And Mama’s grave? But I do not ask to see that. Instead I tell David that I want to see the Old Trafford soccer ground in Manchester.
‘Can we?’
‘Just watch.’
A few clicks on the keyboard and mouse. There it is. The pitch and buildings I know our mother would have given anything to visit. David and I wait for the image to grow clear and solid. It looks very small.
‘One day, I will take you to the real Old Trafford, my children. We will walk where the greatest red shirts have.’ This memory of Mama’s promise, as I helped her to stir the Seven Days fermenting in buckets, one happy evening, long before our troubles started, comes to me as I watch David trying to enlarge the image further.
‘Look, you can see the stands and individual seats!’
Over the next month, for five rand a half-hour, David and I ‘visit’ the original Old Trafford many times. Also New York’s Statue of Liberty. Paris and the Eiffel Tower, London and Buckingham Place. David says it is like looking through ‘God’s spectacles’.
‘Imagine if they can create a computer programme that allows you to see into the future,’ David says. ‘I suppose the American military will like that. It is they who developed this technology, you know. For spying and what-what. It would be good, too, to know if we are to take these xenophobic rumours seriously.’
Imagine, I repeat. Imagine if one can look into the future. Not just of countries. But into our own futures too.
‘Have you ever been to the townships?’
‘No, never.’
‘George says that the people who want us to leave live there. He says that he cannot believe it. We are all Africans, and yet they see us as worse than colonisers.’
I watch Jean-Paul carefully measure the fabric. He marks it with his tailor’s chalk and then cuts it, piece by piece, shape by shape. I think he is making a jacket. So far he has shown no emotion. Has he heard the rumour? Does he not care?
‘Jean-Paul, they say we have until the World Cup final to leave. We can stay until then but after that they will drive us back across the borders.’
‘Where did George hear that?’
‘From the ticket inspector who attacked him.’ I pass Jean-Paul the pins. ‘But also at the restaurant. From the waiters who take the train in from Observatory. Complete strangers have started approaching them. They say, “We are giving you until the World Cup final. After that, you better go home.” And it’s not just on the trains. Peter’s girlfriend, Aneni, says that a Xhosa woman, a woman at the hotel where she cleans, said to her, “Sorry for you. When the World Cup is finished, you will burn.”’
Still Jean-Paul shows no emotion. Does he not believe me?
‘George says we are probably safe in the city, though. That it is the foreigners living and working in the locations who must worry. A lot of Somalis have tuck shops there, apparently. Here we are among our own. Is that why we don’t live in the locations but in town? To be among our own?’
‘Perhaps. But I live in town because that is where my clients are.’
I think about Luthumba, Beitbridge’s location. It stood a few minutes outside the town centre. I wonder about Cape Town’s locations. Khayelitsha. Gugulethu. Nyanga. They don’t sound or rhyme like anything. What are they like? Their homes? Their schools? Markets? Soccer pitches? Surely the same as ours?
Mama once told me a story about when she was a girl.
‘There was a bad drought. Not a drop of rain for almost three years, mwanangu. Things became scarcer and scarcer. First fresh goods, fruit and whatnot. Then meat. The women started to fight at the markets and in the shops for mealie meal, for samp and rice. Neighbour versus neighbour. Sister versus sister. Mothers against daughters.’
I told Jean-Paul the story. He shook his head. But there was no drought here. Wasn’t there enough for everyone, even us foreigners? Jean-Paul did not look at me. He carefully pinned the front and back pieces of fabric together. I was growing frustrated by his silence.
‘When we are scared for our livelihoods, we can do terrible things,’ he replied finally.
‘Were you here the last time? In 2008?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait.’
I want to talk to Jean-Paul about this, but I can see he is in no mood to discuss such matters. He works silently, his forehead creased into a frown. I pull a chair to the window and sit down.
Below in the street, how many were visitors? Tourists or those just passing through Cape Town? Foreigners like us, yet everyone greets them with open arms because they have money.
Rent day. It always puts George in a foul mood. He says he would rather be hanging on to his hard-earned wages than giving them away to fat-bellied South African strangers. But Peter is strict. The rent is not allowed to be late. Late rent means there is a good chance we will be put out onto the street.
