How a bullet led to the unlikeliest of friendships

"When a perpetrator says they're sorry, it can act as a kind of deterrent," says Khulisa staff member Elza Stander, adding that an apology enables the perpetrator "to see the pain they've caused."

But it's often hard for the victim to forgive. Mgobese still has a bullet in his neck from that night. When Ms. Stander first approached him about reconciliation, he recoiled. The idea grew on Mgobese, however. "In my family, everyone would come together - and work things out," he says, bringing his large hands together in a sign of unity. In fact, the traditional African principle of ubuntu, or unity, is still strong today. It dictates that families or communities join together to support victim and perpetrator - and return "wholeness" or "balance" to the group.

In 2001, Mgobese agreed to a meeting. In a room at the police station, many of his policeman friends stood behind him. Mayema was called in, shaking with fear. He fell to the floor in front of Mgobese, asking forgiveness. With a stiff handshake, Mgobese assented.

Trust came slowly. When Mgobese invited Mayema to his house, he thought the cop was going to kill him - until Mgobese put his gun away. "Thank God he survived," says Mayema today.

The policeman's family is still skeptical. Indeed, many people in countries with "restorative justice" efforts - such as New Zealand, Britain, and the US - argue it's soft on criminals. But with prisons full, Britain is increasingly allowing judges to shorten jail terms for offenders who've apologized to their victims.

While even supporters acknowledge that reconciliation can't always be achieved, there's growing momentum here for such efforts. All South African probation officers are now being trained in restorative-justice techniques. The national prison service adopted restorative justice as an official approach in 2001, although implementation has been slow.

Much of the reconciliation is being spearheaded by non-profit groups, which are increasingly gaining government funding. Khulisa, for instance, works with 1,000 of the 50,000 juveniles in detention here. After several high-profile reconciliations, it and other groups are getting scores of letters each day from inmates who hope to apologize to their victims.

As for the two men, the former inmate started a brass band that has performed as far away as Norway and France. He and Mgobese played together at a performance for pensioners. The former thug also talks to gang members, trying to get them to change course.

Mgobese is revered by his police colleagues who respectfully call him, "Nduna," or "governor."

Inspector Alfred Rasilingwane clucks in amazement at his longtime partner. "Sometimes big situations," he says, referring to the shooting, "make for big actions. And that is good."

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