Authors: Brian Chikwava
I pick the dead thing and throw him inside bin and wipe screwdriver
with my shirt.
My feeties take me around the pond. I sit down. I can't sit.
The trees, they is swaying around because of wind. The winds is
causing havoc inside our house I know; the windows was open
when I leave.
Some old tune have start spinning inside my head;
Togure
Masango.
Low volume; it is like listening to faraway people. Even
my breathing now feel like it come from some place else; from
way beyond the hills. Everything fade away to great distance.
In the sky one big mama cloud is gathering all its children
around sheself. I look at she and she look at me with she big face.
My feeties, they take off again. Out of the park. The air hold still,
something shift but I am still among the living and I breeze
through them Brixton streets like the winds as darkness fall down
like dust on Harare North. I can walk. I can't smile. I get hungry.
My feeties is vex, my stomach is crying and I am walking into
them mental backstreets; I want Marks & Spencer's food.
To the left of Marks & Spencer's bins, some distressed cry
for help rip through unlit air. I turn my head to look: there is
brain-jangling argument exploding between two people. Shingi
is still not sober but sober enough to be frightened. He is stepping
backward and shouting for help. The big tramp in front of
him is holding sharp instrument, wearing T-shirt only and pair
of dark underpants. Before I can even shout his name Shingi
have drop his bag of food and bolt down dark alleyway. I hold
my screwdriver tight.
I have not even take dozen steps but I know that the winds
have already rip the sky open; two drops of rain have already find
my face on them backstreets of Harare North.
I get to the alleyway. There is no sign of anything. I run to the
next turn and I see them turning into another backstreet; Shingi is
now limping and the tramp's bum jumping in the air like heap of
jelly. But he is now chasing the tramp.
'Shingi, Shingi,' I shout. They disappear.
'Shingi,' I call. Above us big mama cloud throw down one of
she children – some big bale that come down crashing onto the
streets like great water sachet soaking everything. I get glimpse
of Shingi ahead and call his name; water run down my face and
go inside my mouth. Big mama o' she throw sheself down at them
pointy roofs and church spires – they rip through she and she
splash into tatters on the streets of Harare North. I see Shingi
soaked; his trousers heavy with the blood of big mama, he holds
onto them and hobble into shadows of tall buildings. That's the
last I see of him.
Poo happens o'! And the world is not fair place. That's the style of
this funny place. It make you fry wire nails. Around the corner, on
them wet pavements of Harare North, Shingi is one untidy heap.
Naked tramp has give him forgiveness and is splashing his feet away
into the night, far from long hands. I feel helpless. I am useless.
Everything is useless. I don't know what to do.
And the woman at other end of 999 call – she is also useless.
I hear it in she voice; she want to ask too many questions – where
am I from, who am I and all that stuff but 'sorry you is not
going to get that from me. Me I know your style, I know you
is going to put this information inside long hands of immigration
people and police. Me I don't want to be witness o' no.'
Me I hang up.
I don't wait around for ambulance people or police to arrive. I
go sit under the chestnut tree where I can see police car and ambulance
flashing blue and red inside dark alley and reflecting on them
wet tarmac. The policeman talk talk. The ambulance people point
they torches and talk heaps too. The rains have stop falling now,
the preacher outside KFC have go home, the
djembe
player outside
Tube station have pack his things and go, chestnut tree is empty
and street pavements only have handful of people pointing they
umbrellas to the sky where big mama cloud jump out of.
I light cigarette and watch the ambulance drive slowly down
Coldharbour Lane towards King's College Hospital and police go
down Brixton Road to police station.
World is not fair place o' and poo happen in it. Before we go
to bed that night Shingi is fighting for his life.
'He have been stab stab all over his head and neck in those
mental backstreets,' I tell Dave when he come back to our house.
I have just finish washing my clothes in bathroom because they
was wet and also have squirrel blood from afternoon.