Today George is in an even worse mood than normal when he hands over the blue and pink notes. He says that last night Mr Ross made him clean human shit off the pavement in front of the restaurant. He says he has had enough of Mr Ross’s orders, and something more lucrative must come soon.
‘If the stinking manure does fall from the cart in July, I don’t want to have made this journey for nothing.’
Everyone has been talking about the new rumours. They seem to have infiltrated every community – the Zimbabweans, the Congolese, the Cameroonians, Malawians, Nigerians, Somalis. Before, we looked forward to the arrival of the World Cup. It was something to be celebrated. But we no longer trust it. Still, no one is talking about leaving South Africa yet. I think they are hoping to get a slice of all the tourist cash that everyone has been promised. George, too, is hoping to profit.
‘Maybe their money will be the answer to all our troubles,’ he told Peter and David last week. ‘We will make enough money to go home and live easy for a while.’
Then one evening George comes home with more bad news. Luc from the restaurant has gone.
Luc’s job was to stand outside Tortilla and stop the street children from putting the tourists off their refried beans and beer.
‘But on Monday he didn’t turn up for work.’
Three nights passed and still no Luc. He wasn’t answering his cellphone either, says George. Mr Ross ranted a lot. He said Luc had better stay away because as soon as he stepped through the door, he would fire his black backside anyway.
‘But word has come from Luc’s cousin today. He’s been refused his residence permit. When he went to Home Affairs to get his six-month update, they arrested him on the spot. This is how they are now doing it. Art of surprise. They are putting us in prison until the deportation plane leaves. A normal prison with common criminals. That way, they are sure to wash the taste for South Africa from our mouths.’ George sits down and lights a cigarette.
‘But Luc has a wife and two children in South Africa,’ David replies. ‘His wife’s decision is still pending, but he is on a plane back to the Congo. So now their family is split apart?’
George nods.
David’s forehead is creased like a shirt in need of ironing. Jean-Paul is from the DRC, like Luc. Will he be put on a plane back to Kinshasa too? I ask.
‘Don’t worry Chipo,’ David says, ‘Jean-Paul has already been here ten years and has asylum-seeker status.’
‘It is you and I who should worry,’ George tells me. ‘Our six months will be up in two weeks’ time.’
When George and I went back to Home Affairs, George was even more nervous than the first time. Me too. But everything went smoothly. We didn’t get any nasty surprises, and the lady behind the counter told me my decision was ‘still pending’.
Until Home Affairs makes its final decision, Peter says we are on borrowed time. But the good news is that some people can wait as long as four years to hear the outcome of their application. There is a backlog at Home Affairs, says Peter, and not enough motivated staff to sort out the piles of paper. So we might be OK. In f
our years we could achieve a lot.
George doesn’t agree. He says that even though we received another six-month permit, it doesn’t mean much because the World Cup is coming. And that might be the end of us. I know he is combing his brain trying to figure out a clever plan to earn lots of rand fast. But so far he is still stuck sweeping dead cockroaches out of Mr Ross’s kitchen and washing street children’s shit off the pavements.
‘We could try to sell something?’ Peter suggests. ‘Some foreigners have started to do a side trade in World Cup memorabilia.’
This is true. I see them leaving President’s Heights early in the mornings with miniature South African flags to sell to the motorists travelling to work.
George shakes his head. ‘Ha, waste of time. Selling flags is not going to save anyone’s backside. And you know what is most pathetic of all?’ George raises his voice so that Jeremiah, who is standing near the window, can hear. ‘Those foreign Africans who have started wearing Bafana Bafana jerseys like they are natives.’
Jeremiah flinches like someone has just spilt boiling tea on his hand. He is wearing the green and yellow national team shirt with the collar turned up.
‘They think that if they wear South Africa’s team jersey, that makes them real South Africans. They think it will keep them safe. Ha. No one cares what soccer shirt you wear. They only care what your “pass book” says.’
