The Big Day
Exactly ten minutes before two o’clock, Abel Muranda approached the Office of Custodial Institutions. The entrance was busy. Smartly dressed professionals were returning to their desks after lunch. He was about to enter the building when a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him away from the door.
“Keep walking. Don’t look at me,” said the voice.
Abel Muranda did not know why he did, but he obeyed. The two men walked down the steps and crossed the street. From the corner of his left eye, Abel Muranda could tell that the stranger was of similar height. He wore brown shoes and red socks. Though it was warm, he also wore a heavy jacket and a green scarf. Abel Muranda felt uneasy about following the man, but his legs kept moving. After four blocks, they turned into an alley. The tension peaked in Abel Muranda’s shoulders.
“Where are we going?” he finally asked.
“We are already there,” said the man. There was a small alcove in one of the alley walls.
“Please step in there with your back turned towards me,” asked the voice calmly.
“There is no way I am doing that,” replied Abel Muranda. He did not turn to look directly at his mysterious companion.
“Please,” asked the voice. It’s important.”
Abel Muranda hesitated. After surviving floods, crocodiles, a drunken “Big Shot”, and a naked woman, it would be tragic if he was stabbed in the back by a man he randomly followed down a city alley. Then again, these were not ordinary times.
Abel Muranda had never experienced any doubts about the job he was pursuing. However, he had become uneasy about the characters he was meeting on his journey to a good life in the city. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt the weight of something big on his shoulders. Something much greater than the burden of becoming a hangman. Abel Muranda also knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would never figure it out. It was like the wind. He could not see it, but he could tell it was there from the way it blew through the hairs on the back of his neck.
Abel Muranda stepped inside. It was deep enough to hide him from anyone who was not standing directly in front of it. The voice behind him was firm.
“Abel. You have upset many people. I have been sent to help make things better. If you do not follow my instructions, your family’s lack of health care will be the least of your problems. Do you understand me?” asked the voice.
Abel Muranda understood him perfectly well. He said nothing. It occurred to him that the man smelled like menthol cigarettes.
“You did not get the job, Abel Muranda. You will never get the job. Worse, you have also put your family in danger by coming here.”
“How?” asked Abel Muranda. The voice sighed.
“Abel, you are smarter than that. Did you really believe that a man came to your god-forsaken village to buy your last goat before offering to find you a job in the city? And not just any job. Instead of finding you work in construction or gardening, his first suggestion was that you become a hangman?”
The man paused to let this question sink in. Abel Muranda did not respond. The interrogator did not expect him to.
“If you saw that man today, would you remember his face? What was he wearing? How tall was he?”
The voice asked the questions in quick succession.
“Did he tell you where he lived in Harare? Did he give you an address where you could find him when you came to the city?”
Though Abel Muranda did not respond, it was clear to them both that he could not answer any of these questions.
“What colour was his car? Did he even have a car? In which direction did he go after you parted? Did you meet the relatives he was visiting in the area?”
The man paused and sighed.
“Tell me, Abel Muranda. How much do you actually remember about this man?”
The stranger clicked his tongue in pity.
“I have five thousand dollars here. Take it and leave the city right now. Do not go to the Office of Custodial Institutions. Go straight to the other end of this alley and keep walking. Eventually, you will reach Josiah Tongogara Street. Find a commuter minivan going to Mbare. From there, you will catch a bus that will take you out of Harare along Mutare road. You will be home by tomorrow after midnight.”
Abel Muranda found it difficult to think and listen at the same time. This was not the plan he had in mind when he arrived in Harare. But five thousand dollars? He wanted to confront the self-imposed friend.
“Don’t turn around, Abel,” insisted the voice. Abel Muranda had not twitched a muscle but the man had read his intentions.
“By five o’clock the following morning, take your family and catch a bus to the Nyamapanda border post. When you get there, ask for a Mr. Stylus Chora. He will help you to cross into Mozambique. The money I am giving you will help you settle down in your new home. You will also get a job at an oil installation near Beira. It pays modestly, but the cost of living is manageable. Stylus will provide you with further details when you meet.”
