I have been standing at Max‘s garage for almost three hours trying to hitch a ride to Beit bridge. I am not the only one here though; there must be at least fifty people, maybe even a hundred. Or more, I do not know, whatever; it is hot and I am tired. The point is there is a sizeable crowd of would- be travelers with things to do and places to be and we are all waiting. Desperately! So much about life here and now entails waiting. 

If you are serious about life, if you are ago-getter and you want to make things happen then you need to know how to wait seriously. You take a deep breath, put your‘ game face‘ on, brace yourself and wait. I had to wait two hours to get money from the bank to pay for my journey and now here am waiting again. It is what we do we wait for transport for electricity, for rain, for slow- speed internet connections at the dingy cyber-cafés in town where we check our mail if a nifty little website has found us a job in Dubai or a scholarship to on obscure foreign university, anything really to get us out of here. And there is never anything, mind you, but you know how hope is. It never dies. So we tell ourselves that there isn‘t anything yet. We will find a way out; in the meal time let us wait. If you are serious about your life, about surviving, about the future, then you sow some seeds, invest in yourself and you wait. It is my favourite oxymoron, arrested development. 

I am not hard to spot in this crowd at the barely functioning filling station. I am the sore thumb a twenty something years old women wearing high-end sunglasses and trend jeans, carrying minimal luggage and standing in a statuesque pose that is supposed to convince motorists that I would be great company on a major road trip so they should stop for me. I have been here for three hours so clearly something is not working. Maybe they can tell that behind the cool-as-a-cucumber façade of togetherness I am trying to portray is a quivering, fearful little girl with just dying for someone to take her by the hand and help her cross a busy road. People around me have started grumbling that it is not fair that there are so many cars going to Esigodin but nothing going to Beitbridge or even Gwanda. They are right. No one seems to be going as far as beitbfridge and the longer I stand here the more asinine I feel for thinking that I could do an entire research project on border jumper in just one lousy weekend.

Today is Friday, this thing is due on Tuesday and I cannot get out to the field! Why border jumpers anyway? Why did I have to pick a topic that would lead me to the edge of the country? Why not something local like the pipe dream that is the Matabeleland Zambezi Water Pipeline? Well, I suppose that is not really local either; besides, it is too controversial. But why do I always procrastinate until there is no time and so much pressure? What is the matter with me? My internal conversation is interrupted by the sudden realization that there is a car right in front of me and a swarm of people around me, all jostling to get in. Beitbridge! I hear someone yell before I am painfully elbowed to the side by a tiny old woman with a rabid look in her eye. Okay this is it. There is no way I am not getting this ride. The driver obviously stopped for me, having been won over by my enigmatic side-of-the-road persona, so if these people think they can rob me of my place then they had better think again. It is a double cab and the only space left is right at the back. This is where all those years of compulsory sports at school come in handy.

In one deft move I hoist myself into the back, sparing a fleeting thought of gratitude to whoever invented stretch denim. Meanwhile, women in chiffon blouses and pencil skirts struggle to clamber in with as much dignity as can be achieved, while trying not to expose their nether regions to the whole world. Eventually, the back is full and we all look at each other with relieved but slightly sheepish smiles in acknowledgement of the elbowing, pushing and shoving it took to get in. There is a word for what we have just done, Vigoroni: getting ahead of the crowd and on top of the pile. Vigo for short; that is what all the cool people say. It is a brutish, dangerous, undignified must-have skill if you are serious about life and you are a go-getter. You need to know how to wait and when opportunity arrives you need to master the Vigo. We are packed like sardines in the searing noon-day sun, but we are happy sardines with things to do and places to be and we are off!

