Village escapees

The silhouette in the distant horizon took shape and bore a man and woman with a child on her back, walking tiredly towards the other end of the horizon. They seemed to be travellers, moving from that side of the horizon to the other. The morning bird chirped beautifully as they passed as if in celebration of the strangers. Perhaps in envy of the morning bird’s melody, a raven crowed—a dry evil crow. Seeing that the morning bird was still topping, the raven let out a fist-size dropping that almost hit the traveller, falling right next to his dusty boot with a spatter that stained a large span of ground. The man and his family kept going, the morning bird still serenading. The raven fell into a conspicuous silence, choosing instead to peck its feathers with its glistening black beak.

The next morning, another silhouette in the horizon bore two men, and they trudged right on the path of yesterday’s travellers. Again, the morning bird and raven welcomed them.  

Photo: Annie Spratt

 The same pattern played out the next day. The path grew, becoming a trail that creased the forest from end to end. Fifty years down the line, the path was now a vociferous highway that lazily meandered hills and rivers, connecting one end of the earth to the other. Trucks and buses groaned on the road each day, carrying goods and people to and fro. The police patrolled the road, stopping here and there to inspect this and that. Their handcuffs shone in the morning sun, a blazing pair of silver on their groins. Day after day, they would pick a traveller or two, injured or dead. The pattern repeated over and over.

For the migrant man and his family, the bristling city in the horizon, a silhouette with a cusp of smoke from industrial fumes, is a place of dreams. Let us go there; we will continue there a year or so and do such and such and become successful, they say to themselves, oblivious to the plots of destiny. Every day the city sees troves of countrymen with their leather bags and huge flapping hats arrive—some with wives wearing protruding shiny petticoats and loafers carved out of old tyres—their determination and hope as bright as the city sun. One year down the line, the migrant man seems lost; his dreams vanish like vapour. His wife is married to the city; his sons are in jail; his daughters lurk the dark corners of the street. Having lost everything, the man decides to return home. He is crying, his wife now married to the city. He has nothing as he returns home. But the young men back home do not learn from his mistakes. They, too, leave school and set off for the land of dreams. The lucky ones return desolate. Others simply vanish from the face of the earth, their fleeting presence in the city only acknowledged by missing person posters—the city of Johannesburg does not lose sleep over some migrant.

And the cycle continues.

In a small Zimbabwean village, two fifteen-year-old boys were walking from school, heavy nylon bags strapped across their backs, their heads full of dreams.

“I want to be a lawyer,” said Jay, pounding his left palm with his right fist as if conjuring determination. He looked at Jabu as if inviting him to respond with a counter ambition.

“I don’t know what I want to be. I will be happy as long as I get to wear a tie to work,” said Jabu with a big smile as he pretended to adjust an invisible tie around his neck.

“I will be happy as long as I get to wear a tie to work.”

The boys came from families with a decent history of education— an uncle or two who had attained the Ordinary Level certificate. Everyone expected the boys to do even better. They were now going to Form Three, the penultimate year before sitting for the revered Ordinary Level exams. It was time to plan the future and align their chosen subjects with their ambitions.

“I will study English Literature, Mathematics, and History,” said Jay, bawling his eyes and sticking a finger as he reeled out the subjects.

“Lawyers are argumentative people. No need for maths there, Jay. More language subjects,” said Jabu, with the pride of someone who knew how these things worked.

Jay did not argue, but he did not appear convinced about what Jabu had said. He simply picked a pebble, flung it into the air, and kicked it as it dropped down as if he was kicking away the nonsense Jabu had said. His kick set off dust on the red earth they walked on, and it came to settle on their Vaseline greased limbs. They just walked on, uncaring, hungry, and eager to get home to some food.

Their paths diverged when they neared home. Jabu taking the way round the little hill to his home; Jay taking the path down the kraals; their hunger driving their steps. As Jay neared the kitchen hut, he was met with the familiar smell of beans, the World Vision beans. How he hated them! He hated them for the bloated stomach they came with and the long hours in the toilet trying to empty his bowels.

