Scarred Lions Read online

  I held my breath. And I thought we had it bad in London.

  We approached the ground quickly now. Airport buildings, airplanes and landing strips flashed by. I was pushed back in my chair, feeling the force of the enormous engines. Then there was a slight bump: the wheels touching the runway.

  I sighed softly as the runway and hundreds of small lights whizzed by. The wing flaps were pulled up, breaking our tremendous speed. Engines roared. The plane slowed down more and more. Eventually it reached a mere cruising speed as it taxied its way to the airport buildings.

  Around me people started talking again, excitedly. I kept quiet. Just watching. Waiting for the plane to come to a complete stop.

  Minutes later the passengers bustled out. I followed the stream of people.

  And as my feet touched ground on African soil, I expected to feel a sudden jolt. A familiar connection, perhaps even a feeling of coming home to the land of my father.

  But there was nothing.

  I knew in an instant that I didn’t belong there either.

  We stood in line to get our passports checked and cleared. The man behind the counter looked solemn. He glanced over my passport and stamped it without hesitation.

  I had a backpack over my shoulder but needed to get the rest of my luggage. Most people, it seemed, knew their way around the airport. I had to go on a hunch, keeping an eye out for signs or just following the other passengers like a lost sheep.

  The bags made their way down the conveyor belt. At first I panicked when I saw only the one, but soon the other one appeared as well. Two bags filled to the brim with all my stuff. Or some of my stuff: I couldn’t pack everything. Mum promised to keep the rest safe; said it would give her something to remember me by. I am sure a photograph would have been enough, but I knew she was right. I couldn’t bring along the whole bloody room.

  I needed a trolley, I now realized. I left the bags standing there and went off in search of one. When I arrived back, there was a man standing alongside my bags. He looked down at them, then at me.

  ‘Are these yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked at him, and then at his uniform. He was with airport security.

  ‘You shouldn’t leave them around,’ he said. ‘Someone might take them.’

  ‘I was just gone for a minute.’

  ‘That’s more than enough time for them to disappear.’

  I nodded, but wondered who would want to take my bags?

  ‘Are you South African?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought so,’ he nodded. A smile appeared on his face. ‘If you have anything to declare, you have to go to Customs. Let me help you with those bags.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I said, but he had already taken one of my bags and lifted it onto the trolley. I placed the second one on. My backpack too.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Why does this stranger want to know my name? I asked myself. I answered none the less. ‘Buyisiwe.’

  ‘Returned,’ he said, and then frowned. ‘I thought you said you’re not from around here.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said as I walked away.

  ‘Good luck then!’ he shouted. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to need it, Buyisiwe.’

  I hoped he was wrong about that. His words didn’t put my mind at ease at all. I was suddenly very conscious of all that was going on around me. The announcements being made inside the terminal building, the expressions of the people scurrying about: some rigid, confused, happy, relaxed, angry. The slightly musty smell of baggage mixing with floor polish.

  As I stepped into the arrivals hall I was met with a sea of expectant faces. People waiting for their loved ones, tour operators awaiting their customers, chauffeur services waiting for business men.

  Who would be there waiting for me?

  ‘Your dad will pick you up.’ That is what Mum had said.

  I didn’t know what he looked like. I had only seen his face once on a faded picture. The picture I had of him in my mind had faded even further by now.

  My gaze drifted across all the people. My heart began thumping. My mouth was dry.

  What if he hadn’t come? It was a scary thought. I would be left there all alone. More alone than I had ever been in my life.

  Then a sign caught my eye. It had my name on it. Buyisiwe.

  The man carrying it looked around worriedly. He was dressed in a neat khaki uniform and leather shoes. As soon as his eyes met mine, he smiled. Rows of pearly white teeth showing up against his kind black face.

  My dad had come for me. The relief washed over me.

  So, this was him. This was Themba.

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘Sawubona!’ the man called, holding out his hand to me. ‘Ngiyakwemukela!’

  I frowned. I had no idea what he’d said. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said Hallo, welcome!’ He laughed and again his smile spread across his face.

  ‘Uh hi, thanks,’ I answered apprehensively. My heart was still racing. Somehow, meeting your father for the first time is a mind-blowing experience. Not mind-blowingly good, mind-blowingly terrifying.

  His hand was still stretched out towards me. I took it, his grip soft. Then he did a strange thing, shifting his hand from a normal handshake to gripping my thumb, again gently, and back to a normal handshake.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback.

  ‘Sawubona!’ he said again.

  I nodded sheepishly. ‘You’re Themba, right? My dad?’ I don’t know why I said it. The words just came spilling out. Of course he was my father.

  ‘No!’ the man said loudly, ‘I’m Lwazi. I work with your dad.’

  What? The unsettled feeling inside me increased. ‘But where’s my dad then?’

  ‘He still had some work to do, so he asked me to come and pick you up.’

