‘Madam?’ She cackled and squeezed my hand. ‘Oh, none of that here! Call me Emma.’
She rubbed her belly and loosened the zambiya a little.
‘And I will most certainly pass through and see your mother tonight, once this little guy stops kicking in there!’
A much older nurse walked in, face buttoned up and weary, as though she did not want to be there.
‘Nurse Edwards, we need you in the next room.’
At the same moment, like a haunting ghost, Farai appeared and stood by the door, signalling for Tawana.
‘Walk with me, Thandiwe,’ said Nurse Edwards. ‘I hear you did some nurse training?’
I lingered a little, wanting to hear what Farai had to say.
‘Your white man, give him this. It is urgent,’ was all I managed to glean. And in that moment, before I could hear any more, Nurse Edwards turned back to me at my lack of response.
‘Yes, mada— Emma, but I didn’t manage to finish. I had a few months still to go when I left,’ I said, walking quickly to keep up with her.
‘All right, I see,’ she said, stopping by one of the beds. She signalled for me to help her prop up the patient, an old frail man with a tube stuck in his nose and another one in his arm.
‘Good afternoon, sekuru.’
The old man smiled at the nurse, while I watched her speaking my language naturally as though it was hers too. And found myself somewhat relaxed by it.
‘This is Thandiwe. She’ll be helping me take care of you today. Won’t you, Thandie?’ Nurse Edwards said, turning to me. I smiled, but then noticed her eyes lingering on the stubbornness of my hair as it yet again defied gravity. My hands immediately ran over it, in an attempt to convince it to lie down, to hide.
‘I’m sorry about the hair. I can look for something to cover it up with.’
‘Heavens! Why? I certainly don’t mind. Do you, sekuru?’ she asked, turning to the old man, who only shrugged.
‘You know what I wish though? That mine was even half as full and proud as yours.’
I looked at her in surprise, almost waiting for her disgust to set in. But it didn’t.
‘Now –’ she peered over to the other room – ‘can I trust you to finish with sekuru here, and then tend to that poor boy with the broken leg over there? There’s a few like him who were on the bus this morning. It’s all so terrible, isn’t it? I’ll ask one of the girls to come and help you so you won’t be by yourself. I’m going to see if I can call the doctor again and urge him to hurry so he can help some of our boys who have burn wounds. Is that all right with you, Thandie?’
I nodded.
‘You, my dear, are a godsend,’ she said as she took my hands in hers. ‘All right then. It’s a full house today so we’d best get started.’
32
I began to worry because I had not seen Matthew for a week.
What had really changed, Thandiwe? What did you expect? I asked myself.
‘Thandiwe, you better not be daydreaming again. People will start coming any minute now!’
I carried the huge clay pot of beer outside. VaGuhwa was already out there whispering something to Baba, who seemed rather preoccupied with the meat he and the other men were butchering. I felt as though I was still waiting to hear that he had sold us out.
The war had grown fiercer, and Baba had wanted to host a small gathering to cheer people’s spirits. ‘Slaughter one of the cows and invite the village,’ he had said to Farai and the other boys.
Amai hadn’t been pleased about it because that meant giving away more meat. But she hadn’t fought it. Two more of the mission’s children had died from their injuries in the landmine accident. Then three girls from a homestead a few kilometres from ours had returned home screaming and crying; they had been raped by the security forces on their way to fetch water. An old man had been beaten by the comrades, accused of selling out to the white man. It was all hate, painted in different faces and hunting us all down. I imagine that even though Amai was reluctant to host the gathering, she understood that everyone needed a pinch of joy.
Farai headed to me with a dish full of pieces of meat. I watched him as he placed the dish down and sat next to me.
‘You seem in happy spirits, Farai.’
‘Do you not see all this meat? When last did you eat meat, Thandie? Look, Baba’s dog is busy there with the bones, forgetting to bite strangers.’
We both chuckled. Baba had been right. We had been in need of a bit of joy.
