The Death of Rex Nhongo (12 page)

S
hawn's hatred of Zimbabweans had, of course, started with his wife, and it predated their arrival in her mother country. But somehow, back in New York, he'd mistaken it for some kind of love.

Sure, Shawn knew he'd been a dog, and when Kuda had found out some details, he was racked with guilt and vowed to change before she found out any more. But as his weeks of good behavior had turned to months and still he was given the cold shoulder, his patience had evaporated. Kuda had retreated into herself, spent hours on her own and wouldn't talk to him, except to confirm the most practical details of the school run, utility bills and the like. Eventually Shawn felt forced to conclude that this withdrawal was less about his behavior than some deep-seated fissure inside her; that she had, in fact, been waiting for just such an opportunity for disappointment.

He had tried confronting it directly, but she'd looked at him sadly and said, “You're not the man you pretend to be.”

He'd lost his temper. He said, “Fuck that! Who the fuck you think I pretend to be? I don't pretend shit!” It didn't help.

Kuda began to find fault in everything he did and, worse, everything about their lifestyle. Where once, for example, she'd puffed and passed with Shawn and his buddies, now she declared their house a weed-free zone—for Rosie's sake, she said, so that he couldn't argue the point.

She forbade their daughter to watch more than half an hour's TV a week. “All the advertisements!” she declared. “Everything in this country is sex! Sex to sell shampoo! Sex to sell soda! It's too much!” She began to complain about their neighbors, at first specifically—the unfriendly yuppies on the ground floor or the crackhead mom who lived opposite—then as a point of cultural principle: “You people are so isolated. If there is a problem, who do you go to? There is no one.” She even began to hate the available shopping: the cereal was full of gluten, the tomatoes too watery, the milk laden with hormones.

Once, he'd got home to find her sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating two chicken legs, uncooked on a plate in front of her.

He tried to make a joke of it: “You gonna cook those, boo? Or just stare at them?”

She spun round to him, eyes firing indignation. She picked up a leg and waved it at him like a ratchet. “What chicken is this? What chicken is a size like this?” Then, “How can I ask you? You don't even know what a chicken looks like. In Zimbabwe…”

In Zimbabwe…

That did it for Shawn. The last time Kuda had come back from a solo trip home in 2007, she'd returned with horror stories of the collapsing economy, empty supermarket shelves and shortages of just about everything. “In Zimbabwe?” he repeated. “Like it's the land of milk and fucking honey? Shit! You think there's one motherfucker in Zimbabwe who wouldn't trade for our life here? You want to go back there? That it?”

And Kuda froze, the chicken leg still raised above her head. “Yes, Shawn,” she said. “I talked to my mother. She said it is not so bad, these days. She said I should come home. That is what I want.”

They managed the move within six months. The way Shawn told it to his coterie at the time, this was a heroic, last-ditch attempt to save the failing marriage. The idea exemplified the most successful of Shawn's lies, since at some deep-seated level he almost believed it himself. The truth, however, was much more prosaic. The truth was that he had enabled the move because it sat comfortably in a false personal story he'd been cultivating since his teens.

Shawn was a conscious brother. At high school, this had mostly meant listening to the right music—PE, Dead Prez, Marvin and Nina. At college, he'd discovered that everybody listened to the right music, even the white kids. So he'd had to re-up. He joined groups that signified radicalism without compromising employment prospects. He briefly became a vegan. He briefly stopped drinking alcohol. He researched his family history and discovered a many-times-great-uncle who'd worked on a Georgia plantation for a man called James McClaren. He promised himself that he would lose the slave name, though it could wait until he had both feet securely on the career ladder.

Shawn had got the job at Brown Brothers Harriman. He was the nigger who said “nigger” and a lot else besides. He accepted invitations from New York's public schools to talk about the possibilities for a young black male in the world of high finance. Some teachers fell in love with him and he memorably fucked one of them—a Jew called Ruth—two days before his wedding.

