Now Is the Time for Running by Michael Williams

Author:Michael Williams [WILLIAMS, MICHAEL]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV001010
ISBN: 9780316134781
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2011-07-05T04:00:00+00:00

I was playing soccer, and Innocent was listening to his radio on the sidelines—until I scored a goal. It had been a particularly great goal, the result of a four-pass move ending with my sizzling left foot curling the ball out of reach of the goalie. The boys on my team were congratulating me, and we were running around lifting our shirts up and shouting like they do on television. Innocent was running up the sideline, his arms outstretched, shouting “Goooaaal!” when he bumped into some of the adult men who had come over to watch the game. One of them grabbed him by the arm and pushed him hard.

“Get out of here, Zimbo! What are you doing in Khomele?”

I ran over and faced the group of men.

“We play here every Sunday,” I said. “Why did you push my brother?”

“Because he’s a lion from Zimbabwe and he comes here to eat our food,” said a young man, pointing at Innocent.

“And he takes our work,” said another man. He had the bloodshot eyes of someone who likes the taste of liquor.

“I know you work at the Flying Tomato Farm too. I’ve seen you on their trucks. You should be at school—you are too young to be doing the work of men.” This from an older man, whom I had seen sitting outside one of the huts. He seemed to be one of the elders of Khomele, as the others grew quiet when he spoke.

I had nothing to say in the face of such anger. The men stared at us with such hatred that it took my breath away.

“What do you get paid each month?” asked the man with bloodshot eyes.

“Fifty rand,” I answered, backing away.

“We cannot live for fifty rand a month, but you hungry lions don’t know what real money is,” said the younger man bitterly. “You are happy with little because you don’t know any better.”

“Deo, let’s go,” said Innocent from behind me.

“Get out of here!” shouted the elder of Khomele, and then he turned to the boys of the village who were standing watching. “If these two come back to Khomele, there will be no more soccer. We don’t want kwerekwere here!”

“You come back and you’ll feel some of this,” the younger man said to Innocent, shaking his fist. Innocent backed away hurriedly, lifting his hands in apology. The boys on the pitch turned away from me. One of them picked up the soccer ball and walked away. The game was over. I would not be back next Sunday.

Kwerekwere.

I had never heard that word before.

As I walked out of Khomele, I looked around at the small village with new eyes. This place was very different from the Flying Tomato Farm. The windmill was broken, the houses were not painted, and the land was not cultivated. Here there were no tractors turning the soil; instead the men used hand plows. While everything hummed with activity across the road, here there was no action. The men sat around in front of their huts; only the women were busy with domestic chores.

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