Diamond Boy

by Michael Williams

  Most of all, I hated his wholeness.

  And Stumpy, always in step with my mood, mocked both me and my hatred. He stung my no-longer-there foot with a sharp reminder not to compare who I once was with who I was now. I gasped at the phantom pain, as familiar now as my breathing. It was too soon for a nip of ganja. Besides, Boubacar wouldn’t give me any of the magic herb until it was dark and the evening shadows brought back the nightmares. I took out my diary and turned to write on a new page.

  Beitbridge

  Zimbabwe–South African Border Post

  Saturday, 12 April

  All around me the border is jammed with people leaving Zimbabwe. The whole country has packed up their belongings on trucks and trailers and is getting out. No money, they say. No food, they say. No freedom, too. In South Africa, there’s plenty of money and food. And Nelson Mandela fought for freedom and won. Mandela should educate Prez Mugabe about what freedom means.

  While I waited for Boubacar some guys came around and offered to take me across with them. If you pay us a R150, we’ll take you over the border, they said. I told them I was waiting for somebody. One of them asked me what happened to my leg. I told him to mind his own business. He laughed—and called me Crappy Crutches.

  Boubacar said that in order to get to the other side everyone would expect to be paid something. On the Zim side the police, and the soldiers at the border gate; on the South African side, the soldiers there. Money makes things happen. That’s what I once believed about diamonds and look where that got me! My stones are gone. Every single one. The girazis I cared so much about are lost. The last time I saw them was the day I got blown up. I thought they would change my life, but without Grace I have no life. I left her alone in the tobacco shed, thinking that she would be safe with the Banda family, but they made her their slave. It was so easy for Determine to get her to go with him to South Africa. Of course she wanted to get away from the sheds, and I wasn’t around to look after her. I should never have trusted them, never have left her there…

  Thinking about what had happened to Grace made it impossible to write any more. I checked the screen of my phone but there was still no Mxit message from her. Perhaps her battery was low? Or she was in a place with poor reception. I worried constantly that her phone might be taken away and I would lose contact with her. I thought about the last time I saw her—that night in the sheds when I woke her up and showed her my girazi—and she told me how she wanted to go to South Africa with Determine. I hadn’t listened carefully enough to her; I was too busy thinking about myself. If only I had taken her with me that night; if only I hadn’t gone back to the mine with Arves’s meds. “If only” didn’t help anyone, I thought bitterly.

  I scanned the crush of people outside the immigration offices in a line that wasn’t moving. No one seemed to know how long the border would stay closed. And still no sign of Boubacar. It had been more than an hour since he left me sitting on the pavement beside a line that wound around the huge courtyard, down beyond a stream of cars and trucks parked one behind the other. Boubacar had joined the hundreds of people who clutched their green passports and papers, all waiting to be processed and stamped before they would be allowed to cross over the Limpopo River into South Africa. I had no passport, no papers of any kind.

  “They may not give you emergency travel papers, Patson, but I will try,” Boubacar had told me as he helped me down onto the pavement.

  “We’ve got to get over the border.”

  “There are other ways into South Africa, Patson. Now, don’t go anywhere, okay?”

  His last instruction was a cruel joke. It was not as if it was the easiest thing in the world for me to go anywhere. Sometimes Boubacar could be as sensitive as a brick. Mostly I’d be happy never to move again. If it weren’t for Grace, well, I wouldn’t have moved at all.

  I unwrapped the black tire tubing that held the bamboo peg to my stump. I gently eased off the lattice fitting, trying not to annoy Stumpy, and dropped my handmade prosthesis to the ground. Relief was instantaneous. After I took off the bandaging, I fumbled around in my Amputee Survivor kitbag for the smelly ointment that Stumpy loved. He was red and angry, crying out for attention. If I didn’t focus on him soon, I would pay for it with spikes of pain that would leave me sweating.

  “Okay, okay,” I muttered, rubbing the yellow ointment over Stumpy, gently massaging the wound. “Easy now, easy. You’re going to be all right.” The familiar tingling sensation spread through my leg and Stumpy was happy—for the moment. I slipped the specially adapted sock-with-no-toes over the stump, repositioning the holes that allowed Stumpy to breathe. It’s always give and take with Stumpy. I give him attention, and he takes away pain. A fair enough trade and I sighed with relief as the pain transformed into a dull, familiar throb.

