by Tendai Huchu
Twenty five
The bed my daughter and I slept in had satin sheets that caressed the skin. Chiwoniso kept sliding down them, excited by the smooth luxuriant comfort. There was a large window from which we could see the stars as they shone brightly in the sky. This must be what heaven was like. I rubbed my full tummy and thought about where my life was headed. Still I had not asked Dumi what his true intentions were. I was afraid that he would turn around and say this was just some sort of practical joke. I also wondered what his mother meant when she said that I had cured him. Perhaps he had suffered a broken heart that I knew nothing about. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I was woken early in the morning by the sound of birds. The rest of the family were still asleep so I made my way downstairs. A maid was already cleaning. She must have started at six in the morning or thereabouts.
‘Mangwanani.’ She greeted me with a heart-warming smile and asked if I would like some coffee. I asked for tea instead.
‘What time do the family wake up?’
‘On Saturdays around ten in the morning, sometimes later.’ Her voice sounded rural so I asked where she was from. She told me that she was from Muzarabani and she had been brought here to work.
The country girls made better maids, because as they had no family and friends in the city, they would be tied to the house with a lower risk that they could get pregnant or run away. With a little twist of fate, I could have been the person working here, but now I was the one sleeping between satin sheets. I was not surprised to discover she earned no more than my own house-girl, who received the minimum gazetted by law.
‘Would you like me to bath your daughter when she wakes up?’
‘Please do.’
I went out and stood by the pool. It felt as if my life was rising with the sun. My shadow fell onto the water and I inhaled the morning air. If this is how the other one-thousandth lived then I wanted to be one of them. Fate was smiling down on me for a change.
We had breakfast by the pool. Bacon, eggs, beans and toast, a whole other meal again. The shortages obviously did not mean anything to the Ncubes. Chiwoniso was a picture of joy. She latched on to Mr Ncube who was only happy to play the role of the genial step-grandfather. She tickled his moustache and he roared with laughter. Everyone wanted a piece of her except for Sandra, who did not have a maternal bone in her body. Children have some form of innate intuition and Chiwoniso stayed right away from her.
‘How’re things at the salon?’ Mrs Ncube asked.
‘They’re not too bad…’
‘I wasn’t asking you, I was asking my muroora.’
‘It’s like I don’t exist anymore,’ Dumi said with a little chortle.
‘It is just great. Once the renovations are done it will be much better. Perhaps you’ll come there to get your hair done.’
‘I already have my hairdresser who I have gone to for the last twenty years. Maybe if you started your own salon I might be tempted to change.’
‘That’s my dream.’
‘Then what’s stopping you?’ asked Mr Ncube.
‘It’s expensive to get the equipment and the products to get started. I’ll get there one day, maybe not today or tomorrow, but I will.’
‘That’s the spirit. You all see that? That’s the sort of determination this country needs. I’m not too different from you, my girl.’ He waved a finger in the air to emphasise his point. ‘I was born and raised in Zvimba. I went to Kutama mission. My parents were so poor that I didn’t have shoes to wear. To pay my way through school I worked for the missionaries in their gardens in the afternoons and during the holidays; when others were playing I was working. At the time I hated it but it gave me a good work ethic, unlike the people you see today all wanting to make a quick buck without doing a stroke of real work.
‘After school I came to Harare to look for work; I got a job as a messenger for Johnsons on Union Avenue. Those days those were the only jobs blacks could do. It was tough to advance myself, I had my parents and brothers to look after back home but I told myself that I was going to go forward in life. I was going to be somebody. Let me tell you, some of my friends who I went to work with are still doing menial jobs, but not me. I saved what little money I could so that I could start something of my own. I bought a Renault. Do you remember those cars? It was a fine little car back then. They don’t make them like that anymore. I began to go to South Africa and come back with radios and TVs that I sold at a profit. From there I opened a small liquor store in Mufakose and then another one in Mabvuku. I was always on the lookout for the next opportunity. You have to keep your ear to the ground, feel the pulse of the nation, know the right people to talk to. I expanded, building shops in rural growth points where no one else wanted to invest. Then, for a brief period, I moved into shipping. That was a disaster. I got out quickly. I was one of the first people to put commuter omnibuses on the road, the South Africans had them decades before us and I saw that was the future, Zupco was breaking down and people needed cover. Now I have properties: three gold mines, shops, buses, brick manufacturing companies, shares in all the major banks and cellphone companies in the country and I’m still always looking out for the next investment opportunity. It’s a difficult world, but if you are determined to succeed no one can stop you. Look at my kids, they were born with silver spoons in their mouths and they’re all waiting for me to die so they can destroy my wealth. Well, let me tell you something; there are only two men in this country who will never die, and I’m one of them.’
