“It’s done now, boys,” says the driver.
I feel safe enough to push open the panel, and Innocent scrambles onto the bunk bed. I follow him and pull open the curtain.
“What happened? What happened back there?”
The driver looks gray. He shakes his head, slams his fist on the steering wheel. He does not answer me.
“I’ve got to pee,” I shout over the noise.
“Pee in this,” he says, handing me the water bottle. “I’m not stopping until we get to Beitbridge.”
9
PATSON’S GAME
We arrive at Beitbridge late in the afternoon. I have never seen so many trucks in my life. They stand bumper to bumper, like a herd of great mechanical beasts waiting to cross the bridge. Their smaller cousins, cars and minibuses, are in a different line.
At the border town there are many strange sights: a small pickup truck has a load of furniture, bins, bicycles, and boxes covered by canvas—it looks like a giant snail. A man pushes a bicycle packed on both sides with boxes and suitcases that make it impossible for him to ride. Women push wheelbarrows piled with stuff. Rows of people sit in front of what they are trying to sell: herbs and roots, fruit, vegetables, medicines, postcards, batteries, plastic toys, CDs, suitcases. A man is cutting hair in one corner. A photographer takes photos against a grimy white board. And rows and rows of barbed-wire fences. And so many different people. People waiting; people leaving; people selling; people buying.
We climb out of the cabin, happy to stretch our legs. Innocent stands behind me. The noise and strangeness of the place make him uneasy.
“I need to eat and sleep now,” says the driver. “The border is closed, and no one knows when it will open again. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”
“What do we do?”
He shrugs. “Wait. See what happens when the border opens. Maybe you can come with me.”
I don’t believe him. He doesn’t look at me. Instead he pulls some dollars from his pocket and hands them to me. “Get some food. Those women will help you.” He points in the direction of the rows of women selling food. “Take your stuff. I want to sleep.”
Maybe he doesn’t want to be bothered with us anymore. I take the money, say thank you, and walk over to the sellers. Innocent follows me.
“You hungry?” I ask.
He nods. He holds his Bix-box under his right arm. His white sneakers dangle around his neck. I glance back at the truck. The driver watches us. He lifts his hand. I think he might be saying good-bye, but I can’t be sure. He climbs back into the truck, slams the door.
We buy some chicken and pap and warm Fanta. I have to use a little of the money from the soccer ball but not much. We sit to one side and eat our feast. Innocent hums while he eats. It’s a sign that he is happy. Afterward, I look more closely at the people. Many of them have children with them, girls and boys my age.
Innocent picks up the soccer ball and tosses it to me. He knows what I am thinking.
“Play, Deo. I’ll watch you. Don’t worry.”
I take off my sneakers and leave them with him. The soccer ball feels good on my bare feet. I kick the ball into the clearing, toss it up onto my knee, and bounce it a few times, before letting it land on my foot. I balance it there for a moment and then flick it up into the air onto my forehead. With two headers, I let the ball back to the ground and place my foot over it and look up.
Out of the hordes of people going about their business, a few watch me. The watchers stand out from the adults who are always talking, moving about, not aware of their children. The boys watch me, their eyes on my ball. They are like me. One of them steps forward. He stops a few paces away and waits.
I kick the ball to him.
He stops it with his foot and kicks it back right away. Another boy steps forward and calls out something I do not understand. His skin is like shiny coal. I kick the ball to him. He laughs as the ball sails toward him. He sticks out his chest and bumps the ball back to the ground and without looking up kicks it straight back to me.
More boys leave their families. Soon there are ten, eleven, no, twelve of them standing awkwardly around. Waiting. The boy with the skin of coal says, “Aziz Mohammed. We play?”
I turn to the other boys and point to one of them. He is tall, looks strong. He will make a good defender. He runs over.
“Mujuru,” he says. I guess it’s his name.
I turn to Aziz. “My name’s Deo.”
He grins at me and looks carefully at the boys standing around. He points at a lean, wiry boy. “You. Sinbaba.” The boy called Sinbaba trots over and stands next to Aziz.
I choose. He chooses. And so it goes on until everyone who has shown interest is part of the game. Then, standing to one side, I see the boy with the crutches and the one leg. I remember him from the baobab tree. His people must also have been heading for the border. He steps forward as if he has made up his mind. Thirteen pairs of eyes turn toward him. Surely he can’t expect to play with us? He digs his crutches into the dirt and comes closer. There is a fire in his eyes. His mouth is a hard, determined line in a face of stone.
Nobody moves.
He digs his crutches into the dirt again and takes another step forward. He is staring at me, daring me. How does this boy think he can play with only one leg? I feel sorry for him, but he can’t play with us.
He stares at me as if he can read my thoughts. Then he jerks his head backward, lifting one of his crutches in the air as if he is calling for something. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I throw the ball toward him. He lurches forward, plants both his crutches, swings forward with his good leg, and kicks the ball so hard that it sails over our heads. Sinbaba jumps and catches it.
“I’ll take you,” I say. He doesn’t smile or thank me but moves to my side as if this is what he expected.
