We decided to use the underground. In this case, the underground meant bypassing the border and crossing the crocodile-infested Limpopo River by unorthodox means. I was travelling with Fatso. My passport had long expired.
Fatso did not have a passport. He never had. But we all found ourselves in the same boat. Fatso desperately needed to buy a compressor for his car wash, and I had secured an order to supply components to a local firm that manufactured soap. Fatso had raised the money for the compressor. I had borrowed from Baba VaTata in the strong belief that I would repay him immediately after receiving payment for my order.
We arrived at Beitbridge Town around midday. The intense rays of the sun caused our bodies to sweat incessantly.
The driver of the bus that had brought us from Harare told us to wait at Dulibadzimu Bus Rank near the public toilets. There was a big baobab tree that seemed older than anything else in the border town.
“Can we have the number of the contact person?” I asked.
“You don’t need any numbers. The person who will assist you to cross the border will find you. His name is Kupera,” the bus driver said.
It was strange. We looked at each other after the driver had departed.
“That is very strange,” Fatso said.
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When we approached the baobab tree, there were other people there who seemed not to be doing anything. It was as if they were waiting for someone or for something to happen.
As we drew closer to the tree, I observed that it stood like a silent giant, massive, swollen and timeless. Its size felt overwhelming.
The driver had said that Kupera was going to find us. We had never met him before, so this alone was quite puzzling.
After two more hours, the number of people around the baobab trunk had increased.
Were these people on the same mission as us? I asked myself.
There was a sudden movement among the crowd as even those who had been sitting scrambled to their feet.
“He must be the one,” Fatso said. He pointed at a group of about five men approaching us.
I fixed my eyes on the man in the centre. He had a deep, dark complexion like the people from Sudan. But what struck me most was the growth on his forehead that gave him a fierce look. Even when his mouth was closed, one of his canines jutted out in defiance. This was the man who was going to help us cross illegally over the Limpopo River. His name was Kupera.
Altogether, we were about sixty people who wanted to use the illegal route. It was a death trap where anything could happen during the crossing and beyond the river. There were marauding gangs of robbers who preyed on border jumpers.
Kupera planted himself under the baobab tree.
“The passage across the river for each of you will cost R300. Once you pay, you will be issued with a card,” Kupera said.
We were all silent. I saw consternation on Fatso’s face.
“For those with children, it is not our responsibility to look after your babies. Once we enter the river, make sure you all stick to the rules we are going to give you,” he said.
Two of Kupera’s men moved around the crowd collecting the money.
A young woman with an infant strapped to her back stood next to me. She stood uncomfortably too close, and I could feel her hot breath on my neck. What could be driving her to take such a dangerous journey? Where was the father of the baby? A man who was past his prime stood between me and Fatso. He looked sickly. Would he make it across the crocodile-infested river?
“We shall travel at night to avoid border patrols. And once you are safely on the South African side, you will be on your own,” Kupera said.
I did not like the sound of it one little bit. There were many stories about what happened during these illegal crossings. At this point I had too many regrets. There were many red herrings. My stomach tightened with fear. Already darkness was suggesting itself to the sky. I was not sure of the danger that awaited us on this perilous journey.
The journey itself was doomed from the start, but this is the story for next time.
* Onie Ndoro
X@Onie90396982/email: [email protected]
