‘You are insulting the president,’ Chopper screams. ‘You said he is like you or me! You are insulting the president. You said he is a mere mortal.’
Chopper is locked up with the rest.
During the night in the police cells, Chopper and the other youths argue over Arsenal and Liverpool and in the process find they have a mutual antipathy for both Manchester United and Chelsea. By the end of their raucous night together, peaceful relations are restored to such a degree that the morning finds Chopper snoring in the dirty cell with his head resting on the shoulder of one of the Scud youths.
Constable Mafa, the joking policeman, wakes them by the simple expedient of throwing a bucket of cold water over their sleeping forms. ‘Stupid fools, the lot of you. Go home and bathe, you are stinking the place out. Have you no girlfriends or something better to fight over? And don’t you know that the president always dies in January? Then he rises to life again a week later in February. And have you forgotten about the president’s testicles?’
The dripping youths look at him blankly. They are too young to remember that for years, it had been rumoured that the president’s ability to father children had been a casualty of the armed struggle for their independence. This was definitively and resoundingly contradicted when he subsequently had children with the mistress who later became the Second First Lady, leaving them stumped, until the circulation of yet another rumour, that their Medical Marvel of a president had had his life-giving force returned to him through special surgery in China.
A few rational minds noted the absurdity of this; if indeed the testicles had been reattached, they were surely not his own. Unless of course, said a caustic wit, Ian Smith had very kindly and thoughtfully kept the originals cryogenically frozen next to his peas and carrots, just for the eventuality that they would be needed for that special surgery in China.
In the evening of the second day after the nation’s frenzied whispers of the news of the president’s death, the news is denied by his combative spokesperson. Fifteen minutes of the nightly hour-long bulletin is devoted to shooting down the latest rumours, or contradicting the news in the remaining private newspapers. Those who cannot afford the private papers are left baffled by the rabid denials of stories whose genesis is not explained. On this night, the vitriol of the spokesman’s invective is matched only by his inattention to grammar.
‘The rumours of the president’s passing and/or demise is nothing more than merely gossip circulated by those seeking to reverse the gains of our liberation struggle,’ he says. ‘One could doubt that there was a New Year recently, but you cannot doubt that there will be rumours of the president’s death in January. Such malcontentious talk is the work of those detractors, sell-outs, malcontents and renegades who do not believe that the country shall ever be a colon again. The rumours have been engineered, disseminated, manufactured and/or otherwise concocted by imperialist forces and/or their puppets controlled from Downing Street.’
The denial has the unintended effect of confirming the news. Such is the national broadcaster’s reputation that if it is to say that the sky is blue, people will look up to confirm that fact for themselves. But just three days later, Constable Mafa is proved correct.
The president is reborn.
His sixteen-vehicle motorcade is seen speeding into town from the airport, rushing past the rubble of houses destroyed by bulldozers in the last week. At the head are four outriders on motor cycles, wailing their bikes to clear the way. Then come two Mercedes sedans, a police car with flashing lights, four more Mercedes sedans, then the long black limousine labelled ZIM1 – with the windows darkened so that the Ozymandias within does not have to look upon his own works, this Mighty One, and despair – then two more motorbikes, followed by another Mercedes sedan, a small army truck filled with soldiers in camouflage carrying loaded rifles, and, finally bringing up the rear, an ambulance, the only one in the entire country that is guaranteed to be fully equipped.
Two nights later, the president appears on television, his wife beside him, a pillar of toxic elegance. In a voiceover, a reporter breathes that ‘the president said he had the bones of a thirty-year-old’. Then another rumour starts, again, spread over internet fire and text messages and in whispers at the nation’s street corners. The president is not, after all, ninety-two. He is, in fact, only seventy.
Washington’s Wife Decides Enough Is Enough
Then Samuel took a stone, and set it between Mizpeh and Shen, and called the name of it Ebenezer, saying, ‘Hitherto hath the Lord helped us.’
– The First Book of Samuel –
Zino Samueri akatora ibge, akarimisa pakati peMzpa neSheni, akaritumidza zita raro Ebeni-ezeri, aciti:’ Jehova wakatibatsira kusikira pano.’
