Buntu Siwisa’s book ‘Paperless’ about South Africans living and working illegally in Oxford, England
‘Believe what, Ma? Believe in what?”
“Don’t shout at me! I’m not your child.”
“Mama, once your six months visitor’s visa expires and you’re still in England, you’re illegal. That’s it. There’s no other way of looking at it. Sooner or later, you will be sent home. You can’t disappear here. We are all written down on paper. You can’t disappear from paper.”
“And how have you disappeared from paper?”
“We play hide and seek here. All of us. I cannot watch you play cat and mouse with these people. It’s rough. This whole running around takes everything from you. It strips you apart. You are my mother. I cannot let these people turn you into a mouse. They will catch you, Mama … Even if you learn the system, know the system, sooner or later, they will catch you.” Another pause wedged in-between them. Nomusa cupped her chin with her hand, watching the buildings appear and fade away as they approached High Street.
“Mama, I’m working on a plan here. I’m not planning on living here forever.”
“Jacob…” Grace almost whispered, swerving the baby in her arms.
“Dad is not a god, Ma.” […] The cab drifted slowly along High Street. Moving towards Magdalen Bridge, an expansive grey and stony Magdalen College came up on the left. In that building, Nomusa recalled the Algerian Bilal’s bearded face. In his green overall jacket, he hovered over her as she washed a stained corner of the floor on her knees. She had thrown an eye over him, staring at his curly short hair, his almond skin.
And then he had rammed on her, again and again: he was Arabic, not African; he’s lived in London and Liverpool and Birmingham for twelve years with his parents; he was British; black Africans should not be pitied, they came in droves, draining out the British dole.
Then, one afternoon, old Marlon, the security guard from Trinidad who had lived in Oxford forever, had suddenly taken her by her hand…. and stashed her in the storeroom. Bilal had called the police on her. Nomusa had heard the police barking about an illegal as she had remained tucked inside the storeroom. Marlon had insisted to the police he knew nothing about an illegal.
Cowley Road looked far away — her blue, orange, red, and yellow lights donning the many kebab houses and Indian, Thai, Chinese, one Polish, one Jamaican and one Japanese restaurant. Nomusa wiped her nose. Valkyrie’s tune scurried to and fro on her phone…
‘NOMZAMO’ flashed on the screen.
“Yebo,” Nomusa answered.
“Where are you?” Nomzamo panted on the other end of the line.
“I’m in a cab.”
Let’s meet now, please.” Nomzamo sobbed.
“Why?”
“Let’s meet now at Endodeni?” The cab queued up at the Plain roundabout […] The cab driver cursed in Urdu, roughly stroking his long white beard. Nomusa asked him to pull up a block before Tesco’s on the Cowley Road, across from the Somali shop that sold international phone cards. Endodeni, a Nguni word translating to “at the man’s place” — she and her friends gave it that name on account of a Somali young man who stood outside the shop’s door in summer with his bony naked torso. […] The cab pulled up outside Endodeni. […]
Nomzamo stood on the pavement, her eyes darting left and right, rubbing her palms against her thighs in tight faded blue jeans. Wearing a maroon turtleneck and a black coat, her fair-complexioned round face with bursting lips came out full against her pony-tailed hair. Nomzamo rushed to the cab, clutching her black purse and three large bulging black plastic bags.
“They have Bongani.” Breathless, Nomzamo climbed onto the back seat. Panting, she plunged the three plastic bags on the floor.
“What?” Nomusa’s eyes lit up.
“This morning.” Nomzamo swallowed a breath in-between the panting, her eyes large. “They took in BB.” And the blue, yellow and white coloured Thames Valley Police sedan appeared from nowhere behind them.
“Tell him to go.” Nomzamo shouted. […]
Whooshing forward, the cab glided through Cowley Road. The Thames Valley Police latched on the tail of the cab, with “Reducing crime, disorder and fear” plastered in blue cursive scribble on the doors of the car.
“Oh, nkosi yam, my God,” Nomzamo sobbed, throwing her fingers about, “I’m going home now.” Nomzamo cried. “Bayangigodusa manje. They’re taking me home now.” The cab rolled on gently. “Thames Valley” trotted behind them.
“Now why are you taking us home with you?” Nomusa yelled, leaning closer to Nomzamo’s face. Baby Angelina suddenly wailed. The cab stopped at the traffic lights. […] Nomusa stared at a kebab house across the street, watching a tall Middle-Eastern-looking young man with a clean-shaven skin, and shiny pony-tailed hair.
The smoothness of his skin, the smile on his round face that widened his thin lips, threw over him a teenage girl’s face. He stood over a grill turning and basting doner kebab in a muscle-hugging and long-sleeved passion pink sweater. A pair of tight black leather trousers gripped his waist. He tilted his head, gently throwing back his pony tail. A middle-aged British man came out of a sporty Mercedes Benz parked outside the kebab shop. In a black leather jacket, also in tight black leather pants, wearing a blonde pony-tail and large ear-rings, he ran his hands through his long hair.
Paperless is published by Jacana.