The Death of Rex Nhongo (20 page)

J
erry was waiting outside the clinic for Patson to pick him up. He checked the time on his phone and found he had a text from April: she wouldn't be home until after eight. She wanted to stop in on the Appiahs. “Another disaster,” she wrote.

Jerry considered the commitment his wife was showing to this family they barely knew. He was irritated that it ate into the already limited time she made available for their own son. He caught himself and tried to think more generously: perhaps the night they'd found Kudakwashe had affected her more profoundly than he'd realized. Nursing had inevitably, if sadly, inured him to other people's blood and pain, but April had clearly been shocked by it all and thrown herself wholeheartedly into a supporting role, particularly listening to Shawn, an outlet for the man's stresses, fears and loneliness.

Out of the blue, Jerry wondered whether his wife had a crush on the American. It was a thought that gave him pause and, the more he dwelled on it, the more he was certain it was true. There was something obvious about it—the amount of time she spent there, of course, but also the way she talked to him about Shawn and Rosie, filling in the latest from the hospital, the man's worries for his wife's sanity and the apparently bizarre reaction of Kuda's family to the sad situation. In fact, this was more or less the only thing he and April now talked about, a kind of conversational neutral territory where there was no reason for either to be irritated.

Jerry even wondered whether April had acted on her crush, but he quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn't that he imagined his wife morally or emotionally unsuited to infidelity. He knew that she wasn't; not like him. But she had lately become so cold, so hard, so loaded with resentment that he could no longer picture her as a sexual being. It didn't occur to him that her calcified loathing was reserved for him alone.

Jerry checked the time again. Patson's implacable lateness bugged him. Actually, it wasn't the lateness so much as the easy dishonesty with which the guy estimated an arrival time and avoided questions of his whereabouts—
Yes, Uncle
.
At the clinic? I will be there now now. / Where am I? I am near.
Very
near. / Ten minutes, Uncle. No more than half an hour. I am on my way.

Jerry considered his options. If he went home now, he could give Theo his bath and supper and put him to bed. Indeed, if he went home now, he could do all that and still have time to call Bessie back to babysit and be gone before his wife's return.

Trouble was, Jerry wanted a drink. He told himself it was the beer with Tangwerai that had given him the taste. But no sooner did he tell himself this than he felt obliged to concede the lie: these days, he always wanted a drink. That bothered him.

April thought he had a drinking problem. Although she never spoke about it with that level of directness, she clearly worried that she was doomed to repeat her mother's mistakes. Jerry sympathized. Of course he did. But she needed to understand that the neuroses were her own, not to be projected onto him. And he seemingly didn't sympathize enough to stop drinking.

Still, Jerry was bothered by his thirst. Why? Because it was yet another signifier of the typical expat: hapless victim of cheap childcare, boredom and burgeoning self-importance. So, he vowed to go straight home. He would put Theo to bed. He wouldn't drink tonight. Maybe he'd fuck about on Facebook for an hour or, bandwidth permitting, try to torrent some new music.

The Raum pulled up, but it was Gilbert who got out, with his bright smile and cheery “Hello, Boss!” Patson must have knocked off for the day and Jerry's heart sank. As Bessie's husband, Gilbert provoked in Jerry an almost paternal sense of responsibility, but Gilbert was also a talker and Jerry much preferred Patson's quiet concentration. Jerry hadn't seen Gilbert since the “incident” and knew he'd have to ask him about it. Worst of all, if Gilbert had no other fare, he'd want to visit Bessie for an hour or two. Jerry couldn't really face attempting to revoke his laissez-faire attitude, but he knew that if the taxi was in the driveway when April got home it would undoubtedly put her back up.

“Where are we going?” Gilbert asked.

“The house.”

“No drink tonight?”

Jerry found the question, the smile, grating. “No,” he said. “No drink.”

He asked the obligatory question about the beating and, in spite of himself, found he was intrigued and increasingly horrified by Gilbert's story. He discovered that Bessie had given him the sanitized version. He had often thought April knew nothing of what it meant to live in this country for the majority of its population, not compared to Jerry, who worked in a ghetto clinic. But as Gilbert unfurled the brutal absurdity of what had happened, Jerry appreciated that his own limited experience only allowed him to confirm his wife knew nothing, not to pretend that he knew more.