He married Kuda, and his boys, white and black, said, “Of course! You going deep, bro.”

“You don't even know,” he replied. “I paid
lobola
. Like, bride price. Cows and shit.”

He got a little drunk at a Christmas party and upbraided the BBH senior management for the fact that he was the only black guy at his level.

He found out about a project at NYU where they were testing African Americans' DNA to give answers about precise origins. He went along and discovered that the majority of his ancestry, albeit including a distressing white streak from mainland Europe, was from what was once called the Gold Coast—probably Akan, speakers of Twi or Fanti.

W
ith Rosie now going to elementary school, Kuda completed her postgrad in community-health administration and learned enough to know she didn't want a career in it. Instead, she got a part-time job at a hippie jewelry store in Fort Green. One Saturday she got home early, just as Rita and her son, Angel, were leaving. Rita played it cool. She offered Kuda her hand. She said, “You must be Kuda? I heard so much about you. Rita Perez. Angel and Rosie are in the same class. We thought we'd organize a play date.”

Kuda played it cooler still, insisting, now she was home, that Rita and Angel should stay for a cup of tea. “I bought cookies,” she said.

Shawn went to the bathroom and washed his hands, but when he was sitting at the table, only half listening to the idle chat about Pine Hill and Rita's husband, Ronnie, and his current struggles as a realtor, he lifted a cookie to his mouth and he could still smell pussy on his fingers.

Shawn thought he'd got away with it. He was used to getting away with it. But that night, out of the blue, when he was brushing his teeth, Kuda said, “You think it's fine to bring a married woman back to our home when I'm not here?”

Shawn swilled a mouthful of Listermint Total Defense and spat it into the basin. “What?” he said.

“Because where I come from, it's not fine at all.”

Shawn stared at her. She was wearing a face mask and looked like a ghost. “Yeah,” he said. “It was a play date for Rosie. Yeah, I think it's fine.” Then, “We're not where you come from. This is New York. You do know that, right?”

BBH hired a Nigerian called Ayo as the vice president of Shawn's group. She was fastidious, with a high-pitched voice, and she would never rock the corporate boat. He took the appointment personally. One thing was for sure: so long as she was there, playing the black card with her neat little dreadlocks and her white husband called Stuart, who was some big shot at Morgan Stanley, his career at the bank was going nowhere.

He called a summit meeting with his boys at Paddy's, a downbeat Irish pub in Midtown. He said, “Jesus Christ! What is it about locks, man? You meet a high-flying sister with locks and you
know
she's hooked up with some white dude. How fucked up is that?”

His boys were drinking bourbon on his tab. His boys agreed with his analysis. His boys said it was “time to make moves.” Malik downed another shot and said, “So there's no room for a black man at Brown Brothers.”

“For real, bruh,” Shawn said. “The irony isn't lost on me.”

He announced that he was done with BBH, that he was going to start putting feelers out, speaking to headhunters.

In his rush for fraternal support, Shawn had left his cell on the kitchen table at home for the first and only time. He arrived home to find Kuda had gone through his emails and read a couple from Rita, which, though hardly graphic, were revealing enough. He tried to front it, but he was too drunk for semantic subtlety and his denial simply petered out.

While Kuda broke shit, slapped him, clawed at his chest and drew blood, Shawn experienced a bizarre sense of detachment, like he was watching the discovery of an affair on some daytime soap. He felt regret, that he'd given Rita his personal email. He felt relief, that he'd not given his personal email to any of the others. He said, “I'm sorry, Kuda. I'm so sorry. I made one mistake.”

Shawn didn't contact any headhunters. For a while it looked like he might be paying for a divorce and that was no time to be moving jobs. He kept his head down at work and his head down at home. He was the model employee and the model husband.

Ayo called him into her office. She told him they were letting him go. She told him that it was no reflection on his work, just a symptom of contraction throughout the sector.

