Hostile Milieu

By Albert I. Corban

This story, told from the position of different characters, illustrates the point that human freedom is an illusion and that the direction our individual lives take is often not up to us, but to the actions of others, individuals, groups of people, and the whole country. Our world really has a hostile environment, in which competing interests often rob us of our humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528984478

Albert I. Corban

The author is a lawyer and is living in London.

Book preview

About the Author

The author is a lawyer and is living in London.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to every victim of racism, human trafficking and female genital mutilation.

Copyright Information ©

Albert I. Corban (2021)

The right of Albert I. Corban to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528984461 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528984478 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Canary Wharf

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E14 5LQ

Synopsis

When twenty-five-year-old Grace Osaro – a Nigerian, failed asylum seeker and a victim of human trafficking – was arrested on Friday morning on the 11th floor council flat in Liberty Towers, Peckham, London – and later told she would be deported on Monday, at 10:00 PM, to Nigeria via Egypt, penniless, with a two-year-old child, whose father she did not know – she was devastated and felt her whole world had collapsed. As the clock ticked towards the hour of her deportation, all Grace could do was weep, realising that nothing was going to stop the Home Office from the deportation. Not even her lawyer Mr George Brown, who unsuccessfully tried to obtain an injunction from a judge.

Four hours to the scheduled deportation, just as immigration officers appeared at the Yarl’s Wood Immigration Detention Centre to collect Grace and her child, to send them to Heathrow Airport, everything changed. Grace was not only willing to return to Nigeria, she was also able to do so on a chartered private jet. The return journey to Central London, from the detention centre, was in a Mercedes Benz limousine, rather than in the prison-like enforcement van that brought her to the detention centre.

The journey on Friday, from her arrest in Peckham and her stay at the detention centre, also revealed the stories of Ahmed Yusuf, Hauwa Bibi, Daisy Goldsmith and Asamatou Ceesay, amongst others.

Chapter One

Friday

The enforcer and his assistants stood for three minutes looking at each other, as if unsure what to do next when they arrived in front of flat 115 on the 11th floor of Liberty Towers at 6:00AM. Liberty Towers was a fourteen-storey run down council property, among the many built immediately after the Second World War, following the drastic housing shortage in the capital. At that time of the day, the building was as silent as a graveyard, beside the occasional noise from the rickety elevator, as it moved from one floor to the next.

As if he had finally summoned the courage for his present mission, the enforcer reached for a steel object, the size of a matchbox, from the breast pocket of his black winter jacket. Using the steel object, he knocked gently three times on the black wooden door of flat 115. Then, he waited for three minutes, looking behind him as if he were afraid someone was about to lay hold of his thick neck for disturbing their sleep. There was no answer from flat 115. He knocked five times, this time a little louder. Again, he waited, this time for five minutes, his right ear on the door, hoping to hear movements within the flat as happened in other missions.

As he waited, he bit his lower lip, clenched his fist, opened his eyes and looked behind him constantly, his heart rate beating more than normal. He wanted to execute this mission quickly and get out of the place because he was conscious Liberty Towers was no ordinary place. The information he was given showed that the building housed several ex-convicts. Steeping slightly away from the door, he knocked rapidly, ten times, each knock landing on the door like thunderbolt, shattering the peace and quiet of the floor.

The doors on the left and right of No. 115 opened slightly, the occupants peeping to see who was knocking on their neighbour’s door. As the enforcer waited again, after that third round of knocks, hoping he would not have to knock the fourth time in case one of the neighbours lost their patience, one after the other, as if choreographed, the doors shut on the left and right.

Momodu Jah stood at six foot three, fat. He was not nicknamed the enforcer for nothing. As an enforcer, he oversaw a team of immigration officers, usually a group of three or four, charged with the task of arresting immigrants to enforce their removal from the United Kingdom. They worked for the Immigration Enforcement Unit who were feared and resented. When no one answered the door after the third round of knocks, he reached out for the steel bar of the letter hole, bent down with great effort, one hand to the floor to stabilise himself, and peeped through the hole, hoping to see someone. He saw nobody but toys, clothes and a couple of plates on the floor. He had his instructions manual with him, got up, read the instructions again, eager not to miss out anything he was asked to do at every stage, starting first with the knocks, peeping through the letter hole, then followed by another final fifth round of knocks, before forcing the door open – an action he always wished he did not take and one that was very rare, because most people opened their doors after the first or second round of knocks.

