In his career as a law professor at the University of Zimbabwe, Professor Dinhiwe never gave a grade higher than a B. Even then, only his brightest students received this mark. This rare event happened once every three years or so. Only one student had ever broken Professor Dinhiwe’s notorious “B-barrier”. His name was Luxon Hurudza. His classmates referred to him as The Prince of Darkness.
Magistrate Changamire and Luxon graduated from law school in the same year. Both had taken Professor Dinhiwe’s course: The Influences of Roman Dutch Law on Indigenous Legal Systems. On the day the final exam results were released, Professor Dinhiwe approached Luxon outside the lecture hall. The professor’s unexcitable personality had earned him the nickname Professor Argon, a tribute to the nonreactive gas. But as he confronted Luxon, the professor was lost in a kinetic rage. His eyes were dilated. His jaw was so tightly clenched that if a wayward fly had struck his chin, his teeth would have shattered into a cloud of white powder.
Professor Dinhiwe raised his fist in the air. He stopped when he noticed that his other students were watching in horror as he prepared to mete out violence upon their classmate. Embarrassed, he lowered his fist, shook his finger at Luxon, and uttered a single word: “You …”
Professor Dinhiwe turned and tacked a sheet of paper on the notice board outside the lecture hall. After he stormed off, everyone crowded around it. Murmurs of curiosity rippled through the group. Why had this legal saint given in to the very emotions that he always condemned as “poisonous to the rational exploration of the law”?
The excited chatter faded to a stunned silence when everyone realized the gravity of what had happened. Halfway down the sheet of paper was a single letter that stood out like a hippo in a bird’s nest. This letter had never appeared in the grade column of the results sheet. No one could digest the meaning of the spectacle. It was too perverse to even think about. And yet, there it was in its horrific simplicity:
A–.
The grade was printed in a font that was notably smaller than all the other grades. An inch to its left was a name: Luxon Hurudza.
In the two decades that Professor Dinhiwe had taught law, no student had ever broken his B-barrier. There were rumours that ten years before, he had considered a B+ for one gifted student. After subjecting her to a three-hour “verification exam”, he had decided against it.
That student went on to become a law professor at the age of twenty-five. At twenty-eight, she was the chief legal officer for a multinational company with fifteen thousand employees in thirty countries. By the age of thirty-five, she was appointed the company’s chief executive officer. None of these responsibilities stopped her from teaching and publishing widely in her field. She accomplished all this while raising three children. The first had been born during her last year of law school. She had gone into labour the day before her final exams began. She showed up for every one of them and attained the highest grades the faculty had awarded in the previous decade. All her professors agreed that she was one of those students who came along once in a generation. All, except Professor Dinhiwe. He was impressed, but not overwhelmed. He stuck by his decision to deny her a B+ in his course. So what on earth had possessed him to give Luxon an A–?
The crowd remained frozen until someone whispered: “Was that really necessary?”
Luxon had been standing alone near the stairs. When everyone turned to look at him, he walked away without a word. Professor Dinhiwe tendered his resignation at the end of that semester. He accepted an appointment to the High Court before advancing to the Supreme Court three years later. He was appointed chief justice after another four years. Chief Justice Dinhiwe’s memory lived on through his impenetrable book and equally dense judgments. But no one would forget the humbling experience he suffered at the hands of an antisocial student who penetrated his B-barrier. The event was a dark black spot on an otherwise pristine legacy.
After graduation, Luxon Hurudza turned down numerous scholarships from academic head hunters around the world. He also turned down as many job offers with needless venom. After three weeks of evading the constant courtship, Luxon was finally confronted by a recruitment agent for a foreign university. It was graduation day, and Luxon was in a foul mood. When he threatened to thrash the eyebrows off the agent’s face, the man thought Luxon was joking. He burst into laughter and patted the young graduate on the shoulder to celebrate their budding camaraderie. Luxon was not impressed. With lighting speed, he turned his unwelcome guest around and grabbed the hem of his underwear. With one mighty tug, he yanked the elastic halfway up the agent’s back. The poor man’s yelping caught the attention of a faculty member who quickly came to the rescue.