He came to find his grandmother weaving reeds for the mats she sold to tourists along the road to Victoria Falls. She met him with her eyes as she lifted her gaze from where she sat.

“Jay, Jay, why are you wearing a long face? Did those herd boys beat you again? I swear. I will…,” she ranted. Question, answer, in one sentence!

“No grandma! Are we having beans again today?” asked Jay, fully aware the smell that filled the air was beans, but trying to bury his protestation in a question, trying to be subtle in his obvious detestation lest he provoked Granny’s full wrath and its accompanying tongue-lashing.

“You want meat, hey! Son of Benny, you want meat, in this economy, in this Zimbabwe! You are lucky you have that food, thanks to the donations from the government. Otherwise you would be having only the brackish water from River Ngwigwizi to drink,” she answered sharply.

Photo: Seth Doyle

Her lips didn’t quiver—she was still in conversation mode, not yet on anger gear. Jay knew the gears could shift quite fast, so he politely greeted her, asking about how her day had been—more out of observing protocol than interest. Then, he went inside for a change of clothes, putting on his heavily patched home shorts and t-shirt. He returned to eat his beans with resigned gusto, just for the sake of filling his tummy. Grandma was watching him eat, quiet all the time, before saying: “Get a good education, and buy yourself that meat you want.”

That was the narrative the two boys grew up with: get a good education. A good education opens doors; a good education means one leaves the village for the city. Grandma’s words always rang in Jay’s ears; uneducated as she was, she valued education. She always bemoaned the circumstances she grew in; the days when patriarchy walked naked and its throes hindered her education. She only knew how to write her name and read the bible, so much for a standard three level education. It was the same with Jabu’s grandma who always maintained he be like his uncle Peter, the diploma holder in teaching. Get a job where you will wear a tie! He was guided by those sentiments, admiring the decency of a tie and shiny shoes.

“I don’t want to be a curio carver here,” Jay would say, spiritedly.

“Neither do I want to be a nobody here. I want to be the man,” Jabu would add, raising his shoulders like a big man wannabe. They were typical teenagers, daydreaming about their tomorrow.

Form Four came and the two aced their exams, passing with several As. On to the next level they went. They were now everyone’s darlings in the village and christened the ‘book boys’, ‘the professors’, among a litany of accolades. They were the pride of their grandmothers who would always gloat over their successes.

“If he passes his condocari this time, I swear I will slaughter that bull for him,” Jabu’s grandma would say, referring to the venerated bull that was reserved for ancestral rites. Despite all efforts at correcting her to pronounce ‘secondary’ the right way, Jabu’s granny had stuck to her skewed condocari pronunciation. 

 The boys aced their A levels and went to university, a first for the village. Nobody had ever gone beyond A levels in the entire village and most of the communities in the vicinity. The boys became celebrities, a source of inspiration for many. Mothers would end their chiding of mischievous school dodgers with the admonishment: “Be like Jabu and Jay!”

They graduated from university in late 2007, Jay as a lawyer and Jabu a geologist. They were now ready and set for the professional life. Then 2008 came, with a recession that jolted the country and threw everything into a tailspin. The boys, now men, could not find jobs in the recession. They were now unsettled and unemployed.

“Young man, you could go there and be large. The sky is closer to the ground that side than here I tell you, and you will learn stuff no university module would ever teach you,” said Timmy, a beer in hand, his back leaning on his shiny posh car. 

Jabu and Jay gazed in awe, as they listened to every word Timmy said, enchanted as much with the man as with his shiny car. He seemed to be doing quite well wherever he worked. Whatever South Africa had that had schooled the likes of Timmy to be so successful was magical, for he had been a thick head at school, repeating grade after grade till Jay and Jabu caught up in class with him. Things could only be idyllic over there.

 It was at this point that the idea of migration was born.

“I have always wanted to leave this village. That’s why I went to university after all. I cannot afford to loaf around here, playing village graduate,” said Jay, with Jabu nodding eagerly to every word.

Indeed, their village celebrity status was already beginning to wane with the likes of Madam Sonya the village gossip, basking in their misconstrued wisdom: “That’s why my children stopped at form four. Why waste money you don’t have on fancy university education as if you are white, and then not get the job?”

