Passport to Life

I sit in a city square, viewing a tin plate of beans and pap with great anticipation. My worldly possessions have been stolen - twice - since my travels began. My dad sent me a bit of money to get me home, but I sit here wondering if that is what I really want to do…

The city square is full of the hustle and bustle of Johannesburg street markets. Art, second-hand clothes, jewellery and all manner of plastic trinkets from China provide a colourful and energetic backdrop to this fragrant meal. I dig in - fingers as utensils of choice.

Delicious.

A gunshot pierces the air followed by an instant communal cringe - everyone ducks instinctively, silence palls. And then the mad practiced scramble for cover.

I am not abandoning this meal. No way. Whatever they want, they can get without me moving. So I tuck in, and shield the plate with one arm from the dust storm of departing panicked crowds.

A man staggers, injured, into the square. He sees me, and changes course towards me. Yikes, maybe I should have bolted - you idiot! I berate me. Too late, the shooters are closing in too - I hear their thudding track boot beats through my soles…

The man falls at my feet. Face contorted, chest heaving, he does not pause.

“Take - this - to - them!” he pants. “Please! Tell them - I love them. I will see them.”

He calms, intent on completing his mission, he holds my eyes. Serene, steady trust.

He gets up awkwardly, thrusts a satchel under my chair, pulls a little black book from under his dusty shirt, tucked into his waistband.

“They are here.”

Tears fall down his cheeks as he tucks the book into my hand. Visibly, he relaxes, and he staggers on.

Seconds only have passed, but I am left in the vortex of a storm that has left me dumb with shock. I hitch my leg behind the chair, blocking the view of the satchel with the folds of my long skirt.

I rest my head on my arms, more from the dizziness of shock than presence of mind, but the enraged security detail probably take me for a drunk tourist. Thank goodness. They thunder past, only one guard pausing to prod me with his muzzle inquisitively before he resumes his gallop.

Silence.

Then pandemonium! I am surrounded, kiosk staff patting my back, the owner brings me a soda. “So brave, so brave…”. “What did he say?” Tongue clicks, head shakes, the sympathy of Africa.

I lock my feet like a vice onto the satchel under my chair, reach my hand down and pull the soft leather bundle into the invisibility of skirt folds. If my travel-worn clothes were worth stealing, how much more this? - that a man would die for what is inside?

Heart pounding, I tell them - voice shaking authentically, I didn't even need to try - “He said to tell somebody that he loves them. Do you know who he is?”

Heads shake. Jackpot. Asking for information in this tricky situation works its magic: I become a nyoka, a dangerous snake to now be avoided. The crowd dissolves.

I am left alone staring at a cold plate of beans and pap. I have JUST risked my life for this meal - and now I feel ill. No appetite left here, it seems.

Can I trust my legs to stand? I ask me.

I breathe deeply, raise the soda in thanks to the owner who watches me through her curtain. I place three R5.00 coins on the table. Her eyes light up and she smiles and waves her farewell.

I get up and swing the satchel onto the table from under the chair, checking that all is intact and the bundle is securely closed, remembering that this is supposed to be mine and that people are watching. Without incident, with a confidence that impresses even me, I stroll away. On firm legs.

I lean against a cool brick wall shaded by a jacaranda tree. The hot October dust catches me by the throat for a moment, so I take the opportunity to turn my attention to the little black notebook.

On the first page is an address, here in Jo’burg, located in the suburbs. Flipping through the other pages swiftly, I see names, phone numbers and addresses - many angrily scratched out.

I cross the road to a taxi rank and ask for a ride into a Parktown address.

The driver languidly gestures his empty car - my invitation to embark.

I open the back door and start to giggle. After-shock. Triggered by the seating arrangement of loose crates on an empty floor.

I bang the door closed and go find another taxi.

I rest my head against the seat, an urge to cry pressing at my throat. If I let that out, I know that it would be a short trip to a big ugly-sob…. Hold it together, girl.

I must have dozed. The car is stopped under a wide umbrella tree, a cool breeze wakes me. The driver is just sitting. Waiting. I jolt up, clutch the satchel, suspicion is strong with me today it seems.

He lifts his chin at the house. “Here?” he asks. The heat makes us all dopey.

“Thank you. Enkozi. Siyabonga.”

I pay and leave, waving goodbye, grateful to Dad that I could tip the driver nicely.

