The Colours That Blind

by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  Back when I was very young, I remember another old man who used to visit the bas, talking to him by the trees in a dusty Peugeot, a map laid between them. Baba had once said he suspected that the bas secretly worked with the security forces, allowing them to hide their weapons in his house and plotting routes to catch the comrades – the ‘African terrorists’. I agree with Baba – with all the people that the bas hosts, he can’t only be a farmer.

  The day blazed this afternoon, disassociating itself from the usual coolness of Vumba. What puzzles me is that in this heat the white man still has his tea, dabbing at the sweat on his brow yet voluntarily swallowing all that hot water!

  My eyes glided to the younger official and stayed there as memories reeled in, dancing around the surprise I felt. I could never have forgotten him, even if I wanted to. Phillip! The thought felt almost as daunting as the one I had of Matthew, because it brought back the unwelcome feelings of rage and shame. I stood there recounting to myself all those weekends and holidays Phillip had spent at the farmhouse with Matthew.

  ‘Oh, Judy, I love your new hair. You always look so trendy. That nephew of mine must come and see you for himself,’ the Missus had said.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ the young woman had simpered. ‘I saw it in one of those magazines and knew I had to have it!’

  I had had to stop myself from frowning. Her hair was a big puffy blonde show that looked almost like mine, but somehow hers was acceptable, and I was to remember that this was not a zoo.

  ‘Rosie! What are you standing there gawping at Judy for?’

  I awoke from my daydream, realising all eyes were now on me because of that question. I looked down and shuffled back into the house in the direction of the kitchen.

  I looked at my reflection in the silver metal rims of the Missus’s pot as I waited for the water to boil on the stove. I tucked in a few standing hairs along my hairline and patted them down into my neatly flattened cornrows. The last time the Missus had made such a fuss about my afro. Although I had plaited the cornrows loosely, they would at least buy me peace for a few days.

  I slid the plate of scones I had baked earlier onto the tray and marched to the veranda where they laughed and dabbed their sweat, stealing one last glance at my hair as I passed the small mirror in her corridor. The radiogram was playing in the background, and puffs of cigarette smoke spiralled up from the bas and the two officials. The Missus sat there fanning herself, a glass of icy water by her legs. Ian Smith was being interviewed again. I’ve heard him before saying exactly what he was saying today. The bas stood up and marched into the house, turned the knob of the radiogram until the sound carried itself outside and returned to his seat. They all fell silent and listened as the American interviewer asked him questions.

  ‘Once upon a time, Prime Minister, you said you’ll never see black rule in this country in your lifetime. Do you still stand by that?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that that was a fair comment. I think that if we ever got to a stage of having black rule then our policy would have failed. Now, I have heard many experts say that the constitution we produced here is one of the most complicated ones that the world has ever seen. Now, how can you ask a mass of people who don’t understand what even a simple constitution is whether they approve of a complicated one and whether they think it’s the right one or not for their country? This is the predicament we find ourselves in.’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem of all democracies, Mr Smith. Democracy, as I understand it, is not a political intelligence test, thank God, otherwise we would all be run by professors from universities, but it is a means of saying no. Don’t you think in Rhodesia, like in any other country, most of the people who vote, vote on the basis of whether they think well of you and whether they think you can lead them well?’

  The general curled his lip and tapped at his cigarette with a serious expression. I think he’s a little younger than Baba, although his face is already starting to sag, He straightened up in his chair, tapped the butt of his cigarette and shot me a glance as he intervened.

  ‘These journalists don’t understand what we’re trying to do here. What they don’t see is how ungrateful and greedy these blacks are. We have given them all this land in the reserves and in the townships without them earning it, and still they complain. What else do they need? Why is no one talking about how the whites are being killed?’

  I kept my eyes from him as he went on.

  ‘And these terrorists are only becoming more relentless, aren’t they? This is why we called you here, Edwards. It’s time for you and your mission friends to move away. Go back home, or to Umtali, anywhere but here. The locals don’t even want you here.’

  Teacher Edwards, sitting in what seemed like a hovering cloud of smoke coming from the general, smiled. I kept my lip from curling. Missionaries! Baba always talks of how the Bible led the gun here. Yet Amai is still smitten by them, always going on about how supportive they are and singing the praises of Teacher Edwards and the others every time she goes to Sunday service. The way she speaks of them, it is almost as though they are not like the rest of the land hoarders.

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I believe we still have work to do here. I’m assured we’re planting a seed.’

  In my heart I scoffed. What arrogance! Even the general and the bas looked at each other and laughed.

  Bas Rogers spoke. ‘Oh, these young eager boys. What seed would that be, Edwards?’

  I too was interested in finding out what seed he thought he was planting. I watched the teacher out of the corner of my eye as he fidgeted in his seat, somehow isolated like a young kudu surrounded by a herd of lions. But even so, he calmly took a sip of his tea, almost seeming in control of himself.

