by C. B. George
The Gorekores lived alone, but their house was a teeming hub for the extended family, especially at weekends when relatives whose connection Shawn couldn’t fathom descended in droves. There were uncountable kids, who tore around the garden in unstoppable high spirits and, much to Shawn’s irritation, showed no particular affection for Rosie, whom they called “American”: American—come and run! American—come and climb!
Back in New York, before he left, Shawn had told his boys that this was something he looked forward to: “The wider family. It’s not like it is here, yo. It’s more like mi casa, su casa, you know? Like, over here? We become so white, bro: you got to call before you visit, you got to plan this and plan that. And you think a black man these days ever going to take responsibility for his own blood in trouble? No way. But that’s our true selves.”
“Deep shit,” Malik had said. “Deep shit, for real.”
Deep it may have been; shit most certainly. Because Shawn now had more relatives than he’d ever wanted, with more troubles than he’d imagined possible, and he was fucked if he was going to take responsibility for any of them. That shit? It may have been African or Zimbabwean or whatever, but there was a reason it hadn’t stuck in the development of the black man.
Shawn presented his dilemma about Kuda’s discharge to the Gorekores. The conversation went better than he’d dared hope. He addressed the problem to his mother-in-law and the only awkward moment came when she said, “A wife looks after her husband, a husband looks after his wife. In sickness and in health. That’s what marriage is.”
There was a moment’s silence. Shawn didn’t know how to respond but, before he could try, Gorekore leaned forward and said definitively, “Shawn has to earn a living. That is looking after his wife.” For once, Shawn’s mother-in-law found nothing to giggle about.
Gorekore picked up Kuda from the hospital. They’d agreed that Shawn would bring Rosie over to meet them at the Mount Pleasant home. She hadn’t seen her mum since “her accident” (as they had all come to refer to it, encompassing acknowledgment of haphazard misfortune, qualified with that possessive pronoun). It hadn’t seemed appropriate when Kuda was unconscious, or when she’d recovered only to a state of torpid detachment. But perhaps it would be easier in the family house where she’d grown up.
At first it had all gone well. Kuda appeared delighted to see her daughter, momentarily snapping out of lethargy to embrace her and whisper, “My little bird! My little bird!” However, a second later, the relieved smile froze on Shawn’s face as Kuda thrust out her arms and pushed Rosie away, fear written deep into her features. “He’s here! He’s here!” Kuda said. Then, directly to her mother, “He’s here, Mummy! He’s here!”
Mrs. Gorekore led Kuda, protesting, to her bedroom. Rosie, remarkably, retained her equilibrium. She turned to Shawn: “Is Momma sick, Daddy?”
“Yes, baby,” Shawn said. He looked at his father-in-law, whose face shone horror through its mask of habitual implacability. “I gotta look after my daughter.”
“Yes,” the old man said. “Of course.”
Shawn knew that his parents-in-law didn’t like him. He knew that Kuda had told them sketchy details of the sketchy details she knew of his serial infidelity. But as he sat Rosie on her booster and strapped her into the cab of the Isuzu and Gorekore waved them away, he also knew that they agreed he was doing the right thing. And the fact that what was best for Rosie coincided with what he wanted? That was just his good fortune.
50
April took Shawn’s call at work. In spite of herself—in fact, to her irritation—she felt a flutter of excitement. He asked her to come over. She said, “When?”
“I don’t know. Soon as you can?”
“I’m at work.”
“I know that. And I don’t want to put you out, but I got a problem and I don’t know where else to turn. Serious, boo.”
April hesitated. She was busy. One of the cleaners was accused of stealing petty cash. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, but the cleaner in question was Henrietta Gumbo, the woman she’d reinstated at Peter Nyengedza’s request. It was embarrassing. It made her look like an idiot. Perhaps it would be good to get out of the embassy for an hour or two—dodge the flak. She checked the time on the monitor in front of her. She said, “OK.”