Just a few weeks previously, Shawn would have cried foul, but he didn't have the energy. He wasn't at the top of his game. He was low on confidence. He was feeling remorseful.

He chose this moment to change his name from McClaren to Appiah. He'd imagined doing this at a point of maximum certainty, but somehow the opposite felt appropriate too. He told Kuda that she was now Mrs. Appiah. She looked at him with something close to hatred. He didn't tell her he'd lost his job.

In fact, Shawn didn't tell anyone he'd lost his job. Being knocked off his career path by something as mundane as “contraction throughout the sector” just wasn't who he was. Before he could admit as much, he needed a sub-plot that would sit comfortably within his broader narrative. Then, after a particularly depressing meeting with a recruitment consultant who pulled off the neat trick of simultaneously talking up his client's experience and talking down his imminent prospects, Shawn returned to the apartment to find Kuda brandishing a chicken leg and declaring her intention to go home.

Shawn thought about it for twenty-four hours. He thought about how far his generous severance might go in Zimbabwe. He thought about the opportunities for an educated brother like himself in the land of his ancestors. He said to Kuda, “Let's go. To Zimbabwe, I mean. It's a last chance. Or a new start. I don't know. It's something. We gotta try something, right?”

His wife sat quietly. She started to weep. Then she looked up at him and said, “Thank you,” before retiring to their bedroom and closing the door.

When Shawn told his boys, Malik held up his glass in a toast. He said, “I always knew it. You always on the real tip. And now you the first nigger I know who gonna set foot in Africa.”

Shawn said, “What you talking about, bruh? You know Kuda, right? She born there.”

“Yeah, but you know what I'm saying, though.”

“Sure I know what you're saying,” Shawn said. “You're saying, ‘I'm an ignorant motherfucker.'”

Malik laughed. “You know it, baby. New York for life.” He offered Shawn skin and the pair touched knuckles.

Less than a year later, Shawn sat alone in the bar of the Mazowe Star Motel, nursing a beer. He was the only customer, but he'd introduced himself to Constance, the barmaid, and they'd made the usual small-talk about her desire to visit the USA some day before she'd retreated to the fridge at the other end of the bar, idly to polish glasses. Shawn was now so used to this kind of exchange that he could do it in his sleep.

He lit a cigarette, drained his beer and lifted the bottle towards her. He said, “Constance!”

She came over. She said, “Unfortunately we are now closed.”

He stared at her. He checked the time on his phone: ten past nine. He said, “The receptionist said the bar would stay open until I was finished.”

“No. Monday to Thursday we close at nine p.m.”

“Constance!” Shawn said, dangling his beer bottle in front of her.

“We are now closed,” she said. She lifted her chin and looked at him along the length of her nose. Then she returned to the fridge. He thought she was going to get him a beer, but instead she turned off the lights and retreated to a back room.

Shawn sat in the dark. He tried a small laugh for no one's benefit. He said, “Fuck!” He pictured Constance's face: that upturned chin, the flaring eyes and flaring nostrils. How quickly an instinctive, false obsequiousness gave way to disappointed, self-righteous belligerence. It was so fucking familiar.

B
essie now visited Gilbert on Sundays, unless the
murungu
woman decided to cancel her day off (something that, to Gilbert's irritation, his wife seemed to accept without protest). She'd begun attending New Vision Church in Sunningdale with Fadzai, so would generally be by the house in the afternoon when Gilbert returned home to eat. The couple had little time to themselves before Gilbert took out the taxi for the afternoon and evening, generally managing no more than a short walk after the meal, but it was better than nothing; better, for sure, than the months spent apart.

Initially, Gilbert had sensed that Fadzai had had some difficulty persuading Patson that her brother should stay for a prolonged period. The older man had said nothing—he wasn't much of a talker at the best of times—and had not been actively unwelcoming, but Gilbert noted a vague contained impatience if Patson found him sitting in his place or reading his newspaper. Gilbert wasn't sure if this was because Patson had active reasons for not wanting him there or simply because a pride of lions generally has room for only one adult male, but he made sure that he avoided his brother-in-law's place and newspaper thereafter. And, before long, Patson's impatience gave way to something like warmth, albeit expressed every bit as intangibly, in silence.

