Diamond Boy

by Michael Williams

  “Come closer, Patson,” he said. “You want to see my most precious of all stones? This is the greatest of gifts from the midzimu. A girazi. This little beauty was one of the first diamonds found here. Cut and polished, it’s a gem of tremendous quality. At least eight or nine carats, worth over fifty thousand Usahs. Think what a stone like this could mean to your family, Patson?”

  I didn’t understand why he was asking me that question. He seemed to be testing me but all I could see was the sparkling white light of the stone, which he twirled lovingly between his thumb and index finger.

  “This stone you cannot hold. You have to find your own, Patson, and it will define your future.”

  I was vaguely aware of my father clearing his throat. He called my name, softly, as if he was reminding me of something. I ignored him, even though I knew it was wrong to do so. Had I been an obedient son, I would have listened to him. I should have stepped back from the table, away from that girazi glittering between Uncle James’s fingers. Instead, all I seemed able to do was imagine what a gift like that from the land spirits could do if it belonged to me. Fifty thousand American dollars. The sum of money seemed unimaginable. The things I could do with fifty thousand American dollars, the things that money could bring to my family. It would change all our lives forever. We could eat meat every night. We could buy a house. My father could have a car. I could go to university and my sister could go to a private school. An endless list of possibilities raced through my head.

  “You do want to be a man, Patson?” Uncle James lifted the girazi to the light again.

  I nodded, mesmerized by the diamond.

  Then it vanished into the leather pouch around his neck. “Your initiation into manhood begins on the diamond fields. There you will learn what it is to become a man.”

  “Patson,” said my father. “Come here, son. My boy will be going to school, James. The mines are not for him.”

  I could be a miner. I could find my own stones. I didn’t need to go to school.

  “Just a moment, Baba,” I said as Uncle James folded the corners of his velvet cloth over and around my future.

  The Banda family lived on Kondozi Farm, thirty kilometers away from the town of Mutare. The farm had once belonged to a prosperous white farmer, the largest tobacco and wheat producer in the district. Then the war veterans came and invaded the property, ran off the family without letting them pack up their belongings, and claimed the land for themselves. The rambling thatch-roofed farmhouse bore traces of that family: A glass-framed collection of faded photos still hung behind the toilet door; two smiling blond-haired boys with farm workers beside them; a boy sitting on a tractor in the lap of a tanned, burly man in a bush hat. In another photograph these same white people sat around a table laden with food, wearing paper Christmas hats and smiling at the camera. Mounted on the living room wall were the heads of a bush buck and a kudu, with glassy eyes that stared serenely over what used to be. I wondered where this family had gone and what they would think of Kondozi Farm’s new occupants and all the dirty tools in their lounge.

  Later, I found out that after the war veterans had moved on, the farm had been inhabited by local people who did a poor job of farming, and then diamonds were discovered nearby. Uncle James offered everyone living on the derelict land the chance to join his mining syndicate as long as he took over the farmhouse. With Kondozi Farm as his headquarters, Uncle James doubled the size of his syndicate workforce, and soon became one of the richest men in Marange.

  But it was the food the Banda family ate that made the biggest impression on me. All morning I had been distracted by the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, and when we finally sat down for our first meal in Marange I decided that I, too, wanted to be as rich as Uncle James. Kuda darted in and out of the kitchen, with large bowls of stewed meat, cornmeal, and mounds of sadza. Uncle James was served first, then Prisca, then Musi, Jamu, and finally the Moyo family. I had never seen such a feast, and I struggled to keep my hands under the table, as my mother had taught me.

  Grace poked me in the ribs. “You’re drooling, Patson.”

  While we ate, Uncle James kept looking from my father to his sister and made disapproving clicking noises in the back of his throat. It seemed as if he couldn’t believe how his pretty sister could have married my dour father. To my eye, the Wife seemed overdressed for lunch. She wore a low-cut yellow summer dress and her face shone with freshly applied makeup. She entertained everyone with her version of our journey, how she berated the driver for abandoning us, how she was the one who found Boubacar and ordered him to show us the way. Her story went on and on, how she hid her luggage in the hollow baobab tree and how she had made all the decisions when her husband was too terrified to do anything at all. Uncle James kept on shaking his head and laughing.