I discovered that this was a speech he made at every family gathering. It omitted the numerous palms he’d greased along the way to get himself lucrative government contracts. But it did nothing to diminish the fact that he was a self-made man who had risen from being a barefooted villager to one of the wealthiest men in the country. The diversity of his investments was astounding in itself. The two eldest boys worked in the family business but Dumi had so far refused to be involved. This was a cause for disappointment. I reflected that the possibility of other disadvantaged boys being able to advance themselves in a similar manner was now virtually impossible given the situation the country was in.
We drove for a family day out to a game park in Hwedza. It was set in beautiful savannah land with trees everywhere. Monkeys leapt from tree to tree, welcoming us, leering into the car, hoping for food, but there were signs everywhere telling us not to feed the monkeys. The car bumped along the gravel road and Michelle took photos. There were giraffes browsing the tops of small trees, duikers bounded across the road while elephants lumbered slowly along with their young in tow. The animals mingled at the watering hole, safe and protected from poachers. The sheer beauty of the scenery made me wish I had a home in the country.
We reached the main site where the managers had thatched lodges for paying guests. Smiling staff in green uniforms brought us refreshments to quench our throats.
‘They have black rhinos here, too. There are very few of them left in the world,’ Dumi told Chiwoniso.
‘Our teacher taught us to draw a rhino.’
‘I have a special treat just for you.’ Her eyes lit up and she clasped her hands in anticipation. He led her by the hand to a waiting ranger who took her toward an enclosure where they had a baby black rhino.
‘This is our newest baby rhino. Her name is Tsitsi,’ the ranger said.
‘Tsitsi,’ Chiwoniso repeated, stroking the little rhino’s ears.
Twenty six
The queue at the passport office was the longest I’d ever encountered, which was saying something. It stretched right round the Registrar’s office and onto the street. All the people waiting in line seemed to be young. Their desperation to leave the country showed on their faces. A thin security guard whose blue overalls hung on his matchstick frame walked around with a baton stick ordering people to stay in their places. It was ironic that during the war of independence people had not left in the manner they were doing now, under the same revolutionary gove
rnment that had previously freed them. Could it really be that independence had become a greater burden than the yoke of colonial oppression?
Street kids stood in the queue as well. They were an enterprising lot, selling their places towards the front and then promptly rejoining the queue at the back and waiting for the next impatient soul to buy their place. Queuing was now such an ingrained part of the economy that the prices they charged were fairly uniform, as if there was some sort of regulatory authority. The invisible hand of economics was at work.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t have to stay for long. I hate bloody queues,’ Michelle said as she dialled a number on her phone. She spoke with someone briefly and hung up. ‘Let’s go wait at the front.’
We waited for half an hour and then a man in a white shirt and yellow tie came to get us. He took us to his office and shut the door. It was a room full of dusty old files that had not been opened for ages. There was nothing on his desk except for the day’s newspaper and a pen. It was clear that productive work seldom took place at this table.
‘What can I do for you today, mainini Michelle?’ There was a familiarity between them that told me he had done this before.
‘My muroora here needs to get a passport asap.’
‘These things are more difficult now than they used to be. There are more people to feed in the food chain.’
‘Will this be enough?’ She placed two brick-like wads of money on the table and slid them to him. He swiftly grabbed them and put them in a drawer under his desk.
‘Stay here. I’ll be right back.’
Another half hour passed and the man returned with some forms, apologising profusely that he had been delayed by a small emergency. I filled out the form and had my fingerprints taken. It was sent off together with two passport photos that I’d brought with me at Michelle’s insistence. Within a month I would get my first ever passport. When we left, the queue had barely moved because people like us had kept jumping to the front.
When we returned to the Ncube home, Dumi was pacing about the carport. He seemed relieved to see us.
‘You told me you would be back by twelve.’
‘There’s no need to panic. You guys have plenty of time,’ Michelle replied.
‘Time for what?’ I asked.
‘Get in and pack your bags. Leave Chiwoniso’s things, it’s a surprise my parents arranged for us. If we’re not already too late.’
In no time we were back in the car and on the road. They refused to tell me where we were going. It was only after we had driven through Hatfield that I knew we were on the airport road. My heart thumped. I looked up at the street lights — the only ones working in Harare — and realised that every one of them had a poster of the president attached to it. His face was everywhere looking down at us.
‘We’re off to Victoria Falls.’ Dumi’s voice was high-pitched with excitement.
‘But I don’t have a passport yet.’
‘It’s a domestic flight, you won’t need one.’
Michelle dropped us off and gave us both big hugs.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she shouted to us as we disappeared through the doors.
I was sick as our small aircraft bounced up and down in turbulence. There were only half a dozen other people with us, white tourists. The rows of empty seats punctuated an absence that I was to witness more of. Dumi was his usual relaxed self, holding my hand while struggling not to doze off. I looked out of the window and saw how small everything down below had become.
‘My parents must really like you.’
‘Your family is really nice.’
