Now Is the Time for Running

by Michael Williams

  LIFE IN A BRIDGE

  Living inside a bridge is fine. And after living inside the bridge for five months you get used to the smell, the long shadows, and the intimate sounds of people. When we first arrived Gawalia helped us make our own section in the bridge. After a couple of weeks we found a mattress in the city dump that we brought back and stuffed through the hole. Catarina gave us our own paraffin lamp, which we hung from a nail in the cement ceiling, and Rais brought Innocent a bigger radio. Angel gave us some blankets. I found some cardboard boxes to use as insulation, and soon we were very cozy in our bridge called home, but I had no idea that looking after Tsepo and Rasta would be such hard work.

  Gawalia explained in his gentle manner that everyone had to earn a living, and so if we all performed our duties, everyone’s life would be more comfortable.

  Catarina brought food back from the restaurant where she worked, so there was always something to eat.

  Rais dealt with our security. He chased away anyone who stayed too long under the bridge. Gawalia hated rats, and so he made sure that we never left any food around. He was always sweeping out the dust through the hole, patching up damp spots and throwing out the dirty water.

  Innocent played games with Tsepo and Rasta, bathed them at night, taught them how to read words in the newspapers, and basically kept them out of trouble. I don’t think he saw it as work at all.

  Once a day I was in charge of getting fresh water to the bridge. I filled a five-liter drum every morning from the community tap in Alexandra. Rais showed me where he hid a wheelbarrow to carry the empty drum to the township. I would wait my turn in the line and then wheel the full drum back to the bridge. Innocent would throw down a rope from the hole, and together we would pull it up into the bridge. The rest of the time I kept an eye on Innocent and the boys.

  Angel always provided spare cash for emergencies. She did all her business with her cell phone. I would hear the familiar ringtone and know that in ten minutes one of her clients would appear under the bridge. In the late afternoon and early evening they would follow her past our sections to her side of the bridge. I never asked what she did with her clients, but I had a pretty good idea. Nobody spoke about it, which was fine with me. I just thought of the men as sad ghosts.

  At Gawalia’s table, I’m staring at the number I’ve written down on a piece of paper and at Angel’s cell phone as she comes toward me. She is tying up her hair and rubbing the back of her neck. “I’ve got to do something about that bed. It’s giving me neck ache,” she says, scooping up some clean water from the drum. She expertly lights the paraffin burner and starts boiling water.

  “So, you still haven’t made that call?” she asks, spooning her usual three teaspoons of sugar into a cup and sitting down at the table.

  “What if he’s there? What do I say to him?”

  “Hello, this is your son speaking,” she answers flippantly. “Don’t worry about that. Let the conversation take care of itself.”

  I told Angel about Innocent’s wish to find our father. She said I could use her cell phone to call the work number that Innocent remembers.

  “He probably doesn’t work there anymore,” I say, spinning the cell phone on the table.

  “So, why not phone and find out? Oh, I get it. You’re scared that if he doesn’t work there anymore, you will have lost the possibility of finding him. Sometimes the wishing is better than the having. Believe me, I know what that is all about.”

  “It’s a little of that, and a little of not wanting to lie to Innocent,” I say, looking at my brother, who is reading a book with Tsepo and Rasta on our bed.

  “Hey, you want me to try?” Angel picks up her phone and dials the number. She starts to hand the phone to me, but I shake my head. “What’s his name again?”

  “Mr. Goniwe.”

  “Hello, yes, I wonder if you can help me,” she says. “I want to speak to Mr. Goniwe. Yes, I understand he is an employee of Removals. Mr. Goniwe.” Angel rolls her eyes at me and makes a spinning gesture with her index finger. “She’s checking,” she whispers.

  We wait. I can’t stop my leg shaking. In a few moments I might be speaking to my father.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Samuel Goniwe. Yes, that’s right.” Angel shrugs at me and I nod my head.

  Samuel. That’s my father’s first name. I wonder if Innocent knew that.

  “Oh,” says Angel.

