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

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  “The area was difficult and dangerous to access. We had to be careful. When we finally reached the place, it took us several more hours to get to the body. After fishing it out, we confirmed that the mermaid was actually a man. His body was enclosed from head to toe in a transparent bodysuit. The garment looked like it was made of latex. The man was wearing nothing underneath. For lack of a better description, he looked like a certain male organ encased in a contraceptive sheath. A clear tube extended from his mouth and ran over his shoulder. It attached itself to a strap in the centre of his back. The free end of the tube was open, but it was capped with a black plastic valve.

  “Blocking the middle of the tube was a dark orange substance. According to one of the members of the rescue team, it was the dried sap of one of the indigenous trees. The locals use it to make glue. The resin covered about three centimetres of the tube’s length. The blockage separated the man’s mouth from the valve at the end of the tube. My guess is that the tube had once been connected to a canister of oxygen on his back. Oddly, the man’s outfit did not appear to be designed for scuba diving or any other activity requiring a breathing aid. So why did he need a special oxygen supply?”

  I don’t know either. The body was taken to the morgue of the local clinic. Your columnist was told that as they were preparing to clean it, one of the staff members noticed a weak pulse on the man’s wrist. He reported this to the senior coroner, who called for the ambulance. The man was immediately shipped to the larger hospital nearby, which had more experienced medical staff.

  The coroner tried to explain to me why the rescuers failed to realize the man was alive when they rescued him.

  “It is possible that the man’s tight-fitting suit may have suppressed his vital signs. His skin was clammy and faded from the trapped moisture; hence the ‘mermaid look.’ The pressure from the suit may also have suppressed the regular rhythm and strength of his blood flow. This could have restrained the outward displacement of the skin around the pressure points such as the wrists and the neck. After languishing in the Zambezi for hours, it was natural for the rescue team to assume he was dead.”

  Though the coroner was willing to defend her colleagues, loyalty has its limits. Skilfully, she built a firewall between her department and the rescue team.

  “We must also remember that the peculiar nature of his outfit may have distracted them from making clinically relevant observations about the man’s state. However, my staff was alert to signs of the patient’s unexpected survival.”

  Zuva Redu tried to track Mr. Condom at the hospital. The trail went cold before it reached the emergency room. Hospital officials insisted that no such man had been brought to their facility. Your columnist tried to track down the paramedics who picked him up from the morgue, but to no avail. According to the local dispatcher: “Both our ambulances were responding to an emergency in Binga when this ‘mermaid’ was allegedly picked up from the morgue. I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

  My efforts to get answers from the local authorities were equally futile. After receiving a tip that Mr. Condom had been taken across the border to Zambia, I contacted the police on the other side of the Zambezi River. An ill-tempered spokesman took my call. Sergeant Cornelio Ozumba denied any knowledge of the strange man.

  “Mr. Condom? I don’t know a Mr. Condom. I have heard the rumours but I assure you they are unsubstantiated. Many people die in this world, my friend. Many. Do you write about any of them in your newspaper? Have you ever stopped by a funeral and asked the mourners why they were so lugubrious? Surely, people who die in ordinary ways also deserve attention? Just because this fictitious character was allegedly found naked in a giant condom, does not mean he is more important than other murder victims ... That’s if this man existed, of course. I assure you he does not.”

  I reminded the spokesman that I had not mentioned that Mr. Condom had been murdered. So why did he suggest that he was? Mr. Ozumba quickly diverted the conversation to other matters.

  “Listen here, young man. The real scandal is that if such a man existed, he would have broken the law.”

  “What law?” I asked.

  “Zambia’s obscenity laws, of course! Just because he was covered up ... in theory, of course, does not mean he was not naked. Zambia is a conservative society. Grown men do not dress up in condoms and jump into rivers. If such a man had theoretically survived, and theoretically entered Zambia, we would have charged him with gross indecency … Theoretically. We have not. Therefore, he does not exist within the borders of our splendiferous country. Now leave me alone and find something more productive to do than snooping around, you ragamuffin!”