Driving across town to Newlands, April analyzed the momentary thrill she’d experienced at the sound of Shawn’s voice. It had nothing to do with him, that was for sure. Rather, it reflected her state of mind. Why had she begun the affair? She could barely remember. She had not been seeking intimacy, certainly; or, she thought, sexual fulfillment per se. Perhaps most accurately it had been an enactment of her resentment. Now, however, her motivations had morphed into something quite different as she was simultaneously enlivened and appalled by her feelings of degradation—Is this me? Is this who I am? Even as she pulled into Shawn’s driveway, therefore, she knew she had to end it, fully intended to do so and yet suspected she wouldn’t. She was on that downward spiral she intuitively understood, but couldn’t face. Like a drunk, she simply had to stop before it was too late. But she couldn’t stop.
She walked to the back of the house and found Shawn pacing the veranda, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other. He was barefoot, in a Knicks T-shirt and gray sweatpants and, briefly, she remembered her initial attraction. He was undeniably good-looking, albeit in a generic TV-movie kind of way. Trouble was, he talked like a TV movie too. He stopped at the sight of her, dragged on his cigarette and smiled slowly. “Look at you. All dressed up in your suit. I love that shit.”
April was aware that English people liked to laugh at Americans for their lack of irony, but it wasn’t anything she’d particularly considered until she met Shawn. Specifically, she found his unironic behavior in the realm of sexual interaction almost bewildering. The lines he dropped, his maneuvers, the pillow talk: it all smacked of…a TV movie. Weren’t the emotions, the negotiations, the very mechanics of sex fundamentally absurd, worthy of mutual tittering, giggled apologies and joyful but bizarre intimacy? Not for Shawn. He seemed to regard the whole game to be contract work with targets to be met and bonuses paid. She almost missed Jerry’s honest fumbling, pained concern and grateful relief.
“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah? I need to talk to you too.” He smiled again. “That’s why I called.”
He sat down in a heavy wicker armchair and, for all his habitual confidence, she saw for the first time that something must be wrong. Perhaps it was the wheeze as he sat, the overflowing ashtray on the table in front of him or the fact he hadn’t kissed her like a matinee idol.
April said, “Where’s Rosie?”
“School. Gladys is picking her up.”
April perched on the edge of a chair opposite him. “Aren’t you supposed to be out of town?” Then, off his apparent surprise: “That’s what you said. You’d be away for a few days.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s what I said. Away. Supposed to be.”
April stared at him. Something was wrong; something had happened. Her mind ticker-taped possibilities, but came to an abrupt halt at just two: either Kuda had managed to commit suicide or she had somehow discovered the affair. A small part of her hoped for the former. The rest of her hated herself for the hope. She said, “What?”
Shawn stubbed his cigarette. He lit another. He said, “Any chance you could take Rosie a couple of nights?” He noted her expression. “I know it’s asking a lot. But Jerry’ll be there, right? And he’s good with kids. And you’ve got the maid…”
April shook her head: “It’s not asking a lot. It’s just…I mean, fuck, Shawn! What’s going on?”
Shawn told her.
He’d had a visit from his mother-in-law. She’d brought her pastor. When was this? This morning, first thing.
They told him they believed Kuda had been attacked by an evil spirit that night in the kitchen, the night she’d called April. An evil
spirit? Yeah, an evil fucking spirit—an evil fucking spirit within Rosie. Are you serious? Yeah, he was fucking serious.
His “fuckings” were out of character, not the cursing itself, but its intonation—desperate and confused. The “fuckings” illuminated his distress.
The pastor said he’d already tried to make the spirit manifest in church. This was the first Shawn had heard of it. In fact, the pastor thought he’d succeeded in casting it out. But the spirit had returned, angry and vengeful, and tried to kill Kuda.
What the hell?
Yeah. What the fuck, right?
His mother-in-law wanted to take Rosie; the pair of them like some kind of apostolic fucking intervention. The little girl would be better off in a Christian household, they said, among people who knew how to deal with this kind of thing.
