Authors: Beverley Naidoo
No Turning Back
A Novel of South Africa
Beverley Naidoo
For Maya and Praveen, born in exile, and the children of the new South Africa
“Where do you come from?” asked the boy with the hood. Sipho told them he had set off that morning from the township.
“What made you come?” asked the army-jacket boy.
“It’s bad there,” said Sipho. “I can’t stay at my home.”
They didn’t seem surprised by what he said.
“I need to earn money. Is it hard?” he asked.
“It’s best by Checkers. When you push
amatrol-ley
for the shoppers they give you money or they give you something to eat,” said the boy with the hood.
“Sometimes they give you nothing and you can starve,” said the other abruptly. Tilting his head back, he looked at Sipho through half-closed eyes and added, “Do you like to eat cats?”
What is this gift doing on the street?
Where does this gift sleep?
He sleeps on the street or on the bed like you?
What does this child eat?
This child has a dream but because he is on the street he cannot make his dream come true.
He is now using drugs to forget who he is.
What is he doing with his life?
What future does his life on the street have for him?
When the nights come he has to see where is he going to sleep.
He must drug himself so that he can pretend he is inside the house like you going to sleep on his bed with his warm blankets.
That’s only imagination.
The truth is he is going to sleep on the street
And all that strong wind and rain will end up on him.
When he suffers from all these pains—
Who is looking after him
Who is taking care of him or to the doctor?
He has to wait until he gets better on his own.
These children are people like us.
Let us help them.
They are a gift from God.
Put them first.
—
Webster Nhlanhla Nxele
Street-Wise, Johannesburg
Note: I would like to offer special thanks to Webster Nhlanhla Nxele for providing this poem. With experience of life on the streets himself, he has been working as an assistant care worker at the Street-Wise shelter for homeless children in Johannesburg.
T
iptoeing toward his mother’s bed, Sipho touched the table to steady himself. He held his breath and glanced at the sleeping figures. Two gray shapes that could stir at any time. A small square of plastic above the bed let in the dim early-morning light. His mother lay near the edge, one hand resting over her rounded stomach. His stepfather was snoring heavily, a giant of a man stretched across the bed. Each snore shook the stillness of the tiny room. But it was a sigh from his mother that almost made him drop her bag and leave emptyhanded. Then his fingers touched the coins. Grasping them, he turned and silently fled. Past the chipped wooden table, the kerosene stove and the pot of cold porridge from the night before. Past his mattress on the floor with the crumpled blanket. Past the orange-crate cupboard and out the door. He eased it shut, praying that the snoring would cover the sound of creaking hinges.
And then he ran. Keeping his head down, he weaved his way through the patchwork of shacks in the smoky half-light, hoping against hope that no one would call his name. Thin chinks of yellow light and the smell of kerosene lamps behind the sheets of iron and wooden planks showed that people were beginning to rise. Ma and “him” would have been getting up by now if they had had work to go to. Sipho’s heart was thumping against his chest. It had been screwed up for the last few days, like the rest of his insides, as tight as a fist. But now it was going wild like the tail of a puppy just let out of a cage. He would have to get it under control before he got to the taxi rank.
Coming out from the shacks, he sprinted past the shop boarded up overnight. He could be seen more easily here. The quickest way would be to cut across by the men’s hostel. But that was dangerous. Bullets whistling between the great grim building and the houses nearby had brought death to many people. No one knew when the fighting would start again, and Ma had forbidden him to go near the place.
“That bullet won’t stop to ask who you are,” Ma had said. But why should he listen to what Ma said anymore? Still, it was safer to go the long way around, past his school.
Squares of misty light from houses on each
side lit the way, and high above him, electric strips shone dully through the smoke. There were other people on the road already, most walking in the same direction. Sipho slowed down to a half-jog, half-walk. He might draw too much attention to himself if he ran. Passing the crisscross wire fencing around the school, he shifted to the other side of the road. Even though the gate was locked, he could imagine the head teacher suddenly appearing from the low redbrick building and wanting to know where he was going.
The taxi rank was already humming with the early-morning crowd milling alongside a line of minibuses. Pavement sellers had already set up their stalls. Some people in the lines carried bags and boxes, perhaps of things to sell in town themselves. With so many taxis, he had to make sure he got in the right one. Glancing briefly at a row of faces, he noticed a woman looking at him. She had a baby on her back and seemed about Ma’s age. No, he wouldn’t ask her. Instead he moved away and asked a young man which was the right line for Hillbrow.
“Take any one for Jo’burg city center. It’s that side.” The man pointed to where the crowd was thicker.
