Every other weekend, Anesu always invited us for a braai. I really never got to know what he really did to earn a living, but he seemed to be doing well.
I have seen most people in our neighbourhood driving fancy cars with no sign of putting a hard day’s work to earn a living. Anesu was one such kind. And in most cases, it was Baba VaTata, Rasta, Fatso and myself who were invited.
And Baba VaTata, the biggest water baron in the neighbourhood also made sure that there was a lot of beer. He sold his water by the bucket, charging twenty five cents per bucket. He was making good money as the council taps had run dry. People had no choice except to buy the water.
All I knew about Anesu is he seemed to live partly in South Africa. He spent about two weeks of the month in South Africa and the other half in the country. I adored his living style. And we never really got to know what exactly was the nature of his work across the Limpopo River.
A couple of years ago when I went in search of greener pastures in South Africa, I found it difficult to get a breakthrough. At first I made dozens of applications seeking employment , pinning my hopes on my academic qualifications. I knocked on several offices and faced rejection after rejection.
After all the disappointments and facing near starvation, I ended up doing any menial jobs that was thrown my way. I even slept under bridges, risking being robbed. And I also met some highly educated people from West Africa living rough in the streets. I was even surprised when I met a professor from Ghana living the life of a hermite on the streets of Johannesburg. Each time I passed by Bree Street, just outside the small Somali restaurant, I would see him scavenging for food. On reflection, I always think the professor was somehow cursed.
I had first hand experience of the tough South African job market so it always made me wonder how people like Anesu beat the system and were living large and driving flashy cars.
We were quite surprised when we did not see Anesu for a whole month. Having been used to these fortnightly braai parties, we were left in disarray as to what had happened to our mutual friend. The weeks turned into six months and not even a word from him. Baba VaTata even tried phoning Anesu on his South African mobile number, but it never went through.
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We soon got used to the idea that Anesu was unlikely to come back, but we hoped that nothing bad had happened to him.
Then several months later, Anesu just pitched up as before. But this time, he was without his usual swagger. Even myself, who pride myself of being a reader of people and their minds, failed to unlock the mystery of his disappearance and sudden appearance. His expressionless face betrayed nothing.
After his return, Anesu never held or invited us to the usual braai parties. He stayed more and more at home and gradually isolated himself.
And soon after, his car was gone. We never really got to know whether he really sold his car or that there was more to it.
“I think Anesu is in trouble,” Rasta said the other day. And one day as I came back from work, I passed by Anesu’s house.
I was shocked to see his household goods, furniture and clothes outside. His landlord had thrown his belongings outside. Anesu had fallen on hard times. And I had always thought that the house was his property. He was in far bigger trouble than we had imagined.
What happened to Anesu is the reason I have taken it upon myself not to live for people or pretend a life that is not mine. Never live a lie, because reality always catch up.
*Onie Ndoro
X@Onie90396982
Email: [email protected]
