Those That Stand

An old friend. He picked us up from Oliver Tambo International Airport. Six years it had been since I saw him last. Then, as now, I was only in town for a night. This time, however, I am with my sister and her two kids. Will this be a burden on him? Unlike me (who is still a student) Mwape, my old friend, has moved on. Now, with him, is a wife (an old high school sweet heart), a car (“man look at your Citroen 5, you guys are rich” I said to him in the car park), a house financed by the bank and newly self employed. Some sort of event organizing business. Corporate training, though not quite. Event organizing, though but you cannot call it that. Big venues and expensive tickets. Lots of experts come to speak for the day. Workshops on areas he proudly announces he knows nothing about. My sister is perplexed. She asks a thousand questions. The answers are full of pride and business terminology. The wife, Mwansa, does the same but instead working for a big company owned by one man more or less. A billionaire. “He is big. He owns a football club in England.” And there you are. Your worth measured by what you own.

But of course we are glad, my sister and I. A fast car with air conditioning. The city a silhouette on the horizon, beyond the highways, in the afternoon sun. A gated community. 92 plots behind 10ft walls and barbed wire. Within in the compound are further wall fences 7ft high dividing the plots. A five bedroom house. The born again pastor of a mother blessed the house with olive oil before they moved in. We chat about their line of work in the garden while the children, ours and theirs, swim in the pool. Mwape and I buy groceries and booze. My sister and I try and cook the food while Mwape and his family watch Manchester United play New Castle (6 – 0). The knives are blunt, only one bulb out of 8 12 sockets works in the living room and the oven doesn’t work.

As we guzzle the beers, Mwape tells me about the tough times. About living up the road from a township. About him and Mwansa sleeping on a floor without a mattress. About working a job studying at the same time. About the people they shared accommodation with. Now they let relatives share with them. As I hear this I put on a mournful face and sip my beer. I was told the trials of finding documentation to work in South Africa. About the countless wasted money on untruthful middle men. Wasted hopes, year after year, while the police continue to harass immigrants randomly. Finally, he tells me, while dragging on yet another cigarette, that the most expensive way was the only way. R18,000 for each of them. “It took a long time but it was worth it.” South African ID documents. Stamps and everything. Done. This is how it works it seems. Mwape knows. He showed us. My sister is intrigued, envious even. She, on the other hand, must instead continually renew her work permit every so often and with every new job.

They are married now. They went to Zambia for their wedding. 800 guests they had. My sister screams at the number in aghast. There are photos to prove it, though the elaborate wedding cake, from its apparent size, could only feed a couple of families, surely. They paid for the whole thing. They saved for months and paid for it all. The drinks, the food, the suits for the best men, the dresses for the brides maids. Anecdotes about the line up and all its rehearsals, the most crucial ceremonies in the Zambian wedding. The best man who showed up drunk for none but the last of rehearsals. The born again, courtesy of the mum, who gave a 2 hours sermon before he wed them, with lots of advice about how the women should please the man and be obedient.

In the morning we drive the length of Jan Smuts drive and are dropped off at Park Station terminus where we board our train for Cape Town.