  “I know that place,” he said. “I will send someone to collect your things from Father Baobab.”

  “Oh, James,” said Kuda. “Can Sylvia and I go into Mutare to get her some new clothes? I’m sure the luggage has been stolen by now.”

  I remembered overhearing the Wife tell my father that Uncle James had two wives. Prisca must be the senior wife, mother of Musi, and Kuda—the junior wife—was Jamu’s mother. Only a very wealthy man could have two wives. My father listened passively as the Wife continued to embroider her role as protector, but interrupted her when she suggested that Boubacar had abandoned us.

  “I believe he was close by at all times, Sylvia.”

  “Well, it certainly felt like he ran off when the soldiers started beating up those people,” she replied, squinting at my father.

  “I know this Boubacar. He is a bodyguard for Farouk Abdullah, one of the richest diamond dealers in Mutare. He is an out-of-work mercenary from the Congo who fought on the side of the rebels in DRC. There was a strange story about him recruiting child soldiers. I’m not sure of the details, but he can’t be trusted,” said Uncle James, drinking from the beer bottle Kuda handed him.

  “Oh, but he can, Uncle James,” insisted Grace. “He carried me on his back all the way and let me wear his magic tie.”

  “Hush, Grace, it’s not polite to interrupt.” My father laid his hand on her arm.

  “But, Baba, Boubacar helped us. Without him we would never—”

  “That man was nothing but rude to me,” interjected the Wife.

  “Him and Abdullah wanted to pay me peanuts for my diamonds,” said Uncle James, waving his knife at my father. “Boubacar is not welcome on Banda Hill. You can’t trust the Congolese.”

  “I agree, brother. Joseph wouldn’t listen when I said the very same thing,” chirped the Wife.

  Throughout the lunch, Prisca eyed the Wife, while Kuda fussed over her as if she were a film star. Kuda was not quite as beautiful as the Wife, but they were roughly the same age. She seemed to have a kind word for everyone and never stopped smiling. Prisca, on the other hand, was older and, despite the softness of her large stomach, she had a hard, thin mouth and a face like a squeezed orange. I couldn’t help wondering if she wasn’t jealous of Uncle James’s prettier, more pleasant second wife. But there was no mistaking which one of them was the mistress of the house. While Kuda talked about shopping and dresses with the Wife, Prisca was all business, interrogating my father with short, sharp questions.

  “If the work was so bad in Bulawayo, why did you not go back to your village?” she demanded. “Sylvia says you have land there.”

  My father paused in his meal and looked at the Wife for an explanation.

  “No, no, Prisca, we wanted to come here,” interrupted the Wife quickly. “To Marange. The stories were all over Bulawayo about how good things are here. Besides, I haven’t seen my dear brother in ages.”

  Prisca would not be distracted. “When do you start at the government school?”

  “Mr. Ngoko said I should come as soon as I arrive.”

  “The headmaster of Junction Gate High School? He left,” Prisca said, glancing at her husband, who was di
shing up a large second portion of food.

  “Junction Gate High School?” said Jamu, his mouth full. “That’s funny.”

  “And where will you stay?” probed Prisca, ladling still more delicious-smelling stew into my bowl. I planned to make up for all the meat we hadn’t eaten in months.

  My father frowned. “I believe government housing was mentioned.”

  Uncle James slapped the table with the flat of his hand and laughed loudly. “Government housing. That’s a joke. The school’s broke, shut down. Not working. No pupils. You’re better off working the fields. Patson looks strong. I could use him on the mines.”

  I glanced up at the mention of my name.

  “My son will be going to school, James—”

  “But I could work on the mines after school, Baba,” I interrupted, ignoring my father’s frown. “Just think of all the money—”

  “That’s enough, Patson.”