  Wow. I never thought I would live to hear the words “lugubrious”, “splendiferous”, and “ragamuffin” used in the same monologue.

  I tried to track down the fisherman who reported the body to authorities. The first person I asked directed me to a popular watering hole. She was four years old. When such a young person answers a question with confidence, they are usually right. Sure enough, I found the fisherman nursing a pint of Mhondi Beer: Fiscal Cliff. His name was Mr. Lameck Dzvinyu, the most lizard-like man I have ever met. He had large eyes that gave the impression that he could see in more than three dimensions. Mr. Dzvinyu was sitting beneath a tree with his five-man drinking team.

  “The mermaid was dropped from the sky by a giant bird!” said Mr. Dzvinyu as he pantomimed his way through his beer-compromised memory. “It was just before sunrise, but I could see clearly enough. As I traced the mermaid’s fall, my eyes burned like I had just stared into the oven of hell! The creature crashed into the water with great force! It even scared the crocodiles that were basking on the rocks by the waterside.”

  A member of Mr. Dzvinyu’s drinking team cut him off.

  “Don’t believe this man. He doesn’t know the difference between a mermaid and a two-legged hippo. He confuses them all the time!”

  “Yes!” piped in another team member with four pairs of canines on each jaw. “He drinks too much. We should know. We always have to pay for his beer!”

  The entire watering hole erupted into a chorus of agreement. Mr. Dzvinyu nodded to concede the point. However, he refused to change his story about what he saw. Your columnist was inclined to believe Mr. Dzvinyu’s long-suffering friends.

  After the interview, the fisherman followed me back to my car. Mr. Dzvinyu’s eyes were planted firmly on the sides of his head. Since it was impossible for him to look at me directly with both, he craned his neck to position his protruding left eyeball within an inch of my face. I have never been so intensely observed. Without a hint of shame, he placed a crusty hand on my shoulder and asked me for beer money.

  My contribution would help resolve some of the embarrassment he felt for being the “free loader among his compatriots”. Despite the worthy cause, I turned him down. He did not give up. He even offered to modify his story with a more dramatic retelling.

  “I can claim the mermaid wrestled a crocodile before he floated towards the dam wall. That would increase your newspaper sales, you know?”

  I declined.

  The fate of the mysterious Condom Man will remain unknown. On reflection, the most important questions to arise from this entire story were inspired by Sergeant Cornelio Ozumba of Zambia. The first is legal. The second is philosophical. Both are ripe for a fuller public debate.

  If a man is fully clothed but we can still see his privates, has he broken any obscenity laws?

  If a man is fully covered but his privates are still exposed, is he truly naked?

  * * *

  Anala

  There is a group of professionals that has mastered the art of following others without being detected. They do not use forgettable vehicles to elude their pursuers. They do not rely on false moustaches to blend in a crowd of hairy men. The group has never given itself a name, but has come to be known as “Gondo”, the Shona name for “eagle”. Over many years, Gondo built a system of sentries. The com
plex network of informants monitors every conceivable route that anyone in Zimbabwe could use to get from anywhere to anywhere else.

  Gondo only became known to the public when a notorious bandit escaped from a Masvingo prison. Woodward “El Feo” Chitupa was famous for boasting that he was the only African who owned a license to be ugly. Oddly, despite his prominent features, El Feo was a master of evasion. However, he was recaptured while cowering inside a hollow baobab tree in northern Manicaland.

  The media was waiting at the courthouse when the bandit appeared for his trial. His wild hair and sparse teeth made him a telegenic choice for any report on crime and punishment. Shaking his shaggy mane, El Feo proclaimed: “I may be ugly, but I am like a ghost! The police are not smart enough to catch me. They had help. From whom? I don’t know. But mark my words; if El Feo cannot move around Zimbabwe undetected, no one can!”

