A FARM SOMEWHERE SOUTH of the Limpopo.
Two Dobermann dogs come walloping and hollering out of a zinc-roofed farmhouse. Claws scuttling over stones, tails whipping wildly.
A peacock flies up into a giant bluegum, calling kaaaaow, kaaaaow.
The gunmen yell at the dogs.
The cowed dogs sniff at Jabulani’s feet.
Behind the farmhouse is a long row of barns, like marooned boxcars on a desert siding.
Followed by yapping dogs, the gunmen frogmarch Jabulani past a fenced-in pond where crocodiles V their jaws to stay cool. They blind-eye white chickens dangling dead from a wire.
– Ever since they taste Zimbos they gone off chicken, jokes the one with a scar slanting south-east from his left eye.
His sidekick laughs.
A door slides on rails. Jabulani is flung to the sawdust-covered floor. He hears the wounded call of the peacock over the yapping of the dogs. He smells smoke and the snuff of dry tobacco. As his eyes focus in the slats of slanting light, he sees he’s not alone. An old black man is stirring a smoking pot of pap cooking over a fire drum. The furrowed vellum of his forehead is caught in a shaft of dust-dancing sun.
Jabulani imagines he’ll see tobacco hanging bat-like overhead. Instead, a bare beam runs from one end of the barn to the other. Steel bunk beds line the walls. Grey jail blankets with footnote white lines are folded into squares.
An old, sagging-skinned bloodhound lifts raw eyes out of a concertinaed jowl to peer at the stranger.
– Where am I?
– This is hell. You’ll wish you never crossed over.
– Hell?
– We’re slaves, man. You, me ... the others out on the lands.
– Others?
– The other fugitives they caught.
– But they can’t just round up men like cattle.
– When they have the guns they can do what they want. There’s no higher law out here.
The old dog farts, as if to underscore his words.
The old man spoons some pap into an enamel bowl and hands it to Jabulani.
– I am too old to dig holes, so I cook.
Jabulani forms the pap into a ball in his fist and wolfs it down.
– It’s good.
The old man nods. He scoops water from a deep drum into an enamel yellow mug from a long row of such mugs hanging on nails. This too he hands to Jabulani.
Jabulani swigs the cool, sweet water in gasping gulps, washing the pap down.
– Your dog is old, notes Jabulani.
– They wanted to shoot him. Half his teeth have gone. They taught him to hunt down fugitives. To hunt you and me.
The old man offers his hand to the dog and laughs as the dog licks it.
– Some hunter, hey?
Jabulani laughs. It feels good to laugh after the river and the dogs and the gunmen.
– You too will be sent to dig holes this afternoon.
– Holes?
– For the poles for the camo shade cloth they span over the marijuana. So you can’t see it from the sky and so the marijuana does not die.
– They farm marijuana?
– Now you farm marijuana. They will put you in a crew called Polemen. The Polemen are the rebels and newcomers ... the ones who cannot hide the fire in their eyes. They stay Polemen till their heads hang, until their spines hook and their feet drag. Then they become zombies. We call the zombies Shadowmen. They have given up all hope of escape. They travel in a truck to the Limpopo before sunup and fill drums with water for the marijuana. They spend the day in the shadows of the shade cloths. They plant the young marijuana four feet apart and water it just a bit each day. Not too much, otherwise the roots rot. And they pick the tops to dry out for ganja.
– How long have you been on this farm?
– Two and a half years. My wife has heard no word from me since I came to South Africa. I was a baker in Harare.
– Is there no way to escape? To send word out to the world?
– They who run get shot down like old dogs. The vultures pick their bones. I once sent word on a paper tied to the foot of a pigeon that landed on this barn. He had lost his bearings for a time. He had a ringed foot, so chances are good my paper was read somewhere. The catch is, whoever read it would think the words were the scribblings of a madman. Besides, I cannot map out where we are. There are no landmarks in this dry borderland.
Jabulani gauges from the distance he ran and the pickup ride that they must be about a marathon’s distance from the border.
The old man puts out his empty hand.
– I am Jonas.
– I am Jabulani.
They shake, palm to palm, then swivel their hands to hook their thumbs.