Life and its lemons! It never goes in a straight line—start school, get a job, marry and so forth. Sometimes these milestones don’t follow the chronology, and sometimes they don’t come at all for some people. For Jabu and Jay, their degrees were to be the lights that would shine in the dark, all the way to success, even in a foreign land.

The grannies were elated when they heard the boys were leaving for South Africa.

“When you get that job, don’t forget home! Don’t forget me Jabu. Buy me glycerine and winter shoes,” the old lady had said, her sombre tone giving more meaning to the words.

That was the way for enforcing the “African child tax”. It had been the same for Jay; the grandma even making a grocery list: powdered milk, flour, cooking oil, a Primus stove and a petticoat. The excitement and optimism were unmistakable: Jabu’s grandma going all out to prepare food that they would eat on the way—a rooster she roasted like she had a master’s degree in roasting. The meat was on point, all ingredients well aligned, no spiking spice, a first for her. Her normal cooking was usually guaranteed to come with a half-cooked onion and too much Royco.

They left the village with pomp and pageantry, their grandmothers accompanying them to the local bus station. Jabu’s grandma walked all the way on her walking stick, balancing a suitcase on her head. She had insisted on carrying it despite their objections.  Why treat her like a fragile egg? She queried. She still had it in her. 

The rickety clunker of a bus they boarded had disappeared from sight with the grandmothers still waving, the flailing flesh on their arms flapping up and down in the cloud of dust the bus had left behind. It took quite some time for the bus to meander around the hills and rivers, onto the vast tarred highway that snaked its way to Bulawayo. Jay and Jabu looked with disapproval at the curio dealers lined up on the highway. They would never settle for such a demeaning life, they thought to themselves. The city held sweet promises.

They reached Bulawayo by sunset, the clunker groaning and rumbling all the way. It was now time to find a way to South Africa. Jay and Jabu sought help from the nearby pump attendants at the garage where they had alighted.

“If you are going to Jo'burg, join that queue there; transport will come,” said one attendant, pointing to a meandering queue that went around the garage. Women, children, men, even babies, were part of the queue.

After what seemed like ages, an enclosed truck appeared from nowhere calling for passengers to the border town of South Africa and in, they went—Jay, Jabu, the women, children, men, and babies. The truck swallowed everyone before beginning its rumbling descent into Gwanda towards the South African border.

The passengers sat cramped in the truck like livestock. Someone had to hold a small door open at all times to let air in. The men took turns doing this, the wind blowing hard against their faces.

They reached Beitbridge, the border town, at nightfall. The entire ride had been spent with passengers telling tales of success, hope, and disappointment.

“There, if you are lucky, you live like a king,” one burly man had said. Jay and Jabu were not sure what to make of this. Luck left things to chance, like a lottery. Why should there be luck, when one has a degree?

Photo: Humberto Chavez

They alighted at the border town, the driver separating those without passports—the chaff—to hand them to his errand boys who would negotiate their passage across. The errand boys had everything that marked cutthroats – the tattoos, cannabis, harshness, and impatience. They were the kind not to be messed with. In a flash, the mass of chaff was trudging before them, Jabu and Jay and their suitcases at the tail of the line, occasionally stopping to gather their coordinates or duck from a passing border patrol truck. No mistake, lest they were spotted. Everyone came to an instant halt whenever the errand boys gave the signal. No movement or sound was allowed, not even to squash the mosquitoes that were feasting on them in the bushes. It was just dead silence and the smell of dust as people walked, stopped and ducked as they went around the border fence. After what seemed an eternity they came to an abandoned road, the fallow kind that has never seen a car.

 “Easy now. Your transport should come any minute from that direction. Our job ends here,” the leader of the errand boys said. He pointed towards the east with a big panga, its silver sparkling in the moonlit night. Without another word, the errand boys slithered into the bush and disappeared, leaving the migrants—the chaff—confused but hopeful.

It took about two hours before they could see any action in the quiet of the bush—a pair of lights flashing from afar, beaming as the truck inched closer. It was not until the driver said, “Congratulations. Welcome to South Africa," that the travellers loosened up and began to converse in excitement and relief.

