Shamiso popped her knuckles one by one, her eyes fixed on him. “The answer is 38b.”
He looked at her for some time, then flipped to the back pages of the book with urgent speed. He glanced again at the chalkboard and then went to the answer in the textbook. A wry smile came over his face. He clapped his hands then stopped. One clap . . . another . . . and another, dramatic and slow.
“I’m impressed. Have you done this before . . . at your previous school?”
“No.” A slight smile crept up on her, stretching the corners of her lips. “I woke up like this.”
The room broke into laughter. Mr. Mpofu reached for his beard again and paced slowly in front of the class. “Without the attitude . . . maybe you’ll go far.” He nodded. “Now, class . . . today’s work is on the board. I want my answer booklets in . . . Bring them to the staff office . . . first thing tomorrow morning. And the whole chapter for our maths genius here . . . That will be sixty-eight equations to solve.”
Shamiso began to protest, then, seeing the look on his face, retreated. She took on the challenge.
5
The siren sounded, ending the first leg of the day’s lessons. Lunchtime! Students scurried off to the dining hall, a short distance away.
“You still think you can do this alone?” Tanyaradzwa asked.
Shamiso disregarded her completely.
Tanyaradzwa shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She fastened the buckles on her backpack before making her way out of the room.
Shamiso waited till Tanyaradzwa was out of the door then followed the masses, walking down the wide avenue rich with arching jacaranda and gum trees swaying blissfully on the sidewalk. She breathed in the thick scent. A lump formed in her throat. Her father would always talk of the old festival that happened when the jacarandas were celebrating the birth of November. This was back in the day, after the liberation war, when her father had been only a boy growing up in the village, with a growing patriotism and booming zeal to serve his newly born nation. Back when the country had just transitioned from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe.
Her father would tell stories of the war, the “guerrilla struggle.” He would talk of how the country had been won back from colonial rule by the revolutionaries. He had wanted to be part of it, to fight for his country, for the freedom of his people. The issue for him was that he had been too young then. But when he had grown older, living in the city, he had tried to serve his country in his own way: with his writing. She remembered his heartfelt oration of his newspaper article about how the liberation struggle had changed everything.
The gentle breeze from the trees accompanied her as she walked alone to the dining hall. She wiped her brow again. It had been a long time ago and she had been very little, but she did not remember it being this hot. She looked up into the clear blue sky, so different from the gray skies that usually loomed over Slough.
Her friends back there had asked her before she left if she would be living with tigers and elephants in the jungle, like Tarzan. She hardly remembered life back in Zimbabwe, but she had still found it strange that they would ask that. She smiled as she thought of it. All she could do was pray that distance would not be ill-mannered and greedy. That it would not swallow up her friends, tire their efforts and erode all the memories.
She missed her friends back in Slough, especially Mary-Allen and Katlyn, and the times she used to stroll over just to hang out with them. Now all that depended on time difference, school schedules and a significant phone bill she could hardly afford. Even so, it was hard not to feel hurt that they hadn’t made more effort, especially knowing what had happened to her. But this was why she didn’t need friends. Because in the end, one way or another . . . everyone leaves.
Her shadow flickered in front of her, a reminder of her loneliness. She sensed endless prying eyes skittering in her direction and picked up her pace, eager to reach the dining area. The circling spotlight zoomed in. All the laughter and giggles seemed directed at her.
She finally made it to the dining hall. The tiles on the roof had been scorched by the heat. Its contrast with the vibrant color of the trees was unbecoming.
A young man sat on an old bench under the shade of one of the trees. His overalls were rolled up, leaving his lean ashy legs exposed. He was possibly from the nearby farm. A matchstick was parked at the corner of his mouth, swinging gently at the tickle of his tongue. A watering can sat by his foot. His eyes moved in Shamiso’s direction. She wondered if he had watered anything at all. The lawn lay thirsty in the sun, patchy and dry.
“This way,” Tanyaradzwa said, signaling Shamiso to follow her. Shamiso looked at her in surprise. Tanyaradzwa beckoned again, so Shamiso followed her to a table in the middle of the dining hall. Every table had two bowls, each covered by a plate to keep flying things out. Next to the bowls sat a pile of ten plates, two ladles and a pile of spoons.
Tanyaradzwa slid into her chair. “It’s bean soup if you’re wondering.” She lifted the plate covering one of the bowls. Shamiso straightened her face and drew out a chair. A thick aroma escaped from the bowl. Tanyaradzwa chuckled as she noticed Shamiso’s expression.
“They used to make really good food, to be fair,” Tanyaradzwa said as she fidgeted with the plate, sliding it back into position. “It’s just that lately . . .” She stopped herself. “Oh, you’ll get used to this . . . or you could always do the more acceptable thing: starve!”
A smile escaped Shamiso’s lips. She quickly tucked it in and looked away. Something about these peeling walls reminded her of the little cottage she had left her mother in back in Rhodesville, a low-density suburb in Harare. It seemed nothing could be done about them there either. Her mother had tried, insisting that the cottage should feel like home. She had scrubbed the walls until her nails bled. But because the paint was white-wash, that had only discolored the walls even more. Shamiso wondered as she sat there what she resented more—being stuck in a boarding school in the middle of nowhere or those awful dining-hall walls.
