Logic
“Tin walls will keep you in, Chipo.” The sound of his mother’s voice reverberated in the air. The resonant echo pierced his heart and layers of yearning welled, threatening to bubble up and overwhelm him.
“Why are you crying? Is her ghost talking to you again?” Chipo turned away from his tea-making. His sister’s question hung between them in the dull glow of the interior. Dust motes spun, crazily in the shafts of sunlight streaming from the gaps in their precariously constructed roof.
“At least it’s not raining on us today. Go on, cheer up, you’ve got that piece job today. We’ll have Morogo tonight, and fresh bread. Think of that, I’ll make the spinach just like mom used to. Smile, Chipo.”
“You’re always so bright, my Gracie, just like a shiny button.” She giggled as he ruffled the hair on her head. “I love you so much and, yes, we’re going to have a feast tonight. I’ll bring firewood and, of course, a Pepsi just for you.”
Chipo tried to smile, but his head was swirling with dread. Their mother had died earlier that year and at seventeen he was too young to be considered for most jobs, but too old to take advantage of any of the training programs around. Despair mocked him with her cavernous, yawning nothingness.
There was no solution, he thought, poverty is our crippling plight; no way out…
“Come on, let’s get you to school. At this rate we’re going to be late and that won’t do, will it?” He put on a brave face pushing his dilemma aside, grateful to see the result of his effort in his sister’s sunny smile.
He padlocked the tin door to their single-room shack to keep out the Totsies and helped Grace with her backpack. Smog from a thousand cooking fires hung over the shanty town like a hulking beast, but it was so much part of the landscape that he hardly noticed it. The smog was like a particular vile landmark, ugly, dangerous and ever present.
However, through the smog, the day was pleasantly mild, the harsh South African sun, muted by cottony clouds; a perfect morning for their walk and cool enough to mute the effects of the hard labour he knew he was in for later at the shipping yard.
They took the fastest route, alongside the busy main road. Taxis sped past, their wild-eyed drivers honking a particularly African tune that accompanied their whizz wherever they went. The path was a colorful display of vendors selling everything from plump looking fruit to mini solar lights and piles of firewood and charcoal. Chipo caught Gracie eyeing the firewood longingly.
“I can’t buy it for us now, but It’s the first thing I’ll get on my way home this evening.” He promised, patting her back comfortingly.
He left Grace at the school gates and then made his way to the shipping yard to join the queue of hopefuls, waiting patiently for the foreman to open up and select amongst them. Chipo knew that his youth and strong, physical build would give him an advantage and that he’d be among the chosen.
He took measure of the men waiting with him and knew that their stories were similar to his own. Most were Zimbabweans, who’d made their way across the border into South Africa illegally. Most lived from day to day with no steady income; all were desperate for a day’s work at well below minimum wage.
He had crossed the border with his mother and sister four years earlier, in a purpose built undercarriage attached to a cattle truck. They’d all heard the border guard accept a bribe before waving them through.
The foreman’s hand on his shoulder shook him from his reverie.
“You, boy, step inside.” Despite knowing that his chances were good, he felt relief flood.
We will be eating today. He sighed at the thought, feeling the hollow that was his stomach more keenly.
“Boys,” the foreman used a uniquely South African derogatory term to address them, “see those pallets over there. It’s your job to separate those that are usable from those that are not. Then stack the junk in piles for the waste company to come and collect. Pay is fifty rand for the day. Understand?”
Chipo drew in a sharp breath, he couldn’t believe the potential of the bounty staring back at him like a gift. Logic whirred in his brain, computing the value of the “waste”. But, he knew that he needed to tread cautiously.
“So, what happens to broken pallets once we’ve stacked them?”
“You ask a lot of questions, boy.” The older man raised an eyebrow. He’s weathered face a caricature of quizzical expression.
“So?” Chipo added, not backing down.
“We pay a waste company to clear them, they burn them, or so I’ve been told. Nobody wants broken wooden pallets, not even the crafters. They’re totally useless.”
“So, you pay the waste company to take them away, and us to make them ready for collection.” Chipo laughed at his luck.
“You are full of bounce, my boy. Why don’t you get on with the job and stop your nonsense.”
Invigorated by his idea, Chipo threw himself into the task. Clearing, single-handedly, more debris than any four others. He was particularly encouraged when he noticed the stamp on some of the pallets.
“Untreated natural pine.”
When the day was done, the foreman sat down behind a makeshift table and paid each labourer in cash.
Chipo made sure that he was the last in the queue. The old man was obviously impressed by his prowess, it twinkled in his eyes. When he had the fifty in his hand, he asked his burning question.
“What if I give you the money back? What if I come in twice a week and clear all the mess for free? What if I take it away and pay you fifty rand for the privilege twice a week?”
“Are you mad boy? But if you really want to pay me and make me look good to the boss for saving him so much money, I'll have no problem with it. What are you going to do with it?”
“Now that would be telling. Wouldn’t it?”
“I’ll take the first batch now.I’ll collect the balance tomorrow. Can I use those plastic sheets that they’re on, to bundle them up?”
“Sure, you’ve paid over fifty rand for them. Be my guest.” The old man grinned at his joke.
Chipo let out a low whistle. He bundled the wood up and lifted the parcel onto his shoulder. He knew that the load would be heavy to carry but that he’d soon be able to afford transport for the enterprise.
He made his way as quickly as possible to the vendor area and set his prize down. Within a few minutes he was in business.
“How much is your firewood? You don’t have a sign”.
Chipo knew that his adventure into prosperity had begun.
There are thousands of Zimbabweans living in South Africa. Most live in makeshift shacks in shanty towns. They, generally, do low paying labour and are illegally employed by hundreds of South Africans businesses. The economy in Zimbabwe has collapsed and hunger is a real threat. These people enter SA illegally in order to survive. They are not part of the system, so if orphaned there’s no aid for them.
Morogo is a wild spinach plant, indigenous to Southern Africa. The dish, “Morogo”, which has the same name as the plant is a delicacy, slow cooked to perfection and featuring little more than spinach and potatoes cooked in a tangy broth of local herbs and spices. Traditionally it is served with Pap, which is cornmeal prepared in a uniquely South African manner.
Totsies : - common South African name for roving criminals.
Chipo is a common Zimbabwean name and means gift in English.