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Tragedies Of A Zimbo In Diaspora

Tragedies Of A Zimbo In Diaspora

Hello cousin

Peace I relay unto you from beyond the Limpopo and a couple of miles. I hope you are okay, I am still surviving in this so called Diaspora.

I know it has been a while since we last spoke. A lot has changed, and so much is happening still. You keep wondering when I will return. Frankly, I am clueless too.

l received all the letters you sent me over the couple of years. All your lamentations were loud and clear. You will be asking why I never bothered to respond then. Maybe you think I care no more.

The other time you asked about $200 to send your child to boarding school. You promised her that if she passes grade seven you’ll enroll her into that fancy school. I’m sorry I never said anything back then, but I wish I could help.

The day I received the letter was the same my landlord sent me a warning letter. My rent was three months due, and was accumulating interest. For each month I was owing about $60 if I convert the local currency at that moment. I would have called, but the little airtime was to call around friends seeking soft loans.

The rumors reached my ears the other time. I heard you bought a new four by four. Congratulations my dear, here we are still waking up at four in the morning to catch the first taxi to work. After work I still get home after 8 jumping from one taxi to the other.

It’s quite unfortunate that we have become estranged by the day. We barely talk now due to circumstances beyond my control. Even when I get an extra 30 Rand, I’m stuck between buying airtime to call back home or recharge the electricity. I have seen all the missed calls, I wish I had enough to return the calls.

You see my dear, not all of us here in Wenera are living large. Diaspora is not a heaven on earth, we die everyday here. At the rate at which we are working hard, it’s not easy. We work more than we get.

Now that I have a chance, I have thought I should write to you. Please forgive me for being too quiet. I have hardly had a chance to talk to myself also. I also miss my family back home and it’s been over five years since I last visited.

I had hoped to come over last year, but Covid-19 happened. I lost one of the jobs that paid my greater expenses. The two I have helped me pay a few rates and still send mother a few dollars to survive.

As I write I’m holding my toes crossed not sure what the future holds. Over the past couple of days I have been dodging stray bullets. I can no longer go to work now lest I get wasted in the ongoing gunfight in the tormented streets.

Not that I have been safe all the while. I gamble with dear life every minute I walk into the streets. Just earlier this year I was stabbed next the heart on my way to work.

The filthy bastards made away with my phone. The one I had bought to chat with you guys via WhatsApp. Now it’s back to square one, but I’m alive still. Help me thank God.

My regards to your beautiful family. I miss my own children and it’s really been long. I’ll be sure to send you a message on Whatsapp when I get a new secondhand phone (pun intended). Until next time, take extra care and pray for us please.

Love & Peace


3 thoughts on “Tragedies Of A Zimbo In Diaspora

  1. So emotional. True creativity. That’s real. A real story. Keep it up, Jurgen, though I like the Troy part of your names.

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