  The boy kicked the ball and it sailed through the air toward another boy who had stepped out of the crowd. He laughed in delight as the odd-shaped soccer ball headed toward him, and he stuck out his chest and bumped the ball to the ground. Without looking up, he kicked it straight back. One by one, other boys left the line and hovered in the vicinity of the two boys kicking the ball to each other, awkwardly waiting and obviously eager to join in. The two boys walked toward each other.

  I knew what was coming: the Choosing. Each captain would assess the physical attributes of those standing in the circle and one by one the fastest, strongest, and tallest would line up behind their captain. I watched as the two teams formed, and felt a different, more intense pain: the heartbreaking realization that I would never run again. What did I have to offer these two-footed boys and their extraordinary ability to play soccer? My pathetic bamboo peg leg was a joke and my shiny aluminum crutches were no match for my missing ankle and foot. I was neither fit nor able to join them. Besides, they would never see me, and yet they would stare themselves blind looking at Stumpy. He had taken over both my life and my body. Stumpy was now the star of the show, dangling uselessly in the air, no longer connected to the earth. Nobody saw Patson Moyo anymore; they only saw the half limb, flopping about in a space of its own, ignoring its owner as if he never existed. I watched as their expressions of curiosity changed to fascination, then revulsion and, finally, pity. Only then would they raise their eyes to look at the person who owned this calamity, but by then it would be too late. The book had been judged by its cover, and the cover shouted “Stumpy” to the world. I would never be chosen again. I was disabled and no good for anything; a useless boy, worthy only of their sympathy.

  But sympathy can be useful, I thought.

  That unbidden phrase popped into my mind. Where had I heard it before? And then I remembered. Arves had said it that day in Mutare, just before he darted through the traffic to do business with the diamond dealers opposite Dairy Den. The HIV/AIDS-positive boy who carried death on his shoulder and feared nothing in this world. The boy who called Commander Jesus an arsehole and who talked me through the pain of losing my foot. Arves, the best friend I’d ever had.

  My hand instinctively reached for the lion-tooth that hung around my neck as I wondered what Arves would do if he were me now. The answer hit me with the force of a ten-ton truck hurtling down Uggy’s Hill: If Arves had one leg, he would play soccer.

  Before I could dismiss this mad idea, I picked up my crutches, struggled to my knees, and hauled myself upright. I hooked my arms over my crutches and dug them into the ground, lurching forward. Stumpy reacted immediately and bit me with a painful warning not to go any farther. “Not now,” I muttered as thirteen pairs of eyes turned toward me.

  The boys stared at Stumpy. I saw their predictable range of expressions as I took another step forward. I stared back, daring any one of those able-bodied boys to refuse to let me join in their game. I would not go away, and to make my point, I jerked my head at the boy holding the ball, lifted my crutch, and signaled for him to throw it at me.

  The ball flew through the air and I watched it carefully as it bounced on the ground close to my good foo
t. I planted my crutches, swung my right leg, and kicked with all the force I could muster. The connection was perfect and the ball sailed over their heads.

  “I’ll take you,” said the owner of the ball.

  You had no choice, I thought, moving forward to join his team. We stood in a huddle while our captain gave everyone his position. He was a small boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, but with a charisma that was hard to resist. He knew his soccer and his eyes blazed with passion as he organized us into a team. A few of the boys were from Zimbabwe, but others were from Senegal, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Angola. Their names—Fantan, Sinbaba, and Aziz—sounded to my ears like exotic foreign fruits.

  “And you, what’s your name?” asked Deo, my captain.

  “Patson,” I answered. “I play goalie.”

  “Where you from, Patson?” asked Deo.

  I hadn’t joined them to tell them my life story, so I kept it short. “Masvingo Province.” I turned toward the goal that I was now prepared to defend with my life.

