Harare North (18 page)

All I need now is £240 then I can buy £500 ticket straight and
square. Before the sun is up I will have land back home. Uncle
don't deserve his money back since he do nothing about Mother.

I come from graft hunt and bump into Dave as soon as I walk
inside the house. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to
kick fuss about him. Even when he spend most of the time lying
in room downstairs doing weapons grade farts all day.

'Hi,' we say to each each when our eyes clash. He march to
me with big purpose and give me one of his flyers.

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'I give you one day to go and then no more.'

Dave look at me like I am throwing away help.

I go to my room; I light cigarette; I go to the kitchen again;
I look out of window and there's family of them Romanians that
live across road. They is looking at me through they window like
I am on TV. I drink Coke. I can't sleep, and in the morning the
bad news come, give our door one kick and the door burst open;
the news stand cackling into our house: this is hopeless case, is
what the hospital think about Shingi.

I have not see Shingi yet; maybe hospital people start asking
funny questions and end up saying I'm illegal in this country.
That's they style.

Maybe Shingi now just like someone that have been whip by
stroke – mouth hanging, dribble coming out. I can't eat all day;
I go to bed early.

He's back in our house. In wheelchair. He can't talk. I feed him
because now he can't even move one finger. I take him to toilet.

Again.

Again.

And again.

I wipe the comrade's bottom so many times, shove his body around
and wash his soiled pants until this turn into strong argument for
banning of food. Even the toilet seat break in half and now there is
three pieces of it. But I can't stop feeding him; food is where all problems
start.

In them sagging depths of his wheelchair, silent and staring at
the ceiling all day, Shingi and his scraggy beard fill up the whole
house. I have clean him up now; I try my best.

In the morning I get up and make porridge. Dave is still around
even when I have give him warning.

'You need life skills to budget your money now if you have no
job,' he say while I'm busting my head trying to figure out what
to do about Shingi. He go on yari yari yari I have got life skills;
yeee I can do my sums right when I get paid social benefit and
make sure things balance.

I eat my porridge and say nothing.

I don't buy bananas for Shingi because he won't eat them now
I know. I eat all those that have pile up in my room. All of
them.

Shingi's mobile phone start ringing and it's them his London
relatives' number flashing on the screen. I ignore it; I don't know
what to tell them now about all this big news. Soon they start to
blame me for everything and say I come to Harare North to
sponge off Shingi, cause havoc in his life and now look what
happen?

There is letter for Shingi. It's from home. I take it to my
room and open it. It's from some uncle who is rural farmer
that the government have resettle with dozens of other families
on some farm in Triangle district. He wonder if Shingi
can send him only one Land Rover Defender as it will go
long way towards helping with carrying things at the farm
because right now his one-year-old likkle girl don't even have
food to eat.

What kind of style is this? Straight and square, I write back
warning uncle to 'stop embarrassing yourself. You know what
the reaction of m'learned friends in Parliament will be if I start
sending them Her Majesty's Land Rover Defenders to my
tribesman, don't you? Even if I am careful, Land Rover Defender
is not something that you can thief and put inside your pocket
like mango, is it?'

But after I remember that he have got likkle hungry girl I think
of Tsitsi's baby; I send him £100 for the small girl. Why people
always use small children to make you feel like maggots is eating
you inside, I don't get the score.

I wander through them streets of Brixton, Stockwell, Oval and
Kennington, idly kicking them empty fizzy drink cans around,
and allow things to bleed out of my head. His east London relatives,
they call again. I don't answer. I'm not ready. If Shingi
have tell them that I was Green Bomber and I tell them what
happen now, soon they cause big problems for me and all that
kind of style.

I get home and another letter have land from some gold-panning
uncle who want Shingi to invest £5,000 in his gold-panning
project. He is sure this is good investment that will birth
US$100,000 per year. He wait at Shingi's mother's house for
reply.

Now I can sniff sniff that the whole of Shingi's clan have come
together to celebrate Shingi Parliament graft. Them old villagers,
grumpy goat traders from the outbacks, and them 200-year-old
grandmothers have maybe gather at MaiShingi's house. Even
though she's not his real mother.

This kind of thing meant to be deal with by Shingi now look.

I write and remind this uncle that gold-panning is illegal and
urge him to consider what kind of example he give to his small
children by ruining them our riverbanks and filling rivers with
poison chemicals. 'Also pass the message to everyone who is there
that I have big doubt that Mother need the company of them
people who have nothing to do except to sit all day fishing for
food in every one of she smiles,' I tell him.

I kick myself because I have post that letter because I am
worryful. That uncle, what is he going to think of Shingi now?
When morning come I have to wire him £100 to keep him sweet
or otherwise he take it out on Shingi.

