Harare North Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgements

  HARARE NORTH

  Brian Chikwava

  Harare North

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409076452

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Jonathan Cape 2009

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Brian Chikwava 2009

  Brian Chikwava has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs

  and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

  Jonathan Cape

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

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  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781409076452

  Version 1.0

  To Mum and Dad, Donna,

  Roy, Ronald, Dan, Patience,

  Martin, Michael and Godwin

  Prologue

  Never mind that he manage to keep me well fed for some time, but like many immigrant on whose face fate had drive one large peg and hang tall stories, Shingi had not only become poor breadwinner but he had now turn into big headache for me. When it become clear that our friendship is now big danger to my plan, me I find no reason to continue it, so I finish it off straight and square.

  When I climb out of Brixton Tube station that morning, there is white, ice-cold sun hanging in the sky like frozen pizza base. Beyond the station entrance, some chilly wind is blowing piece of Mars bar wrapper diagonal over pedestrian crossing. And the traffic lights – they is red like ketchup.

  To the right of station entrance one newspaper vendor stand beside pile of copies of Evening Standard. On front page of every one of them papers President Robert Mugabe's face is folded in two. I can still identify His Excellency. The paper say that Zimbabwe has run out toilet paper. That make me imagine how after many times of bum wiping with the ruthless and patriotic Herald newspaper, everyone's troubled buttock holes get vex and now turn into likkle red knots. But except for this small complaint from them dark and hairy buttocks, me I don't see what the whole noise is all about.

  Outside Lambeth Town Hall I plough through small bunch of mothers in they tracksuits as they dither by the bus stop, blocking the pavement with prams and they large earrings. They give me loud looks.

  Walking on, I am worryful about what kind of mouth Shingi is going to start throwing around if he ever recover. Although he is still knocked out, maybe when he come around, nightmare will start for me if he start spinning jazz numbers about me. But there is nothing I can do. Me I should not be bothered by none of this.

  It don't matter that I am illegal; I have keep his passport because his asylum application get approved by the immigration people some while ago. His passport and National Insurance number come in handy now. His mobile phone too.

  His mother back home; she is also part of the problem. She keep writing letters demanding money at each turn. Money for this, money for that, money for everything. The more money I send, only trying to help Shingi out of this situation, the more she behave like he is Governor of Bank of England. Now me I don't want this old hen flapping about over my money like that no more.

  And then there is Dave and Jenny, Shingi's homeless friends that have turn the house into some place where there is no break from them slamming doors and people kicking off. Like them immigrants that spend time mixing rhythm and politics under the chestnut tree outside the Ritzy Cinema, Jenny and Dave is also failures in life. They is the first poor white folk that I ever get to know; that is if you don't count the one that live in a drum back home in Harare Gardens. Like them immigrants they also have them asylum-seeker eyes; them eyes with the shine that come about only because of a reptile kind of life, that life of surviving big mutilation in the big city and living inside them holes.

  In them months before this day, the day I finish us off straight and square, I can't tell Shingi's mother that Shingi is dying in London because me I see no point in making she cry. My solution has been to send cheerful letters spinning small jazz numbers about Shingi. I also wire she small packets of money and tell she to be patient and all that kind of stuff, you know what it is like when you is trying to keep old hen happy. But look what she do now.

  1

  No one bother to give me proper tips before I come to England. So on arriving at Gatwick airport I disappoint them immigration people because when I step forward to hand my passport to gum-chewing man sitting behind desk, I mouth the magic word – asylum – and flash toothy grin of friendly African native. They detain me.

  Whatever they reasons for detaining me, them immigration people let me go after eight days. I don't grudge them because they is only doing they graft. But my relatives, they show worryful attitude: I have to wait another two days for my cousin's wife to come and fetch me.

  The story that I tell the immigration people is tighter than thief's anus. Me I tell them I have been harass by them boys in dark glasses because I am youth member of the opposition party. This is not trying to shame our government in any way, but if you don't spin them smooth jazz numbers then immigration people is never going to give you chance to even sniff first step into Queen's land. That is they style, I have hear.

  That it take so long for my cousin and his wife to do anything about me is not good sign. But me I am just happy to get out when the time come.

  I am expecting my cousin Paul to come to pick me up from detention centre, but his wife, Sekai, come instead.

  I say goodbye to them officers at the recep
tion as I pick my suitcase. Sekai stand some few metres from me, she back straight like that of soldier on parade, and she waist narrower than that of wasp. Dressed neat, hands in she coat's pockets, she keep some distance that is good enough to suggest to them detention people that she really have nothing to do with me but have been forced into situation. She not even bother to shake my hand and only greet me from safe distance and look at my suitcase in funny way. It is one of them old-style cardboard suitcases that Mother have use before I was born and have carry roosters in the past, but it's my suitcase. It still have smell of Mother inside.