Two kilometres down the road the car stops and the driver gets out to collect our fares: eight hundred thousand dollars to Beitbridge. Fares are so crazy nowadays that I do not even know if that is reasonable or not. I have a feeling it is not and the other passengers do not seem to be comfortable with it either, but it is not in the nature of a Zimbabwean to question or complain. Besides, this is a private car and the owner probably had to get his fuel off the black market, so he will offer his service at whatever price the market can bear. There is no public transport, hence we are extremely desperate, so we wince and bear it. The car does a U-turn and we assume he is going to get some petrol but we find ourselves back at Max’s Garage, where the driver tells us that he has changed his mind and will no longer be going to Beitbridge, something to do with the money not covering his fuel costs blah, blah. The others try to convince him to change his mind, but at this point I am simply not interested. Just give me my money back, I hiss. He gives me my refund of eight hundred thousand dollars in ten thousand dollar notes and I am not impressed. Great, so here I am certified waiter and champion of the Vigo, defeated. I am not even trying to look cool anymore. Dear God, please let me get there today. This project is the last hurdle I must clear before I get my qualification in disaster management. Whatever that is. I am commiserating my misery when a young man with a runny nose walks up to me and asks if I am going to Beitbridge because there is space in the van across the road and it is leaving now. Favour! This is why I am a believer. So I cross the road and get into the front of the van next to a woman in her mid- thirties and then we are well and truly off.

The woman and the driver are talkers, which works perfectly for me because I am a listener, so all I have to do is insert sporadic questions and appropriate exclamations here and they do all the work. About ten kilometres down the road we are stopped at a roadblock and the driver has to pay a fine. While he is talking to the traffic officer I get a text message on my mobile phone. It is my friend Lihle who is in Harare. She says that since life expectancy in Zim is reportedly quite low she reckons she is entitled to a mid- life crisis round about now. She obviously has no idea just how low it is. Since it is actually around thirty-seven, it is technically too late for a mid-life crisis. Sori m8. In mid-20s nw so u hav abt 10 mo yrs left 2 liv. Tbz r the sunset yrs. 218 4 crisis L. In another place and time, this phase would have been called the quarter-life crisis, during which you are trying to find a balance between fitting into the societal image of responsible adulthood and discovering and doing the things you really want. Like getting a nine-to-five, getting married and having two point four children called Memory, Beauty and Blessing versus pursuing a career in theatre no matter how poorly remunerated it is, because that is what makes you feel alive and significant.

The driver is back; he claims he had to pay the police to give him a ticket because he says that this way they will not be able to give him any more tickets at subsequent roadblocks along the way. Okay, I am not even going to try and understand the reasoning involved. So we are off again. It turns out that these two have something in common. They carry contraband between Zimbabwe and South Africa. He is a Malayitsha, which means he carries groceries and property sent by Zimbabweans working in South Africa to their families back home. Then on the return leg he carries people: a couple of hundred rand if you have a passport, a couple of thousand if you do not. Business is brisk and he is making a decent living. He can afford to send his three children to good boarding schools, has a great homestead in the communal areas and just bought a property in Bulawayo. She is not to be outdone though. Her contraband of choice is cigarettes: good quality, highly sought after Zimbabwe cigarettes, and she is raking in fifty thousand rand a run. Fifty thousand rand! The drink I was sipping goes down the wrong tube and I am spluttering and coughing, trying very hard to regain my composure and not look like the naïve good little citizen that I am.

My pulse is racing. Life is hard, she says, but for her life has never been better. She has a townhouse in Johannesburg, one in Pumula and is building in Mahatshula and Selborne Park. There is something about Bulawayo, she says. While she is talking I rattle off the figures in my mind. Fifty thousand rand a run! How many runs a month? How much to pay off the cops? And the insider at customs? And who are her buyers? What is the initial investment outlay? Girlfriend, what are you still doing at school? There is money to be made in hard currency! Then it occurs to me that she could be one of these nouveau riche types a friend of mine was complaining about sometimes ago. They buy grotesquely oversized mock Victorian style furniture that is obscenely expensive and fill their homes with high tech gadgets they never use and very expansive but distastefully generic art. I remember him agonizing

Like, hello! They don’t even know a Tamuka Mtengwa from an Eric Gauss! I frown, unsure that I know the difference either. But I feel his bitterness! She is going on about how she dropped out of high school and does not regret it. It is official, I am bitter. Wow, I say, feigning nonchalance; you must really shop up a storm at Fort 11 flea market. She squeals delightedly, not sensing my sarcasm, yes! Then she launches into a long tirade about how she never buys authentic designer labels and she would much rather buy a thousand pairs of cheap shoes made in Korea. Yup, she is indeed one of them I decide, before sinking deeper into the car seat feeling like an inadequate nonachiever. I will take my mid-life crisis now if you do not mind: shaken, not stirred. Whatever. In Gwanda, we pick up someone to sit in the back of the van.

