Zebra Crossing

by Meg Vandermerwe

  ‘But we agreed,’ my brother protests.

  ‘After the risk I just took for you? Both of you must get out now!’

  Terrified, I close my eyes. Meanwhile, my normally proud brother begs: ‘Please, baba, we are poor orphans.’

  ‘No, you are ungrateful lumps of shit! Get out!’

  The once-friendly driver has become another man. A heated conversation follows. The driver demanding and shouting. George grovelling and begging.

  Finally: ‘How much do you have?’

  I do not hear what my brother mumbles.

  ‘Just give it to me.’

  My brother hands over the notes. I know he has a few more in his sock, but thankfully the driver does not know about that.

  ‘Is this all you have? For this pathetic amount you two can stay in the back!’

  Then, before my brother can move, the driver gives him an angry smack on the side of the head.

  We both climb out of the front cab and go to the back of the truck. The driver slams the container door shut with a terrible bang and locks us in from the outside, leaving us in total darkness.

  We are prisoners, I think. We huddle together among the crates of unripe avocados. We are prisoners. And with that thought come memories. The thud-thud of the soil landing on top of Mama’s coffin. Sand in my shoes. Auntie Ruth’s wailing. Uncle Charles’s perspiration on his brow, the back of his shirt darkening as he shovels. Mama. You are trapped.

  I will go mad in here, I think. The truck bumps over a pothole and my side slams into the sharp corner of a crate. But just as I feel the darkness closing in, George takes my hand and squeezes it so tight that I know he too is terrified. I feel my heartbeat begin to slow.

  Over the next few hours, the driver stopped twice, but he didn’t let us out. When he finally did, we saw that a young woman and two young men had taken our places in the front cab. They did not make eye contact with us as we all hurried into the bush to empty our bladders and bowels while the driver smoked a cigarette. George’s jaw was already badly bruised and swollen.

  ‘Is your jaw very sore?’ I whisper. I want to reach out to touch George again, but in the daylight of Cape Town station he flinches from my touch.

  ‘Shut up, Chipo. Look out for—’ My brother’s words are drowned out by another train announcement. Mitchell’s Plain. Departing. Platform Four.

  I look down at my crumpled skirt and the suitcase lodged between my legs. With my hands I try to smooth the creases. Inside that truck we took comfort from the smell of each other’s perspiration, like flour mixed with water and yeast, left to ferment in a tin shack in the noonday heat. It was the smell of fear, yes, but also a reminder that we were still alive. But now I feel only dirty.

  ‘Thank God. It’s them.’

  I look up in the station and see two men approaching. City men. Tall. Both wearing sunglasses, T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. Identical. Yes, identical twins, but not the same. Look closer, Chipo, I tell myself. Behind the sunglasses of one, his left eyelid hangs low. An injury from when he was a boy and he fell from the bicycle he used to charge the other children to ride. That is Peter. The other, with warm smiling eyes like Andy Cole, is David. He never teased you when the other children did and often shared his lunch with the stray dogs waiting on the other side of the school fence, hoping for scraps. All the girls, too. Hoping for scraps of David’s attention. His affections. And you, Chipo? Do you forget how you used to leave the house a half-hour early, hoping just to touch David’s shadow with the tip of your shoe as he walked to school?

  When they see George they wave and hurry forwards. Warm embraces, ‘Welcome to Cape Town, George. You’ve grown. You used to be short! But what happened to your face?’

  As an afterthought, they turn to me. A sigh from Peter. A smile and a nod from David, who reaches down to take our suitcase. Then the three move off, still laughing and joking, lost in catching up.

  ‘Our building is called “President’s Heights”. It is taller than almost the tallest in Harare, and of course much taller than anything you ever saw in Beitbridge. From our room, we look over the city and can even glimpse Signal Hill,’ Peter says.

  However, when we approach, George and I immediately recognise that this is not the sort of building that any president we know of will choose to reside. There is washing hanging from every window and the mismatched curtains flap like tattered flags in the wind, and groups of young men loiter near the entrance with, it seems, nothing to do to pass their time but smoke and stand about talking. Still, we are lucky, I tell myself. Lucky to have David and Peter. Friends once, so friends still? Yes. At least, not strangers. And you should be grateful, Chipo. They could have told George that they would not take you too.

