The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  “When will that be?”

  “Well, we have several other promising candidates to interview. This is an important responsibility. We want to make sure we get it right.”

  “Mr. Kuripa, I may be uneducated, but my desperation has sharpened my survival instincts. Right now, I am hungry enough to smell a peanut buried at the bottom of a mineshaft. That same instinct tells me that you do not have any other suitable candidates for this position.”

  Mr. Kuripa scoffed out loud. He turned to his colleagues to seek support in expressing surprise at such impudence. They ignored him. The chairman coughed with a bureaucratic dignity before placing his elbows on the desk and leaning forward.

  “That is not true, Mr. Muranda,” he said with a well-practised smirk. “In fact, we interviewed a promising candidate just before you came in.”

  “Yes. I saw him on his way out,” replied Abel Muranda politely. “He looked happy. At peace. He also shook my hand and wished me well in my effort to find another job. Anyone who emerges from such an interview with a sense of promise rather than necessity will not be hired.”

  Mr. Kuripa cleared his throat again. He had done his best to be polite to this peasant. Now it was incumbent upon him to discipline his ignorance.

  “Mr. Muranda, my colleagues and I have five university degrees among us. I humbly admit responsibility for three of those. One of my qualifications is a master’s degree in, what we call in English, ‘organizational behaviour’. This credential means that I am an expert in determining the human resource needs of diverse work environments. It also means that I have spent more than twenty years interviewing people for many types of jobs. Given the unfortunate imbalance of education and experience between you and me, it is clear that I am better qualified to decide what sort of person is best for this job.”

  Chairman Kuripa had articulated himself more eloquently than he had intended. His forehead was glistening with pride as he turned to accept the dutiful nods of approval from his colleagues. There were none.

  Abel Muranda had listened carefully. Mr. Kuripa was an impressive man.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. You are right. I know nothing about organizations and behaviour. I know nothing about how the government hires people in general. But what I do know is that none of you have ever hired a hangman. No qualification can prepare you for this. We are all in unfamiliar territory. You, me, your colleagues and all five of your university degrees.”

  A flash of anger was quickly replaced by a plastic smile on Mr. Kuripa’s face. He glanced nervously at his colleagues before shuffling his papers once more. Mr. Gejo was now fighting to suppress a fit of laughter. Fortunately, his moustache was large enough to hide the world’s biggest grin. But sadly, his constipated shirt was on the verge of surrendering to his quaking shoulders.

  Mrs. Sibanda wrote furiously on her pad. Abel Muranda was illiterate but her unstructured hand movements told him she was merely scribbling, rather than committing any thoughts to paper. With his plastic smile still glued to his face, Mr. Kuripa looked up from his papers and faced Abel Muranda.

  “I admit that this is a unique recruitment situation, Mr. Muranda. But I must maintain my position. We need to evaluate other candidates. It is this panel’s responsibility to be thorough. This is a job in which mental distress and job satisfaction are both discouraged. Balancing these competing demands requires a special personality.”

  “Or a special family, Mr. Kuripa. I think it is no coincidence that throughout this interview, you have spoken as though I already had the job. You constantly used the word ‘will’ instead of ‘would’ or ‘may’.”

  “I apologize if I gave that impression. I misspoke.”

  “You misspoke repeatedly.”

  “Then I apologize ... repeatedly. This is an interview, not an orientation to a job you have not yet secured. We are merely exploring your suitability. This exploration will continue beyond this meeting. It will not be pre-empted by your desperation.”

  “Mr. Kuripa, it took me a long time to get here on foot. If I return to my village, you may not be able to easily contact me. I have no phone. The roads are flooded. Beyond that is a land that is drier than a bag of salt. My hope is to return to my village with the knowledge that I have earned myself a job. I would then return to Harare with my family. I am as desperate for that result as you are to find a hangman. Remember that peanut in the mine shaft? It’s punishing my nose. Please, Mr. Kuripa. Let’s work together on this.”

