The Visa by Thamsanqa N. Ncube

He sat on the bed, holding the green passport in his hand, his thumb precariously stuck on the visa page, keeping it open; the date of his study permit as well as the legendary script reading “the leave to remain for study purposes only, no recourse to public funds” seemed to assume a life of its own, glaring at him from the page in all its glorious purple colour...

He had to leave this country within the next three days, or else face the wrath of Her Majesty’s Immigration Police; or alternatively, become “hot”; and live in the fringes of society, illegal, on the run...

Skhu had given him a solution, and an ultimatum, the decision had to be made; today...

He looked quickly around the little compact flat, bed-sits they were called, a large room which had a small kitchenette in the corner, and had the rest of the space to use as a bedroom-cum-sitting room; hence bed-sit. He cast his eyes over the little room, his own space; and his mind wandered...

London had been good to him; very good...


He had stepped off the South African Airways flight, right into the middle of a miserable November morning, his first flying experience flawed by his continual rehearsal of what he was going to say to the Immigration Officers at the desk; what with multiple warnings and tales of woe from everybody he knew still ringing in his ear.

“The will take you apart, my friend, and by the time they put your arse on the flight back home, you will be dead...”, this from his very streetwise cousin Themba, whose furthest travel consisted of a train trip to the capital to change the name on his ID, which had come back as Temba, and had resulted in several punch-ins with his mates, who had tended to extend the name to “Matemba”.

“Watch out for the Black Officers when you get to the desk,” Aunty Nomsa had volunteered. At least she had tried this trip twice, and had been turned away both times; “They can be real bastards, you are better off with a white officer”, she had gone on, spicing the tale with the inevitable boast of how she had at least “touched” English soil.

Uncle Sam’s account was more scary, and as he followed the other passengers down the connecting tube between the plane and the Immigration, he looked around furtively, for, according to Uncle Sam, “They have cameras which follow your every movement from the time you get up from your seat on the plane, so you better act very naturally”; this from a man whose nearest exposure to an aeroplane was limited to the annual Air show in Gweru, where he waited on the tables in the dining room, and only saw the planes through the window of the dining room, from a distance.

So he continued along the passage, breathing in heavily, trying to settle the chaos going on in his chest cavity. Boom, boom, boom...

And then he was approaching the queues, one for European Union citizens, and one for the rest; was that not discrimination, apartheid of some sorts...

He quickly joined the queue, and began to observe the Official at the desk, and to make the mental calculations that would ensure that he got served by a white man, at least, according to Aunty Nomsa, he would stand a better chance. The queues moved very quickly, and soon he was able to have a rough estimate of which counter he would go to, and it was not looking good; for according to his calculation, he would be served by a Black Official, and even from this distance, the gentleman looked like he was ready to defend Her Majesty’s Realm from these savages.

His accounting mind quickly calculated that if gave up his current position to the person behind him, all things being equal, (ceteris paribus, as Mr Siziba would put it in the Economics class back at College); he would then end being served by the fat white Officer with a Tintin-like crop of hair on his head; and that would be a good outcome for him.

In front of him, the black lady, who had been chewing gum all the way from Joburg, was next. She would be served by a Black person, and then the next guy, a big white Boer-type, in typical Afrikaans Khaki attire would go to the white Official Official, leaving him with the next in line; a big “Jonah Lomu look-alike”, Official whom he was sure would send him packing, back to Zimbabwe. So he had let this space go, and let the white old lady behind him to go to “Jonah Lomu”.

He had to put his plan into action; quickly bending down to tie his perfectly tied up shoe laces, motioning to the old lady to take his place; and she unaware of the mind of a master at work, smiled casually, and manoeuvred her way to the front, and then the shoes were done and as he straightened up, he quickly noticed that “Miss Chewing Gum” was being led away by a couple of burly white officials, and the equation was suddenly not balancing. The big Afrikaner man then moved quickly to the Black Officer who had just delivered “Miss Chewing Gum” into the hands of the enemy, then the old lady made a bee-line for the white Officer, and next vacant Officer, slowly beckoning him over; “Mr Jonah Lomu”...

