The Boy Next Door

by Irene Sabatini

  The box is warm in my hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, what you’re reading there? Animal Farm. Isn’t that banned?”

  “Yes.”

  I got it from the library and Mrs. Grange just stamped it. She couldn’t care less. She’s emigrating. The final straw was the farmers up at Filabusi who were killed. In cold blood. Hands behind their backs. Kneeling down. She had been telling anyone who stopped by for a chat. The country was going down to the dogs.

  He picks up the book, riffles through its pages.

  “That’s Zimbo land for sure, one giant Animal Farm. How old are you, anyways?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen, huh?”

  I don’t tell him that my birthday was five days ago, and that Mummy gave me a little talk about keeping myself clean.

  “Bad shit is happening over at Matopos. They’ve sealed the whole area off. Nothing moves after six. Did you hear they say Nkomo’s gone toodling off kitted out in women’s gear, undies and all, only in Zimbo land I’m telling you.”

  Maphosa has disappeared, too. He has gone with some of his friends from the association to investigate.

  “Shit, it’s hot. We should get a room or something. Air-conditioning. Come on.”

  * * *

  The lady behind the desk looks at me and says, “Will you be staying for the night, sir?”

  “No, no, nothing like, just want to get out of the heat, an hour or so, max.”

  “We don’t do hourly rentals. You will have to pay for the whole day.”

  “How much is it again—thirty dollars, no discounts? Okay.”

  “You’ll have to write her name, too.”

  He writes something in the book. The lady gives him the keys. Room 201. We take the lift to the second floor. Room 201 is the second room on the right.

  We are here.

  The last and only time I was in a hotel room was in Francistown. Daddy took us on a trip to buy spare parts for the Cortina. We stayed in a hotel used by prostitutes and truck drivers. Daddy, Mummy, and I shared one room. The sheets were so dirty we slept with our clothes on. In the morning a fat man squeezed my breasts and offered me ten pula if I went to his room. We were served tongue for breakfast. It looked exactly like a tongue on the plate. And we all got lice.

  “That’s more like it,” he says. “I was getting fried out there.”

  He is lying on the bed, his hands under his head. His shoes are still on.

  “Come on, I won’t bite.”

  I sit down.

  “You know, you’re not half bad-looking. Why do you put so much grease on your hair? You should check out some of the Afrikaner chicks. As ugly as anything, but they all think they’re in the running for Miss South Africa. You should cut your hair. I can do it for you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No worries, but you’d look good with short hair. Short back and sides. Army style. Miss Africa. Miss Zimbabwe.”

  I don’t tell him about the first days of school.

  “Not being racialistic or anything, but heh, some black people stink as hell. You don’t.”

  “I’m colored.”

  “Colored? You don’t look like a goffle. You’ve got more black blood than white. Look at your mother; she’s as black as…”

  He gets up from the bed.

  “Asch man, people get so touchy. Let’s just drop it. Soon as a white man opens his mouth he’s being racialistic.”

  “She thinks I’m a prostitute.”

  “Who? Oh her, down there, that fossil. And I’m the king of Sheba. No, I’m a sugar daddy. A skint sugar daddy. That would be a first, heh?”

  He turns around, goes over to the picture on the wall.

  “Blimming Kariba. Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  But at school we’ve just finished learning about the construction of the dam in the 1950s; the biggest man-made dam in the world. We watched a film about Operation Noah when all the animals had to be removed from the area before it became flooded; how elephants and lions were tranquilized by brave and determined rangers and released back into the wild. Mr. Stewart, the geography teacher, said that it was a true testament to Rhodesian grit, labor, and expertise. He didn’t even correct himself.

  “Not missing much. Bloody hot. Come October, forty-five, fifty degrees easy. No wonder the Tongas got shit for brains; damn things got fried. Rhodie Central up there. Boats and fishing and big talk—who caught what, who saw what. All that fricking water, and you can’t even take a dip to cool down. Mahobo crocs and hippos. You should see the jaws of those things. A hippo will crush you, drag you down into the water, and that’s it, friend.”