  With an ominous nod to the cameras, El Feo hobbled towards the courthouse in his shackles. The bandit’s swift recapture set tongues wagging across Zimbabwe. The existence of the mystery force that had helped to recapture El Feo was now known.

  A federation of criminals had created Gondo as an intelligence-sharing platform to help its members evade the authorities. Over time, a shared convenience developed into a lucrative enterprise. For a tidy sum, anyone could use the network to follow others without sparking suspicion. However, no network can evade detection by the paranoid. Vaida was paranoid. As she pulled out of her driveway, her only hope was that the person she was going to see would learn of her visit and ensure that the network was not used against her.

  Vaida left Harare in the early evening. She drove through Masvingo, along the Nuanetsi Game Ranch, and further south towards Beitbridge. It was three in the morning when a sign along the highway announced that she was ten kilometres from Beitbridge. Vaida pulled over to the side of the road and waited. The night was still. The darkness was soaked with the anticipation of events that would decide whether she would reach the border post alive.

  Vaida looked into her rear-view mirror. She could see no further than a few metres behind her car. She made sure all the doors were locked before gently revving her engine. Vaida was ready for a hasty departure. The road was roamed by bandits, opportunists who targeted travellers returning to Zimbabwe from South Africa with valuable goods. However, the bandits were the least of Vaida’s concerns. She had no reason to doubt the message she had received a few hours into her journey:

  “When ten kilometres from Beitbridge, stop and text the name Moses. Only proceed after Moses grants permission.”

  Vaida did not recognize the number, but she immediately knew that her host had learned of her unannounced visit. The message was both frightening and comforting. Though it confirmed that there was something to worry about, it also assured her that the problem would be solved if she followed the instructions.

  Half an hour later, Vaida received another text message on her phone.

  “Moses parted the sea. Proceed.”

  Vaida eased herself back into the highway and continued to Beitbridge. When she arrived at the outskirts of the small border town, she turned into a small road that ran for several kilometres before stopping at a high metal gate. On either side of the gate was a wrought-iron fence. It was adorned with a crown of barbed wire that ran around a massive compound. Fastened to the centre of the gate was a modest sign that read:

  “Masvingo Solutions Group (MSG) Pvt. Ltd” Written in smaller letters below these words was the caption: “... We also move things ...”

  Most people would assume that this phrase had words missing on either side. What was the company’s primary cargo? What other things did they “also move”? MSG made no effort to clarify the ambiguity. After all, anyone who asked such questions did not fit the company’s customer profile. Only clients with specific needs ever became aware of such a service. These special clients had to navigate a minefield of security measures before the company accepted their business. MSG locations were not the sort of places the average citizen could come upon by accident. Only Consolidated was less accessible.

  Vaida stepped closer to the gate. She stopped when she realized that the structure was electrified. There was no sign to warn her, but she knew it was. That’s the least she could expect from MSG.

  Though it was dark, Vaida could see an extensive row of eighteen-wheeler trucks lining the compound fence. The vehicles formed a U shape, which opened up at Vaida’s end of the property. Even if the gates had been absent, it was impossible to mistake the open posture for a gracious welcome. Each truck was the size of a small house. The vehicles resembled a herd of mutant oxen. Their grills were aligned to create a menacing panorama of metallic teeth. Together, they formed a massive jaw that was eager to maul at any living creature that dared to trespass on the property. The monsters growled in silence. If a client made the request, these beasts of burden were ready to roar to life and plough the road to hell.

  There was no one in sight. Vaida looked towards the toll booth at the right side of the gate. A dark figure moved across its small window. A few seconds later, she heard a loud click. The door creaked open. An enormous figure stepped out and moved towards the gate. Vaida gasped. How could such a large person fit into such a small space?

  The figure stopped just before the gate.

  “Who are you?”

  Vaida was taken aback. It was a woman. Her voice was coarse and belligerent, but it was unmistakably female.