She glanced again at the peeling paint. Definitely the walls.
6
The sun danced in the light blue sky, showing off its rays. The heat teased the students as they walked to their hostels after a tiring day. The directions that Shamiso had been given led to a red-brick walled building inside the hostel complex. It looked newer than the others, as if it had been recently erected.
Shamiso dragged her luggage along the corridor. Her satchel rested loosely on her shoulder. It had been a difficult first day. She had never been to boarding school before. Her father had worked for a small political newspaper and certainly did not make enough money to afford to send her to boarding school in England; not that she’d minded.
There was an incredible energy in the chitchatting students that stretched beyond her reach. They ignored her, as though she was invisible. The attention she had been so worried about seemed to have fizzled away; perhaps the heat had dried it up. The weather wasn’t as she remembered it. She had thought the rains would escort the old year out in December and usher in the new year in January. But everything was different because of the drought. It didn’t rain as much anymore, and the heat ate away at everything! It was a shame about the weather.
Opening week felt strangely relaxed. She could see students busying about, catching up with one another, laughing in little groups and tidying their rooms.
“Are you lost?” a passing girl asked Shamiso with a quick smile. She was a bit older, and her uniform was different from the others. Rather than a green cardigan, hers was white, and instead of a flared skirt, she wore a pencil one. She held a clipboard to her chest and a pen in her left hand. Her presence intimidated Shamiso.
“Who are you?” Shamiso asked curiously.
The girl crossed her hands. “Are you lost? Yes or no?” The smile had vanished now. She stood waiting for a reply.
“Neither. I just need to find my room.”<
br />
“Well, you won’t find it with that attitude. What’s your name?”
“Shamiso Muloy,” she answered.
The girl paused awhile, flipping through her clipboard. “I’m a prefect,” she said eventually. “This way.” She stopped near the end of the hallway and stepped back to allow Shamiso to enter before scribbling something down. “I hope next time we meet the attitude will be gone,” she said, not looking up. “Oh, and if you’re going to survive here, you definitely want to respect your prefects. Definitely!”
Shamiso drew her head back. Surely this wasn’t like the movies with some domineering authority they all had to obey. Maybe the prefect was joking?
She offered a tentative smile. “Yeah . . . whatever?”
The prefect looked at her with her face buttoned up, shook her head and walked away.
Shamiso stood just inside the doorway, luggage held lightly in her hand. The room carried a rich aroma of floor polish. She could see the floor gleaming in the light from the wide window at the far end. The room lay empty, with just a few traces of human existence. Trunks sat adjacent to some of the beds. One or two buckets stood abandoned. She entered slowly, eyes darting around. Two of the beds had already been made. A third had its bedding simply put on top, and the fourth, in the corner of the room, was untouched. She walked to the empty bed, realizing that it now belonged to her, hauling her suitcase before dumping it in front of the bed. She reached for the handle of the window and pushed, but the stiffness of the paint still held it. She struggled awhile before finally giving in.
As she sat, trying to get used to this place that was meant to be her new home, she felt a painful lump in her throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks before she could control them. Hearing the sound of footsteps getting closer, she wiped her wet cheeks, knelt beside her bed and opened her suitcase. There was barely anything in it. Her mother had only been able to part with a little money. She had bought a few things so she could have some snacks to munch on through the course of the term. But then again there was barely anything in the stores anymore. There had been nothing much to buy, except a few packets of maputi and biscuits.
“Well, look at this!” a soft voice said a few seconds later. It was Tanyaradzwa, with two carefully ironed shirts hanging neatly from her arm.
She caught her eye for a tiny moment before turning back to her unpacking.
7
Shamiso lay on her bed, shivering slightly. She fought the urge to go outside and peered out from the corner of her blanket to see what Tanyaradzwa was doing. She seemed to be reading something, a Bible perhaps.
“Are you all right?” Tanyaradzwa whispered.
Shamiso froze, her body tense. She held her breath, waiting for Tanyaradzwa to ask again. The lump slipped back into her throat. She quietly reached under her pillow and felt for a small object. “I need some air,” she explained, slipping out of the room before Tanyaradzwa could say anything else.
The corridor carried a looming darkness. All the lights had been switched off and only a few hisses and giggles floated in the air. Shamiso followed the corridor, then scurried through the open door.
The moon was out and its light paraded on the pitch-black walls. A slight undercurrent of crickets created a background tone. She looked around. There was no life whatsoever. Her heart thudded, pressing against the cage of her chest. She walked to the side of the building and retreated into a corner. She leaned her back against the prickly grains sticking out of the brick wall.
She could feel the tears swelling. The darkness had a familiarity she recognized. Her whole body ached, and parts of her itched. She pulled out a little box from her pajama pocket. She had to make the pain disappear somehow. She pressed her hands to her eyes, wiping away the tears. Little threads of moisture were beginning to form in her nose.
