by Tendai Huchu
‘I want to see my daughter,’ his words slurred.
‘Phillip, what’s wrong with you? She’s asleep, come back tomorrow,’ I said, irritated.
He pinned me to the door and tried to kiss me. I said no and told him that he was drunk. ‘I don’t care, you bitch. I pay you my money every month so that you can live in a nice house and wear fine clothes. You are my bitch and I can have you any time I want.’ He tried again, but he was so drunk I overpowered him and pushed him out of the house. He shouted obscenities and smashed the living room window before he drove off in a drunken stupor.
The payments stopped soon after that. There were people who told me to take him to court and get a maintenance order, but I was too proud. I would not give him an excuse to try to gain access to my daughter. As she grows older, I know she will begin to ask questions about her father but that is a bridge I will cross later. Till then, keeping her safe is my priority. But now I needed more money.
Ten
The music in the salon changed to Urban Grooves, a local bastardized form of hip hop with no artistic merit. When Dumi first brought it in, I thought it was a one-off. Soon the imitation synthesised beats were playing every day. Nobody seemed to mind except me. The artists with names like Maskiri, Willom Tight, Rocqui, Extra Large, singers who I’d paid no attention to in the past, now dominated the salon’s airwaves. The music was like listening to pans smashed together by a three-year-old.
‘This music has no lyrical content at all.’
‘You’re not listening to them. They are talking about love, hustling for money in these tough times, unity, small houses, everyday life, and with themes that are relevant to the youths of today.’ Dumi stepped up to defend his music.
‘You can’t even hear what they’re saying underneath those phoney American accents.’
‘You can’t hear what those Rhumba artists you love are saying either.’
‘At least their music is part of our culture.’
‘Correct me if I am wrong but I believe you’re saying that artists from the DRC are expressing our culture, but kids who grew up in these streets are not. I find that absurd to say the least.’ He pursed his lips in a way I found disgusting.
He couldn’t understand that Rhumba music is universal and crosses the barriers of language, space and time. When Awilo Longomba sings about love you feel it, when he is sad you become sad with him. Now I had to endure the damn Urban Grooves that made my head ache. Still, today was at least the first Tuesday of the month and Trina was coming. We all looked forward to her monthly visits.
It was not long before the rumble of her diesel pick-up could be heard from the street. That car sounded more like a grinding mill than a form of transport. She pulled in and parked just in front of the doors. Her tall white frame stepped out of the car. She was wearing sunglasses — in fact, I had never seen her without a pair. The khaki trousers and shirt she wore underlined her lack of dress sense for someone who was only in her early thirties.
‘Makadini madzimai,’ she greeted us, with a full Zezuru accent.
‘Tiripo makadini,’ we all replied, like a primary school choir. There was never a time when we spoke to her in English. For all we knew she might not have been able to speak the language. The freckles on her face said she was one of us and had been basking in the glory of the same sun for far too long.
‘Is Mrs Khumalo in? She made a big order and I have to make sure I’ve got everything right.’
‘You’ve just missed her but I know what she ordered,’ Agnes said, stepping outside.
They returned with two full boxes of hair-care products.
‘There was also the human hair if you brought it.’
‘I couldn’t get any but I have some synthetic instead if you want it,’ Trina said, shrugging her shoulders.
‘It will have to do then,’ replied Agnes, as Trina returned for another boxful.
The two of them counted the stock and verified that it was correct. It was reassuring to know that we had supplies for the coming month. Mostly it was Dark and Lovely together with Revlon because we could source the low-quality stuff locally.
Agnes went back inside the house and returned with six two-litre bottles of cooking oil. She continued back and forth until she had loaded twenty-four of them into the truck. Trina rarely took money when she could help it. Further down the line she would trade the cooking oil for something else, petrol perhaps or even bales of toilet paper. Anything was better than carrying around large stacks of notes.
She had once been in farming. Together with her husband, they had owned two farms; one in Beatrice, which she had inherited from her father, and another just outside the city along Chinhoyi Road, which belonged to her husband, Derek Price. When the land reform programme began, they were quick to give up the farm in Beatrice in the hope they would be allowed to keep Good Hope farm on which they grew tobacco and other cash crops.
This gesture had seen them through the first wave of invasions and they had even received a letter from the government telling them they would be allowed to stay. It was almost a miracle, as they had seen their neighbours picked off one by one. Then, just a year ago, a powerful minister had taken a liking to their green oasis that was now surrounded by vast deteriorating farms. They had been to court and won an injunction preventing the seizure of their farm.
But then the war vets arrived. Their workers were beaten, livestock slaughtered and their home ransacked. They fled and could not return. This government minister, it was rumoured, already had eight farms, which everyone knew about, and still wanted more.
When Trina spoke you could hear the echo of a plea. A sort of longing to be away from the bustle of the city, which must have been a culture shock for a girl who had grown up in wide open spaces. There was a kind of deliberateness in her gestures and a weariness to the way she carried herself. Perhaps she’d hoped that one day they would win their farm back. If she did, she never said a thing to us. They’d bought a house in Harare and now her husband made a living selling cars that they had shipped in from overseas. When she went with him to the port in Durban, she bought supplies for businesses around the city and had become something of a legend.