The agent complained to the police. Luxon was charged with aggravated assault. When the case went to trial, the courtroom was packed. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the sociopathic genius who had injured a potential benefactor with his own underwear. If he lost the case, Luxon would not only face a fine and possible jail sentence, he would also lose his licence to practise law.
The prosecutor was a confident young man. He had an electric smile and perfect teeth. His compassionate eyes would cause any propagandist to salivate. They were constantly alight with the glitter of great promise. If any troubled nation plastered a poster of his face on the streets, the citizens’ aspirations for a bright future would quickly be restored. This reviver of down-trodden spirits was named Umberto G. Mushana.
Umberto’s contagious optimism extended beyond his looks. He was the most reliable volunteer at his church where he taught Sunday school and shared his angelic voice with the choir. He ran marathons, refrained from alcohol, and was never more than ten meters from the bible he was gifted by his parents on the day of his baptism. During his days as a law student, he worked as a lifeguard. After saving a young girl from drowning, a local newspaper offered to write a front page article about his gallantry. Umberto turned them down with the words: “Community service is a duty should be encouraged more than it should be celebrated. Please use the precious real estate of the front page to write about the plight of the orphans I volunteer with at Mangwana Children’s Home”. The newspaper did just that. But in refusing to make the story about himself, Umberto’s status was further elevated in the public opinion.
When he became a prosecutor, Umberto continued his benevolence by mentoring youngsters in the Youth Outreach and Reintegration Scheme (Y.O.U.R.S). In fact, Umberto had founded the program to divert young offenders from the punitive edge of the justice system. Instead of prison, the “children were given love, guidance, and training for a self-sufficient tomorrow.”
Though he was indulgent towards young offenders, Umberto was a dogged advocate for justice. Even the most amiable defendant did not stand a chance if this prosecutor was convinced of his guilt. His animated opening statements, skilful cross-examinations, and impassioned closing arguments had given him a flawless conviction record. Though this talent made him a celebrity in the Prosecution Office, the greater community had other reasons to follow the life of the charismatic young lawyer. He was still single.
Umberto had reached the age where society expected his loins to be ripe for the furtherance of the human race. In recognition of this fact, Umberto was often referred to as the Patron Saint of Virility. His genes were the raw materials that transform a dysfunctional society into an ocean of purity within a generation. It was common to hear young women say: “If I can get a man who has just sixty percent of Umberto’s looks and magnetism, I would be the happiest girl in the world!” Umberto was also the benchmark for women who did not want to be caught on the wrong side of the fertility window, but were facing a drought of inspiring suitors. They would say: “Well, he is no Umberto, but I guess he will be a devoted father.”
When Umberto’s profile collided with the peculiar case of the brilliant but troubled law student, the stage was set for a sensational trial. The packed courtroom was filled with a popping noise. It sounded like the place was packed with bor
ed children who had been given bubble paper to occupy their restlessness. The sound was barely audible, and yet no one missed it. This rhythm of ovulation had erupted the moment that Umberto walked into the court room. He was dressed in his battle fatigues: a powerful black suit with a radiant blue tie. When the trial started, all the women swooned as he put his hand to his chest and spoke passionately about the tragedy of wasted talent. Oh, the evils of aggression! The judge nodded mightily. After finishing his righteous introduction, he turned to the facts of the case.
“That young man assaulted a potential benefactor with a reprehensible viciousness …”
Umberto paused to allow the outrage to seep into the ears of the pious.
“How ungrateful … How unnecessary.”
The united murmur of societal outrage echoed through the courtroom.
“That young man grabbed the elastic of the victim’s underwear and lifted the poor man off the ground! In some cultures, the bouncing action that ensues is called a prank. In other cultures, they call it an ‘atomic wedgie’. But in Zimbabwe, we call it a crime …”
Luxon simply sat with his hands crossed and a blank expression on his face.
