Scarred Lions (2 page)

I couldn’t sleep for days after my talk with Mum. Her words kept haunting me: ‘You’re going to live with your father in South Africa.’

Every time I thought about it, my stomach churned. Africa? Where the hell is Africa anyway? Why do I have to go to Africa? Just because I got into a fight? For not fitting in? For being different?

I tried getting out of it, but Mum seemed to have thought it through carefully.

‘You know I love you, Buyi, but it would be best for both of us now. When things
take a turn for the better, we could discuss it again. Besides, you would like to meet your dad, wouldn’t you?’

I really didn’t know if I wanted to. She’d talked about him once or twice as I was growing up, but I’d never paid any attention. Where’d he been so far? He didn’t care about me, or else he would have phoned or emailed. That’s if they even have computers in Africa.

He didn’t ask for pictures of me growing up. He didn’t even send me gifts on my birthdays.

Why would I suddenly like to meet this man who has been ignoring me all of his life?

Following our discussion I often heard Mum talking to Themba, my so-called dad, on the phone.

Once she even held the handset out to me: ‘Do you want to say hallo to your dad?’

I turned my back on her.

But I couldn’t do it forever.

Mum had planned everything. She arranged my passport, got my father to pay for the ticket, packed my bags and off we went to Heathrow airport.

‘You look scared,’ said Mum. ‘Don’t be, please Buyi. It will turn out all right, you’ll see. You’ll love it, I’m sure. I’ll phone.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as you get there.’

Here, and there. London and Johannesburg.

I didn’t really have friends here, but if I had I wondered how they would have felt. It is not easy leaving everything you know
behind. It is not easy packing up and simply going to live in another country.

South Africa, I thought, what would it be like living there? I have seen bits on television. Not much, though. It’s the place where Nelson Mandela comes from. And they’ve got lots of wild animals down there. Would they be walking the streets? Do they even have streets and shopping malls? Do people over there live like people in London?

I’m sure I could have found loads of information on the Internet. But that would somehow have made leaving London all too real.

It couldn’t have been more real than saying goodbye though.

‘I love you, Mum,’ I said, before I had to enter the departure hall. I don’t think I had actually said it before and really meant it like that.

‘And I love you, Buyi,’ she said as she took me in her arms and hugged me. I wished I could have stayed there forever. But the time had come to leave.

‘Come visit. Please!’ I am sure it sounded like a cry for help, but I didn’t care. Tears welled up in Mum’s eyes. I wiped them away with my fingers. We both tried putting on a brave face but we couldn’t.

And later when the plane took off, all I could think about was Mum, returning to an empty flat. Crying.

It was an eleven hour flight. The man sitting next to me was reading a newspaper. He had already been through it twice, and was busy with the third attempt. I caught glimpses of the headlines, but it didn’t interest me. Neither did the movies they were showing. Around me I heard the voices of the other passengers. Strange languages. What language would they speak in South Africa, I wondered. This scared me. What
if they didn’t speak English! I didn’t know any African languages.

My worry was soon replaced by another. The plane began to shake heavily.

‘Ladies and gentleman,’ announced the captain, ‘we are entering an area of turbulence. It will only last for a few minutes, but we request that you fasten your seatbelts.’

My seatbelt was still fastened from our take-off. My eyes caught the white paper bag in the seat pocket in front of me. What would it feel like throwing up in an aeroplane miles above the Atlantic Ocean? Would the boring old man next to me even look up from his newspaper?

All the passengers fell silent. The plane shuddered heavily at times. And occasionally suddenly dropped. I closed my eyes but somehow it felt worse. I opened them again.
Lifejacket under your seat
were the first words I read on the tray table in front of me. I hoped it wasn’t a sign of worse
things to come. My mind flashed back to the emergency procedures given at the start of the journey. I looked around for the nearest exit sign. Again I noticed the lights on the floor. They didn’t really look like lights; more like strips of plastic.

Before I could start imagining myself floating in a lifejacket in the ocean, the turbulence stopped.

The seatbelt sign was switched off. A few women rushed to the toilets. The
air-hostesses
continued serving drinks and snacks.

All was back to normal again.

I decided to get some rest. Leaning back in the chair I closed my eyes and dreamt of London.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are getting ready to land at O.R. Tambo International Airport,’ announced the air-hostess. ‘Please ensure that your tray tables are stowed, that all laptops and electronic devices are switched off and that your seatbelt is fastened.’

This was it. The moment I had been dreading. There was no turning back now. The air-hostesses strolled by, helping passengers, removing cushions and blankets, cups and glasses. Smiling. They really smiled a lot, these people. But of course they knew what to expect when we landed. I didn’t. And I didn’t feel like smiling either.

Nervously I glanced out the small window. The plane had descended below the clouds. The city of Johannesburg lay stretched out beneath us. Grey, dotted with splashes of green. Buildings as far as the eye could see, but it was different from London. There were tall buildings, but not really many skyscrapers. As we dropped even lower I began to see more clearly: trees, houses, patches of bright blue that could only be swimming pools. Lots of swimming pools. And cars. Thousands of them bustling down highways. And within moments the scenery below us changed. The large houses were replaced by suburbs with smaller houses. Grey, with silver roofs. Then again it changed to a large piece of land dotted with tiny shacks. Roughly constructed boxlike structures that had poverty written all over them.

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.

‘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.