The Colours That Blind

by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  My eyes accidentally trace the scars once more before I drag them away. Mkoma says it’s rude to stare, so I’m trying not to. I hold tight to my seat belt, which is still firmly done up.

  ‘Mzukuru wangu.’

  My eyes are glued to Ambuya as she dances her way towards my door.

  I hear the screams that tore out of me when I was taken from my warm bed and shoved in that white van in the pitch of night, with Bamkuru’s voice somewhere in the background.

  The door opens. My palms moisten.

  ‘Ah, you look as though you’ve just seen a ghost, Tumirai. Give your Ambuya a hug.’

  My body tenses as she unbuckles my seat belt.

  ‘Ambuya, what about me?’ Noku says, stomping on my feet to jump into the old woman’s arms. I breathe in relief.

  ‘Ambuya, Daddy tried to starve us. My stomach was grumbling so much I thought there was a cow in my belly.’ She pouts, eyeing Mkoma and sending them both into fits of laughter.

  ‘Don’t worry, my mzukuru, your Ambuya has prepared some delicious food for you.’

  Ambuya’s eyes shift to me, smiling heartily, with Noku balanced effortlessly on her hip despite how heavy she is. Laughter floats in the compound. A young boy leads the goats and cattle into their kraals at the edge of the compound, close to the big bowing tree that seems to have more branches and leaves than it can hold. I remember playing under there, enjoying the shade and the whispers of the tree. Bamkuru had once told us that the bowing tree slumped like that because it held so many people’s secrets and they were too heavy for it. He said that if you went under it, you could hear it whispering the secrets through the wind, trying to give some of them away.

  Mkoma unloads the groceries from the boot while two other boys who have emerged from nowhere pick them and take them to the main house.

  ‘Tumirai, get out of the car so that I can see how much you’ve grown.’

  I had almost forgotten that I am still in the car. A strange feeling bubbles inside me as I get ready to be stared at. Ambuya reaches for my hand and my heart explodes, causing my lungs to go stiff. Mkoma gives me a sharp eye. I slide out of the seat and force a smile.

  ‘How are you, Ambuya?’

  ‘Ah ah ah, look at you, almost a full-grown man now, mzukuru, with that thick voice breaking nicely like that.’ She nudges me as though we are friends. Although I don’t want to, I can’t help but smile.

  ‘Very soon you’ll be a strong man with all those pretty girls hoping you’ll chase after them, huh, Tumirai?’ she says, winking at me.

  I look down, slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Now, everyone, let’s go inside. You must all be hungry.’

  I look at Noku, waiting for her to talk about our little stop at the Halfway House, but that was a whole three and a half hours ago, and by the silence I figure she must be hungry again. We eat and then sit around the fire in the round hut, licking our fingers. The flickers of the flame illuminate the kitchen and dance across people’s faces. The room is full. There’s a boy – Ranga – one of the people who helped carry the groceries earlier. He’s almost my age, and I heard Mkoma say that Ambuya has become mother to him because his parents died. There is also a much older cousin who has been having trouble finding a job in the city but will be getting a ride to town with Mkoma when he leaves, an aunt and her daughter who came from next door to greet Ambuya’s grandchildren, and an old man who doesn’t say much but who catches my eye because of a huge tattoo of a knife on his bicep. Ambuya’s home almost seems like a centre for wanderers.

  ‘So your Ambuya tells me you’re doing a great job flying big aeroplanes around the world,’ the old man says to Mkoma, his voice soft.

  Mkoma smiles and starts telling his best stories from work. The room goes quiet as we all drink in his voice and swallow his hilarious tales. His mood right now is a whole vibe.

  Mkoma has that thing about him. When he starts talking, when he doesn’t have thinking lines furrowing his forehead, everyone draws in and listens attentively. Sometimes even if he’s only blubbering on about whatever, like that he’s hungry, people still want to hear. I smile. I should own up to it – I’m proud to be his younger brother. I like this side of him.

