The Hairdresser of Harare

by Tendai Huchu

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. I know my rights.’

  ‘I can do your hair at your place or anywhere else you choose, but not here.’

  Trina stood her ground and insisted that she was not leaving until she was finished. The minister asked me to do her hair, saying how much she regretted having a sell-out do it on the previous occasion. I started undoing the braids and prayed that Trina would see sense and leave, for all our sakes.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Then you leave me with no choice but to try and defend you as best I can.’ Dumi bowed his head and stayed beside her. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet like a rugby player waiting for the whistle to blow. I wanted to tell him not to be stupid, but I dared not utter a word. After what seemed to be an eternity of waiting, Trina finally said, ‘All right, I’ll leave.’

  There was a collective sight of relief. My hands trembled as I undid the minister’s hair. There was just one problem. The minister’s Merc was blocking the driveway.

  ‘Can you move your car out of my way?’ Trina asked, her voice tightly controlled. I felt sorry for her with her hair packed into its shiny silver sheaths. Her hair was bound to dry or burn, and the colour would be something else. What was supposed to be a treat had turned into a nightmare.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until the war vets get here,’ the minister shouted.

  Trina repeated her plea, this time to the chauffeur who was standing jiggling his keys. He did not budge an inch. She repeated herself but the man laughed in her face. The clock was ticking, the war vets were coming.

  ‘Tawanda, move your car out of Mrs Price’s way.’ Mr M___ spoke in a gentle, authoritative voice.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Tawanda!’ the minister responded.

  ‘Iwe. Usakanganwe kuti murume ndiyani panapa,’ Mr M___ said, pointing a finger at her. She kept quiet and Tawanda went to do as requested.

  It was a relief to see Trina leave, because two minutes later a pickup packed with men carrying knobkerries arrived. A dozen of them clambered down singing revolutionary songs. Most of them seemed younger than I was. As they came toward the salon Minister M___ called out to them, ‘That boy is a member of the MDC.’

  Twenty three

  The armed war vets approached whistling and chanting. I dropped the comb I was using to unbraid the minister and covered my mouth. The mental image of Dumi beaten to a pulp, sprawled on the ground, flashed though my mind. The mob circled him. It was like watching a hunting party waiting to make a move. Dumi turned and looked at all of them, then he put his hands behind his back, staring forward into space defiantly. I wanted him to beg for mercy. I wanted to plead with Minister M___ but my voice abandoned me. There were pains in my abdomen I could not explain. Standing in the middle of this ring of death, Dumi was calm, looking like a lion amongst jackals.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he said.

  One of them raised his knobkerrie. Dumi took a deep breath.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Mr M___ walked into the circle and instructed the war vets to get back into their vehicle. I wanted to rush forward and kiss him on his stubbly chin. Minister M___ was shaking with rage beneath me as Mr M___ put his hand around Dumi’s shoulders in an affectionate fatherly gesture.

  The other girls in the salon looked at each other. Their faces relaxed with relief while the remaining clients were still frozen in their seats. The war vets drove off singing revolutionary songs, victors of the third Chimurenga.

  ‘You’re a very brave young man. We could have used you during the liberation struggle,’ said Mr M___, his hand still thrown around Dumi’s shoulders. I did not hear Dumi’s reply but it must have been ‘thank you.’

  Mr M___ had run away from school to join the war against colonial oppression. He had distinguished himself on many occasions and was known to have been one of the fiercest commanders operating in the north of the country. When the war was over, he joined the newly formed Zimbabwe National Army and had served until 1987 when he left to form his own businesses.

  I realised that what I liked most about him was a sense of peace and of dignity that I reckoned was the product of him having seen too much suffering. It was, however, the first time that I’d seen him overrule his wife. Usually he was content to hang about with a disinterested air. The two of them moved out of earshot, talking. I was grateful that nothing had happened to my Dumisani.