  “My boys haven’t gone to school for six months. Not worth it,” said Uncle James. “They learn more on the fields. Isn’t that true, Jamu?”

  Jamu nodded eagerly at his father, and I was able to sneak a glance at him to see if he was still angry at me. He was piling more stew into his bowl, the wound on his head long forgotten.

  “My father says that going to school is the most important thing in life,” Grace declared, wiping her bowl with a piece of bread. “You don’t just learn stuff in books; you learn how to understand the world.”

  “I would like Jamu to go to school,” began Kuda, but when Uncle James raised his hand she stopped talking, and the smile slipped from her face.

  “Is that so, Grace? And that’s why your father brought you all the way to Marange?” Uncle James raised his eyebrows at my father. “To understand the world better?”

  “I’ve tried to talk sense to him, brother, but he doesn’t listen. What’s wrong with having a nice house, or a brand-new car, Joseph?” needled the Wife. “My husband has something against being successful. Look how well James has done. You wouldn’t say no to having a motorbike one day, Patson, would you?”

  I didn’t respond to the Wife because if I answered truthfully it would seem like a betrayal of my father. I couldn’t understand why he was so reluctant to become a miner. He had seen all the diamonds that Uncle James owned. Here was proof enough that there were diamonds for everyone.

  “We will visit Mr. Ngoko this afternoon,” said my father, ignoring the Wife’s huff-puffing and eye-rolling.

  “You go and then, when you come back, we can talk,” said Uncle James.

  “Bring more meat, Kuda,” ordered Prisca. “Our guests are still hungry.”

  Junction Gate High School was only a short distance from Kondozi Farm, but Prisca offered us all a lift in the back of her pickup truck. Despite my father’s excitement about his new school, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the visit. Prisca dropped us off at a path that led to a series of green thatch-roofed rondawels behind a fence. Jamu, who had taken the seat in the cab, watched us in the mirror as we climbed down from the open back of the truck. We still hadn’t spoken to each other since that morning, but I did catch him glancing in my direction after lunch. I was hoping that meant there might still be the possibility of a truce.

  “Your school’s over there,” Prisca said, dismissing us with a wave.

  “Thank you for the lift,” replied my father, adjusting his old university tie and dusting off the only black jacket he still had.

  Prisca clicked her tongue and shook her head, laughing. “Listen to my husband and you can look after your family. Properly. Like a man should,” she said, turning the steering wheel in the direction of the farm.

  “I’m sure Mr. Ngoko will be pleased to see me,” he called out after her.

  Watching her speed off, I wished I were the one sitting in the cab of the truck, leaving my father and Grace in the dust. I hated myself for the thought but I knew how pathetic the three of us must have looked to Jamu. My father picked up his leather briefcase, took Grace’s hand, and together we walked up the path toward the school.

  I checked reception on my phone. Three bars and two messages from Sheena.

  R u there yet? What’s up? I got into X-country team.

  And:

  u still there!?

  My thumbs danced across the keypad:

  School ama-Zing! Gr8 new home. Gr8 job for my dad!

  Prisca was wrong. The school was not deserted. A woman was washing clothes in a tub in the playground. Dripping laundry hung on a washing line strung between the empty flagpole and a wobbling netball post. She looked up as we approached.

  “Not open now. Come back tonight,” she shouted, beating the washing against a board.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for the reception. For Mr. Ngoko,” my father said.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder and clicked her tongue. “Ngoko. Who’s he?”

  Another woman stood in the doorway wearing only a purple bra and shorts. I couldn’t help staring at her breasts and her oiled thighs. She eyed us through a haze of cigarette smoke.

  “What do you want, mister?” she asked.

  “The headmaster of the school. Mr. Ngoko,” said my father primly.

  The women glanced at each other. The one doing the laundry shrugged and shook her head. The purple-bra woman blew a thin wisp of smoke into the air. “There’s no school here. I’ve never heard of this Ngoko chap.”