  I watch her carefully. She turns away from me. “Okay. And you have no contact information? Yes, of course I know that, but could you check? I’m not asking a lot!” she says sharply. “Well, thank you very much!”

  Angel snaps her cell phone shut and slips it into her pocket. “The bitch said that Mr. Goniwe hasn’t worked there in five years and was laid off. She has no forwarding address and didn’t know where I could find him. Sorry, sugar, but it was a long time ago.”

  “That’s okay.” I crumple the piece of paper and throw it on the ground. “That’s a number I don’t have to remember anymore.”

  “Don’t worry. There are plenty of other ways of tracing people….”

  A sharp whistle interrupts. It’s Gawalia’s signal for trouble.

  “Rais! Angel! Come down here! Quickly!”

  Angel and I poke our heads through the hole.

  “There’s trouble in Alexandra. I need some help at Ahmed’s spaza. Where’s Rais?”

  “Catarina and Rais aren’t here,” says Angel.

  “I’ll help,” I say without a second thought, and I swing down to the ground. Gawalia’s wheelbarrow is filled with foodstuffs from his spaza. We load everything into a box, and Angel pulls it back up into the bridge.

  Innocent’s head appears in the hole.

  “Deo, where you going?”

  “I’m going to help Gawalia at the spaza. I won’t be long.”

  “I need some more batteries, Deo.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll see you later.”

  I fetch my hidden wheelbarrow and follow Gawalia into Alexandra. He jogs ahead of me, pushing his empty wheelbarrow. There is no time to ask any questions.

  A thick column of black smoke rises above the township. I catch a glimpse of orange flames. Perhaps someone is burning tires. A police van speeds past us in the direction of the flames. The wail of its siren makes me jump.

  “Do you see the fire, Gawalia?” I shout.

  “We’re not going there. This way,” he says, turning off the road and heading down one of the side alleys into the heart of Alexandra.

  People are out on the streets. They must have seen the smoke from the fire. They stand in groups talking, pointing in the direction of the speeding police van. I struggle to keep up with Gawalia. When we get to the shop, Ahmed, the owner, is outside looking up the street.

  “Quickly, quickly,” he shouts at Gawalia. “There is no time. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Gawalia dashes into the shop and starts packing his wheelbarrow with foodstuffs. Meanwhile, Ahmed is shutting down the shop and pulling down the wire barricade in front of the windows.

  I stand on the street catching my breath, watching people run past Ahmed’s spaza. A man picks up a stone and throws it at Ahmed. It misses him, but the stone smashes through the glass window. The man shouts something I don’t hear. Ahmed spins around, glass shattered all around him.

  “What! Who did that?”

  I point after the man running up the street. “What is going on?”

  “Deo, help me,” says Gawalia, shoving me roughly into the spaza, ignoring my question. “Take all the food on that shelf and pack it into your wheelbarrow. Fill your barrow only with as much as you think you can push.”

  I jump over the counter and pile up my wheelbarrow.

  “You have to get out of here, Ahmed,” says Gawalia.

  “But it’s my shop! What will I do? Why would they do this to me? We are neighbors!” Ahmed paces. He moves to the window, looks up and down the street.

  “You must lock up and leave, now!” says
Gawalia.

  I run past the two of them carrying bags of rice and corn and cans of fruit and bottles of oil, trying to follow their conversation. It is strange to be raiding the spaza, carrying out all this stuff without paying for it.

  “But it’s not right!” shouts Ahmed.

  “That doesn’t matter now,” says Gawalia. “We will take as much as we can and store it at the bridge. At least we can save some. Now you must go.”

  And that’s when we hear ugly singing. And the loud voices of angry men shouting. And the screaming wail of police sirens.

  Gawalia runs to the door and looks out at the street. “It’s too late,” he shouts. “Deo, come! Quickly!”

  He slams the door of the spaza and locks it while Ahmed draws the curtains.

  “What about our wheelbarrows?” I ask.

  Again my question gets no answer. The walls of the shop shudder. A brick crashes through the window. Angry voices shout outside. Their words collide, fall over one another.

