TRUE AFROPHOBIC STORY: ‘God saved us from SA violence’

A fortnight ago, Africa woke up to the disturbing news that foreigners were being viciously attacked and killed by South Africans who wanted them to leave the country. This Afrophobic violence began in Durban and spread to Johannesburg, displacing thousands of foreigners, among them Zimbabweans. Mr Moses Maringo survived imminent death at the hands of the Afrophobes. Now back home in Harare’s Glen Norah suburb, Mr Maringo tells The Sunday Mail Reporter Debra Matabvu his story.

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My name is Moses Maringo — a married 42-year-old man with children — two boys aged seven and four. I used to be a spray painter at an engineering company in Harare.

I worked there for three years, but the company experienced serious difficulties in 2010. I remember going for months without pay.

I am a family man and this was unacceptable. I could no longer pay rentals, let alone provide for my family adequately.

A friend based in Durban, South Africa, then alerted me to the job opportunities in that country. I left in 2010 and good fortune smiled on me:

I got a job almost immediately.

Although I continued as a spray painter, my life changed tremendously. I could take care of my family once again.

I settled in Zwelisha high-dentisty suburb, an area the equivalent of Harare’s Glen Norah or Glen View. The house belonged to a white man who wanted someone to take care of this property.

Many Zulu and Xhosa-speaking people live in that suburb, so do nationals from countries like Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Malawi and Somalia.

There is a special relationship between Zimbabweans and Malawians; I guess it’s because of a congruence of language and customs.

For their part, the South Africans were good to us. There were no break-ins, nor did we ever hear of instances of robberies.

Generally, the people like having fun. They would visit at weekends and talk for hours. Basically, we had a good relationship. It was, however, a different story in the surrounding suburbs.

Terror comes

When King Goodwill Zwelithini said foreigners should “pack up and leave”, our neighbours did not see merit in the remarks and scoffed at them. But those in neighbouring suburbs took the king seriously.

President Jacob Zuma’s son, Edward, supported King Zwelithini and that is when all hell broke loose.

Communities started meetings over foreigners. We learnt that such meetings took place during the day while we were at work.

Neighbours would come and tell us of how plans had been hatched to drive out foreigners via violent attacks.

Actually, we were warned about the attacks a month before they began. I for one never imagined that the situation would boil over.

My colleagues and I realised that this was mistaken thinking when some locals began searching for foreigners in commuter omnibuses.

In one instance, a foreigner was thrown off a moving train, fell over a bridge and died. Students at a community high school also beat a foreign student to death.

That was when we stopped going to work. We knew our lives were in danger. We now depended on our neighbours for food and information on the situation, which got worse with each passing day.

South Africans from other suburbs came to our area, marching while brandishing machetes, knobkerries and knives, and chanting anti-migrant slogans. They would normally do this around 10pm.

It must have been a week before the attacks when they dropped fliers and posters at tuck-shops, warning foreigners not to remain in South Africa.

They said they were giving us time to “pack and leave”, but, again, we never thought the situation would degenerate into outright violence.

What was happening now is that some of our neighbours were collaborating with the eventual attackers, showing them where foreigners lived.

On one occasion, I spent the entire day indoors. Fear whirled up inside me, and my incorruptible neighbours were all I relied on for food, which they bought for me at a nearby tuck-shop.

The day was like any other in the circumstances — tense, full of suspense. I had not realised, though, that the defining moment had come.

At 10pm, we heard Calstinho — a Mozambican — screaming; crying.

It was then that I became fully alive to the fact that my life was in danger.

The attackers beat Calstinho while they sang and danced. Suddenly, a figure rushed towards me. My heart sank. This was my final moment on earth, I figured.

I sighed, as I made out the figure to be my neighbour. He told me that I was in danger and should run for dear life.

I was horrified to also learn from him that Calstinho was no more. They had burnt him to death.

I had known Calstinho for a long time. I worked with him on one or two occasions, but I remember him mainly from the weekends we spent together with others.

He was a hard-working 25-year-old and had a promising future. His death really hurt.

Race for life

I left quickly; there was no time for me to take my belongings. I only managed to grab my mobile phone and to tell my neighbours to lock the doors to my apartment.

I got onto the street and saw hundreds of people streaming towards a well-known bushy area.

Some relief surged through my heart; there was comfort in numbers — at least for now. I followed immediately. These were my fellow foreigners fleeing with their lives.

I surmised that the bush would be much safer than any of my neighbours’ homes. And even the nearest police station seemed far away because the attackers had barricaded the roads.

This fleeing mass of foreigners comprised women with children as young as two month olds.

We were still alive, but no one knew what could happen in an instant.

The marauders were still combing the suburbs for foreigners — people like us. What if they came after us? What if they burnt each one of us like they did Calstinho? What about the two-month-old babies?

The anguish was unbearable. I spent two days in the bush.

It was cold at night, so we would sleep around a fire to keep warm.

No one cooked or drank water. All we did was sit around the fire, praying silently for God’s protection.

It was a difficult time, especially for the women and children. I pitied them.

I found it rather odd, though, that no one pounced on us for I am sure the anti-migrants knew where we were. They would have killed many of us had they decided to follow. Maybe they suddenly became afraid; I don’t know.

Or maybe God protected us.

I decided to leave that area when the hunger became unbearable.

I sought refuge at an Indian friend’s house, and this is where my wife got employment when she came to South Africa in 2011. There was no violence in suburbs where Indians reside.

I met friends and most of them had been seriously assaulted. They gave gory accounts of the attacks.

That’s when I resolved to return to Zimbabwe. I realised how fortunate I was to be still alive.

My Indian friend took my wife and I to the bus station and paid the bus fare. I could not go to the police station to register for transport, which the Government had arranged. I was frightened and just wanted to go home. My wife came along.

Other Zimbabweans I spoke to wanted to return home, too. Some, however, vowed to stay — ducking and diving while they soldiered on.

I feel safe, now that I am back home with my family. I am yet to consider what I will do next, but going back to South Africa is not a priority.

The trauma is just too much.