He handed over his passport, and “Mr Jonah Lomu” quickly perused the document, asking seconds later, in that funny accent that people from Ireland, or was it Scotland, seemed to possess;

“Wa’ is tha purpose of ya visit to the United Kingdom?” he asked, seeming to deliberately not complete the full syllable of his words.

“To visit, Sir”, he replied, not recognising the bird-like sounds emanating from his dry mouth. "I would like to see Buckingham Palace, perhaps have tea with the Queen,” he tried a line that he had been rehearsing over and over in the plane, and the Officer lifted his eyes from the passport for a moment, his face not showing any emotion whatsoever, perhaps he had heard the joke too many times, and carried on with his questioning.

“How much money have you got on you”.

“£400, plus about 10 000 of our worthless Zim Dollar”; still no takers on the jokes.

“How lon’ will ya be stayin’ in the UK?”

“Have you go’ any proof of Income from your country?”

“Do you intend to return to your country at the end of ya visi’, and have you go’ proof of a job or business you will do when you go baack”

He answered all the questions, limiting the jokes, and trying his best to control the squeak that was emanating from his throat.

And then, stamp, stamp, one, two entries into the computer, and; then.

“Enjoy your stay in the UK.”

And it was over, and he was shoving all his documents into his bag, his heart beating so fast that he felt he was going to faint, and then he was out of there, walking slowly, following the green arrows, waiting to hear his name being called; the interrogation room, the flight back, the embarrassment of being an “almost-Diaspora”...

But he was in, and that was all that counted.



He was back in the present, now lying on the bed, looking up at the ornate light fixture, as he begun to think of the reasons why he had come to this place that had given him so much, and yet taken so much away from him at the same time.

His reasons, his ONLY reason when he left that country, running from the fast collapsing dream that one defiant guerilla had almost brought to fruition, running from the one true love he had known in his life; running with promises of returning, returning with heaven and all its glory…returning home; home to Sarudzo, his Sarudzo...


They had met at Founders, his old school, Lower Sixth Formers, brimming with the confidence and after glow of a couple of A Grades at O’Level, ready to face the world; he almost sunken in his oversize blazer, and white shirt, the maroon striped tie hanging tightly onto his Adams Apple, and she...

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and as the small queue to the Bursar’s Office moved slowly she gracefully flowed with it, her pleated skirt seeming too eager to reveal the wide, ample hips underneath it, her white blouse doing little to hide the bra underneath, holding in place a pair of the most perfect breasts he had ever laid his eyes on. Her hair was tied back in a nice little bun, the little ribbon holding it in place creating this image of the total innocence of a little girl, spiced with the sexual allure of a mature, graceful impala…

She was beautiful, and he had to have her...

And such was their whirlwind romance, that the two years they had spent at Founders were the most fulfilling years of his life; their special corner in the library, their long walks to the nearby Bellevue shops, their intimate stolen kisses in the corridors of the school, their passionate lovemaking in the boys’ dressing rooms…

And then the two years were up, and the spectre of separation stared them in the face; but their love had conquered, and as he proceeded to College to do his Accounting Diploma she took a temporary teaching job in the rural areas of Gwanda, and he did not miss a weekend, spending all his grant money travelling between Bulawyo and Masholomoshe High School, where he became such a regular feature he was offered a place to teach…

He had then finished his Diploma, and got a job with a local Department store, which came with the obligatory Mazda 323, a house in Glenkara, and they had begun to talk about marriage; for was there any other way?

And then disaster had struck...

