The White Shadow

by Andrea Eames

  We passed the N’anga’s hut. His black chickens still pecked at the dirt outside, and the open door of the hut was a wide mouth opened in a silent laugh.

  ‘Babamukuru, what is that?’ A dark stain on the air behind the car, coiling like smoke, following us.

  ‘It is just the exhaust, Tinashe.’

  I knew better. We had not left our bad fortune behind. It followed us, a black, stinking cloud, as we drove away from the kopje and onto the plains. The air became heavy and fat with heat, pressing down on my head and stuffing my lungs with cotton wool. Tears rose in my throat, and soon it was hard to breathe.

  ‘Can I open the window again, Babamukuru?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  I could feel Hazvinei behind me, shifting in her seat.

  ‘I told your father,’ said Babamukuru. ‘I told him that nothing but bad fortune would come to him because of his actions.’

  It seemed as if Babamukuru were talking to himself, but then he turned his head and fixed me with a blank gaze from his round, rimless eyes.

  ‘Babamukuru?’

  ‘And now I have two more children.’ He smiled. I did not know whether to smile back. ‘You will be good children for me, yes? Tinashe? Hazvinei?’

  ‘Yes, Babamukuru.’

  Hazvinei said nothing, but Babamukuru seemed satisfied that I had spoken for us both.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It is different, in town. It is not the easy life you have had in the country. You will have to get used to behaving like well-brought-up children. No more running around in the bush.’

  I remembered him telling Abel that life in the country was much harder than the easy life in town, but I said nothing.

  We passed over a bridge, and I saw the brown glint of water far below. My beloved river. I knew that it flowed through the city as well, but it would be different there; different as Abel and I were different. Hazvinei would not talk to the njuzu again. I would not be barefoot, swimming Tinashe again. And so when sleep rose like water over my head, I welcomed it.

  When I woke up, I saw that we had already driven through the town centre and were passing houses with high, white walls and green lawns outside. Grass as I knew it was yellow or brown, and I was not used to this wet, green lushness.

  ‘It is a nice neighbourhood, where we live,’ said Babamukuru. ‘It is the best neighbourhood.’

  Hazvinei rolled her eyes at me. I refused to look at her.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Babamukuru.

  We pulled up to an iron gate. Beyond it I could see a low bungalow, bigger than any house I had seen before, edged with bright flowerbeds. So this was where Abel lived. I looked at the white walls, the many windows. I pictured him growing up here, reading his schoolbooks and eating his meals. Abel had lived with us for weeks at a time. Babamukuru had visited us. Even Tete Nyasha had visited us, sometimes; but this was the first time I had seen the famed house with the legendary inside toilet. Perhaps this was why the house looked unfriendly to me, with its blank windows and burglar bars imprisoning the front door.

  Babamukuru stopped the car, leaving the engine running. ‘Open the gate, Tinashe.’

  I moved with care, trying not to disturb my stomach.

  ‘Chop chop.’

  I felt rusty metal under my hands, and heard the creak of hinges.

  ‘Open them wide. Wider. You don’t want to scratch my car, do you?’

  I breathed one last gulp of the fresh air, and then climbed back into the hot car. We rolled and rattled over the gravel. When we came to a stop, Babamukuru helped me to lift out our bag, and Hazvinei looked at me over his bent head to make a face with crossed eyes and tongue sticking out.

  ‘Come along, vana. And don’t walk on the grass,’ said Babamukuru.

  The grass was green with fat blades. We passed a tap. Babamukuru stopped, stooped and twisted it on. Snakes of water rose out of the lawn, writhing and nodding their heads in the air. I stepped back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Babamukuru. ‘Have you not seen sprinklers before?’

  I shook my head. No.

  ‘These people from the country,’ chuckled Babamukuru, shaking his head. He seemed pleased.

  ‘The spirits don’t like this place,’ Hazvinei whispered to me as we followed. I elbowed her.

  ‘Hazvinei, stop trying to scare me.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I’m not. It is not right to trap water like this to make one garden green.’

