Ten kilometres later, a sprawling white farmhouse emerged from the trees, its freshly painted walls glowing in the afternoon light. A wide veranda wrapped around the house, but there was no sign of life. No children played outside. No workers moved about. The silence felt unnatural, as though the farm had swallowed every sound.
I searched the landscape for the fields I had imagined—rows of maize, tobacco barns, grazing cattle, something that would make the place feel ordinary. Instead, I saw only dense trees, a few weather-beaten sheds, and long stretches of open ground disappearing into the bush. The isolation unsettled me.
The moment the bakkie rolled into the yard, a pack of muscular dogs exploded from nowhere, barking furiously and hurling themselves toward us. Their snarls echoed across the farm. I froze.
It was then that the full weight of my situation settled on me. I was deep inside a stranger's farm, cut off from the world. If anything happened to me there, no friend, no relative, not even my mother, would know where I had disappeared to. The thought tightened around my chest like a rope.
As soon as the bakkie screeched to a halt, Mr Botha jumped out and strode towards the farmhouse without a word. He did not even glance back.
For a moment I wondered if he had forgotten I was there.
Some of the dogs broke away from the pack and bounded after him, their tails wagging excitedly. The rest remained behind, circling the bakkie. They stood with their ears erect, their eyes fixed on me. I did not dare climb down. To them, I was an intruder.
About twenty minutes later, Mr Botha reappeared. He unloaded the groceries as though I did not exist. Only when he had finished did he notice me.
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"Oh... it's you," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "Just give me a moment."
Then he disappeared into the farmhouse again.
Strange as those words were, they gave me a flicker of hope. At least he had acknowledged that I was still there.
The hope did not last.
Once again, I was left alone at the back of the bakkie. The Alsatians ran endless circles around the vehicle, barking now and then as if reminding me not to move. I sat motionless, watching the sun creep across the yard. Minutes dissolved into an hour. One hour became two.
Every passing minute gave my imagination permission to wander. Was he testing me? Had he changed his mind about giving me work? Or had he simply decided to leave me there until I gave up? Out on that lonely farm, with no one to witness what happened, uncertainty was far more frightening than the dogs.
Shortly afterwards, Mr Botha returned, half dragging, half carrying the carcass of an impala across his shoulders.
Then he noticed Old Fox standing beside the bakkie.
"Did you give him something to eat?" he asked, pointing at me. For the first time, he seemed to realize he had left me sitting there for hours without food.
Old Fox nodded and hurried towards the back of the farmhouse. I assumed the kitchen was there. Mr Botha followed, struggling under the weight of the impala.
A few minutes later, Old Fox returned carrying a plate of cold mashed potatoes. They had long lost their warmth, but to me they tasted better than any meal I could remember. Hunger has a way of improving even the simplest food.
I had barely finished eating when Mr Botha walked back to the bakkie.
"What did you say your name was?"
"Funga," I replied.
I reached into my pocket to pull out my asylum permit, hoping to show him my papers. He waved his hand dismissively.
"I'll look at everything later. Let's go."
By now, I was beginning to understand his manner. He spoke little, gave no explanations, and expected people to follow without asking questions.
The bakkie roared to life once more.
As we pulled away from the farmhouse, a cloud of red dust rose behind us. I climbed back into the rear of the vehicle while the Alsatian reclaimed its place on the passenger seat as though it belonged there. The other dogs stayed behind, watching us disappear down the long dirt road.
We were heading back towards Musina.
I was certain we were finally on our way to my workplace.
Once we left the gravel road that connected the farm to the R572, Mr Botha pressed hard on the accelerator. The bakkie surged forward. The wind whistled past my ears and lashed against my face.
Ever since crossing into South Africa, my future had become one long stretch of uncertainty. I still could not make sense of Mr Botha. But one thing was painfully clear—I had broken almost every rule a border jumper was supposed to live by.
Never trust anyone. That was the first rule. Yet here I was, sitting in the back of a stranger's bakkie, my life entirely in his hands. I had spent the afternoon surrounded by hostile dogs, waiting without knowing whether I had found a job or wandered into a trap.
I was not thinking clearly.
Fatso had stolen Sekai from right under my nose, and the hurt still burned inside me. My feelings for her had clouded my judgement. A border jumper had no business falling in love. Survival demanded discipline.
Focus, Funga, I told myself. Focus.
Lost in thought, I barely noticed the large steel gates gliding open at the touch of an electronic sensor. The bakkie rolled through without slowing down.
We had arrived at Mr Botha's residence.
Relief washed over me when I noticed there were no dogs in sight.
The house rose before me like a fortress, an imposing structure of brick and stone that seemed completely out of place in the surrounding bush.
Then I saw them.
They were standing beside the stone pathway leading to the front door.
They had seen me first.
It was fatso and Sekai.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Their mouths fell open in astonishment.
Mine did too.
