Abel Muranda did not have the answers to any of these questions, but he knew the time had come to leave Gwenzi. His only prospect was the very man who had started the madness. A man he did not know at all. Maybe if he went to Harare he would get some answers. Maybe he would get the job as well. For some reason, the prospect of becoming an executioner did not feel so repulsive. Maybe it was desperation rather than principle? Either way, it was time to go.
The memory of Mr. Kugarika’s chicken-like features was floating around in Abel Muranda’s head when another hand grasped his shoulder. It was large and muscular.
Mr. Gejo.
* * *
More Than Ten Candidates
“Abel Muranda! Where are you going?”
“Good to see you, Mr. Gejo,” replied Abel Muranda. “I am going to the Office.”
“Right!” exclaimed Mr. Gejo. “Today is the big day.” His smile was difficult to read.
“Yes it is. Do you know anything about it?”
“No. As we told you, the final decision was not up to the interview panel. We will not be the first to know either. You were my favourite candidate, though. Unfortunately, I did not have the power to decide alone. The panel could not agree on a candidate to recommend.”
“You mean that Mr. Kuripa had problems with me?” asked Abel Muranda bluntly.
Mr. Gejo smiled. He had no intention of criticising a colleague about such a sensitive matter.
“Politics is everywhere, Abel Muranda. My colleagues and I do the best job we can under conditions we did not create. That said, the system works well.”
Abel Muranda suddenly realized what had happened. He could not hold back his anger against the arrogant Mr. Kuripa. The man had tried to sabotage his job offer by sending someone to scare him away.
“Mr. Gejo, as I was walking to the Office, I was stopped by a man who led me away.”
Abel Muranda spent the better part of ten minutes telling Mr. Gejo about his encounter with the man in the alley. Abel Muranda said nothing about the money. It was for his family.
Mr. Gejo listened quietly. His only reaction was a slight tilt in his left eyebrow. Even his moustache did not twitch. When Abel Muranda was done, Mr. Gejo shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“I don’t want you to share this story with anyone, Abel Muranda. I also ask you not to repeat what I am about to tell you. Promise me that.”
Abel Muranda nodded.
“There are influential people who have been trying to win the job for their own candidates.”
“You mean, Mr. Kuripa?”
Mr. Gejo smiled with his eyes, as always.
“For years we had trouble finding anyone to interview for this position. Then all of a sudden, more than ten people came forward.”
Mr. Gejo raised all his fingers to emphasize the number. He wiggled the smallest one on his left hand several times. This was meant to indicate the excess of candidates over the total number of digits on his hands.
“Some of the candidates recruited powerful friends to lobby on their behalf. I hope it did not make a difference in the end.”
“You interviewed more than ten people?” asked Abel Muranda with surprise.
“Yes. But some of them were simply trying to shoot the moon with a bow and arrow. They will never get the job. A few others, including you, were more promising.”
“Does this include the man I saw in the waiting room before my interview?”
“I cannot say, Abel Muranda.”
Mr. Gejo’s face was opaque.
“Trust me. I don’t know whether you got the job.”
Mr. Gejo was lying. Abel Muranda did not mind. It would be improper for him to undermine the integrity of the selection process.
“Anyway, aren’t you late for your appointment?”
It was two thirty.
“I am, Mr. Gejo.”
“Then go. You don’t want to leave yourself hanging. At least not for too long. Good luck, Abel Muranda.”
* * *
Consolidated 3. File: H2jjO9 – xxx – Client / Chokwadi – Extract – Newspaper SED02S.ELECT – Zizi
ZUVA REDU: Man-Hunting Lightning Bolt Vaporizes Chegutu Businessman
By Earnest Chokwadi
Lightning may not strike the same place twice, but once in a while, it is prone to showing off. This weekend, a prominent Chegutu businessman was killed by an exhibitionist bolt of lightning that was even more sensational than Zuva Redu.