Abel Muranda had come to learn whether he had won his dream job, but he was now being told to leave the country altogether? He decided to test the stranger.
“What if I turn down your offer?”
“Why would you do that, Abel?” asked the voice.
“Because I don’t trust you. Maybe I should tell Mr. Gejo that an anonymous stranger tried to rush me out of the country before I received notification about the job.”
Mr. Gejo’s name made an impact. Though the voice did not change in tone or determination, Abel Muranda knew he had touched upon a troubling subject.
“You could do that, Abel,” replied the voice. “But I know you won’t.”
Abel Muranda’s head was racing. The dried salt stains beneath his armpits were soaked once more. He suddenly yearned for the crusty stiffness. The stranger broke the silence.
“I am going to put this money into your pocket. Then I am going to walk away.”
The man did not wait for permission. Abel Muranda felt a fat hand squeeze into his back pocket before withdrawing in much slimmer shape.
“You are a good man, Abel Muranda.”
The stranger walked off. Abel Muranda stepped out of the alcove after his footsteps had faded. He was standing alone. All he could hear was the noisy traffic moving along the streets on either side of the alley. His mind was in chaos. A swarm of images were brawling for prominence in his head. The likeness of his goat, Hurudza, fought its way to the forefront. This whole journey had begun with that creature. Abel Muranda started walking.
* * *
The Goat
Two days after selling his last goat, Abel Muranda had received troubling news. A neighbour’s son had been tending to his cattle not far from Gwenzi. The boy had come across the carcass of a dead animal. It was small and half-eaten. The most gruesome part of the story was that it had been devoured while tied to a baobab tree by a length of wire.
Abel Muranda only heard the story because the boy and his mother came to tell him. However, they did not come alone. A Sergeant Sithole accompanied them. The police officer was as black as the night. His skin did not have a single blemish. He wore a wide smile that was studded with a constellation of perfect white teeth.
After introducing himself, Sergeant Sithole spoke on behalf of the mother and son. He told Abel Muranda that the dead animal looked like his notorious Hurudza: the toughest goat in Gwenzi. The policeman walked Abel to the back of the truck and pulled back a plastic sheet. Immediately, Abel Muranda recognized the mangled carcass underneath. It was Hurudza. He was in the early stages of decay. The smell was nauseating.
Sergeant Sithole asked Abel Muranda if he had tied his goat to the tree.
No. He had sold Hurudza to a man from Harare.
Who was this man? What was he doing in Gwenzi?
He was visiting relatives.
Who were the relatives?
Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know.
How much did th
e man pay for the goat?
Three hundred dollars.
But the best price for a large, healthy goat was about fifty dollars. Even that price could be negotiated lower. Everyone was desperate to sell their animals before they became too thin or died of starvation. The drought was driving down the market for livestock. Surely, Abel Muranda knew this?
Of course.
So had Abel Muranda found it suspicious that the man had paid him three hundred dollars?
Well, the man was really friendly. And kind. Sometimes, good people want to help others without making it seem like charity. Paying an excessive price was a natural way of displaying benevolence without wounding pride. It allowed the seller the dignity of giving something of value in return for the generosity. Also, Hurudza was no ordinary goat. But, yes, with fresh eyes, the bloated purchasing price was odd.
So Abel had not asked for three hundred dollars? The buyer had offered that amount?
Yes.
So this buyer offered six times the best market price for a goat. But in these tough times, Abel Muranda would have settled for less than fifty dollars, no? Still, the buyer had not even tried to negotiate a desperation bargain?
No, he had not. He was a kind man, remember? He would not have offered anything below fifty dollars.
The sergeant nodded and smiled in disbelief.
“You are the luckiest man in the world, Mr. Muranda,” he said.