  “You are an odd creature, Mr. Muranda. I concede that your instincts are correct. We need to hire a hangman soon. But please realize that the final decision is not up to us. It must be made by our superiors. The process cannot be rushed. It may take up to three weeks. Can you stay in town for that long?”

  Abel Muranda was about to protest when the silent Mr. Gejo nodded once. It was barely visible. Abel Muranda could not tell whether the nod was instructing him to agree with the terms or whether it was validating the panel’s inability to reduce the waiting period. Either way, the authority it conveyed was more muscular than the man himself.

  “Three weeks is too long. However, the poor always live on debt. At this point, time is the only thing I still have the credibility to borrow … even though my family cannot afford it. The wait is longer than their remaining rations. I was not planning on being here that long but I have no choice.”

  “No, you don’t,” confirmed Mr. Kuripa with a shake of his head. “I must also repeat that we are not guaranteeing that you will have a job at the end of your wait.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. The interview is over. Thank you for coming.”

  “But I have questions. Are you not supposed to ask me if I have questions?”

  The panellists glanced at each other.

  “Okay, Mr. Muranda. What are your questions?”

  “How many people are on death row?”

  “About fifty-eight.”

  “You’ve had no hangman for eight years. Why are you so desperate to find one now?”

  “Because the prisoners have been waiting too long. After being on death row for extended periods, they start to crave some closure.”

  “I see, Mr. Kuripa. Still, I find it strange that this process is being sped up by the emotional needs of the people with the most to lose.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “Is it true that the government is considering a permanent ban on the death penalty? I understand this may happen as soon as next November.”

  “I thought you said you had no access to newspapers or radio waves in Gwenzi.”

  “I do not. But this is not the sort of issue that would be publicized in either.”

  “So who told you this?”

  “The man you interviewed before me. The one who declared himself the most promising candidate.”

  “Well, I don’t know who he has been talking to, but I am not a policymaker, Mr. Muranda. I don’t know if they are going to get rid of the death penalty. No one shares that sort of information with me.”

  “Maybe not. But that does not stop you from hearing rumours. If I heard it from another candidate, then I am sure you must know much more.”

  “If I did, I would not be able to discuss such matters with you, Mr. Muranda.”

  “Fine. I have another question. Who will be the first three prisoners to be executed?”

  “For a man of no education you are quite clever. But I am also smart enough to realize that this question is a different version of the previous one. I will answer neither. Does that change your desire for the job?”

  “No. My questions were driven by curiosity. I never let that get in the way of survival.”

  “Or free health care!”

  The chairman laughed loud and laughed alone. After the awkward moment passed, he rearranged his papers and made a brief note of no importance.

  “Please return three weeks from Wednesday at 2:00 p.m. Ask for Rumbidzai at the front desk. She is our supervisor’s secr
etary. She will let you know what the final decision is.”

  “I thank you all,” said Abel Muranda with a nod.

  “You are welcome,” replied Mr. Kuripa.

  “Can I ask one more question? Actually, it is more of a favour.”

  “What is it, Mr. Muranda?” asked the chairman.

  “I do not know anyone in the city. I have no problems with sleeping under a bridge or in the streets. But it would be nice to buy a little food for my family back home. Can I have a small salary advance?”

  “No, Mr. Muranda. You have not been hired. No job, no advance.”

  “In that case, I ask that you repay my travel costs.”

  “We have no such policy. Besides, even if we did, you walked here. If you had taken the bus, you could have made an argument for the ticket price. But walking is neither a job to be compensated nor an expense to be reimbursed.”

  “But I also need to buy medicine. I think I have an infection. I would not have contracted that infection if I had not come for this interview.”

  “Your infection is none of our concern, Abel Muranda. Besides, I am surprised you would make such a request. A short while ago, you spoke piously about the follies of expecting unearned riches. Now you are asking for an unearned handout? Who do you think I am? Your neighbour who died to feed the vultures?”