The ruling party lost the referendum on a new Constitution, and then the proverbial shit hit the fan. War veterans, surprisingly as young as eighteen, took over the white owned farms, displacing people from very productive farms, sending the whole economy into a tailspin. Salaries could not buy anything, and Sarudzo had to quit her teaching job, as the salary could only take her to and from Gwanda, leaving her with nothing to do anything; as for the wedding plans, they quickly flew out of the window, for how could they carry it off? His salary, high as it was, became eroded with inflation, and by the time he got paid he was taking the “mtshova” public transport to work, without enough money to fuel the fast deteriorating Mazda 323. Eventually that ground to a halt, as the fuel shortages began, and eventually, it stood there in the sun in the yard of his Mganwini house, paint peeling off; testament to the collapsing economy, and a funny metaphor for the thousands of young people that were leaving the country, destined for such far away places as New Zealand, China, Australia, and of course, Great Britain…

They sat together one night, and discussed the situation that they found themselves in, their dreams and their future being sacrificed on the rotten alter of greed, insanity and political naivety; and decided that it was time.

They pooled their resources together; begging this Uncle to sell his cattle, and that one to re mortgage their house to raise the required amount for a ticket out of that hell hole; and with a tearful goodbye, and promises to return and get her out of there, he had left on the long haul flight to London, Heathrow, via Johannesburg...


He had spent the first year in London working so hard that he barely slept moving from one shift to another, going from working at the local Tesco’s garage to being a specialist British Arse Wipe, working the Nursing homes like there was no tomorrow; and he spoke on the phone to Sarudzo, calling her, reassuring her that he would be back, and most of the money that was left over from his weekly wages, he religiously sent it home, and Sarudzo would acknowledge it, telling him that they were very close to reaching their goal, and that he would be back home soon; her coming over was now out of the picture, with British Government stepping up the rhetoric with the regime, visas into the UK were now a distant memory, and very few people actually made it past the Immigration counter at Heathrow, and week in and week out, the growing Zimbabwean community gathered in their little bed-sits to discus how so and so’s wife and children had been returned, some for the second or third time.

So they had decided that Sarudzo would not even bother trying, and he would work, accumulate the funds they needed and then make his way home, to the wedding at Nesbitt Castle on the outskirts of the city, the newly extended house in Mganwini, and the big family they had so lovingly spoken of starting as soon as possible. That had been the plan; until a year ago, until Skhu...


She walked into his life with confidence that this country somehow managed to give to the girls from home; even the original Mupandawana Growth Point bumpkin seemed to acquire this as soon as their got on their feet in this country. These girls knew no boundaries, they did not care to apply or fix their make –up with one hand and wipe the arse of a 100 year old nursing home inmate with the other, ready to go out and party till tomorrow morning at six, and to be at their next shift at eight o’clock of the same morning. These were the new kugels, the London girls, and they knew were every party was happening, and they were friends with half the people at any given function, exchanging hugs and kisses with half the men in the house. These were the London girls, and he had gone almost for the whole year in ignorance of this sector of the immigrant community, his thoughts focused on his goal- Home, Sarudzo, the wedding.

Then he met her; Chest out, stomach in, hips out, lips pouting, lipstick, gloss, Chanel No 5, latest Gucci bag, driving a sleek Peugeot 305, latest cell phone. She knocked him off his feet when they met as Agency staff at some Nursing Home on the South End, and he had spent the rest of that day running around trying to avoid her doing any of the dirty work around the Home; like taking the inmates to the toilet, bathing them or even feeding; it was not right, she was too beautiful, too much work for those nails, that arched back.

Instead he swapped his bed-making, dishwashing, as well as medicine trolley shift with her. Still not good enough, but better than the other tasks. By the end of the shift, having deliberately paired himself with her for the last duty of the day-putting most of the inmates to bed, she went into a room and ignoring the unintelligible complaints from the old lady, closed the door, turned around and fell into his arms, giving him a long sensuous kiss. He almost fainted, and as the old woman continued to protest, she pushed him against the wall and whispered softly in his ear, “You are a good African man, and there are only a few in this country, so I found you, and I am going to have you,” she kissed him again, and he was taken...