  Tonight he isn’t the strict Mkoma, or the worried one either. He seems more carefree. Perhaps having Ambuya there makes him feel like a child. Or maybe it’s the way an evening fire lifts the veil of storytelling, giving the tellers confidence and allowing the rest of us into new worlds.

  8

  Next morning I’m staring outside through the window in the big lounge in Ambuya’s main house. I can see the winding twist of the river snaking downhill, tempting me to come take a dip. I sigh and step back from the window. I should be in the gym right now, or better yet doing lengths in the pool.

  There’s an old couch next to where I’m standing, and a vinyl deck in the corner. The TV in the front of the room is one of those old ones that looks like it has an occiput.

  I roll my eyes at the sound of laughter outside. Mkoma is talking to someone and I can hear Noku begging for more of those juicy guavas from the tree. My stomach growls. I’d really like one right now, but I’m not going out there. I’m staying in here long enough for Mkoma to see that I’m not on board with his scheme of leaving me behind in this forgotten part of the world.

  Just a little while ago, I was complaining that my workout app isn’t updating my routines, and he said I had to chill. His words exactly. ‘You’re taking this too seriously, Tumi, you need to chill. Even if you don’t make it into the team, what’s important is that everyone knows the effort you’ve been putting in.’ I’m not even going into how irritated I am just thinking of him saying that. And to stab a bleeding wound, Noku echoed, ‘Yes, “A for effort” – isn’t that right, Daddy?’

  A for effort?

  Sounds almost blasphemous.

  Where at the Olympics do they give medals for effort? Where Sway?

  Nah, I should be improving my endurance right now, not stuck in this time capsule of a place. I’m not working this hard for some imaginary A for effort, while Bongani and Liam waltz into the Zim team just like that. I’m going for gold. Unlike the rest of them, I need to get in. So don’t talk to me about A for effort. I need to win!

  I step back from the window and collapse into the sofa next to Ambuya’s vinyl deck. I point the remote at the TV and mess around with the controls. There’s a little bit of feedback coming from it but no sound, and anyway there’s only one channel, the boring one.

  On the mantel there are a few pictures of my father standing in a classroom, probably at the Oakwood Mission School in Chinhoyi, where he used to teach before he disappeared. Next to those are pictures of Mkoma, back when he used to smile more, of my grandfather when he was alive, and of Bamkuru. How does Mkoma not see that this is shady? After what Bamkuru did, Ambuya still displays him like he’s some hero.

  I scowl and move my eyes to the side. There’s a poem hanging above the other sofa, opposite me, with a picture stuck in a corner of the frame. I stand to get a better view. It’s a young woman with a big afro and some white guy beside her. I spend a while looking at it. It looks a bit like Ambuya but I can’t be sure.

  I head towards the bedroom as soon as my phone starts ringing. It’s probably Musa. I have been avoiding him all day because I don’t know how to tell him I’m not around to train. And frankly I don’t want to hear the disappointment in his voice. I halt in the corridor and feel my eyebrows almost touching as I frown.

  Ambuya looks at me and smiles. The jagged scar stretches with her skin as her cheeks spread.

  What was she doing in my room? Where is Mkoma when you need him?

  ‘I’ve just brought back the clothes you were wearing last night. They were soaked in smoke after sitting in the kitchen hut, but they smell all fresh now. It’s a good thing I washed them.’

  I nod quietly, trying to erase the frown.

  Why is she randomly explaining? I didn’t say anything. Onl
y guilty people do that.

  I watch as she begins to walk away. Then she stops and turns towards me.

  ‘Oh, and Tumirai – I found this in your pocket …’

  My heart freezes at the sight of the envelope. The second letter. I must have left it in my pocket yesterday.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ Her voice is more serious now. ‘Did your brother give you his letters?’

  I don’t answer. She smiles, but only with her eyes this time.

  ‘I don’t think your brother would appreciate you taking his things, my boy. I won’t say anything to him, but perhaps you should keep it safe till you can put it back where you found it.’