  We went to the cinema that night. It was strange, because I now associated movie houses with church. The film we chose was Hitch, in the hope of seeing Will Smith’s fine rippling body. Dumi said that he appreciated his versatility, how he had moved from rap and comedy to becoming an award-winning movie actor. I just wanted to see those cute ears. We bought some popcorn and sipped on Coca-Cola. The last time I’d been to the cinema was with Phillip. It had been a very different experience. He’d kept talking about how much money he was making, as though that was all that life was about. Then, I’d listened keenly, but now I looked back in disgust.

  ‘Next time we’ll have to come and see something that’s PG rated so we can bring Chiwoniso with us,’ Dumi said casually, not knowing how much it meant to me that he thought about my daughter.

  The lights in the cinema dimmed and the movie started. Dumi’s hand slid across the divider to hold mine. There was a man at the bottom of the room with a terrible cough. Every two minutes, he coughed, spluttered and wheezed so we couldn’t hear. The parts of the film we did hear were hilarious, the dialogue between Will Smith and Eva Mendes more so. There was a collective ‘ahh’ when the movie ended. We remained in our seats until the last person had left.

  We left satisfied. I told him I was afraid that he could have been killed by the war vets, but he laughed the incident off as if it had been a very minor thing. I told him how close he had come to death, or at least being wounded, but my words didn’t seem to register.

  ‘Those men were cowards. It is through fear that they manipulate people. Do you know the story of the owl’s horns?’

  ‘I’ve never heard it.’

  ‘A long time ago, before the time of men, when animals and birds ruled the world, the birds saw that animals had the lion as their king and decided to choose one for themselves. The owl insisted that because he alone had horns, he should be the ruler. They were so afraid of his terrible horns that in the end they never chose a king for themselves. And so it was that the owl ruled through fear until one day when he was asleep, as usual, during the day, a little sparrow checked the ‘terrible horns’ and discovered that they were in fact overgrown ears.’

  ‘Not everyone’s as brave as you are.’

  ‘That’s because we’ve forgotten who we are. We are the sons of Dombo and the Rozvis. We are the children of the builders of the Great Zimbabwe, the eternal city of stone. Why have the children of the great Mzilikazi become cowards? How can the sons of Munhumutapa tremble before any man?’ I’d never seen this side of him before; the passion, the strength, the determination.

  We walked hand in hand through the city. We passed beneath broken streetlights and I felt as if there were only the two of us in the whole universe, with a crescent moon above. Dumi put his arm around me and we walked along like lovers. On the way we passed drunkards pissing in corners and prostitutes flashing for business.

  ‘Do you mind walking home?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ I said, not wanting it to end.

  The sight of Mrs Khumalo behind the cash desk greeted us on Wednesday morning. She was still in her nightdress and had a frown on her face. We greeted her but she did not reply, sipping a cup of tea silently and resting her chin on her knuckles.

  ‘I know you want to talk about what happened yesterday,’ Dumi said, finally.

  ‘You have no idea the number of problems you have caused me.’

  ‘She was way out of order…’

  ‘That is not the way you deal with these people. It only makes things worse.’

  ‘Trina is your s
upplier and your friend. I could not stand aside whilst she was abused. The same goes for all our clients.’

  ‘Listen!’ Mrs Khumalo banged her fist on the table. ‘I don’t care what you think or what your principles are. You do not do what you did yesterday. Never ever do it again. Do I make myself clear… I said, ‘Do I make myself clear?’’

  Dumi nodded and I did the same, as if I’d been involved. The chair scraped back as Mrs Khumalo stood up. She walked warily to the door. ‘I forgot to tell you one more thing. We’re closing shop for two weeks starting on Sunday. This will give us time to do those renovations we spoke of earlier. It will also give us time for things to cool down.’

  We told Yolanda and Memory about the two-week break and they seemed relieved to hear it. Charlie Boy kept saying that Dumi was either very brave or mad.

  ‘I’m just mad,’ Dumi replied.

  I tried to phone Trina but she did not answer. I left a voicemail on her phone saying we just needed to know if she was okay. There was a chance she would never come back. I certainly wouldn’t do so if what had happened to her had happened to me. She was our friend, but part of me wondered whether it was good for her or us if she returned. Yolanda suggested that Agnes could pick up the supplies from her place instead. The thought of changing a supplier would have been insupportable to Mrs Khumalo. There was no one else in the city who did what Trina did with the same level of integrity.

