Scarred Lions Read Free

stream of people.
    And as my feet touched ground on African soil, I expected to feel a sudden jolt. A familiar connection, perhaps even a feeling of coming home to the land of my father.
    But there was nothing.
    I knew in an instant that I didn’t belong there either.
    We stood in line to get our passports checked and cleared. The man behind the counter looked solemn. He glanced over my passport and stamped it without hesitation.
    I had a backpack over my shoulder but needed to get the rest of my luggage. Most people, it seemed, knew their way around the airport. I had to go on a hunch, keeping an eye out for signs or just following the other passengers like a lost sheep.
    The bags made their way down the conveyor belt. At first I panicked when I saw only the one, but soon the other one appeared as well. Two bags filled to the brim with all my stuff. Or some of my stuff: I couldn’t pack everything. Mum promised to keep the rest safe; said it would give her something to remember me by. I am sure a photograph would have been enough, but I knew she was right. I couldn’t bring along the whole bloody room.
    I needed a trolley, I now realized. I left the bags standing there and went off in search of one. When I arrived back, there was a man standing alongside my bags. He looked down at them, then at me.
    ‘Are these yours?’
    ‘Yes.’ I looked at him, and then at his uniform. He was with airport security.
    ‘You shouldn’t leave them around,’ he said. ‘Someone might take them.’
    ‘I was just gone for a minute.’
    ‘That’s more than enough time for them to disappear.’
    I nodded, but wondered who would want to take my bags?
    ‘Are you South African?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I thought so,’ he nodded. A smile appeared on his face. ‘If you have anything to declare, you have to go to Customs. Let me help you with those bags.’
    ‘I’ll manage,’ I said, but he had already taken one of my bags and lifted it onto the trolley. I placed the second one on. My backpack too.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    Why does this stranger want to know my name? I asked myself. I answered none the less. ‘Buyisiwe.’
    ‘Returned,’ he said, and then frowned. ‘I thought you said you’re not from around here.’
    ‘I’m not,’ I said as I walked away.
    ‘Good luck then!’ he shouted. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to need it, Buyisiwe.’
    I hoped he was wrong about that. His words didn’t put my mind at ease at all. Iwas suddenly very conscious of all that was going on around me. The announcements being made inside the terminal building, the expressions of the people scurrying about: some rigid, confused, happy, relaxed, angry. The slightly musty smell of baggage mixing with floor polish.
    As I stepped into the arrivals hall I was met with a sea of expectant faces. People waiting for their loved ones, tour operators awaiting their customers, chauffeur services waiting for business men.
    Who would be there waiting for me?
    ‘Your dad will pick you up.’ That is what Mum had said.
    I didn’t know what he looked like. I had only seen his face once on a faded picture. The picture I had of him in my mind had faded even further by now.
    My gaze drifted across all the people. My heart began thumping. My mouth was dry.
    What if he hadn’t come? It was a scary thought. I would be left there all alone. More alone than I had ever been in my life.
    Then a sign caught my eye. It had my name on it. Buyisiwe.
    The man carrying it looked around worriedly. He was dressed in a neat khaki uniform and leather shoes. As soon as his eyes met mine, he smiled. Rows of pearly white teeth showing up against his kind black face.
    My dad had come for me. The relief washed over me.
    So, this was him. This was Themba.

CHAPTER 5
    ‘Sawubona!’ the man called, holding out his hand to me. ‘Ngiyakwemukela!’
    I frowned. I had no idea what he’d said. ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I said
Hallo, welcome!
’ He laughed and again his smile spread across his