  My dear mzukuru,

  It is always so good to hear from you. Your letters give me so much joy. When I received this one, I went and told all our neighbours how well you did last semester. They are all so proud. My friend Mrs Moyo promised to slaughter a chicken for you as soon as you come back. You have always been so smart, mzukuru, something you get from your father, no doubt.

  I am glad that you felt you could see me in those torn diary pages I sent you. I am sending more with this letter and I hope that my young thoughts will continue to comfort you every time you think of home. Especially in those moments when you are tempted to think you cannot overcome the harshness you say you are facing there in that foreign land.

  You know, mzukuru, each time I think of the terrible things we suffered in the past, and how hard we fought, I think of you. And I smile because I know that it was all worth it, every single fight. Because look how proud you have made me, mzukuru, making so much of yourself in a world where the odds are stacked against you. What more could I wish for? So though you might feel like it, don’t give up, mzukuru, because it has never been in our blood to do so.

  Your Ambuya

  PS The boy at the post office wouldn’t let me post the peanut butter I promised you. Something about it not being allowed. I am sure he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But don’t worry, mzukuru. For you, I will find a way.

  PPS Never forget how much I love you.

  9

  Ambuya’s story

  When I saw him standing there in the pouring rain, my stomach caught a whirlwind. It felt as though my brain had completely forgotten to remember him. It was like seeing the dead.

  ‘Thandie, you’re back?’

  I wanted to scream at him when he said it. I wanted to run as fast as I could, to cry. All I thought was, I wasn’t the only one who left.

  Bas Rogers struggled to get out of the car. He must have had one too many beers, like he always did when he played cards with his friends in the city on a Sunday afternoon. I dashed to his side of the car, trying to keep my eyes only on the bas. But oh, how mischievous young eyes can be. As they slid to Matthew, I could see his brown hair dancing wildly in the wind. Things that had absolutely gotten no consent from me fluttered everywhere in my stomach. He closed the driver’s door and came to help me with Bas Rogers.

  ‘Oh yes, girlie, your mother did say you would come in her place.’

  ‘Yes, bas.’

  ‘You remember my nephew Matthew, don’t you? Nice young fella. He’s going to be an engineer soon, aren’t you, Matthew?’

  Bas Rogers seemed cheerful. He must have won at his game of cards, and the alcohol had definitely sent some joy his way. His eyes darted between Matthew and me as if he already knew we were hiding something. I nodded back at him, this time making sure to keep my eyes where they should be.

  It reminded me of when we were younger. Amai had actually raised Matthew, while the Missus supervised. But unlike in the village where everyone is your uncle or aunt because you’ve known them since you were born, the Rogerses and us are not family or anything close to that.

  As I held the bas’s right hand and helped him out of the car, Matthew stood there watching me. I could not see his face because my eyes were where they should be, but I could feel his gaze boring right through me.

  ‘Matthew will be here for a while. It’s good to get another set of eyes to help manage the farm. He’s decided he’s not better than us. That he’s not too good to help us around the farm even if he has a degree, haven’t you, Matthew?’

  I raised my head and looked at Matthew, who avoided my stare. It was typical of the bas, even on a day when he was in a cheery mood.

  ‘We picked up a few things from the market. They’re in the back – go grab them, girlie.’

  ‘Yes, bas.’ I nodded and, as soon as the bas was standing, I dashed to the back of the truck. The wind had grown stronger and the rain was starting to spit harder. Bas Rogers had bought two sacks of rice and what I suspected was meat, neatly wrapped in newspapers. Oh, the smell of meat. I don’t know when last I ate meat. With the war and everything, it is truly a luxury.

  I held the back door with the weight of my back, fighting the rain as it recklessly poured down on me. And then the thought came charging at me as though it had been catapulted. My hair! It would most definitely shrink now. Showers of water flooded through it, flowing past my face into my very wet dress.

  ‘I didn’t know you were back. I wanted to write …’

  The air thickened. I gasped as the rain poured past my nose.

  ‘You’re really not going to talk to me, Thandie? Not that I don’t understand, because I do.’

  ‘I’m here to work, Matthew. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make that impossible.’