“Did you go to the police?” Jerry asked, but he knew the answer even before the young man's snorted response. Then, “Chipangano: they shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.” He said this only because it was true, not because it had meaningful consequence.

“You are right,” Gilbert said.

“And how are you feeling?” Jerry asked pathetically. “Are you better?”

“I am quite OK.”

“Good,” Jerry said conclusively, but his burst of sympathy had already given the young man all the encouragement he needed to continue.

So, Gilbert told Jerry that the beating had been a watershed moment, and he now admitted the city wasn't for him. He said he'd come to Harare to be close to Bessie and further his ambitions. He'd studied at KBC—had Jerry heard of it? Jerry shook his head. “Kadoma Business College,” Gilbert said seriously. “It is an excellent school.” He said he'd planned to work for Patson, to save enough to find a job commensurate with his skills and interests, to set up a business of his own.

“So what happened?” Jerry asked dutifully.

“These are dreams, Boss. These are dreams.”

Gilbert then launched into an impassioned if semi-comprehensible diatribe. “You think it is possible,” he said. “You think anything is possible. Education opens doors—that's what they say. But what doors does it open? I have read many books—very many books. I am an educated man, but what doors are open for me? None of them. I am just a poor African, Boss.”

Jerry made a noise somewhere between demurring and sympathy—what else could he do?

But this only prompted Gilbert to outline his plans to return to Mubayira with Bessie and become a farmer. He seemed energized by the prospect: “I will be the best poor African I can be.”

“With Bessie?” Jerry said, suddenly engaged.

“Of course.”

Gilbert said he was just hoping to raise enough money for the move. Land wasn't a problem because his father or the headman would allocate him a plot. But he needed capital for seeds, fertilizer and a few chickens to get started. “If I have a thousand dollars…” he said, in an open-ended, musing fashion that left Jerry in no doubt of the underlying intent. Then, “How long has my wife been working for you, Boss?” Then, “I have been driving you three months, isn't it? And we often talk like this. We are friends. I think of you as one of my good friends, one of my very good friends.”

In the back of the taxi, Jerry shook his head. He knew where this was going. He hated where this was going. He had lent money before—relatively small sums to Thomas, the gardener, to buy a handcart for his rural home, to Bessie for reasons unspecified (probably, in retrospect, to get her husband to Harare)—and it had felt good: the gratitude, the sense of contribution. But local problems, like his own, were a bottomless pit and, at heart, he knew that he couldn't actually afford a thousand dollars and, besides, it wouldn't solve Gilbert's problems any more than it would solve his own were he to spend it on flowers for his wife. Jerry said, “I can't afford that kind of money, Gilbert.” And the young man lapsed into sullen silence.

Jerry's phone rang. He looked at the display. It read: “Albert Mandiveyi.” He answered. He listened briefly. He needed no further excuse. He said, “Sure. Why not?” He rang off. He leaned forward to talk to Gilbert. He said, “Change of plan.”

T
hese days, I watch TV all the time and Momma not even there to disaprove. When I get up in the morning, Gladys give me bathtime an then I watch TV while I eat breakfast—
Sofia the First;
iss bout an ornary little girl who become a princess. Sumtime, if he not workin, I watch wid Daddy an he give me a big squeeze an say, “You're my princess, little bird.” An I don say nuthin, but I know I not a princess cos princesses not black: thas true on TV an iss true at school too where Emma-Jade say the same thing an she a big girl wid long red hair like Sofia. I watch TV after school, an sumtime I even watch after supper.

Sasa say, “You see? Iss good thing Momma gone, little bat, cos now you watch TV whenever you like.” Usually Sasa talk like a screech, but he say this real soft like a bird—chirrup-chirrup.

But it still make me sad an I say, “Mom's not gone, she sick. An when she a bit better I gonna be allowed to visit.”

Sasa say, “I think your daddy better already.”

An I say, “What you mean?”

An Sasa sing, “Better with the white bitch! Better with the white bitch!” Chirrup-chirrup.

