I whisper because although it makes no sense at all, I’m afraid someone will hear me.
‘Officer, I’m Tumirai’s brother. What has happened?’
‘What has happened is very unusual, Mr Mpofu. The boy, as you can see –’ he turns as though to convince Mkoma that this is worth his attention – ‘as you can see, he’s a little scared. He thinks his grandmother is trying to kidnap him because he heard her talking to his uncle over the phone. Something about his uncle being released from prison where he was sent for trying to take him before?’
The officer is watching Mkoma’s devastated face. Mkoma looks at me and nods.
‘But I don’t understand what this has to do with Ambuya, Tumirai. Why would you think she is trying to kidnap you? Just because Bamkuru called her?’ His eyes are sad, and the furrows run across his forehead.
‘Am I missing something here, officers? I know my brother is still tormented by what happened back then, and he’s right to be concerned about that bastard coming out. But what does this have to do with my grandmother?’
I can tell Mkoma is trying to be calm, but apart from the confusion, there is a hint of anger in his voice. The officer exhales. His eyes are on me now, and his other two colleagues are watching this whole exchange carefully.
‘Tumirai?’
Mkoma looks at me, trying to understand. I keep my eyes down.
‘Mr Mpofu, the boy says yesterday he woke up to find the old woman standing over him with a knife in her hand. When she saw that he had seen her, she ran out of the room.’
My heart is thudding hard. When the officer says it, it almost sounds true. But again, lies do sound true, don’t they? Isn’t that why we believe them?
‘Tumirai, is this true?’
I hesitate.
‘Is it true what they’re saying?’ he asks again. His voice is soft and tender, almost as though it might just break into little pieces if he speaks any louder.
‘Mr Mpofu, I understand this must be very difficult for you, but I have to ask, is there any reason to believe that the boy might be … perhaps mistaken?’
Mkoma looks at me.
‘My grandmother raised me, and I cannot imagine her doing anything like this. But then again, my brother has no reason to lie. He genuinely looks terrified.’
He pauses and wipes his face with both his hands as though someone has just splashed invisible water in his face. My hands are trembling again.
He sighs. ‘I really don’t know. What must we do, officer?’
‘I think the best thing to do now is for you to take the boy somewhere safe. We will investigate further into this, but we cannot just arrest her without sufficient evidence, especially given that she has no prior history of any worrying conduct,’ one of the officers explains. There is silence for a while.
‘But I suggest that you take the boy far from your grandmother for now, at least till we get to the bottom of this. If what your brother alleges is true, this is not a light matter at all.’
Mkoma wipes his eyes and nods, his face serious.
‘Officers, you have been very helpful. Thank you,’ he says as we leave, his voice flat.
Mkoma and I sit in the car, driving back to Ambuya’s. I can hardly see his face because of the dark, but it’s impossible to miss his hand as it wipes his eyes. It breaks my heart that this is breaking his.
‘I hope Noku is still awake,’ he says quietly. I don’t know how to answer so I only nod.
Maybe I should tell him the truth.
‘It would just be easier if she’s awake so that we don’t spend too much time.’
But Ambuya cannot be trusted. I’m doing the right thing.
Mkoma reaches and presses my shoulder.
‘Everything is going to be all right.’
I look down.
Finally I can see the mango tree in Ambuya’s yard as the car approaches. My heart thunders. The car drives in slowly. The compound is quiet and lifeless – no lingering animals, no loitering cousins, no dancing Ambuya.
As the headlights shine into the yard, Ambuya comes out of the main house, tightening the dhuku on her head. She walks towards the car as it comes to a halt and peers in.
‘Oh, thank God you’re both all right. I’ve been so worried. I couldn’t sleep. The police called to tell me what happened and said it’s best if I don’t come to the station. How is he?’
If she is innocent, wouldn’t she have come anyway? I was wrong to lie, but I know she’s planning something!
‘He’s all right, Ambuya. Just a little shaken.’
Mkoma steps out of the car, his voice now stuck in his throat. He stands by the door for a while before holding his hand on his forehead.
‘It must have been that phone call from your uncle. It’s ridiculous but he said they’re letting him out. Tumirai answered the phone. But I didn’t know about it before then. I told him not to call again.’
