The Death of Rex Nhongo (13 page)

F
adzai put Gilbert in charge of the kitchen while she went to buy airtime. Generally, there was no way she'd leave him alone to serve at their busiest time of day, but that morning she'd forgotten to tell Patson that he had to pick up Chabarwa from school at half past twelve and take him directly to band practice at New Vision.

It wasn't that she didn't trust her brother, but she'd discovered that what he'd said on his first day was absolutely true—her customers liked their
hupfu
served by a woman; either that or they simply preferred the familiarity of her face and the fact she didn't try to engage them in idle conversation. Gilbert was too jolly, full of jokes and banter. Most of her customers didn't want jolly: they wanted something that would sit in their stomachs and tide them over through the long afternoon. Besides, for all Gilbert's efforts, he didn't have her economy of labor. The speed with which she could dish, take payment and make change was a skill she'd developed over years.

Fadzai bought her dollar airtime, scratched off the pin and juiced her cell. She called Patson, but the network was patchy and she had to redial half a dozen times before she could confirm he'd got the message. The whole process took a lot longer than she'd hoped and she must have been gone almost ten minutes when she turned the corner back to the kitchen and saw her brother squaring up to three shaven-headed youths—Chipangano.

She broke into a trot. She said, “Gilbert.”

Gilbert turned at the sound of her voice. He looked angry, but unworried. For all his recently acquired urban nous, he had no experience of Chipangano, the militant gang that had grown up to support the government in the elections a decade ago and had terrorized Mbare on and off ever since. Besides, Gilbert had a good head in height and three years of muscle over every one of the young thugs. She took in their faces. She knew the leader: a nasty, sly creature whom people called Castro.

Gilbert said, “They took three plates, these
kids,
and they don't want to pay. They say we have to give them ten bucks. I was just telling them I'd fuck them up. Ten bucks doesn't go far at the hospital.”

Fadzai looked directly at Castro. She said, “Ten?”

Castro's expression was simultaneously cocky and ingratiating. He said, “It is a mark of your success. A month ago, there were three kitchens on this stretch, now it's just you. What are we to do? As your profits increase, so do your responsibilities—that is how Big Jimmy puts it.”

A small crowd was gathering: a mixture of the impatient and hungry and those who were just impatient and hungry for distraction. Fadzai wanted to defuse the situation as quickly as possible and she reached for the cashbox and dug out a ten. She handed it to Castro. She said, “No problem.”

Gilbert said, “What are you doing?”

Fadzai flashed him a look—
Not now
.

Castro pocketed the ten and scooped a lazy mouthful of
sadza
and gravy. He chewed slowly. He said, “Chicken again. Every time I come here, it's chicken. You should vary your menu. You will lose business.”

“Thank you,” Fadzai said. “That is good advice.” She would have said anything. She just wanted them to go.

Castro looked at her. He nodded. He said, “You know what they say: the customer is always right.” He took another mouthful. He was in no mood to hurry. He gestured idly at Gilbert. He said, “Who's this?”

“My young brother,” Fadzai said. “Don't worry about him. He has just come from home.”

Castro finished his food thoughtfully. He said, “I know the type. Thinks he knows everything because when a cow shits in the river it's going to rain.” He handed Gilbert his plate. Castro said, “There aren't many cows in Mbare, my brother.”

Gilbert took the plate. A peculiar smile teased the corners of his mouth. He said, “And I know your type, too: playing the big man in front of your friends. I wonder if you have that swag when you're on your own.”

Some of the assembled men began to laugh. Fadzai made as if to take the plate from Gilbert, positioned herself between him and Castro, then tried to usher her brother away.

Castro said, “Do you think you are smart?”

Gilbert answered, over Fadzai's shoulder, “Why do you care what I think?”

“I can find you, country boy.”

“You're very smart,” Gilbert said. “I'm here every day.”

Castro smiled very slowly. He took a matchstick from his pocket and pushed it between his teeth. He turned and walked away.

Fadzai waited until they were packing up to raise what had happened. She said, “You don't know Chipangano, Gilbert. I pay a levy every week. It is what we have to do.”

Her brother was belligerent. He said, “You think I am stupid? I know what's going on. But that doesn't make it right.”

“So, you are going to change the way it is? I don't think so. Those same guys, the ones who stand around laughing at your jokes, they will be laughing when they find your bloody body by the road too. I can't afford this kind of trouble.”

Gilbert stopped drying the pots. He said, “They beat me and you can't afford the trouble? That is what you are saying?”