  “I’m Vaida. I am here to see Anala.”

  The woman reached for the padlock. A cluster of sparks flew through the air. She staggered backwards and grunted. The smell of burnt flesh drifted into Vaida’s nose. As the smoke cleared, the woman muttered a few vulgar words. Her reaction fell short of what was expected in such situations.

  The woman reached into the toll booth with one arm. The rest of her body remained planted outside. She did not divert her eyes from Vaida. When the hand finished its business, she walked up to the padlock. The electrocution was not repeated.

  The woman was large enough to attract attention in a crowd of sumo wrestlers. She walked up to Vaida and raised her massive fist high above her head.

  “The last person who came to see Anala was hammered into the ground like a nail unto a wooden plank. I cannot disclose who was holding the hammer, but I will give you a clue. The victim was standing on the same spot that you are standing on right now.”

  The woman leaned forward and whispered.

  “MSG has protocols. We expect everyone to follow these protocols. They bring order to our lives. They bless us with predictability. So when people start arriving unannounced, we know that someone did not follow the proper procedures. Now tell me why you want to see Anala. If I don’t like your answer, the spot you are standing on will become the scene of another misfortune.”

  Vaida looked up at the hulking figure. Her fist looked like a soccer ball that had been glued to the stump of a tree. Vaida was consumed by a curious thought. Who would win if this woman challenged Mr. Gejo to fight? After considering the contest for a few seconds, Vaida concluded that Mr. Gejo would prevail. He was all muscle. Still, the big man would sweat for his victory.

  “Be careful.” replied Vaida. “I’m a tough nail. I wouldn’t want to puncture that fat fist of yours.”

  The woman growled as she flung her fist downwards. Vaida quickly stepped out of the way. The force of the descending blow was so powerful that it dragged the woman to the ground with it. Before she could stand, Vaida picked up a thick tree branch on the side of the road and brought it crashing down on the woman’s head. The giant roared more in anger than in pain. Just as Vaida was about to deliver the sequel, a gruff male voice yelled, “Stop!”

  Vaida took a few steps back but did not ease her grip on the branch. The gigantic woman slowly rose to her feet. Her entire body was heaving with rage. Thankfully, she showed no signs of mounting a counterattack.

  The man walked through the gates and stood between the tw
o women.

  “Vaida?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Please drop the branch. Edith won’t harm you.”

  Vaida hesitated. She now knew the giant’s name, but this did not make her less dangerous.

  “Please,” repeated the man. His voice was gentle but firm. Vaida dropped the branch.

  “After you.” The man directed Vaida through the gates ahead of him.

  “Wait for me over there by that trailer,” he said. Vaida obeyed. The man walked over to Edith and whispered a few words to her. He was of medium build but he looked much smaller beside the gigantic woman. When the damage was repaired, the man rejoined Vaida and apologized.

  “Edith is very protective of Anala. Don't worry, though. With luck, she won't take it personally.”

  “What must I do to get that lucky?”

  “Nothing. I will work on it during your meeting with Anala.”

  “I wish you success.”

  “Thanks, Vaida.”

  The two squeezed through a crack between two trucks and weaved through a maze of trailers, which had the MSG name and logo printed onto their sides. Pressed against the fence was a truck that looked just like the rest. The man walked around to the back. He identified himself to the occupant by tapping rhythmically on the door. Footsteps shuffled towards them. A series of metallic sounds filled the air. The elaborate system of locks told Vaida that despite its generic appearance, this trailer was more special than the rest.

  “Hello, Vaida.”

  “Hello, Anala. You look tired.”

  “You look alive.”

  “I can’t believe it has been fifteen years.”

  “Yes, Vaida. It’s been exactly twenty gestation periods since we last saw each other. You could have died as many times in that period. Death had many opportunities. Tonight, it was frustrated once more.”

  “I would like to take all the credit, but I know I have others to thank for my survival.”

  “Many.”