Now Is the Time for Running: Part 1

There are five, maybe six, soldiers in each jeep. Some of them are in full battle fatigues; others just wear army waistcoats and belts with ammunition.

There are five, maybe six, soldiers in each jeep. Some of them are in full battle fatigues; others just wear army waistcoats and belts with ammunition.

“I hear there are dissidents in this village. Is that true?” His words are soft. I cannot trust them. In his question I can feel the metal teeth of a leopard trap.

I look blankly at him. If I say no, then he will know that I know what a dissident is, and then he will want to know what I know about dissidents. If I say yes, then there will be more trouble than I can even imagine.

He survived his birth, the liberation war, running the white man’s farm, and now old age—he can survive anything.

The women return with pots of porridge, a few ears of corn, plates of offal, pumpkin leaves, okra, black pap scraped from the bottom of the pot, a basket of eggs, chickens tied up at the ends of poles.

“I am Commander Jesus. I am one of the president’s men. I was once a leader of Five Brigade. The president has sent me here because he is unhappy with how you voted in the election."

"My name is Dixon Nyandoro, once Sergeant Nyandoro, veteran of the struggle for liberation and supporter of the president. I fought to free this country from the white oppressor and did not rest until such time as the snake’s head had been cut off."

Inside there are wooden boxes with writing on them, pinto beans, canned fruit, powdered milk, maize.

I feel a burning lump in my chest. It rises in me. It will make me fall to the ground and cry and cry and cry. I can’t let it come up to my throat. I push it down. Pinch my cheeks hard. So hard it makes my eyes water. The burning lump smolders in my stomach.

“I’ll get you another Bix-box....” I know this is the wrong thing to say, but I am desperate to leave.

“What’s a pungwe?”
“A time for Zed to remind us why we are lucky to have our president,” says Mr. Singh. “They call it Operation Rehabilitation.”

A photographer takes photos against a grimy white board.

Out of the hordes of people going about their business, a few watch me.

He grins at me and looks carefully at the boys standing around. He points at a lean, wiry boy.

He lurches forward, plants both his crutches, swings forward with his good leg, and kicks the ball so hard that it sails over our heads.

I charge him from behind and deliberately kick his ankles.

Aziz runs up to make the kick. He feints left, but Patson does not move.

Patson’s save has motivated our team.

The air crackles with energy; people are moving about; the mamas are laying out their goods; people are jostling in the queue, getting ready for another day of waiting.

“My father will have to carry me some of the way,” he says bitterly. “He promised Mai Maria that I would not hold up everyone. I won’t.”

“DON’T LET GO!” bellows Mai Mana.

He thrashes about, trying desperately to get a grip. His face breaks the surface of the water. A wave covers him again. He’s spluttering and coughing. “Deo, help me! Help me!”

The string binding the crutches is quickly cut, and Patson slips the crutches under his arms and negotiates his way over the rocks.

Patson hobbles after his father, his crutches slipping in the river mud.

The morning air in South Africa is buzzing with cicadas and the business of birds.

The hyena dips its tail between its legs and lopes away in fright.

“Where did you get that from?” I ask.
“My Bix-box,” he says with a sly smile.

Even Patson’s father picks up his pace, and soon we leave the river behind with its grim reminder of where we are and where we might end up.

Through the glare, I see a truck driving toward us, billowing dust behind it.