Authors: Brian Chikwava
I go to the i-Joint, some round-the-clock Internet cafe on Brixton
Station Road. For £3, you stay there until 7am.
Shingi's email password is poor – originalnative. It take three
tries to crack it. Inside there is only one message from Chamu;
he is wondering if Shingi can send him 'a sound system' because
he want to start DJing at community hall. Me I tell him to
'pull
your tongue out of my bum; I have no more ginger to keep pushing
away tongues that continue to stretch out for my bum and trying to
thief they way into my plane ticket money. Also you is sell-out
opposition supporter
,' I tell him straight and square.
I don't stay at the i-Joint too long because the guy behind the
counter look at me funny and the place feel funny with only one
other man that twitch every two seconds.
I carry my suitcase along Brixton Station Road, into the dark
and unlit Popes Road, and find my way through them deserted
market stalls on Electric Avenue where I take suitcase off my head
and stop to pee on pile of garbage that spill out of industrial bins
behind Boots chemist. I am halfway through my pee and the man
with them soldier's eyes rumble out of the rubbish and give me
big fright. Me I call for peace; I don't want to make enemies on
first day out on the street. Especially after what have happen to
Shingi. One flash of some ten-pence blade, one flick of tramp's
wrist and one not so quick leap backward on your part and before
you know it you is struggling to stop gallons of life from leaving
your body. Them mental backstreets is full of death dealers.
The man with soldier's eyes is high on brew but he accept that
I am sorry and we part in civil way. I go to sit under the chestnut
tree. It is dark and the place is desert, but it is near sunrise because
it is not long before it start getting light giving me some view of
Brixton that I have never see before. Dawn come and the sun's
rays start to climb across the quiet walls of them tall council estate
tower blocks in the distance. Brixton Road show sweep of old
street lamps that I have never see because such things can hide in
daytime clamour of preachers throwing word of God at you through
megaphone, cars and buses, posters, graffiti and them trains cluttering
above your head as they pass over them bridges.
I fix my eyes on the bus stop outside KFC and soon start to
see them figures cross them streets for some while before they is
replaced by flickering commuters. Down Coldharbour Lane shops
open; shutters – red, blue, green and silver – get rolled up. Some
funeral procession with them clopping horses, jazz band in white
uniform march past and make me think of Shingi.
The mobile phone start to ring again. I answer and it's Shingi's
cousin again. This time he make sure he don't hand the phone
to the nincompoop. I tell him that me I don't think that Shingi
want to be found. That's it. Unless they want to repay the £500
that I have spend on Shingi's family?
He talk nice.
'Can we meet?'
'OK; I wait outside Brixton station as long as you come on
your own, without the nincompoop or anyone else.'
By the time our phone conversation end I am in the chatter
of them chestnut-tree people who is already out for the warmth
of the sun. I pick my suitcase, lift it onto my head and go to Elser
Cafe where I buy myself cup of tea. When the waitress bring it,
the tea is too hot, so me I start to fan it with Shingi's hat. One
woman carrying she baby come to sit at the table near me, but
suddenly move to another table because our eyes have clash.
I finish my tea and go.
It is 10.49am. We is supposed to meet at eleven o'clock. I go and
sit across the road from the station. When Shingi's cousin come
out he is not only late by five minutes, but he also bring with him
the nincompoop. He come out of the station with him, and then
he leave him by newspaper vendor and go to stand alone by flower
vendor where he take his mobile phone out and call me. I add
two and three and figure things out.
'You is five minutes late. I can't meet you now because me I
have meeting in city and have to go straight away. If you want to
see me again, we meet at Bond Street station at 3pm sharp. No
foolishness. And my price go up to £1,500 because me I know I
have Aids. Soon I will be dead, so I also want money to buy good
coffin so that I can be lay to rest close to Mother,' I tell him and
hang up and switch the phone off. I watch him having bad-tempered
talk with the nincompoop and they disappear into the
station.
I get up, take walk down Electric Avenue. Life is not fair. Them
stalls is now piled high with yams, salt fish, chicken, fruit and
vegetables as the market roar back to life. I cross Atlantic Road
and go to the other end of the market on Popes Road.
Jenny can't be right.
I go to the chestnut tree. I go to the Tube station and watch
people but I grow tired and go through the market again. I rest
at Elser Cafe because my neck is getting tired of carrying suitcase.
I go to Tesco but don't buy nothing. I go to the Salvation Army
shop looking for binoculars but they say they don't have any. Me
I stand outside KFC. I go to the train station and sit on the bench,
but them trains making noise and putting ideas into my head so
me I go back to the chestnut tree.
How can HIV-negative be good news? What school did she
go to, Jenny? I don't even want to waste time asking Sekai what
HIV-negative mean. I'm tired of wrong answers.
No one want to talk to me and they all giving me the wide
berth. And comrade commander is not there.
I touch my hair; it feel like cat's hair. Jenny cannot be right;
the world is never fair, me I know. Now I even feel the diarrhoea
coming but I hold it. Soon I get bored and decide to go into
Brixton Tate Library. I want to read hard until smoke lift off them
pages of books. I have not read properly in long time and this is
the first time that I find myself with spare time to read. I want
to read Sherlock Holmes.
I try to go inside the library but I am stopped by the security
man; he don't like my suitcase. I try to explain to him and he start
pushing me out, saying they don't want disruptive people in the
library. Another important library official gang up on me but he
leave at dog speed when I ask him if he can see what is pointing
at him. He only start waving his fat finger from safety of staircase.
It is 2.37pm. I send text to Shingi's cousin and tell him I am
sorry we have to cancel our meeting because I have many things
to do but we can meet at Bond Street station same time tomorrow.