He had to satisfy himself that he was at the right address, the right door, looking for the right person. He reached out for his radio, unfastened from his belt, and called out to Station X demanding for re-confirmation of the name and address of his current mission, knowing that if he took the next, final step, on the wrong address, the consequences could be grievous with claims for damages, distress, intimidation, false arrest and even racism levied against him and against his employers vicariously. Seconds later, he received the all-clear that he had the right address and the right occupant. He was to take the final action and force the door open. And he did.

He had done this many times before. He was increasingly becoming wary of a job that had become all-too-repetitive, one that put him in the firing line, many times, hesitating to carry out the assignment, many times apologising to those he was assigned to arrest, explaining to them he was simply doing a job, falling short of confessing he hated it, but had to do it for income to feed himself and his family. He had a wife and three children under eighteen.

He was thirty-five. He took on the job five years ago, following an advertisement in the local job centre. The appointments became tedious; for three consecutive months, week after week, searching for any job that would suit his height and size. He was a national of Gambia who had obtained a visa to join his British-born wife Lisa for settlement seven years ago after being rejected by the British High Commission for the same visa twice. At one stage, he was told by the commission that they did not believe that he was coming to Britain to live with his wife, though they already had a child, who was aged three. Lisa had been impregnated while on holiday in Banjul, Gambia, where he was residing at the time. He had a degree in civil engineering but could not find a job in Britain in that field, being repeatedly told by prospective employers that his qualification from Gambia was not of an equivalent standard as that in Britain. Out of frustration and in despair, he ended up with the job of Immigration Officer, an Administrative Officer’s position, requiring five GCSE passes.

As he momentarily recalled his past years in Britain, the enforcer signalled to his colleague behind with one finger raised and was handed a blunted instrument, which he immediately inserted into the keyhole of No. 115. In a few seconds, the door was opened, gently, almost effortlessly, making a shrieking noise from the rusty steel joints. He cautiously put his right leg into the passageway, still holding on to the door handle as the others behind him moved closer. A thick smell of dampness and alcohol greeted them as he announced his entry into the flat:

Is anyone here? We are Immigration Enforcement. We have an order to arrest Miss Grace Osaro. If you are there, please come out now.

There was no response, just silence. It was a one-bedroom flat, given by the London Borough of Lambeth to Jimmy Francois, a black French national, who came to London from Paris ten years ago. Francois was multi-lingual. He spoke excellent English and Spanish, in addition to his native French. He was born in Paris, where his father, a Nigerian, was a diplomat. By the time his father had completed his mission and was returning to Nigeria, Francois was aged ten. His parents were separated. His mother, Mary, remained in Paris, having succeeded in obtaining permanent residence in the country. He was one of two children of both parents. His father had three other children from a secret affair with a woman in Nigeria, where he frequently visited during his ten-year-tenure as the deputy Nigerian ambassador to France. Francois attended private schools in Paris until he completed secondary education when funds ceased to come from his father, on return to Nigeria. His mother was left penniless, struggling to care for her two young children, the second child being aged six. She had three jobs at the time, moving from one to the other, starting as early as 6:00 AM for a cleaning job in a primary school until 8:30 AM, leaving her with only ten minutes to make the one-kilometre walk to the second cleaning job in a hospital ward at the St Barnabas Children’s Hospital. She finished there at 10:30 AM, then rushed home to change her clothes for a cashier job at the local supermarket, Marks & Spencer, until 6:00 PM. Arriving back at the end of the day, she was oftentimes completely exhausted. She did this for many years with little time to spend with her young children. The separation from her husband was bitter. He never called to inquire about the children. Her efforts to persuade the Nigerian government to compel him to pay child maintenance money failed. Several of the letters she had written were not replied to. When she finally succeeded to get a lawyer in Paris on a pro-bono basis to write to the Nigerian government, she received one response.

Dear Sirs

On behalf of the Foreign Minister, I acknowledge your letter of 10 January, regarding Ambassador Olufemi’s refusal to pay child maintenance money for his children, who live in Paris with their mother.

Your letter has been forwarded to the relevant department, for the necessary investigation and action.