  I kept my voice as soft as I could, because even though my insides boiled with all sorts of emotion, I had not forgotten that the land and hence all the power was not ours yet. I lifted a heavy sack of rice from the boot of the car and balanced it on my head. As I reached for the wrapped-up meat, he grabbed my arm.

  ‘I really am sorry, you know. I shouldn’t have … I wanted to … I’m just really sorry for everything.’

  His bluish-grey eyes were sincere, almost as though he would cry, but I pulled my arm free and walked towards the house.

  ‘What are you doing, you silly girl? Taking a bath? Now the rice is all soggy. Whatever shall I do with you?’

  The Missus stood right by the door, safe from the wild spit of the heavens. I breathed in deeply and held my tongue. Matthew appeared behind me with the other sack of rice and the rest of the meat, just as drenched as I was.

  ‘And where do you think you are going, dripping with water like that? You’ll have to go home and change. Matthew will take the food in.’

  Matthew said nothing. Maybe because it wasn’t his place to, or maybe because he considered it rude to speak against his aunt. Or perhaps to him it was normal for someone like me to be treated that way. I will never know for sure what he thought in that moment, but I do remember that he said nothing.

  10

  I cannot sleep though the night is thick. Amai will not be pleased that I am still burning the candle away, but I cannot stop my heart from pounding wildly like a ceremonial drum.

  Trouble marched into our yard today. I saw it with my two eyes, standing next to my brother, differently jointed metals of a bayonet slung loosely on its shoulder like an accessory.

  ‘They call him Bullet because he never misses a shot,’ Farai my brother had said. And I shivered. I still am now. Because although the gunman is as young as I am, his stare left me thinking that wherever in the bush he hides, he must chew up the bones of war and violence for sport, spitting them out like mere pith.

  So when Amai was wailing and rocking because Farai said he was leaving to join the comrades, I followed the stone-faced man outside where Amai could not hear and begged him to let me cook for the comrades instead.

  ‘Allow my brother to finish school. Let me serve you in the meantime,’ I almost cried. I’m thinking of his snarl now, and the shivers I felt spreading all over me.

  ‘We will be watching you,’ is what he said. ‘Don’t think we don’t see you cosying with the white man.’

  Heavens tell me, what have I done?

  I think I might ha
ve just opened the door to my nightmares. Because now they are all roaring at once and showing me their teeth.

  11

  I haven’t been able to write for some days now. I am nervous all the time and I fear that these nerves might just become my new normal. This country is in the thick of guns and bullets. I have heard on the bas’s radiogram stories of comrades dying in Nyanga, and in other reserves. The white man telling these stories says the security forces have the situation contained and are protecting the people. I wonder then, who are the people? Do they include us?

  I am anxious lately that someone will find out about my association with the comrades. I pray that no one ever finds this book, because if they do, I will have written my own death. But I feel as though this page is the only place I can truly be myself. The only place where I can write the things I am afraid to say.

  These last few days, I have had to discreetly cook a meal of sadza and chicken for a group of hungry grown men, wait for one of the war boys picked from the village to fetch me and take me to whatever location the comrades are at. It isn’t a daily thing because they always creep up and down the area, past the border just a little way away and into Mozambique where they train. But I have to always be ready in case word comes that they are around. I have to always be careful, because no matter how much the village fears the comrades and might even support them, no one can be trusted. It feels as though I am now in the business of stocking anxiety.

  Today, the Missus and Bas Rogers sipped some tea together with Teacher Edwards, the missionary I’ve heard so much about; Miss Judy, a niece of one of the Missus’s friends; and two men whom I suspected were officials from the Rhodesian Security Forces. There was an older man they called general and a younger man with sharp eyes and a slow lazy blink whom I did not at first recognise.

  Strange things have always happened at Bas Rogers’s farm, for as long as I can remember. Lately this general, who is a middle-aged plump man with a tired and sagging belly, turns up at the house often, in a white Alfasud. He sits out by the veranda with the bas, sipping a glass of sherry and speaking in low tones. I am worried he will read the uneasiness on my face and see that I am trying to glean useful information for the comrades.