He speaks some type of hybrid Zulu with a heavy Shona accent. The driver disappears for a good twenty minutes during which the newcomer too has a story to tell. He works in Johannesburg and came home two weeks ago for a relative’s funeral in Marondera. In Beitbridge the transport situation was so bad that he had to wait eighteen hours for a mini-bus to fill up with enough people to make the trip to Bulawayo viable. He decided to change his rands to local currency with some young men who offered him a good exchange rate. Not having been in the country for a few years he was unfamiliar with the new currency. They gave him a couple of thousand dollars in ₷ 100 and ₷ 500 notes in exchange for eight hundred rand in hard earned cash. Unbelievable! I am mortified on his behalf. Did he not count the money? That amount should have earned him over twenty million dollars on the black market. They said something about slashing zeros, he recalls with a rueful smile. The woman, who has introduced herself as Gloria, seems to find the story immensely amusing. Ha! They really got you, my friend! You know that was the equivalent of twenty rand, which means you just gave them seven hundred and eighty rand! Ha! Ha! They really got you. I’ll bet they were Shona. Those are the only crooks in Beitbridge, unlike the Ndebele who are too lazy and us Vendas who make an honest hustle. Completely dumbstruck by her blatant tribalism, I look at the young man who is very obviously Shona, to study his reaction to what I perceive to be a total lack of empathy on Gloria’s part. Poor chap; he is taking it like a trooper. Yes, my sister, they really got me. I had to sell my phone to raise money to come back. Gloria throws her head back laughing. Never trust a Shona! Never trust a woman either! Trust no one, not even your relatives. We are all trying to survive here and if you are not alert it is only the fool who won’t take advantage. I am furious with her for attitude but at the same time she is hard to dislike. She has the type of gritty raw honesty that does nothing for a person’s self esteem but makes one see the truth in all its cruelty. And that is what makes one toughen up. The driver returns and the conversation ends as the journey resumes. 

I am gazing out of the window watching the world go by, or rather is it the world that watches me pass by? Somewhere behind me the sun sets over Zimbabwe. This day, like so many other things in my country, is slipping into the arms of the past. As the kilometres go by I am struck by a loneliness that I have noticed in everyone lately. It is a pervasive and virus-like affliction that insinuates itself into every public social gathering and intimate lovers’ embrace. It comes in waves that bear transcendental glimpses of what once was: a life and future that existed briefly in the collective consciousness of twelve million people and we can feel it slipping through our fingers. All we can do is watch helplessly. Or can we?

The driver and Gloria are in an animated discussion about the dangers of their trades. They talk of payment defaulters being sold off to Nigerians in Johannesburg, strip searches and muggings by bandits in the farmlands of Limpopo Province, swimming across the Limpopo and hoping that if there must be a crocodile attack let it be the person next to you that is eaten because you really need this to work out. They talk of paying off border officials, highway police, farmers, magistrates, anyone and everyone. There is no palm that cannot be greased, apparently. But surely there are some palms that you cannot bring yourself to grease, either because they are already so dirty that you are afraid some of it will come off on you, or because no one else has ever dared to grease them. It is just getting dark when we arrive at the busy border town. Gloria curses as she realizes that she forgot her passport and she is supposed to be collecting some money at the South African border town of Musina tomorrow. No worries though, she knows a person who can organize a gate pass for her at a small fee. Another text message from Lihle who reckons her bride price has at least quadrupled since she came to Zimbabwe from the UK to get her study visa.

