The Colours That Blind

by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  I hesitated, fighting with myself over whether I should step in. Just looking at him, the rage rose within me, pushing out and making the hairs on my arms all stand on end. But it frightened me that his life was in the balance and I had put it there. I took a few steps in the direction of the Msasa tree, urging myself to run there and stop the comrade. But as I considered it, I remembered everything Phillip had done.

  He had to pay. I wanted him to! For everything he had done to me, to my people.

  And then Tawana’s words burst over me, mzukuru, and I stood there, knowing that if I turned a blind eye, I would be brewing war just as he had said. Phillip had become my mirror, mirror, on the wall. And I wanted to be better, mzukuru.

  The choice stared me right in the eyes. And although I hated it, I found myself sprinting towards the tree screaming, ‘Bullet – no! Let him go!’

  59

  Bullet’s face showed no remorse, a toothpick swivelling at the corner of his mouth, as he pointed the barrel of his bayonet at Phillip.

  He glanced at me. ‘You came for the closing ceremony, eh, Thandiwe? I’ll make sure I give you a good one.’

  Phillip looked up at me, his face painted with fear.

  ‘Comrade, let him go.’

  ‘Let him go?’ Bullet was perplexed.

  ‘Please let me go. I won’t even report you,’ Phillip begged.

  Bullet looked at me and burst out laughing. ‘Oh yes, because even though you are there on the ground praying for my mercy, you still think you’re the law, don’t you, master? I should be quaking now, shouldn’t I, master?’ he said, kicking Phillip and now aiming the thing right between his eyes.

  ‘Comrade, please, let him go,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Oh, so you have become like your brother now, have you?’ Bullet said, his bayonet swinging slightly towards me. ‘You have forgotten how the white man has stolen our land and claimed it for himself. How he has made African bodies rot, laid there scattered in trenches of blood in the woods, while he sips tea in his home as though he does not see it! You have forgotten how badly we want freedom.’

  I watched his feet move closer to me, but his weapon didn’t leave Phillip.

  ‘I should have believed them when they said not to trust you. After all, don’t you cook for the white man and tend to his needs too? You think we don’t know how you run around for him? Now look at you, begging for his life. Pathetic!’

  ‘Comrade,’ I tried again, hitting the back of my hands against my palms.

  ‘I thought you understood, Thandiwe. I thought we were on the same page. These people –’ he poked Phillip in the chest with the point of the bayonet – ‘come here and steal our land, order us around, piss on our culture and our values, and now they are stockpiling guns to finish us off in the trees!’ he said, kicking Phillip in his side. ‘The guns were not in the barn! Tell me where you hid them!’

  ‘Bullet, please,’ I tried again, shocked to find my trembling hand forcing the barrel of his gun downwards.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bullet shouted. I stood in front of him, both hands pressing on the gun, stopping him from firing it. And while we tussled, Phillip got up and scurried away, leaving me face to face with the beast that had now awoken in Bullet.

  ‘You have chosen the wrong side of this war. Now look how your white man has left you alone to pay for it!’ he hissed, standing over my fallen body. ‘You disappoint me, Thandiwe.’

  I watched as he spat out the toothpick. In horror I listened to the sound as he unbuckled his belt. A fear that preys on women took hold of me, and I remember how I slammed my eyes shut and curled tight into a ball. It was the second time I had ever prayed, hoping that if there was a God, he would not laugh and look away.

  And I tell you no lie, mzukuru, but just like a miracle, when I opened my eyes Tawana and Matthew were kneeling next to me, with Phillip standing a short distance from them. I remember standing up, weeping with joy and relief, and throwing myself into Matthew’s arms. An immense sense of relief washed over me and I pulled his head towards mine. His lips were soft and warm when I kissed him, and I remember in that moment being completely unaware and blinded to everyone else around us.

  60

  Tumi

  I am watching Ambuya as she sits on the armchair close to me. She is silent now, with worry lines that look like Mkoma’s. I watch her for a while, thinking that perhaps she is trying to remember more of what happened next. The story cannot be over.