  “All foreigners… out on the street, now!”

  “Ahmed! We know you are in there. Come out, now.”

  “We are looking for foreigners!”

  “Where is your country? Go home!”

  “Kwerekwere, out now!”

  The door shakes as it is beaten with a metal pole. The noise inside is deafening.

  “I will speak to them,” Ahmed says suddenly. “They will listen to me.”

  Gawalia grabs my arm and pushes me to the back of the spaza. He tries to stop Ahmed, but Ahmed is opening the door, shouting as he does so.

  “Stop throwing rocks. I’m coming out!”

  Hands grab Ahmed and pull him onto the street. He screams as many sticks fall on him. Another brick comes through the window. It lands at my feet. Ahmed’s white robes turn red with blood. This is the last I see as Gawalia drags me away.

  “Quick. We have to get out of here.”

  “What is going on, Gawalia?”

  “They hate us. The people in Alexandra. They hate us foreigners. Come, run!”

  We run into a backyard with a locked gate.

  “Our wheelbarrows… the food…” I shout.

  “Come on! There’s no time.” Gawalia climbs up on top of Ahmed’s storeroom and reaches down for my hand. I scramble up and onto the roof and look out over the shacks of Alexandra.

  “Look!” I shout, bewildered and scared by what I see.

  More fires. Smoke pours from burning shacks. Gunshots crack the air. Sirens sound everywhere. People run down the alleyways, chased by men carrying sticks and axes. Nobody has seen us on the roof, but soon someone will.

  “We have to get out of here,” says Gawalia, panic in his voice as we feel the chaos around us.

  “This way,” I say, leaping from the roof.

  We race through the alleys, scramble over fences, dodge behind huts, keeping away from the main streets. All around us people are fleeing. Some carry crying children on their backs, some carry suitcases and parcels of clothing. Their fear is like flames. It jumps from person to person. The fear eats at us, burns us.

  “Where are the kwerekwere?”

  “We will kill all kwerekwere.”

  “Run! You are not wanted here.”

  More people come out of their shacks; it is better to be running than burning in your home. They run in every direction. Nobody knows where the men with sticks and axes will be. The ugly noise is everywhere.

  We work our way back to the bridge, shack by shack, street by street, but we still have to cross the main entrance into Alexandra. I climb over a fence and cut across a backyard. Through a window of a shack I see the frightened faces of three children and a woman. She seems to be shouting something to me, but I can’t hear her. I see only the flame of fear in her eyes. She is pointing toward the front door, but I have no time to listen to what she has to say. Gawalia pushes me onward. I run past the shack to the main road leading into Alexandra—and stop dead still.

  Coming down the road is the mob of men, chanting the dreadful songs that send people running. Some wave axes and machetes above their heads. Some flick whips, which quiver like striking black puff adders. Some beat sticks against the lids of garbage cans.

  Men and women run past me. Stones land around me. A woman is struck in the back and she screams, stumbles. I run to help her, but before I reach her, a gunshot explodes. The sound jerks her onto her feet, and she is running again.

  People scatter in all directions. Women scream.

  And the men with hatred in their faces are singing, singing, “Away with foreigners, kill the kwerekwere.”

  They keep going, heading toward our bridge. Toward our home.

  19

  NIGHT AT THE CHURCH

  We have to get back to the bridge,” I say.

  “Tsepo and Rasta,” says Gawalia. “I’ve got to get them out.”

  Innocent.

  These men will hurt my brother. He will not understand their questions. They will beat him. Kill him. I run down the road, dart back into the alleys. Fear drives me to run faster. I jump over fires that burn in the middle of the road, pushing past people, running as fast as I can to get ahead of the mob.

  Gawalia follows. We are in sight of our bridge and see smoke rising beside the highway.

  “No!” I scream, running to our entrance.

  The highway is strangely empty. Where is the usual stream of cars? Have the police stopped the cars coming along this road? The smoke comes from a mattress that is burning next to the road. It is not the only thing from our home. The deck chairs, the blankets, the sheets, the food all lie scattered on the ground.

