The Hairdresser of Harare

by Tendai Huchu

  ‘Make sure you all go to your homes by six o’clock.’ They were too young to tell the time but they knew to leave just as the sun began to set.

  The house was empty except for Sisi Maidei, my house-girl. I’d grown up in a tiny two-bedroomed house in Tafara, sharing the floor with five other girls. I was unused to space and the privacy. There was never any peace when I was growing up; I was always surrounded by the sound of laughter and insistent chatter. In a way I missed it, but I had learnt to love my own space.

  ‘Maswera sei?’ said Sisi Maidei.

  ‘Taswera maswerawo.’

  I told her to make me some Tanganda tea. My throat was dry. I sat down on the sofa and relaxed. I had been on my feet all day and my arches were very sore. I rubbed them to ease the pain. Outside the window the children were back in their mud hole, their joyful faces wrapped in the innocence of childhood. I was here to protect them. I had no desire for Chiwoniso to have the same childhood that I’d endured.

  ‘Here’s your tea.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I took a sip. ‘You always put too much sugar. What’s wrong with you? Do you think I buy it with paper?’

  The stupid girl just stood there looking at me until I dismissed her with a wave of my hand. That was the problem with these rural girls, they lacked common sense. I knew I had to replace her, but not with someone too clever. The city girls would steal from you at the first chance they had. It was getting harder and harder to find a good house-girl.

  Chiwoniso entered the house, her tiny feet leaving footprints on the floor.

  I told Maidei to clean up and took my daughter to the bathroom. ‘But Mama, I don’t want to bath.’ She squirmed but I was firm and held her tightly.

  ‘If you keep wriggling like this there will be no more sweets for you.’ She fell still, her tiny mind debating the situation, perhaps weighing if one bath was worth losing sweets over. Her face contorted in anguish.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bath with you,’ I said. Her smile shone like tiny moonbeams on my face. I kissed her, we were friends once more.

  One day when she grows older she will understand why I insist on bathing her myself every evening. Only six years old and in her first year in primary school, she could not possibly know that I was checking for any signs of abuse. I knew I was being paranoid but the Herald was always full of stories about abused children… It seems that nowadays whether it’s AIDS or muti or just the way things are, children become the victims. Sylvia once told me that the Child Abuse Clinic at Harare Hospital was seeing a hundred kids a week and that was just the tip of the iceberg. The only way that was going to happen to Chiwoniso was over my dead body and even then, my ngozi would still have something to say about it.

  Maidei was outside cooking supper on a three-plate hearth we’d recently built to save electricity. The costs had gone up again and I was two months behind with payments. The security light outside shone on her as she adjusted the logs to kindle the fire. Her strong hands worked rhythmically as she stirred the pots. A machine of flesh designed for a lifetime of servitude. The one thing I admired about her was her ability to do work quietly and uncomplainingly. She did the yard and the garden as well because I could scarcely afford to hire a garden-boy. In that moment I felt myself thinking maybe I shouldn’t get rid of her after all.

  Supper was sadza with matemba with some pumpkin leaves mixed with tomatoes and onions, cooked in beef fat to give them more flavour. The smell was heavenly but I had to add more salt. Clearly there was still a lot to teach this girl. Chiwoniso hated matemba, so I indulged her and let her have lacto with her sadza.

  ‘Tell me about your day at school,’ I said.

  She began a convoluted tale about her teacher, other students, class and Lord knows what else. It made very little sense but I marvelled at her fluent English. It rolled from her little tongue sounding natural, not forced like mine.

  She went to bed late. It was Friday, so she didn’t have to get up early the next day. Maidei went to bed once she’d done the dishes. Chiwoniso asked me to tell her a story like I’d once done so so long ago. I kissed her on the forehead and covered her with a blanket wishing that it would always be this way.