  Me I don't mind Sekai too much; I was not expect to be welcomed with open arms. Harare township is full of them stories about the misfortunes that people meet; they carry bags full of things and heads that is full of wonders of new life, hustle some passage to Harare North, turn up without notice at some relative's door, only to have they dreams thrown back into they faces. But then again, me I don't think that I am like them people; Paul and Sekai have been given notice that I am soon going to be stepping into they house in east of London.

  Sekai lead the way out. We have our first difficult moment when we get to the train station and she expect me to buy my own ticket. That's when it sink inside my head that she have turn into lapsed African, Sekai. Me I am guest and there she is, expecting me to buy my own ticket on the first day? And it's not that me I don't want to buy myself ticket.

  'I buy the ticket if I had the money,' I beg she and try to explain.

  Me I only have Z$1,000,000 in my bag, which even if I exchange will come to something like £4. The ticket come to £6. Sekai no longer remember who she is or where she come from, I can tell. I am she husband's cousin, have pay for my air ticket but she still expect me to dip into my pocket for train ticket?

  'I have no money,' I say, after funny moment when she have hold my gaze and we stand silent investigating each each's face. Sekai snort in mocking way, roll she eyes and look at me.

  In the end she buy the ticket.

  Before the end of my first day, I already know that Sekai don't want me to stay with them. But me I really don't want to stay in Harare North too long; I don't want to have vex face all the time because of Sekai. I just want to get myself good graft very quick, work like animal and save heap of money and then bang, me I am on my way back home. Enough pound sterling to equal US$5,000 is all I have to make, then me I'm free man again. I know things is going to get funny if Sekai and Paul start to think that I am real big load on them. But that's how all them people from home behave when they is in Harare North; sometimes you talk to them on the phone asking if they don't mind if you come and live with them and they don't say 'no' because they don't want you to think that they is selfish. They always say '. . . OK, just get visa and come . . .' when they know that the visa is where everyone hit the wall because the British High Commission don't just give visa to any native who think he can flag down jet plane, jump on it and fly off to Harare North, especially when they notice that people get them visitors' visa and then on landing in London they do this style of claim asylum. So people is now getting that old consulate treatment: the person behind the counter window give you the severe look and ask you to bring more of this and that and throw back your papers, and before you even gather them together he have call up the next person. That frighten you and make you feel cheap you don't want to go back again. But it suit all Zimbabweans in Harare North. Even Sekai and Paul; they say yes I can come live with them but now me I know they say that because they was expecting the British High Commission to do the dirty work for them.

  I have bring Paul and Sekai small bag of groundnuts from Zimbabwe; groundnuts that my aunt bring from she rural home. Sekai give the small bag one look and bin it right in front of me. She say I should never have been allow to bring them nuts into the country because maybe they carry disease. Then she go out and buy us McDonald's supper.

  Me I am not worried by Sekai's behaviour. But Paul – he seem to have forget how to hit it off with me. We grow up in the same township only some dozen streets from each each so it's not like we is strangers who have been force upon each each by family.

  On the day I arrive at they house, Paul come back from graft and only manage to say 'hi' to me before he notice Sekai's pointy eye and disappear into the toilet. When he come out he go into they bedroom. Sekai follow soon after. I never see them again that night so me I watch TV alone and go to bed at midnight. That is maybe the only time I ever watch TV proper in they house. Most of them times the three of us sit in the lounge in funny silence. In less than short time Paul have fall asleep, snoring on the sofa, his mouth wide open.

  Sekai go to she night duty at St Thomas' Hospital where she is nurse and Paul start to behave like big nincompoop, being stiff and funny because he is alone with me. He forget he have had bath and run the bath for the second time. What kind of style is this?

  Paul don't sit still with me in the lounge. If he come out and tell me straight and square that me living inside they house is making things funny, me I will not hold grudge. That is the proper way to deal with things.

