Harare North

• 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
  

H
ARARE
N
ORTH

Brian Chikwava

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ISBN 9781409076452

Version 1.0

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Published by Jonathan Cape 2009

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Copyright © Brian Chikwava 2009

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

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First published in Great Britain in 2009 by
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ISBN: 9781409076452

Version 1.0

To Mum and Dad, Donna,
Roy, Ronald, Dan, Patience,
Martin, Michael and Godwin

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.

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 reception 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 different,
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.

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.