Fadzai stopped, too, and took his hand. She said, “They beat you and I have to pay for the doctor and still I have to keep working and still I pay ten dollars every week.
That
is what I am saying.”

Gilbert stared at her. He blinked. He said, “He called me country boy. You should have told him about the time I lost Daddy's goats.
Country boy?
Me?”

Fadzai started laughing. She caught herself. She said, “Next time, you just give him ten bucks, OK?”

“You're the boss,” he said.

When they got home, Gilbert made tea and sat on the step, waiting for Patson. Fadzai came outside and asked him if he didn't want to eat something before starting the night shift. He shook his head, and she said, “Suit yourself.”

As soon as Patson pulled up, Gilbert approached the car and got in the passenger side. Patson said, “What are you doing?” But Gilbert stared straight ahead through the windscreen. Patson looked at him for a moment, shrugged and opened the driver's door. Then he thought better of it and shut the door again. “What's the matter?” he asked.

“You know that Fadzai is paying Chipangano.”

Patson sighed. He wanted a cigarette, but he was out.

“Ten dollars a week,” Gilbert said.

“Ten?”

“Ten dollars a week. It's a lot of money.”

“It's a lot of money,” Patson agreed. He reached across to the glove compartment and rummaged inside. Sometimes he left a cigarette there and forgot about it. No such luck. He sat back. He said, “What's this all about?”

Gilbert turned to look at him for the first time. It was clear the boy was rattling with fury. “Aren't you angry?”

Patson rubbed his face with his hands. He said, “No, I'm not angry. When I was your age, I was angry all the time. But now? No.”

“What happened?”

“I got older.”

Gilbert dropped his chin. “You have been very good to me. I didn't mean to be disrespectful but…”

“You are angry.”

“Yes.” Gilbert stretched his neck to lay his head back on the headrest. “I was talking to some of the guys, the other drivers, at the rank. They were telling me about this lease-to-buy situation. You know, you pay the owner two hundred and fifty dollars a week and in a year the car is yours.”

Patson said nothing, but when Gilbert didn't continue, he felt he had to encourage him. “I have heard about this,” he said.

“I want to do it,” Gilbert said. “Find an owner and get a car for myself. In a year, it is mine. I will pay you rent at the house, isn't it? Two cars on the road. We will be growing a business, you see?”

“I see,” Patson said. He looked at Gilbert. He was moved by the young man's anger, moved, too, by his intentions, and he knew he needed to weigh his words carefully. “I know you are frustrated. But I must say two things. The first is that I have heard about this deal many times. But I have never met a driver who has done this deal and now owns his car. Why is that? Because the deal is too hard. The second thing is that you and me are now driving this taxi twenty-four hours, isn't it? And we pay Dr. Gapu two hundred dollars a week and we hardly have enough to feed us all. Before you came? I was struggling for even that two hundred. What you are saying? I don't think it is possible.”

The young man looked at him and Patson recognized the despair all too well. “I am married,” Gilbert said. “And there is Stella. I have to do something.”

“I know,” Patson said. Then, “When you are a farmer, you work hard and you plant and, if the rains are regular, you're a lucky man. And if you are unlucky and there is no rain? You work harder and you know you are doing your best, even as the family is suffering.”

“I don't understand.”

“I am telling you, you are doing your best, Gilbert,” Patson said. He opened the driver's door again. “You must get on the road if you want to meet the Bulawayo bus. It will be there by eight. You'll find work, isn't it?”

M
andiveyi was sitting with Nature in the Zim Café, a large and boisterous outside bar on the corner of Fourth and Fife. He was sipping his whisky, idly picking at a plate of ribs and considering how strange it was that the very things that had first attracted him to this young woman now repelled him. Nature was all excitable sociability, and where once this had made a pleasant change from his wife's stony silence, it was now giving him a headache. She had made him chase her and he'd enjoyed the challenge. Better that than the placid acceptance of most of these bar girls. But he had neither the energy nor the inclination to continue the pursuit. Even her undoubted physical attributes were now a negative. Once, he had enjoyed the fact that every other man would stare at her and wonder whom she was with; now such attention made him nervous.

He was going to have to be rid of her. He hoped she was sensible enough to understand his position—or, more to the point, her own—and that she wouldn't make a fuss. He had no desire to hurt her. Then again, he had no fear of doing so either.