Mr. Chalice Mheni was sleeping in the basement of his house. For my fellow Zimbabweans who are wondering what a “basement” is, let me explain: A basement is an underground floor of a building. They are common in parts of the world where extreme weather often makes such features necessary. That’s my guess and I am sticking to it.
This architectural feature is relevant for our story because basements are not common in this country. This is what makes this whole saga so interesting. Mr. Mheni is reported to have hired an architect who specialized in designing homes with basements. Why? No one seems to know.
Mr. Mheni and his family relocated to the house last month. His wife claims that he was eager to move into their new home before the rainy season. After they settled in, the deceased had insisted on sleeping in the basement whenever it rained.
Mr. Mheni exhibited other strange behaviours in the months leading up to his death. He is reported to have given one of the local telecom companies the permission to install a cell phone tower on the south side of his three-acre plot. Usually, companies pay landowners for this privilege. Mr. Mheni did the reverse. He was paying the company more than a thousand dollars a month to have the installation on his property.
Mrs. Mheni claims that her husband was sleeping in the basement when the tragic event occurred. At the time, she was on the main level of the house watching her favourite soap opera, Why You Love Me Too Much?
“It all happened so fast. At first, it was sunny outside. A few seconds later, the sky darkened. Then it began to rain. Suddenly, the room was filled with light. I fainted. When I gained consciousness, the house was in a mess. The living room window had been blown to pieces. The floor was littered with fine grains of glass.
“A charred path led from the gaping hole towards the basement door. I followed it all the way down to where my husband had been sleeping. He was gone. The bed was burnt to a crisp. Only the metallic frame remained. Then I heard screaming. It was Jethro, the gardener. I ran outside to find him standing over a burnt chunk of flesh. I knew right away that it was part of my husband’s lower abdomen. His manhood was still attached.
“Jethro had seen it all. He had been working in the garden when the lightning bolt struck. He claims to have seen a jagged streak of electricity snaking around the cell phone tower and entering the house through the window. Before he could digest what he was seeing, the bolt retracted from inside the house. It was carrying my husband. It held him above that tower and completely vaporized him. The whole event took no more than a second.”
I did not mean to be insensitive, but I had to ask the question.
“If your husband was completely vaporized, how come a piece of his abdomen remained?”
Her response was terse.
“Mr. Chokwadi. When only 18.5 percent of your husband remains after a lightning strike, I believe it is fair to say that he was completely vaporized.”
I did not belabour the point, but I was curious about how she arrived at such an exact figure.
“My husband weighed exactly a hundred kilograms. The remaining portion of his abdomen weighed 18.5 kilograms.”
Before I could ask my follow-up question, she read my mind.
“The police weighed it.”
I did not share my thoughts with Mrs. Mheni, but her husband must have been a considerate person. By maintaining a weight of exactly one hundred kilograms, he made it easy for the survivors to calculate the proportion of his remains that had not been vaporized.
* * *
A Fateful Letter to an I
lliterate Man
Abel Muranda went straight to the Office of Custodial Institutions. When he got there, he met Rumbidzai, the assistant to Mr. Kuripa’s unnamed superior. Rumbidzai was all business. Her face was hard to read. She asked him to sit in the reception area while she went to retrieve a letter for him. She was only gone for three minutes, but Abel Muranda felt as though he had been waiting three lifetimes. When she returned, she handed him an envelope. Again her face was expressionless.
“This is for you,” she said. Abel Muranda looked at the envelope and opened it. His hands were shaking. Rumbidzai simply stared at him. After he opened the letter, he remembered he could not read. There was a lot of text on the page. This was either a job offer or the longest rejection letter ever written.
“Could you please read it for me?” he asked Rumbidzai. The young lady was taken aback, but quickly recovered. She took the letter and began to read.
“Dear Mr. Muranda. Following your interview of October 17th, the Office of Custodial Institutions carefully reviewed your candidacy. Based on the recommendation of the Interview Panel, we are delighted to offer you the position of Chief State Officer Responsible for Implementing Capital Offences for the Republic of Zimbabwe ...”
