Alone on the street - Swazilandby James Hall His type was unknown in Manzini, Swaziland ten years ago. Now street boys are so common they travel in packs, “like wild dogs,” complains a merchant who must contend with them begging outside his shop door. Mfanasibili usually sits on the pavement with his back against the wall, but quickly scrambles to his feet on seeing someone he thinks might give him a handout. He’s got his delivery rehearsed like a seasoned actor: the exhausted look, the listless body movements, the downcast eyes, the dull and weary voice as he ‘plays’ hungry. But his needs are real. He is unwashed and dirty, and he is dressed in rags. Life on the street has been harsh. He admits to being sexually abused but won’t say how many times. He has also sold his small body to prostitution for a meal or some money to ensure he survives the night. “I came to Manzini after my stepfather told me he did not want me. He had other children. My mother is dead and I’ve never known my real father. I never went to school, even when my mother was alive. On looking back I think I wasted a lot of time at home. I was not even herding cattle because there weren’t any. We were poor. My stepfather kicking me out was in a way a blessing in disguise. At home, they called me ‘Scraps,’ because I was always dressed in rags. I’m still ‘Scraps’ on the streets, but for different reasons now. For example, fighting. I get into a lot of fights. My boss on the streets is Mike. Whatever money I get I hand over to him. We work for him and in return he says he takes care of us. Boys can’t live on the streets without his permission. There are about ten boys, or more. The number varies because some boys do not stay here for long. The youngest of us is eight. I look small, but I’m 12. Mike gives us some of the money back, but not much. Sometimes he gives us bread instead of money. I sleep in the open. He does not give us blankets or clothes. After shopping, some people give me food. A woman once gave me a piece of Kentucky fried chicken. Students sometimes give me coins. I collect old newspapers because they are nice to sleep in. I don’t read them, but sometimes I look at the pictures. If Mike suspects you are not handing over all the money, he will beat you. Even if you spent that money on food! He watches us keenly. The police don’t care about us. The one time a policeman was kind to me, he gave me some coins as bus fare home. I didn’t tell him I don’t have a home to go back to. Street boys are not criminals. There are many pickpockets in Manzini. These tsotsi (thugs) would kill us anyway if they thought we were giving them competition. On the streets though, you could make money selling your body. You can make as much as 20 Rand (about $3) and since this happens at night, you do not have to tell Mike or give him the money. When we got there, he dropped his trousers and his underwear, and asked me to touch him. In return he would give me sweets. I did not understand what he wanted. I just stood there, and refused to touch him. Suddenly he grabbed me, pushed me down, put himself on top of me and chocked me. He ordered me to be quiet. Then he pulled down my pants, rolled me over, and raped me. I burst into tears when he finished with me. My whole body was aching. The man did not speak to me again. He simply walked away. My bums hurt for days but I never went to hospital. I didn’t tell any one about this incident. Especially not Mike! He had told us that before going off with a man, we were to see the man’s money first. I was afraid he would blame me and beat me. Mike does not give us money for sweets; maybe I wanted sweets so much, I easily fell prey to that man. But I’m not the first one to be tricked this way. In Mbabane, there is a Lighthouse for street kids. But I have no money for the bus fare. I often feel very sad when I realise that no one cares about me. I am like a dog that nobody wants.”
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