  ‘Ambuya?’ I urge. I want to hear more. Her story has kept me so calm through all this. There’s a tube hooked to my arm and a bag hung somewhere on the stretcher chair but I had almost forgotten that I have a needle sticking into me. I mean, I’m not scared of needles or anything, but listening to the sound of Ambuya’s voice, living in the world she built with her words, has kept me distracted.

  ‘Ambuya?’ I say again, hoping she will continue her tale.

  ‘I think perhaps I have told you enough, mzukuru.’

  ‘But, Ambuya, you said the story would help me.’

  I mean, it’s true, she did say that. But it’s also not cool to leave me hanging.

  Ambuya smiles. ‘I did say that. And I believe you have already heard what I wanted you to hear. You’re a smart boy after all. But, mzukuru, war is a painful thing, and perhaps memories of such pain should not be passed on to littl’uns like you. I have already told you too much.’

  ‘I just want to know how the story ends,’ I try for the last time. Ambuya doesn’t say anything.

  After a while the nurse comes in, pushing a trolley. ‘How are we doing in here?’ she asks.

  ‘Not bad,’ I mumble.

  She fumbles with the blood bag, then looks at me.

  ‘I think we have enough,’ she says, getting ready to take the needle out. She dabs antiseptic on my arm and sticks a band-aid on it. I’ve been asking every nurse that comes through here if they know how Jabu’s doing, but there hasn’t been much news. It’s been three hours now since his doctor said they were taking him into surgery, and I’ve had no more information.

  I try again.

  ‘Have you heard anything about Jabu, my friend? How is he?’ There is an anger in my voice when I say it this time, because everything that happened to him floods back into my mind.

  The nurse looks at me and smiles. ‘He is out of surgery now. The doctors managed to save his fingers, but he’s in an induced coma. We’re going to have to monitor him to see how he responds before we can know for sure.’

  ‘What of my son? How is he, nurse, do you know?’ Ambuya asks.

  I don’t know why it angers me that she cares about Bamkuru after everything he’s done, but it does.

  ‘The doctors are doing everything they can,’ the nurse says.

  That doesn’t mean much, I don’t think. All those medical dramas I’ve watched teach you that it’s best not to get anyone’s hopes up. Though in this case, I don’t really know what my hopes are.

  ‘Once I have more news, I’ll let you both know. I’m sure he’ll be very grateful to know that you helped him.’

  I scoff and look away. I was sure before why I insisted on doing this blood-donation thing. After all, my real hope for recovery is for Jabu. But I can’t stop myself from thinking that when I look at myself in the mirror, one of the actions I answer for can’t be that I let Bamkuru die.

  61

  I am standing at the door staring at the bed where Bamkuru is. One hand is chained to the bed and there is a tube in his nose. More tubes are hooked up to his hand. A policeman has been stationed outside. But the way Bamkuru looks now, I doubt he’s about to try to run again. I should be terrified, watching him sleeping there.

  I should be cowering and hiding behind Ambuya, who is standing next to me. But even though I did him a solid and donated some blood, I’m still hella angry.

  Mkoma couldn’t come in. He said he had to stay with Noku and her cat, but I think his truth is that he needs time. If I’m being real, I think I need
it too.

  ‘You don’t have to go in, mzukuru. It will not change anything. You have already done more than anyone could ever ask of you,’ Ambuya says, placing her hand on my shoulder.

  I say nothing but keep staring at Bamkuru. I hope there’s someone praying for him right now because after all he did to Jabu and me, I feel as though I might just leap in and tear his throat out.

  ‘If you decide you want to go in, you shouldn’t expect anything from him when he wakes up,’ Ambuya says.

  ‘But I saved his life.’

  ‘I know.’ She squeezes my shoulder. ‘I know, mzukuru. But you’re going to have to forgive him as well; it’s the only way you can be free.’