  The game didn’t start well. I let in two quick goals and noticed the exchange of eye-rolling glances between some of the players. I was struggling to find my balance on the uneven ground and the game was played at a furious pace. Older men gathered on the sidelines and cheered on the boys they knew, clapping and shouting instructions. I was sweating buckets, the crutches were bruising my armpits, and Stumpy was bawling tears of pain, but I had never felt more alive.

  Our captain was everywhere. He encouraged the others to stay in their positions and mark their opposing player. “Don’t run after the ball. Wait for it to come to you,” he shouted, intercepting a pass and then losing the ball to the skill of the talented Aziz.

  “That’s a foul,” cried Aziz as Deo brought him to the ground with a bone-crunching tackle. “That’s a penalty, Deo.”

  Fantan ran over and got between the two boys, pushing them apart. “Who cares? Let’s play on.”

  “No!” said Aziz. “That’s a penalty and he knows it.”

  The standoff lasted only a moment until Deo, who knew he was in the wrong, backed down.

  “Penalty,” he said, striding toward me as if he intended to replace me as goalie. I jerked my crutch at him to move away, and squared myself in the goal, my eyes locked on Aziz. He marked out the distance and casually placed the ball on the ground. There was some argument about where the penalty should be taken from, but once it was agreed, everyone gathered to watch the shot at goal. Aziz paced out a few steps backward and regarded me with a grin. I knew what he was thinking: This would be like stealing a lollipop from a baby.

  I balanced on one leg and lifted my arms, extending my crutches to almost cover the entire goal. You’ll have to get past me and my appendages, I thought, staring him down with fire in my eyes.

  There was no way I’d let Aziz score. He just didn’t know it yet.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed more people gathering to watch the outcome of this contest between the abled and disabled. All the players watched me swaying unsteadily on one leg. I knew they gave me no chance against the opposing captain. I longed for the natural balance that a two-footed connection with the earth would give me, and at that moment I knew I would never experience that connection again. Now I only had one good leg. It would have to be enough.

  Aziz ran up to make the kick. He feinted left but I wasn’t buying it. The ball flew to the right, heading for the top corner. Instinct took over as I used all the power I had in my one leg to launch myself into the air, dive to the right and jab at the ball with the end of my crutch. It fell to the ground and, somehow, as if it was supposed to happen just like this, it rolled right in front of me. With one painful hop I was upright again. I quickly planted the crutches and kicked the ball to Fantan, who passed it swiftly to Deo, who dribbled it past Sinbaba, sprinted toward the opposite goal, and scored.

  “Goooaaal!”

  Our team went crazy as a man sitting with his ear pressed to his radio jumped up, spread out his arms like wings, and ran up and down the sideline shouting “Goooaaal!”

  The watching crowd applauded, and a few of them yelled to me, “Good save, Goalie!” and “Well done, boy!”

  Deo ran up and looked at me, really looked at me for the first time. Not at Stumpy but at me, Patson.

  “Good save!” he said, grinning with admiration.

  I held back my tears and smiled instead.

  We played until the insects buzzed around the tall lights of the courtyard and the night crept up on the Beitbridge Border Post. All was forgotten as the ball moved from player to player, foot to head, head to goal. I ignored Stumpy’s protests, knowing he would take his revenge for my moment of madness later. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be part of this soccer game, not thinking about Grace somewhere in South Africa or how I would find her. I had lost myself in the rhythm of this beautiful game, shouting encouragement to my new friends, and reveling at how, in this moment at least, I was their equal. I was a normal boy, playing with other normal boys, not worrying about tomorrow or what the days after tomorrow would bring.

  We played for another hour but soon the magic passed and our game disintegrated as, one by one, the boys were called away. Someone somewhere must have given an instruction for the border to reopen. The air filled with diesel fumes as truck drivers started up their engines and inched closer to Beitbridge. There was a stirring in the crowd as word passed down the line that the offices had reopened. People picked up their luggage, rounded up their children, and shuffled forward. Deo grabbed his ball and ran off in the direction of the line of slowly moving trucks.

  The game was over. The magic was gone.

