In the Diaspora: The Truth and the Lies

Ever wondered what it was REALLY like going to the UK to look for the proverbial pot of gold?

A friend of mine called Vusi Moyo gave me this piece which is a no holds barred, blow by blow dose of reality. I sat on this for a good two years waiting for the opportune moment to unleash it on an unsuspecting public, meaning now.
It's a candid account by a disillusioned member of the diaspora who after all the effort of 'making it' sees the place for what it really is. A number of you will find this familiar, others will be angry at me for revealing state secrets… but as I am always wont to do, I will risk pissing against the wind and bear the consequences…
"You arrive in the UK, albeit through the skin of your teeth, not really sure who to thank between the Almighty and your ancestors. You settle for the former because there are no visible inyanga (traditional doctor) Englandi, mfana! Employment was a reason for you being there - correction - employment was the ONLY reason. The aim was to get a job at the earliest opportunity after surviving Gatwick. You had a number of options. The agencies wanted people for work, any kind of work, and this was not the time and place to be picky.
Skill number one; could you lie with a straight face? If you had never done that, now was the time to start. Thank goodness there was no CRB to contend with then. You found ways and means. Some just worked under their relatives' names. But you see this also had its demerits. Imagine this. Your friend's cousin would have gone to work under your name. Because at the very last minute you realized you were double booked for shifts at the biscuit factory. The agency would turn out be very vindictive, if you didn't pitch up.
If you kept cancelling shifts you would find yourself in the COD (circle of despair.) You were given the 'Passover' treatment when it came to precious shifts. You knew you needed the money. Rent was due and there was money to be sent home to expectant relatives. Isn't this what you came here for? Sebenzela ekhaya, mfana!
So off your friend's cousin went masquerading as yours truly. Then, horror of horrors, you received a call from the AGENCY asking what happened to you at work that day. Apparently, "YOU" had dropped a client, they said, and an explanation was required as a matter of urgency.
You were not sure what really happened to YOU but you couldn't say this. So with a straight face you told the AGENCY that you would call in later because in reality you had to call YOU, I mean, your friend's cousin who had actually just come to England, having dropped off the plane that very morning and had covered your shift for you as you took care of the milk run.
Luckily, the AGENCY would buy your second-hand account of how "YOU" dropped the client, another close call. You were getting used to this, lying through your teeth to save your skin. Forget that you were Seventh Day Adventist ekhaya (back home), this is Englandi, mfana!
You could also pick up a name and work under that pseudonym. The danger was that when you became so engrossed in the task at hand your supervisor would call, "Hey Antonio!" No response. All the while you are thinking to yourself. "Some people really have hearing problems. If my name was called out like that I would jump to it!"
After the poor supervisor had almost lost his patience and voice, trying to catch Antonio's (your) attention, it suddenly dawned on that IT'S YOU he is calling…YOU ARE ANTONIO! You pretended to be too engrossed in the task and later apologized that indeed you had a serious hearing problem.
Care work. Now there is a occupation minefield if you knew one. The major skill here was how to fake it. You found out the common words and the names of the specialized equipment from your friends. The commode, hoist back-pan etc. You see, this would be your first day at work and you wouldn't know a stitch from a Band Aid.
You were asked to make the bed which was easy enough. Your boarding school skills came in handy here. Next you had to get someone up. Since you were from the AGENCY, you were not that popular unless you had been to the place a number of times before. The regular staff quickly paired up and left you to work on your own. Tough it!
The pad, now which way did it go, you asked no one in particular. You just had to do what you could under the circumstances. Now you had to wheel the client to the dining room for breakfast. There you were, struggling with the pushchair. You were thinking, "My goodness me, no wonder people say that when you do care work you need to watch your back."
You realised in your wake that you were leaving a conspicuous trail with the wheels, but hell, you were too determined to do this. That is until one of the nurses, seeing your strained effort, decided to investigate. Alas, the brake was on! You quietly and between your clenched teeth cursed your cousin Mavis for leaving out this important piece of information during her quick induction to care-work. She forgot to tell you that these wheelchairs had brakes.
For the faint-hearted, the sight of human excrement in its ubiquitous abundance was a strong incentive for voluntary dieting. Some did not touch food for days on end, until the strangest of things started to happen. You suddenly stopped noticing it, the human manure that is. It was as if it was not even there. Food suddenly took on a new taste and texture and you partook of it with gusto, even seconds after you had been handling you-know-what.
And you tell me God isn't wonderful? Was this really you, pinching yourself? You once would throw up at the slightest unsightly thing, even at the sight of a baby with mucus dripping from its nose, but now.
Some 'clients' needed to have their baths. You see, they are called that and not patients. Your idea of a bath was to drench everything from head to toe. But you see ladies don't wash their hair every time they bath. You didn't know this because you though you did not need to know.
So there you were, scooping the water with zest and zeal. SPLASH! "OH, NO MY HAIR! THE HAIR DRESSER DID IT JUST THIS MORNING," the shaken old dear would cry. You would apologize profusely but the damage had already been done. You know how these old people would relay their story to everyone within earshot about how this horrible man did this even to the extent of narrating the story to you unbeknown to them that you were the culprit in question!
Work was hard and at times some people would nod off during handover because of the strain. Interestingly enough, no one ever came from Zimbabwe and everyone was a nursing student. Everyone either came from South Africa, the most popular, Malawi or Zambia. But you couldn't hide your identity forever.
There were equally interesting encounters in industry. "What machinery do you drive?" Your cousin Matthew had told you the more boxes you tick, the higher the chances of you getting shifts. Forklift Operator - tick, Pneumatic drill Operator - tick, Excavator Operator - now what does this thing do? - Tick, Skid Steer, err, tick, Crane - tick, now that that looked so impressive. Had these people in England ever heard of the concept of LYING? Not here, I suppose if you indicated you could do it, you could.
One such adventurous chap found himself having to walk the walk as well as he had talked the talk. Forklift operator - tick. Yes, the AGENCY wanted a Forklift Operator and there he was, or should I say, there he wasn't. But since he had committed it to paper, he had to have the experience.
Our resourceful friend had a trick up his sleeve. What do most workers in the UK love most? Answer: ciggies or cigarettes to you. By some stroke of luck our friend had stumbled upon cheap cigarettes and that is how he disguised his lack of expertise on the forklift. He handed out the cigarettes as gifts/bribes.
Having provided such a rare commodity, his fellow workers turned a blind eye to his shoddy workmanship or let us say lack of dexterity in maneuvering the machinery. But everything has to come to an end some time.
In Zimbabwe the closest he had come to a forklift was when he was walking across the company compound on his daily inspection errands as part of management. Mdara Makoni operated the forklift then. Now HE WAS in purpose and deed MDARA MAKONI! What he would have given for Mdara Makoni's skills then.
His University degree counted for nothing in these new settings. With his powers of placation and appeasement (cigarettes) depleted he had little choice but to perform a disappearing act never to be seen nor heard of again in that part of the world. His former workers were later heard inquiring, "Where did that GOOD guy who was such a BAD forklift operator go?"
People came from totally varied and unique work environment