  One by one, through a clicking turnstile, we enter. Into a wide, gloomy lobby. Inside, a hundred post boxes stuffed with rubbish.

  ‘Do not receive post here, not unless you want it stolen.’

  Normally, Peter explains, it is tricky for African foreigners like ourselves to find places to stay. Most landlords require a South African ID, which, if you are a foreigner waiting for your papers, you do not have. Also proof of employment, bank account details, and so on and so forth. And a large deposit. But this building is different. Here, Peter tells us, the landlords let the African foreigners bypass the usual procedures – for a price. Peter rubs his thumb against his slim index finger like he is toying with a shred of tobacco.

  We are in the belly of President’s Heights, situated in the heart of Long Street, a street that runs like a spinal column through the city centre, almost down to the ice-cold Atlantic. President’s Heights and Long Street. Long Street and President’s Heights. iKapa. The Mother City. All That’s Pretty. iKapa The Mother City A Place Without Pity.

  I lift my skirt and squat. There is no toilet seat and my flip-flops stick to the lino. There is no way I’m setting my buttocks down on this porcelain, I think. And the lino could do with a good scrub, too. Still, it is a relief to finally unburden my bladder. Maybe later, when I am not so tired, I will wash this whole room down. When I come out of the bathroom, I find George sitting on a white plastic chair at the plastic table in the brothers’ room, eating a bowl of mealie porridge that the brothers have reheated.

  This one room on the seventh floor is to be our home. One room for four. I look around. In the far left corner there is a stove and a sink and one shelf on which sits a small bag of maize, a bag of salt, a kilo bag of sugar, a box of tea and a few pots and pans. Apart from the plastic garden table with three chairs, there are two mattresses covered with blankets on the floor, a green metal chest under the window and a wardrobe with no door. A sheet of plastic protects its contents. Next to the wardrobe there are four pairs of shoes lined up neatly against the wall.

  ‘Eat, Chipo,’ David says kindly. I blush as I serve myself a few spoonfuls. I do not want to appear greedy. To be greedy is not ladylike. That is what Mama always told me. I want to appear lady like in front of David. I am glad that I have washed my hands and face.

  I take my plate of food and go and sit on the floor under the window. The carpet, although marked with stains in many places, feels soft against my legs.

  The mealie porridge is only lukewarm but still delicious in the way that food always is whenever you are extremely hungry. After we have eaten, I pack the dishes into the sink in the corner of the room. Then I roll up my sleeves to begin to wash. A lady knows when to do the men’s dishes. But Peter says wait, you can do that later. First he and David want to take us back down onto Long Street to show us around. He says he will begin to introduce George to other Zimbabweans who can help with finding work.

  ‘And our suitcase with the Congolese fellow? Is it safe to leave it?’ asks George.

  David and Peter have explained that the bedroom in the flat is rented by a Congolese tailor.

  I had noticed that the door nearest to the front door was closed, and had wondered who or what was inside. Coming from that room there is a delicious
aroma, intoxicating as the scent of beef gravy.

  ‘Congolese?’ my brother had asked, surprised. ‘Why doesn’t he live with his own people?’

  ‘Long story,’ said David in a low voice as he unlocked the front door. ‘But don’t worry. The noise of his sewing machine – that is as much as you will know of him from one day to the next. He cooks, eats and even washes in his own room.’

  ‘And, most importantly, he is willing to pay the lion’s share of the rent,’ explained Peter.

  ‘He is an honest fellow. You can leave it,’ David says now.

  If David says so, I feel confident. I take out my umbrella and follow.

  I lie in bed, unable to fall asleep. It is late. Well after midnight. Peter and David are snoring on one side of the room, where they have pushed aside the table and chairs and lowered their mattress. I count their breaths, one and two, in and out. I count until I reach a hundred and twenty, but my mind is not yet heavy and loose. George is asleep too, beside me. David has said we can share his mattress until we find our own.