After he finished with his questions, Sergeant Sithole asked the boy and his mother to wait for him in the truck. When they were alone, the policeman placed his hand on Abel Muranda’s shoulder. He looked him straight in the eye.
“Mr. Muranda. I can tell that you are a selfless man. You did not sell your goat, did you? No, you used it as bait to capture the lion that had been terrorizing this district for many months. But your lion-capturing abilities fell short. Your little goat was mauled to death. The lion got away before you could slay it. Since you did not want to take credit for this courageous effort, you made up the story about selling your goat to a stranger from Harare.”
Sergeant Sithole stared into Abel Muranda’s eyes. The police officer tightened his grip.
“I am sorry your sacrifice went unrewarded.”
Sergeant Sithole’s toothy grin almost blinded Abel Muranda.
“Good bye, Mr. Muranda.”
“Have a good day, Sergeant,” Abel Muranda replied. “If you don’t mind, could you please take the carcass with you? I could leave it for the vultures and hyenas, but I do not think it is a good idea. In a time of drought, I do not want to send them any signs that the feast has started, and a richer harvest awaits.”
“Of course, Mr. Muranda,” replied the police officer.
Sergeant Sithole left Abel Muranda standing outside his thatched hut. The boy and his mother were peering at him from inside the police truck. They looked anxious and hostile. Their fears were painted on their faces.
What sort of man sacrifices his last goat to a hungry lion during a drought?
The answer was simple. Only a man who engaged in ritual sacrifices to transfer his sins to others would do such a thing. According to local belief, such sacrifices purified the sinner and redirected the consequences to others. The cleansing effect was supposed to be most powerful when the scapegoat was killed by another creature with more blood on its conscience than the person who made the sacrifice.
No matter what he did, Abel Muranda would not convince the other villagers that he neither believed in, nor employed, the powers they suspected he wielded. When a hardship befalls a community, its people will often abandon logic and flee to the refuge of superstition. This in turn creates a climate of collective suspicion where each person embraces and promotes the most sinister interpretation of everyone else’s behaviour. Abel Muranda could not figure out Sergeant Sithole’s personal beliefs on the matter. Nevertheless, it was clear that the policeman’s rationale for the gruesome events had been intended to allow Abel Muranda to save face. In any event, the officer was concerned with fighting crime. Zimbabwe’s criminal code did not outlaw witchcraft, even though many crimes were often committed in its furtherance.
That night, Abel had found it hard to sleep. His neighbours now suspected him of practising black magic. But there was something else that worried him more: Why was the stranger willing to pay such a price for a lion’s dinner? Abel Muranda tried to remember whom the man had identified as his relatives. Had he even mentioned them by name?
The worsening drought and his neighbours’ hostility rose over the next few months.
One day, Abel Muranda walked fifteen kilometres to the only shopping centre in the district. It had a small grocery store, butcher, tailor, and a grinding mill. All were branded with the name of their proud owner: Mr. Kugarika.
Abel Muranda had come to spend the last ten dollars of the money he had received for Hurudza. When he walked into the grocery store, he was met by the unfriendly face of Mr. Kugarika. He looked like a chicken. As soon as he saw Abel Muranda, he walked off to the backroom. When he returned, he had a letter in his hand.
“This is for you,” he said.
“For me? Where is it from?”
“Harare.”
Abel Muranda asked Mr. Kugarika to read the letter to him. Surprisingly, the storekeeper did not protest. This concession had likely depleted his yearly budget of benevolence. Mr. Kugarika locked the front door and returned behind the counter. The two men were now alone. The storekeeper opened the envelope with his spindly fingers and began to read.
The tone of the letter was kind and informal. The writer thanked Abel Muranda for the goat. The animal had not died in vain. Hurudza had fed many people at a wake in Harare. The deceased was a good person. He would rest in peace knowing that his mourners had been well fed.