‘Why are they letting him out so soon? Have they forgotten what he did?’
Mkoma almost yells this, and although it makes me feel warm inside that he cares, I have no right to because I’ve caused those lines on his forehead. I keep my eyes away from Ambuya. Noku comes out of the house in her pyjamas, her face painted with lines she must definitely have formed while lying on something creased.
Ambuya rubs her arm. ‘Noku mzukuru, go back inside and wear something warm.’
Mkoma looks down at her little sleepy body.
‘What’s wrong, Daddy? You said you had work. Why are you back?’
Mkoma lifts Noku and kisses her on the forehead. My eyes drift to them.
‘Daddy, your eyes are red. Have you been crying?’
I look away.
‘Is it because of the nightmares Tumi has been getting?’
Mkoma turns to me again and then to Ambuya.
‘He’s been screaming in his sleep since you left.’ Her voice is low and sad. ‘I think it’s about that night.’
‘Daddy, last night Tumi was screaming so loud. I was so scared I had to go and wake Ambuya up. He was shaking and then … and then, Ambuya woke him up and stayed till we both fell asleep.’
‘Noku, my dear, why don’t you go inside now?’ Ambuya urges again, her voice very calm and collected.
But Noku sticks to Mkoma like glue, pouting and flashing those big brown eyes. He can’t resist nodding to Ambuya that it’s all right.
‘Is that when you had the knife, Ambuya?’
‘What knife?’ Both Noku and Ambuya say it together. I catch the puzzled look on Ambuya’s face.
‘Tumirai, didn’t you say you woke up with Ambuya hovering over you with a knife?’
Mkoma’s eyes narrow as he puts Noku down. The lines on his forehead are different now. They’re dancing between anger and confusion. Ambuya frowns and I just stare at my feet, unable to speak.
‘Tumirai! You better answer me when I’m speaking to you or God help me –’
‘Noku, go inside, mzukuru,’ Ambuya insists again, trying to keep her voice soft, probably predicting the ugliness about to happen.
Noku tries to argue but one stare from Mkoma sends her sulking her way inside with occasional head turns to see if any of the grown-ups will change their minds.
‘Tumirai!’ Mkoma almost shouts, his eyes bloodshot and bulging. I step back a little, shaking slightly.
‘Simmer down, mzukuru.’ Ambuya reaches out to him, trying to calm him down.
‘Tumirai …’ Mkoma breathes.
‘You said when you woke up Ambuya had a knife. Was that true?’
As I swallow down the block in my throat I can hear the sound of hell breaking loose.
18
How can they let Bamkuru go after what he did? Doesn’t anyone care that he’ll come back to finish the job?
I’ve only seen Bamkuru once in prison. Right after the thing that happened, Saru thought it was a good idea for me to confront him so that maybe the nightmares would go away. I think it was something they taught her at uni
versity or some wise-for-nothing idea she got off a blog or somewhere. I hadn’t wanted to go, but I’d been so desperate for the nightmares to stop that I agreed. Of course Mkoma wasn’t at home, because he would have flipped out at the idea.
I cried myself to sleep for the rest of that week, but never told Saru or Mkoma.
That day they brought Bamkuru to the visitors’ table Saru and I sat at, waiting for him. There were so many prisoners around us talking to their loved ones, all kinds of prisoners, even ones with scars on their bodies just like on the man who took me that night – and just like Ambuya’s.
Thing is, Bamkuru is definitely not my loved one, but when I saw him I still sat up straight and pulled the corners of my cardigan into my palms so he would not see so much of my skin. He walked in, his face half annoyed as though we had dragged him from some lit party or something.
He wore khaki overalls, not orange like they show on Orange Is the New Black. He sat across the table and leaned into the chair, staring at me as though he was staring at a pile of something appalling like vomit. I remember my heart snapping at the lack of remorse in his eyes.
Most of what he and Saru talked about that day went over my head. I could not get over the expression on his face when he looked at me. I can still see the curl of his lips just before we left, little sharp spears spewing from his mouth as he said: ‘We should have burned you at birth like people did in the past.’
