Wednesday 22 June 2011

The Diary of A Nigerian in jo'burg -- Part 3

The Diary of A Nigerian in jo'burg -- Part 3

Clients come from all over greater Johannesburg. Others from other provinces who're
flying to their home countries from Johannesburg International Airport, make use of the dealers.
The dealers also have agents at the airport — some disguised as trolley-pushers. Their job is to
persuade African foreigners to come to Hillbrow and exchange their foreign currency at better
rates.
As usual, risk is not in short supply. Some foreigners never get to see Hillbrow. They lose
their money at gunpoint before they reach the black market. Others exchange money successfully
only to fall prey to scavenging thugs or patrolling cops.
Despite the clear and present dangers involved, it is easy to understand why many
African immigrants are cajoled into dealing on the black market and not with legal financial
bodies.
The black market offers better rates of exchange than banks and other financial
institutions. But that's not all.
For Chibike and many other hustlers the problem is much bigger than opening bank
accounts. They all fear their money will be confiscated.
"If you tell di bank you're selling fufu and stew along di pavement an' in tree monts'
time you have R70 000 in your bank account, how will di bank react to dat? It's straight
confiscation, my brodda."
Outside Witberg's dark corridors, Chibike makes a call, speaking in broken French.
About 10 minutes later a black, luxury sedan with tinted windows pulls over. The door swings
open. Chibike gestures for me to sit in front.
"Nang ga def," I greet the pitch-black figure with thick gold chains wrapped around his
neck.
"Denge Wolof?" he asks me back in a thick Senegalese accent. Mbaye is his name. I tell
him I speak some Wolof (the common language of Senegal.) He heaves a sigh of relief and asks
if I trust the Nigerian, because some Senegalese have recently been killed. I ask him why he does
business with somebody he doesn't trust. He says risk is the name of the game.
"Naka ligi yebi?" — "How's business?" I ask. He replies that Allah is great. He tells me
we're heading to Kempton Park, on the East Rand, to meet the Russian black market dealers. If
the sum to be traded is more than $5 000 they go to the wholesalers. He says normally he would
go to the Pakistanis in Fordsburg, the Chinese in Bruma or the Italians in Norwood. But with
the death of the two Senegalese, black market retailers are playing Russian roulette.
We drive to his apartment in Berea. He lives with his Indian girlfriend and the apartment
is very oriental. The sofas are expensive. We sit and wait. Quarter-past-eight and Mbaye tells us
we leave in 15 minutes. He keeps his money under a thick, red Persian carpet. We root about
under the sofas and the carpet and stumble on wads of money.
He refuses to allow us to count the rands. He says he knows exactly how much there is.
We stuff the money inside torn soccer balls and squeeze everything into an expensive leather bag.
His girlfriend makes some strong Senegalese tea. He offers us two cups and tells us Allah will
protect us. He takes off the African dress he is wearing and reveals charms and amulets around
his waist and arms. He brags that no bullet can penetrate him.
Then he puts on boots, black jeans and a jacket. There are drawers underneath his bed.
He pulls one open. Out come an AK47 and magazines. He loads the AK and throws two full
magazines into the bag of money. He opens another drawer and removes a clarinet case. The
third drawer reveals all sorts of medication. He puts syringes, morphine, bandages, plaster and
a small iodine bottle inside the clarinet case.
"Dis is for GSW — gunshot wounds. If you get hit, make for de car before it's too late.
My advice: let de bullet go tru your body. I don't want screaming if de bullet is stock in your
body. It's easier to treat EW — exit wounds."
We hit the highway to Johannesburg International. "Can you drife at 180 and winding de lef
window down?" asks Mbaye.
"You're crazy," I shout back. He pulls over on the highway and asks me to take the
wheel. He says he wants to show me how to develop double concentration when I'm on the
run.
"You have two seconds to look ahead of you and memorise de road and two seconds to
reach for de window winder. By de time you reach de winder, de road's two seconds have past.
You hold de winder and look ahead for two seconds again and back at de winder. If you can't
do it, you can't drive and spray bullets at de same time."
I try it at 120 km/h, running all over the road to a cacophony of hooting motorists. He
urges me to try again. By the time we hit the off-ramp to Pretoria I've mastered it. "Now 180.
It's de same technique," he shouts over a Youssou N'Dour mix playing in the background.
I indicate left as if going to the airport and then head straight to a Kempton Park
location where we park outside on the street in front of a white house with a red roof. It's dark
inside. Our only source of light is from a street lamppost.