  ‘Be quiet, Hazvinei.’ If we were going to have to live here until we were grown up, I did not want Tete Nyasha and Babamukuru seeing Hazvinei’s strangeness too soon. Or at all, if I could help it.

  ‘This is your home now,’ said Babamukuru. ‘It is a very nice house. You will be happy here.’

  I thought of the red dust in our yard, the scrawny chickens, the cool red concrete of the stoep. ‘Yes, Babamukuru.’

  I wondered if Hazvinei and I would have our own rooms, separate from Tete and Babamukuru. I would probably share a room with Abel, I knew, but I liked to picture my own quiet, empty space – perhaps with a desk for my studying. I imagined Babamukuru patting my head and giving me pocket money, perhaps letting me play football on the big green lawn. I imagined cold drinks in proper glasses with ice from a shining refrigerator. Hazvinei kicked at the ground, raising a cloud of red dust.

  ‘Hazvinei, don’t do that. You will dirty your nice white socks.’

  The front door opened, and Tete Nyasha emerged, arms outstretched, fingers groping the air. ‘Vana! You have arrived.’

  Hazvinei took a step back, but I was not quick enough. My nose was pressed into a fat arm and the breath was squeezed out of my body.

  Tete Nyasha had that look of a mother – round cheeks, round body, a smile, combed hair under her dhuku. She even smelled like a mother, of strong soap and floor polish. The hug from her cotton, freshly-ironed body gave me a pain in my stomach, because it was not a hug from Amai.

  ‘We have not seen you in a long time, Tete,’ I said politely.

  She waved her hand vaguely. ‘We have all been very busy. It is very good to see you again, Tinashe. And Hazvinei.’

  Hazvinei shrank back from our aunt’s embrace. ‘What happened to your face, Tete?’ she said.

  I had not noticed. Trust Hazvinei’s sharp eyes to see the dim purple swellings at Tete Nyasha’s ear!

  Tete touched them with a wavering hand, and smiled. ‘It is nothing. You will be good children, hey?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Tete.’

  She put a hand on my shoulder, and moved to put one on Hazvinei’s as well. Hazvinei twitched her body away, almost imperceptibly – just enough to make Tete Nyasha’s hand grasp empty air.

  I did not see Abel until I almost walked into him. He stood behind Tete Nyasha, silent.

  ‘Abel!’ Hazvinei moved to hug him, but he stepped back. He was very tall now – a good head taller than me.

  ‘Abel, say hello to your cousins,’ said Tete Nyasha. ‘Tell them you are sorry about your uncle and auntie.’

  Abel smelled strongly of sweat: a raw, rough smell with a spice to it that I did not recognise. He smelled dangerous, like a man. I remembered the kitchen: Chenjerai, the bowl of blood. Vaenzi vauya, the phrase went – the strangers are coming. Abel was a stranger to me now, removed by grief and memories that we did not share.

  ‘How are you, Abel?’ I said.

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘It has been a long time since we last saw you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to hear about Babamudiki and Amainini.’

  They had been second parents to him, I knew, but I could see nothing in his face. Perhaps he did not want to show his emotion in front of Babamukuru.

  ‘Abel will show you where you are sleeping,’ said Babamukuru.

  Hazvinei had been watching this conversation with narrowed eyes. When we fell silent she pointed to a door in the kitchen.

  ‘Is that the toilet?�
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  Babamukuru’s famed indoor toilet, with its taps full of water and fresh towels daily!

  ‘Yes, Hazvinei. Do you need to go?’ Tete opened it for her. Hazvinei went in without saying thank you, and slammed the door.

  ‘Poor girl, her stomach is unsettled after the journey,’ said Tete Nyasha.

  Hazvinei stayed in the bathroom for two hours. Tete Nyasha tried to coax her out with soft words and promises of food; I banged on the door and told her to stop being stupid. But it was only when Babamukuru unscrewed the doorknob and opened it that she emerged, prickly and indignant as a wet cat. It was a quiet dinner, that first night, as Hazvinei and Babamukuru glowered at their plates and Tete Nyasha and I made polite, stilted conversation. Abel sat in silence, speaking to no one, but his dark eyes flicked from one person to another, Hazvinei in particular. I felt a hollow in my stomach, even though I had just eaten. Abel did not speak to me at all, not even when he showed me the room that we were to share, with its twin beds and tall bookshelf. I wanted to tell him everything that had happened, but he was a mystery to me – as tall and unreadable as the mukomana that I had met all those years ago.