  ‘I don’t know that we can treat people the way we do in this country, denying them fairness while expecting things to stay in our favour. The mission school is important, sir, a benefit for both our government and the locals themselves, if you will, a way of balancing the scales. Locals need education and medical facilities, things they’re being deprived of. They’re people just like y—’ He reconsidered. ‘My point is, if we keep isolating the locals, we run the risk of weakening the potential of this country that we all claim to love.’

  There was a small silence while the general chewed on the teacher’s words.

  ‘It almost sounds convincing when you say it,’ he said eventually, pulling a whiff of smoke from his cigarette and blowing it right out. ‘Tell me then, what happens if this cause of yours, this umm, this … what did you call it?’

  ‘Planting a seed,’ the bas helped, leering and sipping on his tea.

  ‘Yes, yes, this seed planting. Tell me what happens if it then claims from you more than just your time and effort, eh? What will you do then, Edwards?’

  The teacher swallowed and gave a faint smile. ‘If it does … then so be it.’

  The general smirked, relaxing into his chair with the cigarette still held in between his fingers. ‘Be careful there, Edwards. I hear this God of yours is in the business of testing people.’

  Silence.

  I trotted back into the house and carefully poured the boiling water into the little white teapot that the Missus liked before marching back to the veranda, where the men were still talking.

  ‘Aye, Rogers, I meant to tell you. We have this security system now that we’re giving to all the whites. It’s a kind of an alert that links your house to our police camp in Umtali. I personally haven’t seen anything like it …’

  The general paused again, blowing out a puff of smoke. He glanced at me with his cup of tea in his hand.

  ‘You never know, do you? What these terrorists are up to, what they can do. You never know who they are or who they’re working with.’

  At that very moment, my eyes met his. And just as quickly, my right hand lost control of the teapot I had in my hand, allowing it to tip recklessly, dumping hot water into Bas Rogers’s lap. We both yelped. I guess him because of the pain he
had just endured, and me for the shock and the pain to come.

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl!’

  All of them, every single one, turned their eyes on me. My heart rocked wildly. I watched the bas blazing with anger, as he whisked me to my feet with his hand on my neck. He pinned me to the wall, his fingers tight against my throat. Everything went quiet and still, and in my ears I could hear the clear sound of Amai singing peacefully. It was almost as though she was an angel singing me home. My vision slowly crept away from me before suddenly returning as I collapsed into the arms of Teacher Edwards, panting desperately for air.

  ‘I told you these blacks are trouble,’ the general said, sipping his tea as though he had not just seen a woman almost killed in front of him.

  As Teacher Edwards helped me to stand, I tried calming my racing heart and trembling hands. Bas Rogers now sat back in his chair, speaking as though nothing had just happened. I wondered for a second if my brain had just played a trick on me. Had I made it up and lived the horror of it in my head? Because apart from my shaking hands, everything seemed as it should be. In the corner, Phillip puffed on a cigarette, staring into the distance, his face registering no hint of a care. The Missus continued with her fanning, an old magazine open on her lap. Just another day at the farm.

  Then, as though vouching for the reality of the moment, Teacher Edwards enquired after me, reminding me of what had just happened. My eyes drifted to Bas Rogers and the red skin on his right leg where the hot water had scalded him, now being dabbed with ice wrapped in a towel.

  I looked down, filled with shame for some reason, and walked back in the house.

  12

  I saw him again today. Matthew. He found me when no one was looking, when I was by the sink scrubbing pots.

  ‘Thandie,’ he said and my heart stood still while I fought to keep myself from turning to him. His voice came closer.

  ‘C’mon, I know you can hear me. You can’t ignore me forever.’

  I hesitated, eventually gave in, and turned. His hands were muddy as though he had been handling dirt.

  ‘Matthew,’ I said, only to acknowledge his presence.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he hissed, peeping quickly behind him. We both know why he whispered. I think I almost understand it, but somehow it still angers me when I think about it, that talking to me has to be a secret he keeps. I turned back to the pots in the sink, giving my back to him.

  ‘Thandie, listen, I know the way things were when I left was not ideal, and it’s mostly my fault. I promise, if I could change it I would.’

  I paused with my hands sunk in the water.

  ‘Mostly your fault?’ I echoed.

  ‘All my fault. I meant … it was all my fault. And there’s not a single day I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Not a single day, you say?’ I asked turning again to face him. He smiled as he stood by the doorway looking at me, and all the memories came flooding back.

  ‘OK, so maybe I skipped a few days here and there, but there were a lot of single days I thought about it.’ He walked towards me and stopped by the kitchen table, grinning from ear to ear. I had almost forgotten how he smiles with his eyes, making their almost greyish-blue colour dance. I’d forgotten how his cheeks and the tips of his ears always flush a slight pink as his lips stretch into a smile. I’d forgotten how his smile could make you feel better, like some kind of medicine. All I’d remembered was how he left, and how I’d felt the day I found out. It had erased everything else.

  ‘I’m glad to finally see that beautiful smile of yours. I’d missed it.’

  I snapped back to the present and turned back to my dishes. I started scrubbing the pot in the sink, trying to undo the memories, to shoo away the past.

  My voice went low and quiet. ‘So how was your trip to England?’

  I could hear the wooden kitchen table creaking. I think he must have sat down or leaned heavily on it, but I said nothing.