'Shingi decide to go alone in them mean backstreets because
you and Jenny won't stop yari yari yari with them other junkies
outside Brixton station and you don't accompany him.'
Now, just because I have tell him what have happen, Dave is
pushing them big eyeballs in front of me like he care.
'I'm sorry, we was –'
'I have no time for this.' I step up to my room.
You want to go check on your old comrade to see how he is doing
and if this is serious injury; two times you go as far as hospital
gate; two times you turn back. Then you try the phone.
Late at night, Jenny knock on your door and ask if you want
cup of tea. It's the first time she ever do this. She look worryful
and sorry for you because you is sitting tight on your suitcase
reasoning hard. She have big raft of bogey hanging from she nose.
When she come with the tea, the bogey is gone and you don't
know where it have drop so you don't drink the tea.
Shingi lie in intensive care in deep sleep. Maybe he is bandaged
head and neck with them black and blues all over his face, I don't
know. But he will be OK.
The air in our house is stiff and blue. No racket from Dave or
Jenny downstairs; I have tell them to keep away from Shingi's room
now and stay in downstairs room only. The only sound coming
into my room is the here and there rush of cars down the road.
My window look down onto our road. I sit stiff by the window.
On the street two foxes is getting into fight. I puff cigarette, breath
like ghost and wipe sweat from my big forehead.
And Shingi's mother?
It is my big painful duty to tell you that
. . . I run out of words and don't know what else to write. I put
my pen down and reason even if she's not his real mother, but
his mother's sister.
Shingi going to be back home one day; he is going to bring
heap of money home; I want them tight lyrics only. No stiffness.
If his family ever know this is what have happen things will get
funny and Shingi have to explain to everyone how everything
happen – he is going to have to tell his family how he nearly lose
plot in London, make friends with bums, get into drug and lose
graft. That story is not going to fly off Shingi's tongue. What will
MaiShingi say?
I go inside his room. His suitcase is locked. I pick it up and
fling it against wall once and it burst open; things fly onto the
floor. The money too. There's now only £360 of it. I spend whole
hour going through papers trying to find his mother's address.
When you is trying to write tight letter, it's like hanging fat
dictionary by rope and cracking the old whip on it until them
words fall out onto the floor. Them wrong words keep falling out
and you have to keep sweeping them away and then whip your
head some more until the right word fall out. That's what happen
when I start writing to Shingi's mother. In the end me I don't
write letter that is too long but I keep it tight and small.
My head go into sixth gear now because me I have to say something
to Shingi. You can never know what to say to someone that is fighting
for life. What do you say? That's the first question that perch on my
head like big bird. I have not see him and I have not say one word
to him since that evening. That make me feel heavy. I have to say
something today.
I buy Shingi two bananas and two apples but I don't know
what to say. So I go lie on my bed and rehearse for when I finally
find courage to go into hospital. Maybe he will be asleep and can't
hear me. But I have to talk. Say something so the heart stop
feeling so heavy; tell him everything is going to be sweet and
swanky in the end.
I let them things come out like you do when you is good old
friend. Me I will talk about everything. Crack them jokes like we
used to do in them good old days.
I will talk about how brave he is. I will tell him about the story
that I read when he was still OK; that story in the
Metro
about
how English people used to go and jump off some cliff.
If you was fit to walk, I know you would have walk to Dover
cliff and make one brave jump and end all this in neat way, I will
crack joke.
I have check at the back of St Matthew's Church and the
bad news is that there is no holy maul there, I will laugh like
we would have do if he was fit. He is old friend Shingi. We is
going to go kak kak kak about everything when it have come
to pass; things going to be OK, I know. Comrade Mhiripiri
have been exposed now; I don't have to find US dollars no
more. No more fighting over money and all. I only have to step
back home now.
Maybe some fat nurse is going to float in to check all is OK.