  I spot the smashed remains of Innocent’s radio.

  We are too late.

  “Innocent!” I scream, climbing up into the hole. “Innocent!”

  Inside the bridge there is no light. Gawalia climbs up behind me and stumbles to the table. He lights the paraffin lamp. The place is a mess.

  “Tsepo! Rasta!” he shouts.

  There is no sign of Innocent or the two boys.

  “Angel took them somewhere,” says Gawalia.

  “Maybe they are with Rais and Catarina.”

  We scramble down the hole, back to the ground.

  “If they knew what was happening and they got away, where would they have gone?”

  Gawalia doesn’t answer me. He walks up to the road, looking carefully in both directions. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get out of here.”

  We run across the empty highway and scramble up the embankment, leaving Alexandra behind. We are not alone. There is a river of people crossing the highway and running away from Alexandra. Police vans speed past, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  “Maybe they’ve gone to the police station,” says Gawalia.

  The police station is swamped with people who have escaped from Alexandra. People spill out onto the pavement, blocking the traffic, crowding into the parking lot. A policeman is shouting at everyone to clear the entrance, but no one listens. We are all too shocked. Gawalia and I move through the crowds looking for Rais, Catarina, Angel—anyone who can tell us where Innocent and Tsepo and Rasta are.

  Nobody knows whom we are talking about.

  I have really lost Innocent this time. I have lost my brother. I have taken him from Gutu into a strange land, only to lose him. What would my mother think? How could I have been so careless? My hands sweat; a snake crawls in my stomach. Innocent lost.

  “I’ve spoken to some people. They say there are a lot more people at the Methodist church grounds. Perhaps they are there,” says Gawalia. His face is pressed with fear and worry about his sons.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “Which way?”

  “Follow me.”

  We run.

  The Methodist church grounds are overflowing with even more people. They sit on the steps of the church, guarding their possessions, and some of them line up in front of a table where helpers are handing out tea and bread.

  “Let’s split up,” say
s Gawalia. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.”

  I wander from group to group looking for Innocent, looking for anyone from the bridge. I ask people if they have seen two small boys and my brother. People ignore me or shake their heads. They have their own worries.

  “How do we know we are safe here?” I overhear one of them say.

  “Where are the police? Why are they not here to protect us?”

  “They will come to this place. They will kill us all.”

  “We’ve done nothing to them. Why is this happening?”

  Their words make no difference to me. I have lost Innocent. I’m sure more than ten minutes have passed, and I go to look for Gawalia.

  I find him and start crying. “Where can he be, Gawalia?”

  He has no answer. He pulls me close, holding me tightly.

  We spend the night in the church grounds. It is not safe to leave, we are told. Gawalia talks to anyone who listens, asking about his sons. People shake their heads sadly. Someone offers him a cell phone to make a call to Angel. He calls, but her phone goes to voice mail. He tells her where we are and how she can find us.

  Exhausted, we sleep on the ground.

  I wake up in the night, and the thought that Innocent is lost crushes me. In the gloom of the church lights, I see bundles of people asleep on the ground. At the entrance to the church, a group of men stands watch. A police van is parked across the road, its blue and white lights revolving slowly, casting shadows on the wall.

  I wander over to the tap against the church wall. I drink the cool water, splash some over my face.

  Is this place worse than Gutu? Did I go through everything only to lose my brother in South Africa? I should have stayed in Gutu. I should have stayed in Bikita. I should have stayed in Beitbridge. I should have stayed at the Flying Tomato Farm. None of this would have happened if I had not felt like we had to keep moving.

  Try to think like Innocent, I say to myself. What would he do? Where would he go? He would stay with the people he knows. Rais, Catarina, or Angel. He would stick to them like glue. He must be with them.

  I think about going back to the bridge. It’s the middle of the night. Maybe he is waiting there. Surely it will be safe to go back now? But how will I find my way back in the night? It was daylight when we ran here; what if I got lost?