I rinsed the pieces of meat in some water before throwing them into the cauldron.
‘Do you know how many people are coming?’
‘With the way you’re stewing that beef, it might turn out to be the whole village.’
He was right. People had already started to fill the compound. Two of the village boys now banged on the ngoma under the bowing tree, sending everyone, young and old, on their feet dancing.
‘You know what you must do, don’t you?’ Farai suddenly said, leaning in towards me, his voice quiet. I looked towards the cauldron with the meat I had already cooked and quietly scooped out enough to fill a dish. He shook his head and I proceeded to add more.
‘We must be careful tonight. We cannot be seen, but we cannot afford not to go. Not with all this noise being a clear sign that there has been some activity involving food here.’
I nodded. ‘How will I know where they are?’
He looked ahead at Amai and kept his gaze there.
‘Bullet has business with you so he might come. You’ll be wise to stay here tonight in case he does. Don’t leave.’
Don’t leave? I thought. Where would I go?
Throughout the evening my mind was preoccupied with it all. The comrades’ dish of meat grew cold from waiting. Amai retired to the bedroom hut while Baba snored on the mat where he lay, a jug of beer spilt by his side. I sat there on the log, peering and turning like a possessed owl. Waiting.
Waiting to see if the comrade would come. Waiting to find out what he wanted. Waiting to hear what business he could possibly have with me. And as I lifted my head, my eyes caught a movement a little far off, behind the kitchen hut, a figure signalling for me to come. I turned around to see if anyone was watching. My heart fluttered and fear sat right on my neck.
My legs trembled at every step, but I tried to hurry nonetheless. As I reached there, my mouth opened in surprise.
‘Matthew? You need to stop coming here! You’re going to get yourself killed!’
‘I had to see you.’
I dragged him further into the trees. His skin was warm as though he had been in the sun and he smelled of dried tea and the fresh squeeze of lemons.
‘What are you doing here? Don’t you know it is not safe?’
‘We don’t have much time. I have a surprise for you. Come.’
His whispers sounded like hisses floating on top of the pounding drum. Those things, mzukuru, those uninvited things fluttered once more, bumping into each other and causing chaos in my stomach. And as they did, I remembered my brother’s warnings and stepped back.
‘You should go. If the comrades … It is not safe tonight. You should go.’
‘Thandiwe, hey, look at me. Look at me,’ he said, lifting my chin. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you, OK? Nothing will happen.’
You know, mzukuru, they say temptation is glittery and shiny. Perhaps that is why even the wide-awake walk so freely into it.
I walked on, fears shrilling and heart pounding wildly, like the drum I was leaving behind. But I kept going, in spite of all my questions, doubts and fears. My eyes shifted to Matthew’s hand, then to his fingers that had somehow slid into mine. I blinked twice, surprised that I had let him take hold of my hand and wondering why I was not pulling away. But still, we walked hand in hand, in silence, following the narrow path in the trees towards the river.
‘We’re here.’
I looked at him and chuckled.
‘Matthew, your surprise is the river? You might be a litt
le disappointed, but I’ve already seen it.’
He smiled softly. ‘Here, sit on this. Any minute now.’
He took his jacket off and laid it on the ground. I sat down beside him, parked for a moment in comfortable silence.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the moon. My eyes bulged as I watched the moon slowly peeling out of its shell, revealing a new blood-coloured skin I’d never seen before. I gasped in disbelief.
‘No! I’ve heard of it, but didn’t believe it really happens. Isn’t it rare?’
I remembered reading about it somewhere. That the lunar eclipse was uncommon and you could make it through this whole life without seeing one.
‘But how did you know it would happen today?’
‘I have my sources.’
I smiled and looked back up. It plays like a film in my head now, the laughing that followed, the playful mood. They say that about death – that when it arrives, sometimes it mocks you with moments of strength and agility before it claims its debt and snuffs out the blaze of life. They say it gives you time to see what you’re leaving behind.