‘You see that guy over there with the white hair. I’ve seen him on TV. He must be a BBC journalist sneaking in.’
The man with the white hair cast an anxious glance at us. Dumi waved at him and he turned away.
‘They’re always creeping in. I sometimes watch their reports and they have nothing new to say but they speak in low whispers as if they are afraid of something, as if they are reporting from a war zone when the worst thing that could happen to them is a hasty deportation.’
We took a taxi from the little airport in Victoria Falls to Kingdom Hotel. It was the nearest to the falls, situated right inside the national park. We could hear the roar of the water in the distance. The hotel’s stone architecture was based on that of Great Zimbabwe, but its thatched roofs reminded me of the Ncube’s residence. We checked in and a bored porter took our bags and led us to our room. I panicked when I saw the room only had one double bed. When Dumi unpacked his bag I realised we were sharing the room. He looked so casual, as if bringing a woman to a hotel room was nothing new to him. What sort of parents booked their son into a hotel with a woman he was not married to? Did they think I was a prostitute or something?
‘Are you all right? You look tense.’
‘I’m just fine,’ I snapped.
‘The day is still young. I was thinking we could hang around the hotel and then maybe go and see the falls tomorrow.’
I shrugged my shoulders. He was not going to get into my pants this easily. I may be a woman with a child born out of wedlock but that didn’t mean I had no morals. This was not the first time in my life I’d been seduced by a rich man. I hoped Dumi was different. I couldn’t bear to live through everything I’d suffered with Phillip all over again.
We spent the whole afternoon by the swimming pool where Dumi made an attempt to teach me to swim. We were the only ones there, the place was deserted. In the evening we went to the casino. A handful of foreign tourists played blackjack. We sat alone at the roulette table and Dumi explained the rules to me. Evens, odds, red, black, I couldn’t understand it despite his best attempts. We gambled slowly, losing slowly.
‘So you’re a man who likes international news?’ The white-haired man from the plane appeared from behind us and placed a friendly arm on Dumi’s shoulder.
‘When it’s about Zimbabwe it’s domestic to me,’ Dumi replied, and offered his hand to the journalist who shook it.
‘Quite right, I forget that sometimes. It comes from having worked in too many countries. Half the time I don’t know where the hell I am. Anyway, since you’ve recognised me, there’s no need for me to introduce myself.’ He gave a weary smile and winked at me. ‘What can I get you and this beautiful goddess? Waitress, can you please bring the drinks menu for me and my friends.’
‘What have you come to report about this time?’
‘Just a piece about the collapsing tourism industry, that’s all. I mean, look at this fine hotel. Friendly staff, great rooms, it easily competes with the finest in the world but there’s hardly anyone here.’
‘So you’ll do a piece that will scare even more people away. I can’t see how that can help things. Why don’t you wait for an election? That’s when things get really interesting.’
‘It’s such a shame though. If what was happening here was happening in any other country in the world, there would have been a civil war by now.’
‘That’s the last thing we need.’
‘The people here don’t have the stomach for it. The last time I was here, I was on the road to a little town called Chin-hoyeee, do you know it? It’s sort of on your way to Kariba, in the west. Anyway, I had a puncture. Now, I haven’t a clue how to change a tyre but this ancient Land Rover just pulls up beside me and this guy who was travelling with his family and chickens asks if I’m okay and just goes on to change the damn tyre for me. I didn’t even need to ask him to do it. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be stuck there today. So I’m there thinking I need to pay him a little something but instead he thrusts this chicken at me. It’s clucking and having a go at me with its beak; I tried saying no but he insisted. I didn’t want to offend him so I took it. I had to spend the rest of my trip with this chicken flapping about in the back of the car.’ He flapped his arms as some sort of imitation and laughed with us.
The waitress brought our drinks and placed them on the table.
&n
bsp; ‘A story like that doesn’t make for great news.’
‘Yeah, but it makes for great memories.’ There was a glint in the journalist’s eye. ‘So what do you do, anyway?’
‘We’re hairdressers,’ I chipped in.
The journalist ran his hand through his thinning hair.
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you up there,’ Dumi said with a cheeky laugh.
When the journalist heard that Dumi was taking a trip to England, he offered him his phone number and told him, ‘Come and see me any time.’ The two of them spent most of the evening chatting nonstop while I was content to lose money on the table. This was another thing about Dumi, he had a hunger to speak with people wherever he was, about anything at all. It was as if he felt the need to connect with everyone he came across. By the time we went to bed, I was slightly tipsy
We got to our room and Dumisani began to undress. I got between the sheets fully clothed. When he saw I was nervous Dumi took the cover and a few pillows and made himself a bed on the floor. I tried to sleep but could not bear the thought of him lying on the hard floor.
‘Come into bed,’ I said to him.
‘Are you sure? If I’d known you would be uncomfortable sharing, I would’ve asked my parents to get us separate rooms.’
