I clung to Boubacar’s neck, wrapping my good leg around his waist, as we moved rapidly through the crowds at Beitbridge. Commander Jesus was here somewhere. Looking for me. My leg had buckled at the mention of his name but Boubacar caught me before I fell, and swung me onto his back. I couldn’t stop the trembling, and pressed myself against Boubacar. I was sure he could feel the pounding of my heart.

Commander Jesus would find me. There was no escape. I was going to die.

“Take it easy, Patson. You’re going to be all right, but not if you strangle me,” Boubacar said, tapping my arms wrapped tightly around his throat.

“Why’s he here? How did he know…” I stammered, trying to catch my breath.

“I thought you could tell me that,” said Boubacar, sidestepping a family loaded down with luggage, and moving into the shadows outside the brightness cast by the heavy floodlights above the immigration offices and courtyard. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Can you see him?”

“No, but I know he’s here,” he said, moving steadily away from the crowd, in the direction of the surrounding bush.

“What happened at the border office?”

“When I finally got to the counter and showed my passport, the official asked me to wait. I didn’t like the way he looked at me and then I saw him making a phone call. I ran back to the truck, but the soldiers were already there. They had broken into my cab and were searching it. I asked a girl what was going on. She said someone had told her that the commander from Fifth Brigade was looking for a man and a one-legged boy.”

“But why? What does he want from me?”

“Your diamonds, Patson. What else? They will make him a very rich man.”

“But I don’t have them. I gave them to Arves—in the photocopying room. Jamu came. Maybe he took them. I don’t know where they are, Boubacar. I swear.”

“Who did you tell about your girazis, Patson?”

I couldn’t think straight or control the rush of fear. I had no idea what happened to my stones. All I remembered was seeing them boiling in an oil pot; telling Arves to take them; and Jamu asking for them. The only thing I knew for certain was that the hole in my shoe was empty.

“Grace. I told my sister. And Jamu was around when I told her. Maybe he overheard me? Maybe he got it out of Grace the next day? Jamu came to the photocopying room and asked me about the diamonds. He told his father about the gwejana.” I remembered how angry Arves had been with Jamu for betraying the gwejana. “And my father,” I said, suddenly remembering his reaction when I had told him. “I told my father the night you had food with us. And of course I told Arves. But he wouldn’t have told anyone. And his grandmother too.”

“So enough people knew about them that it was only a matter of time before Commander Jesus would find out,” he said, jogging into the darkness, moving away from the border post. “We’re not going to be able to cross the border tonight. We’ll have to spend all of tomorrow hiding and then try again when it’s dark. I’ve got to find the River Woman. She’ll get us across the Limpopo River. Once we’re in South Africa, you’ll be safe.”

We followed a path that led to a barbed-wire fence. It was dark there. The noise of the border was replaced by the steady sound of the unseen Limpopo River. Boubacar eased me to the ground and we both looked back at the brightly lit border post against a dark night sky. Commander Jesus’s soldiers were still walking up and down the lines of people, pulling truck drivers from their cabs, opening the doors and trunks of every car and van. We were looking at them looking for us and, somewhere in that brightly lit oasis, Commander Jesus was giving orders.

“Come on, move,” said Boubacar as he lifted the barbed-wire fence. I crawled into a shallow trench dug by hundreds of hands before me and worked my way to the other side. Boubacar followed and scooped me up, and we headed down the banks, stumbling along the uneven pathway. Powerful searchlights from Beitbridge moved slowly over the bushes, probing, searching for us. At one point we fell to the ground and lay in a hollow as a beam of light passed over us. Loud voices floated up from the banks of the river. More soldiers were patrolling the Zimbabwean side of the Limpopo River.

“We’re going to have to hide,” Boubacar said. “Lie on top of your crutches. Keep as low as you can and wait here.”

“No, don’t leave me, Boubacar. I’m coming with you.”

Boubacar dashed quickly from bush to bush, looking for a better place to hide. I tried to shuffle forward on my stomach, but keeping the crutches out of the spotlight made progress impossible.

The voices drew nearer. The soldiers were coming in our direction.

“Over here, Patson. Come quickly,” whispered Boubacar as he disappeared over a small rise. I crawled forward, shuffling on my knees, dragging my crutches, dropping down each time the white light swept over my head. I flopped down into a small space, protected on one side by a sandbank and on the other by the leaves and branches of thick bushes. And then I felt Boubacar’s big hands dragging me the rest of the way through the undergrowth into a deep burrow.

Someone had been here before us. Cardboard from packing cases covered the ground; empty tins lay scattered in one corner with a plastic bottle half full of water. A cloth hung from a branch above a single baby shoe. Boubacar quickly covered our tracks and rearranged some of the branches over the entrance, just as the searchlight drifted over the bush. The soldiers’ voices were closer now, and as their heavy footsteps approached, Boubacar laid a hand on my arm. He was breathing calmly beside me but his knife was drawn and ready.

Three men walked along the path only a few meters away. One carried a powerful flashlight, sweeping the ground in front of them.

“This is a waste of time,” he grumbled.

“And you want to tell the commander that?”

“They’ll never cross the river at night. It’s too dangerous,” said one of the other soldiers as they stomped past us.

Boubacar stared hard into the darkness after the men. He waited, listening intently for at least another ten minutes. Then he peered through the branches and whispered, “Relax. They’ve gone.”

I was still too afraid to relax, and between Stumpy, the cramps in my good leg, and the crutches jutting into my chest, I had to shift my position.

He crawled out of our burrow. “I need to go—”

“Don’t leave me, Boubacar!” I pleaded, grabbing his arm.

“Patson, listen to me. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right back. Stay calm and you’ll be fine.”

I was ashamed of how afraid I was of being left alone. Before my leg was blown off, I had been fearless, to the point of recklessness. Now everything frightened me. I nodded reluctantly, biting my lower lip, and slowly released my grip on his arm.

“If you’re in pain, chew on this. You’ve earned a double dose tonight.”

He handed me a nub of ganja and I gratefully popped it into my mouth. My panic at being left alone was equal to my shame at how afraid I was. As I chewed the soft substance, I began to believe that everything would be fine.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “Don’t move. And sleep if you can.”

This time I would do exactly as I was told. Boubacar slipped out of the burrow, repositioned the branches to hide the entrance, and disappeared. I listened until I could no longer hear his footsteps. I was alone with the soothing sound of the river as the warm glow and bright flashing colors of the ganja flowed through me. I could lie here for days. No one would find me. Then my flesh would be peeled off by giant termites and my bones would be crushed and carried away to be eaten by small animals until nothing was left but the horrible crutches of the boy once called Patson. I chewed on the last of the bitter ganja, took a sip of water, and gazed through the patches of the bush at the night sky. A star sparkled, sending me an image of my sister, Grace.

I sighed deeply, trying desperately to hold on to her, as my exhausted body sank deeper into the sand. Stumpy was still mad at me for the soccer game and spiked me a couple of times before the ganja made him finally go quiet. With my eyes closed, I saw the ashen figure leaning on a pair of crutches and its dust-gray arm pointing me in a direction I didn’t want to go. My eyes flickered open at the memory. Moonlight, spilling through the branches, covered me like a quilt of silver light. If that figure with the shimmering halo was trying to tell me something, I still couldn’t understand. But the more I thought of it, the more it looked like Arves.