Authors: Brian Chikwava
Dave slam the front door so hard again and again, our house
nearly fall down. He have been cheat while buying drugs. He
think that he is buying crack but it turn out to be something for
making dogs do heaps of poo.
Jenny do this violent brain-rattling laugh that shake even the
doors and windows of our house. She dog even start to bark.
In the evening there's heaps of vodka bokkles going around
and everyone in Shingi's room sound loud and pathetic. By
midnight Dave is lying on floor like dead, Shingi have pass out
on his bed and Jenny is lying in pool of vomit in bathroom.
On Monday Shingi forget to go to work. In his room things is
quiet. I sit on my suitcase by window most of the day, polishing
my screwdriver.
I go out wandering in Brixton Market and I bump into old
Tim buying fish. He is with the knife that he always talk about
in his shop. He give me big funny grin when he see me but I
shake his hand to make clear that I don't do no hard feelings.
'Hi, Shingi, this is my wife Diana.'
His knife is one of them big mamas that look like they wear
apron all the time when inside house and always smell of flour
and baking powder. Tim is looking worryful as he introduce me
to she.
She have warm smile and we try to make small talk as Tim turn
around to haggle with fishmonger. I ask she if Tim allow she to
hold TV remote control at home, and she go kak kak kak and I
don't know what's so funny.
Tim join us; he look vex and complain about how the fishmonger
try to use them ways and habits that is normally used to
put down them poor folk. I nod as his knife watch because Tim
is talking straight to me saying he also come from poor background.
He continue with this outpouring so that there's no
chance of us talking about how I leave his graft.
'Oh people are sometimes not treated fair,' he cry and me I
agree until he try to tell me that in England another way them
poor folk used to be put down was by being ridicule for being
not good at holding they fork and knife.
'Now, me I don't agree. Even if I'm not English, there is some
things that I know first hand. I have see Dave's use of fork and
knife, which cannot be classify as five-star skill.'
'Who's Dave?'
'Some homeless bum. One day we go to Elser Cafe. There Dave
demonstrate his fork-and-knife skill in grand way. While he is busy
doing battle with piece of meat, it shoot off his plate like missile,
fly into the air, out through the cafe entrance and it land somewhere
in Israel. That's the kind of accident that don't happen with
someone who have got good fork-and-knife skill.'
Now this pathetic drunk smackhead appear out of nowhere,
and out of the three of us, he come straight to me to ask for spare
change.
'Spare some change, brother?' he say, shaking and giving me
this long coalface; his eyes drop as he try the old emotional blackmail
style. He press so many buttons on me I want to close them
my eyes so tight you can't swipe razor blade through my eyelids.
'People. They should know when and when not to bother other
people. I don't like saying no because, deep down, I am nice man.
I even have them friends who is like you. But right now I have
to tell you the truth straight and square: don't ever talk to me
like that; you don't know me.'
He drop his eyes, throw curse and walk away.
'Just because me I'm black native and he's black don't give
him the right to pick me out of all them people. Sometimes you
have to take firm stand with them things otherwise you get run
over,' I tell Tim and his knife. They is struggling to smile because
they give me them tight grins like they don't want to be involved
in this kind of thing.
I go to Internet cafe to check my email and there is email from
Tom. He have really now land in the country and is asking if he
can come visit me and
have you see Comrade Mhiripiri? People say
he is after you because when the police start chasing him back home
he had use some of his money to pay only part of bribe to cover up
for you but you let him down. They say he is bitter man now
.
I get up and leave.
I pick one copy of the
Metro
newspaper from the station and
go back to our house.
At home I find Jenny and Dave all worryful and tense. They
say someone come here looking for me while I was out. When
they tell him I'm not here he say he will wait and he spend hours
sitting alone in the kitchen. Then he leave without saying one
word.
'Did he say he is looking for me, you sure?'
'Yes.'
'Don't open front door if you don't know who is knocking.'
I sit on my suitcase and read the
Metro
paper from front to end.
I don't want to think about how much money Shingi have got
left now.
