Cheap Dirty Dog Blanket

By Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano

“Anyways, what makes you think going back home is a good idea?” she asked again.

“I miss my family. I would rather be with them than giving them false hope that things are okay here,” I said sounding stupid.

“Then why do you want to take that hope away from them?” I did not reply and she went on, “People back home are surviving on hope alone. It will be cruel of you if you take that away from them.”

Cheap dirty dog blanket is a moving story of hope, love, faith and endurance. This book is not only for refugees but for everyone who has left their home to seek green pastures in a foreign land.

“A well-written and very engaging story. The author has a talent for drawing characters and for dialogue. There were parts that brought tears to my eyes. When I got to the last sentence, I did not want it to end!” - Editor’s comment

About the Author

Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano is from Wedza, Zimbabwe. Born in June of 1982, he attended Rambanapasi Primary and Chemhanza High School for his education. Paidamoyo has a passion for social justice and his writings carry an authentic voice for women, teenagers and marginalised people. He currently lives in Cape Town, South Africa; with his wife Netsai and their two children, Gerald who is currently 16 and his sister Ashley who is currently 9.

Cheap dirty dog blanket
is his first novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano
• Release date: Oct 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463810224

Book preview

Cheap dirty

dog blanket

Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano

Copyright © 2019 Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano

Published by Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Caroline Webb for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

Paidamoyo Gerald Manomano

[e-mail]

I dedicate this book to my late mother Florence

March 1948 - June 2018.

Table of Contents

1. Every Journey Starts with a Single Step.

2. Park Station, Egoli.

3. The Church in Small Street.

4. Rand Stadium in Rosettenville, paPoint!

5. Mr Kontraki; an Inside Job.

6. Skeem Supermarket Catalogues.

7. In Crown Mines at Home Affairs.

8. Blue Sky and the Stars.

9. ‘Gringo’ and His Crew.

10. Waiting for Berry.

11. Shopping Spree in Jeppe Street!

12. Interview with the RRO.

13. Easy Money.

14. Mental Slavery.

15. The Little Crime.

16. We Offer Royal Security.

17. Reduced to a Lice-infested Cheap Dirty Dog Blanket!

18. Present.

- Chapter One -

Every Journey Starts with a Single Step.

That day in the bus I was excited and nervous at the same time; my first time travelling beyond my province. Every kilometre covered was taking me further from home and nearer to the unknown.

Our bus had made an unusual stop at some village shops in Ngundu, a district of Masvingo Province. Unusual because the veterans of the journey said so. I was still amazed by the vastness of Zimbabwe. So His Excellency ruled this part of the country also? I wanted to ask the passenger sitting next to me but the activity outside the window stopped me. A young man, who looked thirty (could be twenty or younger, poverty ages people), had on a yellow T-shirt with some white stains.

The T-shirt had his Excellency’s image on it and in this image His Excellency looked sixty, not eighty-four. This was a campaigning T-shirt, it figures. I bet you the T-shirt could be the only ‘new’ thing the young man had put on in five years. Under the image was the caption: VOTE HIS EXCELLENCY CDE R G MUGABE. 27-28 JUNE 2008.

The young man was selling hacha, a fruit that shouldn’t be sold in the first place. No wonder the rains were erratic. The young man did not have a clue about marketing. How can one sell hacha to border-crossers? Nobody wanted hacha. I myself had never eaten that fruit – its pungent smell nauseated me.

When the young man turned his back, his grey trousers showed a black patch on his bottom. I looked at it closely and gave it some thought; the patch looked like a map of Africa. How ironic. On the back of his T-shirt was written VAMUGABE CHETE. For real, he alone has managed to rule and ruin the breadbasket of the SADC region. Some once described it as a jewel of Africa.

Was there a future for this young man or for our country?

Maybe in another life!

Just like his future, I could not see him any more as the dust the bus had raised swallowed him. We were on our way to South Africa, our only source of hope.

Why not God? Maybe God left Zimbabwe during the exodus of the whites. That is if God was ever in Africa in the first place.

I lacked a better explanation.

Do you have one?

Beitbridge, here we are!