They had met later on at her local pub, and she had told him about herself; Skhuphukile, middle daughter of the Khumalo family, royalty in every way, born of the son of one the Khumalo chiefs of the Ntabazinduna area, a direct descendant of Mzilikazi KaMatshobana, the founder of the Ndebele nation; how she had been a student teacher at Belvedere, and how she had come to this country just before things took a turn for the worst. She had a brother and two sisters on the South Coast, in Brighton, East Sussex, and had had a couple of semi-serious relationships that had not worked out. She was a couple of years older than him; and she had “done all the playing I can do; its time to settle down”; she had told him, and she had gone on to tell him that she had managed to get the elusive “indefinite leave to remain”, from one of her brother’s connections at the Home Office, and was therefore here to stay...

Their relationship had blossomed from there, and she had taken him to parts of this city that he had only read about in books and seen on films; by Madam Tussauds, the Big Eye, on the River Thames, day trips in London, to Buckingham Palace; which he still had nit been to up to now, having claimed he was coming to visit to see it...

The phone calls home to Sarudzo became more and more infrequent, and the money did not go as regularly, and the hours of work became less and less; just enough to pay rental, and have some extra for the social life;

Skhu was one of those girls that got invited to everything and anything that was happening in the city; together they went to the clubs, the parties, the concerts and the private parties and the subsequent after parties that lasted into the early hours of the morning; this was the life; and each party he went to he became more and more proud of having Skhu by his side, for she was a beautiful woman, and as the other men watched with envy, he prided himself on his conquest, and was proud to be saying in his heart at every event, “she aint goin’ home with you, cowboys”.

When he spoke to Sarudzo however, he could still feel the heart of hearts that had sustained her through it all in the collapsing house of cards that their lives had become back home; he could feel the love in her voice, and the innocent, trusting heart of the woman who had taught him about love, and his heart broke every time he lied to her, and every time she spoke to him bout the wedding preparations, he could not bring himself to tell her about Skhu...

What would he say to her? That he did not love her any more because there was this sophisticated, fast and free woman that had captured his imagination and taken him on a kaleidoscopic journey of wonderment in a foreign land?

Would he say to her that he still loved her, and no matter how much fun the life here was, his heart was still anchored on the stones of faith they had laid together under the great Mwaba tree by the Shashi River in Masholomoshe all those years ago, that he was still looking forward to walking down that aisle with her to the strumming sound of “Queen of my Heart”...

What would he say to her...?

And then he had come home to his fist Floor bed-sit, and found the letter from the Home Office, straight from East Croydon, reminding him that his Visa would expire, and he should make a plan to remove himself and his dependants from the United Kingdom on or before that date.

That had been a week ago, and in three days time, his visa would expire.

He had shown the letter to Skhu, and she had looked at him long and hard as they sat watching Big Brother.“Do you love me?” she asked, looking at him with her brown eyes wide open, expecting, waiting for confirmation, like a dog waiting for a morsel from the table. He had looked at her, his mind racing to a different place, a different time zone, a different face, and with his heart breaking, he replied, in that way which only men know.

“Babes, you know I love you, but I cannot stay in this country and live like a fugitive. My visa is expiring, and I have to go, maybe I can try and apply for another one from home”

“Of course you know you will not get another visa, you have overstayed your student visa, and you never attended any lessons at that funny school of yours anyway;” she said in that soft way she had with words, and he knew it was true.

When his original visitors visa had expired, he had managed to get a student visa, paying £300 to some Nigerian guy, who provide him with papers proving that he was a student at the South London College of Theology, doing a Diploma in Theology. He had applied for a student visa, and had got a two year visa, and today, this one was also expiring.

Was it time to go home? Home to Sarudzo; the wedding, Sarudzo... Sarudzo...

And then Skhu had dropped the bombshell.