You will be contacted in due course.

Yours sincerely.

Ambassador Olumide Johnson

Thereafter, several letters followed two months later from Messrs Cunningham & Co Solicitors with no further response from Nigeria. In frustration, she resigned to her fate. She would never get any money from the father of her children. Jimmy Francois, who was born Jimmy Olugbenga, became enraged at his father’s behaviour when he learnt of this a few weeks after his eighteenth birthday. His mother had been wary about any likely impact of telling her children what was happening as the events unfolded. Jimmy never overcame his hatred for his father. He tried hard to obtain contact details of his father to tell him how much he was hated. His anger affected his studies. He saw the fathers of his schoolmates attending school events with their children. He was always alone during school events when parents were required to attend. A few times, he was with his mother when she had time from work. His performance started to drop. He began to miss classes, preferring to hang out with other schoolmates who were not attending classes regularly. There were complaints about his behaviour from the schoolteacher to the headteacher and then to his mother, who was very troubled and disheartened, attending one meeting after the other to discuss her son’s behaviour. Then finally, there was the expulsion from the Paris Academy for Boys, where he had started as a promising twelve-year-old, displaying skills in learning languages, music and the art. Francois drifted from one college to another, three colleges in all, never recapturing his earlier zeal for academic work and his passion to achieve. With the expulsion from Lucian High School, he gave up studying for his ‘A’ levels and joined a gang of youth, about the same age, who had dropped out from school. His Red Shirt gang, as they were popularly known, went about armed with knives, clashing in streets with members of a rival gang, the Blue Gaps. Each gang marked whole neighbourhoods and streets as ‘no-go areas’ for members of the opposing gang. Sometimes, innocent youth wearing a red shirt or a blue baseball cap were caught in the conflict, assaulted, unprovoked, for crossing to the opposite territory. By the time he was aged twenty, Francois had been in and out of prison six times, from six weeks to eight months at a time, for various crimes; ranging from assault, burglary theft, and disturbing the peace to assaulting a police officer, going about equipped and handling stolen goods. His mother became so distressed by her son’s behaviour, she resigned from her jobs and relocated to London to live with her sixty-five-year-old mother, Lucian Josephs, who was living on her own in a five-bedroom detached home in Croydon after the death of her second husband Christopher Josephs, a retired British Army officer. Francois’s mother had hoped that the change of environment would help him. Two months after they arrived in London, Francois was out of the home, preferring to live rough and with friends. Inevitably, he had joined a gang.

When she heard the first set of knocks on the door, Grace held on to a pillow and to her three-year-old daughter Princess Osaro, hands and legs shaking, tears rolling down her eyes. She was convinced they had finally come to take her away; this was her nightmare. Twice, she tried to get up from the bed, but remained still, as if chained down. There was no escape route. She looked at the face of her child, fast asleep. These were her final moments of freedom in Britain, she thought. Her right arm held on tighter to the pillow, the left arm grasping her child, as she heard the door open and footsteps moving closer.

Are you Grace Osaro? the enforcer asked.

Yes, she replied, with more tears rolling down the pillow.

Is that your child, Princess? the enforcer asked, more out of a desire to calm Grace.

Yes, Grace replied, nodding repeatedly.

I am Momodou Jah. These men here are my co-workers, and we are from the Home Office Enforcement Unit, the enforcer said, as he opened a folder to obtain a warrant of arrest. I am sorry, you have to come with us now, he continued.

Okay, okay, Grace said as she turned back towards the bed, having earlier stood up and away from the bed, as the men walked towards the room.

You can take a bag with clothes and other essentials for you and your child, please do that now.

As Grace picked her bag and started to put in clothes, Princess opened her eyes for the first time that morning. She looked at the faces of the men in the room and began to cry, perhaps afraid of the unfamiliar faces and as if reading her mother’s mind. Grace gently rubbed Princess’s back as the three men walked slowly towards the door and stopped outside the room, speaking in low tones. Princess would not stop crying, her voice rising ever more as Grace put her on the bed, continuing to pack her bag.