We arrived around the midnight hour; just what I needed – a chance to get fresh air and stretch, for I had spent nine hours on my backside.

Okay, we were where we do the check-out. See you in a few weeks’ time, Zimbabwe! That had been my plan all along. (In your dreams, my friend.)

The Zimbabwean side was not a big issue. Most of us had the required documents, either a passport or an ETD (Emergency Travelling Document) or cash (for border jumpers); smooth and easy, my friend.

On the South African side we queued according to our buses. I could tell that Zimbabwe was emptying herself; there were many buses and minibus taxis. We queued in an orderly manner; very disciplined, like Black Rhinos FC players. When going for a half-time break, they maintain a single-file line.

It started drizzling. The situation got worse for us because the service was slow, or I should say poor. No value for our money. There was nothing homely about this department. Its employees lack humanity; they are like the nurses at public hospitals. The latter make it seem like it’s your fault for falling ill, while the former look like they’d been dragged by the collar to come to work.

Where I come from, we welcome and respect our visitors. In some parts you are even served refreshments before you state the reason for your visit.

No such humanity here.

My frustration made me believe that they were not humans but aliens in human bodies. They treated us like dogs at a slaughterhouse. We were verbally abused, our orderly queues were disrupted. One official would come and tell us to make our queue along the wall. The other would come and chase us away from there, asking why we were leaning against the wall and destroying the flower beds! Another made us pick up the litter that was lying around, a job that someone had been employed for.

Like domesticated animals, we followed their orders. No complaints, no fuss; so docile, like someone high on broncho. They succeeded in causing us more anxiety, showing us that we were not welcome in their country. But they were wasting their time – the situation behind us motivated us to embrace the insults and anything else in our paths.

I felt pity for the mothers and their babies, especially the babies – they didn’t deserve it.

I was hungry, cold, tired and all my excitement was gone; reality painfully sank in. Had I made the right choice? I chose to leave the question unanswered.

During the confusion our bus driver had told us that we should give him money to bribe one of the Home Affairs officials. The official was a talkative woman. She chain-smoked too. She came out for a smoke break, and seeing a woman smoking in public was a first for me. She insulted us, the men in the queue. ‘You should wear skirts because you are running away from one man,’ she said, blowing smoke in our direction. She then insulted His Excellency. She had guts, or a death wish. Maybe she thought she was untouchable by the man behind dark sunglasses. She didn’t know of the chipangano or Green Bombers.

So we had given our bus driver R20 each. After paying the money, we went through another door and our passports were stamped. Thirty days in the Republic of South Africa. I wondered why our driver had not told us on boarding the bus in Harare that we were to have money on our arrival to give a bribe to the officials at the South African border. In the country that we had just left, officials demanded bribes like the way one demands his money for working overtime.

"Ko itaka chivanhu, chacho, tivhare madeals wangu"

Six hours later, we were on our way. Jozi, Egoli, our Promised Land. I felt a resurgence of hope. Not me alone – the whole bus was now in a jovial mood. The ill-treatment by Home Affairs officials at the border forgotten. We just had to focus ahead.

The ride became smooth; despair was replaced by hope and excitement, we shared food and cracked jokes.

We opened the windows and fresh cool morning air filled the bus.

Mai Charamba blasted from the speakers and we sang along: ‘…you are not cursed, but you are blessed, you are blessed and you not cursed, you are rich and you are not poor. Africa, whose words are you going to believe?’

It was green everywhere, the forests and the fields. Were we still in Africa? The scenery reminded me of the Zimbabwe long gone by. Along the way, we saw trucks ferrying farm workers to work. Well-fed farm workers. We were in a country where the land is in capable hands.

Indeed, we had made it into the Promised Land!

- Chapter Two -

Park Station, Egoli.

The place is a beehive where you might hear 55 percent of the world’s languages.

My destination at last! Mzansi Fo Sho. The country that was on the verge of making history in Africa by hosting the FIFA Soccer World Cup 2010. The grapevine was saying Australia was waiting to take the tournament away from us. So preparations were happening in earnest.

Nobody will take this tournament away from us; this is our sovereignty as Africans! I couldn’t help but imagine His Excellency punching the air with his old fist