head
to the door, spot an opening and go for it. His trousers explode
and rip at the crotch as he leap over pram. He land on pavement,
stumble and regain his balance. Quality people in nice clothes at
the front of the queue have already turn into heap of arms and
legs on the pavement. They struggle to free theyselfs from each
each as mud-shifting boy take off. Frightened, he plunge into
them pedestrians, shoots past pub, past the supermarket, he take
a corner and take his ruined trousers elsewhere. Near me the
mother of the baby in the pram is like ice sculpture; she is so pale
she is nearly transparent. Not one drop of blood in she face.
One by one we fall out of queue and march to another bus
stop.
Harare North is big con. We have already put many Mars bars
inside people's pockets, and now look.
We show up at contractor's plant yard in Finsbury Park, along
with handful of them other guys from the Wimbledon graft. Some
foreman with fierce face say he is looking for people who want to
work on drain repair project; workers who is prepared for challenging
work; excavating and stripping them old drainpipes out
of the earth, laying new ones, and going down pipes to remove
blockage when necessary. All for £2.40 per hour, take it or leave
it. I have not been in London long time but me I can smell big
con from miles. Especially that we was getting £2.45 per hour in
Wimbledon. And that was the lowest rate Shingi have ever do.
'Does anyone have any question?' the foreman ask, with cigarette
in mouth. He don't sound English. The cigarette in his mouth
is in big trouble – on one end he have put it on fire and on the
other he is chewing it with them long brown teeth. Me I am not
doing no graft for this man, I make up my mind quick.
'Does anyone have any question?' Them migrants fidget and
grind they teeth; the foreman have hit they heads and get them
out of gear and they is not able to say anything.
The foreman nod with big satisfaction and give the cigarette
another crazy bite while he scan them faces and smile. He bite
and chew. He bite again. The migrants shake and blink like convicts.
'Hands up people with work permits?' the foreman demand.
Shingi have one finger raised in the air.
'OK, only three. Rest of you have to get new IDs. Passports.
We do it for you but it cost you £300.'
Me I am not having none of that con, I tell Shingi when we
leave. I warn him to stay away from people with them funny habits
like biting cigarettes. That is suspect style. But Shingi say he have
do lots of graft in London before. How many graft have you done
in London? he ask me.
I can't argue against that. Shingi can be stubborn; just like
them millipedes. Mother spend decades sweeping millipedes off
she doorstep. You sweep millipede away and half-hour later it
come back to your doorstep, right where it was. Grandmother
keep telling Mother that if you don't want millipede to come back
you also have to throw away the straw broom that you use to
sweep it away. 'But here in the township how many straw brooms
will I have to buy to throw away with every zongororo ?' Mother
always ask, shaking she head. Sometimes she throw the broom
away to make Grandmother happy but the zongororo always come
back to the same spot, until someone step on it.
Now, me I also throw away my straw broom and watch.
Civilian people sometimes don't have nothing to say about bold
plans. I lay my big plan to Shingi and ask what he think: I have
to start checking out which hotels to mau-mau. But Shingi don't
have nothing to say.
Every day now, Shingi come back from his new graft and tell
everyone about how good them fake EU passports is because
one of his workmates have even used it to go to Belgium and
come back and no one catch him. He have heaps to say about
this.
Big ginger for this idea of having fake EU passport start to grow
inside Shingi's head. He don't even need the fake passport except
maybe to catch illiterate girls by telling them jazz numbers saying
that he
to the door, spot an opening and go for it. His trousers explode
and rip at the crotch as he leap over pram. He land on pavement,
stumble and regain his balance. Quality people in nice clothes at
the front of the queue have already turn into heap of arms and
legs on the pavement. They struggle to free theyselfs from each
each as mud-shifting boy take off. Frightened, he plunge into
them pedestrians, shoots past pub, past the supermarket, he take
a corner and take his ruined trousers elsewhere. Near me the
mother of the baby in the pram is like ice sculpture; she is so pale
she is nearly transparent. Not one drop of blood in she face.
One by one we fall out of queue and march to another bus
stop.
Harare North is big con. We have already put many Mars bars
inside people's pockets, and now look.
We show up at contractor's plant yard in Finsbury Park, along
with handful of them other guys from the Wimbledon graft. Some
foreman with fierce face say he is looking for people who want to
work on drain repair project; workers who is prepared for challenging
work; excavating and stripping them old drainpipes out
of the earth, laying new ones, and going down pipes to remove
blockage when necessary. All for £2.40 per hour, take it or leave
it. I have not been in London long time but me I can smell big
con from miles. Especially that we was getting £2.45 per hour in
Wimbledon. And that was the lowest rate Shingi have ever do.
'Does anyone have any question?' the foreman ask, with cigarette
in mouth. He don't sound English. The cigarette in his mouth
is in big trouble – on one end he have put it on fire and on the
other he is chewing it with them long brown teeth. Me I am not
doing no graft for this man, I make up my mind quick.
'Does anyone have any question?' Them migrants fidget and
grind they teeth; the foreman have hit they heads and get them
out of gear and they is not able to say anything.
The foreman nod with big satisfaction and give the cigarette
another crazy bite while he scan them faces and smile. He bite
and chew. He bite again. The migrants shake and blink like convicts.
'Hands up people with work permits?' the foreman demand.
Shingi have one finger raised in the air.
'OK, only three. Rest of you have to get new IDs. Passports.
We do it for you but it cost you £300.'
Me I am not having none of that con, I tell Shingi when we
leave. I warn him to stay away from people with them funny habits
like biting cigarettes. That is suspect style. But Shingi say he have
do lots of graft in London before. How many graft have you done
in London? he ask me.
I can't argue against that. Shingi can be stubborn; just like
them millipedes. Mother spend decades sweeping millipedes off
she doorstep. You sweep millipede away and half-hour later it
come back to your doorstep, right where it was. Grandmother
keep telling Mother that if you don't want millipede to come back
you also have to throw away the straw broom that you use to
sweep it away. 'But here in the township how many straw brooms
will I have to buy to throw away with every zongororo ?' Mother
always ask, shaking she head. Sometimes she throw the broom
away to make Grandmother happy but the zongororo always come
back to the same spot, until someone step on it.
Now, me I also throw away my straw broom and watch.
Civilian people sometimes don't have nothing to say about bold
plans. I lay my big plan to Shingi and ask what he think: I have
to start checking out which hotels to mau-mau. But Shingi don't
have nothing to say.
Every day now, Shingi come back from his new graft and tell
everyone about how good them fake EU passports is because
one of his workmates have even used it to go to Belgium and
come back and no one catch him. He have heaps to say about
this.
Big ginger for this idea of having fake EU passport start to grow
inside Shingi's head. He don't even need the fake passport except
maybe to catch illiterate girls by telling them jazz numbers saying
that he
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