Alfred Mattias, one of the three men, dipped the fingers of both his hands into his palms, shifted to one side, rolled his eyes, closed them and opened them again as he heard the rising voice of Princess, reminding him of his own daughter, five-year-old Jemima Mattias, born prematurely. Mattias recalled the night of Jemima’s birth by caesarean operation in the seventh month of his wife Maryam’s pregnancy. It was midnight, Mattias was deeply asleep, having returned from work that night at 10:00 PM. His wife began to feel pain in her stomach. At first, he gave her some painkillers. It did not help. She started to vomit. She rolled from the bed and fell on the floor in agony. He was petrified, ran downstairs, picked his mobile phone and called 911. He rushed upstairs to find his wife unconscious. He bent over her, not knowing what to do, then began to call her name, standing up and bending down in confusion.

The ambulance arrived at Mattias’ home in less than ten minutes. The paramedics placed an oxygen mask on Maryam and took her to St James’ Hospital in Crawley, her husband sitting beside her as she lay on a stretcher. He wept silently as the paramedics tried to calm him that it would all be well with his wife. Ten minutes later, they were in the hospital, the two paramedics wheeling the stretcher as fast as they could to Light Yard Ward, where a team of doctors and midwives, led by a surgeon Dr Isaiah Shurtz, was waiting, taking over the stretcher and wheeling Maryam to the theatre-room. Mattias was asked to stay outside, feeling increasingly afraid for his wife and for the unborn baby. For thirty minutes, there was no news. It felt like an eternity. Mattias was pacing up and down the small corridor leading to the theatre-room. Nurses, doctors and paramedics were moving about, always in a hurry, none paying any attention to him. Occasionally, a doctor or nurse would suddenly stop a few inches in front of him, as if they were about to give him some news, only to look at what was in their hands, usually a clock, and then move on again, exacerbating Mattias’ agony.

An hour later, after Maryam had been taken into the theatre-room, Dr Shurtz appeared from behind Mattias, and proceeded to tell him that there were complications with the pregnancy and they would do their best to fix things. He would be given progress report. He gripped the doctor’s wrist, looked into his eyes and struggled to say something. The doctor patted Mattias on the back and returned to the theatre-room. There was another waiting-time with the same motion, pacing up and down the corridor, same scenes, same endless comings and goings of doctors, nurses and paramedics. Sometimes, he would hear the loud cry of relatives, indicating things had gone wrong, fearing that it might be his turn to let out the same loud cry, although he felt like doing so every moment as he waited for news of his wife.

Suddenly, Mattias heard the cry of a baby coming from the direction of the theatre-room, then Dr Shurtz tore through the thick curtain separating the theatre-room from the corridor where Mattias was standing. Dr Shurtz was smiling, hands outstretched, and then gave the news to Mattias. His wife had delivered a baby girl. Both mother and child were doing well. He let out a loud cry of God, thank you, thank you, embracing the doctor. He was led to his wife who was still lying down in the operating bed. His new-born baby was in the hands of a couple of midwives, cleaning her of blood, wrapping her with a thick piece of white cloth. Mattias kissed his wife passionately, moved to where his child was, with a beaming smile, hands shaking, as he gazed into the eyes of his child, his first. Then he moved to his wife again, then back to his child, as if in a choreographed display of affection. From the day of his daughter’s birth, Mattias had developed a special affection for her.

Mattias opened his eyes as he came out of memory lane. At that point, Princess stopped crying. She was being fed with warm porridge, which her mother had hurriedly prepared as the three men waited outside. She wiped a stream of oatmeal off the lips of Princess, held her closer, looked across the corridor, hoping to see Francois, twice resisted the urge to call out his name and wake him from his sleep to let him know she and Princess were being taken away. She abandoned the urge to wake up Francois, worried that there might be an altercation between him and the enforcement men.

Grace was ready to follow the enforcement men. She strapped her bag on her back, carried Princess on the front and adjusted the strap; the child resting her head on the mother’s chest, one finger in her mouth, a habit Grace had unsuccessfully tried to discourage since Princess was aged twelve months. She stopped at the corridor and looked towards Francois’ room; the door was half open and bottles of Jack Daniels whisky were scattered all over his room, as if they were souvenirs reminding him of his addiction for alcohol or his love for Jack Daniels.