  The only way I can be free? Mandem doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. Heck, I shouldn’t have felt I had to be the bigger man and give him my blood. I definitely don’t feel like the bigger man right now, that’s for sure!

  ‘I’ve given him my blood. That is way more than he deserves. I cannot just forget all that he did, turn a blind eye and pretend it didn’t happen. If anything, he owes me –’

  Ambuya turns me to face her. ‘Feel every shred of that anger. Don’t suppress it. Feel it and let it flow through you, but after that, you forgive him, you hear?’ Her voice is firm now. ‘Because if you don’t, you will be trapped in this prison.’

  I grit my teeth. ‘He doesn’t deserve it.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, he doesn’t,’ she says. ‘But you deserve peace, my mzukuru. Forgive him for yourself: even though it hurts now, let each piece of this go. No matter how little, no matter how slowly, let the pieces go, mzukuru. And forgive yourself too, because you are not God and you have no right not to.’

  How can I possibly forgive myself? It is because of me that Jabu got hurt. It should have been me. I shouldn’t be standing here.

  62

  I am heaving, buried in Ambuya’s chest, feeling the anger and the tears come out all at once. After a while, I step back and collect myself. A nurse comes from the corridor and we give way, following her into the room. She unhooks a transparent bag with yellowish liquid from under the bed, replaces it with a fresh one and walks off with the other one.

  Bamkuru fidgets, and my heart beats wildly as I watch his eyes open. I step back a little. He tries to move his hand and realises that it’s restrained. I feel a strange satisfaction from it.

  ‘How did I get here?’ he asks with a grogginess in his voice.

  I look at Ambuya.

  ‘You tried to kill me,’ I blurt.

  Ambuya slides her hand in mine and holds it tight. There is a silence for a while and, even though I know he won’t, I can feel myself waiting for him to beg for my forgiveness.

  Bamkuru tries to sit up but the combination of the medication and the tubes push his body back down.

  ‘You were in an accident,’ Ambuya says.

  ‘And you came here for what? Revenge?’ he asks.

  The nurse comes back in, and as soon as she sees Bamkuru awake, she smiles.

  ‘Look who’s up,’ she says. ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Mpofu. If not for Tumirai here who just donated some blood to you, we could be telling a different story.’

  I know she thinks he’ll thank me. But I can see from the stare in his eyes that he is disgusted by it.

  ‘You gave me cursed blood?’ he says, trying to rip out one of the tubes in his arm as if it’ll magically drain out the blood already flowing in his veins.

  I look away because seeing him do that somehow fills me with shame.

  ‘How dare you!’ Ambuya hisses, heading over to the bed.

  The nurse rushes over and holds her back. ‘Perhaps you should leave for a while,’ she says, and then turns and tries to calm Bamkuru, who is panting. Ambuya is close to tears and I have a lump in my throat.

  ‘Please,’ the nurse asks again. ‘It is not good for him to be like this.’

  Ambuya clicks her tongue and heads out. I linger a moment, observing Bamkuru.

  ‘Can I say goodbye to him before I leave?’ I ask the nurse, trying to seem as innocent as I can.

  ‘Very quickly, Tumi. I don’t want him to get more upset,’ she says, giving way for me to come close to the bed. I strut over to his bedside and pretend to embrace him before I leave. He tries to fight me, but he is too weak. I check out of the corner of my eye that the nurse is far enough away not to hear.

  ‘Bamkuru …’ I whisper into his ear, my heart beating madly and a bubble of fury lodged in my throat.

  I want to tell him that I hope that when they take him back to prison, and every time he thinks of the outside, he remembers how my blood that he despises so much saved his life. I want to tell him that I hope he remembers this moment, and how in spite of everything he did, I fought with everything in me to forgive him and that I am now free of him. But instead I pull every good thing in me and whisper in his ear, ‘I will be praying for you.’

  63

  It’s been three days since we left the hospital, and one day since the trials started. Ambuya has texted a few times but every time I try asking her about what happened next in her story, she ghosts me. Musa tried calling me this morning, but I was too defeated to pick up. I just watched it ring. Now, about three or so hours later, there’s a text from him and one from the coach.