Maybe I will go quiet until she go out of the room. Then I want
to make the comrade feel swell inside if he can hear me. I will talk
about them good old times and all. Like the time he start his graft
in Parliament and bring home copy of
Private Eye
magazine that
some big man forget in the toilet. By the time he get home, the
comrade have learn heap of words and already showing off, calling
Members of Parliament 'm'learned friends'. But another week have
not even pass when he come back moaning about some big battle
he have in the gents' toilet with one joist of poo. He swear it can
support roof of the House of Commons.
That one was jazz tune that you was spinning me, no? I will
joke now. If he try to get his attention to the soft ingredients
involved in the making of them m'learned friends' meds then he
will know it is impossible for them to make poo that can be put
to such powerful use as he suggest.
It has to be one of them your graft mates that secretly dump
that log, I will laugh at him. That is if it's not you.
I want to ask him how the hospital people will take him to
toilet.
Some of them things coming out of you, I'm sure is going to
be like caveman's club, both in shape and size. Maybe now we
have find better replacement for holy maul, me I will go kak kak
kak to myself. Maybe his finger will move.
What kind of food you want me to bring for you?
Maybe all them fruits that I keep bringing will keep piling up
because he don't eat them.
I can bring some steak or porridge if you want? Or roast
pheasant with the old goose liver and spiced chutney and all that
kind of fancy stuff? I will try every button; with them Parliament
people, you never know what kind of tastes grow on them in
Parliament. He is still M.P.
I take one of them bananas from the side of my bed and start
eating it.
Now I have to talk about how I have already fix him. I have
even make photocopies of the letters that I post yesterday. We is
going to have good laugh about this when it's over. I have to
practise reading the letter.
P D N F – Please Do Not Fold
Dear Mother
Time and ability plus double capacity have force my
pen to dance automatically on this paper. I hope this letter
find you in good health, if so, doxology.
Well, everything here is just half lemon half sugar, to
make it Schweppes lemonade. Me I am as healthy as
Harare North dog. You will understand if you come here
and seen how well fed them dogs is.
Me I have good news. My long time here now pay me
back. I'm confirm to you that I now work for the House
of Commons. It is House of Parliament here. Tell Aunt
MaiAngirayi. Me I see important people. Even the prime
minister. Maybe now you can say that you is mother of
Member of Parliament!
Me I love you spontaneous and as I sit perpendicular
to the ground and parallel to the wall I only think of you,
since you is good mother even if you are not my real
mother. I love you more than my shoes love my feet. I
will send pair of top-notch English shoes.
Me I have to pen-off here because I have to cook.
Sleep tight and don't let them bedbugs ever bite you.
Yours faithfully, your son
Shingi
PS: I will send money next month.
Your room is still full of disorder, I also want to tell him. I pick
your passport from floor in your room. I have it for safe-keep.
Also the mobile phone. It have been on charger for days because
no one disconnect it since you get hit. I remove it from socket
and take it for safe-keep too.
I also want to talk about how I bust his suitcase looking for
his mother's address but I can't because I have see them heap of
letters from his family; some funny stuff. Especially from Shingi's
Uncle Sinyoro. He is the one that used to pay Shingi's school fees
and other things that MaiShingi can't afford. He is now Senior
Officer in Ministry of Education but behave like retired colonel
– grumpy and not tolerate different opinion. Shingi have tell me
that he is also now divorced Christian and is quiet man living
alone like hermit and always speaking polite with strangers, pharmacists
behind counter or vegetable vendors. But under them
sheets he is brutal bastard who frighten his wife and children,
killing cats that eat his biltong.
There's heap of vex letters from Education Officer and it seem
like it's because Shingi have write letters calling him stiff-necked
believer. So Sinyoro get busy wetting himself with vex throwing
rough mouth at Shingi and all that kind of stuff. Some of them
letters inside Shingi's suitcase talk funny things like how Shingi's
grandmother is concerned that Shingi need to be cleansed of bad
spirits. She don't see it that Shingi pretend to be possessed sometimes
because that's his style for scaring people.