Some of the boys are from Zimbabwe, and their names are familiar, but others are from Senegal, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Angola.
Before we begin, I bring my team together.
“Mujuru, you play central defender.” He nods, and I turn to the two younger boys from Angola. They look fast. “You two play on left and right wing, you two at midfield, and the two of us”—I point at a boy who is my height and looks equally strong—“are the strikers.”
“Fantan,” the boy says. “My name’s Fantan.”
“Okay, and you?” I turn to the boy with the crutches.
“Patson,” he says. “I play goalie.”
“Where you from, Patson?” I ask, recognizing his accent.
“Masvingo Province” is all he says, swinging away swiftly to our goal.
“Let’s play!” calls Aziz.
The game is on.
At first the play is scrappy. Everyone is hungry to feel leather against skin. They all run after the ball like bees after the queen bee. We pack around the ball and kick at dust. It doesn’t make sense. There is no discipline. It’s typical of a game with newcomers—everyone wants to show what he can do.
Aziz is easily the best player on his side. He quickly dribbles through the crowd, pushing for the ball, and before anyone on my team knows it, he has passed to Sinbaba, who taps it back to him, and Aziz easily shoots past Patson. Nobody could have saved that shot. These two have obviously played together. They jog back to their half, talking in their own language.
I call my guys together. “Stay in your position. Mark one of their team. Don’t run after the ball. Wait for it to come to you.”
We start again. It’s only a little better. There are one or two good passes, but Aziz and Sinbaba are lethal. They swoop down like falcons when the ball goes loose, and before Mujuru can do anything to block them, they glide past him and another perfect shot at goal is soaring past Patson.
At the second goal, I notice that some of the adults are watching us now. Some of the older men have gathered on the side, cheering on the boys they know and shouting instructions. I glance over at Innocent. He sees me and raises his ha
nd. His radio is pressed to his ear, and he’s grinning.
I focus on Aziz. There is some trick that he does with the ball that I haven’t worked out yet. As he comes toward you he sort of jumps over the ball and then twists it around his ankle, and before you know it, he’s past you and the ball is at his feet. I run toward him, keeping my eye on the ball. He sees me approach, keeps his head down, and dances around me as easy as spinning a coin. I’m left eating his dirt as he runs past. I charge him from behind and deliberately kick his ankles. He falls, and the players on his team shout at me. Sinbaba walks up.
“That’s a foul.”
I glare at him. He knows he’s right.
Aziz gets up, inspects his knee. It’s bloody.
“That’s a penalty, Deo,” he says, rubbing his knees. He is angry but in control.
Fantan runs over. “Who cares? Let’s play on.”
“No!” says Aziz. “That’s a penalty and he knows it.”
I stare him down. It’s no use. I know I am wrong.
“Penalty,” I agree and walk toward Patson. The fire is still burning in his eyes. I want to say to him that since I made the mistake, I should try to save the goal, but I can see he will not allow it.
The boys stand around while Patson makes himself ready for the penalty. Aziz marks out the distance and places the ball on the ground. There is some argument about where the penalty should be taken from, but at last we all agree on where the spot should be. I quickly check the twine that is holding the ball together. My homemade soccer ball is doing pretty well.
I toss the ball to Aziz, who places the ball on the spot. He takes a few steps back and eyes Patson. I know what he is thinking: This will be easy. Patson stretches out his arms, balancing on one leg. His outstretched crutches almost cover the entire goal. I notice all around the pitch, people have paused in their business to see the outcome of the kick.
Aziz runs up to make the kick. He feints left, but Patson does not move. The ball flies quickly to his right, heading for the top corner. Patson times it sweetly. He dives to the right and pokes at the ball with the end of his crutch. It lands at his feet, and with one quick hop, he places his crutches on the ground and gives the ball an almighty kick. Fantan collects the ball and passes it swiftly to my right foot. I transfer it to my left and slip past Sinbaba before sending it straight through the empty goal.
My team goes crazy. Innocent runs up and down. “Goooaaal,” he shouts.
I run back to Patson. “Good save!” I say.
He grins for the first time, and the game is back on.
There are more people around the pitch now, and I hear a bit of applause and a few shouts of encouragement. Patson’s save has motivated our team. They attack the goal, and before Aziz and Sinbaba know what has happened, Fantan has slipped past the defense and has scored a goal from a long pass from center field.
We play until the insects are buzzing around the tall, tall lights of the border post and the night has crept up on Beitbridge. All is forgotten as the ball moves from player to player, foot to head, head to goal.
In this moment I am all I ever want to be. I am free of worry, released from fear, unable to think of anything but this moment. I fly from one side of the pitch to the next, I weigh up my opponents, test their weaknesses, wait for an opening, calculate the flight of the ball, guess what my teammates will do next. There is no yesterday or the night before; there is no tomorrow or the day after that. There is only now: a soccer ball, players running from side to side, and the goal at the end of the pitch.
It is so good to be running, to call on my speed when I need it to outrun plodding Sinbaba or to pass lightning-fast Aziz. On the side, Innocent is walking up and down as he always does when I play. Every time I get the ball and slip past a player I can hear him.