  Our first night in Babamukuru’s house was the longest I had ever spent. It felt as if morning were a rumour, as if the sun had set on the world and would never rise again and Hazvinei and I were the only two people who knew it. I shrank beneath my thin wool blanket and breathed the unfamiliar petroleum scent of the pillow. When I heard my sister’s voice, I was thankful.

  ‘Tinashe.’

  I could see Hazvinei’s shape, a darker black against the night. She moved across the room and climbed onto my bed. Abel did not stir.

  ‘Your feet are cold,’ she said, sliding her feet between mine. The dry skin on her heels rasped against my leg hairs.

  ‘It’s not so bad.’

  ‘It’s a shithole.’

  ‘That’s not true. It’s a nice house.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  We lay there, breathing shallowly.

  ‘Abel hates us.’

  ‘He doesn’t hate us.’

  ‘He isn’t talking to us.’

  ‘It is just because everything is new. And he must be sad too.’

  Hazvinei snorted.

  ‘It is better than going to the orphanage.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Hazvinei! At least we are together.’

  I could almost hear her thinking in the darkness.

  ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I suppose.’

  We lay there breathing each other’s air, thinking our own thoughts.

  When I woke up on that first morning after we had arrived at Babamukuru’s house, I was relieved. Babamukuru was in charge of Baba’s property now, and in charge of us. I did not feel ready to become the man of the house – shamefully, because I knew I should step up and claim my place – and I was more than happy for Babamukuru to delay my maturing for a few years more.

  It was a small and shameful thing to think, a maggot of unworthiness uncoiling in my heart. But only our ancestors are going to hold me accountable for those thoughts. And my ancestors have plenty for which to punish me already.

  Chapter Fourteen

  LIFE IN TOWN was very different from life on the kopje. For a start, we woke when the sun was already in the sky rather than before dawn. Babamukuru left for work at eight o’clock in the big silver car, and Abel walked to school. Tete Nyasha worked in the house or sat in the living room, leafing through magazines. Babamukuru and Abel returned for dinner, which was always meat and potatoes or sadza with gravy and bowls of vegetables from which we could help ourselves. After dinner, we bathed in the shining bathroom and slept in crisp, cool sheets. These were simple things, but to Hazvinei and me they seemed like the customs of a foreign tribe.

  I had heard Abel’s stories, but assumed he was exaggerating when he spoke of the five or six different jars of jam on the breakfast table or the avocado-green refrigerator with its bottles of Coke inside. Coke available whenever you wanted it, for free! I could not believe it. Tete Nyasha told us to help ourselves to the food and drink in the house. Hazvinei was happy to open the refrigerator and eat whatever was inside – and then to leave her mess of crumbs or wrappers sitting out on the kitchen table – but I could not bring myself to eat without asking permission. I did open the doors of the refrigerator and pantry, however, just to look at the wonders inside. I developed an obsession with tinned food – bean salad, pickled onions, asparagus. I liked to look at them, to pick up each tin and turn it over to feel the weight and the slosh of whatever was inside. Tete Nyasha kept a stack of food magazines in the kitchen, with dog-eared corners where she had marked favourite recipes. I could not believe that whole publications were devoted to food – growing it, buying it, preparing it, serving it. There were pages of glossy pictures – meals photographed like beautiful women in fashion magazines. I had never seen such meals before I came here; such colours. I asked Tete Nyasha if I could take some of the magazines to my room to read.

  ‘You do not need to ask, Tinashe,’ said Tete Nyasha. ‘This is your home now.’

  She had bought us drawers full of new clothes as well, still with their smart cardboard labels and store-bought smell. I now owned a pair of white takkies just like Abel’s, and a striped tie like Babamukuru’s that I could wear to church. Hazvinei had a neat pile of cotton dresses, pink and white and blue, and patent-leather Mary Jane shoes with silver buckles, still in their Bata box.