That’s what George has started to call our Home Affairs papers. Pass book. He says that when the whites still ruled South Africa, all the blacks had to carry a pass book. The pass book said who could go where and when.
‘Exaggeration,’ says David. ‘Our documents are no apartheid pass book.’
But George goes on and on. It is rare for him to show that he too was no fool at school before lack of money forced us to stop attending.
‘We are going to Fabric City.’ Jean-Paul is pulling on his coat when I come in.
Fabric City? In Woodstock? I want to talk to Jean-Paul about everything. About pass books. About Luc. About whether to worry now that the rumour has spread. But I know that he never goes anywhere if he can help it. So this must be important. I go fetch my jacket and together we walk down to the bottom of Long Street to catch a minibus taxi.
When we reach the corner of Sir Lowry Road, the taxi door slides open and Jean-Paul and I get out.
‘What is that noise they are always playing?’ Jean-Paul grimaces as the taxi speeds off, the windows rattling with local hip-hop. ‘Shout shout. I don’t know.’ He shakes his head like he never heard such music back in the Congo.
Jean-Paul longs for a quiet life, I think, as I watch him walking slowly up the street towards Fabric City, leaning on his cane. He must be a man more used to the rural life – its soft sounds and way of doing things. Everything about the city seems to bother him. The crowds, the dirt, the noise. What was it like, the place where he grew up? I wish he would tell me.
Fabric City is a large shop that sells nothing but cloth. Some bolts are for upholstery, some for curtains, but the majority are for clothes. It is the place where Jean-Paul usually sends his customers. It is very unusual for him to go himself, so I am curious. When we step through the door, we are immediately greeted by the owner.
‘Mr Jean-Paul! A welcome surprise. How are you?’
‘Fine, fine, Ashraf. And you? Business good?’
‘Very good, thank you, my friend, Allah be praised. Jamal, bring a chair.’
A young boy, no more than twelve or thirteen, hurries over with a chair and Jean-Paul gratefully slumps into it.
‘What can we help you with today, Jean-Paul?’
‘We’ve come for the young lady.’
For me?
‘For me, Jean-Paul?’ I turn to look at him.
‘Today is your birthday, is it not, Chipo? Eighteen is an important age…’
I nod. Blush. He is the only one who has remembered. I knew he would not forget.
‘You are growing up. And a young lady requires a winter wardrobe. But first you must choose the fabric.’ Jean-Paul turns to Ashraf. ‘Show us your best winter fabrics.’
Ashraf takes us to the far end of the shop. On wide tables there are large rolls of fabric all piled one on top of the other.
‘Here on the left. Natural fabrics. More expensive, but in the end,’ Ashraf lowers his voice, ‘better value.’
‘Excellent. Which colours, Chipo?’
I look. Pinks, blues, yellows, greens. Some are sari fabrics that the Indians like. Gold with black trim. Black with gold butterflies. Others have African patterns. I look at Jean-Paul. He is too kind to hurry me, but I am sure he is growing impatient to get back to his room. I turn back to the bolts of fabric, as colourful as fruit and vegetables at market. Which one should I choose? I feel overwhelmed by so much choice. It isn’t often in my life that I am asked, ‘What would you like, Chipo?’ ‘Which would you prefer?’
‘I don’t know which to choose.’
Jean-Paul waves his hand. ‘Something bright. No hiding in the shadows, my child.’
I point to a blue and a red. The blue one has tiny yellow dots on it, the red one small white flowers.
‘Excellent choice. Ashraf, five metres of each.’
Ashraf clicks his fingers for one of his young assistants. He is a Muslim like Ashraf. Short and thin, with thick black hair and high cheekbones.
He picks up each bolt of cloth in turn and, with an expert gesture, rolls it out onto an empty table. Using a long wooden ruler and a pair of metal scissors, the sort that Jean-Paul uses, he begins to cut. Not once does he look at Jean-Paul or myself. But when he has finished he presents the fabric, neatly folded, to his boss. Then he returns to his sewing machine, where, I can see, he is making a suit.