  He stands against the window, and I wonder what he can see out there.

  “Now Victoria Falls, that’s something. Scared myself shitless on Knife Edge Bridge. Halfway got soaked, full-on spray. Better views from Zambia. A bloody monkey bit me in the rain forest, had to get rabies injections, and boy do those things hurt, and one chappie got his leg chomped off by a croc.”

  He turns, looks at me.

  “I’m off down south. Got to get my act together. Come next week I’m old news, Lindiwe.”

  “What about the dissidents, the Fifth Brigade?”

  “Checked it out. All clear as long as you stay on the main road. I’m not going off camping in the bush and sticking my nose where it’s not wanted. No worries.”

  I want to say, you can’t go.

  He says, “What I wouldn’t give for a Castle now. Should’ve brought something up.”

  He sits on the bed again and starts punching the mattress.

  “Have you even been to Ascot during race day?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been to fuck all, haven’t you? The old man would work himself into a palaver. Betting, and ten times out of ten, he’d put his dosh on some cripple everyone else knew had zero chance of even finishing the race, and, my word, later there was hell to pay, like it was me who made him… so anyway, where’ve you been?”

  I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.

  “We went to the Drive Inn.”

  “The Drive Inn. That’s lekker. What, with a boy?”

  “With the church youth group.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a happy-clappy. That lot drives me up the wall. Jesus this, Jesus that… so, what did you watch?”

  “Cannonball Run.”

  “Was it good?”

  “It was okay. I liked Grease.”

  “Grease? Is that the one with the moffie guy? I’m out of touch with movies and shit. I’ll catch up down south. Though to tell you the truth, I lose interest halfway. What the hell am I doing watching some moffie prancing around? I end up asking myself. And they’re all moffies over there in Hollywood. Like all the guys over by REPS Theatre. So your church group, is there anyone you like there?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t run a fast one over me. It’s not all praying and praise the Lord, is it?”

  I get up from the bed.

  “I must go,” I say.

  By the garage, opposite the bus stop, are three police trucks and soldiers.

  “I can’t drop you off here. I’ll drop you at the turning.”

  The soldiers are smashing the windows of the garage shop with their rifles.

  The garage belongs to ZAPU.

  The Herald and ZBC say that arms caches have been found in Nkomo’s farms throughout Matabeleland; the Ndebeles are planning to wage a campaign to destabilize the democratically elected government of Zimbabwe. Mugabe warns that they will be taught a lesson that they will never forget; he will send down the rains that will wash away the filth; the people of Matabeleland will soon come to know the meaning of the word Gukurahundi.

  “Old Smithie should have been smarter. If he’d played his cards right, he’d still be top dog here.”

  22.

  Rosanna and Daddy are whispering in the kitchen.

  “I will tell her,” s
ays Rosanna.

  “No,” says Daddy.

  “You must tell her,” says Rosanna.

  Mummy comes into the kitchen.

  “Tell me what?” she asks.

  There is silence everywhere.

  Then Mummy says, “No, no.”

  “Mama,” cries Rosanna.

  Daddy tries to hold Mummy, but she pushes him away.

  She pushes past me in the corridor.

  She goes into the bedroom, locks it.

  Daddy knocks on the door. There is no answer.

  Rosanna goes to her room, outside.

  I stand still in the corridor, holding my breath tight inside.

  Mummy has not come out her room for two days. Daddy stands outside begging and asking for forgiveness. “I have told Rosanna to go,” he says. “It was a mistake. You must come out. Please.”

  He puts water and food outside. She does not touch anything. When I come home from school, I knock on the door, wait. On the third day, Daddy says that he is going to force the door open.

  * * *

  Bridgette does not come to school.

  Mrs. Jameson says that she has some very sad news. Bridgette is very sick. She is at the Bulawayo Central Hospital in the intensive care unit. She has had an accident. She has lost a lot of blood. We must keep her in our prayers. And then she says, “Linda, will you please come with me.

