The traffic light changed to green and they carried on. A black Mercedes drove side by side with them. The contrast was stark. There on the corner were the men selling airtime, while this young man in his early twenties drove his big car and wore an expensive suit.
All this thinking drained her energy. She turned to her mother. Her eyes were bloodshot and damp with tears. Tanyaradzwa looked away. There had to be hope; at least one of them had to have a speck of it. It was the voices she had to fight, the voices screaming for her to give in.
She had to fight them. She had to try.
16
Shamiso listened to the singing as she stared at her father’s suitcases, heaped on top of each other in the corner of the house. He had always carried a suitcase and a satchel when he traveled. Her gaze lingered on the satchel thrown on top of the cases. He barely left home without it, but had almost forgotten it when he was leaving the UK this time around. She remembered the panic as he was leaving, worried he would miss his flight, yet laughing and teasing her mother for her unease. He had been excited about this story he was chasing, though he never told them the details of his investigations until they were complete.
The singing started to trade with the sun. The softer the heat got, the louder the singing became. Funerals in the rural areas were so different from city ones. Actually, she had not been to many at all. She had only been to one in the UK: a teacher’s. There had been no singing, just silent sobbing and a lot of polite nibbling.
Things happened differently here. A group of men and women sang and danced, totally consumed with song, not only in celebration of the deceased’s life but also in a bid to distract their loved ones from the pain of their loss. It had even worked on her for a minute or two.
The crowd outside continued fattening. She could hear murmurs of conversation. After all, her father had been well known because of his work. He had tried to champion hope. It seemed a lot of people had appreciated his writing.
She had come here by car with her mother and her uncles. They had driven by Christmas Pass, allowing them to see the enchanting array of Mutare’s sparkling lights, a city built in a valley and guarded by mountains all around. It had been like something from a postcard. She knew her father would have made them stop to enjoy the lights if he’d been there, but it would have been odd to do that now. Especially with all these other people coming to the funeral, driving with them in a long procession of cars making their way from Harare to her grandmother’s little farm in the hilly plains of Vumba.
The drum outside voiced a distinct thump, its rhythm drifting into an echo. As it pounded louder and louder, she could feel her heart synchronizing to the beat, thudding in sequence.
“Shamiso, it’s time,” she heard. Her pulse began to race. She was not ready. It was the thought of seeing her father confined within the boards of that damning wooden box that scared her. And the reality that it would be the last time she would look at him.
He would no longer make pancakes in the morning. She would never again hear him read his work aloud, trying to make sense of it. Her heart sank. She knew she had to go; she had to see him, to say goodbye.
Shamiso made it out of the farmhouse, the sun shining right onto her face. The crowd had grown larger since she had last seen them. There were cars everywhere. People stood against the walls of the farmhouse, women on one side and men on the other. She could see her mother by another door, almost unresponsive. Her eyes were glazed and her face blank, leaning against the newly thatched hut, rocking herself back and forth.
Two women rushed to Shamiso and dragged her into their embrace, sobbing dramatically at the same time. She stood there, struggling for breath, held tightly in their arms.
“That dress doesn’t quite do for a funeral, mainini,” one of the women whispered, sending an unwelcome splatter into her ear. She looked at them in confusion. The music stopped. The women moved slightly aside, still weeping. Somehow she had become the center of attention.
As she tried to make her way over to where her mother was, she saw three men exiting the hut with her father’s coffin. Her legs gave way, just as screams and wails erupted from everywhere.
17
The cushion was beginning to lose its fluff. Tanyaradzwa had sat on it too often and now the wood of the window ledge was digging into her. But even so, she preferred the discomfort of the ledge to being in bed.
Her eyes wandered to the beautiful mbira sitting proudly on her display table, between the two music trophies. The auburn wood glimmered as she dragged herself over and lifted it. For such a light object, it felt heavy. She took it to the window and began to play. The melody filled the room. Her thumbs tapped at the keys of the hollow instrument. It moaned, sending notes of music flying all around her. Her shoulders swayed slowly to the tune. Her voice joined in the harmony, humming softly in a deep undertone. She closed her eyes and allowed the music to soothe her.
The sky roared in agreement. She stopped playing and glanced out of the window, placing the mbira down beside her. The clouds were darkening and spiraling. Swallows danced in the sky, forming a beautiful sequence. It had always been said that the swallows beckoned the rains. She watched their parade. It had not rained in a long time.
Dark clouds were hovering, pushing the sun away. A loud clap of thunder sounded. Tanyaradzwa rubbed the goosebumps on her arm and glanced down, just in time to see the gardener getting ready to push his wheelbarrow full of tools back to the wooden shed in the corner of the yard. She watched as he stared up at the clouds. There was hope in his stance, hope that the rains would fall. She could see it. Somehow, that hope coincided with hers.
The door opened without warning. She turned to see her mother carrying a tray.
“You know, this load-shedding is really getting out of hand. They sent another notice saying we won’t have electricity for three hours this time. Can you imagine?” Her mother ranted in frustration.