‘So have you thought about it?’
I looked at him, confused.
‘Are you going to go back and finish your nurse training? I heard that you were an absolute natural at the clinic, and God knows they need more help there if you decide you want to stay here.’
I smiled, breathing deeply at the dead dreams resurfacing.
‘I don’t think that’s possible any more. I’m needed here, at the farmhouse, remember? It’s not the same with Amai unwell.’
‘But you’re only a few months from completing your training. And you’ve wanted to do this for as long as I can remember. You even used to pretend to be a nurse when we were younger, remember?’
‘That was a child’s dream, Matthew. I have a new life now, I suppose, and it only does me better to accept it. Besides, there’s so much to do, with all the work at the farmhouse, taking care of Amai and the children, cooking for the comrades. It’s really a never-ending list.’
He blinked and I could see the confusion.
‘I mean, there’s a lot I’m expected to do. I don’t think I would have time for –’
‘What do you mean, cooking for the comrades? Are they forcing you to do that?’
My hand flew to my mouth as if I could shove the words back in. But, I thought, this was Matthew.
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, Matthew?’
‘Are they forcing you, Thandiwe? Oh, those bastards! We can tell Phillip! He works with the colonel at the security forces now. He will be able to help.’
I remembered the coldness in Phillip’s eyes the last time I had seen him. The snarl, the disgust. Why would he help me? And how exactly? Even though I did not appreciate all the chickens we were killing to feed the comrades, I supported the cause. I was not a sell-out!
You know what they say, mzukuru, evil has a loud laugh when it roars.
‘I am doing my part.’
I said it as calmly as I could, praying that if the words hit his ears a little more softly, he would accept them and we could move on.
‘Wait, so you’re working with them? Willingly?’
‘Them? Who is them, Matthew?’
‘I can’t believe you would do something like this, to associate yourself with those people!’
‘Those people? Am I now those people? Was I those people when you came to find me at my father’s homestead?’
‘You’re not like them though, Thandiwe, don’t you see? Whatever they’ve told you or threatened you with, I can help. Let me help.’
My eyes caught the intention in his. It was as though he had teased a flame in a bucket full of paraffin. Anger I didn’t know I had simmered and bubbled to the surface the same way Amai’s okra did when she added soda to it. Of course the comrades had to be fed! They couldn’t fight if they were hungry! My hand slowly turned into a fist as I stood there, trembling with rage.
He turned to leave and I grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt.
‘No, Matthew. No! Those people? Those people are my people. Those people are me! Fighting for me! Did you really think I would be rooting for the whites?’
I looked at him the way a cat eyes a lizard, ready to pounce as soon as it slides off the rocks.
‘The whites?’ He seemed surprised, like it was the first time he was hearing of it.
‘People are dying, Thandiwe! This is a bloody war – it isn’t some stupid game of making fun of my aunt any more.’
I knew it even then: we were balancing on a tightrope that had already caught fire. And yet, even with all this knowledge, the words still spilled out of me because my anger made more sense.
‘And I guess in a war, people pick sides, don’t they, Matthew?’
I waited for him to say something, to make right our wrongs, as his eyes sparkled in the milky light of the moon.
‘I suppose you’re right. And I guess if you’re helping the terrorists, it means you must be one of them.’
My stomach lurched. That word again.
Don’t mind the tears of an old woman, mzukuru. It’s the sting of my memories and the poison of regret that I wish I could wipe away. Because that night we said more than we should have. And with every word we entered into a new world we could not yet see. A world we later passed on to you. It was those words we said to each other, they were what tugged in the real war.
33
Tumi
I am thinking of Ambuya’s tales from last night and trying to imagine this place as it was in her stories. I want to see if it makes sense. I breathe in and look in front at Jabu, who is still going, running up the incline as though it is nothing. I am now starting to regret that I agreed to this. I am not tired, but my chest is burning and I have a deep desire to be lifting something instead. I pull out my phone and pant as I run behind him.