Her success came from keeping her word, something we could never hope for from any of our other suppliers.
‘I brought some presents for you girls,’ she said, peering into her car and coming out with some brightly coloured packets that we strained to make out from afar. She toyed with us for a bit trying to make us guess what they were. You can’t believe how we all shrieked with joy when she finally revealed that they were packs of tampons. I had been using cotton balls for four months — it was as bad as that — and I considered myself lucky to have them. There were no pads in the shops. We had all scoured the city. I knew of other women using rags that they would then wash and reuse and shuddered at the prospect that one day I might be compelled to follow suit. She had one packet left in her hand when she asked, ‘Where’s Patricia?’
‘She was fired.’
‘Oh,’ she said, cupping her mouth.
‘I’m her replacement, but somehow I don’t think those will do me any good.’ Dumi promptly introduced himself. Before she had a chance to speak he went over and touched her hair. ‘You’re a mess.’
Trina went over to the mirror and ran her hand through her hair.
‘It’s not so bad.’
‘Look at it. This just won’t do. Sit in this chair.’ He literally forced her into the chair.
‘I don’t mean to be rude but have you ever worked with hair like mine?’ she protested, trying to squirm out as he held her down.
‘Madam, even if you were a baboon, I would still style you. I work with all types of hair.’
He shampooed and conditioned her, untangling her frizzy hair. He ran a comb through and tried to style her before he decided that she would do well with simply tying it back in a ponytail. ‘We need to straighten it, and I can imagine putting a few blonde highlights in it.
Pity we don’t have the dye or the straighteners to work with. If you can get me the materials I need, I guarantee that I will make you look so hot your husband will not recognise you.’
‘God it’s been ages since I’ve been in a salon. Tell me what you need and maybe next month I’ll come round with some products and you can style me.’
Dumi wrote down a list of what he wanted her to bring along for the next visit. He was adamant that it would be on the house since she was our supplier. We watched her walking back to the car, her usual step replaced by swaying hips. It was the most feminine I’d ever seen her.
She drove off and I stashed my tampons in my handbag. If I could have willed my period on I would have, knowing that I had these. At that time though, none of us could have known that Dumi’s little stunt was going to have some devastating ramifications for the salon and our relations with Trina.
Eleven
Work was becoming an ordeal. I felt physically ill each time I made my way into the salon. To endure the mind-numbing thumping beats of the music they all now seemed to prefer was torture in itself. The salon was busier; in fact we had more clients on the books than we could cope with. Dumi wasn’t content. He tore down the old posters that we had on the walls and replaced them with glossy ones that he said had come from America. The ones opposite my chair showed skimpy women with intricate braids who I was forced to look at every day. Others were brightly coloured, advertising various hairstyles that I’d never seen before.
The posters that really got to me were ones with a smiling man and a woman staring into each other’s eyes. Below that was a pack of femidoms tied with a red ribbon. We were a salon and not a brothel, for Christ’s sake. Not only did we have to take money for the hair we did, but Mrs Khumalo now insisted that we push the condoms onto each woman who sat on our chairs. I’d never felt more like a slut in my entire life. I thought briefly of leaving and getting a job somewhere else. Where would I go, who would employ me? The thought left my mind as soon as it popped in.
‘It looks like there is something on your mind. You don’t quite seem yourself today.’ Lucy was one of my regulars. I was grateful that she had not joined the mindless minions who insisted that only Dumisani could do their hair.
‘Times are hard, my sister.’
‘It’s the same for all of us. Hard times never kill.’
It was easy for her to say that, with her perfect husband and family. I was plaiting cornrows. It was an intricate style that I was giving her, with the lines curving in wavy motions round her head.
‘Ahh, that’s too tight.’
‘Sorry, I will make them a little looser.’
‘She must be thinking about a man,’ Agnes commented with a simper.
‘Why don’t you just shut up?’ I retorted.
‘Someone’s in a bad mood today. So it can only be a man!’ Dumi joked with a wink. In a way he was right, it was a man — him. ‘You know we’re just teasing you Vimbai,’ he tried to placate me.
I wasn’t in a forgiving mood and ignored him, concentrating on the scalp in front of me. I had to will my fingers to move in the way I wanted them to, conciously focusing on what I was doing, whereas before Dumi’d arrived, they’d moved as naturally as walking. Also, now I noticed flaws in my work that I hadn’t seen before. One line of the cornrows was thicker than the others. I undid it quietly and redid it. Lucy fidgeted. I knew she was thinking the braids were too tight, but this was the way I’d always done them. That it had become a problem made me feel awful. Had I been getting this wrong for years?
Lucy flinched and said, ‘I forgot to tell you all something… Abbas and Sons is getting a delivery of sugar tomorrow.’
‘Is that the shop that’s downtown?’
‘It’s on Rezende.’
‘Can you organise some for us?’