Tanyaradzwa was only half listening. She knew maintenance costs for the electricity plants were skyrocketing, burdening the government’s resources. ZESA had just announced on the news that some of its generators in Kariba were faulty. Parts of the country would have to tolerate load-shedding while they tried to fix them. Everyone was adjusting.
Her mother’s voice softened as she drew closer. “You have to take your medicine and rest.”
Tanyaradzwa looked at her mother’s puffy face. She could see how strong she was trying to be.
The food tickled Tanyaradzwa’s nostrils. She held her breath. Her appetite had deserted her and the smell was too aggressive. She took one more peek at the clouds and climbed off the ledge onto her bed.
Her mother helped prop her pillows so she would be comfortable and brought a spoon of soup toward Tanyaradzwa’s lips. The aroma was too much. She could feel the saliva pooling in her mouth, and suddenly, there it was! Her insides ached as, yet again, she hurled out what little food her stomach had.
Her mother lifted the bucket from under the bed and held it up. Tanyaradzwa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her body still shook from the trauma.
Her mother handed her a bottle of mouthwash. “Maybe you shouldn’t go back to boarding school, so that I can take care of you. You could go to one of the schools in the neighborhood. I’ve already talked to your father. He is coming back early from his trip.”
“Mama, I’m going to be all right,” Tanyaradzwa reassured her.
Her mother sighed, knowing her daughter’s stubbornness. “I’ll talk to your father then. I’ll leave you to rest now . . . Try to eat a few mouthfuls before you sleep, so that you can take your medication.”
Tanyaradzwa nodded. She watched as her mother walked toward the door.
“Mama . . .”
She turned.
“I don’t hear the rain.”
Her mother glanced outside. “The clouds are dispersing.”
It was then that Tanyaradzwa knew for certain that the hope she felt could only be sustained by God.
18
Shamiso sat on the veranda next to her grandmother. Two strangers with no conversation. She couldn’t stop staring at the old woman’s face. It was covered in lines, each one telling a tale of a long and full life. There were dark circles around her eyes and a slight resemblance to her father in the way her lips would twitch.
She could see a handful of boys paving her father’s grave with cement. Traces of pain twisted in her gut. She brought her head down and stared at her toes, her throat tight with anger. She would have liked to give a speech or read a poem to say goodbye. But she could barely breathe, let alone speak.
She could hear her father’s cousins in the house discussing how his belongings were to be distributed. Custom dictated that the deceased’s possessions had to be shared among his loved ones, little souvenirs that would keep his memory close. Shamiso’s mother had allowed them to share the few things in those bags. He hadn’t owned much, but the little that was in his name had been left to his wife and daughter in a will. It seemed only appropriate that his cousins got whatever few bits were in the bags.
Shamiso watched her mother speak to one of the men who had come to the funeral. He held his hat to his chest and kept his chin slightly down. Shamiso’s mother nodded. The two shook hands and Shamiso’s mother moved away and sat beside her.
She heard her grandmother offering her mother a place to stay if things got too hard. Shamiso frowned. She knew it had everything to do with their failure to return to the UK; that her father had been the sole provider; that they had little money to their name and, now that her father was gone, they lacked the necessary immigration papers.
She watched her aunt commandeer her cousins, complaining that they were ignorant of their people’s culture. Shamiso had no idea what that meant. She saw one of the girls sulk her way to the kitchen. It must have had something to do with the fire that she had been instructed to light. Shamiso wondered whether the girl had even been taught to light it. It was strange how she was expected to have the skill. At the other end of the yard children were scurrying around, completely oblivious to what was going on or why they were here.
The trees in the distance whispered to her. The sky painted the frame of the mountains in dim yellow and thick red. She could see a lot from here. Her grandmother’s farm lay on top of a plateau, surrounded by a host of banana trees and overlooking the valley where the fields were. The land had been allocated to her during the land reform program back in 2005. The valley beamed with life, generous in color and soaking up the water that flowed from a ravine close by. It was remarkable how, in this dry weather, little corners of heaven still hid in the country.
Her father had told her how the colonialists had chosen the good land and left the arid parts to the rest of the population. She understood why they must have loved it, but they had asked no one, compensated no one and just taken it as though it belonged to them.
Her father had bitterly opposed his parents’ receipt of this beautiful priceless piece of land though. She had never heard him explain it, but from his many articles she suspected it had something to do with how the redistribution had been carried out. Rumor had it the farm had been seized from the previous owner. The men who seized the farm had also asked no one, compensated no one, but took it as though it belonged to them.
Suddenly there was a loud wail. One of the children had fallen and grazed her knee. She watched as one of her uncles ran to the little girl, picked her up and comforted her. There was something about him that reminded her of her father. She wondered if he had ever held her like that and chased away her tears.
