By Josiah Mucharowana in Pretoria| There is a war in Beitbridge!
Not for land nor political ideology. It’s a spirited attempt by Zimbabweans to be allowed into South Africa by the book or crook, away from the madding crowd of Harare.
Ah sorry! I am not being alarmist or formenting panic and despondency, but surely something is amiss over yonder in the capital.
We hear it’s now a village. Water taps are dry for weeks on end with women and children spending more time fist-fighting at boreholes than at home. Electricity has become somewhat erratic to nonexistent. Pot-holed urban roads are nurturing rally drivers to turn newly knighted Lewis Hamilton green with envy.
Yes, Beitbridge, I mean that stretch of the infamous Limpopo river flooded and bursting at the seems at this time of the year because of heavy rains pounding the SADC region is replete with ghastly tales of extortion, violence and broken dreams to Utopia in this case South Africa for many Zimbabweans.
It is the proverbial Rubicorn at which fellow compatriots come out with a conviction to face parts unknown in the diaspora or death from either poverty, political abductions, unrelenting and virulent coronavirus in dilapidated healthcare facilities on homeland.
Beitbridge at anytime of the day all year round has a forbidding air about it so thick one can almost touch it. From time immemorial, there have been gruesome stories of murder, rape and robbery cases from the darkest pits of hell.
Weatherwise, it is scotched earth most of the year and everything there is for a buck from smelly decontaminated water to drink to a simple bath in a bucket.
I have been there and seen it all. ‘Papers’ or no papers, Beitbridge is not for the faint-hearted. I had no real money in my pockets on my virgin trip to Egoli many moons ago. I was a bundle of nerves clutching a worn out jacket in my hand emblazoned Liverpool at the back. Like a cat armed with a curious twinkle in my eye, upon arrival in Jo’burg, I had hoped to find the streets paved with gold. Alas, I had no idea whatsoever what it means to be in another country, on your own. Imagine the shock of it to find thousands of fellow countrymen sleeping under the moon and stars at the (in)famous Methodist Church at the heartbeat of Jozi administered by the charismatic Paul Veryn.
On the hard cold streets of the city of gold, unrelated man and women developed a bond of survival that only men of war at battlefronts can understand why. Bread, beans and blankets were shared with gusto regardless of tribe as long as you were Zimbabwean.
Then, Mugabe and Co were breathing fire and brimstone at imaginary enemies of the West.
Sanctions! Remove Sanctions! Mugabe pounded podiums in the tall towers of America and elsewhere. China became a wily buddy and home became a hell hole. Millions started the unending journey of being economic refugees to date.
Back home, I had left family cats sleeping at the fireplace, nothing cooked there.
This world is not our mother folks, we gotta be as mean as a bitch or as kind as a Jesuit priest when the situation demands.
Interestingly just before Christmas, South Africa let loose it’s guard opening the gates to immigrants going out under the guise of relaxing Covid-19 protocols when about 5 deaths of people were reported due to prolonged periods stuck in the snaking ques to the border.
Deep in their hearts, South African leaders knew the joy of going away would be shortlived for many Zimbabweans as January beckoned. A helicopter and police speedboats have been dispensed to plug in loopholes in the porous borderline as thousands throng Beitbridge in an uninspiring comeback.
Reportedly 500 hundred undocumented foreigners around the border and Limpopo are caught each passing day and that’s a massive number for an overstretched police force to deal with. It is costly on the South African national fiscus.
Zimbabwe has retaliated with an almost complete lockdown for 30 days restricting human movement except essential workers and the sale of alcohol.
It is sad for border jumpers caught between a rock and a hard place.
The mass movement of people trying to reach South Africa by hook or crook is an indelible stain on the conscience of the Zimbabwean leadership. Of course migration has become a world phenomenon as it is said the universe has become a ‘global village’ and no nation is an island unto itself.
The same, however cannot hold water for the Zim-South Africa human traffic.
It is trouble, serious trouble that has been left to ferment and brew to a dangerous poison that could befuddle the entire region.
Surely Zimbabwe cannot export its warm bodies and problems to other countries ceaselessly with no solution in sight.
What we are witnessing at Beitbridge is admission of guilty by Harare authorities. They have failed the people.They have thrown the mandate book out through the window. It is a dog eat dog country now in which politics is not to serve the masses but self enrichment.
Given half a chance in leadership, I would quit, walk off into the sunset just like in western blockbuster movies. I would go home and grow maize and beans. I would sod off from national life quietly and give others a chance.
However, it’s only a peasant’ s dream. With the caliber of people at helm, it will not work. Simple! Who piggybacks a ‘crocodile’. They aren’t friendly. We cannot at all blame God for creating a crocodile but thank Him for not giving it wings. We would certainly perish. It’s diaspora or death for many.
Josiah Mucharowana is a media graduate and writes in his personal capacity. Feedback; joemasvokisi @gmail.com, +27 84 587 4121