“Babes, will you marry me?” she asked, sitting up and looking him in the eye.

He sat up, and looked her, “I thought it was normally the guy that does the asking”, he asked, buying himself time to think; to think about to a different place, a different time zone, a different face...

She had continued, “You know if we get married here in London, you can then go home and sort out a Spouse’s visa using my papers, and then you can come back, and we start organising properly, with the visa thing out of the way”.

She had thrown it out there, and he had felt his mouth go dry. He had not replied her, and for the next couple of days, he worked flat out, avoiding the question each time she had called him on the phone. A wedding, Nesbit Castle a different place, a different time zone, a different face...

He sat up on the bed, and looked at the passport in his hand.

Today was the day; the wedding had to take place tomorrow, and then he would apply for the Spouse Visa, and leave for home within a week, and then he would come back, back to Skhu, and they would organise the proper wedding, and go through the whole traditional rigmarole.

Or would it be back home to Sarudzo, for good, to forget about the two years in this city, to forget about Skhu, carry on with their plans?

Could he do it?

Could he marry her for the sake of the visa that the marriage would entitle him to?

Or could he throw away everything that he and Sarudzo had worked for all these years; the love, the sacrifices, the plans, family?

What did he feel for Skhu? Who was Skhu? Was she an illusion in a journey, or the reality that he was now living in?

Skhu? Sarudzo?

Skhu? Sarudzo?

He turned on his back again, and closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting off to sleep, dreaming of white veils, wedding dresses, Immigration Police, Visas... dreaming, drifting...

A wedding, Nesbit Castle a different place, a different time zone, a different face...

The Visa was written by Thamsanqa N. Ncube.


Copyright Thamsanqa N. Ncube 2009.

I am a citizen of the world, who happened to be born in a beautiful country called Zimbabwe, a country I love and adore with all my heart.

I have traveled around the world, including Europe, the Americas and Africa and walked and lived with people of different races, tribes, affiliations and afflictions, and that has built in me a huge understanding of the concept of the Global Village, and my place in it.

I was born more than 30 years ago, (am growing old and therefore sensitive about my true age!!), in the beautiful hills of Matopo, just outside Bulawayo, and sometimes I like to think that the beauty of that area was my first inspiration towards writing.

I started writing when I was probably eight or nine, and had my first published work in the Sunday News in Bulawayo, around 1994, a story about the returning from the war of Liberation of the so-called Comrades, the expectations that they had, and how it all came to nothing for some of them…So the issues of the politics of my country have always, and will continue to be close to my heart.

My first poetry Anthology, “Mureza, in the Shadow of the Flag” is currently doing the rounds in the various ezines, including Munyori Literary Journal; Ascent Aspirations in Canada, ibhuku.com, as well as a few hard copy anthologies including Timbila Poetry Journal, and the Consumnes River Journal in the USA.

Zimbabwe, its history, its people and the journey that my country has taken from a long time ago, is surely the subject of long, sweet poetry…It is the story of a people who have valiantly and proudly shaped their own destiny, and Mureza is an acknowledgement that whatever happens to Zimbabwe, our flag, our Mureza, will continue to flutter and give us shelter, and no matter how desperate thing s may appear now, things will, as they always do, get back to normal.

I believe that poets and writers are like the Biblical prophets of old; they are the mirrors through which society can look at itself and reflect upon its past, its present, and the journey which that society is facing into the future.
I believe my job as a poet is to reflect the feelings and “heart of a Nation”, so indeed, as a poet I need to be involved in the politics of my nation, but only as a mirror does; it will show you that your face is dirty, but the first time it reaches out to clean that face, then you know you have problems!!

I am in the final stages of securing a publishing deal for this anthology, and hope it will be in print by the end of the year.

I am also in the process of completing my first collection of short stories, from which I have extracted most of the work you will read on Storytime.

Keep reading and writing!!

Thamsanqa N. Ncube.