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After many months of battle and sacrifice, the strenuous journey was finally over. Lindiwe had actually arrived. In the town’s brief history, few had actually suffered as much as Lindiwe to reach Ashton Lovelock. Couple of might have withstood the rape, hunger and misfortune. Few would have voluntarily paid a lot from so little savings to make a home in the fifty year old English New Town.
Desperation had driven Lindiwe to severe steps, as it had her fellow migrants who ‘d also made it through the journey.
Lindiwe had not seen the stops on her voyage as a traveler might, although there were couple of European travelers who would venture into sub-Saharan Africa nowadays. What she saw of the thousands of miles between Southern Africa and Northern Europe wasn’t through the round windows of an aeroplane overlooking the clouds and streaking ahead of a path of prohibitively costly fossil fuel. She saw no airports and a lot of definitely no passport controllers. Had she met even one in between Lesotho and London, she ‘d have been unceremoniously bundled away in the back of an immigration paddy wagon either to be dumped back in her native land or detained in one of the many refugee camps that lined the coasts of North Africa. And from what Lindiwe had actually become aware of these camps, her most likely fate there would be a lonely death while she waited on a decision from the many government agencies and personal charities that were fruitlessly arguing with one another over the duty for feeding the millions of desperate souls in their care.
When there were so many other more instant requirements to address, no one would want to be burdened with such obligation.
Lindiwe didn’t expect Ashton Lovelock to deal with illegal immigrants with any more generosity than Nairobi, Cairo, Harare, Sarajevo or Rotterdam would have done if her existence had been found by an authorities at any point on her voyage. And when she had been required to state her presence, well…