  Then I made my way around the house checking all the doors and windows. We had a latch on every door and burglar bars on all the windows but I knew that even this was sometimes not enough. The thieves in Harare worked 24/7 and a house full of women made for easy pickings. I wheeled the TV into my bedroom just in case. A house just up the street had recently been burgled and they’d lost everything, even the light bulbs. What was worse was that the family remained fast asleep, waking up to find themselves naked on the floor. There were rumours that burglars were blowing some sort of sleeping powder through the air vents but no one ever said what the powder was or where they got it from.

  Finally, I went to bed and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think how this house had driven a wedge between me and my family.

  Four

  I was late again for work on Monday. This time Mrs Khumalo herself greeted me.

  ‘This is a business, Vimbai! Customers are waiting and you’re modelling,’ she called out, as I made my way up the driveway. Agnes sniggered as I quickened my pace.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the kombis from Kamfinsa were all full.’

  I wondered what she was doing in so early. She seemed to be nervous as she stared at the slow procession of cars going down the road. I accompanied Sylvia, one of our regulars, to the basin. No time for tea when the boss is here. One day I will have enough money for my own salon, I thought, as I ran my fingers through her hair. Sylvia was a nurse at Parirenyatwa and people in the medical field were always handy to know. Maybe she would help me to jump the queue one day. Though God forbid I should get sick.

  Sylvia’s hair was straight except in the nape of her neck where her new curly hair was growing out in its natural state.

  ‘You shouldn’t have left it so long before coming in for a retouch. There’s a lot of growth in here.’

  ‘I know, but money is hard to come by these days.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a discount today.’ Mrs Khumalo cast a sharp glance my way and I quickly added, ‘This is your tenth consecutive visit so you deserve it.’

  There was something wrong today and I could feel the tension in the air. It took me a while to realise what the problem was.

  ‘Agnes, go and look up the street,’ said Mrs Khumalo.

  ‘That’s why you shouldn’t take these people in from the street,’ quipped Charlie Boy. He had a customer, a man having a punky haircut, like he was still in the eighties.

  I wriggled my nose as the Revlon relaxer worked its magic on Sylvia’s hair.

  ‘Make sure you tell me when your scalp starts tingling,’ I told her. She knew the risks well. I remembered the first time she’d come in, her scalp was scabbed where she’d been burnt by Glen-T, that horrible local stuff. It was weeks before she could have her hair done professionally. She’d stayed loyal ever since.

  Agnes returned shaking her head.

  ‘Did you look properly?’ Mrs Khumalo asked.

  ‘Yes, Mama, there’s no one.’

  Mrs Khumalo looked downcast. She threw the cashbook on the table, picked up her cellphone. She couldn’t get a signal so she stepped outside and hovered around trying until she got one.

  ‘Dumisani, where are you? It’s Mrs Khumalo, please call me when you get this message, we are tired of waiting for you.’ She hung up the phone and sighed. ‘Maybe he has a problem.’ We all cast each other conspiratorial looks. This was not the boss we knew. How could she be so tolerant with someone not showing up, and on his first day, when we all knew there were hundreds of hairdressers looking for work. Mrs K. rolled up her sleeves and asked the next customer to come forward. In Zimbabwe you have to learn to be a jack of all trades: Mrs Khumalo was a hairdresser, farmer, trader, IT consultant, you name it, she did it.

  Only Agnes had the guts to ask her about this ne
wfound blast of tolerance.

  ‘What’s so special about him? We can get someone else.’

  ‘There’s something about that boy. I saw the way he styled Matilda’s hair. He knows how to do the job better than some of you who’ve been here years.’ That stung. Who was she referring to — me or the other girls?

  I inserted the latest CD by Papa Wemba, my favourite Congolese artist, into the CD player. The salon was not complete without a little Rhumba in the background. Even Mrs Khumalo jiggled her hips in rhythm to the beat and in that instant looked like a sexy young woman again.

  ‘Do you have Kofi Olomide or Kanda Bongoman?’ a customer said.

  ‘We have everything you want, one hundred per cent satisfaction guaranteed. Hey, chinja that CD.’

