Harare North Read online

  I go to bed thinking Shingi. He is big inspiration because if he has come this far there is no reason why me too I cannot make it and make my US$5,000. He have bigger things to deal with. His mother die when he was small and because his mother's sister is not able to have children – some say it's because she have too much beard – the family elders do the ceremony of placing Shingi inside womb of his mother's sister. So he become child of his mother's sister and end up growing with she in Harare.

  At the township beer hall, when neighbours have drink too much brew you know how they start throwing around this bad kind of mouth; yari yari yari oh Shingi is totemless child. Oh he don't know his totem. That's because his father is supposed to have been guerrilla before independence and he thief his way into Shingi's mother's knickers during war one night when she visit the village. After that he disappear and no one know anything about him or what happen to him after the war.

  And when it's month end and people have get they wages and can now afford bottled beer instead of traditional chibuku brew, then it get worse: ah Shingi's father come back from the war disturbed because he spill wrong blood and those bad spirits is avenging now and affect whole family, taking Shingi's real mother away to punish Shingi for sins of his father. Oh yeee bad-luck vibes also slowly getting Shingi's head out of gear. You know that kind of mouth. But all this don't affect Shingi because now he have even make it as far as Harare North and all them beer-mouths is stuck in they hovels in the township bawling they eyes out because price of everything jump up zillion per cent and they can't even afford food or brew now; all them big stomachs gone, they belts is down to they last holes but them trousers is still falling down, big fat cheeks now gone, they heads is thin and overcrowd with teethies. I will tell this to Shingi and he will go kak kak kak kak!

  2

  Big TV, ready-made meals from supermarket, funny long silences, grunts and making funny faces – that is Paul and Sekai's life. They have been married for ten years. Paul, if he have only once put Sekai through pain of birth, maybe she will have know she place and start to give his relatives the respect that she have to give them.

  They also have likkle sausage dog that do kaka on the carpet while Sekai cry, 'Sheila, darlin', stop it,' as if this is naughty likkle girl.

  Because Paul and Sekai is doing DIY work on they house when I arrive, they sleep me in spare room that is full of MDF boards, bags of plaster, PVC sheets and all. Everyone on the street is doing DIY to they houses, making noise hammering all weekend and sometimes making small neighbour talk with Paul or Sekai as they unload things from they cars.

  Paul and Sekai is building small wall across room that I sleep in because they is wanting to make the other half of the room become Paul's study. So when Paul is busy working on the wall I have to help. But that is also because I don't want him to spend too much time alone in the room and end up looking inside my suitcase.

  I stop helping Paul when Sekai say my shoes is making the carpet in the house dirty. I go out and sit at the doorstep and start to use screwdriver to pick off the mud that have cake under my boots from walking around outside. But Sekai follow me and ask me to look down on our street and tell she if I see anyone sitting on they doorstep? Me I don't get the score what this is all about until she tell me that this is not township; I should stop embarrass them and start behaving like I am in England.

  I turn twenty-two years that day but me I don't tell Paul or Sekai because I know this is wrong place to celebrate birthday. So I go to bed early that evening.

  Mother. Home. Early morning. She water bed of tomato plants at the back of house. By doorstep, there is she old shoes. Wet and red with mud.

  Mother. She sweep floor. Since she funeral, she have knit sheself back into life. Mother. She expect friends. The kettle on the stove begin to shake lid, letting out steam. Mother throw easy look at it and continue sweeping. Your house is like your head, she say to sheself, you have to keep sweeping it clean if you want to stay sane. She like to say that.

  Big fit catch the kettle; it writhe on stove and the lid lift off. Mother sweep on.

  There is clink sound at the gate; Mother crane she neck to look out of window. Sibanda the next-door neighbour is returning she bicycle. Mother take kettle from stove and go out to meet Sibanda.

  'Wamuka seyi, Sibanda, did you sleep well?' she say, standing outside door. Sibanda have fix bicycle for Mother. He say it was just small puncture. Mother look at she bicycle like, you know what mother is like when she want good job.

  'Now I'm old woman I wish I can drive because I don't want to be known as bicycle grandmother,' Mother say and Sibanda laugh.

  Now she want to know how much she owe Sibanda but he go all sweet. '. . . ah, not to worry, my sister; I don't buy no spare part this time.'

  Mother smile and tell him to write down cost of all them things he have done for she because she have son in Harare North who can pay for all this.

  'Don't be too shy to charge him,' she laugh.

  Sibanda walk away laughing with hands hold together in front in respectful way. Mother get inside the house and make sheself cup of tea.

  Mother start to dust up inside house. In the lounge there is framed photo of me. It stand on the display cabinet looking sweet, being complement by them things inside cabinet: Mother's bestest tea set, and water-glass sets. They is on them white doilies which she have knit all she life. On them glasses is the hens that she knit when she find she have nothing to do. There is half-finished red hen; soon it will be finished and stuffed with cotton wool and put inside display cabinet.