  ‘If you go out early in the morning, up to where the nice houses are below the mountain, sometimes people have thrown them out. Otherwise you will have to go to the second-hand furniture shops in Woodstock.’

  I am not the only one in President’s Heights who cannot find peace. Beyond the thin walls and floors, ceilings too, televisions and stereos blare. I turn on my side and Peter’s words earlier in the day return: ‘This is your home now. Pay close attention. See this Mountain Dew tuck shop? They call them spaza shops here. It is owned by the Somalis. They keep to themselves. You won’t secure a position with them. They only employ family or Xhosa-speaking locals.’

  We continue on. One small shop sells sports clothes, another jewellery, another furniture. All still closed. Waiting for nine o’clock, David explains. George looks pleased. Isn’t this what he promised? Shops packed with the heart’s desires?

  At each important point along Long Street, Peter and David stop and explain what is what. There seems to be nothing they don’t know. It is like they were born here. But I feel dizzy from all this newness. Dizzy rhymes with fizzy.

  ‘Here is the bead shop where I work. Next door is Atkinson’s Antiques. Two old whites run it. Next door, Clarke’s bookshop.’

  At that moment a tall, handsome African man passes, a black baton hanging from his belt. He looks with suspicion at Peter and David. I step closer to George and lower my umbrella.

  ‘From the Congo,’ Peter whispers when the man is no longer in earshot. ‘DRC people do all the security for these shops. They are also most of the parking marshals around here. You will find it is like that in Cape Town. Certain nationalities, certain jobs.’

  My brother frowns. Says nothing.

  ‘The meat and boerewors carts are owned by locals. They come at night and sell food to the people who are here for a good time. By morning they are gone. But the glass empties and cardboard abandoned by the carts, as well as by all these bars and cafés, they belong to them…’

  ‘Who?’ George asks.

  ‘Them.’

  We all look. Peter points across the street to the alleyway we have just passed, where three sitting men appear to be dozing. One is white; the other two, David explains, are called ‘coloureds’, although it is difficult to tell them apart. The white man’s skin is dark from spending every day outdoors. All three, like strange brothers, have untidy beards, woollen hats and overcoats in spite of the heat.

  ‘The white man, he is called Kobus. He and his friends, they are in charge of collecting the cardboard boxes and empties from the bars and organising them for the municipality every morning. They are locals. Drunks. They sleep on the street and spend all that they make on bad rum. They buy it at the liquor shop at the top of the street. An old white man runs the shop with his son. They never give credit but will sell to anyone, and their beer is good value.’

  ‘So what are we Zimbabweans supposed to do?’ I can see George is beginning to worry, but doesn’t want to show it. ‘What are our jobs?’

  David shrugs, ‘Mostly waiters and chefs. Sometimes cleaners. Sometimes shop assistants.’

  Nationalities sounds like irrationalities. I turn again. Still no sleep. Peter is snoring louder now. David joins in. Below, Long Street is more alive than ever. Every unfamiliar sound reminds me of Peter’s warning that life in Cape Town is different from what we knew back home and that we must be on our guard. A man is singing in a language I cannot understand. He is singing for the girl he loves as they walk to a bar. That is what I tell myself. A group of young women chatter excitedly, then laugh. They speak English but are not Zimbabwean. I imagine them dressed in bright dresses, their clothes smelling of perfume, their skin of Nivea. Their skin is spotless and pure, no doubt, like expensive milk chocolate. The smooth sort that comes wrapped in gold foil and says ‘Nestlé’ on the packet. I am sure they are university students, or secretaries working in the sparkling glass office blocks that you can see from our window. I have never seen so many windows in single buildings.

  Then I hear, ‘Yoyoyoyoy! Give-me-back-my-fucking-cell-phone-battery!’ This is followed by ‘She, she is the one who took it!’ The argument moves up the street and out of earshot. I hear passing motorbikes, and then police sirens. A car hoots. A truck farts its sooty puffs beneath our window.