  At first I became lost in the corridors and rooms of the new house, but gradually I learned its shape and character. There was the shining kitchen with its blue-speckled plastic counter-tops; the dim dining room with the wood table that gleamed flat and dark as water; three bedrooms, each with a set of flowered curtains and an ornate tissue-box cover on the dressing tables; the green horsehair sofa and chairs of the living room, and its nubbly mustard carpet that felt rough underfoot. Tete Nyasha covered every surface in photograph frames and china set on lace mats, and each chair had its own woven mat as well. Tete Nyasha told me that this was to keep the chair back clean. I dared not rest my head back in case I marked the white lace with the oil from my hair.

  I had never seen such a profusion of furniture and shining surfaces – my head felt crowded with it all. The bathroom in particular rendered me speechless; the gold taps and the pale green bathtub in which Hazvinei and I washed every evening seemed too luxurious to be possible. And if I longed for the cold, bitter water of the kopje pump and the dim brown sweep of the river, I did not admit it.

  The days of the cholera were green, sticky, humid days that smelled of sweet vomit and the algae that floated on the water’s surface down at the dying waterhole. The smell clung to me. I sniffed it when I pulled my shirt over my head in the morning. I could not get it out of my nostrils. My hair seemed choked with the stuff. I could not speak, because the cholera coated my tongue.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, mukomana?’ said Babamukuru, giving me light cuffs around the head that were meant to be affectionate. I could hardly hear him through the thick mulch of cholera that plugged my ears.

  ‘Be kind,’ Tete Nyasha scolded him. She enfolded me in her arms, damp and cool, and so large that they seemed to surround me entirely. I let my head rest on the fresh cotton of her dress, and the cholera receded a little.

  We believe that you must not comment aloud on any new place, as it attracts attention from the spirits. It is better to stay silent than to risk offending them by saying something incorrect; if you do offend them, they will cause you to get irretrievably lost, doomed to wander forever. We even have a word for this: kuteterika. Sometimes, in those first weeks in town, I thought that this had happened to me; that I would never learn my way around this big city with all its signs and lines and roads. I did not know if Hazvinei felt this way as well. She did not talk about Baba and Amai; I did not even see her cry. Perhaps she was still recovering from the illness. Perhaps it had sucked her emotions dry,
as it had her body. Perhaps, and I think this was the real reason, I just did not understand her.

  Abel did not speak to us often. He was not the laughing, boastful cousin that we had known on the kopje, but a polite stranger who greeted us when we awoke and wished us a good night’s sleep in the evenings, but said nothing more. He left for school early in the mornings and stayed out late. I soon realised that Abel spent very little time at home now.

  ‘He is popular, this one,’ said Babamukuru. ‘And he always does his homework. He is a good boy.’

  We ate our meals with Abel and asked him to pass the sugar, but he did not laugh and play with us as he had on the kopje. I shared his room every night, heard his night-time mutterings and listened to the sounds of his dreams, but I had no idea who he was.

  ‘You do not want us here,’ I said to Abel one evening as we got ready for bed.

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘You do not talk to me anymore.’ I sat on the end of my bed, knees drawn up. ‘What is wrong? Did I do something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong.’ Abel slid his shirt over his head. He had the beginnings of chest hair, while my chest was smooth and bald.

  ‘I do not believe you.’

  His eyes were surrounded by white. ‘It is fine that you are here.’

  Helpless, I stared at him. We had played together since we were born. He was another sibling to me, almost half of myself. And now I did not know him at all.

  ‘Please, Abel.’ A shameful catch in my voice, unbefitting the man I was suddenly supposed to be.

  ‘What really happened, Tinashe?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What really happened on the kopje?’

  My heart beat in my throat. ‘You know what happened. The cholera …’

  He shook his head. ‘This all started with the N’anga’s hut. You know it.’

  I remembered Hazvinei wielding the medicine stick; the red eyes of the cockerel.

  ‘You did not visit again,’ I said.

  ‘I know what happened, Tinashe.’