  Mr. Kuripa shook his head firmly.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Kuripa. Did you also earn a degree in being inhumane? If so, I am sure you were the smartest student in the class.”

  Mrs. Sibanda covered her mouth with her hands. Mr. Gejo stroked his giant moustache. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. Mr. Kuripa was quaking with anger.

  “Listen to me, ‘Mr. Free Health Care’. Does this place look like your god-forsaken village? You are in the big city now. This is not a place where you can just walk up to strangers and ask to borrow milk for your hungry child. People who do that sort of thing in the city are not called neighbours. They are called beggars. Good people pity them. Bad people spit at them. No one envies them. But if you want a free handout, go outside and sit yourself at a street corner. If I pass you on my way home, I may throw a few coins in your direction. But as long as you are in this room, you must behave like a candidate being interviewed for a very important job: with pride and decorum.”

  Abel Muranda stood and walked towards the interview panel. He stopped within arm’s length of Mr. Kuripa.

  “As a man with a hungry family, I can afford neither pride nor decorum, Mr. Kuripa, even though I deserve both.”

  Abel Muranda placed both hands on the table and lowered his face so close to Mr. Kuripa that the chairman felt the aspiring hangman’s breath clouding his face like a moist swarm of invisible bees.

  “However, the one thing I can afford is to tell you that serious injury awaits any man who speaks of my children’s hunger in uncompassionate terms. I have a set of muscles that I do not use often. The last creature that provoked their anger was a crocodile. That reptile will spend the rest of its life without the use of its eyes. Generally, I prefer not to use the muscles responsible for that misfortune, but when I do, the disruption is always memorable. These are words I can afford to share, Mr. Kuripa. In exchange, I will accept the apology that you seem eager to deliver. Unless of course, you believe that you are better equipped than a crocodile to defend yourself?”

  Mr. Kuripa turned his gaze to Abel Muranda’s fibrous arms. Those muscles would have been thrice their size had they not been dried by the sun and salted in the man’s own sweat. Both arms were taut and ready to fulfill the promise their owner had just made.

  Mr. Kuripa turned to Mr. Gejo. The big man sat back and crossed his hands. He would not intervene if the disruption broke out. The chairman turned to Mrs. Sibanda. Surely, if she came to his defence, Abel Muranda would not manhandle her to get to him? The aspiring hangman was a rural simpleton, but he seemed like the type that respected the opposite sex. There was no way he would attack a woman. Mrs. Sibanda thought otherwise. Her eyes were darting around the room. She was calculating the distance to the nearest exit.

  Mr. Kuripa cleared his throat. A stream of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose and onto the ream of papers he was so fond of shuffling.

  “Well, Mr. Muranda. There is an expression in English which says, ‘I jest—’”

  “Apologize.”

  The dried meat in Abel Muranda’s arms squeaked with mounting tension. Discipline was imminent.

  “I am sorry,” Mr. Kuripa said with more haste than he had intended.

  The muscles in Abel Muranda’s arms loosened like the neck of a cobra deflating after a passing threat.

  “I accept your apology.”

  Abel Muranda bowed to the panel and returned to his seat. Mr. Kuripa exhaled loudly. The storm clouds had passed without urinating on him. However, his ego was drenched.

  The chairman tried to regain his composure while turning to his papers. His sweat had bound the corners of the pages together. When he tried to flip through them, the edges refused to separate. His intensified effort only scuttled the papers in all directions.

  In a bid to restore his authority, Mr. Kuripa cleared his throat.

  “Do either of my esteemed colleagues have further questions?”

  Mr. Gejo and Mrs. Sibanda shook their heads.

  “Very well, Mr. Muranda. There is only one further point of business. You are to return next Tuesday for another meeting.”

  “There is more?” asked Abel Muranda quizzically.

  “Yes. You need to see a doctor. I am afraid this doctor does not deal with physical injuries. She is a brain doctor. A ‘psychiatrist’. Her job is to make sure that the chosen candidate is mentally stable.”