  The blue hens in the display cabinet, she throw back into the drawer in the kitchen and the red ones come out. The red hens, Mother's bestest, is same colour as jersey that I am wearing in photograph on she display cabinet. Mother show she friends how to knit them hens over pot of Tanganda Tea. They scribble down them details; wool colour code and all. She dig out the rest of them photos of me in Harare North – me I am feeding them pigeons in this big city. Mother go into show-off style, telling friends yea he is my son that one. Them other women look them photographs; they tea go cold.

  'He's my son that one,' Mother continue, but MaKhumalo complain that why am I feeding them pigeons in Harare North when people here is near starving?

  They talk talk talk talk like usual until the air crowd up with they voices and me I can't hear nothing now. There is them other sounds in air. Crows. Cries. Over the room me I am like ghost. Outside, black winds start to tear through garden. Lounge window bang and bounce back wide open. Knitting pins drop and go clink clink on cold concrete floor, Tanganda Tea spill everywhere.

  Silence.

  Outside, some big vex whirlwind start. Mother, she leave in big hurry for she bedroom. I find she on she knees pleading with Lord.

  I settle over she like mist, Mother.

  Mother, I hold she tight in my arms.

  'My child,' she cry.

  'Mother.'

  'My child.'

  'Yes, Mother?'

  'Mwanangu.'

  'Amai.'

  Mother. She wrap me up in she arms and hold tight. My small feet lock together, them small toes coil. I'm back in Mother's arms.

  'Did you fall, my child?'

  I suck thumb and nod. Mother hold me to she bosom and rock me gentle. Then some funny long breast roll out down and swing past my face like pendulum. It come back; dark and dry, it hit my cheek. I miss it. It come back again; now I catch it. Outside, things is now quiet. Inside, breast is cold; the milk dry up long time ago.

  I wake up in the morning thinking of Mother. You die and your spirit go into wilderness. One year later, your family have to do umbuyiso ceremony to bring your spirit back home so it can leave with other ancestor spirits. Mother, she die of overdose. They carry she to hospital in wheelbarrow and she don't come back. Then they take she body from the township and bury she in rural home under heap of red earth and rocks. Now she spirit is still wandering in the wilderness because family squabbles end up
preventing umbuyiso and this has not been done for years now. Me I have to go back home and organise umbuyiso for she.

  I never wanted to leave Zimbabwe and come to this funny place but things force me. I have not even have chance to visit Mother's grave for long time before I come here. And then me I hear that people in the village where Mother is buried will be moved somewhere because government want to take over the area since emeralds have now been discovered there.

  I have to keep big focus and soon I'm back home to organise umbuyiso for Mother. Even if other family members don't want, I will bring Mother's spirit back from wilderness. But now I have to sit tight and resist jumping into changing my life because of Paul and Sekai or else my plan fall apart and I end up staying in this funny foreign place for ever. Sekai can throw anything she want at me but me I am going to sit tight. Change of life sometimes feel sweet and can give new ginger to your life but sometimes you have to resist it even if you are not favourite pet in the house. Me I know sweet change; I have the same feeling before I join them boys of the jackal breed, the Green Bombers. Those days, nothing is moving in my life because I have just come out of prison and being shoe doctor outside the community hall is not bringing anything no more. And I have just learn that life is not fair. Life make you think that you is frying bean sprouts and then out of nowhere you wake up and find that you is frying wire nails.

  If you is back home leading rubbish life and ZANU–PF party offer you job in they youth movement to give you chance to change your life and put big purpose in your life, you don't just sniff at it and walk away when no one else want to give you graft in the country even if you is prepared to become tea boy. Me I know what I have to do when the boys come to take me in they van: the people's shoes, broken belts and all that kind of stuff, I toss them out onto pavement, give my stall one kick and it fall over easy. That's it! Me I jump onto the van as it speed off. I'm free. That's how new beginnings start. My life have found big and proper purpose. Those was the days. New life booming inside your head. You love the life, you like Tom the driver and you love the van because Tom call it the jackal. Chenhamo 'Original Sufferhead' is hanging and swinging from the van's door waving ZANU–PF party flag and defying the whole township as you speed away into another life. And the jackal – it is full with them new boy recruits heading for training camp; they is all lugging football-size eyes because they don't know what everyone who remain behind is going to think of them now, but me I don't let such foolishness hassle me. I like this. Tom is putting his foot down giving the jackal more fire and threading his way through them traffic lanes, trying to put himself in good position for when the traffic lights turn green. Everything feel alive. Other drivers flee out of the lanes. Original Sufferhead curl his lip over his broken tooth and let out one shrieking sound that make the hair on your back stand. Then he shout: 'Keep foot down on the juice, Tom, if anything happen we is there to witness everything for you if police ask questions!'

  The jackal is jumping crazy across them lanes; other drivers don't know what to do. They push down on they horns with frightened faces as the jackal advance. Yes, those was the days.

  US$5,000 – US$1,000 for my uncle because that's what I owe him for my plane ticket here, and US$4,000 to sweet that pack of them hyenas that chase me around Zimbabwe wanting to catch me until I have to run away here because I don't have the money that they want so they can make my troubles go away.

