Chapter 1
The headman stopped carving his wood. His eyes alighted on the young boy of twelve years who was standing in his yard. The young boy looked hungry and emaciated. There was no doubt that the young boy had not eaten anything for days, let alone washed his body.
Headman Jaji Mamba of Hlupekani refugee camp in Giyani was not new to all these things. As headman he was the only person to welcome foreigners to the land of milk and honey – Mzantsi, as it commonly known.
The headman wiped sweat from his brow and dried his hands on a towel hanging from his waist. He did not say a word. He wanted the young boy to start the conversation.
“What can I do for you young man?” asked Jaji Mamba after realizing that the young man was not ready to speak.
The young man, a tall handsome 0f twelve years , with broad shoulders and an oval – shaped face, cleared his throat. His lips were dry and cracked. Although he tried to lick them to life, there was no life in them. The young man was hungry. He wore dirty, torn clothes. He carried a plastic bag, holding a tattered jacket. Apart from the jacket, he had nothing in the world. He did not have life, not even a smile. The young was bare foot. It was clear from his shape that he was not himself.
He looked at the headman. Frustration, loneliness, hopelessness were written all over him.it was winter, cold was hovering about. Everyone had put on something to warm their bodies but the young man had nothing with which to cover himself.
Hlupekani, a squatter camp for refugees from Mozambique and Zimbabwe, lies on the Man’ombe Mountain on the outskirts of the affluent Giyani Township. Mopani trees, which surround the camp, made life easier for the refuges, providing shade and protection during windy and summer months, when the sun scorched the earth. It also provided them with Mopani worms, a staple diet for people in Limpopo province.
As if this was not enough to save them from their abject poverty and sorrow, the Ritavi river flowed next to the camp as relieved to provide them with water to drink and somewhere to bath, since there was not enough to cater for them.
Hlupekani was a settlement of shacks build of cardboard boxes, stone and mud. Those who worked in the township bought corrugated iron and timer to made their shelters more habitable and attractive but despite all this, the placed remained Hlupekani squarter camp – a desolate placefull of painful memories.
The young man cleared his throat again.He seemed to have caught a cold. His watery eyes shone on the face of the headman.
“My name is Jimara Nobela from Khomhomuni,” he said in a faint voice. Jimara was weak. He looked hungry. This was attested by his voice and by the manner he spoke. The headman looked at him. He could clearly see that Jimara had a painful past to tell and relate.
The headman knew Khombumuni and the surrounding villages back home. although
he was from Masingire , a village in the border with South Africa, he also had relatives in other villages like Xai-xai and Xikwalakwala.
He had fought in the war for liberating the people of Mozambique from the Portugees.
Things started falling apart when civil war broke out between Frenino and Renamo. The war brought suffering and poverty. The war displaced families, friends and neighbours. And the headman also had a bitter and painfull past to tell. Although he managed to take his family to South Africa he is said to have left behind many valuable things. However, he was pleased to be safe in a foreign land.
“So you came by yourself. You do not have anything with you except this plastic bag and a jacket” asked the headman.
Jimara felt empty inside as he recalled how he struggled with his family and friends to come to the land of milk and honey.
It was hot. So sweat came down to his chicks, but did not bother to wipe it out, after all, there was nothing to be happy for, he had to survive and make ends meet.
Jimara finally nodded. Tears flowed but he used the back of his hand to dry them. He felt relieved after crying a bit. Life was not fair, he thought. He did not see any reason why he should live, he thought. At last his face showed signs of life. He felt in him that there is no more to live for after what he had experienced.
’’My father Machave, my brother, Antonio, and others from our village decided to come to Mzantsi. Nobody except one Zambiri had been to this place. The rest of us had never been here. We heard people saying in South Africa people have plenty to eat. They have money. There are clothes. There are jobs. People live in peace and they behave like whites. Young men of my age know Johannesburg. They often came home over the weekends and all holidays with so many valuables we envied, like cellphones, radios and bicycles. We had none so it so it was difficult for us to live. You know very well that people these days like nice things, “ said Jimara.
Jaji Mamba laughed. He nodded and looked straight into Jimara’s face. He knew that Jimara was telling the truth . peopledo not want to associate themselves with rags and poverty. Many people do not want to be associated with poverty. They want to be looked after.
“Even in the olden days it would be difficult for a lazy young man to find a decent wife. In order to find a suitable partner, you had to show a manly character. You had to look for a job, keep enough cattle and have a place to farm in order to support a family,” said Jaji Mamba.
Jimara was relieved that the step his father and brother had taken, was right.
“Where is your mother?” asked Jaji Mamba again without giving Jimara a chance to finish what transpired on their journey to Mzantsi. Jaji was anxious to find out what really happened to the young man’s family.
Jimara took a deep breath and postured himself. He was meditating and seemed to be dreaming.
“Since we left them in our village that day, my mother Rosana and my two sisters, do not know exactly what happened to my father and my brothers,” said Jimara sobbing.
Headman Jaji Mamba could see that his questions were doing more harm to the young man but to help him he had to know his past.
“What happened to them?” he asked. The young man hesitated for a while. He looked on the ground. Tears flowed down his cheeks. This time they were uncontrollable.
The Headman stood up and put his arm around him. He was also in a state of sympathy. He had been through that himself. He knew of others who had been through such a situation. Many people at the camp had experienced a similar plight. He was pleased though that many of them were beginning to heal from the wounds of the past. They had put the past behind them and were on their way to recovery.
