In the southernmost part of Africa lies a dark island where no man has ever gone to return. No single soul has ever told a story of the menacing island. Legend fathoms it to be misty, shady, and petrifyingly spooky; although that has not been a burden for anyone to prove. An account full of unforgettable events follows. As I tell all about how I found myself on that damned island.
When I drive my latest Polo Vivo 1.4, in cherry red, those who don't know me presume me as a well-off guy. But those who know me will tell you that Red Lily is not my car. A pauper like me could never own a car like that. At least not in such a sudden instance unless I won the lottery. And well, I don't play the lottery. I had dreamed of owning a car when I still worked at the airport's car rental company in Cape Town. At the valet's, I drove all my dream cars into the vacuum. I decided to save my driver's license. I dedicated myself to saving money for a car, a VW Citi Golf to be exact. I wanted a blue one. I worked overtime every day, week in and week out, without taking a break. No time to enjoy the festive season, with thoughts of owning a car overwhelming my heart.
The holidays are only good for work when you stay in the slums of the Cape. That's what you prefer when your neighborhood tops the ranks of murder stats in South Africa. You are merrier sober than drunk. You are freer in the wild bushes than in the streets, safer with animals than man. Remember Diwali, that tourist who came here and hired hit men to murder his wife: an irony of a traveler's paradise yet rotten inside. When you are home, you either lock yourself in the house or step on someone's toe and die. It's that rough. A small piece of land shared by too many people will result in a stampede. Now add crystal meth, alcohol, and guns in their midst while they starve. What do you get? It's the simplest way to create hell. You get fired, that is how I lost my savings of R32 000.
After my shack burned my money, I fled back to my hometown, Gqeberha, where young men stand all day next to shops begging for 5 bobs and R1. Here, every second young man is a junkie that is ready to snatch your phone and run away. I printed twenty CVs and applied to Markman, Straundale, Deal Party, and Perseverance. I sent other CVs via email and also uploaded my CVs online but to no avail. I applied to government departments, retail stores, and restaurants but nothing happened. My shoes are now worn out and instead of paying for taxis with my money, it'd be better to eat. I made money from recycling cans. Not an easy job. You collect a hundred cans each day and get eighteen rands. That is only enough for a small packet of maize meal, a nip of cooking oil, and R1 sugar or Drink o Pop. Then you are covered for the day. If it's a public holiday, you may not eat. On weekends, you rely on collecting empty bottles. Some taverns don't buy empties on weekends. You must travel long distances. Then I found this job. After my first salary, I vowed never to let it go ever.
This is not your ordinary everyday job. Its notoriety compels me to kill you if I tell you about it. After my granny passed on, may her precious soul rest in peace. I had to find something because she had gone with her social grant. I ate water. In the Gqebera townships, a job is as scarce as a legitimate child. You won't find it unless you sell your soul to the devil. Available jobs here are prostitution and selling drugs. If you are lucky, you can do cash-in-transit heists where you can win big or die. Other than that, you can kiss ass and live. Before I got this job, my arms resembled drinking straws. The wind drove me away and my pants fell. I opened a new hole in my waist belt every few days. And my stove stayed cold as a dog's nose. Then a Good Samaritan came and offered me the job. God had sent him to save my life. Now I am here, a recruiter of girls for The League. We recruit girls and send them to the company's site in Markman. After an induction, they get redirected to their workstations. We are also transporters. We transport them from wherever we get them and send them to the factory. In my kind of field, no one ever applies. Members are headhunted and to complete the target, they must be on the team without joining.
My clumsy colleagues have been laid low because of reports in the media in the past weeks:
"Girls watch out, there are men in nice cars that snatch girls at nightclubs around PE…"
This post trended on all Facebook groups of Port Elizabeth. And people commented vowing to capture the culprits. In that event, they would deal with them 'mob justice style.'
This has come to burden me as I'm now left with loads of work. And my bosses tossed their hopes on my back, the promising protégé. On many occasions, they referred to me as the future of the company or the revelation. My boss applauds himself for finding me.
People from Kamva know me; I'm not a stranger. That's why sometimes my job becomes the easiest hard thing I have ever done. I'm a pleasant gentleman; I wear expensive labels and I have a sweet tongue, but am a bit scared of girls, just a little. Okay, let's say: I grew up being afraid of girls because of my background, but now that I have decent clothing, I have the guts. Yes, I don't have a good place yet. I don't need one; at least not yet. To be honest, I can't afford one. I already have a big phone. All I need now is to pretend like I'm rich and all the girls will follow me, especially now that I'm driving the latest car. You can drive a Fiat Uno; they will come to you. You can drive the hearse, they will come to you. You can even drive a jikeleza; the girls of Gqebera will follow you. In the olden days, our fathers used to charm them with donkey carts or horse rides. As a little boy, I drove an invisible car with a paint lid, and they followed me.