It is 4am on May 20 and I hear exuberant knocking on my door. My landlord does not like loud knocking. It is also winter in Harare and I’m not amused at the prospect of leaving the warmth of my blankets at such a nowhere hour. But who would knock so early in the morning? It could be some sort of emergency! I panic a bit; the adrenaline pumps and jump-starts me out of bed.
“Who’s there?” I demand.
“Your cousin Kembo,” says a flat, unconvincing voice.
“The only cousin Kembo I know left Zim three years ago for South Africa and never bothered to write or phone,” I say with great irritation.
“C’mon open the door, what’s with you man! I run away from beatings all the way from Jo’burg and now you want me to get mugged on your doorstep.”
The voice is definitely familiar. I reluctantly open the door. I know I am supposed to be happy at the return of the prodigal cousin, but I am not amused. How can someone just go like that and just come back like this? Expecting to be received with open arms.
As soon as the door swings open he leaps at me to give me a hearty hug. He seems relieved rather than happy to see me. I do not hug him back; I remain stiff in soldier-on-parade position. “What brings you here?” I ask coldly.
“Don’t you watch the news man? They’re beating up Zimbos in Jo’burg. I escaped being burned only by a whisker. Man, they burned my shack in Alexandra. Everything I fucking own was in there; passport, work permit, everything, man!” He starts to weep, but I remain unaffected.
“Oh, I thought it happened on the news.”
“How can you say something so insensitive, Tsungi?”
“Good for you, never forget where you come from. You were beginning to think you were one of them South Africans. You don’t write home and you don’t even bother to fix your own country’s problems. If three million of you had come back to vote we wouldn’t be facing all this shit we’re facing; reruns, recounts and shit.”
He sits on the bed in my one-room lodging and starts to weep and shake uncontrollably. I can see he is trying to control himself, but he’s not succeeding.
Something in me finally snaps. I find myself hugging him. A stone is growing in my throat. “Bloody Saskos, how can they do this to us? We stood by them and made sacrifices for them during apartheid. They’ve got short memories, don’t they?”
“They say we’re stealing their jobs, their cars, their money,” he says, sniffling.
“Methinks it’s just baseless xenophobia and tribal hatred. I hear Shanganis and Vendas of South African origin are also getting this shit. What an irony! Tomorrow happens to be World Day for Cultural Diversity, Dialogue and Development.”
I sit down and think. People get the kind of government they deserve and we’ve allowed Zimbabwe to be run by incompetents and kleptomaniacs. Why don’t we stay home and fix our problems? What would I do if I wake tomorrow and find myself competing for jobs and housing with three million South Africans who’ve decided to jump the border into Zim? I guess I’ll have ill feelings towards them. But to burn, loot, rape, beat up and kill is something else.
I take another look at my cousin. I feel a sort of sympathy mixed with repugnance for him. For three years he did not even write a letter or send me rands when I was almost starving. He did not bother to come back and vote on March 29. Now he wants to share my one-room lodging and my single bed for an indefinite time. I don’t like it, but what can I do? The spirit of ubuntu says we’re supposed to help each other.