  ‘You believe me though, don’t you? I know I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I should have … I’m sorry, Thandie.’

  I frowned. I was unsure what I hated more – the fact that he had unapologetically erased everything of that night or the fact that I didn’t want him to. I stood there trying to iron out the stubborn creases in my mind. My head was a volcano spilling wildly with unexplained and mixed emotions, all difficult to understand. The cold touch of a strong coarse-palmed hand pulled at my elbow. I jumped as nerves sent alarm bells ringing through me. Not from Matthew’s touch itself, but because the last coarse hand that had touched me had been firmly pressed against my throat, the other day. He took a small step back from me, confusion criss-crossing his features.

  ‘I really am sorry, Thandie. I really am. You must know that.’

  He looked down with what looked like remorse splashed across his whole demeanour.

  ‘I don’t know what else to say. But I genuine—’

  I moved closer to where he stood, leaned on the table beside him and nudged him with my elbow playfully. ‘I know. Now let’s put all that silliness behind us. Tell me about all the mischief you caused there in England.’

  Footsteps suddenly sounded in the corridor, heading our way and capsizing our little moment. I slowly moved back to the sink while watching Matthew out of the corner of my eye walking swiftly to the other side of the kitchen, wearing a different face.

  The Missus walked in. ‘Won’t you join us, darling? What are you doing in here?’

  Her eyes focused only on him, almost erasing me from the room. I looked down and returned to scrubbing the pot in the sink.

  ‘I was just telling … girlie here … umm, to make a cup of tea for me. Two sugars, no cream, please.’

  I glanced at him and nodded.

  ‘Yes, bas.’

  I am still stuck with the picture of his back as he walked away, following his aunt from the kitchen. And as though he knew the war that had exploded in my head, he paused, turned and mouthed a silent apology. I remember the little ball of fiery anger that fluttered in my stomach. But I also remember the smile I gave him as though it were custom. And as I stood there watching his frame disappear into the corridor, I thought again of that day all those years back. There are questions I can’t shake that bubble up in my mind. Can things be so easily swept away and all ills and complexities forgotten? Or do we try to conjure up false truths that console us? False truths that at least leave us feeling that our humanity isn’t so damning?

  13

  Amai has been very unimpressed with me the whole day. She says I spent a good half of the morning looking dazed and uninterested, as though my head was filled to the brim with useless daydreams.

  I went to the church service at the mission with her. In truth, she forced me, but I think only because Baba was not there. And as I sat there in the pews, all I kept thinking of while the man preached was the last day I had seen Matthew before he left.

  Twice Amai nudged me because I did not sing along to the hymns. But that was because for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about that day.

  It was a Tuesday, and I had been reading with Matthew like we did at times. He lay his head lazily on the skeleton of a truck that had been blown up by a landmine some weeks before that, listening to me as I read aloud. His arms had been raised, his hands forming a pillow behind his head. The wind softly blew on the trees around us, causing the air to rise with the tempting scent of freshly dampened mud. Occasional drips left by the morning rain teased at me from the leaves above us. And as I turned the page to the next, my eyes lingered on the text of the next poem, and my displeasure with the words on that paper bought my silence.

  It was his right eye that peeped first, wondering what had stolen my voice. And on seeing my bunched eyebrows, he sat up and looked at me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  I looked at him, eyebrows still bunched up, and returned to the page. He reached out and gently pulled the book out of my grip. I watched as his eyes traced the poem before they lift
ed up and looked at me. I can almost hear it now as though for all these years my ears have trapped his thick voice, bold and alive enough to intimidate a roaring lion. I watched his lips as the words slid off his tongue.

  ‘Who said love was fire? I know that love is ash. It is the thing which remains when the fire is spent. The holy essence of experience …’

  He looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Too many big words?’ he joked.

  I was too taken with thought to laugh.

  ‘You look like it bothers you.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

  He smiled again and turned the page to another poem. I forget now, but it must have been the one that had something to do with a spear.

  Matthew’s voice rose as he began to read again. But thoughts were still darting through my head.

  ‘How can love be ash instead of fire though, Matthew? Fire brings everything alive. Fire is full of the touch of breath, it is the very meaning of life. Isn’t that what love should be?’

  He was silent for a while, his eyes softly touching the frame of my face as though it held some sort of salvation.

  Eventually he said, ‘Because ash is the only thing that survives the burn of the heat. It’s the only thing that lasts when everything else dies down. It withstands everything.’

  A momentary silence followed. Then my heart erupted as he bent slightly forward with his hands lightly tagging at my chin. I trembled slightly as he reached for my cheek and leaned in towards me. Mayhem ensued in my chest and I drew back, fidgeting nervously.

  ‘Matthew,’ I let out. A burning fire sat in my chest and my stomach felt as though it contained boiled rocks. But I could never beguile myself into thinking that I had the right of passage into this world. A world where this, what Matthew was doing, could happen. A world where we would not be punished for proposing something different. The world has not yet prepared itself, even now. It has not yet learned how to unchain itself from things that bind, from the colours that blind.