The news have not change since I last read the
Metro
; stories
about Israel and Palestine, Iraq and another story about Tony
Blair and how his Christian beliefs not good for his graft. The
only interesting thing inside is in column where they is talking
about the Ancient & Honourable Society of Rat Catchers, some
organisation with members who is quality professional people. The
society have big reputation, with each member average about 600
rats per year, all catched on farms in Sussex and Berkshire where
the honourable society organise weekend visits for members.
Membership is £550. That is more than what Shingi have got left
now.
I also read about how long time ago in England men who was
dying and don't want to turn into some sorry and poor sight
would just go to edge of cliff and jump off. And if they don't
have the strength to make journey to cliff then there was always
this club called 'the holy maul' that was keep at the back of the
local parish for any family that need it. The family take it and go
maul the man. I wonder if Shingi brave enough to face the holy
maul if something happen that leave him too weak to go jump
off cliff in Dover.
Out on our road some racket break out involving woman with
big temper. I go out to check what this is all about. It's Jenny.
Dave and she is all on they way back and she clash with neighbour
who live two doors from us. The
jambanja
start when Jenny's
dog drop
kaka
on the pavement right in front of our neighbour's
gate and she don't bother to pick it. Then this old man come out
of house and come down on she like big swan, asking she if she
is going to pick that up. But Jenny is used to this kind of thing;
she just start throwing she mouth in rough way: yeee children is
dying of starvation in Zimbabwe and you come out whinging
about dog shit in front of your house; yeee let's get perspective
here please!
The whole thing descend into one roof-shaking shouting match
about 'you people' and neighbours stick they heads out of
windows; I get worryful because I don't want wrong attention
being attract to us. I thief back into the house and don't want
anything to do with this. I don't want police to come sniff sniff
around our house.
You and your friends now getting careless about things, I say
to Shingi when they come inside. Just because you have your
papers OK and don't fear police, don't have to be selfish about
things.
He just sit on his bed and start rolling skunk. He have forget
to go to graft today.
I write to your mother and tell she what's going on, I warn
him. I will write letter and say Shingi is working in Parliament
and earning tons of money. Why you hide it from your family that
you have Parliament job now? Back home inflation have go crazy
at zillion per cent, your family is starving and you is wasting money
on drugs here.
'Shingi! You OK?' It's Jenny, but there's no answer from Shingi.
Jenny start asking if he have headache again. Dave think Shingi
is having whitey because he smoke too much skunk.
'But he's talking to himself,' Jenny tell Dave. They don't know
what Shingi is saying.
'He's talking in tongues,' Dave laugh.
Our house is full of skunk smoke. The next thing that I hear
is this hoarse and gnarled primitive howl that sound like it is being
tear off Shingi's throat.
Jenny's dog start barking and Jenny start giggling with fright.
Now Shingi is doing deep belch, making animal grunts, breathing
deep and loud and groaning. I know this number; he is just
pretending he is possessed by vex spirit.
'He's getting the shakes,' Dave panic.
Shingi is only trying to frighten me because I have give him
tongue-whipping and threaten to write to his family and tell on
him. I know this kind of style. Shingi have do it before back home.
Even Uncle Nhamo used to do it.
I sit tight waiting to hear if Shingi is going to say something
about my past. But he start calling out for his mother. Dave and
Jenny is out of they depth now. This racket go on for hours and
when it die down, the first thing I hear clear is Jenny. 'I'm hungry,'
she say. She want to go check if there's anything in them bins.
'No way, this time of the night?' Dave don't want to go. 'Those
backstreets get completely mental at night.' He make big moan;
yari yari you get stabbed by weird people for no reason; yari yari
I don't want to deal with mental people.
I lie on my bed listening and wearing my past like it is some
very tight gown; I don't want no one tugging at it.
I get up and go to toilet and as soon as I sit suddenly there's
loud rude knock on the front door. On the toilet I sit straight
up. I hear Dave run to the door. He don't even ask who is outside
and just fling the door open like idiot.