Slowly, she slid her back down the wall, until she was sitting down. She closed her eyes as the brick grazed her skin. She sat on the concrete with her knees drawn up and her head lodged in between them. She could taste salt from the traces of tears that ran past her lips.
She pulled her toes against the ground, pressing them hard onto the stones that showed in the concrete. The rough pebbles tore her skin.
She opened the little box. They were all there, the six white rods of the cigarettes she had placed inside.
She lit one and brought the cigarette to her lips, watching the smoke as it came out of her mouth. The feeling of the smoke seemed to heal her insides. She tapped the cigarette and smiled as pieces of ash fell to the ground and thoughts of her father crept through her mind. She brushed her toes on that rough concrete again. Her hands moved to her head, holding it tightly as a stream of tears unleashed the rage stored up inside her. She could not stop them, and for the first time she did not try to.
8
Tanyaradzwa sat alone and awake, listening to the whistles and snores of her roommates.
She could see traces of moonlight through the small crack in the curtain. She wasn’t sure she could cope with another night of insomnia and heavy thoughts. Fatigue haunted her lately, always around this time. There wasn’t much she could do, except lie in bed and wait for sleep to come. She turned to face the other way. As she lay there breathing, someone gently opened the door. She watched through the thin cloth as the new girl limped in. There seemed to be a pain troubling her feet.
Tanyaradzwa wondered why she was trying to befriend this mysterious girl who clearly did not want anything to do with her. Tanyaradzwa had managed to keep all her relations at bay, making sure no one got close enough to discover her secret. She had successfully reduced the time she spent with her old friends by hiding herself in books. It helped that they had been put in different classes and hostels.
But there was something about Shamiso. Something that ignited an inexplicable wave of pity in her. As she puzzled over this strange emotion, her eyes began to close and eventually she drifted into the rest of the night.
9
Shamiso rubbed sleep from her eyes, feeling the sunlight creep in through the window. She had been awake all night, fighting nightmares.
She listened to Tinotenda, who sat on the teacher’s table reading the day’s news out loud. It was almost midday now. None of the teachers had made it to class. Mr. Mpofu had left a copy of the morning paper, insisting that they were to be kept updated on what was happening.
A handful of students drooled, sleeping on their desks while others played cards. Only a few engaged in a rich exchange of opinions on the upcoming elections. The election date had just been announced. The prevailing feelings were fear and hope. There seemed to be a good representation of both. Shamiso listened in, intrigued how anyone could be certain that a change in political power would mean a change in everything else.
“If it wasn’t for the illegal sanctions, my dad says the country wouldn’t be in such turmoil,” Paida said, her voice dominating the conversation. There followed hisses of disagreement, wrapped in caution because it was a sensitive subject, tricky to be so open about. Shamiso shook her head. She had heard about it on the news: the EU and the US had imposed sanctions on the government after the land grab.
“It’s true! There’s barely anything that the government can do, you know! Their hands are tied!” Paida continued, determined to defend her point of view.
“Bollocks!” Shamiso scoffed, shepherding the conversation in an interesting direction. Everyone sat quiet, their eyes dancing between her and Paida. The boys sitting next to Paida burst out laughing.
Shamiso frowned and looked out of the window. The thin, crunchy twigs of the oak tree caught her attention. The tree seemed parched, stripped of all life. The wind rustled, snapping a few twigs. Shamiso turned back to Paida, whose face was twisted in annoyance.
“What do you know about Zimbabwean politics, London girl?” she hissed. She seemed to be taking it personally.
Shamiso smiled. It
was a strange insult when she wasn’t even from London. “More than you for sure. I know I don’t believe that the country is in a shambles because of sanctions!”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the class.
“You want to be careful what you say, and where you say it, London girl,” Paida shot at her.
“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut sometimes,” Tanyaradzwa whispered softly.
There was something that did not add up. She understood that the subject was touchy, but surely in a class of teens there was no one to be afraid of? A nervous energy fluttered in the room.
“Did anyone hear about that journalist who died?” Tinotenda suddenly spoke up, holding the paper in his hand. Shamiso’s heart lurched.
“The papers are saying his death is suspicious, as he was trying to expose the government. It’s still being investigated,” he went on.
Shamiso’s eyes darted around, watching to see if anyone would say anything. The class remained silent.
“What was his name again?” Paida asked.
“I don’t know his real name,” Tinotenda said, flipping the other pages of the paper. “They keep referring to him by his pseudonym. Out of respect for his family or something like that.”
“Oh, I think I’ve heard about him. The one who got deported from the UK because he had been working on some dodgy plot against the government, right?” said Paida.
Shamiso flinched. Where had all these fabrications come from?
“He was a troublemaker, writing lies and working with the West. His death wasn’t suspicious. Didn’t he have an accident or something?” Paida continued.
Shamiso tried desperately to calm the rage rising within her, but it spilled over, bigger and more powerful than she was.
“You really are full of it!” she blurted out, gritting her teeth and breathing heavily.
Hope Is Our Only Wing Page 2