  I stood alone, exhausted, thirsty, and in pain. The soccer field was now nothing more than a dusty patch of dirt. I was no longer a star goalie. Once again I was a crippled boy on crutches with a tired aching body. I hobbled away from the goal to where I had left my Amputee Survival kitbag.

  Boubacar stood scowling at me with my kitbag in his hand. Don’t go anywhere, he had told me. Well, I wasn’t sorry that that instruction hadn’t worked for me.

  “Patson,” he said as I approached. “What are you hiding?”

  His question stunned me. I hung my head and leaned heavily on my crutches. “Nothing, Boubacar. What are you talking about?”

  “Commander Jesus is here,” he said. “And he’s looking for you.”

  Old Mutare Mission Station

  Bvumba Mountains. Day 8

  Tuesday, 8 April

  After my leg was blown off by Commander Jesus’s land mine, I became aware of what my body really meant to me. Before I lost my leg, my body always did my bidding. It served me well in everything I demanded: Run hard up Uggy’s Hill and it would run hard; walk ten kilometers through the forest at night and it would walk; dig for hours in the sun and it would dig. If I told it to jump, climb, hop, crawl, or skip, my body obeyed. I didn’t care if I hurt it, because it would always heal. If it occasionally complained, I ignored it. I was the master; my body the slave.

  But now everything is reversed. I can no longer do the things I once did and I will never do them again. The memory of who I was once is fading fast. Even though I still think the same thoughts and feel like the old two-legged Patson, there is one big difference: I no longer live in a body that obeys my every command. Now, Patson is a slave to the needs of a body without balance, a body that has a crucial part cut away. A useless body that can’t jump, climb, walk, or run. I would give this half body away if I could, but I can’t. I am trapped, a prisoner in a half-functioning bag of blood and bones. I will be hauling this stump around with me for the rest of my life.

  And that is why I am angry all the time, Nurse Godi. That is why I cannot think about the future, Dr. T. That is why I don’t want to do your stupid exercises, because what’s the point? My lower leg isn’t going to grow back just because I’m bending my knee. It’s gone. Blown into hundreds of pieces, cut up by the liver knife of Dr. Muti. And no, I will not be
fine, Dr. T. I will never be fine again. I will be half-fine. And that’s not fine at all…

  Some days I wrote myself into such a rage that I had to stop. The pen gouged out words with so much fury they passed through the paper and could be read all over again on the following page. I had taken to writing in the diary my father gave me out of boredom but also as a way of avoiding talking to people. To make matters worse, there was no cell phone reception at the Old Mutare Mission Station. For the last eight days I’d had no contact with Grace or Boubacar. I had no idea what happened to Sheena and her family and their trip to Marange or where Arves and his grandmother were. I was truly alone.

  When I wrote in my diary, however, it kept away the ever-present cloud of gloom that hovered over me. It was also a connection to my father; every time I took up his present he hovered in the periphery of my mind. Why could no one understand that I would rather write than talk to people I didn’t know? It was even an effort to smile and nod at Dr. T.’s optimistic observations of my progress, let alone my future.

  When I did smile he would write “Good Progress” on the clipboard that hung at the end of my bed at the mission station hospital. He would touch me lightly on the arm and instruct Nurse Godi to give me an extra helping of sweet green jelly and yellow custard after dinner. The other patients at the mission station would clap their hands and shout, “Good job, Patson, good job.”

  But that was not the end of it. I had to be grateful for their encouragement. I had to smile and nod like a proud boy displaying some debating medal he’d won. And all I really wanted to do was scream: How do I get rid of this thing that lies at the end of the bed attached to me and swollen like an elephant’s foot? This does not belong to me. Somebody take it away, please, take it away. I never deserved this.

  Of course Dr. Theodore Jackson always had a ready answer to my mouthful of complaints. He would step into the ward in his immaculate white coat and stethoscope wreathed around his neck, and walk from bed to bed dispensing encouragement. Those of us who were able to sit up did so proudly, to make a good impression on Dr. T. He was, after all, the African-American pastor of the United Methodist Church and citizen of Charlottesville, Virginia, USA. And the others, unable to rise, would lift their heads, smile bravely, and provide him with the latest news from the country of the Diseased and Disabled, where now we were all miserable citizens.