Shawn reminded Mrs. Gorekore that she was looking after Kudakwashe, and the last time his wife had seen her daughter she’d pushed her away—literally pushed her away. In what sense was that good for a kid?
His mother-in-law told him that Kuda hadn’t been pushing Rosie away, but rejecting the bad spirit.
He looked at her. Right then, he wanted to hit her; at least pick her up and try to shake some sense into her. He asked if she actually thought this, this madness, was in the best interests of the child: “Is it in her best fucking interests?” he asked. “You’re all fucking crazy.” He said that. He actually said that.
As if expecting this response, the pastor asked if he’d consider bringing Rosie to the church—they had to manifest the spirit again.
An exorcism?
The pastor nodded. It wasn’t the language he would choose. But, yes, for all intents and purposes, an exorcism.
“You’re all fucking crazy.”
Shawn was livid. What is it with this place? What is it with this country? What is it with these crazy fucking people?
What did he do?
What did he do? He threw these crazy fucking people out of his fucking house, that’s what he did.
He leaned forward. He took April’s hand. He let it go again and sat back. He blew smoke. He said, “I got a deal out in Murehwa. It’ll set me up. I was going to leave Rosie with Gladys, have her stay here at the house. But what if these fucking people come back?”
April said nothing. She was bewildered by the story. But part of her was excited to hear Shawn beg, another part thrilled to be center stage in an African story—Jerry could bottle his endless boring tales of the ghetto clinic and take a running jump…
“Look,” Shawn said, “I know it’s asking a lot, especially after that whole swimming pool thing. I mean, fuck, I know. But she’s a good kid. She’s my daughter.”
“It’s fine,” April said. “Of course it’s fine. Just tell me when.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight? Fine. I’ll pick her up.”
They parted company almost formally. April offered Shawn her hand. He pulled her in to kiss her cheek, but it was awkward.
As she got behind the wheel, he leaned through the window. “You said you wanted to talk to me too?”
She shook her head. “Nothing important.”
51
Fadzai was at her kitchen in Mbare. She was feeling sick, so sat on an upturned barrel and let her younger brother do most of the work. She hadn’t told Gilbert about the nausea, but he seemed content to get on; eager, even, for the hectic but mundane tasks of dishing plates, taking payment and sharing habitual cheery banter with her customers.
It was Gilbert’s first week back. Initially, she’d discouraged the idea that he should come back at all. She said, “You have made your decision, Gilbert. Soon you’ll be going home, isn’t it? And then I will be working alone again. I may as well get used to it.”
He smiled. He said, “And I may as well help, so long as I’m here.”
Eventually, she agreed that he work Monday to Thursday, saying he should take Fridays off so that he could sleep in preparation for his weekend at the wheel. The reasoning she gave him was untrue but, to her surprise, he didn’t question it and agreed to her suggestion.
Since deciding to return home, the young man certainly seemed happier; in fact, she would have gone so far as to say reborn. He had always been optimistic, but this had been tempered by a restless ambition that gave him an argumentative nature and the tendency to regard life’s drudgery as beneath him. Now the restlessness seemed to be gone, which gave his positivity an almost ecstatic quality that, if anything, struck her as more deluded still.
Of course she understood his desire to leave Harare. For all his contribution to the household, he had made no personal progress towards his stated aims, and the beating at the hands of Chipangano must only have confirmed what she’d told him at the very outset: “There are a lot of dreamers here who would like to think otherwise, but the city is hard.” What she didn’t understand was why he thought he would find anything different back home. He had run away from the inertia of rural life and its limited opportunities. What did he think had changed? She asked him point blank and he said, “Me. I have changed.”
“In what way?”
He couldn’t or wouldn’t answer and offered only a lazy and, she thought, arrogant shrug.
“So when will you go?”
“I am waiting for Bessie. I need my wife to come with me.”
“She will never agree.”
Another shrug.
A brief respite at the kitchen gave Gilbert the chance to come over and hand her a fistful of filthy dollar bills. “Can you count these?”