I am such a catch! I’m intelligent, educated and beautiful, I can fetch water, light a fire and cook a decent meal and I can find anything in the dark. It is good to see she has found something positive about these endless power cuts. A few weeks ago she was upset because her expensive imported hairpiece always smells like wood smoke…

Saying my goodbyes to my travel-mates, I step out of the car and inhale deeply the warm, dusty air. I came here for statistics and figures on irregular migrants but these figures have names and faces. They include seasoned smooth operators of the system like Gloria and clueless teens fresh out of high school in the rural areas that are carried by Malayitshas and are easy fodder for unscrupulous people on either side of the border. They are go- getters who are desperately serious about life and, as I walk into the starry night, I hope I can do them justice. 

Understanding and appreciating the story

1. Where is the narrator when the story begins? What is she doing and for how long has she been there?
2. Why has the narrator and other people been waiting for so long?
3. Why would people be seeking education at an obscure foreign university?
4. How much money does the driver ask for? What is his excuse? What impression do you get of this country’s currency?
5. What has the narrator been studying? She say she does not quite know what the course entails. What does this suggest about her and the education system of the country?
6. In your own words, state what the driver and Gloria have in common.
7. Compare and contrast the activities in this city with similar activities in our own city of Nairobi and especially with respect to the so called “matatu madness.”
8. Examine the use of description in this story and comment on its effectiveness. 
9. The narrator uses non-standard English in her short text message. Why do you think she uses such language? Rewrite the message in standard English.
10. How effective is the first-person narration in this story?
11. What does the writer mean by this statement, “there isn’t a palm that cannot be greased…”

Discussion questions

1. Identify instances of corruption in the story and discuss how this impacts negatively on development in this country.
2. The story captures the struggle borne by many people globally as they try to cope with the economic hardships. Drawing examples from the story, show how the citizens of this country are trying to cope.
3. Do you think the use of the short message service (SMS) is impacting negatively on written English? Considering that the use of short message services is becoming common, what should you do to ensure that your writing remains acceptable and professional?
4. The narrator is standing at Max’s garage, trying to hitch a ride to Beitbridge. She has been waiting there for almost three hours.
5. The narrator and others have been waiting for so long because they are trying to find transportation to their desired destinations. They are waiting for vehicles to take them to places like Beitbridge or Gwanda.
6. People might be seeking education at an obscure foreign university because they are looking for better opportunities and a way to escape the difficult conditions in their own country. They hope that education abroad might lead to a brighter future.
7. The driver asks for eight hundred thousand dollars to Beitbridge as the fare. His excuse for not going is that the money won’t cover his fuel costs.
8. The narrator has been studying disaster management, but she admits that she doesn’t quite know what the course entails. This suggests that the education system in the country may not be providing clear or comprehensive information about the courses they offer.
9. The driver and Gloria both engage in illegal activities involving contraband and smuggling goods across the border between Zimbabwe and South Africa.
10. The story doesn’t provide specific instances of “matatu madness” as it focuses on a different location. However, it does highlight the struggles and frustrations of public transportation, which might be relatable to similar experiences in Nairobi or other cities with traffic congestion and unreliable transport systems.
11. The story effectively uses description to paint a vivid picture of the setting, the characters, and their actions. It helps the reader visualize the scene and understand the emotions and motivations of the characters.
12. The narrator uses non-standard English in her short text message to convey informality and colloquialism, which reflects how people often communicate through SMS. The message could be rewritten in standard English as follows: “Sorry mate. I’m in my mid-20s now, so I’ve got about 10 more years to live. These are the sunset years. 218 for a crisis, Lihle.”
13. The first-person narration is effective in providing the reader with a personal and intimate perspective on the events and experiences of the protagonist. It allows us to connect with the narrator’s thoughts and emotions.
14. The phrase “there isn’t a palm that cannot be greased” implies that corruption is rampant and pervasive in the country. It suggests that bribery and dishonesty are common, and people are willing to pay off anyone to get things done, even if it means engaging in illegal activities.