– Buku yokutanga yaSamueri –
The strained armistice in the fractious relations between Washington’s wife and his mother was openly breached on the morning of the wedding of Washington’s mother’s brother’s daughter Melody. The straw that broke the donkey’s back was the contentious question of which of the women was to sit in the passenger seat of Washington’s car on the drive from the house in Ballantyne Park to the wedding ceremony at the African Reformed Church on Samora Machel Avenue.
The battle lines were drawn just after the bride’s departure for the church, which had been delayed because, in her ululating eagerness to celebrate the bride, an overenthusiastic rural aunt called VateteMa’Kere had stepped on the bridal veil, yanked it off Melody’s head and dismantled the carefully piled up combination of real and artificial hair. The consternation that followed was soon over, VateteMa’Kere suitably chastened and – recoiffured, rearranged and consoled – Melody and her bridesmaids, who were resplendent in shimmering satin dresses of a particularly violent shade of orange, had left for the church in a flurry of perfume and powder.
The houseguests, all relatives close enough to the family to spend the night before the wedding at the bride’s father’s house, were to follow the bridal party. The cars for the bridal party – the parents of both bride and groom, and the ushers, in short, for everyone at the Top Table – was a fleet of Range Rover Sports hired for the occasion.
It had been arranged at the preparation meetings held by the family in the run-up to the wedding that the cars to ferry the rest of the guests would come from a common pool. The Transport Committee, headed by Melody’s sister and Best Girl, Precious, had allocated the cars on the basis that the most senior relatives would get the most expensive or presentable-looking cars. Thus the five Mercedes Benzes available, the three Toyota Prados, four Nissan X-Trails and two Honda Civics, one of which was Washington’s, were to take the most important family members from the house to the African Reformed Church on Samora Machel Avenue, then on to Pabani in Umwinsidale for the reception.
The second rank was to depart in seven inferior models belonging to the poorer sons-in-law. There was also M’zukuruTryson’s Mitsubishi Pajero. The Pajero had initially been allocated to the first rank, but was subsequently demoted at the insistence of Precious. A week before the wedding, from her first-floor office at the Zimbabwe Tourism Authority in Karigamombe Building at the corner of Samora Machel Avenue and Julius Nyerere Way, Precious had heard a commotion of horns blaring from the street below. She had looked out of her window to see M’zukuru Tryson’s wife, MaiKuku, bottom straining against the red fabric of her skirt, pushing the Pajero up from Samora Machel in the direction of Julius Nyerere while M’zukuruTryson tried to jump-start it.
The family members who were unfortunate enough not to have their own cars and to live in the townships were to assemble at Market Square and crowd into five kombis that had abandoned their usual Copacabana–Hatcliffe and Copacabana–Epworth routes for the day.
The even more inferior branches of the family, or, in a word, the rural off-shoots, were to travel to Harare in a Hungwe Dzapasi bus that had been specially commissioned to ferry them to Harare. They had been ordered to assemble at dawn and wait for that bus at the Wh
y Leave Guest House and Disco Bar, the bar at Gutu Mupandawana Growth Point that was by owned Felicitas, the second oldest daughter of Melody’s father’s brother Vurayayi who was also the acknowledged Small House of the Member of Parliament for Gutu Mupandawana constituency.
There were some, like Melody’s mother, who muttered that VateteMa’Kere, the ululating, veil-stepping aunt, should have waited for that Hungwe Dzapasi bus instead of hotfooting it on a Mhungu bus to Harare together with Keresenzia, her eldest daughter, and her two grandchildren four days before the wedding, but Melody’s mother knew that this was wishful thinking. VateteMa’Kere may have been poor, she may have been rural, and she may have turned up announced with an oversupply of accompanying relatives, but now that she had turned up, they had to give her her due place as the most senior of the consanguineous aunts in the patriarchal line at the grandfathers’ level.
She told long and detailed histories of every item of clothing she wore: who had given what to her when, what the giver had said to her on giving it to her and what she had said in turn. These histories sometimes segued into nostalgic reminiscences of what she called ‘mazuva aSmith’, the time of Smith, where life was hard, she said, because Smith had a bad heart, such an evil heart and life was unjust but at least the bread was cheap.