“Sure.”
“Business is good,” he said. “You are resting?”
“Do you need my help?”
“No. No, I am fine.” He smiled at her brightly. “Everything is back to normal.”
Fadzai watched him return to serve customers straggling at the end of their lunch break. She considered what he’d just said. He may have been academically bright, but she sometimes thought he was quite the stupidest person she knew. Back to normal? How could he not see that normality for people like them meant navigating the daily struggles with no propulsion but the swell and lull as they lurched from crisis to crisis.
Patson had once said to her: “There is nothing we can do. But there is one thing we must not do: we must not panic. If we panic, we will only make more problems.” It was after his mother died and the hospital bills and funeral costs had threatened to break them. She had dismissed his comment at the time as meaningless and placatory, but now she admitted its wisdom. Family demanded a better casket, better food, a better send-off and, in a state of grief and anxiety, she’d happily have caved in. Poverty makes you panic. It is an impossible situation that fosters impossible solutions. But Patson had stood firm. She was lucky to be married to such a man. She was now reaching a point where she couldn’t remember the reasons—held for so long and so vehemently—she’d imagined otherwise. This was a thought that gave her a moment to enjoy a private smile.
Lunchtime was over. Fadzai raised her eyes and found her brother beginning to pack up. Behind him, she saw Chipangano approaching. Castro led the way, striding purposefully, his delight at finding Gilbert at the kitchen unconcealed. Fadzai uneasily hauled herself to her feet. Her stomach rolled disconcertingly. She arrived at Gilbert’s side at the same moment as Castro spoke. “You are back, country boy.”
Gilbert looked up slowly. “Yes, I am back.”
“I heard you were sick.”
“No. I was robbed. They took my shoes. They beat me.”
Gilbert was utterly calm. Castro had no choice but to respond likewise, but Fadzai could hear the sharpening edge in his voice. “I’m sorry to hear that. It is a terrible thing when people come to the city and others take advantage. You know that is why we are here? To protect people like you. We will find them for you. Did you see anything?”
“I saw nothing. I saw they took my shoes. They were like these ones.” Gilbert pointed to his shoes, now worn by one of Castro’s compa
dres: a tall, slim young man—probably the youngest of the gang—who was making every effort to appear menacing. “Very similar. But I always kept them clean.”
Fadzai intervened. She could now see the fire rising in Castro. She said, “I thought you would come Friday?”
The thug spun towards her. “And instead we come today. Is it for you to tell us when we can come and collect what you owe?”
Gilbert had turned back to the food, which he had slowly begun to unpack again. He said, “You guys must be hungry. You are very busy.”
Castro’s eyes darted back, searching out some deceit in Gilbert. But there was none to find. Instead, Gilbert was holding out money and a full plate. He said, “Ten dollars, isn’t it?”
When the Chipangano thugs were gone, Fadzai retreated to the back of the kitchen to vomit. Gilbert found her bent double. He said, “There’s no reason to be scared.”
Fadzai wiped her mouth with a tissue. She said, “I’m not scared.”
Patson collected them and their equipment and drove home. Gilbert told him about Chipangano and his wife’s vomiting. Fadzai said, “It had nothing to do with Chipangano.”
At the house, Gilbert carried in the leftovers, pots and pans. Patson wanted to get straight back to work, but Fadzai insisted he stop for tea. Patson knew better than to try to contradict her.
Husband and wife sat opposite each other at the table. Patson ladled sugar into his tea until the bowl was empty. Fadzai stood up. She said, “Do you want more? We have more.” He didn’t answer, but she was already refilling the sugar bowl. She sat down again.
“What is it?” Patson said.
“I am pregnant.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure.”
Now it was Patson’s turn to stand up. He went round the table and bent forward, wrapping his arms around Fadzai, sliding his hands around her midriff, under her breasts, and pushing his face into the nape of her neck until she felt his lips, hot and wet. She eased him off. She stared into the sugar bowl. She heard him say, “That’s good news. That’s very good news.”