The prosecutor finished questioning his witnesses in the late morning. The judge motioned to Luxon to present his defence. The security guard shook Luxon on the shoulder to wake him up. The accused had bloodshot eyes, but his expression was unchanged. Standing, Luxon announced that he would be arguing self-defence. At first, even the judge scoffed in annoyance. Self-defence was reserved for people who acted to protect themselves from harm. What was so harmful about a university recruiter trying to give him a doctoral scholarship? The prosecutor shook his head sagely at the audience. He reveled in the lustful glares of the all the single women, and a few of the married ones as well.
Two minutes into Luxon’s arguments, the mood in the courtroom changed. The judge and prosecutor became as attentive as antelopes upon hearing a rustle in the bushes. By the end of the third, the judge folded one palm into the other and looked up to the ceiling. This argument was taxing his mind.
The audience could not understand Luxon’s legal jargon. Instead, they assessed his arguments through the reactions of the judge and prosecutor. The dignified sense of panic in both men was clear. On several occasions, they interrupted Luxon with questions. The first word out of his mouth each time was “No.” What he said after that did not matter to the crowd. Luxon’s “No” carried the authority of a man who had drawn his answers from a land where pure truth had banished alternative views on the matter. With time, the prosecutor stopped turning to commiserate with his adoring audience. Instead, he scribbled furiously on his pad. By the end of the tenth minute, Luxon ended his remarks by pointing out that “The victim’s bruised anus was his own fault.” The sympathy pains triggered by this closing line made everyone jolt in their seats. It was disruptive, vulgar, but undisputed. The courtroom was silent.
The prosecutor made a spirited effort to rebut Luxon’s arguments. Everyone could tell that the display was a face-saving effort by a senior lawyer who had been crushed by a recent law graduate. The judge listened with rapt attention but did not nod as he had done before. The relief in his eyes was unmistakable. No amount of money could have convinced him to switch places with the prosecutor. A few kind members of the audience nodded to provide the flailing lawyer with moral support. Others looked uncomfortably at the floor. No one came to his defence. The prosecutor ended his argument by declaring Luxon “guilty and deserving of conviction forthwith.”
The judge retired to consider his decision. The hearing resumed after lunch. When the judge returned, he started by scolding Luxon for his “impudence” and “the retributive nature of his uncouth response.” Then he took a deep breath and conceded: “With a heavy heart, I am compelled to rule in favour of the Accused. He has properly established that his actions qualify as self-defence.”
The judge knotted his lips into a tight sphincter. He wanted to minimize the force of the compliment he was compelled to make, but was loath to concede.
“Mr. Hurudza. Your argument was like an anthill. Its chaos was disciplined by a militaristic organization. You found order in jurisprudential disarray. I have never heard it simplified in such a fashion. I would welcome you to the legal profession, but something tells me that would be a waste of time. You are free to go ... forthwith.”
Luxon stood up and walked out of the courtroom with a scowl on his face. This trial had ruined a whole day of precious solitude. The prosecutor packed his belongings and walked out without looking at his former fans. One woman even dared to call him a “peacock” under her breath. All style, no substance. She quickly abandoned her plan to engineer a courtship between him and her daughter. So did all the other parents in the courtroom.
From that day, Umberto’s reputation began its downward spiral. Not only did his social standing hit rock bottom, it plunged through a trapdoor. By the time he climbed back to the surface, the world had moved on to other fascinations. No matter how well he argued in court or volunteered for the needy, Umberto could not shake the stigma of a tarnished façade. The ink stain on his reputation led to a manifold reduction in the value of his personal brand. His residual worth fell below that of average men whose shortfalls exceeded Umberto’s singular embarrassment.
His colleagues began to ignore him. In court, the judges questioned his arguments with greater scepticism. Even the members of his own choir began to gossip that he had a croak in his voice. Then the church relieved him of his duties as a Sunday school teacher. Apparently, he did not say the word “glory” with the emphasis befitting a true believer. When the Prosecutor’s Office relieved Umberto of his duties as the head of Y.O.U.R.S, the last sparkle of optimism faded from his eyes.