  The kid selling freezits came over but we shooed him away. No one was in the mood. We worked as we usually did but our spirits were low. I noticed how we all kept looking out the window as if fearful that a truckload of war vets would arrive, and any time a client’s car pulled up, my heart skipped a beat.

  The day dragged. Clients spoke about the usual stuff: work, family, economic problems, husband trouble and the like, but none of us seemed interested. It was as though part of our vitality, our life force, had been sucked out by some invisible agent. The urban grooves on the radio did nothing to improve my disposition. Dumi mimed along but his mind was elsewhere, I was sure of it.

  Then I saw a slight smile on his face — the private smile of someone in love.

  Twenty four

  The weekend came and went and it was a relief to know that we were going to be away from the salon for a while. Nonetheless, I woke up early on Monday morning as usual. Habits born through years of work cannot be easily set aside. I drank my tea and took a walk through the garden. Fungai had done a marvellous job with the flowers. He had watered the grass and it had left its dry yellow behind and was beginning to turn green, and he’d removed all the weeds. If only the weeds from my past could be removed just as easily.

  I stood at the gate and looked at the long procession of Churchill boys and Roosevelt girls going to school. Was there a future for them when they finished? The generations who came before us had stolen hope to such an extent that we regarded the future with trepidation. I knew people who never looked beyond the next day. Their circumstances only allowed them to focus on the here and now, which is pretty much what animals did, though we regarded ourselves as superior.

  In the afternoon I went to look for maize meal. There was none at the local shopping centre so I walked up to Rhodesville where I’d heard there might be some available. It was a long walk but the weather was cool. I couldn’t find any mealie-meal but bought a kilogram packet of rice and some chicken feet, which is all my finances would allow. I decided I would make peanut butter rice because it was Chiwoniso’s favourite. I couldn’t remember when we’d last eaten meat so the chicken legs would be a treat; Maidei knew how to prepare them well.

  When I returned, Dumi was lounging on the grass reading a magazine. He waved and called out to me.

  ‘What are you doing on Friday night?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’ I replied.

  ‘My parents would like us to go for dinner and maybe stay the weekend.’

  ‘I can do dinner but I can’t stay, I have to look after Chiwoniso.’

  ‘They want to see her too.’

  ‘You mean they know about her?’

  ‘I already told them and they’re delighted at the prospect of having a little one run around the house. They haven’t got any grandkids yet so she might brighten up their day.’

  I was shocked. They were happy for their son to be seeing a single mother who happened to be older than him. Most families I knew would never contemplate such a match, let alone encourage it.

  ‘They don’t mind the fact that I have a child?’

  ‘Why should they?’

  It was very modern of them but still something didn’t feel quite right.

  ‘So what do you say? I have to let them know by tonight.’

  ‘I would love to.’

  Friday came and I was a bundle of nerves. Chiwoniso knew we were going to see Uncle Dumi’s house and she was excited. She kept running around asking when we would leave. I had never taken her on a holiday or anywhere besides church. There had never been any money for that.

  ‘Let’s go, Michelle is waiting at the gate,’ Dumi said, clicking his phone off.

  Michelle was driving a blue Mitsubishi twin-cab which seemed far too large for her tiny body. I wondered how she managed to reach the pedals but she seemed to be driving all right.

  ‘It feels wrong when I drive on the left because in America you have to drive on the right.’

  ‘You always talk about America, we’re tired of it,’ Dumi said, pretending to be annoyed.

  ‘You’re just jealous because you refused to go abroad then and now you want to.’

  ‘I have no business going abroad. Everything I want is right here.’

  ‘I want to go to America,’ Chiwoniso shouted. I was fighting to hold her as she was jumping up and down on the seat.

  Michelle took no notice of her antics. ‘Then why do you have a visa to go to the UK in December?’ she asked her brother.

  ‘I didn’t know that had come through.’