It's them the police. They is following on complaint that was
make by neighbour on account of the quarrel and all the racket
that Jenny's caused.
Jenny come down to join Dave at the front door and they is
busy talking to the police now. They talk and talk for some time
and I don't know what they say but they make them go away.
Shingi stop going to work altogether; I know that in Parliament
this kind of behaviour is what can get bosses vex; miss graft two
three times and you is out straight and square.
I call Sekai on the phone and she send big earthquake down
the wire and it rumble inside my head. She have slip back into
she nasty self now.
'Now stop childish games. I know things about you but I am
not blackmailing you and threatening to climb St Paul's dome to
shout it to the world.'
Then she go on yari yari yari, yeee I am not trying to shame
you but doing you big favour because you have to face up to your
life like all of us. 'And did you hear that General Nguruve has
send your Green Bomber friends and the army to your mother's
village and now everyone has been moved away?' she say.
Some kind of animals breathe and scatter your thoughts like
heap of leafs; I spend all day in bed trying to collect my head into
one heap. First you is at the mercy of them winds – gust sweep
it in one direction, another blast in another direction. Then this
thing scatter it all over. Still you try to keep them things together.
The wind blow into our house and into my room; it scatter
and gather papers and things into heap at the corner of room. I
sit on my suitcase by window doing nothing.
There is big rough knock on the door and I run downstairs to
ask who is there but there is no answer from outside. I ask again
who is there but I only hear them heavy footsteps walking away.
I run upstairs to my room to look outside from the window
but on the street there is only two kids playing with they bikes.
I go back to polish my screwdriver now. I polish the thing until
it shine like trumpet. The only fault with screwdriver is this small
lump and dimple near the tip which I am suspecting was caused
by Paul testing car battery and maybe some spark jump onto
the screwdriver and melt it. The lump look like the wart that
Dave have on his nose. Now I polish the wart so it twinkle like
likkle star. This house need order.
In the kitchen, Shingi stagger and talk like he have drink too
much. His left hand is twitching in funny way and his mouth is
hanging. On his mobile phone there is two text messages for me
from Original Sufferhead: all that US$4,000 was just big jazz
number, that's what he say.
Cde Mhiripiri just wanting to hit
people's pockets to make himself rich. He try it on many people.
Angirayi was also running around because Cde M say they want
US$4,000 from him. Angirayi never find the money and he is still
there and police not even interested in him or any of us because what
they want is Cde M because he have humiliate them many times and
Goromonzi police inspector have got scores to settle with him. And
now people say he is part-time BBC in London
.
The rush of whirlwind inside my head scatter me all over.
Mother, she lie heavy in my heart. The head swirl. The air inside
our house turn and shift my head into sixth gear. From way beyond
the blue hills inside my skull, back in my rural home, where
Mother's bones lie scattered, trampled and broken by JCB, where
my grandmother used to go to the river to carry the water, come
back and keep the fire burning, I now hear them voices tell me
that I am still among the living.
I put the screwdriver in my pocket, and manage to leave the
house without running.
It's not right.
I march straight to the chestnut tree. Among them all the
homeless and asylum seeker, there he is, wearing his brown cap.
Before I even speak he give me one tricky look. I look down at
my feet, but he hit me square in the face.
'Speak, young man,' say the Master of Foxhounds.
I clear my throat but nothing else come out.
'Have cigarette.' He flick the cigarette box open and stretch
his hand out in my direction. Sitting some few steps from him, I
have to decide whether to stand up and walk to him or wait and
see if he come to me. For funny reason I stand up, reasoning that
maybe he meet me halfway. He remain seated.
The moment I step across the halfway line onto his side, it
is like he have cast some spell. Before I can reach for the cigarette,
his eye jump jump inside its socket and give me this look
that fix me to the spot. I don't know whether to turn back and
sit down or to take his cigarette, but my hand, on its own, shoot
out. He pull his hand in slight and draw me in. I stretch, reach
out and manage to pull out one cigarette from his box. It is
time to return to the spot where I have been sitting, which now
look like long long journey. I feel light as the wind. I am not
sure if giving back his cigarette will help me get upper hand
again.
