Journey to Jo’Burg

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“Never mind. We’ll get there somehow!” Naledi was still confident as they set off eastwards.

The tar road burnt their feet.

“Let’s walk at the side,” Tiro suggested.

The grass was dry and scratchy, but they were used to it. Now and again, a car or a truck roared by, and then the road was quiet again and they were alone. Naledi began to sing the words of her favourite tune and Tiro was soon joining in.

On they walked.

“Can’t we stop and eat?” Tiro was beginning to feel sharp stabs of hunger. But Naledi wanted to go on until they reached the top of the long, low hill ahead.

Their legs slowed down as they began the walk uphill, their bodies feeling heavy. At last they came to the top and flopped down to rest.

Hungrily they ate their sweet potatoes and drank the water. The air was hot and still. Some birds skimmed lightly across the sky as they gazed down at the long road ahead. It stretched into the distance, between fenced-off fields and dry grass, up to another far-off hill.

“Come on! We must get on,” Naledi insisted, pulling herself up quickly.

She could tell that Tiro was already tired, but they couldn’t afford to stop for long. The sun had already passed its midday position and they didn’t seem to have travelled very far.

On they walked, steadily, singing to break the silence.

But in the middle of the afternoon, when the road led into a small town, they stopped singing and began to walk a little faster. They were afraid a policeman might stop them because they were strangers.

Policemen were dangerous. Even in their village they knew that …

The older children at school had made up a song:

“Beware that policeman,

He’ll want to see your ‘pass’

,

He’ll say it’s not in order,

That day may be your last!”

Grown-ups were always talking about this “pass”. If you wanted to visit some place, the “pass” must allow it. If you wanted to change your job, the “pass” must allow it. It seemed everyone in school knew somebody who had been in trouble over the “pass”.

Naledi and Tiro remembered all too clearly the terrible stories their uncle had told them about a prison farm. One day he had left his “pass” at home and a policeman had stopped him. That was how he got sent to the prison farm.

So, without even speaking, Naledi and Tiro knew the fear in the other’s heart as they walked through the strange town. They longed to look in some of the shop windows, but they did not dare stop. Nervously, they hurried along the main street, until they had left the last house of the town behind them.

Chapter Three (#ulink_4b77a8e0-c5c1-5dc2-8909-0475ae283e28)

ORANGES (#ulink_4b77a8e0-c5c1-5dc2-8909-0475ae283e28)

On they walked. The sun was low down now and there was a strong smell of oranges coming from rows and rows of orange trees behind barbed wire fences. As far as they could see there were orange trees with dark green leaves and bright round fruit. Oranges were sweet and wonderful to taste and they didn’t have them often.

The children looked at each other.

“Do you think we could …” Tiro began.

But Naledi was already carefully pushing apart the barbed wire, edging her body through.

“Keep watch!” she ordered Tiro.

She was on tiptoes, stretching for an orange, when they heard, “HEY, YOU!”

Naledi dropped down, then dashed for the fence. Tiro was holding the wires for her. She tried to scramble through, but it was too late. A hand grasped her and pulled her back.

Naledi looked up and saw a young boy, her own age.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

He spoke in Tswana, their own language.

“The white farmer could kill you if he sees you. Don’t you know he has a gun to shoot thieves?”

“We’re not thieves. We’ve been walking all day and we’re very hungry. Please don’t call him,” Naledi pleaded.

The boy looked more friendly now and asked where they came from.

So they told him about Dineo and how they were going to Johannesburg. The boy whistled.

“Phew. So far!”

He paused.

“Look. I know a place where you can sleep tonight and where the farmer won’t find you. Stay here and I’ll take you there when it’s dark.”

Naledi and Tiro glanced at each other, still a little nervous.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be safe waiting here. The farmer has gone inside for his supper,” the boy reassured them. Then he grinned. “But if you eat oranges you must hide the peels well or there will be big trouble. We have to pick the fruit, but we’re not allowed to eat it.”

He turned and ran off, calling softly, “See you later.”

“Can we stay here for the night?” Tiro asked.

Naledi wasn’t too sure if they should.

“It can go badly if the farmer finds us. Remember what happened to Poleng’s brother?”