A long way from home

spected uniform of the once-respected Zimbabwe Republic Police (but I digress) and hungry Limpopo crocodiles, not to mention those boys hungry for money who hide in the bushes along the border and of course the voracious South African Police (never before respected and certainly not now). Anyway my dear readers, if you ever get to read this letter – think of me. I may or may not be alive right now.
The whole thing started when Mai Magaisa came to visit me in tears. Her dress was torn, she was bleeding, she was bruised, she was crying. Maiwee – it was a terrible sight. Anyway she had yet again been chased by those tsotsis in police uniform for selling her vegetables in First Street (that is the only place where there are any people with money any more – well there are still some people with money in Borrowdale but there is no bus fare to get there to sell anything).
Anyway – she had had enough. And so I thought – here I am just sitting here in this place. They have long back run out of proper drugs and the zhing zhong ones are not helping me at all. In fact they make me even more depressed than I used to be before I came here. They also make me mad whenever I try to think. So I thought, I must get out of here and help my family. Everybody is suffering so much in Zimbabwe today, we all have to do something. But how to get past the nurses? They are determined that everybody should stay in here because there are enough crazy people running around in Zimbabwe these days.
So – you know me Mr Editor – I thought of a cunning plan. I told Mai Magaisa to come and visit me again bringing a dress and a doek and matennis (shoes), those Bata ones, size 10.
The plan worked brilliantly. Before too long I found myself out in the centre of Harare. I was FREE! Everything was wonderful. But suddenly I heard people screaming and shouting and the sound of running. The next thing I was caught up in a WOZA demo. Those brave women were being chased by the police and thumped with batons left, right and centre. I got out of the way as quickly as I could but then I saw this huge, rough militia woman staring at me with one eye (Mr Editor, I subsequently read about that one in your newspaper – I am sure it was the very same one).
Anyway, I realised that I was now a woman. So they thought I was a WOZA demonstrator too. I have never been so terrified in my life – not even when those men in white coats came to take me away long back. I ran for my life. I nearly died running.
But I managed to escape – I’m a lucky one for sure. Now I had been thinking how I was going to help my family and I very quickly realised that what most people were doing these days was to go south. I heard things were tough there but people told me that was the only way to survive. So I went to Msika and got a bus to Musina.
That was a journey. Maiwee! Anyway to cut a long story short I found my way to Dulibadzimu and after some time I managed to find those boys who help people to cross to SA.
By this time I had realised that there is only one language spoken in Zimbabwe these days. And that language is money. Money is everything. And Mai Magaisa had not managed to give me much money. Ah it’s terrible.
And now I am in South Africa Mr Editor. And the only language they speak here is money too. Especially the police. They caught us all in the bush and they only want money. The person carrying this letter managed to give them some money and so he is now on his way back to Harare. The rest of us are in prison here in Musina….