My feeties bolt. They take me down Coldharbour Lane. I get
to them traffic lights at the corner of Atlantic Road. I have to go
back; I have to face up to him.
He is still there when I get back. I try to catch his eye but he
don't want to look and now again pretend he don't know me as
usual.
'Why you play cool style and try to deny me? In case you don't
see – the past stand tall before us, the wind is blowing she skirt
up, and there underneath she, soon I see you huddling down; no
more cover for you now,' I hit him square on the face with the
question as I light cigarette. He look at me with heap of confusion
on his face.
'Do you remember?' I puff out big cloud of cigarette smoke.
He don't know what kind of style I'm hitting him with. 'I can
get you in trouble with Amnesty International people if you is
not careful. Do you remember me? I spend time trying to tell
people back home that you being here is just big jazz number.
Then I hear the truth. Do you remember this son of the soil?' I
ask again and now everyone is paying proper attention. The MFH
don't say nothing. I stand close, holding my hands behind to show
him what kind of style I can do. My beard point down at his
feeties. 'They can walk those feeties but have they ever step on
truth? Truth is like snake; you step on it and it bite you straight
and square, I know because I have step on it. Now do you
remember this son of the soil?'
He is still trying to deny me because we is in front of everyone.
'Goromonzi. That's where I get born again, my friend. On the
day the sun forget to shine. Among them tall trees; I blow and
trees hide they faces. And you, where was you?'
I change gear. 'You OK there, old man; do you know this kind
of style?' I give him the look and I can sniff sniff that he have big
fear squatting behind his one eye for the first time.
'You know this kind of style, eh? From them those days?
Those days when we go to Goromonzi because of them British-sponsored
MDC party supporters. They was crawling on and
under every rock, man, even beating up some of our supporters.
And you, where was you?'
Now everyone looking at me and the MFH.
'Two dozen boys of the jackal breed, but only one of them
carrying the only truth in his back pocket – that was me when
we meet outside Goromonzi police station. The son of the soil
give few revolutionary barks and we break into song when start
to march inside police station:
Zimbabwe yakawuya neropa
yakawuya nehondo!
Do you get this style, eh?' I give the MFH
side glance to get his head out of gear.
'We sing and wave them sticks in the air and the earth shake
on that day. We march through police station gate singing and
the sound make you feel like old fire have start to burn inside
you. Do you want me to remind you? Now do you want forgiveness,
comrade?' I point my beard at the MFH and he give me
the slow eye. Oliver get up and go.
'I run you the whole story if you have forget. When we march
to charge office and the officer-in-charge is on the veranda watching
some of his men playing game of draughts in the warm morning
sun, who was the one that shout, "Is it not too soon for your
men to be playing draughts when enemies of the state is still
leaping all over us in our sleep and clogging them skies?" Officer-in-charge
take one look at us and know who we is because we
come with heaps of forgiveness; we is them sons of the soil. In
England they don't allow me to give forgiveness but tell me if
you want forgiveness for everything.'
'Forgiveness for what?' The MFH throw glances at everyone
around like he want agreement from people that this is silly thing.
'I don't know what you talk about, young man; forgiveness for
what?' He shake his head, stick cigarette inside his mouth and
look another direction like he is getting tired of this.
'Wrong question,' I whip him straight and square. 'Ask again,
and if you was listening to me you will know what question to
ask.'
'Peace peace peace, make love not war,' Peter start shouting
this kind of poem.
'Look at history, my friend. The path of many of us is set by
few fat bellies with sharp horns and hard hoofs; they gore and
trample you the moment they know you see through they cloud
of jazz numbers. And you want me to fight them with poem?' I
lick Peter straight and square. The MFH blink like goat.
'I remind you the story again. "Where's the traitor? We bring
them bags of forgiveness," that was the style. But now your beard
is gone; just some old part-time BBC who never reply letters.'