  The truck’s rumble takes me back to the border. Suddenly a lump of fear forms in my stomach. Will we be able to make a go of life here, like Peter and David seem to be? You are here now, Chipo, you must find a way. You will find a way. I whisper the words into the darkness like a soothing prayer. You must find a way. You will find a way. You must, you will, you must, you will.

  George smacks his lips next to me. Worn out, I roll next to him and push my body as close as I can without the risk of waking him. Stop worrying and go to sleep, Chipo, I tell myself. Sleep sleep sleep.

  Four

  Before illness robbed Mama of her strength, she was known for her resourcefulness. As well as owning and running Old Trafford, she also recorded all of the televised Premier League matches on her VHS machine. Then, when the league was having its summer break, Mama would carry our television outside and, using a long extension lead, transform Old Trafford’s front yard into a place to re-watch all of our favourite matches.

  I was always amazed at how many people would pay to watch soccer matches when they already knew who would win, hearts bursting with pride, and who would lose and leave the pitch with their tails between their legs. On those mild winter evenings our backyard did brisk business. George would sell beers and plates of stew, roasted peanuts still warm in their shells, and other refreshments. I would be in charge of making sure that only those who had paid were allowed entrance. If the person did not want me to touch their money, then my mother would send them packing.

  When they were boys and teenagers, George, Peter, David and Michael played soccer every weekend and most evenings too, on dry fields after the harvest, or up and down streets, or even at the sides of roads as the cars and trucks passed. This is how they enjoyed their free time, because for soccer you do not need much. Not even a proper ball. Almost anything round will do, and boys are ingenious with their inventions. Balls were made from rags, or from tightly compressed plastic bags. My brother and his friends favoured the five-kilogram bags of mealie meal. If the ball begins to unravel, then play must stop until it is retied. And the goals? Two planks, propped up however. Back in Luthumba, long after David and Peter had moved to Harare with their parents and George and Michael had started spending their time in the tavern rather than on the soccer pitch, if you stood in the doorway of our home in the evening, you could still see skinny barefoot boys skidding and kicking up red dirt. At home their food cupboards were no doubt empty and they were in need of school fees and books. But for the moment, all worries were forgotten. They were Michael Owen, David Beckham or that Brazilian, Ronaldo.

  ‘Goal! Goal!’ they shout. A boy not older than ten, the s
corer of the goal, does his victorious backflip.

  ‘If some of the wives would come to my tavern, they would not recognise their husbands,’ Mama would often joke. ‘With Seven Days and a soccer game to watch, the lame husband can dance, the deaf husband can hear every whistle blast. A place of miracles.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘If only the pastor at the New Jerusalem Church talked more soccer and less fire and brimstone, his church would be packed to the rafters!’

  When we arrive in Cape Town it is clear the soccer fever, which we knew so well in our own house, is slowly gripping an entire nation and even a continent, even though the World Cup itself will not start for another seven months. We read about it every day in the newspapers that David brings home after work. One day he also brings home a calendar. I do not know where he got it from and he does not tell us. Only that it is for counting down the days until the start of the World Cup. On the cover it says: IT’S TIME. CELEBRATE AFRICA’S HUMANITY.

  ‘That’s the motto. What they are putting on the T-shirts and posters.’

  At the end of each week, David counts how many days remain until the World Cup arrives in Cape Town and the other major South African cities. Just two hundred and thirty, with much to look forward to in between, including, at the end of November, David tells us one evening, the team draw.

  ‘But first,’ Peter says, pointing at George and me with his fork, ‘you two will have to survive Home Affairs.’

  Why did you leave your home country?

  Three forty-five in the morning. A full moon. We are already on our way to Home Affairs for our second visit in one week. The first time we went, George ignored Peter and David’s warnings to go early or even sleep in the queue the night before to ensure we are seen to.

  ‘I didn’t leave Zimbabwe to sleep on the street in South Africa like a stray dog,’ George had said. ‘Enough that I must do the job of a maid.’

  With the help of Zimbabwean friends of Peter and David, George had found a position in the kitchens of a Mexican restaurant on Long Street, called Tortilla, cleaning plates and mopping floors.