Nobody can ever understand how I felt that day, not even Mkoma. Bamkuru had been the closest to a father I had ever had. And all he saw was my skin. It had been more important to him than the blood we shared. I prayed for him in that moment because only God knows what I’ll do to him if I ever see him again.
‘Tumi!’
I snap back to the present. I shift on my feet and look down to avoid Mkoma’s eyes.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the knife angle. That might have been dumb.
‘Tumirai! Is it true?’
‘No.’ It blurts out before I get a chance to change it.
Mkoma leans towards me as though he hasn’t heard me well. I know I shouldn’t have lied, but just because I added a little spice doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened! It doesn’t change the fact that Ambuya still talked to Bamkuru! And laughed!
‘I meant, I thought she had a knife.’ My voice trails off as my lies fail to deceive even me.
‘You said what now?’
‘I might have added that bit abo—’
Mkoma smiles and claps. My heart doesn’t know what to do. I can’t tell if it’s beating fast or if it’s just left me on my own. I read a quote by Mark Twain once that went something like, ‘Tell the truth and you won’t have to remember anything.’ If I met him now, I’d want to tell him that I’d definitely be remembering this, that’s for sure.
Mkoma wipes his mouth as though he’s just eaten something greasy.
‘Mfana, do you know I had to miss work for this? Or maybe you’ve forgotten? I’m just asking. Do you know this?’ He laughs quietly. Not because there’s anything funny, but because when rage doesn’t know where else to go, it comes out this way.
‘Ho-kay. Ho-kay.’ He nods to himself. Whenever Mkoma adds an ‘h’ to the word ‘OK’, it always feels as though he’s saying, ‘Be afraid! Be very afraid …’ the way they do in horror movies. I glance at Ambuya, who seems as shocked as I am at this unexpected performance.
‘Do. You. Know. Who. This. Is?’ he enunciates, clapping between every word and pointing at Ambuya at the end of his sentence.
He’s missing the point! It’s not about whether there was or wasn’t a knife. She spoke to Bamkuru. She asked me about that night! Why doesn’t he get it?
My throat closes up, making it impossible to swallow. I’ve never seen Mkoma this mad before.
‘Hey, mfana! Answer me when I’m talking to you! Do you know who this is?’
‘Ambuya?’
I’m not even sure if that’s the correct answer or what exactly he wants me to say! It feels like one of those multiple-choice questions that Mrs Roderbelt sometimes gives us.
Mkoma laughs again. ‘Oh, so you know? Ho-kay! So you think she’s one of your little friends that you can play games with, huh? I see. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
Should I say yes? Because now even I don’t really know what I’ve done.
‘Calm down, mzukuru! I’m sure Tumirai knows that what he did is wrong. This anger isn’t helping anyone.’
I’m so glad that Ambuya has intervened. She’s now literally standing between us. I wonder if Mkoma would have leaped at me otherwise. He stands there with his hands crossed uncomfortably high across his chest and tucked in his armpits.
But what I had done, although it seems wrong now, had been completely necessary. Apart from the knife, I had exaggerated only a little. I have to get out of here to save myself before Bamkuru finds me. And also so that I can join the team and not die in their eyes because I bailed. Why doesn’t anyone understand?
I look at Mkoma and wonder. I know he knows what it means for people to put your worth on your skin like some kind of price tag. All his rantings about the prejudice he faced abroad make that perfectly clear. But then again, I can’t help but think that eventually he was able to come back home. And although some things changed when he did, home was always waiting there for him. He came back to a place where people loved him and accepted him, no questions asked. No one looks at him like he’s some animal in a zoo.
Where is home for me? Where do you go when your own home rejects you? When family spits at your blood ties and wishes you’d been burned at birth? Mkoma can never understand that.
‘Get in the car,’ he hisses. It’s messed up, but I’m actually looking to Ambuya for help. I don’t think it’s safe to go with Mkoma. I mean, I’m not trying to die or anything!
‘It’s late, mzukuru, and it’s not good to travel in this state of anger. Why don’t you sleep over tonight and travel tomorrow when it’s light out and you have calmed down?’