Eventually, Umberto stopped showing up to work. He also quit church and his other volunteer activities. He grew a beard and stopped cutting his hair. He looked like the wild man that some authors would use as a gratuitous prop to make a needless moral point. Then the drinking started: the illumination of the uninitiated. Umberto and the bottle became fast friends. The young lawyer did not start with the regular mild brews. He went straight for the 18.5% Mhondi Beer. Umberto would sit at the bar of his favourite haunt, Club Gomorrah (C.G.), and tell anyone who would listen: “You don’t have to be a murderer to enjoy the killer taste, but the taste of this beer can turn you into a killer!”
One day, these words proved prophetic. While nursing a Mhondi Beer at C.G., two well-groomed ladies sat down a few stools down the bar from him. Both were dressed to make a point that no man could understand without consulting a dictionary that was dedicated to superlatives. Umberto was mesmerized. As he was crafting his soliloquy of courtship, one of the women tossed back her braids and said:
“You know, that Felix is not bad looking. I always see him staring at me in the cafeteria, but I ignore him.”
“Yes, he is rather handsome. But you can’t come across as being too eager,” said the other woman before redirecting the conversation back to herself.
“I saw Jabulani the other day.”
“Now, that man is one hell of a catch!”
“I know. But he is no Umberto G. Magaka.” The woman sounded downcast.
Umberto was dumbstruck. He still had a fan-base? As he was standing to present himself as the benchmark unit of machismo, the woman’s dejected face lit up with mischief. Umberto’s heart sank. He suddenly heard a familiar sound vibrating inside his ears. A sound he had heard the day his life had fallen apart. It travelled at a wavelength that could only be heard by a man whose fate was at odds with the familial legacy he craved. The mention of Umberto’s name had triggered the reverse-plop in the woman down the bar. Her ovaries had retrieved their eggs with the determination of the drowning man clinging to the proverbial straw. The girl crossed her legs, put one hand to her chest, and repeated her previous line for impact: “He is no Umberto G. Magaka … Good riddance!” The two friends exploded into fits of laughter
.
Umberto sat back down. He sheltered his face by capping his forehead with the palm of his hand. He remained frozen, pretending to concentrate on a complex cipher that was slamming into his skull from the inside. Had the women seen him, or were they actually mocking him in perceived absentia? Now that he thought about it, those young women looked familiar. The force of recollection punched him in the nose. The two had been interns in his department at the Prosecutor’s Office. They had were only two of many female admirers that he had hardly noticed when his options were too legion to invest in such distractions.
Umberto caught a glimpse of his reflection in the beer bottle in front of him. The curved bottle contorted his unkempt face. The image appeared more authentic than the one he had seen in the mirror that morning. Umberto pushed the bottle aside and stormed out of the bar. While driving in a drunken rage, he ran over and killed a pedestrian.
After serving two years in jail, he could not find work. Then he disappeared. The accepted story on the rumour mill was that he moved to Botswana to work as a gigolo. Soon, the unflattering gossip became an even more unflattering indifference. The public’s libido for huddling around his fire of charisma had quickly turned to disdain. This would have never happened if a young man named Luxon Hurudza had not poured water over the embers. Charred wood and soaked ashes are hard to love. The world had used Umberto G. Mushana for its own gratification. He had reveled in the courtship but had been quickly tossed aside when the infatuation was sated by his undressing. Such is the fate of those whose ascent is the sole result of remaining untested by a humbling ordeal. Such is the fate of those who end up in the crosshairs of Luxon Hurudza.
Luxon’s own life unfolded in an equally interesting – albeit different – manner. Though he had won his court case, he was unemployable. He didn’t care. Working for other people had never been his goal. He hated everyone. The only exceptions were Giorgio Gweta and Abernathy Mpeto. The two men had methodically forced their friendship on him over five long years of law school. Together, they would build a law practice of their own. While his partners were the public faces of the partnership, Luxon Hurudza was the firm’s muscular intellectual engine. His power could be heard rumbling from inside the machine, even though the man himself stayed out of sight.
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 24