"Is dis it?" inquires Chibike. Mbaye nods and asks us to cock our guns. "If dey ask
to si our stuff witout firs bringing deirs, know it's a set-up. Shoot your way out of here, or fall
forever."
My heart starts pounding. The silence becomes spooky. The dealers economise in
personnel as if wanting each one of us to be the hangman of the other two. "Dey're watching us,
trying to si if we wan to set dem up," Mbaye whispers.
I'm thinking "ambush". Looks like Chibike is thinking the same. "Wat's up with ya
guys?" he asks Mbaye, pulling out his gun. Mbaye gets out of the car, digs for a cigarette lighter,
lights it and holds it up in the air. Immediately lights are seen inside the house. The gates of
Hades flip open. No one need tell us that all who enter, lose hope of redemption.
Chibike is sweating. His eyes scrutinising like a medieval inquisitor; his finger on the
trigger. "Nigga, can we trust dem? If you make it out of here, don't forget what I told you at
Parklane. My bodi cannot be buried in South Africa."
"Welkom, three kings. My name is Dubronovich. Vwee spoke on ze phone. Jhust call
me Dubro as in Diablo." He's a huge unkempt Russian with tattooed forearms. He lets us
see his gun tucked in his tight-fitting jeans. "Zis is Katarina. She is strip-tease in our club in
Bedfordview. And zis of course is Balakov. He is short, but very good fighter."
We make our way into an elaborately furnished East European-style living room. Dubro
reaches for a remote and blasts gangster rapper 50 Cent's Get Rich or Die Trying. "Okay, let
Katarina do drinks. I bring zer papers."
He comes back with three blue travelling bags. "Kongratulation, you zust won jhackpot,"
he says throwing the bags at us. The smell of blood and methylated spirits rises from the bags.
"Some of zer money is clean. Odder not. Is one for 5.5. You make point-five profit.
Now, are Roshans not best? Vwhy you buy from dose Italians? Zay fucking rob you," he says,
crashing heavily onto a sofa.
Chibike empties his bag. "Seventy tousan. Clean."
"Good. Zer is $13 000 in zat bag and $20 000 in odder two. You can keep change,"
says Dubro tearing open the bags.
Mbaye insists on cleaning the bloodstained notes before leaving. Chibike wants us to
leave ASAP. "I'm not going to count yor money. It better be right or vwee coming to Hillbrow,"
continues Dubro.
Spending so much time in the underworld has skewed dealers' visions of evil. Murder,
kidnapping or petty brutality are not in their purview. Instead, they've developed heightened
sensitivity to homely transgressions like cheating or failing to keep a promise.
The Russian dealers loan money to those who've been blacklisted, pawnshop and
nightclub owners, moneylenders and car dealers with no collateral to secure bank loans. Clients
pay back in dollars — usually after losing a lot of blood. The dollars are traded to black market
retailers.
Dubro is a debt collector. He says they beat up a loan shark who borrowed money from
them and his blood spilled on the notes. I watch Chibike and Mbaye dip cotton into some liquid
and rub off the blood.
Moments later, without a rumour of a blush, Katarina asks if I've ever had a "Roshan"
massage. I shake my head. She gestures me upstairs. The music upstairs is Sergei Rachmaninov's
Adagio Sostenuto, Concerto for Piano and Orchestra Number 2 in C minor, Opus 18.
A few minutes after she begins straddling me, rubbing her warm and soft breasts on my
back, I notice two shadows inside the room. I push her around to get a clearer view. Two pistols
are on my skull. Katarina soon adds hers.
"You are not black market dealer. Vwee see it in your eyes. Vwhy are you here?" It's
Balakov. Before I utter a word they cock their guns.
"Who are you? Tell us or vwee take you to basement."
"Easy guys. The cameras say he entered here without a gun. He is a man of peace," says
an elderly Russian standing in the doorway. The guns are withdrawn. "If you've never spilled
blood before, don't flirt with the devil. We always observe people doing business with us. When
you refused to touch blood money my men began feeling uneasy. If you're in this business, blood
becomes like water. Let him continue with the massage."
I refuse, telling them I've had enough. I join Mbaye and Chibike downstairs and ask if
we can go.
The Russians are laughing on their way down the stairs. I'm too shaken to handle the
steering wheel. Mbaye speeds us off back to safe Hillbrow.

Back at the hotel, Chibike counts the dollars. $13 000. Two thousand more than he'd
expected. "Nigga, we've journied togedder. Here's some bush for us." I decline the trophy. "Give
it to the brother of the Nigerian who got killed in Durban. It's my contribution to send the corpse
home."
"What happened upstairs, Nigga, you never tol mi."
"The Russians had a gun to my head."
"Was dat your firs time? Did you feel dat headache?
"Di street huzzulers have a name for dat," he says. "We call it fire in the brains."

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