Rumbidzai kept on reading, but Abel Muranda had stopped listening. He grabbed his faded canvas bag and buried his face in it. Its fabric was so waxed with dirt that it could not absorb his tears. They rolled off and landed on Rumbidzai’s expensive suede shoes. Free health care at last ...
* * *
Consolidated 4. File: H2SO4 – xxx – Client / Chokwadi – Extract – Newspaper SED2419 – Zizi
ZUVA REDU: Body of Man Found Near Marondera: Face Disfigured by Acid
By Earnest Chokwadi
The body of a man was found in a thick clump of bushes along the highway between Marondera and Mutare. The murder was notable for one reason: The victim’s face had been mutilated with acid. His hands were tied behind his back. A thick red cloth was stuffed into his mouth. The police found no identification on the body.
In such cases of degraded corpses, the police must wait for the next of kin to identify the bodies by unique features such as birthmarks or prominent moles. Distinctive pieces of clothing can also be helpful. In this case, the man was wearing a bright red sock, and nothing else.
Rest in peace, Anonymous Man.
* * *
The Protest
Mr. Gejo was at his desk when the phone rang.
“Go on.”
“Hello, Gejo.”
It was Mr. Kuripa.
“Is this a good time?”
“There never is,” replied Mr. Gejo. “But it’s good to hear from you anyway, Kuripa. How can I help you?”
“You cannot help me, Gejo. As a bureaucrat, I realize that it is often my job to add a varnish of formality to decisions that have already been made. Therefore, I am not calling you to fight for a cause beyond my powers. I am calling because I feel a moral duty to share my thoughts.”
“Okay, Mr. Kuripa,” replied Mr. Gejo politely.
“The death penalty is barbaric and inhumane. But we can agree to disagree about that. What is wrong by any standard is to make a killer out of a good man. We could have hired Jeremiah Vapanduki or Adolfus Gwindi. Either of these men would have done the hangman’s job with distinction. The experience would have been familiar for them. In fact, it may have provided a more acceptable outlet for their unproductive impulses. But no. You had to insist on Abel Muranda.”
Mr. Gejo interrupted. “Neither Jeremiah nor Adolfus met the profile. Besides, neither of them applied.”
“Well, Abel Muranda didn’t either.”
“Well, someone was kind enough to do so on his behalf. Besides, I made sure that Jeremiah and Adolfus did not hear about the position. Both men are on assignment in faraway places.”
“Why would you fight so hard to burden Abel Muranda this way? All you needed was a willing killer.”
“Mr. Kuripa, I understand your position. But you told Abel Muranda that the job was for a person who would neither suffer depression nor enjoy any job satisfaction.”
“Of course I said that! I am a human resources professional. I am supposed to find creative ways to frame unusual jobs. But Abel Muranda was right. Nothing prepares you for hiring a person whose only contribution to the workforce will be killing people!”
“Then maybe you need a fourth university degree in hiring professional killers,” said Mr. Gejo with a smile.
“And maybe you need to get yourself a single university degree to start with!” said Mr. Kuripa. The words left his mouth before he realized he had gone too far. The silence at the other end of the line was terrifying. The two men’s conversational orbit had been frozen solid. Not even the air in their lungs dared to move a single molecule. All was still. Mr. Kuripa was sure he could find greater ambience in a vacuum.
“Where are you right now, Mr. Kuripa?” asked Mr. Gejo calmly.
“For the sake of my safety, I will not share that information.”
“As an educated man, I ask that you find a piece of paper and take studious notes on what I am about to say. Do you have a piece of paper in front of you?”
“... Maybe.”
“Good. I suggest that you do the following. When we finish chatting, take out that government pen you keep in your shirt pocket. Write a letter to your mother. Tell her that there is a good chance you will soon be incapacitated.”
“Are you threatening to kill me, Gejo?”