Slipping behind a line of people, Sipho was pleased he had managed to ask the question so
smoothly. If only everyone would move along quickly so he could get inside the taxi. He kept his eyes trained in the direction of the school. What if Ma had waked up? She wouldn’t feel up to coming after him, but she would wake his stepfather. If Ma sent him out looking for Sipho, he would be raging mad—even without a drink. Sipho could just imagine him storming through the crowd, shouting Sipho’s name, demanding to know if anyone had seen a small boy age twelve…a boy with big ears, the kind you can get hold of.
Sipho shivered, pulled his woolen cap down lower and clasped his arms around him. It was cold. He should have put on two sweaters. But he hadn’t really been thinking clearly for the last few days. Ever since the last beating. He didn’t know whether to forgive Ma or not. If she didn’t want him nearly killed, why did she complain so much about him to his stepfather? She knew his terrible temper. And all because Sipho had come in late. He had explained it was an accident. When his friend Gordon had met him outside the shop and asked if he wanted to watch TV, he had been happy. He had only intended to go for a short while. Gordon’s mother was out working late, and no one reminded him about the time. One movie had led to another. Sipho had quite forgotten Ma waiting for him. Ma lying on the
bed on her own in the shack because his stepfather stayed out drinking. Ma crying often. Yes, Ma had definitely become more tense since she had been forced to give up her job because of the baby. And Ma changing, changed everything.
The line moved in fits and starts. He willed it to hurry up.
Shesha! Shesha!
Shifting his gaze between the taxis and the road by the school, Sipho watched anxiously as each one filled up and veered off. He was between a man in a smock and an elderly woman carrying a large plastic bag. The bag bumped into Sipho’s legs from time to time, but the old lady didn’t seem to notice as she talked with the lady behind her.
“It was at this very place the man was shot. He was standing right where I am standing now. I was just there by the taxi.”
“Hey! This place is too dangerous,” the other replied.
Sipho stared hard at the ground around his feet. Was that slightly darker patch remains of a man’s blood?
“Come on, young man. This taxi can’t wait all day!”
Propelled forward to the open door, Sipho climbed aboard.
Wedged tightly between the man in a blue smock and another man, he found himself sitting opposite the old lady with the bag. As the
taxi lurched on its way, Sipho felt her eyes on him. He tried to avoid looking back. She reminded him of Gogo, his grandmother, whose eyes had always been able to bore into him. There was nothing he could hide from Gogo. She had understood everything. Like the way she had known how much he had wanted the little black puppy and had got the white farmer to sell it to her cheap. But that was all in the past now, before Gogo had died. Gogo dying was really the beginning of the trouble. Ma had come to collect him from the farm in the valley of green hills to stay with her near Johannesburg.
It was a long day’s journey in the bus. The green hills were left far behind as the land turned to brown, with the road like a gray rope stretching endlessly ahead of them. On the way, Ma had told him about Johannesburg—the big buildings, the lights and the shops—and he had been excited. It was night by the time they approached the city center. From the bus, the city had looked magical. As if thousands upon thousands of stars had fallen to the earth and were spread out in front of them. Traveling out to the township by taxi, he could only catch glimpses of the brightly lit shop windows. Ma had promised that one day, when she got leave from her work, she would bring Sipho into town.
“What’s that, Ma?” he had asked, pointing to
a cluster of lights glittering high up above all the rest. They lit up what seemed to be a giant drum with enormous round saucer eyes looking out at the black sky.
“That one is the Hillbrow tower,” Ma had said.
Gazing up before it passed from view, he felt a little awed by its strangeness.
But when they had left the lights behind and arrived at the township, outside the city, everything was very different. Even that would have been all right. But why hadn’t Ma told him anything about his stepfather until they were stumbling in the dark, hand in hand, through the shacks? The gigantic figure whose head almost touched the roof had come as a total shock. “So this is the one you’ve been crying about” was all he had said, hardly even glancing at Sipho. Roughly throwing open the door, he had bent down and stormed out. Ma had sat Sipho down and tried to talk to him, but her words had whirled over his head. Later that night, on his mattress by the door, Sipho had been awakened by a terrible banging, swearing and shouting. It was his stepfather returning, and Ma was trying to calm him down. Sipho had tried to shut out the noise by covering his head with the blanket.
That was more than six months ago, and although he had been out of the township with
Ma to go to the supermarket, he had not yet been into the city itself. Ma had lost her job before she could keep her promise. Now here he was speeding down a highway, entering Johannesburg on his own. With the old lady’s eyes looking into him, his heart was starting its wild puppydog nonsense again, and he had to find a way of calming it down.