Nature was sipping a Smirnoff Lemon straight from the bottle. He didn't understand why she couldn't use a glass like any decent human being. She was leaning forward with her elbows on the table and the bottle in two hands, so that the curve of her lower spine lifted her round backside almost out of the seat, as if presenting herself to all-comers. Somehow she was managing to pin him down with her chatter even as her head darted this way and that, checking who was coming and going and, every now and then, greeting some passerby with a familiarity he resented, both personally and professionally.

“You don't call me for almost two months, Albert,” she was saying, “and now we are here like nothing has happened. That's some bullshit.” She raised her eyes to a passing whore: “Yes, yes, sister.
Zviri sei?
” Then, back to him: “I thought I was the Small House, isn't it? But you treat me like some street girl. Is that what you think of me? I am a professional woman. I earn my own money. What have you done for me lately? That is what I am asking you. Like the song. ‘What Have You Done for Me Lately'? Janet Jackson.”

The DJ dropped an old-school classic: Shalamar. Nature began to snap her fingers to the music and gently gyrate her hips and buttocks. “My groove,” she said.

Mandiveyi bit into a rib and a dollop of barbecue sauce dropped onto his tie. He examined it irritably. He said, “A tissue,” and the girl automatically got up and went to find a napkin. As soon as she left the table, Mandiveyi's cell rang: Phiri. He answered.

“You are with the Tel One chick, isn't it?” Phiri said. “I thought you had more sense. After you spoke to
Iganyana
.”

Mandiveyi stiffened. He resisted the urge to look around. He sipped his drink. Then he said, “Where are you?”

“Meet me outside.”

The darkness of the street was so complete that it seemed almost viscous. Mandiveyi got into the back of the Range Rover to sit next to his boss. Phiri neither greeted nor looked at him. He just said, “You are busy.”

“What do you mean?” But there was no further clarification forthcoming, so he added, “We are all busy. Mostly these directives from the Chamber of Mines. There is a lot to do.”

“Our other business,” Phiri said. “Do you think it is concluded? It is not concluded. I know
Iganyana
told you as much.”

“He told me. But on my side it is finished. I am not thinking about it.”

“You are lying,” Phiri said flatly. “Please do not lie to me.”

Mandiveyi said nothing.

“What gun did you collect?” Phiri went on.

“What do you mean? The gun the guy gave me.”

“What gun was that?”

“A SIG.” Mandiveyi shifted in his seat. He regretted his drinking. He could hear his own breathing. He could smell it. He was thankful for the darkness.

“And what did you do with it?”

Mandiveyi almost answered immediately, but managed to hold his tongue. He had been on the other side of enough such interrogations to know their rhythms. If Phiri knew how a lie sounded, so did he. Instead, he held a moment's pause, then played naïve defiance. “I got rid of it,” he said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

Phiri's mouth made a wet, ruminative tutting sound. Mandiveyi's senses were at their most acute. It was a situation with which he was comfortable. It was why he was good at his job. It was as if the world outside had stopped and everything that existed was in the small, hermetic space of the car. And, in fact, for him, that was more or less the truth of it.

“Why did you do that?” Phiri asked.

Mandiveyi played casual. “It made sense. What was I supposed to do? I don't see the problem. The police have found no bullets, no evidence of gunfire. Nothing.”

“Police? Gunfire?” Phiri exclaimed. “I don't know what you are saying.”

Mandiveyi's heart skipped. He'd made a mistake. He'd thought he and his boss were at least deep and long enough connected to share the supposition of the gun's use. But Phiri's protested ignorance claimed otherwise and, worse, cut him loose on the implications of his assumption. Although he couldn't see, Mandiveyi was aware of the other man turning towards him for the first time. He could smell Phiri's breath—it carried as much alcohol as his own. He realized that Phiri was scared and his own fear intensified. “I am not saying anything,” he said. Then quickly, in spite of himself, desperate to say something, “I buried it.”

“Then you can fetch it for me.”

“Sure.”

“So get it,” Phiri said. “Bring it to me.”

Mandiveyi was frantically trying to control his thoughts, the situation. Controlling situations was what he did. He said, “Sure, but it's safe, you know? We're on the same side, isn't it?”

Phiri's index finger buried itself in his sternum. “You're not an idiot, Mandiveyi. There are not two sides. There are many sides. Even us: you, me,
Iganyana
—it is already three. And I will make the gun disappear myself. Otherwise you can see what happens. You will bring me the SIG, isn't it?”

“Of course.”

Mandiveyi got out of the Range Rover. His mind was racing. He didn't go back into the bar, but caught the nearest cab. He wasn't thinking about Nature. If the worst came to the worst, she could disappear just like that. If the worst came to the worst, so could he.