  “Is this Junction Gate High School?”

  “It used to be a school. Not anymore,” she said. “What are you looking for?”

  “I am Mr.… I mean,” my father stammered as the woman pushed away from the doorway and approached him. Inside the classroom I saw another woman asleep on a mattress, her arm thrown over her face, her dress pulled up past her thighs.

  “Come on, Patson,” called my father over his shoulder as he turned around, gripped Grace’s hand, and walked quickly toward another, bigger building.

  “We have school for adults later on tonight, Mr. Teacher. Why don’t you come for a private lesson?” shouted the purple-bra woman.

  “You can always learn something new at our school,” added the washing-woman, laughing and flapping a wet dress behind us.

  We stopped at the dilapidated office and peered through the broken windows. More mattresses. Sheets separating the room into sleeping quarters. The smell of grease and fried chicken feet.

  “What you want here?” barked an old woman sitting on a can in what was once the office foyer. She was chopping up a large piece of liver on a block of wood.

  “I am looking for Mr. Ngoko. The headmaster of Junction Gate High. I’ve come to teach at this school.”

  “Here, there’s no other work than cooking. You know the belly of people? They eat when they are hungry. That’s all. We sow corn. We sow pumpkins in our fields. Mmm. But nothing comes but stones. Truly, we are suffering. You look for corn. You look for pumpkins. But there is nothing. When the rain didn’t fall, heh! We didn’t find those things,” said the woman, slicing cleanly through the purple liver, peeling off the thin membrane and dropping it piece by piece into an oil pot bubbling on a gas burner.

  My father looked wildly around him. He walked down the corridor, opening doors, calling for Mr. Ngoko. Grace and I stood fascinated by the woman’s wrinkles, her small hands, and her knife blade flashing through the meat.

  “I sit. I cry. I finish. I look for firewood. I go home. I cook. Yah. I cook for the boy who must eat or he dies. This soul, it wasn’t happy. Hoh. That fella. He left two weeks ago. No children, so no school. I needed a room. Photocopying, they say. Okay, I say. That will do for medicine.”

  “Baba,” I called after my father. “The gogo knows something.”

  I was beginning to feel uneasy at how she jabbed her knife in my father’s direction, and the cooking smells of fried liver turned my stomach.

  “You know something about Mr. Ngoko?”

  “I saw you talking to those low-down women. They’re no good
. We don’t want them here. They bring trouble. There’s trouble enough. Mmm,” she said, now waving her knife in my father’s face. “They’ve come from Harare. They all want money. Hoh-hoh. They wait for the men who work the pits of fury. Mmm. Those that drink the breasts of Banda. Eeee, I say to myself. Not going to happen. Not today. Not tomorrow. No way.”

  “About Mr. Ngoko?” my father reminded her.

  “Ask him. He knows,” she said, pointing to me.

  “She said he left two weeks ago. There were no students.”

  “No children, so no school. That’s right. We needed the rooms,” confirmed the old woman, plopping the last piece of liver into the pot and stirring the broth with a stick.

  My father dropped his briefcase and slowly slid to the floor like a tall building collapsing in slow motion. He closed his eyes, lifted his knees, and his head fell into his hands. He drummed his fingers against his skull and mumbled something I couldn’t understand. He seemed to have trouble breathing, until I realized he was taking in great deep sobs of air.

  “Baba?” Grace ran to him, gathering him in her small arms.

  “Let’s go, Baba,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go.” I shook his shoulder gently, aware that for the very first time I was touching my father in a different way. I wanted him to stand up, to reassure me that everything would be all right. I wanted him to straighten his tie, jab his glasses up his nose, and smile at me over the rim, in the way he always did when faced with a problem.

  Instead, he gave way to his despair.

  I couldn’t bear seeing this man, my father, sitting on the ground in his black jacket and university tie so close to the old crone stirring her pot of foul-smelling liver stew.

  “Baba, Baba, get up, please,” Grace pleaded, shaking his arm. “Please, Baba. I want to go home.”