Discussion Questions:

1. Instances of corruption in the story include paying off border officials, highway police, and other authorities to facilitate illegal activities such as smuggling contraband and illegal migrants. This kind of corruption hampers development by fostering a culture of lawlessness and undermining the rule of law, which leads to a lack of trust in public institutions and the erosion of economic progress.
2. The citizens of this country are coping with economic hardships through various means, including engaging in illegal activities such as smuggling, seeking opportunities in foreign countries, and trying to make ends meet through informal and sometimes exploitative means. They are also resorting to humor and cynicism to cope with their challenges.
3. The use of short message services can impact written English negatively if individuals become overly reliant on abbreviations and slang, leading to a decline in language proficiency. To maintain professional writing, one should be mindful of using correct grammar, spelling, and punctuation even in informal contexts. It’s essential to strike a balance between being concise and maintaining clarity in communication.
4. The narrator is at Max’s garage when the story begins. She has been standing there for almost three hours, trying to hitch a ride to Beitbridge.
5. The narrator and other people have been waiting for transport to various destinations, including Beitbridge and Gwanda. Waiting for transportation, among other things, is a common aspect of life in the country portrayed in the story.
6. People might seek education at an obscure foreign university in hopes of improving their lives, finding better opportunities, or escaping the current economic and social hardships they are facing.
7. The driver asks for eight hundred thousand dollars for the ride to Beitbridge. He later changes his mind and refuses to go, returning the money to the passengers. The impression of the country’s currency is that it is experiencing high inflation and economic challenges.
8. The narrator has been studying disaster management, but she doesn’t seem to have a clear understanding of the course content or its practical implications. This might suggest that the education system in the country lacks clarity or practicality in some aspects.
9. The driver and Gloria both engage in carrying contraband between Zimbabwe and South Africa. The driver is a Malayitsha, transporting groceries and property, while Gloria deals in smuggling cigarettes.
10. The story doesn’t provide enough information about activities in the narrator’s city in Zimbabwe compared to Nairobi’s “matatu madness” to make a direct comparison.
11. The story effectively uses description to create vivid images and portray the setting and

Arrested Development by Sandisile Tshuma

1. Setting

 The story is set on a road trip from Zimbabwe‟s capital Bulawayo, to Beitbridge, a town bordering South Africa.

The setting moves from Max‟s garage, to a contraband ferrying vehicle and ultimately to Beitbridge. This is at a time when Zimbabwe is experiencing hyperinflation.

• Plot The narrator and tens of travelers are writing at Max‟s garage for vehicles to take them to their various destinations. The narrator is an academic researcher in search of data on order jumping. There is no public transport and so the travelers are at the mercy of private vehicle owners. As a result of the collapse of public service provision, the people of Zimbabwe have developed infinite patience in order to get anything they want.

After three days of waiting, the narrator struggles with other passengers to get onto the back of a pick-up that has stopped next to her. They are charged an exorbitant fare. Though they pay up, the driver takes them back to Max‟s alleging that his costs will not be covered. Presently she is directed by a tout to a vehicle ready to leave for Beitbridge. She finds herself travelling in the company of two contraband dealers, the driver and the woman in midthirties. She learns that the police take bribes to ignore the contraband. She learns that the lot of the cross-border traders is way better than that of highly educated Zimbabweans. For example she and her friend Lihile who has despaired of her lot ever improving. From the passenger who joins them at Gwanda, she learns that ignorance is preyed upon in a very cruel way.

This cruelty on one another wises up victims. Survival for con-artists therefore is a daily struggle.

Zimbabweans are filled with loneliness and despair. Even for the cross-border traders, the risks are many. The best everyone can do is resign themselves to their fate like Lihile who now fetches water and easily contends with blackouts The narrator‟s research however offers a ray of hope that might salvage the youth from their endless troubles in search of a livelihood.

• Conflict

1. Poor public service provision.

The public looks to the government for the provision of public service. These have either broken down completely, like transport, or are not efficiently provided like electricity, water etc. the public is powerless to bring on any improvement and have resigned themselves to waiting.

