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His eyes were filled with hate and disgust as he spat on me and left me lying there battered. The justice system was never going to be fair on me; it had failed me countless time before but I could take myself away from this pain; I could leave. I closed my eyes still in agony and thought hard of where I could go to escape his abuse. I was going to go and experience the sea, it would drown my pain and my fears. So I waited for the rattling sound of his car engine to fade away before I pulled myself up. It is the sharp pain in my abdomen that pushed me back on my fours. Had he hurt the baby? I sat down, clutched my bulging belly tight praying that she was fine. I willed the baby to move but there was nothing other than pain all over my body. Despair was taking over when finally the faint little kicks came through, I sighed with relief. I packed my bag and grabbed the little money I had saved, looked at our home for the last time and left. I was fortunate to catch a bus that was about to leave for Johannesburg, there was only one seat left next to a stout middle-aged woman with wide knowing eyes. The bus was overloaded with wares of cross border traders, heaped in the passage and packed under the seats, it felt crammed. There was a mixture of smells from human sweat, dampness to boiled eggs. I could have nauseated but my desire to leave was greater. I exchanged pleasantries with the woman, who I later discovered to be called Mai Chipo (Chipo’s mother) and took my seat. I tried to avoid her stare, of course my face was now visibly swollen. I hoped she would not be inquisitive about my private life or this long journey would be unbearable. Fortunately, this woman enjoyed talking about herself. By the time we arrived at the Beitbridge Border Post, she had divulged intimate details about her family and her successful vending in Port-Elizabeth. I had not made a decision on where I was headed up to this point; all I knew is that I wanted to experience the sea for the first time in my life. “Probably, I could take the Port-Elizabeth route with this woman since I do not even know where I am going,” I thought to myself. In all my years of travel from Zimbabwe to South Africa, I had never ventured beyond Johannesburg. I started asking Mai Chipo what it was like in Port-Elizabeth, if the locals were receptive of foreigners or Xenophobia was rife as it was in Durban. She assured me that it was quiet and peaceful so Port-Elizabeth it was! We arrived in Johannesburg the next day around midday and quickly booked our tickets for a bus that would leave the same day for Port Elizabeth.. No sooner had we stepped out of the bus station that a Metro-police officer stopped us and asked us to produce our identification documents. Before we even got time to search for our passports, the officer started hailing insults in a native language and all I picked up was makwerekwere a derogatory term for black non-South Africans. It hurt and it humiliated to be Zimbabwean being treated that way in a neighbouring country. After this ordeal, I just wanted the journey to be over. The journey from Johannesburg to Port-Elizabeth felt too long and finally the mid-morning of the next day we got there. I took a taxi that would leave me at the oceanfront. A sense of achievement was what I felt as | took in the breeze stepping out of the cab. I had made it. Never in my life had I seen so much water,, the vast expanse of the ocean filled me with awe. I moved into the water, feeling the sand give way underneath my feet, tears filling my eyes. I saw a tiny wave approaching and rushed to be one with it. Its force was so powerful, I had not anticipated to be pushed back to the shore.