‘I have to fly out early tomorrow, Ambuya. I’m not going to miss it for this nonsense!’
He tries to remain as calm as possible except that his lip almost curls the way Bamkuru’s did that day. I wonder if I’ve crossed that line, the one you can’t ever uncross.
‘OK … but I don’t think you should take the boy with you.’
I want to disagree with her, but I actually feel safer with Ambuya right now.
‘He’s clearly still dealing with what happened. With your uncle almost out, it is safer here where your Bamkuru won’t come because he knows he’s not welcome.’
Mkoma scratches his head for a while. I’m not sure whether to hope that he agrees or not. Without a word he slides into his car seat and slams the door. I take a small step forward. This is when he usually says it. That I ought not to forget, and I always remind him that I’ll never forget how much he loves me. No matter how upset he is with me, he always says it. He lowers his window and looks me right in the eye, his face cloudy with tears and his voice broken with pain.
‘I am very disappointed in you, Tumirai.’
19
Tumi
There’s something about guilt and anger when mixed. Mkoma’s words play over in my head as the guilt slithers in like a garden snake in the summer. And when I think of Ambuya laughing with Bamkuru, speaking to him casually on the phone, the rage crawls and stings my body like red termites.
I can almost hear Mrs Roderbelt’s shrill voice telling us not to mix explosive chemicals in her lab lest we blow up the whole school. The way I feel now makes me feel like I’ve done just that.
Three days, and Ambuya hasn’t said anything. No shouting, no reprimanding, only good mornings and goodnights, as though nothing happened. They say silence is golden, but hers is a shade of black that sends chills down my spine. If anything, that should tell you that something about her doesn’t add up. Which is precisely why I still stand by what I did. Perhaps I shouldn’t have
added that little bit of spice, but what Mkoma doesn’t seem to appreciate is that if I hadn’t, those police officers never would have taken me seriously. It’s weird, but for some reason everyone seems to be blindfolded like Sandra Bullock in that Bird Box movie, afraid to open their eyes to see the real Ambuya. If this were a fairy tale, I’d be the knight who breaks the damn spell!
The morning is dark and steady, with only birds calling each other from distant trees. My eyes hurt with tiredness. It is the same tiredness that refuses to roll me over into dreams that don’t invite the past to barge in with telephone calls, scars and the smell of cabbages. I glance at my phone and scroll down Instagram. The picture Bongani tagged me in yesterday, of him at practice with a bunch of other guys from the team, is still there. I don’t know why it bothers me that Musa is in the picture, smiling, but it does. Somehow it feels like betrayal. My eyes run across the caption under the picture again and I scowl.
Call me fishbae because I be outchea fishing!
#Zimteamloading #StCatherinesteam
That has to be one of the lamest things I’ve ever read in my life. I don’t know why there’s hundreds of likes.
But even as I think that, I am also terrified that I’ve been cut out. That they won’t have a reason to rope me in now.
Flip! If anyone is going to be fishbae, it has to be me! I need this!
I stretch and get ready to do my drills. I won’t let all this chaos keep me from making the cut at the national try-outs. I have to stay focused, keep training as best I can. I plant my feet firmly into the ground and start.
A hundred squats with makeshift dumbbells for spinal strength and thigh muscle, thirty seconds to rest.
Ten laps around the yard for leanness and to help my heart adjust to paced breathing, a minute to rest.
Two gulps of water. Guilt from the other night.
Fifty pull-ups for forearm strength and core stability, two minutes of panting.
Thirty jumping lunges, exhaustion! So much exhaustion.
I stand there panting, my body bent and my hands resting on my knees. I have a love-hate relationship with training. This part of my life is the hate part. It’s also harder to train alone. I normally train with Musa when the team isn’t training together. Without him, I feel as though I’m doing all of it wrong. And besides, it means nothing if I can’t be in the water. All the research I’m putting into this, all the training, all the books I’ve read – it all seems pointless. I need someone to observe and report that all this muscle training is improving my technique, but of course neither Musa, the coach nor the team is here. I stare to the far right and wonder if I should just go down to the river. No one is awake yet, and Ambuya will never know.
The Colours That Blind Page 7