  Mr. Kuripa hastened to clarify his statement. His recent peril was still at the forefront of his mind.

  “Just a formality, of course. We must do this with everyone. Just in case.”

  “Mr. Kuripa. I am sure you could identify a mad man if you saw one. Why do you need a special doctor to confirm the obvious?”

  “This isn’t just about making sure that the new hangman is sane. It is also about making sure that he can remain so after killing people. Sometimes, sanity is the mere absence of trauma. Many people are provisionally sane until they are tested by unexpected hardships.”

  “Well, my sanity has survived more hardships than the regular person will ever endure, Mr. Kuripa. If I was only ‘provisionally sane’ before those tragedies, I have since proven my mental stability.”

  “I am sure that’s the case, Mr. Muranda, but I don’t make the rules. Everyone must go through the same process. Come back next Tuesday for your assessment. The final decision will be made three weeks from today. Good day, Mr. Muranda.”

  “Good day to you all. Please speak of me kindly to your superiors. I am the best man for this job.”

  Mr. Kuripa crossed his hands and muttered beneath his breath, “I wonder if the job feels the same way about you.”

  * * *

  Have You Ever Killed Anyone?

  It was nearly half past three when Abel Muranda emerged from his interview. He had never seen so many people or cars in his life. The city buildings were so tall and shiny. Everything looked expensive. Everyone looked fed. There was not a single cow or goat in sight. Abel Muranda was mentally exhausted but hopeful; scared but determined. He missed his family. How he craved to discuss the day with his wife. He had stood up to people of superior education. How thrilled she would be to know that he, Abel Muranda, had defended himself against a man with three university degrees. He was proud of himself.

  Abel Muranda was still standing in front of the Ministry of Custodial Institutions with a dazed look when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. Startled, he turned around to face the hulking frame of Mr. Gejo. The man had not spoken a single word throughout the interview. Only now did Abel Muranda realize that Mr. Gejo’s voice was completely unfamiliar. It rumbled like distant thunder. Calm, crisp, but commanding. T
he big man’s voice would stand out in a crowd without rising above a conversational volume.

  “Mr. Muranda. Where are you going?”

  It had not occurred to Abel Muranda that he had no idea. He did not even know how to find the abandoned shack he had slept in the previous night.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Gejo. I am sure I will find somewhere to exist while I wait for the big decision.”

  “This city can be unkind to the friendless. Let me help you out,” said Mr. Gejo.

  “No, I do not want to impose.”

  “Not at all. I have many friends who are always willing to help me. Here is two hundred dollars. Go to the commuter van station on Tongogara Street and ask for Claudius. He is one of my many nephews. Tell him you want to go to Vaida’s place. You will have somewhere to sleep until the decision is finalized.”

  Abel Muranda was tempted to engage in the cultural ritual of refusing favours a dozen times before accepting. The temptation quickly gave way to practicality. Two hundred dollars could feed his family for two months. There was no way he was going to allow his proud refusals to outlast Mr. Gejo’s persistence.

  “I am so thankful, Mr. Gejo. I will pay you back this money as soon as I get the job. I am going to get the job, aren’t I?”

  “It is not my decision, Mr. Muranda. But if you do not get it, consider this money and the accommodation as gifts. Either way, I insist you take the bus back home for at least a part of the journey. You will get back to your family much quicker that way.”

  “I will. I miss them.”

  “You are a good man, Abel Muranda.”

  “You too, Mr. Gejo.”

  As he was about to leave, Mr. Gejo stopped in his tracks. He turned back to face Abel Muranda once more.

  “I have one question for you, Mr. Muranda. Before I ask it, I must emphasize that your answer will not affect my offer of hospitality or your chances of getting the job.”

  “Okay,” answered Abel Muranda.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  The question was unexpected.

  “No, Mr. Gejo. I have not. Are you concerned that I am looking for a legal outlet for an illegal urge?”