  “If you know anything at all, it will help Bridgette. You are her best friend. You mustn’t keep anything from us. It’s the only way you can help.”

  I stand very quietly in the office, my legs shaking.

  At last, she lets me go.

  On my way to the bus stop, I go into Woolworths. I stop at the sweet counter. I think of Sophia and her gang always coming back during lunch break, their fists full of marshmallows, licorice sticks and fudge; I would watch them dare each other before setting out on their expeditions to see who would get away with the most stuff. They thought it was all very funny, and they would sit there in the quadrangle giggling and chewing away, thinking that they were oh so very clever and smart. Bridgette said they were posers, out for a cheap thrill.

  The girl at the counter is busy with her reflection, patting down her newly permed hair.

  I swoop my hand in the jelly babies.

  I shove my hand in my pocket, the jelly babies in my fist.

  I walk outside, making sure that my feet stay on the pavement and do not start flying off, running, my heart beating and bumping, waiting to hear the security guard calling out behind me, “Thief! Thief!” his baton knocking on my shoulder.

  I smell the sweat under my arms.

  I keep my hand in my pocket all the way home, the jelly babies, warm and sticky, safe.

  There is whispering in Mummy’s room.

  Mrs. Ncube comes out.

  “Lindiwe, don’t worry now. Your mother is quite all right. How is school, my daughter? How is your research?”

  I say “fine” and go in my room.

  I take the jelly babies from my pocket. I squeeze them in my hands till they are almost melting. I put them in my mouth and spit them out on the bedspread.

  I look at the mess.

  I take out the box with the earrings and put it next to me on the bed.

  I lie down on the bed and I think of Ian, driving away.

  When I come out of the room, Mrs. Ncube and Mummy are in the lounge. I go and ask them if they want tea.

  Mrs. Ncube gets up and says, “No, no, thank you, my child, I am just going.” She turns to Mummy, “Bye-bye, Ma Lindi.”

  Mummy says bye-bye quietly. She does not get up. Her hands are folded on her lap.

  I take Mrs. Ncube to the gate.

  When she is outside she adjusts her head scarf and says, “Your mother will get better, my dear, don’t worry; these things happen.”

  I find Mummy sitting on her bed. The big Family Bible with the gold lettering that Daddy is paying for in monthly installments is open. Her hands are flat on the page. She looks up.

  “I tried everything for a boy. Everything.”

  She looks down at the pages again. The Family Tree with all the branches she cannot fill.

  I know that she is thinking about the two babies who died inside her.

  One of them was a boy.

  I wait for her to say more.

  When Daddy comes home, he goes to the bedroom and waits by the door. Then he goes to the workshop where he stays all night.

  23.

  I go over to the McKenzies. I crawl under the gap in the fence. Anyone could see me, but I don’t care. I go to the boy’s kaya and knock. No one comes. I push open the door. The room is dark and smells of paraffin oil and smoke. My eyes begin to see things in the dark. There is only a straw mat on the floor. This is where Ian sleeps. I lie down on the mat and wait.

  Mphiri and Ian do not come.

  I crawl back under the fence.

  The house is quiet. I go outside to Rosanna’s room, and I find her lying down on the mattress holding her stomach. “Are you okay?” I ask her. She doesn’t say anything. Maybe she is sleeping.

  The light in the workshop is on. I start walking; I should ask Daddy if he wants anything to eat. And then I change my mind. I turn and go to Maphosa’s room.

  I open the door and I can smell Maphosa. I switch on the light. There is a thin mattress on the floor, a tin cup, a tin plate and saucer in a corner. There is a stove and an old dish towel. There is a vegetable crate upside down. On the wall there is Bob Marley. I lift up the mattress. There is no AK-47. I think of the soldiers by the garage. I think of Maphosa and his friends, whether they have gone back to the bush to fight, if a new war is starting all over again, so soon.

  I think of Daddy, Mummy, Rosanna, Bridgette, Ian.