  ‘Mum said it came through today. If I were you, I’d have gone somewhere sexy like France or Italy.’

  ‘How long will you be gone for?’ I asked.

  ‘It should be a six-month visa but I will have to see how much time Mrs Khumalo will give me for my leave.’

  We passed a traffic accident. A kombi had hit a small passenger car and they were on the roadside waiting for the police to come.

  ‘You really should take Vimbai with you. That’s the problem with men, they only think about themselves.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to go. It’ll be winter there, after all.’

  ‘I don’t have a passport.’

  Michelle slammed the brakes on and pulled over to the side of the road. The cars behind us hooted angrily.

  ‘How the hell can you live without a passport?’ She seemed genuinely pissed off. I wanted to apologise.

  ‘Hey, it’s none of your business whether she has one or not.’

  ‘Shut up, Dumi, this is between me and my muroora. Vimbai, darling, we have to go to the passport office first thing Monday morning and get you pimped out.’

  I wanted to say that I didn’t have money to even think about going abroad but the determined look on Michelle’s face made me mutter a half-hearted agreement. Only then did she put the car into gear and drive back onto the road.

  When we arrived, a maid came out to collect our bags. She went to put them in our room.

  ‘Mum and dad are at the Chanakira’s. They’ll be back in time for dinner.’ Luke came over to greet me with a kiss on the cheeks. ‘This must be Chiwoniso. I know the old folks are really looking forward to seeing her. Don’t be nervous, my girlfriend, Sandra, is meant to be here any time soon. You’ll love her, she’s really nice, like everyone in the family. Be careful of Michelle though, she wants you all to herself.’

  Luke was slightly taller than Dumi and had piercing eyes. He had the same athletic build that seemed to run in the family’s male DNA. I later learnt that he had played tennis for Zimbabwe a
t junior level. We sat in the lounge in front of a massive wide-screen TV. It was tuned to MTV and we watched the videos of rappers and gyrating girls coming on screen at three-minute intervals. Michelle offered a running commentary on who had won what rap battle; who was hot and who was not; and who had a beef with whom. If there was anything American then she had a running commentary to go with it. Chiwoniso stuck to her side, fascinated by this new ‘auntie’ who had a strange accent.

  Sandra came in and apologised for her lateness. She was a coloured girl with green eyes and long frizzy hair. She offered me a limp hand and regarded me with barely concealed contempt, as if asking, ‘What is this township girl doing here?’ Her pearly white teeth flashed at me in the brief imitation of a smile. She moved over to Luke and curled round him like a python on its prey.

  Mr and Mrs Ncube came in soon afterwards and we were herded into the dining room, which was very spacious with a mahogany table that could seat twelve. The maids brought in mountains of food — more than we could hope to finish. There was rice, roast duck, beef, vegetables, mushroom soup and four other side-dishes which I could not identify.

  ‘I hope you like the food,’ Mrs Ncube said to me, sounding a little nervous after she had said grace.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ I replied.

  ‘Only the best for the girl who cured my son.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get stuck in,’ Mr Ncube said rather abruptly. Dumi, sitting beside his father, maintained a somewhat stony expression. Avoiding looking at anyone else, he kept his eyes on his plate. There was the slightest of tremors in his hands as he picked up his fork.

  I’d never eaten duck before, but I had a far greater problem; like my daughter sitting next to me, I had limited experience of using a knife and fork. The only period when I had used them was with Phillip, and that was a long time ago. I struggled with the fork in my left hand and spilt my rice onto my lap. I could feel them looking at me and didn’t know what to do. The more I tried, the more food I dropped. Mr Ncube put down his fork and knife and picked up a spoon. When he began to eat with it, everyone, except for Sandra, did the same. She carried on with her knife and fork. Mr Ncube winked at me, seeing I was relieved to be eating with the right hand. It seemed they were making every effort to ensure I was comfortable. The food was delicious, very different from anything I had ever eaten before. This was the sort of thing people only ate in fine hotels. I made the resolution to learn to use a fork to save myself from future embarrassment.