1. Private transport

With the collapse of public transport, private vehicle owners have moved in to fill the gap. They charge fares that the public can bear. They even use unscrupulous means, like taking them back to the pickup stations, to Max on fares.

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1. The Public

The public is its own worst enemy. They have perfected vigoroni: the art of getting ahead of the crowd and on top of the pile. A tiny old woman painfully elbows the narrator to earn her place on the vehicle to Beitbridge. The narrator in return scales the sides of the pick-up without regards to the less athletic woman.

The passenger who joins them at Gwanda is conned of 780 rand.

Payment defaulters in the cross-border trade are sold off to Nigerians in Johannesburg‟.

The traders are mugged by bandits who strip search them.

They pay off every government officer they come in contact with for their businesses to continue. They pay off border officials, highway police, magistrates even farmers. For example, Gloria pays a border official in order to cross the border without a pass. The driver “buys” a ticket from the police to avoid paying more bribes on the way.

• Characters and Characetrisation

i)Narrator

a) Observant

-vividly describes the boarding of the twin-cab pickup -places the Gwanda passenger as a Tshuma b) Intelligent

-an academician carrying out a research project

c) Focused

The wealth made by the cross-border traders does not make her give up the quest of improving the lot of the youth in return for quick riches in business. ii) Cross-border traders:

-opportunists

-cunning

-daring- crossing of the Limpopo

iii) General populace

-impotent – powerless to bring about change (not every via ballot)

-Greedy – change exorbitant fees for services transport and products (fuel)

– Police & govt. officials take bribes Government officials swindle cash meant for development projects like the Matabeleland Pipeline.

Zambezi Water

-con one another e.g. the Tshuma boys conned by the money changers. -Resigned- Lihile now fetches water and contends with the blackouts despite her education and exposure at the U.K.

-Generous – there who have found work in S.A send cash and groceries to their relatives in Zimbabwe.

• Themes.

The best developed theme in this story is suffering. There are many other themes but not well developed.

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i) Suffering

1. No public service or they are inefficient.

-the narrator waits for 3 hours before she gets transport. The Tshuma man had

waited 18 hours for the mini-bus to

Bulawayo to fill.

• The narrator had waited for 2 hours at the bank to withdraw money.

• black -outs are common place and house taps are dry

• payment defaulters are sold off to Nigerians in

• traders sometimes have to cross the crocodile infested river Limpopo. At times they are attacked by bandits

• The practice of Vigoroni has robbed them of etiquette.

The narrator is elbowed painfully by a tiny old woman as they scramble for space on a pick-up

1. Impotence

-In the first two paragraphs, the word wait has been used five times and waiting once. This apparent patience is actually the collective weakness not strength of Zimbabweans”. But it is not in the nature of a Zimbabwean to question or complain.”pp 88

-the educated like Lihile have despaired and put her life expectancy at 40 (or just below). What is more, she has adapted to the dry taps and blackouts.

1. Corruption

-pp 93 – There is no palm that cannot be greased, apparently border officials, highway police, magistrates all take bribes -pp 87 people in high office swindle project fundsMatebeleland Zambezi Water Pipeline has never taken off.

iv) Human rights violations

• 93 payment defaulters are sold off to Nigerians in Johannesburg, traders are subjected to strip searchers by bandits

• Insecurity traders are mugged by bandits in the farmlands of Limpopo Province.

• Loneliness pp 93 – I am struck by a loneliness that I have noticed in everyone lately. On page 93 Gloria tells us that:

“Trust no one, not even relatives.” This lack of trust seems to be the source of the loneliness.

• POV

1st person narrator makes the story more credible because of her high academic status and the fact that she is the only person doing something to bring about change.

• a) Is the title appropriate?

Yes. Arrested development, though a contradiction, points to the fact that the impotence of 12million people has ensured their quality of life does not improve.

b) What is the significant event?

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The discovery of the patience of Zimbabweans c) What is the aim of the author?

Unless people do something about their circumstances, their lot will never change.