‘Man, we need to take a break,’ I yell. My phone says we’ve been at it for seven kilometres. And iPhones don’t lie.
‘We’re not there yet.’
Not where? Death?
I am starting to resent him a little.
Just because he saved my life yesterday doesn’t mean he gets to run it now. Thing is, I can lift for a whole hour or even two without complaining. But cardio out of the water isn’t my thing. It’s simply monotonous.
‘Nah, Jabu bruh, we have to stop.’
He turns back and looks at me, his face shiny with sweat. I am standing with my hands rested on my knees, craving water. He jogs down towards me and pats me on the back.
‘I thought you said you wanted to win. This doesn’t look like it, city boy.’
Honestly, do I have a sign on my forehead encouraging this whole nickname business?
‘Come on, let’s go, mfana. We’re almost there.’
‘Nah fam, I’m tired. I need a break.’ I’m a little annoyed. Not because of any of the stuff from before. I mean, this Jabu boy … I mean, Jabu, he is good people. But I’m annoyed because his forehead is that shiny and yet he still wants to keep going. I sit down at the edge of the main road that leads to the wealthy side of Vumba with all the resorts.
‘You’re the one with all the fancy equipment there in the city, and yet you can’t keep up with a farm-boy? Look at you, panting like you’re dying.’
I ignore him and wipe the sweat off my brow.
‘It’s this noise you listen to that’s tiring you, I bet,’ he says pointing to my headphones.
‘Man, stop hating on my music.’
‘Let me listen to one song. Maybe I’ll like it,’ he says, stretching out his hand. I slide the headphones off my head and hand them to him, then select something from Stormzy’s album on my phone. There’s no going wrong with Stormzy. If he doesn’t like it, there’s no hope for him.
I watch his face, expressionless for a while. Then it gradually twists before he chuckles, shaking his head.
‘What sort of music is this, mfana? I can’t even hear anything with
all that noise he’s making. Play another song. Maybe I’ll like something else.’
‘Ay, this is not an evangelical church, bruh. It’s either you like it, or you don’t. There’s no repentance here!’
He laughs and hands me back my headphones.
‘You’ve got to get up though. First rule of running: you never sit down, otherwise you won’t want to get up. We can walk the rest of the way if it’s better for you, but we definitely can’t sit down.’
I roll my eyes, but take his hand as he offers it and pulls me up. We walk slowly up the incline. The sun is starting to come out, and the fog is clearing. As we get to the top, I see a tea estate, and an old farmhouse in the middle. My eyes search for the Msasa tree in the driveway that Ambuya mentioned. I’m not sure if I’m trying to see if her story is true or if I’m just curious.
‘Who lives there?’
‘What, the tea estate?’ Jabu asks.
I nod.
‘Some workers, I think. It belongs to some big company that makes tea there in the city. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ I say.
‘And is there a mission school somewhere here?’
‘Mission school? Here?’ he says, repeating the words like I haven’t heard that I said them. ‘Oh, that old place? They don’t use it as a school any more. I think it belongs to some organisation or something. Wasn’t it in the eighties or nineties when it was a school?’
I don’t know if I should be relieved but I am.
‘Why are you asking all this?’
‘History stuff. Just trying to get a picture of it all.’
He watches me for a minute as though he is waiting for the real truth. Then he shrugs. I keep walking on beside him.
‘Mfana, this is me,’ he says, pointing to a little path forged alongside the road into the trees. ‘I certainly can’t keep up with this do-you-know-Vumba-well quiz.’
‘Are you running again tomorrow?’ I ask.
‘Only if you won’t slow me down. How much longer before your swimming thing?’
People really have got to stop calling it a swimming thing!
I think of the team, of Bongani. I haven’t heard anything more from Musa. I tried calling him yesterday but he texted back to say he was tied up. Wished me luck though, as though to say I’ll be needing luck at the national try-outs. Man, I need to be ready.
The Colours That Blind Page 12