  Tumz, I’m worried about you fam. Holla at your boy.

  Tumi, this is Coach Ngoni. We haven’t heard from you, is everything all right at home?

  I haven’t responded yet. It all feels too fresh, and I think I need a minute before I can respond. Besides, my mind’s been occupied by other things.

  Jabu got moved to a private hospital in Harare and today we’re going to see him there. I think Mkoma felt bad about everything. He said organising the move was the least he could do to help. He even coordinated a successful go-fund-me page so that people could contribute to the bill. And I’m so glad people came through, because everything has just been so hard on Jabu and his family.

  They woke him up two days ago, the day after we left the hospital, and his brother called when we got home to say we could come visit. So yesterday Mkoma drove me over. I was worried about seeing Bamkuru, but Mkoma said they transferred him to the prison a day after we left. I’m hoping this time he stays there.

  I was a bit uneasy at first because I didn’t know how Jabu would react when he saw me. But he tried to hug me with his good hand and even made a joke. His mother, who was sitting by his bed, didn’t seem like she held anything against me either.

  When I started to apologise she said, ‘It is the devil’s work, mwanangu. It is not your fault.’ Although I’m not quite sure how it all adds up, because that particular devil was my uncle and I gave him my blood.

  I mean, I’m still working on this letting-go-of-the-little-pieces thing. My head’s got it coded like a Rubik’s Cube. Some days I think I’ve got it down, then on others the rage floods back in and I feel as though I have to begin all over again. Ambuya says my fight to let the pieces go will have many rounds. She says it’s because pain has a way of convincing you to keep it. So I’ll try.

  Speaking of Ambuya, I’m still curious about how her story ends. I’ve been standing here in Mkoma’s bedroom, staring at his wardrobe and trying to decide whether to go looking for the letters again. I’m thinking that if I look at the last ones, I might be able to get a sense of what happened. What’s kept me glued to this spot so far is her reluctance to share any more of it with me. I don’t know if the story gets any worse, and that scares me a little.

  As I struggle in my conundrum, Mkoma steps in. I turn, knowing I shouldn’t be here thinking about going through his stuff like this. By the frown on his face, it doesn’t look very good for me right now.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ he asks calmly.

  I follow as his eyes go to the wardrobe but I say nothing.

  ‘Ambuya told me you had one of my letters,’ he says, loosening his tie and placing his briefcase on the bed. I’m not sure if I should sa
y anything. I’m already waiting for the ‘it’s wrong to go through people’s things’ lecture.

  ‘What did you think of it all?’

  That’s not normal going according to the script.

  ‘She didn’t tell me all of it,’ I mumble.

  ‘She stopped before the end?’ he asks, sitting on the bed and taking off his socks.

  I nod.

  ‘She doesn’t like talking about the end, I’ve learned. At some point when I was in the States, the letters stopped coming for a while. I wrote to her several times, worried that something had happened to her, but she just sent a short note saying she couldn’t bring herself to tell me any more. When she eventually sent the last one, she said she had had to ask one of the children staying with her to post it for her because she couldn’t.’

  ‘Why does she get stuck on the ending?’

  Mkoma leans back on the bed, his body supported by his hands. ‘I think it’s difficult for her, Tumi. I think it’s like reliving it, and she feels guilty for everything that happened. I don’t know.’

  Guilty? What happens at the end?

  Mkoma gets up and heads to the wardrobe. I watch as he hangs his blazer and moves his hangers so they are aligned again.

  He turns and looks at me.

  ‘She told you till the part she leaves home?’

  ‘Nah, she stopped after everything that happened during the fire at the Rogerses’ farm. Just got all silent and wouldn’t say anything else. She said I’d heard enough.’

  Mkoma laughs and reaches up for the box.

  ‘She told me to give you the last pages of her diary.’

  My heart starts to beat and I really don’t know why.

  ‘But are you sure you want to know though, Tumirai?’