I turn to face stern, iron gates. Buzzing an intercom, I realise that I have no idea who to see or what to say.

“Can I help you?” enquires a metallic voice.

“I have a message for you from a friend.” I say.

Pause.

A solid reverberating click, and the gate whirs open. I dart inside, not even the least bit concerned that I feel like a hunted rabbit, overwhelmed with uncertainty right now. Why am I doing this? I recall his eyes, filled with tears. “Tell them - I love them.”

That was real. That is why I am here.

A maid hurries outside and greets me. “Did you leave your car outside Madam?” she asks politely.

Then she gasps, clutching her mouth with both palms, sinks to her knees. Her eyes hold the satchel.

“You are who I am looking for?” I say. I am choking. Keep it together, girl. I indicate the bundle I carry, and show her the little black book.

She nods. “He got it? Where is he?” She runs to the gate. “Lethabo! LETHABO! I am not laughing now - no joking!”

What to do.

“We need to talk. Can you leave your duties for a while?”

She looks suspicious, but the white shock I feel on my face probably convinces her. We walk to a small cottage behind the house, a traditional servant’s quarters. She calls out as we enter - “It’s just me, bring some tea my little ones!” - and leads me to sit at a small, bare table.

Two children appear. A young boy, eyes full of fear. And another fragile child, unseen, hooded and cloaked.

I tell her everything that happened. And then I hold up the satchel. “Are you sure you are the ones this man needed to get this to?”

Her children both sit on her lap, and they rock and wail together. She stops, and holds the hooded face, nodding. Then she looks at me, dry-eyed, firm. Gently, she takes the hood off to reveal her beautiful daughter.

Albino.

“Themba. What is in the satchel is for our Thembi. The medicine man has want of her, and she has been hiding for three years now. She is good ‘medicine’, so she is in danger of being taken all the time. Lethabo found a way for us, if he succeeded then there will be enough money in the satchel for us to leave without passports. To go somewhere safe.”

She folds her arms around her daughter, kisses the top of her white hair, braids carefully laced with colourful beads that make her look ethereal…

I shake my head. “OK. Let’s look.”

I open the straps and lift the flap. Inside… bricks of United States Dollars. For the second time today, I am not sure if I can trust my legs.

“There is a man who can get us to Durban and onto a ship to go wherever we want. The price is US$20 000 each.”

“Khayoni!” a woman calls. “There’s a policeman to see you - are you ok?”

Khayoni leaps up, dislodging children and bolting outside. “Please madam, tell him I am not here. Can you take a message and ask him to come back later?”

“Of course. Are you ok?”

Silence.

Khayoni sweeps in. “Children, choose your best clothes and put as many on as you can.”

“It’s so HOT Umama…”

The satchel sits on the table. “We must go now,” she says. “We can take nothing except what we can carry. I will leave word for Lethabo. We will see him.”

She takes bricks of dollars and tucks them into her belt. $60 000 for three fares. $20 000 left.

Khayoni pauses, thinks.

“You take it. For Lethabo.”

Goodness! This family and their eyes! How can I refuse that look? And she is right - if she leaves now, three will be safe. If Lethabo lives to see the day end, his fare will be safe with me. I can find him, I nod.

We take a taxi to an address in Lethabo’s black book. I hug them all - gently for Thembi, fiercely for Khayoni and lift Junior in a high playful whirl. Then I borrow a pen from the taxi driver, and I write my home address in the little black book.

“Come find me. I will have news of Lethabo, and I can help you to start over.”

They are gone, disappearing through the security gates with their passports to freedom - the price of life.

I search for Lethabo. I enquire. I pay ‘appreciation’ for information. I offer reward. I guard his ‘passport’ day and night. Then news comes - he is recovering, but he is in jail. When I visit, he is so grateful he cries across the table from me. His family will be safe now. He is content.

“Can I leave your ‘passport’ with you somewhere?” I ask.

Lethabo shakes his head. “No. No Beth. I will not leave this place after what I have done. You take it, for you have given me everything I ever wanted. They will be safe now. Happy, and free.”

Lethabo is led away, a new little black book peaks out his belt. It holds the address that links him to his family. Mine.

I go home. There is only one thing to do with Lethabo’s Passport to Life…

I will keep it. I will wait for them to find me.

When there is life, there is hope...