“Phew! We made it with no hassle this time,” one man said.

Then came story after story after story of experiences at the border. Some told of rape in the bushes; others of the horrors at the hands of traffickers. Jay and Jabu listened with rapt attention. They had hitherto not heard this version of tales to the land of dreams.

Get a job where you will wear a tie! The words still rankled in his mind and somehow buoyed him. He flicked his shoulders as if that would shed off the little voice that was asking if he was making the right choice by moving down to South Africa. Jabu knew that his life now depended on the lottery of migration, on how things would pan out. But how would they turn out, for a geologist and his lawyer friend?

The journey to Johannesburg took the whole night, and they only got to the city at the break of dawn. Nobody told anyone they were in the famed city, for they had seen it from afar; its immaculate skyline and grim skyscrapers beckoning. As they got closer, the tar, the lights and the excitement grew. Along with it was the mounting anxiety—at least for Jay and Jabu—of being strangers, in a strange land, with no place of abode. It was only after the truck screeched to a halt and everyone alighted, that the confusion in the two men began to mount. The tall skyscrapers seemed to be in some hum, echoing a sound like that of bees in a hive. They were in the melting pot of everything—money, guns, stray bullets, robbers, prostitutes, car honks. Satan. God.

“We better not stray far off; let’s wait for daybreak,” said Jabu, deep in thought. He kept looking around, like Jay, his wandering eyes admiring the paving that carpeted the street, the graffiti, the passing cars and, most of all, the lights! Everywhere was lit, on the pavements, even underneath the trees. He could see his own dusty shoes and suitcase, from where he wrenched an old shawl with which he covered himself when he sat down in the corner of a quiet side street. Jabu joined in, and before long the two were fast asleep.

Photo: Keenan Constance

 They awoke at daylight, the rays of the sun threatening to pierce their eyes, and were surprised to find that their shawl was missing. Someone had stolen it as they slept. Their suitcase was intact having been firmly rooted, like surrogate pillows, underneath their heads. The fear started to creep in.

“Someone took the shawl while we slept. They could very easily have killed us in our sleep,” moaned a shaken Jabu.

“At least the suitcase is still there,” said Jay, trying to gloss his fear with solace. But deep down they knew they were in for a tough time. They picked up the suitcase and dusted it as they began to walk down the street.

The city bustled with activity: taxis, vendors, women and children streamed across like ants whose nests had been disturbed. They walked till they came to a park bristling with homeless men. Jay and Jabu hoped they could talk to them on how to get about or where the big offices were. Perhaps they could even spend some time here, recollect themselves, before launching further into the unknown.

The homeless men were kind and receptive, and Jay and Jabu soon began to relax.

“You can stay with us here guys, but we don’t want thieves! We wouldn’t like to lose our toothbrushes here,” said the talkative man who introduced himself as ‘Chairman’, to raucous laughter. Jabu and Jay could not see the fun the men were feasting on, till they noticed Chairman didn’t have any teeth. They too joined in the laughter.

“And don’t expect us to provide any address or references for your resumes,” yelled another fellow to another round of raucous laughter.

And so it happened that from that day, they became men with no address. They looked for office jobs in their professions, each time coming up against a brick wall.  They then decided they would settle for just about any office job. Get a job where you will wear a tie!  Still, they drew blanks. Each time they went on job hunts, some of the men at the park would contribute some change towards printing resumes. They were like a family already, even though Jay and Jabu never felt comfortable. This was not the life they had dreamt of.

Then they got desperate.

“Maybe we should look for any job…just about any job. We need a source of income,” said Jabu to Jay one day on their way back from yet another fruitless hunt.

“Any job?” Jay replied, a faraway look in his eyes. It was as if he was trying hard for the words to infiltrate his head that had been full of dreams. Just a job. No tie!

The very next Monday they had joined the men in their hustle, begging. The situation dictated that they did so in the meantime until things got better. Their hope still burned.

The sky is closer to the ground that side than here! They remembered the words and wondered which world the likes of Timmy lived in. Looking up the Johannesburg skyline, they could only see the Hillbrow tower, daring in its poise, like some gigantic middle finger, probably flipping them.