  ‘But my mum said Themba will –’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.’ Lwazi smiled again, patting me on the shoulder. I didn’t like that at all. After all I’d been through I would have expected my dad to come and fetch me himself. Could I even trust this guy? He seemed friendly enough, but you never know. I didn’t like strangers. It was just the way I had been brought up. Living in a big city like London also did that to you.

  I glanced around the arrivals hall, trying to see if the security officer who had talked to me earlier was still around. If there were any problems, I could call him. He was nowhere to be seen but there were others around now, also dressed in uniforms. Hopefully there were some in plain clothes as well.

  ‘Let me help you with your baggage,’ Lwazi offered.

  ‘No!’ I snapped, grabbing the trolley. The conversation I’d had only minutes ago with the security officer was still fresh in my mind.

  ‘You’re afraid,’ said Lwazi.

  ‘I’m … I’m careful.’

  ‘That is always a good thing. Especially in South Africa.’

  Yes, I was afraid of all of this, but I was trying to hide my fear. Arriving in a strange new country that you are supposed to call your home from now on; then barely having set foot in the country and getting warned about being robbed; and having a total stranger pick you up at the airport. That would make anyone apprehensive.

  ‘You’re here!’ I heard somebody calling.

  ‘Buyisiwe!’

  A white boy and a black girl came running. They were about my age. Fourteen. They too were smiling, their faces lighting up as if they had known me all their lives. I stepped back as they approached.

  ‘Sorry we missed you,’ said the freckle-faced boy with the red hair. ‘Simoshile had to go to the ladies. And I had to see that she didn’t get lost. She’s got no sense of direction at all.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘André! Shut up!’

  The boy shook my hand and placed his arm around my shoulder. It felt strange to me. Should I just shrug it off, or would it be rude to do that?

  ‘My name is André,’ he said excitedly.

  The girl smiled gently. Her dark
brown eyes were kind as she introduced herself: ‘And I’m Simoshile.’

  ‘Buyisiwe,’ I said, but then remembered that they already knew it. After all, they’d called my name as they came running.

  ‘I see you’ve met Lwazi,’ said André.

  ‘I think Buyi thought I was a tsotsi!’ laughed Lwazi. ‘A criminal.’

  ‘If there is one person you can trust completely, it is Lwazi,’ said André. ‘I’m not so sure about Simoshile, though.’ Simoshile’s eyebrows rose suddenly. André’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, ‘She just might steal your heart!’

  Simoshile gave André a shove. He laughed playfully, winking at me.

  ‘I’ll get you for that, André!’ said Simoshile.

  ‘Enough of this fooling around,’ said Lwazi as he took hold of my trolley. This time I let him, feeling much more at ease. ‘I’m sure Buyi is tired. We have to get going. There is still a long road ahead.’

  Exactly where this long road would take me, I only found out much later.

  CHAPTER 6

  Outside the airport terminal Lwazi stopped for a moment and looked around, trying to find his way. I reckoned he didn’t come there often. But he wasn’t lost. Within seconds he had his wits about him and headed for a parking garage.

  ‘Aren’t we going to take the Underground?’ I asked.

  ‘The what?’ frowned André. Simoshile looked questioningly at Lwazi. She didn’t know what I was talking about either. Lwazi shrugged.

  ‘The train. The underground train.’

  ‘Oh that!’ said Lwazi. ‘There isn’t one.’

  How could it be? I wondered. From the air Johannesburg seemed like such a big and bustling city, surely they would need an underground rail system.

  Then Lwazi added, ‘Not at the moment. But they are busy building one right now. They call it the Gautrain. You are now in the province of Gauteng. So, the train would be named after the province.’

  ‘So people just drive to wherever they want to be?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ answered Lwazi. ‘There are trains of course, but they run above ground. And if you have to travel very far, you could catch a plane. Lots of people get around in their cars or in taxis. You will soon see them.’

  Lwazi paid at a parking station, and we headed for the car.

  I saw Simoshile stealing quick glances in my direction every now and again. Was something wrong? I looked down to make sure my fly was done up. It was. I shook my head. It was probably nothing.

  André talked a lot. He spoke English with a strange accent.

  ‘I’m Afrikaans,’ explained André. ‘It is my home language. But I speak English as well. And a little bit of isiZulu. Not much though, just enough to get me into trouble,’ he grinned.

  Three languages! How is that possible?

  ‘That’s nothing,’ said Simoshile. ‘I speak isiZulu and English. And bits of Afrikaans, isiXhosa and siSwati.’ She too had a strange accent, but it differed from André’s.

  ‘How many languages do you have in South Africa?’ I asked.

  ‘Eleven official languages,’ said Simoshile before André could answer.

  ‘Show off,’ was all he managed to get out.

  I only spoke English. How could these people get by with so many languages without getting totally confused? No wonder they all had these strange accents. Come to think of it, my English probably sounded strange to them as well.

  We reached the car. It was a 4x4 off-road vehicle with twin cabs. Lwazi packed my suitcases in the back of the vehicle. André and I got in on the backseat. Simoshile jumped in at the front next to Lwazi.