Mr. Kugarika looked up and stared at Abel Muranda with his chicken eyes. He turned his attention back to the letter, and continued to scan the document in silence. Mr. Kugarika’s beak-like mouth twitched like a rabbit’s nose. His eyes dilated before narrowing into tiny slivers. At Abel Muranda’s urging, he continued to read the document out loud.
The letter said that a potential job had arisen in Harare. The responsibilities were heavy, but necessary. The successful candidate would act as an intermediary. He would be in charge of introducing prisoners on death row to the afterlife.
Abel Muranda and Mr. Kugarika stared at each other for some time. At first, Abel Muranda’s greatest fear was that Mr. Kugarika would share this information with other villagers. Abel Muranda’s poor standing in the community would only get worse. This concern quickly faded. Mr. Kugarika invested no effort in building social links with the community. He was a money-hungry curmudgeon who only showed interest in people if there was a prospect of profiting from them. Idle gossip was not his style. Besides, Abel Muranda knew that misers were not rumour-mongers. Even if Mr. Kugarika was tempted to ignore this disposition, he was smart enough to realize that sharing the contents of the letter was a bad idea. It would be foolish to disclose information about someone with the authority to solicit applications for a hangman’s job. Mr. Kugarika continued reading.
If Abel Muranda was interested, he should make his way to the capital by October 17. When he arrived, he was to go to the Office of Custodial Institutions for an interview. There was no guarantee that he would get the job. The competition would be stiff, but with a personal referral, his chances were good. The job offered a generous salary and other benefits for the successful candidate’s family. The letter was signed: “Your friend.” There was no return address.
Abel Muranda asked the storekeeper when the letter had arrived. Apparently, it had been waiting at the store for a week.
Why hadn’t someone sent for him?
Mr. Kugarika was blunt: “I am not a postman.”
Fortunately, the interview was still three weeks away. This was enough time to get to Harare on foot. Abel Muranda could not afford to take the bus. He had to use the last of his money to
buy food for his family. If he started walking the next day, he would make it in time for the interview.
As he was leaving with his groceries, Mr. Kugarika stopped him.
“Your goat was only half-eaten, Abel Muranda. Tell me. What lion only eats half a goat in times of hunger?”
Abel Muranda said nothing. Mr. Kugarika continued.
“I am not sure who has the worse luck: you or your goat. Either way, I would never want to be Abel Muranda.”
Mr. Kugarika looked down at his newspaper and started reading. His chicken-like face squinted suddenly. Something in the paper had abducted his attention.
“Wait,” he said to Abel Muranda without looking up. His eyes were scanning the page with alarm. Mr. Kugarika suddenly looked up and turned to the shelves. He took a sack of rice, a bag of cornmeal, and a package of sugar. He then grabbed a bottle of cooking oil and placed the entire package in two plastic bags.
“Take this. It is a gift. Not for you. It is for your wife. And the children.”
Abel Muranda was stunned. Mr. Kugarika was known for being the stingiest man to ever walk the earth. It was rumoured that when his own mother was on her deathbed, he had asked her to sell her belongings to recover the money he had paid for her hospital bills. After she passed away, Mr. Kugarika had followed through with this plan. He had also scolded the hospital staff for treating his mother with expensive medicines that had only delayed the inevitable.
The story was widely reported in the district and beyond. Mr. Kugarika never made any effort to deny it. Given the man’s reputation, Abel Muranda was confused by this second act of generosity.
Was the food poisoned?
“Take it and go before I change my mind,” said Mr. Kugarika with a strained voice.
Abel Muranda was caught off guard. He muttered a “thank you” and left.
As he walked home, he was deeply troubled. A rowdy mob of recurring questions was rioting in his head. Why had the lion not finished eating the goat? Who was the man whom he had sold the goat to? Had he fed poor Hurudza to a lion for the purposes of black magic? What compelled Mr. Kugarika to give him a gift? Why would he suggest that Abel Muranda’s and Hurudza’s fate were comparable? Was his life in danger?
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 35
