really didn't know him that well. My plan was to smile, acknowledge him, shake his hand then keep walking toward home.

I smiled. I acknowledged him. I shook his hand. But he stopped, he wanted to talk.

I asked him how his Christmas and New Year was.

He said "Not fine" and pointed to his neck.

I had seen the cut about 2 inches below his chin. It was the very first thing I noticed when I stopped. It ran like an "X" along the side of his neck, as if he'd been sliced twice.

I wasn't going to say anything about it though unless he brought it up.

"What happened," I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Somebody stabbed me," he said.

"Here," pointing to his neck, "And here," pointing to the area near his heart.

"Who?" I said. "Who stabbed you?"

He put his head down.

"Who?" I repeated. "Anybody I know?"

"No, nobody from Amasango."

"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm sorry. You have a good day it was nice seeing you and - "

He interrupted me, "here's the hospital report."

He thrust a couple pieces of paper into my hands.

I glanced at it. It listed his name, his age-or perhaps approximate age. On the second sheet was a diagram of the human body where somebody had marked where Zambuxolo had been stabbed.

It also had a section for "comments on arrival." There was just one word in that section: "Drunk."

I looked back up at him. I knew he was trying to get my sympathy. He knew I hadn't seen him much since my first visit to Grahamstown.

He's played the begging game long enough to know I'm approached by a dozen people a day and that he'd have to set himself apart from the crowd. He'd really have to be suffering to get bread or money out of me.

He also believed that if he played his cards right, if he played the role of "poor innocent stabbing victim" he might be able to squeeze 5 or 10 rand out of me.

"It says here you were drunk when you got to the hospital," I said.

"No," he shook his head. "No, no no."

"Well," I said, patting him on the back. "The hospital doesn't just write that for the hell of it. I'll tell you what. I think you and your friends were having some fun. You were drunk. They were drunk--and that's when this," I said pointing to his neck, "happened."

I continued, "I'm sorry it happened (it wasn't just a phrase I put out there, I was sorry it happened to him), but don't get drunk."

"I wasn't drunk," he repeated. "I wasn't drunk. I was stabbed."

"You were stabbed...while you were drunk," I retorted. "I'm sorry that this happened to you though. You didn't deserve that."

He was silent for a moment, thinking about his next move--he gave up with the "I wasn't drunk" line, and, then as I predicted,--"I'm very hungry Jason," he began.

"Sorry, buddy," I said, handing him back the papers. "I gotta go. It was nice seeing you and I hope you feel better."

I walked off.

My first visit here I would have felt horrible for this boy. I would have bought him half the supermarket all while thinking, poor him. Poor boy. Just trying to get by and this happens.

I wasn't happy to see the wounds on his neck, but I wasn't distraught over them either.

He got drunk. He likely got into a fight--and this time, ended up drawing the short straw.

He's alive. He'll heal up, and likely get stabbed, or stab, again.

I think I've gotten too comfortable with the misery here. I didn't have much time for him. I don't believe most of their stories. And it's too bad. Some of them could be telling the truth, but so many of them don't.

Perhaps he wasn't drunk and was sleeping in his house caring for some homeless puppy when a crazy, enraged, drunk thug broke in and sliced his neck and chest with a sharp blade. It's possible. It's happened before here.

Or, the more likely story is that he and his friends were drunk, they got into a fight over something stupid and the knives came out. There was probably a heated exchange of words, and then one boy stabbed Zambuxolo, becoming the perpetrator, before Zambuxolo made him the victim . That happens more than you know.

It was a sad story, but not a unique one.

18 months ago, he would have gone home with a hundred rand worth of groceries.

Two days ago, he got my time, but not even a rand out of me.

*name has been changed.