She did not remember much of when she was younger. There were moments that time seemed to hold out of reach that she wished she could relive. Then there were future moments that haunted her, the laughs they had never had, the road trips they never took, the stories he had not yet shared with her. The thought of it made her stomach turn. There was so much that still needed to be said and done that she wanted him present for.
She could visualize him in that coffin, the silk of the lining brushing his black suit. His body had looked nothing like him though; his scarred and punctured face haunted her; the broken skin, the swollen lips, the missing ear, the sunken eyes. She basked in the horror of it and found herself hoping the impact of that gruesome car wreck had snatched his life immediately before he felt any pain.
“Shamiso, here’s your food.” Her grumbling cousin saved her from her thoughts, declaring her presence with an overpowering smell of smoke. It seemed her efforts with the fire had eventually paid off. Shamiso attempted a smile as she received the plate and placed it on her lap. She stared down at the enormous oversized sadza sitting on her plate, waiting to be eaten.
One of her uncles came out of the house holding her father’s satchel and sat next to her mother.
“Maiguru,” she heard him say, “we are about to start distributing the clothes. Some of his other things will go with you to Harare. We thought maybe since Shamiso will be going to school, she should have her father’s satchel.”
Her mother said nothing. She stared at the satchel for a while, nodded slightly and passed it to her daughter. All the while Shamiso watched her. It was unlikely that her mother realized it, but she was softly rocking herself again.
The crowd had grown slightly smaller. Some of the people had left straight after the burial. The remaining guests laughed and chatted and ate and drank and laughed some more. Somehow, the sight of life going forward bothered Shamiso. Death was such a dreary reality. Sooner or later people move on and forget. Only a tiny amount of time had passed, yet it seemed the world was continuing, turning on its axis, done with the life of her father. The lavish theatrics that had been displayed earlier had now fizzled.
“I heard some of the men from the city saying his death was not just an accident. Do you know anything?” her grandmother piped up.
Shamiso’s mother raised her head.
Her grandmother continued. “I told him to stop fighting with men hidden in the shadows. What did he want? For his own people not to be in possession of our land?” Shamiso could hear her voice beginning to tremble. “Must I also be ashamed of this very land then? This land that his own father fought for! Were we to starve? Were we to deliberate over the very land that was stolen from us?
“Now look! Shamiso must grow up without a father because of his educated philosophies. Well, here’s my educated philosophy: we needed this land! You come here with your human rights, but you forget that we tried to have this done properly. But of course the white farmers wouldn’t cooperate! Now you are busy pointing fingers, but this was done for you!”
“He was fighting for justice—” Shamiso’s mother interrupted.
“Justice? Whose justice? They kept us in pens like animals while they took all the good land and made laws that kept us from buying any of it back! Now you tell me about justice! Why does justice appear when it comes to them? Justice is what my husband did, fighting so that we could get this land!”
Shamiso glanced at her mother, who was staring into the distance with worry painted on her forehead. “The land reform was not done well, Amai. It’s not just the white farmers that were punished. There were black farmers who lost their farms! Plus the economy . . .” Shamiso watched her mother trail off at the sharp, piercing look from her grandmother. “Baba-Shamiso only wanted things to be made right,” she finished softly, her face tilted downward.
Shamiso’s grandmother clicked her tongue in disagreement.
There was silence after that.
19
Three days after the burial, one of Shamiso’s uncles managed to organize a job for her mother. It didn’t pay much, so she would have to take on other work, but it came with the little cottage they now called home, or at least tried to. Her mother had had a limited education, and t
he best work she could do was with her hands. So, in exchange for cleaning and taking care of the landlord’s house, she would get a roof over their heads and a few dollars in her pocket.
The house belonged to an old couple whose three farms close to the city had been seized during Hondo Yeminda. They had temporarily relocated to Zambia where they bought some land and could resume their business of farming. But they were adamant about not leaving the country for good; after all, it was their home.
The cottage was small; unbearably small, to be precise. It had only been used to house the landlord’s maid in the past. Hardly ideal for two people. There was a bathroom and toilet, a room that was both lounge and kitchen, and one bedroom. Sharing a bed with her mother completely unnerved Shamiso. She had never done that before.
They didn’t have much in this new cottage: a creaking three-quarter-sized bed, a broken mirror standing in the corner and a wardrobe for their clothes. In the kitchen was a gel stove on top of a box that served as storage for their pots and cutlery, as well as a small black radio on the floor and two plastic chairs. Her father’s boxes took up the remaining space.
Their apartment back in Slough had been quite comfy, but now there was hardly enough money to make ends meet as it was, let alone allow them to ship their belongings here. Shamiso despised the whole situation, but there was nothing to be done. Her father had been the sole breadwinner, and till his life insurance policy paid out, she and her mother were powerless and broke.
She stood by the window in the living room, or was it a kitchen? She could see her mother’s silhouette in the kitchen window of the main house. She seemed to be scrubbing something, the sink perhaps. After all, there were no dirty dishes since no one was home.
Hope Is Our Only Wing Page 4