Francois had started to drink at the age of fifteen. He had gone out one night with a couple of friends, in Paris, to a local club, The Jazz Rendezvous. It was his first time out in a club meant for adults. He looked much older as were his mates. The bar attendees believed Francois and his mates were adults. The room was dark with only flashlights of red and blue illuminating the ceiling, music was blaring loudly, people dancing, some sitting down and talking and smoking. Johan Berlin, aged fifteen, one of Francois’ friends who was also at the meeting, bought a Jack Daniels for Francois.

Go on, you will like it, Berlin had said to Francois, tapping him by the shoulders.

Yes, I am okay. I am fine, Francois had replied, not wanting to appear a novice to his friends, who guessed it was his first time with alcohol.

His friends had planned Francois’ initiation, careful not to scare him away. He had taken a sip of the whisky, at first feeling a bit sick, but managed to conceal his discomfort. He felt like his stomach was burning and lit with fire, then he drank some water, his friends watching and smiling. Moments later, he felt better, took the second sip, then the third, and since that first day, he had not stopped drinking Jack Daniels. Years after his first rendezvous with that American-made iconic whisky, Francois was consuming no less than two bottles a week, depending on the availability of funds. He found inspiration from drinking. He often told his friends that he was at his most imaginative when he was with whisky. He would dream of a life of wealth and luxury. Competing for places on the floor of his bedroom were old lottery tickets from the National and European plays. He had become addicted to this too, passionately believing he would win the jackpot one day. He was an incurable optimist, reserving funds for tickets every week. He would lay on his bed, daydreaming of a life as a millionaire, the lifestyle he would live, the places he would visit, the people he would help, the good he would do. He would stop drinking, begin to live a respectable life. He would give to charity. As he dreamt, under the influence of alcohol, Francois always reserved a thought for his father. He would seek out his father’s whereabouts, whatever it may cost to do so, and when his father was found, Francois would give him a hard talk about how much he was hated and would never be forgiven. One of his favourite movies, The Count of Monte Cristo, always came to mind as Francois thought of his father. In that movie, after escaping from prison and after coming to unexpected wealth, the protagonist had gone for revenge, seeking those who falsely sent him to prison.

Grace reached out for the handle of the front door, the three men in front of her were already outside the flat. She looked at the face of Princess and thought of the face of Francois. The resemblance was striking, the shape of their foreheads, the dark little lumps on their noses, the shape of their noses, even the colour of their skin, not to mention their dimples when they smiled. Grace liked the dimples on her daughter’s cheeks. The dimples made Princess very beautiful, making her face light up when she smiled. Grace looked at Princess again, shook her head as she opened the door, taking that final step out of the flat she had shared with Francois for the last four years, feeling she might not return to the place again. As she walked with the men towards the elevator, Grace recalled when she first met Francois and when she first came to reside at the flat, as well as the pregnancy and birth of Princess.

Chapter Two

Grace had been on her way to St Lawrence Catholic School one afternoon in July, with the sun at its peak, children and their parents were playing about at the St Saviour Park close to James Street in London, where she lived with Caroline Tendai, a nurse, and her two children; Sarah, aged seven, and William, aged five. Grace was living with the family providing childminding for the children when their mother, Caroline, was at work. Caroline was a single parent, in her early thirties. The children were of two men, each father disappearing soon after they learnt Caroline was pregnant, leaving her distraught, vowing never to have anything to do with any man again, only to fall in love a couple of months later. Caroline worked ’round the clock for two different employers, one job with the Middlesex University NHS Trust during the day, the other job with the Jewish Nursing Home at night, leaving her with a few hours of rest in the evening before she began the second job at 8:00 PM. She was delighted to have Grace help with the children. Grace was provided with food and boarding, free of charge. She occupied the same room as the children, while Caroline occupied the other room, giving her the freedom to bring in men to spend the night with her whenever she liked and when she was not working. Caroline paid Grace £250, far below the minimum wage, each month. Grace did not complain. She was grateful she had a place to live, food to eat and money, at hand, each month. She got on very well with Caroline. They hardly saw each other during the day, except on days when she was unable to go to work for reason of ill health.