I sleep. I wake up. Me I sleep. I see Shingi in one dream. I wake
up. I sleep.

This Shingi thing now sit tight inside me. I also have to catch
some graft soon.

I catch bus again to go look for graft. I have not eat none of
the porridge or steak that I have cook yesterday because there's
heaps of worry inside my head.

Once on the bus me I squeeze into the corner and I see my
face reflect on the window. It is clenched tight like old demon's.
I look down on floor; I am frightened I will see ghost of Shingi
looking back.

I get back home and now there's letter from MaiShingi; she is
telling me about tragedy that nearly befall them. To celebrate
Shingi's success in Parliament, she buy she husband's father big
bokkle of the old brandy. He have also hobble into she house
from nowhere. While sitting under the peach tree at the back of
house without no supervision, the old native down the 750ml
bokkle in less than one hour, stumble into kitchen dribbling, frightening
woman and small children, mumble and pass out. He get
revive in hospital where he spend the week recovering.

We should thank the Lord that grandfather have survive. But
please keep the news under wraps as I don't want to find myself in
embarrassing position if them papers and TV people get wind of it,
especially considering that I have friends in Parliament that have
relatives that can handle they drink
, I write back. Stupid old hen,
she reply with hospital invoices, pharmacy receipts and many other
vexing expenses like bus fares that is required for grandfather to
head back to his home. I want to point out that she forget to
add VAT to she invoices and that She Majesty's Treasury
Department want she to reveal she VAT number before any
payment is given, but I don't. This is Shingi's mother. I go to
Western Union and wire she £100.

My trousers is dirty; in the morning me I go inside Shingi's room
and borrow pair of trousers. I borrow his hat too. I go to Brixton
Market. I buy two mangoes. Maybe I should go see Shingi.

You family; this has get out of hand now. Big nuisance, I want
to tell him. But I run out of ginger before going to hospital.

Shingi's London relatives, they leave two messages on phone
looking for Shingi. Me I don't know what they want.
Will phone
you. Me I am busy
, that's the text message I send to them this
time.

I get back and there's another letter from home. It's from Shingi's
Uncle Sinyoro. The one that play big brother to Shingi's mother.
The cat killer. Now he is writing this long letter asking why Shingi
is writing stupid letters to his mother. He think that he is giving
Shingi some dressing-down, you know that kind of style: yari yari
yari I have big concern for you over there . . . When are you coming
back home? . . . Stop this silly talk about being in Parliament . . . I
will arrange for air ticket for you with Air Zimbabwe . . . he go on
and on. Now, some nincompoop bureaucrat in jacket and tie,
clutching sheaf of paper, is easy target to shoot down. I write to
him to inform him that 'Uncle Sinyoro, me I come back home on
the 44th of the month. Fill this on them your forms and tick all
them correct boxes.' That drain the oil out of his head and leave
him with no ginger because he never write again.

Then some old aunt of Shingi's she also drop one and start
with grand kind of speech telling Shingi he have grow up into
big man. Now she ask if he is able to help she keep up with them
payments for funeral insurance because she think she is growing
old and don't want troubling anyone if she suddenly drop dead.
She say she will pay back the money and that nearly make me go
kak kak kak because me I have hear this number before. Try
another trick, old hen.

Downstairs Dave and Jenny is now causing racket, over what
I don't know. I go down and tell them straight and square, 'I
don't want to see you inside this house no more. I don't want to
see nothing that belong to you. Take everything.'

My head is full of things. Shingi's family is doing pee into my
porridge. MaiShingi have stretch my patience now; in the past
week she have write another letter demanding money for things
like java skirt, small TV, food for every clansman and his dog, the
list get endless.

Them east London relatives have call donkey number of times
now. I sit tight.

Another letter for Shingi arrive from MaiShingi. She bawl that
the government have send bulldozers to demolish people's houses
and they new four-room house have been demolished in second
wave of Operation
Murambatsvina
. Now many people become
homeless, Zimbabwe is no more she cry. Me I don't have no
sympathy for Zimbabwean people about this because they have
spend lot of time throwing they tails all over and trying to vote
for opposition party. Now look where this have landed them. The
winds is howling through house of stones, tall trees is swaying
and people's lives beginning to fall apart, everything start to fall
apart now and they think that me I can solve all they problems?
Me I sleep over things so I can think clear. I wake up and text
message arrive from them London relatives asking why I don't
call like I promise two weeks ago.

Evening. My chest is full of wriggling things now and get tight
like my suitcase. I go to kitchen to eat. I cut bread. It refuse to
go down throat. I spit it into sink and go back to my room.