  In my room I take out the newspaper article from the pink handbag. I look at the picture and then I lift the paper up and I put my lips gently on his hair.

  24.

  “You wouldn’t believe I was with a chick last night. A fricking expat. I was over at the curry munchers, Naiks down at Lobengula, trying to pick out a shirt, and she just comes over and says that the blue one really brings out my eyes. These European chicks as forward as you like. And hairy as hell. And the curry muncher is standing there, grinning like a fricking monkey, ‘yes, yes, the lady is quite right, quite right.’ So I buy the thing and head out of the shop, and can you believe she is standing by the door asking if I want a drink. Jeez, man. No chance I’m saying no to free booze. Heh, what’s the matter with you? Anyways, over at her place she starts telling me that there’s hobo shit going on at Matopos. She’s Swedish and working with one of these NGOs, development something or the other, one of those fundies running around. And the waterworks start flowing when she starts on about how the Fifth Brigade is busy tshaying people left, right, and center. Speciality: broken ankles, wrists. Man, even talk of bodies dumped in Antelope mine.”

  We’re at Mzilikazi Arts and Crafts Centre. We’re sitting on a bench under a jacaranda. He’s chewing a biltong.

  “Jeez, luck, and she lays it on thick how nice it is to meet a white Zimbabwean who isn’t—what was the word she used again?—‘prejudiced,’ that’s it, prejudiced. What a bunch of dunderheads these, ‘I’ve come to save Africa’ whities. So I go on about how I’m a farmer trying to contribute to the new Zimbabwe, and boy, does she lap it up hook, line, and sinker. For fundies man, they can be dwaas.”

  He takes out a strip of biltong from the packet. “Here, do you want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Fricking good, impala.”

  “A boy tried to kiss me at the youth group.”

  “Did he manage or did you tshaya him good?”

  “Where’s Mphiri?”

  “Mphiri? What’s that to you?”

  “I… I just haven’t seen him around lately. Is he all right?”

  “Yah well, I took him to Renkini some days ago. I told the mudala I was hightailing it out of here and he had to go back t
o makhaya. Talking about waterworks. The fossil starts crying and saying why am I chasing him away, has he done something bad. I say, ‘Look, Mphiri, I am leaving, you must leave, too.’ He says that he will take care of the place. So I try to get through to him that the place is for sale, that there will be a new baas, I felt like a real wally, you don’t know what that man has done… anyways I put him on the bus, with a letter in case he gets stopped at a roadblock.”

  “Are you selling the house?”

  “Not that anyone’s queuing to buy the dump. Hey, maybe your old man could take it, expand his business. I’ll give him a damn good offer. Super discount. I should have a word with him before I take off. You know the history of the two places, don’t you?”

  “Which two places?”

  “For an educated chick you’re slow. The two houses, what else? They used to be one lot. Oupa, Grandpa McKenzie, thought it was fricking genius to have the two houses facing each other. He stashed Grandma McKenzie over at your end and carried on like a fricking bachelor at the other end. You check the goffles hanging around the bottle store, all McKenzies I reckon.”

  He makes a noise like something is stuck in his throat.

  “But then my old man must have needed cash and he sold the place. I reckon it was the bitch who got him to. Shame, I used to have a lekker time at your place, used to hide out there when the old man got hobo drunk or when the bitch….”

  “You mean your father sold it to my father?”

  “You’re slow, but at least you’re catching on.”

  I try to remember the big day when I came with Daddy to the house. I try to remember the white man who stood by the gate giving Daddy the keys and papers. Was that Mr. McKenzie Senior? But all I remember is Daddy sitting in the car crying. We didn’t even go straight into the new house that day. Our new house.

  “Hey, I think I caught sight of your war vet down by Queens Bottle Store. He looked as mad as hell. Ten or so of them shouting, clenched fists, kicking dust. He should watch out. He’ll end up where the sun don’t shine.”

  On our way back he suddenly stops the car.