As Grace walked through the park to the street, where the children’s school was located, she had noticed a man staggering on his feet, bottle of alcohol in his right hand, clothes wet, filled with dirt. He was tall, light-skinned, slim built, wearing a denim pair of trousers and a Ralph Laurent polo-shirt. He was slightly bearded, with the impression he had not cared to shave for some days. He was walking in front of Grace. He staggered unto the road and then to the pavement, then again to the way, then to the sidewalk, forcing cars on the road to stop and wait until he was on the clear. As Grace was about to pass the man, he murmured something to Grace. She looked at him with a smile, convinced that he was drunk. She wanted to quicken her pace and walk on, thinking, after all, she had met the types of the man before, but something in her made her slow down and then to stop; perhaps it was his handsomeness which was so striking. She wondered why a man so good-looking should be that drunk.

Are you okay? Can I help you? Grace had asked the man, not knowing how to begin a conversation with the man.

Yes, yes, I live down there, I can’t walk well, please help me, the man replied, pointing ahead of him.

How far is your place? Grace asked the man.

It’s on the 11th floor of that tall building, the man replied, staggering on to the road again.

Get out of the way, bastard. You going to be killed, a man on a motorbike screamed at the drunken man.

Oh, my God, oh my God, Grace cried, as he saw the near collision between the man on the motorbike and the drunken man, rushing to pull the drunken man by his right hand away from the road.

Grace had made the drunken man sit on the pavement, bottle still in his right hand held tightly, as if he would never let it go no matter whatever happened. Grace looked at her wristwatch and noticed she had twenty-minutes before picking up the children from school. She held the man by his right hand, his weight leaning towards her, as they both walked towards the building. He led the way, smelling of alcohol, until they got to his flat on the 11th floor of Liberty Tower. When they got to his door, he fumbled for his bunch of keys in his trouser pocket and opened the door. She followed him inside and asked him to lay on his bed. At this stage, he had become slightly more sober, enough to realise that he was lucky to have someone take him home. He was grateful. He introduced himself as Jimmy Francois. She introduced herself. He pleaded with her to visit him again, now that she knew where he lived. He told her she was a very kind person, the most generous he had ever met. He lived alone. He made her promise she would come to visit him so she promised him. As she turned away to leave the flat, Francois stood to his feet and walked behind her.

Thank you so much, Grace, thank you, Francois said.

Not at all. It’s my pleasure to be of assistance, Grace said, smiling.

I hope that one day, I will be able to pay you back, Francois said, as Grace shut the door behind him.

Two weeks after their first meeting, Grace had visited Francois. Caroline had gone to Johannesburg, South Africa, to attend the funeral of her mother Georgina Tendai, who had died, aged sixty, after a brief illness, perhaps the culmination of the years of anxiety and stress thinking of her husband, who was imprisoned by the Zimbabwean president, Robert Mugabe. Caroline’s father, Dr Chuka Johnson, was the secretary-general of the opposition party, the Movement for Democratic Change, MDC, which had been locked in battle with the ruling party, the ZANU-PF; the former determined to unseat the latter from power, the latter determined to decimate the former.

One afternoon, a gang of armed men stormed Dr John’s residence at No. 20, Bravery Street, Harare; his family home where he had lived since his birth. He was abducted to a secret location, blindfolded throughout the three-hour drive. His wife and three children, who were at home at the time of the early morning kidnap, immediately fled the family home.

Sympathisers and members of the opposition party raised funds and paid for the passage of Mrs Johnson and her children – Caroline Johnson, Samson Johnson and Patrick Johnson – to South Africa, where they sought asylum and started the campaign for the release of their husband and father. The Zimbabwean government denied knowledge of the kidnap of Dr Johnson and his whereabouts, sometimes accusing the opposition party of having killed Dr Johnson for a trump-up charge against the regime. For the Johnsons, life was hardly better in Johannesburg, as the family constantly faced harassment from South African youths calling for Zimbabweans to return to their country and accusing them of having taken away the jobs. Caroline was aged eighteen when they arrived at Johannesburg. She was tall and beautiful with a disarming smile. She made friends very quickly. She always wanted to be a nurse, to follow in her father’s footsteps into the medical profession.

Dr Johnson was a medical doctor. He loved his job. He came from a very humble home, studied very hard and obtained scholarship from the US government to study medicine at Harvard, returning home to work in the government funded, but starved, General Hospital in Harare, where he helplessly saw dozens of needless deaths every day because of lack of equipment, medicine and funds. He was recruited to be Robert