In fact, Gilbert quickly understood that everyone—Patson, Fadzai, the kids, Bessie—was comfortable with the new routine; everyone except him. Gilbert was frustrated. He had moved to the capital with specific intentions: to find a job and his own place; to bring Stella to Harare as soon as possible and to live with his wife and child. Instead, he had simply replaced his layabout life in Mubayira with one of seemingly endless toil for no reward. After all, despite all his work, he had no money to call his own beyond the occasional twenty Patson gave him at the end of a particularly good week.

Gilbert had no desire to return to Mubayira, but part of him missed his father's school library and the chance to read for hours at a time. For sure, his life there had been racked with guilt and the pressing burden of parental disappointment, but at least the books made him feel like he was improving his mind and allowed him to dream. Here in Harare there was no time to dream, let alone to fulfill whatever dreams he might once have had.

He tried to explain this to Bessie on one of their Sunday-­afternoon walks. She listened patiently, but her response, reasonable and considered, was not what he'd hoped for. She said, “We cannot run before we can crawl, isn't it? How long have you been in Harare? Just three months. I told you, I like your plans, but they will take time. We must pray for what we want and, if it is God's will, it will happen.”

Gilbert was irritated by that and failed to hide it. This failure was partly because he didn't understand his irritation and therefore didn't recognize it as such in time to conceal it. Of course it would take time to get what he wanted, but he'd been looking for reassurance from his wife—that he was better than what he was doing, that he could achieve what he wanted, an affirmation of faith. Instead, she had affirmed her faith only in God, which was no use to him, so it was that he railed against. “Do you know how many people pray for what they want?” he asked. “Do you think God answers every prayer? Two people pray for the same job, which one gets it? The most faithful? I don't believe it. These prayers are just superstition.”

His wife looked at him with such shock that Gilbert immediately regretted the outburst. She reached for his hand and entwined her small fingers with his. She said, “Our pastor, Pastor Joshua, he says that Zimbabwe is on the threshold of a spiritual awakening. He says that there are now so many Christians in this country that every prayer will soon be answered.”

Gilbert stared at her, dumbstruck. He wanted to ask her if she saw all the fat cats in their big cars and big houses. He wanted to ask if these men were aware of her “spiritual awakening.” But he said nothing.

Bessie cleared her throat. She thought she was seizing the moment. She said, “You should come to New Vision. I'm sure you would find the answers you are looking for. And…and I would be proud to go to church with my husband.”

Gilbert looked at the ground. His anger suddenly fell away and he was so overwhelmed with love that it was almost painful. “You know I have to work,” he said quietly.

“I know you have to work.”

“I just want to live with you and Stella,” he said. “I just want to live as man and wife. I want a job, I want a house, I want more children. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“No,” Bessie said. “There's nothing wrong with that.”

There were no calls from their regular customers so, at night­fall, Gilbert drove Bessie back to the
murungu
house in Greendale. They hardly talked on the half-hour journey and Gilbert wondered if she was still offended by what he'd said. But as they pulled away from the city on the Enterprise Road, she rested her head on his shoulder and, after a while, began to knead his thigh with one hand. When they turned onto Arcturus Road, Bessie said, “Stop here.” Automatically, Gilbert pulled over. They sat for a couple of minutes in the darkness. She pressed her lips to his ear. She said, “This is a busy road. The next one is a dead end, isn't it?” Gilbert restarted the engine, slipped the Raum into gear and turned down into the pitch-black side street.

He said, “Maybe there are security guards.”

“Not in the road,” Bessie said, as she eased herself astride him.

Gilbert knew what she was doing. He knew what she was thinking and he did not believe problems could be so easily solved. But he loved her for her tenderness.