Diamond Boy

by Michael Williams

  He looked at the money without comment, but I could see he was pleased.

  “How will we contact each other?” I asked him.

  “Give me both your numbers.”

  Arves and I recited our numbers to him while he typed them into his phone.

  “Text me on this number and I will come to Marange. Traveling to Mutare is too dangerous,” he said, handing me a slip of paper. “How will you boys get back? You are carrying a lot of money.”

  “Rent a helicopter,” joked Arves.

  “Taxi ride or hitchhike,” I answered.

  Boubacar frowned. “This is not a good idea,” he said. “If anyone saw you coming into this shop, they will know you have money. I will take you to Marange. We meet here in five minutes.”

  Boubacar went back inside, while Arves and I waited in the alley.

  “Patson, how much did you get for us?” Arves could hardly contain his excitement.

  I told him.

  “Two thousand Usahs? Do you know how much money that is in Zim dollars?” His voice rose an octave.

  “Keep your voice down,” I urged. “You want the whole of Mutare to know how much money we have?”

  “I can’t believe it!” he mock whispered. “And it’s just the beginning, Patson. Through Boubacar you have a direct line to the Baron. Everything else we find now turns into instant Usahs. Two thousand Usahs! I feel like singing. Like dancing. Like tearing open the sky and flying to the moon. We did it, Patson. You did it! Come on, get excited.”

  He shook my arm and we both started laughing until I had to wipe tears away. Arves laughed like a hyena with a bone stuck in his throat, which made me laugh even more. He was right. We had pulled off the impossible. If the Baron gave us two thousands Usahs for those little stones, how much would I get for my girazi? This was our start back to normality. The Moyo family was going to move out of the tobacco sheds. We were going to live in a decent house; my father would buy his car. It felt so good that I gave myself over to an uncontrollable, air-gulping, stomach-aching fit of laughter.

  “And did you see how easy we got rid of that goat herder who was trying to follow us?” said Arves as he recapped the events before he burst into the room.

  “What was in the little brown packets you were giving to everyone?”

  “Ganja. The magic herb that makes pain disappear.”

  “You smoke marijuana?”

  “Yah, smoke it or chew it, same difference. When the sickness gets me down, it’s good to have a bit of ganja-happiness handy. It’s also a great way of getting people to tell you stuff you want to know,” he said, and then he held out his hand. “I want to look at the cash.”

  I opened the tin and we stared at the pile of American dollars. We counted out the money and divided it up into five equal parts. Arves slipped an elastic band around each healthy roll of cash and I took my share, placing it back into the tin. The gwejana syndicate had made its first real money. The others would be pleased.

  “You’ve found one, haven’t you?” said Arves, suddenly serious.

  “What?”

  “A girazi. You’ve found one. I know you have.”

  I didn’t know what to answer. A part of me wanted to tell Arves about my anger-stone but I hesitated, and in that moment, as he looked deeply into my eyes and saw what I was not saying, Boubacar returned. I had hesitated and Arves’s question remained unanswered. I hated seeing the disappointment in his eyes. He was my best friend after all, yet I still didn’t want to share my girazi with anyone. It was mine. For my family. My shavi had sent it and it belonged only to me.

  “Let’s go,” ordered Boubacar. “I want to get to Marange and back to town before it’s dark.”

  I stuffed the tin back into the bag and we squeezed into the front seat of the pickup truck. As we pulled into Herbert Chitepo Avenue, two police vans roared past us, sirens blaring, blue lights whirling. People were still running in the streets and two blocks past Dairy Den there were several police vans setting up a roadblock. Boubacar swung a hard right and drove down a side alley.

  “Mr. Boubacar,” said Arves, in the most charming voice he could manage and with his winning smile broadly in place. “Before we go back to Marange, there’s something Patson and I have got to do.”

  “It will have to be quick. There is a lot of police action in Mutare.”

  “We’ll be superquick, but it’s very important,” said Arves.

  “What’s so important?”