I miss my mom real bad, only I try not to show it cos it make Daddy sad when I cry, an sumtime it make Sasa angry. Also, the white bitch roun the house all the time these day, an why I gonna show her how I feel when I don barely know her at all? I mean, she nice enough, but she smell funny and I don wanna call her “Aunty April” like Daddy say, specially when she all embarrassed an go, “I don't know about ‘Aunty,' April's fine,” in that funny voice of hers. An I don wanna call her April neither.

The night Mom have an accident I wake up real thirsty an I call out, “Mom! I want sum water! Momma! I need water!” Like that. Only she don answer, so I get out of bed an try an find her.

Sasa waitin for me at the kitchen door. He go, “You wanna see sumthin real funny, Rosie?”

I open the door an Mom lisnin to music, which is why she don hear me. She turn an she look at me an I swear she look so scared like I'm spooky. Sasa fly roun the room screeching, “Funny funny funny!” But he don sound like nuthin funny.

An Mom start prayin real fast: “Father God, Yahweh, my blessed savior, protect us from this evil spirit made manifest! Protect us, Father God! Protect us, sweet Jesus!”

An Sasa go, “She can see me! She see me!”

An I go in my head, “Don be silly! No one see you but me!” An then, out loud, “You don see Sasa, do you, Momma?”

An Sasa squeechin (I made up that word—cross between a screech an a squeal), “Cut out her eyes! Cut out her eyes!”

I don know what happen after that. It like I blink and the clock move on without me, jus like when Momma take me to church an the pastor put his hand on my forehead an my chest. Nex, I jus standin in the kitchen an iss all quiet like a mouse. Sasa nowhere to be seen an Momma sittin on the floor wid a face all tired an tea towels wrap roun her arms. I say, “You OK, Momma?”

An she smile at me an go, “Wash your hands, little bird.” So I go to the sink, stand on my step, get soap an I wash, an Mom say, “Are you washing them really well? Scrub scrub scrub!”

I say, “Yes, Momma.”

I get down an I show Mom my hands and she say, “Good girl.”

I look at the tea towels roun her arms an I see they thick an wet wid blood, so I aks her again, “You OK, Momma?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Did you have an accident?”

“That's right,” she say. “I'm feeling a bit weak, but I'll be OK.”

Then she tell me she want me to go to bed, but before I do I gotta pass her phone, which sittin on the counter. I do like I's told an she say, “Thank you, little bird.” Then, “Come here.” I lean forward an she kiss me on the forehead an she whisper sumthin an I aks what she say an she go, “Just a little prayer.” Then she smile at me. “Go back to bed, my love.”

“Are you gonna tuck me in?”

“I'm feeling a bit sick,” she say. “You're a big girl, aren't you? You can go to sleep on your own.”

I pull a face and do a big sigh, but I's atchly kinda happy cos she call me a big girl. So I go back to bed on my own an I asleep jus like that.

I wake up cos I need to go pee. Iss all quiet and I can't hear nuthin, not even Sasa. I go to find Mom, but all I find is the white bitch sittin on Mom's bed. I tell her I need the bathroom, but iss dark. She turn on the light for me. I aks where Momma is an she tell me that she had an accident and had to go to the hospital. She tell me Momma gonna be OK. She tell me to go back to bed. But I go, “I don wanna go to bed. I'm not tired any more. I wanna watch TV.” An the white bitch let me so I know that, whether Momma gonna be OK or not, evrythin not OK.

We sit on the sofa an watch my
Henry Hugglemonster
DVD. I think about Sasabonsam an I tell her that I worried that Momma's accident his fault. She look at me all strange an go, “Is he pretend or is he real?” An her face tell me the answer she wanna hear, so I go, “Pretend, I guess.”

I mean, thas what Daddy say too—that Sasa pretend—but I's not sure I know the difference; at least not all the time. Like, I know Momma had an accident an now she sick an thas real; an I know when Emma-Jade play Sofia the First, thas pretend. But how you gonna tell me Sasabonsam real when nobody see or hear him but me? An how you gonna tell me he pretend when I see an hear him as clear an loud as the TV? Like, when Daddy put me to bed, he go, “Let's say our prayers, little bird.” An we make a list of all the people we love an we pray that the Lord Jesus Christ, our risen savior, protect them. But I don know if what Daddy say real or pretend, because if he love Momma, how come he fuckin the white bitch?