  Agnes put Kanda Bongoman on and the customer laughed, content. The guitars and the rhythmic beats from the Congo blared out and could be heard in the street. When we wanted to speak, we shouted above the music. ‘Hand me that comb. Do this, do that.’ The salon came to life.

  A boy came in later that morning; he was not much older than my daughter. He wore shorts and a blue T-shirt that was so tight that his belly button showed.

  ‘MaFreezits,’ he said, lowering the large box that he carried on his unkempt head.

  We all bought the frozen popsicles more out of sympathy than because of the heat. He came by every day and sometimes we bought nothing. There were many more like him roaming about the city. I shuddered when I imagined my own child having to leave school and fend for herself. I recalled a time when the city council forced truant kids into school or rounded up street kids and put them in orphanages. Nowadays nobody bothered. None of these high-handed measures had worked anyway.

  He thanked us and went on his way. I could see Mrs Khumalo watching him until he was out of sight. Her face showed a mother’s concern and helplessness all rolled into one. She already had far too many mouths to feed.

  A shiny black Mercedes C-class pulled in. Agnes lowered the volume on the stereo. My heart beat faster. It was our top client. The chauffeur ran round and opened the door for her. I was disappointed she’d not brought her husband with her. He was a nice man who sometimes hung about and chatted while her hair was being done. The lady, who was Minister M___ (after what happened, I can never bring myself to mention her by name), got out and walked towards us. Mrs Khumalo was beside herself ordering Memory to sweep hair from the floor.

  Yolanda got a chair ready and stood behind it as the minister made her way in.

  ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

  ‘How are you? Please seat down.’ There was a slight tremor in Mrs K.’s voice. She clapped her hands in the traditional fashion and the lady responded in kind. Minister M___ came in to get her hair done once a month. She had grown up in rural Chivhu–Charter, as it was known then — the same area that Mrs Khumalo came from. A lot of people assumed Mrs Khumalo was Ndebele, but actually she was Shona, it was her husband who had the Ndebele roots. The Minister even called her Vatete, auntie, because by some conjuring trick they had managed to establish a relationship based on their totems.

  Minister M___ had joined the liberation struggle when she was only fourteen. She had trained in Zambia with ZANLA and had fought bravely against the Rhodesian Army. After independence, she entered politics and continued with her schooling. In the late eighties she became a deputy minister and later a full minister. She wore spectacles and had a gap in her teeth, which made it sound like she was whistling when she spoke.

  ‘Vimbai, are you going to do my hair?’ She always asked this even though she knew I was the only one allowed to touch her. I left my customer for Yolanda to finish off. ‘How’s Chiwoniso, that’s her name isn’t it? I wish I’d brought something for her.’

  ‘She’s fine — you got her name right.’ It amazed me the way she remembered our names although we were nobodies.

  ‘How’s your mother feeling these days?’ she asked Memory.

  ‘Much better, but her bones cause her problems when it’s raining.’

  The minister nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Is she getting the medicine she needs?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s expensive. Things are very difficult these days.’

  ‘Go to the pharmacy on Angwa Street. Tell them I sent you and they will give you whatever you need for her. Make sure you take a prescription.’

  Memory clapped her hands and thanked the minister. Tears formed in her eyes. The minister pretended not to notice and turned to Yolanda.

  ‘Are you still going to night school?’

  ‘I’m getting ready for my final exams.’

  ‘You’re a good girl. You’ll pass. The country needs educated young people like you. You are the future.’

  Yolanda bowed her head, slightly embarrassed. She was doing A-levels at night school because her parents didn’t have the money to send her to a good school. She could have gone to a B-school somewhere in the townships, but she was a classy girl and refused to.

  ‘Who are you?’ the minister asked a customer who was sitting in the corner waiting.

  The customer seemed surprised that she was being spoken to.

  ‘Me?’ she asked. The minister gestured yes patiently. ‘I am Patience Chidhakwa.’

  The minister thought for a minute and spoke slowly.

  ‘The Chidhakwas from Buhera?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your phone number?’