  “Shopping!”

  Boubacar pulled up before the old TOBACCO FARM sign and let the engine idle. We had dropped Arves off at Junction Gate High School after Boubacar promised us we would see him soon. Arves had solemnly offered him his last brown packet but Boubacar refused, saying he didn’t smoke roasted cow dung.

  It was late afternoon and the sun had dipped over the hills. Tiny motes of dust glowed in the fading light and the smell of cooking drifted down from the sheds. I was weary and hungry and elated all at the same time.

  “Grace and my father would be pleased to see you,” I said, in the ear-humming rumble of the truck’s interior.

  Boubacar hesitated, checked his watch, and then switched off the motor and opened his door. Together we walked up the path to the sheds. When Grace saw us, she ran and flung herself into his arms, almost knocking him over. For the first time that day I saw a smile on his face.

  “I only gave Patson my tie because he told me he was visiting you,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “Baba! Baba, look who’s here!”

  My father stepped out of the gloom of the tobacco shed. The exhaustion that lined his face disappeared the moment he saw who stood at the entrance.

  “My word, it’s Boubacar. How good it is to see you again,” he said, shaking his hand and pulling out the only chair we had.

  Boubacar sat down but seemed uncomfortable with all the attention. A few of the other shed dwellers looked in our direction, but after the excitement of the unexpected guest had passed, they returned to their preparations for the evening. I handed Grace two carrier bags filled with groceries, including vegetables and meat for our evening meal.

  “Next time you have to take me with you, Patson,” Grace insisted. “I don’t like being stuck at the sheds the whole day.” Peering into the bag, she gasped. “Real bread.”

  “And your favorite cool-drink, Grace,” I said as she pulled out two tins of red Sparletta.

  “Son?” my father asked.

  I handed another small package to my sister. “Now you can run your own battery flat.”

  Grace took out the pay-as-you-go cell phone as if it were treasure, looked up in amazement, and then hugged me hard. “Thank you, Patson. You’re the best big brother in the world!”

  “Now remember, you can’t make any phone calls, but I downloaded Mxit and as long as you have ten cents on the phone you can send as many messages as you like. And I got this for you, Baba.” I handed my father a copy of Credo Mutwa’s Indaba, My Children. I had found it in a book shop in Mutare, knowing how much it would mean to him. He held the book in his hands, turning the pages slowly.

  “Son, how did you manage this?”

  “I found some stones, Baba,” I said quietly, knowing Boubacar would not mention the gwejana syndicate. “Boubacar helped me sell them. It’s good news.” I took out the tin box and showed him the money.

  “You gave him this money, Boubacar?” asked my father.

  “No, my boss did. The Baron—Mr. Abdullah. He was impressed with your boy,” he replied. “He will give him more money, if he finds more ngodas.”

  “Does the Baron live in a castle?” Grace asked, without looking up from her phone.

  “No, he owns a spectacle shop without many spectacles in it.” I laughed. “This is for you, Baba,” I said, handing him the tidy pile of cash.

  Silently my father took the money, looked searchingly at it and at me, and then slipped it into his book. “That my own son should give his father so much money.” His voice caught o
n the final word. “My ancestors remain unhappy with me. All I find is mud and rocks. But your shavi is strong, son. He shows you what I am unable to find.”

  I hated to hear my father sound so sad. Ever since that day at Junction Gate High School, when he sat sobbing beside the old woman, he had developed the habit of frowning and staring into the middle distance.

  Grace eased herself under the wing of his arm and took his hands into her own. “Tomorrow will be a good day, Baba. You will find your diamond. I know you will.” She turned to Boubacar. “You must stay for supper. My brother has brought enough for us all and tonight is a special night.”

  He hesitated, made to get up and leave, but Grace persisted and he sat back down again. Boubacar’s unease vanished when Grace served him tea and biscuits and we sat together enjoying the cool of the evening.

  “Joseph, your children are a credit to you,” he said to my father. “They are a finer treasure than any stone you will find in the diamond field.”

