Masego came through the door the next night and threw a poster on the table where we were eating dinner. “I’ve joined them! I’ve had enough!”

I looked at the poster. ‘South Africa for South Africans’ was the name of the group. They were advertising a mass meeting for the weekend. They invited all South Africans to turn up so that they could, ‘take back their country’.

My father picked up the poster. “So, what is this all about then?”

“It’s about us getting our country back from them,” Masego said. “About getting our jobs back from them.”

“Them?”

“The foreigners. The Somalis, the Mozambicans, the Zimbabweans. All of them. They need to go.”

My father moved the poster from the middle of the table and went back to eating. Masego sat down and my mother got up to fetch him his plate. We ate in silence for a few minutes and then my father said, “You know your Uncle Donald fled South Africa and got refuge in Zimbabwe when the Apartheid government wanted to kill him. He’d be dead now if it wasn’t for the Zimbabweans who helped him.”

“Yeah, so? That’s old history. It’s got nothing to do with now,” Masego said. “We can’t be living in the past. We’ve got problems now and we need to solve them now.”

I was surprised my mother was keeping quiet. I knew from their conversations that she agreed with Masego and the ‘South Africa for South Africans’ people. But also, Uncle Donald was her brother. Maybe she couldn’t speak because of that. Because she knew when her brother was having problems, the Zimbabweans saved him and now that the Zimbabweans and the other people who came to South Africa needed help, Masego and his friends wanted to chase them away.

“It has everything to do with now. We wouldn’t have a democratic South Africa without the help given to us from the other countries in Africa. It has everything to do with now,” my father said.

“But they’re taking our jobs,” Masego said.

“Whose job? Did they take your job?” my father asked.

“No, but they took yours! And I wonder why you’re not being a man and fighting alongside me for what is right! They must go! They must go or we will make them go!”

Before my father could speak and put Masego back into line, Masego stood up and left. I don’t know where he went, but we didn’t see him until after the big meeting on the weekend.

We didn’t see him until everything had gone horribly wrong.

* * * * *

“So how’d you do on the quiz?” José asked.

“A hundred percent. Thanks to you and my dad.”

José smiled. “I thought maybe you’d want to come by my house on the way home. I want to show you some photos of Pemba. Photos of my dad’s boat and some of the big fish he used to catch.”

Although José and I were friends, I’d never been to his house. He lived at the other end of town where most of the foreigners lived – in Little Harare. His house was brick though, unlike most of the corrugated iron shacks that filled up the small place. Their house was made of cement bricks and had a proper roof and small garden. Care had been taken to make the house a home.

“Come in, come in,” he said as I hesitated at the door.

The house was small and sparsely furnished. I suspected they left most of their things in Mozambique. José had only arrived at my school the year before. I sat down on the sofa and waited while José went to the back room. He returned with a small photo album. Inside he showed me photos of the long, bare, white sand beach. His father’s boat was not big, but it had a motor at the back.

“Most fishermen, they don’t have a motor. So we are lucky like that. A boat with a motor is much better. ”

He turned the page to show a strong, bare-chested man holding up a big fish, nearly as tall as him. “This is my father. That fish is a barracuda. It’s a very nice fish. It tastes very nice and when you catch it you must fight. A barracuda is a fighter! And when you win you know that you have really won something. ”

He looked at the photo for some time. “Look how happy my father is in that photo, can you see?”

“Yes, he looks happy. Maybe because he caught such a big fish.”

“Maybe … but I think too he was happy there. He was happier than he is here, fixing tyres. All day fixing tyres in that garage stinking of petrol. It is not the life for him. He is made for the sun and the sea. Like me.”

“Maybe you should tell him you want to go home to Mozambique,” I said.

“I’ve told him but he doesn’t listen. I think he’s hiding something. He doesn’t want to tell me, but I think he sold his boat so we could come here. Now it’s like he can’t go back. But I don’t care. We can make a new boat, even without a motor. We can catch and catch until we get enough money for the motor again. I wish we could go home. I miss the sea. I miss our life there. I wish my father could see what is really important to me. I want him to be happy. And the place he can be happy is in Pemba.”

I felt bad for him. But I also felt a bit bad for me. José was my friend now. If he went back to Mozambique I might never see him again. I knew that was selfish and I tried my best not to think that way.

* * *

Tell us what you think: José’s father made the difficult decision to leave a place and job he loved to make a better life for his son. Did he do the right thing?