‘My brother works for them and I’ll be there tomorrow morning. You should send someone to meet me first thing in the morning.’
‘We will send…’
‘One of you will have to come because it has to be someone that I know.’ Of all the reasons for continuing to work at the salon, this had to be the best one. It was the centre of a network where you could hear about what stuff was going on, which was essential when so much was in short supply. Maize meal, sugar, salt and cooking oil were the basics that one always had to be on the lookout for, especially when you could get them at the gazetted price and sell them on the black market for a quick profit. I volunteered to meet up with Lucy.
The next morning I left home early, making sure Maidei warmed some water for Chiwoniso’s bath. I had had to switch off the geyser to save on electricity. It would have to be that way until things improved. I got a lift from a man who was pirating and he dropped me off at the main post office. It took me time to cross the street because the traffic light was not working and no one wanted to give way. Cars, or rather their drivers, pushed and hooted madly trying to cross Jason Moyo Avenue. Heroically, I ran and weaved my way across the mayhem, knowing that pedestrians would always get short shrift. It was not a feat for the faint-hearted. I stopped to catch my breath leaning on the metal railings that fenced Town House. The old building stood in its glory as if the colonial times were mocking the failure of our independent era. It was still the City Council headquarters. The colourful Zimbabwean flag drooped impotently in the smog-filled, stagnant atmosphere.
There was a curious feature in the square in front of the building. It was a silverish metallic ball with spikes that looked like a hastily cobbled piece of modern art by a D grade O-level student. It was the fountain, from which not a drop of water ran. If my memory serves me right it cost nearly a million when it was built, quite a fortune then, though it wouldn’t buy a loaf of bread now. When it worked it produced a curious ball of water that was outstandingly unspectacular. It was quick to break down, just months after it was unveiled. Everything about the city council was broken except the official Mercs that made their way in and out of the gates, as if any real important business was taking place within.
It surprised me how with only ten per cent of the population employed, the streets were full of people bumping past each other first thing in the morning. I passed a vendor whose business consisted of selling single mints and single sticks of cigarette as I turned into Robert Mugabe Road. From there it was just a couple more steps onto Rezende Street.
Abbas and Sons was a largish Indian store, one of several in the downtown area. There was a queue of about sixty people already there. A hand grabbed me from behind. I quickly turned, clutching my handbag.
‘It’s only me,’ Lucy said. She was wearing a dhuku headkerchief over her hair, as if embarrassed by the hairstyle I’d given her less than twenty-four hours previously. I pretended not to notice. ‘Give me the money.’ She took the brick-like bundle of cash I had and stuffed it into her own large handbag. She did not need to count it. We can tell the value of money from its weight. It wouldn’t even matter if it was a few hundred thousand short anyway, the way its value was falling by the hour.
‘Good morning,’ I said to her.
‘Let’s go round to the back,’ she whispered. We stepped past piles of rubbish and avoided puddles of brown water as we went up the back street. Lucy kept looking around worried that someone might follow us. There was something exciting about doing this. She dialled her cellphone, whispered a few brisk words and hung up.
‘Just wait, he will be out soon.’
Soon was an hour and a quarter later. The door opened suddenly and a scrawny man with a shiny face stepped out.
‘Chop-chop,’ he said, thrusting a bag at her and taking the money in one swift motion. My heart pounded as if I was taking part in a drug deal. As soon as he was done the man went back in and shut the door. That was it. We had our sugar. Lucy gave me three two-kilogram packets of white and one two-kilogram packet of brown and we parted ways. She had just earned herself a free session the next time she came into the salon. Once I got back to the salon, we would
break the packets into smaller packs of about a kilogram each because we had a few more shareholders in this operation, clients who had been in when Lucy made her announcement.
I walked back onto the street. The queue was twice as long now and snaking its way on to Robert Mugabe. People were shoving and pushing each other. A group of policemen appeared at the front with batons and took control, making sure everyone kept their place in the queue. The truth is by giving up their time to baton a few people they’d earned themselves a place at the head of the queue. I made my way up the road smiling and feeling like an angel. If I didn’t have four kilograms on either side I would have floated away high above the skyscrapers.
Twelve
To see Fungai standing at the gate and waiting for me to unlock it was a dream come true. For an instant I could almost believe that one day I would host my family here, in peace. It was his first time coming. He had ignored the Takesure/Knowledge saga. I let him in and gave him a big hug.
‘I thought you were just blowing hot air when you said you would visit.’
‘I’m not sure if ‘blowing hot air’ is the right metaphor. Anyway, I always try to do what I say.’
He was panting and I held his hand fearful that he might turn around and walk away.
‘You’re squeezing my hand too hard,’ he laughed. When I let go he put his arm around me. I felt like he was leaning on me because I could feel his weight on my shoulder. ‘It’s a beautiful house. Robert did well.’
Now it was my turn to squeeze his hand, glad that he had invoked our deceased brother. There were times when I missed him in this big house, but being with Fungai was good because his face reminded me of Robert. They were just a year apart and, seeing Fungai, I could almost picture how our older brother might have looked today.