“Well, death is the ultimate form of incapacitation. But no, Kuripa, slaughtering human resources professionals would be undignified. I will not subject my hands to such a disservice. Nevertheless, implementing discomfort on your person would be a permissible transgression.”
Mr. Gejo paused for long enough to allow Mr. Kuripa to gulp.
“Remember, Kuripa, I have numerous diplomas in the only human proficiency of consequence: kneading people and circumstances to comply with my desired outcomes. Now tell me, did they teach you to do this in university?”
Mr. Kuripa gulped again. Mr. Gejo was not a verbose man. His liberal use of words with more informal synonyms was unusual. “Permissible transgression?” What ire was responsible for this adjectival deviance? Why had he used the term “slaughtering” when “kill” would have sufficed? After all, if death was not the outcome he intended, why would he substitute the terms? Maybe Mr. Gejo wanted to use a word that evoked the process as well as the effect of dying? Maybe –
Mr. Kuripa was still reflecting on the grammatical aspects of his peril when his attention was recaptured by the man who was threatening to bring it about.
“But all is not lost, Kuripa. The aforementioned discomfort may be averted. It takes me exactly three days to forgive personal insults. So go to a place where I cannot find you. Stay there until I get over my grudge. When you emerge from your exile, you and I will be better friends than before. Did I bungle any part of that gracious recommendation?”
Mr. Gejo’s tone was neutral, but engaged. His lack of excitement did not mask his ill-intentions. Mr. Kuripa regained his courage. It was not often that he felt so strongly about something. Even when he did, he dutifully complied with his superiors’ decisions. This was one of those rare occasions when he had to speak his mind.
“Mr. Gejo, I know that you live in a world where necessity builds cobwebs across the birth canal of truth. A world where people disappear and their children roam the country looking for parents who will never return. But never mistake your lack of remorse with divine justification. I know that you regard men like me as pencil-nosed bureaucrats who know nothing about the real world. Maybe you are right ... most of the time. But in this case you are wrong. By recommending Abel Muranda for this job, you have spun a web that will eventually develop a life of its own. Maybe one day it will suffocate you too.”
Mr. Kuripa feared for his life, but he had no regrets. Mr. Gejo’s response was cordial.
“Do you feel better,
Mr. Kuripa?” he asked.
“Actually, I do, Mr. Gejo. Thank you.”
“Good. I know you quite well, Kuripa. I am not worried that you will ever deliver such an outburst again. These are sensitive times. Self-expression can lead to unexpected outcomes. It’s important that as a bureaucrat, you deal strictly with matters that you have been trained to address. Don’t you agree?”
“Completely.”
“Good. Now let’s make that nine days of exile.”
Mr. Kuripa sat quietly. He was debating whether to ask Mr. Gejo the question that had motivated him to make the call in the first place. The wrong answer would crush him.
“Mr. Gejo. Did you know that Abel Muranda has three children?”
Mr. Gejo said nothing.
“Did you know that he had a fourth child? A daughter. Her name was Ruvimbo. When she was four years old she fell into the fire and suffered severe burns. Abel Muranda tried to take her to the nearest clinic. It was three days away on foot. He did not have money to take the bus. So he started walking. At some point during the trip, a kind bus driver allowed them onto his vehicle. Unfortunately, the young girl kept screaming in pain. Eventually, some of the other passengers forced the driver to kick them off the bus. A few tried to protest. They were outvoted. No one got off the bus to make sure Abel Muranda got his daughter to the clinic. Father and daughter slept alone in the bush for three nights. His wife stayed at home looking after the other young children.”
Mr. Gejo said nothing.
“I am sure you read the newspapers early last year. There was a story about a pack of rogue lions that were hunting people across rural Manicaland. Abel Muranda and his daughter travelled through the area where the attacks were most frequent. One night, the girl’s whimpering attracted one of the lions. The man that you saw across the table during the interview fought that lion. He killed it and cut it to pieces. The hyenas took care of the rest. Not even the mighty Tongai Gejo has ever killed a lion with his bare hands.”
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 36