The sun leap up; sometimes. The sun fall down; sometimes. I visit
Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street. I pay good money to
see Sherlock Holmes's armchair – his bedroom, magnifying glass,
pipe, violin and all. Our tour guide now tell us that Sherlock
Holmes is just some fiction character. Without batting one eye? I
pick my suitcase and leave. What else is big con here?
I visit that shop that have the mirror that can make you look
tall, beautiful and rich. I go to the basement, with my suitcase,
while them shop assistants look at me in that usual London way
when them people think you is in the wrong place but don't tell
you straight and square. But me I don't care what civilians think.
I put suitcase down, stand in front of the mirror. I nearly suffer
skin failure from lot of gooseflesh: there in front of me, the original
native flash on the mirror for one second. This is the works
of Banda the Chipinge wizard straight and square. I pick my suitcase
and leave.
It is nearly time to meet Shingi's cousin but me I don't want to
stay anywhere near Bond Street no more. I walk towards Oxford
Street. I am in vigilant mood and not walking on them pavements,
but right in the middle of the streets, on the white line, with
suitcase on my head while traffic flowing past me in different
direction. That way I stay well clear of any tall building; if some
dunderhead drop £1 coin from some tall building it can hit ground
at 400 metres per second. If that hit your head, it feel like someone
smashing into it with pickaxe while you is strolling absent-minded
on the street. We have talk about it before with Dave and Shingi.
I walk on the white line with suitcase on my head. Nothing
can hit my head. I feeling like
umgodoyi
– the homeless dog that
roam them villages scavenging until brave villager relieve it of its
misery by hit its head with rock.
Umgodoyi
have no home like the
winds. That's why
umgodoyi
's soul is tear from his body in rough
way. That's what everyone want to do to me, me I know.
I stop and call Shingi's cousin and tell him where I am if he
want to find me.
'You also have to be careful and look out for coins that might
hit your head because them tall buildings is full of dunderheads
in they smart suits.' But he is too late coming. I have to ride
number 3 bus to Brixton. I call him to say that he should learn
to keep time.
'This is Harare North, you forget? Now, if you still want to see
me let's meet in Brixton. Come with US$5,000 because me I also
have to buy pills for HIV soon. Life is not fair, you know.'
When Shingi's cousin arrive in Brixton he call me again and I ask
him how much money he is bringing. He fail to answer me so,
with sweet politeness, I ask him to go think again and call me
with nice number; even if you is homeboy it don't mean I can let
your family mess up my money and you don't pay nothing. When
he call again me I ask him, what is the number that you have now
decide is good for me? Now he sigh and just go all cheap and
stupid on me. He hesitate, stammer but finally mention the right
number. US$5,000.
'We meet inside Shingi's head,' I tell him and he sound lost
again. 'The house!' I have to give him clue. Then there is too
many voices on the phone, they start to get mix up and it is hard
to tell which voice is which, let alone what or which question to
answer. I hang up.
Before long it is after midnight and I am pacing up and down
deserted Atlantic Road, empty of all them market vendors. The
sky get dark with them fat mama clouds and hide the moon and
some strong wind suddenly come and blow Shingi's hat off my
head, take it high into the air and it land on the train bridge above
me. I have no ginger to go after the hat and so I go on to Electric
Lane hoping to find the man with them soldier's eyes. I want to
pee on someone. Then I notice that because I forget to lock it,
my suitcase have break open and the things inside have unravel
and scatter all over them streets and get lost. Even the proof; my
test result. It's gone. Nothing is left inside suitcase except the
smell of Mother.
I put the suitcase down on the pavement to check again what
have happen; it's full of nothing.
Soft rain start and get the tarmac wet so that them street lamps
reflect off the wet tarmac doubling up in numbers. Even me –
there is my double image reflected on the wet tarmac. In the sky
the moon struggle to come out of them clouds. Shingi's trousers
is missing now, I am only in his underpants. Right in front of my
feeties there is puddle of water that has form from the rain and
street lamp is shining into it. I look down into puddle; the crack
that is screaming out of corner of my glasses' left lens in all directions
make things unclear; I can see Shingi looking straight back.
My stump finger now feel cold and sore from carrying suitcase. I
shake my head and Shingi shake his head until I start to feel dizzy.
Why he want to shake me out of his head like so, me I don't
know.
I take few steps following Shingi's nose in no particular direction.
I run. I can feel my bum jump jump behind me like heap
of jelly. I stop. Paul and Uncle Sinyoro have give up calling now;
they fail to raise the money. But you can't trust them; maybe they
is now chasing you with them big rocks in they hands wanting to
punish you like you are
umgodoyi
. Forgiveness is the best kind of
punishment. You don't know when or from which direction the
rock of truth will come tearing through the air to smash your
head and bring everything to one final end.
Half naked, you turn left into Electric Avenue and walk. You
start to hear in tongues; it feel like Shingi is on his way back to
life. You can tell, you know it; Shingi is now coming back. Already
there's struggle over your feeties; you are telling right foot to
go in one direction and he is telling left foot to go in another
direction. You tell the right foot to go in one direction and he is
being traitor shoe-doctor and tell left foot to go in another
direction. You stand there in them mental backstreets and one
big battle rage even if you have no more ginger for it.
Special thanks to the following people who helped make this
book a reality: Jackie Batanda, Tom Bullough, Kate Howell, Delia
Jarrett-Macauley, Parselelo Kantai, Monica Arac De Nyeko,
Chika Unigwe, Charlie Ward and most of all Ellah Allfrey, Kevin
Conroy-Scott and Poet Hank.