She ended every sentence by exclaiming her daughter’s name. It was her abbreviated way of saying ‘I swear on my daughter Keresenzia’ as an averment of the truth of her words.
‘This jersey that I am wearing’, she would say, ‘was from the clothes that were part of VateteNyengeterayi’s estate. She died just after independence, just imagine, so all she knew were the days of Smith. Hoodenga Smith waiva nomwoyo wakashata. Takambogozhegwa novupenyu asi zvokwadi mazuva aSmith zvokurya zvaiwanikwa. Kana mabhotoro chaiwo aitengeka. Keresenzia!’
‘This dhuku that you see on my head is one I got from a white woman who came to give out donations when I went to Gutu Mission Hospital, kwaMuneri kunopagwa meso. She was wearing it around her neck and I said but it should be on your head and she said show me how to do it, and I did and she said you can keep it. Her eyes, do you know, they had no colour, no colour at all, Keresenzia!’
‘Aya matenesi aya, these shoes on my feet are the shoes I got from Felicitas, do you know she is still with that MP but he will never marry her. Achagarira guyo sembga Felicitas, Keresenzia! I was wearing them the night that man died right in front of us. Harahwa iya yokuveza mabhokisi, iya yokudzana yainz’aniko? Yekera, Vitalis Mukaro. He was actually dancing with Keresenzia, they were the best two, Keresenzia was here, and he was there. Keresenzia was there, and he was here. Then he collapsed just like that, while he was dancing. Hoodenga harahwa yaidzana iya, that man could dance, zvokugagwa zviya, Keresenzia!’
‘As for this bheke I am carrying, this was bought for me by Whiriyamu with his first pay, you know Whiriyamu, my middle son, uyu wemagirazi. He works in Bulawayo now, ndookwatotamira Masvingo yose. Hoodenga wavakutochisvisvina chiNdevere ungatoti muNdevere wakazvagwako, Keresenzia!’
Melody, Precious and their mother were particularly irritated because both VateteMa’Kere and Keresenzia had a seemingly insatiable appetite for fried eggs, sausages and gossip.
Particularly when they got on to the subject of MaiguruMaiPedzisayi, there was no stopping them. MaiguruMaiPedzisayi had not only been VateteMa’Kere’s detested senior co-wife to the same husband, but also, to hear them talk, a practised mistress of sorcery and witchcraft. She had been in her grave since Keresenzia was six, leaving VateteMa’Kere in sole possession of Keresenzia’s father, but to hear VateteMa’Kere and Keresenzia talk of her, all the grievances might have arisen yesterday. ‘Vairoya MaiguruMaiPedzisayi, vairoya.’
And when MaiM’fundisiMukaro arrived the day before the wedding to make final arrangements about the placement of the flowers at the church with Melody, Precious and their mother, they had been interrupted by VateteMa’Kere’s loud and firm attempts to toilet train her youngest grandchild. ‘Dhota Tapera. Ndati dhota. Chitodhota izvozvi.’
Keresenzia, who taught Fashion and Fabrics at Alheit Chin’ombe Secondary School, and thus considered herself an expert on matters sartorial, annoyed Melody by doling out unwanted fashion advice. ‘It’s all about matching, that is what I tell my girls, zvokwadi mainin’, mucheno kumecha.’
She pestered Melody, Precious and the bridesmaids to buy the dresses made by her rural pupils. She had brought to Ballantyne Park an entire suitcase full of them. They smelled faintly of smoke and oil from old sewing machines and had high collars and long sleeves that would have delighted the heart of a governess in Victorian England.
‘Hon’o, mugubvururu,’ Keresenzia beamed as she held up a pleated and full-skirted voluminous horror in houndstooth fabric, ‘but you can cut it short. I will cut it right here for you, munongo-gurazve mainin’, mogotoita dhuku nebhande. Munenge makamecha!’
She used their things without asking. When it was pointed out to her that she had washed her children’s sun-baked napkins using the bubble bath that Precious had bought on her last trip to Dubai, Keresenzia had replied, with cheerful wonder: ‘Heya mainin’? Mati is’po yeDubai shuwa? Hes’ mhani! Hamunzwi kunhuwirira kudai? Ndati haingava yomuno! Bva vachatihwa k’m’sha! We will have to take it back with us so that others smell it too. Zvokwadi gore rino vachamira ho-o!’