I get into gear and start singing the story now. '"We only have
one and he's going to court next week. We can't release him,"
that's what the officer-in-charge say. Big mistake that, if you
remember.' I spin on sole of my boot and look everyone in the
eye. I cough and clear my throat, everything scatter like leafs inside
my head and now I hear the roar of thousands of pigeons flapping
they wings as they take off to the sky. Over Harare North
the sky is dark with swarms of pigeons that have been frighten off
buildings and squares by my coughing. Thousands of wings flapping
above the city and the MFH is wondering what I am looking
at. I give him the story again.
'
Zimbabwe yakawuya neropa yakawuya nehondo
, that was the
song. Do you remember the song? When we break into it, who
launch into this speech: "Who do you think you serve by protecting
enemies of the state when the president have make it clear that
we should give them all the forgiveness," his beard pointing at
the problem in front of us. Time come when every man have to
decide which side they is on.
'Officer-in-charge suddenly realise quick that even if we is sons
of the soil, we have sharp nose for treason. Them stocks clang
open and the traitor is quickly handed over. We drag him away
to the forest where it is easy to give him plenty of forgiveness.
But that was not the only traitor I deal with on that day and you,
you will never know. You only chose money. You, you know
nothing. You never know of the other traitor, the shoe doctor
inside my head. But that's the one that I take out first. Soon I
am hitting him with them Yes or No questions and he is bawling
his lungs out because he know he is the first to go. Soon I hit
him with the truth. Truth is like granite rock because if someone
hit your head with it, your head feel sore. One rock of truth can
crack your head, comrade commander. Now, after all this heap of
time I step on the truth about what game you play. It bite my
foot and I wake up to find that you, you was spinning US$4,000
jazz numbers around my head. Everything that the boys do you
have betray. You have become traitor. So what was it all for to
you, the struggle?'
'What was it all for?' He laugh and shake his head like this is
silly question. Now he start going kak kak kak kak so loud like I
am fool; his mouth is wide open like cave, the rotten back teethies
is pointing. 'Even today you still have milk coming out of your
nose, young man. Zimbabwe was a state of mind, not a country.'
He laugh like maniac.
'You want forgiveness or what?'
'Forgiveness forgiveness,' now people is starting to shout and
the MFH has big alarm on his face.
'You want forgiveness?'
'Forgiveness, forgiveness!' everyone is shouting now and I'm
rolling up my sleeves.
'Forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness!' the crowd now sing. The
MFH is lugging football-size eye and I'm trying to get to him
but already there is thrusting of arms and elbows everywhere as
Peter and them other guys is now all over me trying to restrain
me. My screwdriver fall out of my pocket onto the ground. The
MFH get up, throw his arms up in the air and shuffle away with
fearful looks on his face. By the time everyone let go of me the
MFH has go down Coldharbour Lane. I pick up my screwdriver
and run down the road trying to find him but there's no sign of
him.
In the sky, the pigeons have clear out and the sun is falling out
of the sky behind big mama cloud and my head slide into sixth
gear. My feeties start causing big racket and taking me all the way
to Brockwell Park.
I walk into the park and my bladder is full. I want to pee; I
go straight to them trees on the edge of the park and don't care
if people can see me. The biggest tree. It have one untidy small
anthill growing on its foot and the anthill is crawling with them
termites. I pee on them straight and square.
I walk from the tree and I come across crippled squirrel trying
to drag himself towards bush but he is failing because the back legs
look like they was squash by wheel of car or something so he is
trying to drag them across. His back is broken; he look pathetic.
Soon the thing is going to die; I can't leave him like that.
I take out my screwdriver, put my boot on squirrel's head to
pin him down, position my screwdriver right behind the head; on
the spine. One quick jerk of the wrist, and snap. The screwdriver
go through the neck right onto the grass and wet ground below.
The squirrel don't even feel anything. No pain, no movement
except them front paws that shiver like the squirrel now go spastic.
Blood squirt everywhere. I put him out of his misery and put
back some order into his life.