Chronicles V – Johannesburg

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The driver had an uncle with him, a Born Again Christian, and I never though I would say this, I was glad he was praying every few hundred kilometers. Not because I thought his God could help me, but it meant that the distorted crappy music was switched off for a while.  The preacher man turned to me and told me that they could not drop me at the terminal in Johannesburg central. We would arrive well after dark and if he dropped me there I would never see daylight again. He was quite right. I would give myself maximum of an hour to live, white boy with luggage in all black downtown. I decided I would jump off as they passed close to Isando. From there I could find my way to a public phone and call Mike, ask him if I could crash at his place for a day or two.


The driver and the Holy man helped me with my bag, and then left me on the side of the hi-way. I climbed the embankment and looked about, shit, not a shopping complex in site. I walked to a main road and started walking towards Kempton Park; there would be a shop sooner or later. There was. I bought a coke and then put my very last cents into a phone card. I got hold of Mike and told him where I was, he had not heard from me for a year or two/three? He said no problem he is on his way, after I gave him the street names. So far my luck with leaving Mozambique had been phenomenal. It was about to change. Mike could not find the cross roads I was on, in his own backyard. I had given him the call box number and he phoned. He asked which hi-way was I near, fuck! I had no idea, we decided I would walk all the way back and look, then back to the call box and wait for his call. When I gave him the hi-ways number R22 or R24, I would walk back again and wait. Shit, humping all my worldly processions around like this was a pain.


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A Short Story by Wayne Bisset – eBook


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