“Goooooo Deo!” he shouts.
The score has become unimportant. It could be 7-6 or maybe 9-8. None of us is interested in winning, just playing. After about an hour we take a break and drink from the tap behind the office buildings. I splash the water over my face and drink thirstily.
“Aziz, you have to show me that move of yours,” I say, tossing him the ball as we walk back to the pitch. He demonstrates it in slow motion. I try it out. It will take a lot of practice to get it right.
We play for another hour, but the game is different now. One or two of the boys are called back by their mothers, and I can see that the others are tired. I look up to see what Innocent is doing. He sits on the ground, legs crossed in front of him, listening to his radio. I must remember to get some batteries before we cross into South Africa.
Which makes me think about our truck and driver.
The line of trucks is moving. The mechanical beasts are on the move. While we were playing, they must have opened the border and allowed the trucks to go through.
I grab my ball. “I’ve got to go.”
I run over to Innocent, haul him up from the ground, and run to where our truck was parked.
It’s gone.
I run down the line of trucks, trying to find him. There is no sign of our truck. The driver has left us behind.
“Look at the lights, Deo. They’re so big. So bright. It’s like daytime.”
Innocent is staring up at the lights towering over the border post. He turns slowly, hypnotized by their brightness. I look around the border post. People are still waiting, still sitting around in groups. I spot a place under a tree a little distance from the building. It’s as good a place as anywhere.
“Come on,” I say, “let’s go and sleep. Tomorrow we have to look for Mai Maria.”
We walk over to the tree, but on the way Aziz and Sinbaba run up. “You come with us. You can’t sleep there,” Aziz says.
“There are many robbers here,” Sinbaba says, jerking his head at a group of men moving slowly through the crowd. “It’s not good to sleep by yourself, especially when you have so much money.”
Sinbaba points to the soccer ball. So he noticed what it was stuffed with. I hold it close to me.
“Robbers?” says Innocent, looking frightened.
“My brother doesn’t like robbers.”
“Don’t worry. Come,” says Aziz.
We walk back to where Aziz and his family have been camping before trying to cross into South Africa. They have been waiting for two days. There is something wrong with their papers. Aziz tries to explain, but I catch only every second or third word. He speaks strangely. They are Muslim. His father wears a hat, and his mother has a scarf around her head. The father laughs when I show him my ball.
“Aziz says he wants one just like it,” he says, handing it back to me. “You are welcome, Deo. You can sleep there. Mama, give the boys a dhoti to sleep on and some sweet chai before they sleep.”
Aziz’s mother hands out thin sheets, and we are each given mats to sleep on. It’s better than lying on the ground.
10
FINDING MAI MARIA
When I wake up in the morning there are twice as many people at Beitbridge as the night before. It is as if the whole of Zimbabwe has arrived for the opening of the border. The air crackles with energy; people are moving about; the mamas are laying out their goods; people are jostling in the queue, getting ready for another day of waiting. Aziz and his family pack up their belongings and hurry to join the long line of people in front of the office. The place where we played soccer last night has become a noisy taxi stand. Minibuses park side by side, and their drivers and number twos are busy loading and unloading passengers, fixing tires, cleaning their windshields, and trying to out-shout one another to get fares.
“Pay forward!” they shout. “Pay forward!”
“Musina. Polokwane. Pay forward!”
“Air-conditioning! Fast like lightning!”
“Pay forward! Pay forward!”
I ask Aziz what this means.
“You get a lift with them once you have your papers, and then you pay on the other side,” he answers.
“Many peop
le don’t have the money on this side,” explains his father, “so the taxi drivers allow you to pay once you get to your people.”
“And how much is it to take one of those taxis to South Africa?”
“Two thousand rands,” he answers.
I don’t know what that means in Zim dollars.
“Two hundred billion Zim dollars,” he says.
But who can afford that! I don’t have two hundred billion dollars, and there is no one on the other side who will give me rands. Pay forward is not for us.
I have to find Mai Maria. As Aziz and his family move away, I ask them if they have heard of Mai Maria. Aziz’s father shakes his head and points to some of the women selling food.
“Ask them. They know everything that happens here,” he says, hurrying his family away. Aziz looks back at me, waving good-bye.
“Thanks for the move, Aziz,” I shout after him, but he is swept away by the crush of people heading for the immigration office.
Finding Mai Maria is not as difficult as I thought it would be. Everyone at the border town of Beitbridge knows her. The women point me to a well-worn path that leads away from the border into the bush beyond a barbed-wire fence.
“Careful she doesn’t eat you up,” one of the women warns, and the others cackle with laughter at the look on Innocent’s face. “She’s a witch, that one. Be careful, wena!”
I follow the path, and Innocent stumbles after me.
“What did they say, Deo? Who’s a witch?” Innocent hates stories about witches and cannibals. “Where are we going, Deo? I don’t want to see the witch, Deo.”
“They were just making a joke—trying to be clever. Don’t listen to them.”
“Mai Maria is a bad woman. They said so. I do not want to see her. Innocent stays here.”
He stops walking.
Now Is the Time for Running Page 5