  “You’re right, Boubacar. That’s a good thing to remember.”

  At that moment I wanted to tell my father everything, about the gwejana and the ngodas, even about my girazi. But looking at him as he stared at his hands, shaking his head, I didn’t have the heart. I had hoped that my success with the gwejana would cheer him up, but all I saw was despair in his eyes. It was enough that we now had food for the month and that I had brought them gifts.

  As the sun set and the lights in the sheds went on, and while Grace cooked a meal in our midst, I took my first giant step away from childhood. My father had silently pulled up a seat for me and indicated that I should join him and Boubacar. He directed questions to me, listened to my answers, and, in so doing, something shifted between us. He had invited me to take my place in the company of men. We spoke as equals about all of the things that happened on the mines: extraction methods, the Banda Hill syndicate, the problem of the fence that Banda had erected, the police raids in Mutare and what that might mean for the fields.

  “And what if the army comes to Marange, Boubacar?”

  “The army is here already, Patson. I have reports of the Fifth Brigade camping only a few miles from here. Those soldiers we saw on the night we came here, they are from the Number One Commando Regiment. They are also heading in this direction.”

  “But why are they coming to Marange?”

  “The government has run out of money and can’t pay the army. Our president may be old but he’s not stupid. He knows the fields are making money, money he can pay his army with.”

  “That is not good news,” said my father. “Our president will not look kindly on ordinary people and foreigners stealing Zimbabwe’s mineral wealth.”

  “Soldiers are not miners,” countered Boubacar. “They will need people to find the diamonds.”

  “Enough of soldiers and mining,” announced Grace. “Let’s eat.”

  How I wished I could capture moments of life, wrap them up and keep them safe to relive at a later time; the soft clink of spoons against empty tin plates, the smells of a delicious meal; the twinkle in Grace’s eyes as she teased my father about his mining mishaps, the signs of affection; the deep tones of Boubacar’s rumbling laughter, the sound of friendship; my father gently tapping the book with US dollars hidden between its pages, his recognition of my success.

  If I had known how special that evening was, I would have paid more attention to my father, and written all he had said in my diary and how it felt to be acknowledged in this new way. But I was too full of pride about the money I had earned for my family. All through the meal I schemed about how I would get more money for my girazi.

  My girazi; our family’s fortune.

  Later, after Grace had gone to bed, as we strolled back from saying good-bye to Boubacar, I told my father about my girazi and how I had hidden it. Once again, he responded in a way I least expected.

  “Patson, you must be very careful,” he said quietly. “Sell it and then we can leave this terrible place.”

  “No, Baba,” I said, emboldened by his acceptance of my new manhood. “This is exactly why we cannot leave. I will find another one. I know I will. I have been cleansed by Prophet Ubert Angel and I am one of the lucky ones. As you said to me, my shavi is happy and helping me.”

  “Who have you told about your girazi, Patson?”

  “No one,” I said. “Only you, Baba.”

  He frowned. “Remember, Patson, telling a secret to an unworthy person…”

  “Is like carrying grain in a bag with a hole,” I said, finishing the Shona proverb.

  “If anyone finds out you have a girazi—”

  “They won’t. I will give it to Boubacar. Mr. Abdullah will buy it from me. He has the money.”

  “People will kill for a girazi. I’ve heard terrible stories about what men will do to own a girazi. We must get away from here before—”

  “I am staying, Baba. I know I will find more stones. This is the chance we have to change our lives,” I said, surprised at how strongly I felt about this. “We can’t leave now. We will be rich. You will have all the good things you want for our family.”

  I had never challenged my father so directly. He studied me silently and then laid his hand on my shoulder. “You remember what happened to the man who found the first diamonds in Marange?”

  “Yes, he drove into a tree and killed himself.”

  “He lost control of his life, Patson.”

  “But that’s not going to happen to me,” I insisted.

  “I hope not, son, I hope not.”