The unexpected arrival of VateteMa’Kere was the reason for the altercation between Washington’s wife and his mother. As no one had expected that VateteMa’Kere would come to the house, no seat had been set aside for her in the priority cars. In the original planning, Washington was to have driven his mother, her two sisters and another paternal aunt as well as his own wife to the wedding in his Honda Civic. That plan now had to change.
Of the four women to have been in the car, Washington’s wife, who was a muroora and mutorwa and thus not an agnatic or consanguineous relative, was the most inferior of the four. Protocol demanded that she give way to VateteMa’Kere. It was particularly urged by Washington’s mother that the troublesome aunt would sit in the back of Washington’s car with the other women. This arrangement meant that, naturally, Washington’s mother would sit where Washington’s wife usually sat, in the passenger seat next to Washington.
It took moments to decide this without consulting either Washington, who was upstairs taking a shower, or his wife, that VateteMa’Kere and not Washington’s wife, would go in Washington’s car. And this was the core of the problem.
In the eyes of his mother and the family at large, the car belonged to Washington. But as far as Washington’s wife was concerned, it was merely a matter of paperwork that labelled the car Washington’s: it was his only because of the bureaucratic exigencies of the Vehicle Inspection Department. Only the issue of registration made the car his: that, and her inability to drive. As she saw it, it may have been a loan from Washington’s company that allowed him to buy it but it was entirely her efforts that had procured it.
She had prayed night and day, loud and long at sessions with the Prophet Evangelist, a man of dapper appearance who promised prosperity with every tithe made by the members of his Celestial Church of the Power in the Blood International, Established 2012, and with the purchase of every pamphlet, DVD, CD, T-shirt and scarf.
‘All you have to do,’ the Prophet Evangelist had said to his congregation as he held up the scarves, ’is to buy one of these cloths with my name and face on them. I have prayed over each one. I have blessed them all. You buy one of these cloths for ten dollars each, you see a car that you want, and you rub its windscreen. Then you come back and you pray, always keeping this cloth with you.’
Washington’s wife had bought a scarf and rubbed it on several cars. She had taken two kombis from their house in Ruwa to get to Sam Levy’s Village to be sure to find the right kind of car. Then she had attended prayer sessions with both the Prophet Evangelist and his wife, the Prophetess. She had wheedled and needled at Washington to buy a car and prayed that the wheedling and needling would
work. Sure enough there it was, a Honda Civic. It was not one of the cars whose windscreens she had rubbed with the Power in the Blood cloth. It was not a Mercedes or a Range Rover Sport, it was not even a Pajero like M’zukuruTryson’s, but it was, incontrovertibly, a car.
To crown her joy, the Prophetess had touched her hands to her after her Testimony of Gratitude for the car she had received through the grace of God, had touched her with soft, gentle hands that knew only prayer, and given her the gift of a bumper sticker that said ‘This Car Is a Result of Prayer: 2016 Is the Year of Results.’
The Prophetess had quoted from the First Book of Samuel and said, ‘Shout “Ebenezer”, for it is His grace that has brought you this far.’
Her eyes closed and body shaking in ecstasy, Washington’s wife had shouted, ‘Ebenezer!’
‘For your God is a God of silver and gold,’ the Prophet had thundered. ‘Your God is a God of silver and gold. Of silver and gold, silver and gold, you worship a God of Silver and Gold.’
The Honda was silver.
On being told that she was to be in this car of prayer, VateteMa’Kere gave a peal of ululation that landed in Washington’s wife’s ear with such a clanging clarity that it stunned her for a moment. She did not say a word, but simply turned and walked to the second lounge, where the bridal party had dressed. She picked up a discarded mirror and cotton wool ball and began, with deliberate slowness, to burst the pimples on her forehead.
Apart from VateteMa’Kere and her daughter Keresenzia, no one else thought anything of it. This was her usual way. In the middle of any gathering, particularly those where her mother-in-law held court, Washington’s wife was known to pick up a novel and go off to read on her own whenever she felt slighted.
Rotten Row Page 16
