Paparampa Breaks Silence

Source : Kutlwano

Author : Baleseng Batlotleng

Location : Gaborone

Event : Interview

 

When I met Paparampa, he was on the streets and looking for nothing. He fled his home and family in the early 80’s and made the streets his home, joining scores of other street children who came to be known as bo-Bashi, a societal eyesore that government tried to stop through radio jingles, cartoons and news stories – but to no avail. The streets were an entirely alien world – one run by children and with no adult supervision.

It was a dysfunctional, rough and chaotic world. It embraced him nonetheless, taught him survival skills, and swallowed him up into its abnormal, gyrating mill of uncertainty. After travelling the length and breadth of Gaborone West Phase One looking for him, he suddenly appears on the other side of the road at the Nokia traffic lights. It is exactly 12:40pm and drivers have been stung by the lunch-hour madness as they rush either to school to fetch their children or home for a healthy meal. Vehicles whiz by and only a suicidal person would want to cross the four lanes towards where Paparamba is standing. I stand on the curb and holler: ‘hey Rambo!’  He waits for a break in the traffic and pulls up slowly towards me and raucously declares: “ke nna Paparampa David 307 Metsimotlhabe, ntlaletsa ka P2 hoo tlhe homeboy!” There is no exchange of pleasantries – just the request for P2. Normally this guy reeks – what would you expect from a guy who can go for weeks on end without a bath? Mercifully, chance has arranged that we meet on this cold day when low temperatures subdue unpleasant smells. For a moment I wonder about his seemingly unsure gait, but then realise it is because the pair of plastic shoes he is wearing is a size or two small. Once, this guy had a huge potbelly, which shrunk after he got ill and was hospitalised for some time, so the white discolored t-shirt, the grey sweater and the brown trousers fit him nicely. I decide that the pungent smell coming out of his mouth comprises cigarette smoke and some cheap alcoholic beverage, that some ‘kind’ stranger would have bought him the previous night. We start talking, and I have to surreptitiously hold my breath each time he opens his mouth, as I am afraid I will otherwise choke from the gaseous emission coming out of his mouth.

For a man his age, Paparampa looks many years older. “ke tsholetswe ko Metsimotlhabe ka 1976. Mme o bitswa Mary o tswa ko Bokspits. Ke na le bo nkgonne ba le babedi, Nkorope le Mokgalo le bonkuku ba teng ko Metsimotlhabe,” he tells me. He cannot vividly recall his formative years, but tells how he has been deprived of a normal childhood. In fact he believes he was predestined to live this miserable life and tells the story of his life without emotion – really, resignedly. Growing up in the aggressive street environment, Rambo, as his friends affectionately call him, endured frequent bullying from bigger boys. He had no one to turn to, as the society wanted nothing to do with an urchin. He says it all with a straight face. Our encounter, I would later learn, could well have been a solar eclipse. Paparampa never talks about his childhood and it is possible that I am the first and last person to glean anything from him about it during this lifetime, so his acquaintances tell me. Forget the many years that he has not seen them, but this fellow remembers his childhood friends. And he still recalls those play times with a tinge of nostalgia – and cherishes each moment. He remembers Terrance and Modiri, his closest buddies with whom he used to kick the old, partly deflated plastic football.  Paparampa came to Gaborone ‘looking for a job but’ could not find it.

Hungry he rummaged through rubbish bins for crumbs. And so his destiny appeared to be cast. He spent the better part of his teenage life at the then Gaborone station where he carved himself a niche as ‘Kgosi ya bo-bashi’ – the king of urchins. He is still baffled by his nickname, Paparampa, which due to the fact people constantly use it, has caused him to forget his real names, he claims. He does, however, remember that he was nicknamed Rambo by some people after a character played by American action movie superstar, Sylvester Stallone, in his blockbuster movie series Rambo. Paparampa does not have a home but says ‘ke hela ka ha ditsheng tsa Khuduga mo West’[ in some stand in Khuduga]. Paparampa does not have an identity card. As far as he can remember the only card he has ever had is a Township Rollers membership card. The bloke is a die-hard supporter of Mapalastina, and only regrets that as a life member he has not been able to attend the team’s league games. However, he is happy that the team still recognises him as its number one fan. He has not bothered to approach social workers about his plight. After all which social worker does not know Paparampa?

You would want to take your hat off for this fellow. This is one street kid who would never pickpocket. A thin smile crosses his face as he talks about how he has eluded criminal networks of pickpockets and burglars, whose main membership has been known to be seemingly street children. And there is a multitude of testifiers, among them visually impaired Patrick Dikolo Moatshe, otherwise known as DK. He says he first met Paparampa in 1984 at the then Gaborone taxi/bus and train station. “Paparampa ke ngwana hela yoo goletseng mo go rona a itshokolela o ka seke o utlwe gotwe ka o a itlhoka o senyeditse mongwe, o golela hela ha re itse ha e le bashi yo motona,” he says in a casual interview at his stall. He says he has known Paparampa to be an obedient young man who, despite living in the streets, has never had a brush with the law. Twice Paparampa has been declared dead by the ever-churning rumor mill. First, it reported he had been knocked down and ‘killed’ instantly by a vehicle back in 2001 while returning from a Rollers football match. Then recently while doctors at Princess Marina Hospital were trying to cure his ‘swollen legs’ the rumor mill had it instead that he was in the hospital’s intensive care unit and that friends and foes – if he has any foes- should get ready to contribute to his obituary. There is a moment of silence, and that pensive look. The man desires to have a normal life, away from the streets but has no idea how to go about getting that, he says. A thin breeze wafts past as we conclude our discussion. As we part, I give him the money he had asked for and wonder how the figure wobbling away keeps warm during these cruelly cold winter nights and mornings. ENDS

Teaser:

“I was deprived of a normal childhood"