“My father and brothers were killed by wild animals at Phafuri one night. Together with others I escaped until I finally reached here. I have never seen their bodies. I only saw the animals feeding themselves on their bodies. I ran for dear life. I did not want to die,” said Jimara in a flood of tears. The Headman comforted Jimara. He felt pity for him.
“Jimara, this is not the end of the road for you. We are here for you. Many young men of your age at the camp had been through all this. Today they are working very hard to improve their lives. It does not help at all to cry over spilt milk, not at all. Please put the past behind you. God will answer your prayers.
God, thought Jimara. How can He answer my prayers when He lets hunger come to us? How can He do it when He allowed his family to be killed by wild animals? He was a thoughtful man. He understood the challenges of life and what he should do.
“A man must work hard for success. God said we must work. Nothing comes free. Everywhere people are working. God helps those who are serious about life, not lazy ones, not some young men of your age who go around this camp in the township stealing, raping, smoking ganja and committing evil. I often warn them to be careful. I tell them that we are not here in South Africa to extend pain but to ask for love and comfort. That is what we are here for. I thank the old Mandela. He did not chase us away. He knew we come from poverty. He knew we had no clothes, not even food. People are evil. They do not have souls. Instead of appreciating what these people are doing, they start stealing, killing and doing all these evil things.”
Jimara thought about those people who were committing crime. He asked how it was possible that they can do such a thing. Must he blame them? Could be? He did not blame them. He knew that poverty was the cause. It was the reason he came to Mzantsi to better himself. He knew it was not easy like old man Gijana said. If you do not face storms and challenges in life, chances are that you will not be successful. Old Gijana was a sculptor in his village. He was considered to be a wise old man. Young men and children often took time to be with the old man because he had a wealth of knowledge about life. Even the Headman in the village often consulted with the old man for wise, thoughtful guidance and advice. Jimara considered the old man’s advice to be true. In order to be successful in life, you must suffer and face mountains and hurdles. It is true, he thought. Nelson Mandela, the first black President of South Africa suffered for many years before Mzantsi could become the Jewel of Africa. His sacrifices made South Africa to be the prosperous nation it is today, Jimara thought.
New hope and positive thoughts enveloped him. He had a dream, a dream, which he had to accomplish despite the challenges. He wanted to achieve what he had in mind. He wanted to get a better education, make enough money to go and start a business in his village. He got up from the mat and went outside. He looked around the camp and saw people, mostly his countrymen and some from Zimbabwe were occupied in their shacks. Others were erecting shacks. Kids were playing on the dry, parched ground. Life had to go on. It appeared that many had put their past difficult lives behind them. Life had to go on. Some had left behind their loved ones. Others did not know where their family was. Their journey to Mzantsi was marked by one misfortune after another. In between this painful past that hung on their shoulders, a new chapter in their lives had to be unveiled; hope was to be ignited. As for the dearly departed ones, God had the final answer.
Jimara had a lot on which to pounder but realized there was a long walk ahead of him. An African proverb says. “He who has hands with which to toil is not poor but pity those who are handicapped because he cannot do anything for himself.
As he remained watching the beauty before him and the surroundings. He suddenly saw a Police vehicle speeding towards the Headman’s kraal. The sight of the vehicle frightened him as did the noise that accompanied it. The siren on the roof of the vehicle compounded matters. The Headman stood up and approached the vehicle which had just stopped in the yard. People who saw the car came out and surrounded it.
Two burly men came of out of the car. Their faces showed anger and bitterness. “Headman, we are looking for some boys who terrorize people in the township,” said the one with a helmet In his left hand.
He was bald-headed with his tight hand mopping sweat with a handkerchief on his cheeks and the entire face. The Headman, still shocked and bewildered, rubbed his hands together. Women at the camp had abandoned what they were doing to come and hear what the policemen were saying.
“Today these boys have robbed women at the pay point. I understand they are the ones who dragged a young school girl and raped her behind the Giyani Stadium,” said the one who was taller and looked aggressive.
“I understand. I understand. Do you know them?” asked the Headman.
“We were given their names and how they look,” replied the first one.
“Their names are Roberto and Carlose or Carloshe, something like that. Roberto is skinny and light in complexion. He wears dreadlocks whereas Carloshe is short and of medium build. This Carloshe is dark and is known to be a ganja smoker. dO you know them?” asked the second policeman.
His voice was louder and became more aggressive than before. The Headman denied knowing them. They looked around. They moved and cast their sight further. Jimara caught sight of one of the policemen. He did not go nearer to where they had parked their car.
“Young man over there, who are you and what do you do for a living?” asked the first Policeman. Before Jimara could answer, though nervous and shivering, the Headman intercepted.
“He arrived here yesterday. He is new here. He knows no one,” replied the Headman.
“Nonsense. These people are not grateful that they have been harboured here. You came here from your place because of hunger but now that you are well fed you steal and commit evil, “said the second one.
“That is how an African behaves after being shown generosity,” said the other.
The Headman shook his head, as did the women who had gathered around.
“Look for these young men Headman. We won’t rest until we apprehend them,” shouted the other.
The two Policemen quickly jumped into the car and drove off. The Headman was left on the spot to think. He had warned the boys at the camp to behave. What if the camp were to be demolished. He thought with his chin in his hand.