  As Lwazi started the vehicle, I felt a tiredness washing over me. There was still a distant fear lingering somewhere within me. Fear of the unknown. But there was also a faint spark of excitement. In the coming days I would learn that this excitement was to burn brightly at times. But there would be other times when it was to fade away completely.

  We made our way out of the airport grounds and were immediately caught up in the bustle of Johannesburg’s hectic traffic. They too drove on the left side of the road, like we do in England. Some of the people around us drove like madmen. Huge trucks slowed down the traffic. Most of them kept to the left lanes, while other cars overtook on the right.

  I read the road signs. We were on the Pretoria road. All around the highway there were businesses, factories and what Simoshile called ‘townhouse complexes’. This was where people lived in apartments of varying sizes, with the whole complex surrounded by security walls topped with electric fences.

  I soon realized that these people were crazy about security. They had security cameras, fences, walls, security guards, burglar-proofing on all windows, security gates, security doors and alarms.

  Shocking!

  I thought back to the flat windows in London that would be boxed with metal frames and mesh iron when it was left unoccupied. That kept people from breaking in, but what I saw in Johannesburg was a hundred times worse.

  It was as if they had built themselves these little prisons to live in.

  Minibus taxis whizzed by us on the highway. They were almost always overcrowded with nine or more occupants. They didn’t seem to care much for the rules of the road.

  We were driving north, I think. We kept on the road they called the N1, passing through a toll once. Then the scenery changed suddenly. The buildings fell away. There were more open spaces around us, dotted with trees and covered in grasslands. Again some buildings appeared, then a place that made my throat tighten.

  ‘It’s a squatter camp,’ said Simoshile, pointing to the dilapidated shacks. I had seen something similar from the air as we were about to land. And now I was right next to one. The shacks were built with zinc metal sheets and pieces of wood. In places there was plastic covering small windows. Some shacks didn’t even have windows. Roofs were kept down with rocks. From where I was sitting it seemed terrible. How could people live in these conditions every day?

  The children playing around the ramshackle houses seemed happy though. Their faces were dirty, their clothes worn, but they were happy as only kids can be. Was it because they didn’t know any better?

  Why was it so filthy and overcrowded? Why did people allow this to happen?

  Then a thought suddenly struck me: I still didn’t know where exactly we were heading. What if I was about to be dropped off here? What if my dad lived here in one of these shacks? It was a terrifying thought.

  Silently I prayed that the car wouldn’t stop here or even slow down slightly. Drive on! Just drive on! a voice screamed inside me.

  We drove past the squatter camp. I felt terribly ashamed. I realized I had stared into the bleak face of poverty. And I wanted nothing to do with it. Little did I realize that I was not the only one. The world was full of people just like me. People who didn’t give a damn about things like this just because they didn’t have to stare it in the face every day.

  CHAPTER 7

  Before I realised it I had fallen asleep. It had been a tiring day and I just couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. With the soft drone of the 4x4’s engine in my ears, I dreamt of living in a place where I felt at home. All the tension of the last few hours faded away.

  It was already late afternoon when I woke up. The sun was shining in my face. I heard voices. André and Simoshile were bickering over something.

  ‘Ah, look! The sleeping princess has woken!’ said André teasingly, turning his head my way. ‘And just in time too. I was about to get something to drink. You want anything?’

  I stared around. We were in a small town, at a shopping centre, built almost in a U-shape. Cars were parked all around in the middle. ‘I’ll go with you,’ I said, yawning. ‘I need to stretch my legs.’

  ‘Then I’m coming too,’ said Simoshile, jumping out of the vehicle.

  ‘Don’t take too long,’ said Lwazi, as he headed in another direction. ‘I just need to get some things for Mama Unahti’s kitchen. Be back in fifteen minutes!�
��

  The town was called Bela-Bela.

  ‘It’s famous for the hot springs in the town centre,’ said André. ‘Just a place for a bunch of old ladies to hang about gossiping, if you ask me,’ he added. Until very recently Bela-Bela had apparently been called Warmbaths.

  We entered the store. It was way smaller than the Tesco I was used to. The products on the shelves were also different. But one surely wasn’t …

  ‘Coke okay for you?’ asked André, already standing at the opened refrigerator door.

  I nodded, enjoying the fleeting coolness wafting out of the fridge. The South African summers were a lot hotter than those in London.

  André bought himself a magazine called NAG. It had topics ranging from games and computers to new technology. I watched him handing the money over to the cashier. That was another thing I would have to get used to: a new currency. Rand. The four cans of Coke and the magazine came to R67.96. That’s a little over £6, I worked out in my head.

  We were soon back on the road. Another half hour drive took us to a dirt road branching off from the tarmac road. Now I knew why they needed an off-road vehicle. We bumped around, heading on, but it didn’t seem to bother the others.

  ‘Do you see there?’ asked André, pointing to a mountain range in the distance. I nodded. ‘It’s the Waterberg Mountains.’ I stared at the solid-looking green and brown mountain, its jagged edges cutting across the sky.