  Things will have been better if he had do something about Sekai, like maybe giving she some small baby to keep she busy. But this have not happen since they get married and Sekai know how to play Paul now; most of the time she keep the cold distance between sheself and Paul by sitting at the opposite end of the couch so he don't start getting sexy touches on she. And when the phone ring she pick it up, mute the TV and sit on the couch stroking she dog and chatting to friends for hours. They have wireless phone; she can have go into another room and leave us to watch TV properly, but she don't do that Sekai. She just want me to hear she conversations, especially when she start talking about them Green Bombers, the youth movement boys back home; the boys of the jackal breed. Sekai go on and on about how they is just bunchies of uneducated thugs that like hitting people with sticks. Me I don't say anything as she say all this stuff because I can tell that Sekai don't really know about things going on in Zimbabwe because she have been in England for too long. She buy all the propaganda that she hear from papers and TV in this country. Maybe she think like that because the Green Bombers had visit the village where she grandmother live and the old hen's womb nearly fall out from fright because she have been caught misbehaving, giving food to opposition party supporters.

  Green Bombers only look for enemies of the state and Sekai don't understand that because now she and Paul have become some of them people that support Zimbabwe's opposition party. The Green Bombers is there to smoke them enemies of the state out of they corrugated-iron hovels and scatter them across the earth. Sekai and Paul just don't get that, but me I don't say anything and let Sekai yari yari yari on the phone, dissing them Green Bombers. She know nothing. She don't even know Comrade Mugabe. The president can come out to whip you with the truth. Truth is like snake because it is slippery when it move and make people flee in all directions whenever it slither into crowds, but Sekai don't know. Comrade Mugabe is powerful wind; he can blow snake out of tall grass like it is piece of paper – lift it up into wide blue sky for everyone to see. Then when he drop it, people's trousers rip as they scatter to they holes.

  Sekai talk too much propaganda on the phone sometimes so me I go inside toilet to sit and think about my old comrade Shingi. He is one of them old friends, you know what it's like with old friends, you know each other so well that sometimes you is not sure if your memories belong to him or vice versa; things can get mixed up and time become one tangled heap and you no longer know whose story belong to who. He is going to be surprised I'm here now. Shingi have arrive in Harare North before me and have already check out things in this city. He already tell me how boring them English girls is because they have fail to appreciate or understand him. Back home, when we was at school, he just run onto the football pitch and kick the ball up as high as he can manage and all the girls go wild cheering, 'Comrade Shingi, Comrade Shingi, the Original Native!' But in England it is dif
ferent, he complain. One morning while taking walk through park in Brixton he come across group of them girls playing football. When they ball stray towards him he pick it up and hoof it seven miles into the sky but not one cheer come from them girls. They just eye him with small confusion and big fright, which was big shame because Shingi rate it as his best effort ever at kicking ball up high.

  In the toilet them memories always start to leap high inside my head and make my head feel like box of frogs. One Saturday morning in our third year at secondary school, Shingi put on brave show that become talk of the year at school. On this freezing Saturday when the air is colder than Satan's nose, one classmate spot him selling bananas at Africa Unity Square. With them temperatures wanting to dive to minus, Shingi is just standing and licking ice lolly and resist everything that the weather throw at him. When news reach school, he become instant hero because he stand his ground in face of winter's dictatorship. 'Yeee, the Original Native, Comrade Shingi is the man.' For one whole term these cries fill the school corridors.

  At about the same time, everyone in our class also become aware of how fast Shingi read history textbooks and pick up things with small effort. That is after he submit essay giving big talk on the political philosophy of Mao Tse-tung. He tell how Mao was son of Chinese peasant that live in China, how he was hard worker who was fond of taking cold shower early in the morning. 'Very very very cold shower,' Shingi emphasise, to draw attention to the heart of Mao politic thinking. But when our teacher, Mr Nkabinde, mark the essay, he write 'See me' at bottom of page of Shingi's exercise book.

  Now Shingi's deep thinking continue even after he hit Harare North. He have also tell me how he have been investigating another idea that show that under the very quiet face of every Londoner, like them that you see hiding behind they newspapers on trains or buses every morning, the heart of big big traitor is beating; very big traitor that is able rise up against monarch. Shingi say he come to this conclusion after spending very long time checking out them local pubs. That's when he see that there's them names like the King's Head, the King's Arms, the Queen's Head and things like that; evidence of them murdered kings and queens everywhere. What he is still trying to figure out just before I arrive in Harare North is what them English natives have do with the hands and feeties of them dead monarchs for instance. He have also see pub called the Hog's Head and maybe is going to conclude that, in the past, them natives must have get bored clubbing them rulers, and instead turn to swine. Me I am still sitting in the toilet and now I see things clear: maybe I write letter to President Mugabe and tell him that his troubles with Tony Blair is not as big as he think because if he listen to Shingi's reasoning, then there is good chance that people of this likkle island, with they dislike for them dictators, will soon grab they spades and pitchforks and make short work of Tony Blair when the time come. Pub called Prime Minister's Head is more likely in the future.