Thick Blood, Thin Lines
Day Zero: “A taxi driver was shot dead at about 3:45 pm today around Qoqodala. It is not quite sure what ensued between the assailant and him, but the former was confirmed a Nigerian….” The minute the reporter said the N-word, my ears stopped listening. I must have moved from the front of the TV because how else would I explain finding myself in the kitchen brewing coffee with shaky hands at past 7 pm? You might wonder about my expressiveness. I hope that the turn of events in the coming days does not degenerate to lower levels, as such news has never ended well. Pacing the small expanse of my kitchen, I pondered how this would impact the international relations between my country and South Africa. I knew enough and understood that it would be rocky for the most part, as such were the ways of crisis. And this one would be no different.
Day One: I zipped my jacket and pulled its hoodie over my head. With gloved hands jabbed in the pockets of my pair of trousers, I stopped at the door, contemplating whether or not to step outside. It was barely 8 am, and I had received nearly fifteen calls from friends from some parts of Germiston where I live, Umtata, Qumbu, Whittlesea, Queenstown, King Williamstown, and Johannesburg. Xenophobic violence took a heavy toll on the Nigerian communities in these places. As much as the callers were concerned about my safety, most had tales of woe to share. My heavy shoulders ached already from anticipating evil. I rocked back and forth, playing the conversations in my head like Russian roulette, checking to see which of them would erode the giant strides of South Africa’s foreign policies to critical depths. Unfortunately, all of them did. My phone beeped twice, causing me to cringe and fear the worst had come. But it turned out to be my mother. I exhaled and made to pick up her call but dropped the phone when gunshots rent the air a few meters down the street.
Day Seven: Things have spiralled uncontrollably, such that I cannot go to work without the risk of getting killed. The internet strewn with potentially harmful agendas plotted against Nigerians like me, who, for the most part, have chosen to lie low to weather this storm, had become toxic. The narratives gaining momentum through the insensitive tweets, posts and captions of some people were adding wood to the fiery flame claiming the lives and livelihood of victims in real-time. But on social media, it was all fun and games. The local news did little justice for us as old images and videos of previous xenophobic violence littered the reportage; only the active propagators of violence were aware of the actual occurrence. After days of the scrambled network, I finally reached out and accessed some of my friends. Then I learned that meetings were ongoing between the executives of the Nigerian Union, a few of its influential members, and the local authorities of various hotspots to manage the growing rate of vandalism of businesses, attacks on persons and theft of property. So far, both understood that a lasting solution did not exist in the interim. Since we were desperate, we did not mind having cool-aid of any form placed atop the festering wounds, so we kept at negotiations.
Day Ten: Today, we realised that the arranged truce from the last meeting would not materialise. The local authorities had dangled the offer like a bone, and we took the bait. Finally, we agreed that some of the Nigerians living and working in these areas would halt their entrepreneurial endeavours for some time until we achieved peace. Sadly, we were attacked by the indigenes all the more. Worse still, we matured from nursing wounds and deep gashes to burying comrades, as we could not afford to airlift their bodies home. As a resident of Germiston, I attempted to persuade my neighbours to be sympathetic to the Nigerian plight. My success rate may have been minute, but I celebrated the small victory after rescuing the old lady across the street who almost lost her life while attackers looted her shop.
Day Thirteen: The news in my community was that some of us would stage reprisal attacks at dawn. I was not in support and made my opinion clear to my friends. The tussle for a streamlined decision reached by members grew unbearable. Our social space bubbled with debates with for and against pitting against themselves for a winner. Just when we would have endorsed the action, our government sent assurances that they were addressing the current issues with the South African government through diplomacy. My joy knew no bounds when the President announced that we hold fire.