  That's what Comrade Mhiripiri tell me and he is trustful man. US$4,000. He is commander of them boys of the jackal breed and is the first big man that you meet on the first day you arrive at training camp. Before you have even manage to jump out of the jackal Comrade Mhiripiri is barking and barking and marching around the jackal holding his hands behind and pointing his long beard up at every problem that he see on the face of every new recruit: you why you wearing earrings like you is woman, you why you walk like old man, you why you shave your head like you come from Apostolic Faith sect, yari yari yari. That's his style, Comrade Mhiripiri. He make everyone scatter scatter quick; no one want to be under his eye because soon his beard is pointing at you. But he have no doubt about the straightness of our path and he don't allow them bookish doubts to worry him. For traitors punishment is the best forgiveness, that's what he say. And it is because of giving forgiveness that my troubles start. Them enemies of the state was on the loose, waving opposition party flags from behind every small bush that Comrade Mhiripiri's beard is pointing at. That was when we visit Goromonzi.

  After Comrade Mhiripiri have tell us to take one traitor by force from Goromonzi police hands we take him to them tall trees. Comrade Mhiripiri have ask me to lead them boys on account of me I know heaps of history.

  This opposition party supporter, he have been arrest on account of he is one of them people that attack our party's supporters who have invade white man's farm. When we get to them tall trees we only ask him why they attack the sons and daughters of the soil, but the traitor say the soil belong to the white man and that our brothers and sisters is invaders. Me I give him one small lesson in history of Zimbabwe – how in the 1890s them British fat stomachs grab our land, pegging farms by riding horse until it drop dead; that just mark only one side of the farm boundary and that's where the corner peg go. But even after this, the traitor, who have been farm labour supervisor all his life and now have barrel stomach that is so taut any blunt old instrument can punch through it easy if that become necessary, he is still saying that the farmer buy the land. How do you say you buy land that was never sold by no one in the first place unless you like buying things that have been thief from someone? 'What kind of style is that?' me I ask him and he start filling us to the brim with gallons of bookish falsehoods that is stronger than overproof brandy and of course that get us drunk and soon we start dancing around him and singing revolutionary songs. By the time we is sober and staggering all over with big hangover the police is crawling all over me and Original Sufferhead. 'We give him one heap of forgiveness and can't remember nothing at all about what happen because he get us so drunk,' me I tell the police, but they don't want to believe. The winds is blowing through the nation and making trees swing in every direction but the police only want to know how one leaf fall from tree. What kind of style is that? Because of life of one traitor?

  When they give us bail me I have to run back to Harare without even see Comrade Mhiripiri. By now I know that the police is full of traitors that want to protect them enemies of the state. Soon they start telling Comrade Mhiripiri that for US$1,000 they can make my docket disappear. If that happen the court can't do nothing and soon my troubles go away. Comrade Mhiripiri keep sending text messages to my phone: yeee them police people is saying this, yeee they is saying that; yeee now they is wanting more. I'm flapping my ears every direction trying to hear where I can borrow money; my uncle promise to help me and before he have even get it Comrade Mhiripiri is saying they now want US$2,000 and before I know it all kind of hyena policemen and magistrates is crawling all over my case wanting they cut and now I have to find total of US$4,000 to buy my freedom.

  Now me I am jumping around to try to put money together and suddenly Comrade Mhiripiri stop sending messages. I try to call him to hear what the score is but his phone is no more contactable. Then Tom start sending text messages that don't make no sense; yeee the police is now after Comrade Mhiripiri; yeeeeeee he have run away to UK. 'This is not good sign,' my uncle say. I don't want to leave the country because I have not visit Mother in two years. But I have to go because me I know what Chikurubi Maximum Prison is like; I have been there before and it is full of them people that carry likkle horrors such as them sharpened bicycle spokes and they want you to donate your buttocks so they can give you Aids; if you refuse then bicycle spoke go through your stomach like it is made of toilet paper and you is bleeding inside all night and have no chance of making it to the morning. No one can want to go there again. Life is not fair me I know after they hold the spoke to my heart.

  But rig
ht now me I sit tight because there is no reason going back home if you can't buy your freedom from them those hyenas. Even if Sekai think that me I am mamhepo – the winds; them bad spirits – I keep the discipline and try not to end up burying Paul and she under the bathroom floor.

  3

  'You have to behave and watch what you say to people,' Sekai say. She have cook heap of food and have invite heap of she friends from work to come and eat in this evening. Two doctors have just arrive; one is white man with funny accent and another one I don't hear where he is from but he is Nigerian. Paul get them beer, and start talk talk to them in lounge while I sit quiet in corner of room watching TV because Chelsea is playing Arsenal. Sekai don't want me to talk to them visitors because she think I end up embarrassing them, I know.

  Small group of them five nurses also arrive; they is from home and all over Africa. Me I go and lie down in my room but Paul call me so I can come and meet them nurses. He even give me one can of beer and say I should sit in lounge with everyone.