The park where they stayed was situated along the boisterous Joe Slovo Road brimming with a host of night clubs and prostitutes. It was hard to beg at night as they would have to contend with the thigh vendors who were also on the prowl, so they chose to work during the day. At night they would just watch the action in the street. Now and again a prostitute would be at loggerheads with a client who had reneged on paying for the services rendered.

All the clubs hosted prostitutes: Club Africa had lesbians, Random Joint hosted gay men, and Flamingo had everyone. Old men, some of them even hunched, would walk into Flamingo, pick one of their selections and walk out, the old horn dogs ready for a squeeze. Jay and Jabu would walk around, sit on the doorsteps and talk to people. Networking, it was called. They spoke to everyone, especially the prostitutes as they knew a lot of people. That was how they met their home girl, Rumbi.

“So you are from Zimbabwe too?” Jabu asked with feigned interest. It wasn’t a new thing to meet fellow countrymen. The parks were full of everyone, from Malawians to Zambians, Ugandans to Zimbabweans, but for the sake of conversation, he had to act interested.

“Oh yeah! There are many of us here. Julia there, and Lucy over there,’ she said, pointing this way and that.

“It’s always a good thing to be surrounded by people from home,” Jay said.

“So what is it like here? I mean job wise, we have honours degrees.” Jabu was already used to asking everyone he met about a job. The hope of wearing a tie to work still lingered.

“I have a degree too,” said Rumbi tersely. “Bobby by the door there has a PhD but as you can see, he is a bouncer here. You will have to use what you’ve got, otherwise no one will hire you. I use these,” she said pointing at her chest where a pair of fleshy ebony tits strained at her lacy top as if struggling for air.

You will have to use what you’ve got. What did they have besides their degrees?

Photo: Macky Mendellina

It was from the talk with Rumbi that day that they learnt there was a vacancy for a DJ at the club, the previous one having been fired for getting stone drunk while on duty. After affirming interest in the job, they were both hired for the position. It would be a temporary job, something for the meantime, they thought. And so they worked.

It was on one of their shifts that they saw a familiar face.

“Jabu, Jabu, look! Isn’t that Timmy?” exclaimed Jay, pointing and at the same time beckoning frantically for Jabu to look in the direction he was pointing. And then he jumped the deejay booth to the main floor, hoping to get to the figure. But he was late. The figure had disappeared among the sea of people.

“Timmy?” Jabu kept saying in disbelief. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of the figure but even that was enough. It was Timmy. No mistake.

“He sells ass,” they muttered, still in shock.

They were astounded. He could only be selling ass. They had seen one of the men, a familiar customer, grope his bum and pull him away. You will have to use what you’ve got.

Things are never what they seem. They had learnt to be grateful for that little job they had, for the little it could do for them. They could pay rent for their new room and buy food. They would send some back home in a month or two when they had saved a bit.

It was in their third month, on a Tuesday late afternoon when they got the news from Rumbi that the club had been attacked.

“Our club! You mean Flamingo is no more?” lamented Jay.

“Why? What happened?” the curious Jabu asked, keen on getting the story straight. He was not the panicky type.

“Xenophobia happened! You know these things happen, fights erupt between migrants and locals now and again here,” she said, sounding relaxed. “But don’t you worry, it will die down in a few days and everything will be back to normal,” she added, nonchalantly.

The place had been ripped up, the deejay booth riddled with bullets, seats upside down. Stumps of broken lipsticks, weaves, ashtrays and smoke filled the place. Xenophobia was a tornado.

 They all thought it, but nobody dared say it out. Maybe they would have been better in the village back home, carving curios. They all thought it, but they couldn’t act on it. The money was limiting. Just a distance of eight hundred kilometres back home. So near, yet so far.

About the author

Willard Tendai Masara is a Psychology graduate who, like many Zimbabweans, migrated to South Africa in the hope of a better life. He was a member of the Writers Club at university where he would write and sell short stories to other students. He is an independent researcher with particular interest in migration. He is currently working on a novel.