I shut my eyes to sleep but I am wide awake. I have to wash
my hands of Shingi now. I switch light on because in the dark I
become more awake. The mushrooms on my ceiling is starting to
grow again. I sit on my suitcase and look out of my eye into
street. Nothing happening. Even shadows stop moving.

I feel sleepy. I switch light off and lie down; I am wide awake.
I turn. In the east, cold old sun start to climb up over them jagged
roof and jutting chimneys throw shadows. I have to make my
mind up. When I hear the bells ringing at 7am, I get out of bed,
wear my twelve-pocket coat and get out of house for early-morning
walk to sort my head. I want to go to the river. Everyone in
London is going to they graft.

I catch Tube and find myself sitting on old bench under Waterloo
Bridge; trying to reason with power; my head start to get hot. I
throw my cigarette stub onto the pavement, grind it hard with
my boot and step off. One more second on that bench, I will
have change my mind. I have make final decision now – Shingi
none of my business no more.

I head for Waterloo station with big stride.

When I climb out of Brixton Tube station, some pale icy sun
hang in the sky like frozen pizza base. In them these mental streets,
bitter cold wind is blowing. And the traffic lights – they is red
like ketchup.

To the right of station entrance, newspaper vendors stand beside
pile of copies of
Evening Standard
. On front page of every one
of them papers President Robert Mugabe's face folded in two. I
still can identify His Excellency. The paper say that Zimbabwe run
out toilet paper.

I step into the house, shut the door, lock it and jam it with
long floorboard that is lying loose, shutting out Dave and Jenny,
who already have gone out. There is no heating in the house;
small icicles going to be on the ceiling any minute.

Dave and Jenny come back last night and knock on the door
until they give up. Me, I lie on my bed most of the day trying
not to think about nothing.

I have not have shower in days because my pubic hair is maybe
turning blue. I have animal odour that is always around them
stressed people. Outside the city is approaching peak hour; I
imagine them sounds: one computer falling off some desk in some
London Underground control room and causing delays on the
Victoria Line. The heavy breathing of two over-caffeinate men
panicking in the control room. Inside them crowded late trains,
vex passengers have desert them trains and make for the station
exits where they gush out of the earth, some of them waving them
caffè lattes in the air as usual and elbow others out of they way.
Why them people in Harare North always refuse to take they
medication me I don't get the score.

Inside my suitcase, that Moschino Parfum that I buy for Tsitsi
but never have chance to give it to she, it has been leaking. It is
cheap fake perfume; proper genuine things don't leak without
being opened. I bin it.

I go to toilet. I reason hard. I get out of the toilet and go to
lie on Shingi's bed. Shingi's pocket album is still on the floor, by
his bed. It contain photo of his mother. She look like nice mother
and remind me of my mother in some funny way. I get into my
blankets, roll some skunk.

I wake up and realise I had fall asleep. It's maybe after four o'clock
in the afternoon. But it also can be after six o'clock because from
outside, the street lamp is already beaming into my room. I check
Shingi's mobile phone – it say it's 3.03pm. I get out of bed, open
my suitcase to take clean socks out and the smell of Mother hit my
nose and make me feel dizzy. I put on my brown shoes, grab
my twelve-pocket coat, and as quick as brown fox, leave the house
and go down to Brixton Road to wait for bus to go to city to
look for graft.

The 159 bus come and it take me straight to Bond Street station
where I jump off because I have to check out for the second time
that place where they stick many grafts on the window. But Shingi
is still in my head, so me I go window-shopping to get him out
of the head first. The city swirl around me like it is in the grip of
bitter winds and it make me feel dizzy.

To get this funny feeling off my tail, me I go into West One
Shopping Centre where I see electronics shop is flaunting them
latest hi-fis, iPods and flat-screen TVs. I quick my pace past the
shop, not wanting to let such desire catch me.

And suddenly absent-minded, I stray into clothes shop fizzing
over with them people. My odour suddenly back. Over one of the
mirrors to the right of the entrance, they have stick notice:
This
mirror compresses your image and makes you look short,
squat and wide. We suggest you go to the basement where
there's a better mirror that will make you look nice.
I think
it would be hard for me to tell which is normal mirror – the one
downstairs or the one that I am looking at – but me I see no
point in wasting time on this.

I throw my eye into basement and down there is this short
customer queue of them beautiful women with them fibreglass
fingernail and tattoo above they tail-bones. It is inching forward
to the till. The sight is powerful and maybe untie spaghetti jumble
of them questions inside my head, but which have been answered
and which not, I have no way of tell. I stagger out of the shop
like I am emerging from big battle.