  And that was the end of the conversation. I had thought my discovery would have pleased my father. However, he seemed unaffected by my news, which left me feeling deflated. I had wanted to hear his praises, not his anxiety. I wanted him to be excited, but instead, we arrived at the door of our shed in silence, my father deep in thought.

  As we approached, Determine stepped out of shed six and looked up at us in surprise.

  “Mr. Moyo,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “I wanted to speak to Grace. She’s sleeping now.”

  “It’s late, Determine,” said my father. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing important. Just tell Grace that we will meet at the usual time tomorrow afternoon. Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Moyo,” he said, embarrassed for no reason I could see. “G’night, Patson,” he mumbled, walking quickly back toward shed number one.

  My father watched him leave, and then entered the shed briefly. “That’s strange,” he said, standing in the doorway. “Why would Determine be inside our shed?”

  I was too lost in my own thoughts to question him. Instead I walked past without a word, stripped off my clothes, and lay down on the mattress.

  “Are you ready for your lesson, son?” He lit the paraffin lamp and took out the books from his briefcase.

  “I’m tired, Baba. It’s been a long day.” I rolled over, turning my back on my father, waiting for his inevitable response.

  But he said nothing. Instead, I heard him packing away the books, taking up the water basin, and leaving the shed.

  I listened to the steady breathing of my sister and the sounds of my father washing outside. I don’t think either of them had yet realized how grateful they should be to me. Our lives would be different now all because of my hard work. I had found the stone that would change our lives. I would find more diamonds. This was just the beginning. I was the one who had found our way out of this place. I stared up at the iron rafters disappearing into the gloom of the shed, restless and not yet ready for sleep. This wasn’t the way I wanted to end a perfect evening; my father’s fretting had spoiled everything. I heard him throw out the water, enter the shed, and close the metal door behind him.

  “Patson?”

  I pretended to be asleep. He blew out the lamp and I heard him lying down on the mattress.

  “Never let the stones become more than you, Patson,” he said into the darkness.

  I did not answer him.

  “Good nigh
t, son. I’m proud of you.”

  Once I heard him sleeping, I picked up my running shoes, and by the beam from my cell phone, found Grace’s small vegetable knife among the dishes. I slipped outside and sat down under the sallow light above the shed door.

  The night was still; I was alone.

  I inspected the soles of my running shoes and carefully cut out a hole the size of my thumb from the inside of the right shoe. The rubber proved too tough to cut cleanly, so I returned to the shed and found the gas stove. I heated the knife until the tip was red-hot. Now the blade cut cleanly through the rubber and I gently prised a plug from the sole and made a hole deep and long enough for the length of my entire thumb. Once I was satisfied, I shortened the plug, replaced it over the secret cavity, and laced on my running shoes.

  I knew exactly how long it would take me to get to the bush tagged with a scrap from my T-shirt.

  Finally, I was going for a run.

  Marange Diamond Fields

  Gwejana Rock

  A day in March

  I thought today about the old life I left on a shelf back in Bulawayo. Every day putting on my school uniform, and walking up the tree-lined entrance to Milton High School. Sitting on the steps with Paul, Max, and Thaka before the school bell rang, watching the Grade 9 girls walk past, loaded down with their school bags.

  How normal to listen to a teacher standing in front of the class; how ordinary to take out my trigonometry book and turn to a new page. The quiet concentration of thirty students bent over a mathematical problem with sunshine streaming into the room. And the pleasure I got from working out the sine—the opposite side over the hypotenuse—of a right-angle triangle. (I remember the formula still.) And the funny, lyrical way we greeted Mr. Sampson in unison—“Good-after-noon-Mis-ter-Samp-son”—at the end of the period before heading out to the playground to play soccer and kick the ball to each other until the bell rang. And then, lining up to drink water from the water fountain, and straightening my tie as I saw Sheena heading for the library. How I would pass a note to her in a book about the Romantic poets and she would write back with a note hidden in The Mating Habits of the Animal Kingdom.