  ‘It is zero, one, one, three, five…’

  ‘No, you’re supposed to say double nine, nine, two, ten,’ said Mrs Khumalo, referring to an old hit song from the eighties. She laughed loudly.

  ‘She is too young to know this,’ the minister laughed as well. ‘So, Patience, you’re my little sister because I have a cousin who is married into your people.’

  Who would not be pleased to know they were in some way related to the minister? I liked the way she whistle-spoke and carried herself. There was a down-to-earth quality about her; she felt like one of the girls, even though we all knew she was loaded. She spoke with Mrs Khumalo about her farm and encouraged her. When she left, we all felt special even as we stared after her shiny car that lay far beyond our wildest dreams.

  Five

  The next day Dumisani didn’t show up. Nor did he show up on Wednesday or Thursday. I couldn’t understand how anyone could waste such an opportunity — a job was a job these days. After all, we all knew there was 90 per cent unemployment! Mrs Khumalo came into the salon every day looking more downcast with each passing hour.

  ‘Maybe he isn’t going to come anymore,’ she said to no one in particular.

  It rained that day and the salon was virtually empty except for one customer who Memory was attending to. I listened to the sound of the raindrops bombarding the roof like a thousand tiny bullets. The sky was grey and it was hard to imagine that behind all those clouds the sun still shone.

  ‘Did you hear the latest about Patricia?’ asked Memory, who was as fond of a bit of gossip as all of us.

  ‘Come on, tell us.’

  ‘I found out whose pregnancy that was. You’ll not believe it.’

  ‘I would believe anything of that girl.’

  ‘It’s Pastor Chasi’s child.’

  ‘You have to be joking! Pastor Chasi from the New Jerusalem Church? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘That’s what you get from these Pentecostal churches of yours,’ Mrs Khumalo cut in. She was a staunch Catholic and a member of some guild that wore blue uniforms when they went to mass.

  ‘Isn’t Pastor Chasi married?’

  ‘He has a wife and two kids.’

  ‘Isn’t that the church you go to, Vimbai?’

  ‘No, I go to Forward in Faith ministries.’

  ‘He’s refusing to accept the baby.’

  It made for a juicy piece of gossip but there was nothing new about the story of a pastor getting one of his flock pregnant. He could easily turn around and say that the Holy Spirit made him do it, but c
hances were that Patricia would be given some money and told to keep quiet. I had no moral high ground on which to stand in such matters. That’s why I generally kept quiet when the girls gossiped about such things.

  I was very young when I had Chiwoniso. Her father was a very well-known businessman. Nineteen and unemployed, I was still living with my parents. But one day, coming home from the shops, a car pulled over. I was surprised to see it was Phillip Mabayo, a flamboyant, good-looking man who was often on TV and had his name splashed in the newspapers almost daily. He was in his late thirties but had made enough money for twenty lifetimes. How? It was better not to ask. He was driving a red Ford pick-up, left-hand-drive. It was the only one in the country. I thought he wanted to ask me for directions when he rolled down his window. The street was full of people and so I was so surprised when he said,

  ‘Girl, you’re so beautiful. Get in. Let’s go for a ride.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I said, embarrassed. Luckily our house was just around the corner and I ran to our gate. I may have been innocent but I wasn’t stupid; I’d heard about Sugar Daddies!

  When I told my sister what had happened she said I was an idiot. I didn’t care. I had a boyfriend, the same age as me and even though he owned nothing, I loved him with the deluded passion that only youth can offer. A few days later, a neighbour’s child came over and asked for me. He gave me a cellphone and said it was for me. I asked who it was from and he said a man had given it to him.

  ‘Don’t be a fool. Take it,’ my sister said.

  It was a silver Nokia with a colour screen, ready to use, with a SIM card installed. For the first time in my life, I had my own phone. But it was not long before I knew who’d given it to me. My suspicions were confirmed when the phone rang and there was a man on the end. I remember my mother asking where I had got a phone from as I left the room to take the call. My sister mumbled some excuse on my behalf.

  ‘Who is it?’