Harare North (2 page)

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!

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.