This and that with Mal,phosa - Home or Foreign Affairs?

We have been in this queue for the past two hours and the night seems to be forever. I can feel the unbearable pressure from the call of nature but I, and no one, dare wonder away from the safety of the crowd; there are marauding mashona men waiting for a chance to pounce on anyone who dares stray away from the queue. They have already ravaged one Somalia man and left him with no clothes on. All his valuables are gone – taken by these ruffians who keep criss-crossing the area around the length of the queue like amatheza expecting change of weather.

And they are ready to theza anything of value. All day long, people will be crying about their wallets, their mobile phones, their money, their documents, their shoes, their clothes and anything these shona can lay their hands on. The boy cuddling next to me is trembling visibly; they had taken his phone yesterday morning and he had fought gallantly with the squad and took back his phone.

These hooligans work like a team; one snatches your wallet or phone and makes as if to run, then throws it to his nearest team mate; when you run towards this one, he throws it to the next, then to the next until one brave one decides to run for it. And you phone or wallet is gone! This boy fears they might target him in the dark and harm him. At times they will decide to attack you to fend you off trying to recover your valuables.

And all this happens in full view of the police. I guess they are tired or don't care; tired because this is such a normal scenario to them it needs no action at all; don't care because it's foreigner versus foreigner – nothing to do with locals.

Finally its morning and one can see security guards appear in twos or threes. At seven, they open the gates – two of them to the west of the complex, and command us to come in. already, the shona imps have taken position at the left hand side gate and are shouting; "Those who need genuine papers use that gate and those who want fake papers come see me! They are shouting like they are calling for buses to Mbare! ‘Banoda ma fake, wuyayi kuno! Banoda ma genuine, iro gedi!" And the security guards are smiling at them and calling them shamari.

One tall Ethiopian man tries to negotiate his way into the complex and is accosted by one of these criminals; when he turns toward him, the whole pack of about fifteen descends on him and reap him naked! The police in a van close by look the other way. The man is stunned; the boys are running in different directions; they are not running away per se – they are simply moving away to a spot where they can share their booty without being disturbed by the scared group of asylum seekers or other rival groups. This will be the order of the day, every day all week throughout the year and all the coming years. And no one is safe. Once I am miraculously inside, I take of my phone from inside my under pants and check the time. Men and women in khaki suits have started arriving in expensive, soundless cars and parking randomly in the yard. I approach one man who looks Congolese but has a home affairs bib on. "My brother, I lost my asylum paper and have an affidavit from the police."

"Oh, drop your paper in the box outside and wait there." I don't trust him but it seems everyone with some query or other comes to this man. He is tall and looks quite meek, but his is not kind. Home affairs have perhaps given him too much power. There is another one, shorter and stout and dark. He doesn't look friendly but when you approach him, he is very willing to help – for a fee.

These are the two men charged with handing out our papers. They appear from behind the insurmountable dura wall of the complex, either close to the gate where those from Zimbabwe are waiting eagerly and nervously for their names to be called, or a bit to the north, where asylum seeks from other African countries also wait with abated breath. We can only see these men's heads and their hands.

Some asylum seekers, like me, have slept in the queue hoping they will be amongst the first group to be attended to the next morning. Others have slept here for two or more nights. Yet others arrived this morning and bought their way to the front of the queue. When finally I have enough courage to go outside the complex, a scared young man approaches me.

"I was here the day before yesterday. I dropped my asylum paper into the box and these Marabastad bastards lost it. It cannot be found and they say I should bring an affidavit. What for? This is their fault. They should just print out my paper and give it to me."

"My friend, do as they say if you want to stay in their country."

"No, I can't; my brother lost his here too, and he was deported last week after giving them the affidavit." The boy's mouth is dry, forcing him to speak like the lips are almost glued together. His bank, he says, has frozen his account and he cannot get his money out! His rent is due and his family back home is already phoning about a lot of things. I am in the same boat and I don't have any solution. But am afraid to say – I will disappoint this young man. I stutter as I search for the right words to say, and am saved by another young man whose asylum had a big X written on it.

"Am from inside with all the others who had X on their papers - - -." Before he finishes his story, a Gumba Gumba drolls past and we look at each other in apprehension. That is our fate, all of us; we seem to remark in silent. ‘Looks like the X is the mark of the beast!'

"What pisses me off is the fact that these people take our papers, lose them deliberately, demand affidavits and then deport us. Last week, a whole box-full of asylum papers were misplaced and all the holders have since been deported,' he claims.

There is commotion at the gate; the shona urchins have pounced on a woman who seemed oblivious of all the thuggery happening at the gates. She is screaming her lungs out but there is no one willing to risk their life for her cause. "My bag my phone or my money my papers!" she is prancing; pounding the hot bare ground vigorously with confused energy!

The thief saunters across the street and stops to search the bag – empties it and throws it back across to no one in particular. And the security guards in blue pretend to be busy with the queue.

At around twelve, the short Congolese man's head appears from behind the dura wall. There is commotion as we all of us surge forward to listen to our names. He has only two papers. This would happen again just after two. This time he has five papers, including returned affidavits as rejection or to be corrected. When he leaves, the other one appears to his right; he has quite a handful of papers, all with strange names. But we listen also, hoping that may be our papers strayed into their box somehow. "Ours is a lost cause. Abasasifuni la. Did you know that last week alone two hundred and fifty were deported from this place? Most of them had come to renew their papers and were shoved into the Gumba Gumba and sent home, says the young man as another Gumba Gumba zooms past. And I could make out the many black faces looking outward, as if looking for help.

"You see, am going home to Hilbrow. If they don't catch me at a road block or in my flat, they will not deport me". The young man has surrendered. With a heart burdened with despair and a head jammed with confusion, he departs.

The other one whose paper has an X asks; "But why call such an un-homely place Home affairs? In any case, what has home affairs to do with foreigners? Why can't they refer us to foreign affairs since we are foreigners?' He asks no one in particular. It's already after three and the offices will be closing now. The Congolese has appeared again, this time with about fifteen papers. Mine is not among them. What a wasted day. I must sleep here again – at the mercy of these rowdy heartless shona rogues and spend another day or week and pray that the home affairs gods will smile at me. The temperatures have been high, very high, and there was a thunder storm just before sunset. This will be my life, until I miraculously get my paper stamped, or until I get deported too. Life of an asylum seeker! Ngiyabonga mina!