Jean-Paul pays and I watch the young man as he hurries through his work, the machine’s needle humming between his hands. Hanging behind him on the wall is an example of his craftsmanship. A grey suit and a yellow dress. Their suits are not half as good as what Jean-Paul produces, I think to myself with pride as we take our plastic bags of fabric and walk back to the corner to wait for a taxi.
‘A cold day,’ complains Jean-Paul as we walk. ‘In my country, one never gets chilled to the bone…’
‘What do you miss most about home?’ I ask.
‘Our garden.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Always colourful. My wife loved to grow flowers. She made sure something was always in bloom.’
It is the first time Jean-Paul has spoken about her. The woman in the photograph. I cannot resist.
‘What was her name, Jean-Paul?’
‘She was called Marie.’
Was. So she is dead. I want to tell him that I know what it is like. But just then the taxi comes and I know Jean-Paul won’t want to talk in a crowded taxi.
Back at President’s Heights, in Jean-Paul’s room, I think of Mama. She liked to garden too.
‘What are those seeds, Amai?’
‘Pumpkin, mwanangu. I have been saving them for when the weather is good. Pass me the spade.’
‘How deep do seeds need to be planted?’
‘Different seeds require different depths. Some are strong. They can be buried deep. Others need to be near the surface where they can feel the warmth.’
‘And pumpkin seeds?’
‘Pumpkin seeds are hardy. They can go as deep as your little finger. Come and look. You must put them this way up.’
I watch Mama plop the seeds into the soil with spaces in between. Then she covers them with a layer of soil, pats the soil down and waters them. I know that in a few weeks little green shoots will come, fine as blades of grass. Later the blades will grow thick like tendrils. Leaves will appear and finally the pumpkins themselves, orange as sunsets. When you knock on them they sound hollow when they are ready to be harvested. Then we will cut them free one at a time, carry them inside and store them on top of the kitchen cupboard.
I liked to garden as a girl, though I had to b
e careful of the sun.
‘Have you put on your sun lotion?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Let me see. OK. Pull your hat lower.’
Mama taught me that certain plants prefer to be harvested at different times of the day. Chomolia, for example. That likes to be picked early, when the day is still cool. If not, it wilts. Tomatoes too. Pumpkins can be harvested at any time. We made pumpkin soup or roasted it. I liked to eat it with a lump of butter and sprinkled with sugar. When I was young, Mama told me I had a sweet tooth.
Looking down from the window in Jean-Paul’s room, after we have returned home from Fabric City, I imagine Long Street transformed into a strip of fertile agricultural land, with soil dark as wet coffee grounds. George and I are not country people. We lived in a location. Still, I cannot help but imagine. I squint until I can see the concrete replaced with soil that has been dug up and planted. The people walking below with handbags and cellphones, I imagine them carrying spades and hoes. The cars become tractors. The traffic lights, trees. I imagine myself standing at the top of Long Street and, looking down, seeing a road of maize. Tall green shoots with white mealie heads for as far as the eye can see. I imagine this farm running all the way down to the sea. It would be calm. The pace, slow.
Sea rhymes with Marie. I turn to look at the photograph. Today, white roses, their petals opened wide in the little vase. I can hear Jean-Paul’s voice, saying, ‘Marie, marry me.’
Was he romantic? Did he surprise her? Were they young? What did Jean-Paul look like when he was a young man? Was his foot already lame? Was Marie the sort of woman who fell in love with a man even if he possessed an infirmity?
I imagine the seated woman in the photograph smiling down at Jean-Paul on one knee on the grass. They are outside. He has taken her for a walk. Away from the prying eyes of their parents. A walk to look at the flowers. Then, when she stops to admire one of her favourites, Jean-Paul takes her hand. That high forehead and thin angular face are surprised at first. Of course, she was expecting him to propose at some point. They have been seeing each other for more than a year, after all, and her family is starting to ask questions. But she has been caught off guard. She is wearing a fuchsia-coloured blouse and a yellow skirt similar in cut to the white blouse and green skirt she is wearing in the photograph. Nothing covers her head. Her hair is short, black and curly, done in the natural style, a style that she will never change because he tells her he likes her hair that way. She is laughing. Her eyes are scrunched up with happiness.
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