Petrol for pennies

I pulled in at my local petrol station a couple of days ago, to see all the petrol attendants in plain clothes (they are usually in a dark blue and red uniform). I thought maybe they were having a casual Tuesday, who says only Fridays can be casual, but it turns out they were in disguise. Due to the strikes taking place in the petrol industry they could not reveal that they were still working or they stood a good chance of being attacked and even killed. Here is a bit of their story.

I wake up to the smell of burning wood and tires. It is cold this morning and my neighbours have made a fire in an old paint tin. I can see when I step outside for a cigarette that the mountains are white on top, like icing on a cake. The hot, bitter smoke warms me from the inside. It is not much but at least I am warmer for a small minute. There is trouble around me. The people are fighting and the people are scared. They want more money at their jobs. We all want more money. But they are looking to make trouble with us, us people who do not want to fight the boss. We want our voices to be heard but we also want our children to have food. My wife, she has the little one tied onto her back in a doekie while she stirs the pap. The gasoline for the stove is running low but so is the money in the coffee tin under the mattress. The thin, threadbare mattress is hardly a good hiding place but last month they broke into my cousin’s shack and stole it from the Cremora plastic on the crate they use as a table. They also stole the crate. And his church shoes. Now he is saving up so that he can buy new shoes, and go to church in shoes that do not have holes underneath or oil stains on the tips. So we hide it under the mattress and hope no-one finds it.
This money is the little bit I get each month at my job. I must wait for them at the end of thirty days to give me my money so that I can live for another month. Sometimes a driver of a car will give me some extra coins that fell to the underneath of their handbag. Sometimes we just get a smile. Other times we don’t even get that. But every day is a new day and I get up and I say thank you to God and I do what I must. I love my children and I want to be a good father.
I scoop the warm, thick pap into my mouth, wipe my face when I am finished eating and step out again into the air that is cold like ice. I see some of the other petrol station workers, dressed in jeans and a jersey, and a keppie to protect their eyes, and the eyes of others from them. The air is so cold, you see. We wave at a taxi and tell him to take us up the hill. If anyone asks us where we are going we must say “Into town”. At the end of the day we must come back and say “We were in town”. Because today and maybe tomorrow we are scared. We must go home and hope they do not come fight with us, these other workers. They are angry. Like bulls. And will hurt us. If I go home today and they know I was working they will kill me. They want me to join them for their big meeting. They want me to rally and shout and toyi-toyi. All I want is to be safe and to look after my family. Now the people who are on my side, who are my friends, they want to fight me. They do not listen to anyone who does not agree with them. So now I work for people who do not listen to me, but have money, and I go home to people who don’t listen to me, and have no money.

All I want is my voice to be heard. All I want is to feed my children. Is that too much?

Although the character is fictional, the story is based on the voice of a real man I met. His life and livelihood were being threatened by some thugs who thought they, like many other villains and dictators, were leading the virtuous and righteous fight. I could not do anything for this man except repeat his story and give his voice a platform. And inflate my usual tip. But his warm, genuine and grateful manner make me hope, so so ardently, that wherever he is tonight, he experiences love and support, rather than fear and intimidation.