Hope Is Our Only Wing

by Rutendo Tavengerwei

25

  Paida dumped her backpack in her room after class and stared at the yellow envelope that Shamiso had dropped. Curiosity hit her over the head and she wondered what the envelope contained. Knowing that what she was about to do was wrong, she checked to see if anyone was behind her, before opening the flap of the envelope and pulling out the folded sheets of paper. Her eyes scurried over the first page. She could hear voices in Shamiso’s room, her roommates laughing at something.

  At first a smug smile came over her as she realized who Shamiso’s father was. His name signed in block letters at the bottom of the final page.

  She turned over to the next page. Her heart began to race with adrenaline. He seemed to be chasing a story.

  Then fear gripped her by the throat.

  26

  Nights rolled over, and time did its work, breeding a friendship between Shamiso and Tanyaradzwa. Their storms roared, but there was a strange sort of peace to be found in distraction.

  Shamiso still struggled occasionally. In the back of her mind lay a warning that if she allowed this friendship to attach to her, it would tear her up when the clock stopped and the velcro had to be unstuck.

  But as they sat on those same stairs by the exit of the laundry room, she threw caution aside and plunged in. The sky was a sea of stars and she could hear Tanyaradzwa wheezing quietly over the hum of crickets.

  “He—my dad . . . he died in a car crash,” Shamiso whispered, the words hiding in the coarseness of her voice. “He hit a tree, in the middle of nowhere, no traffic.”

  She swallowed.

  The lump.

  “You know—” she pressed through the pain—“he left us to come here because he said he had a lead on a big story. He . . .” She choked.

  Tanyaradzwa propped herself up and watched her friend struggling to contain the flow of tears.

  Shamiso forced a brittle smile. “I wish I knew what really happened to him. You don’t just ram into a tree, right?” She pulled her little cigarette box from her pocket. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, drawing out a smoke.

  Tanyaradzwa shook her head.

  Shamiso lifted it to her lips and held it there.

  “The papers claim he caused the accident, but he never drank in his life.” She looked at Tanyaradzwa, her face in a knot. “Tell me, how am I meant to love a murder scene?”

  Tanyaradzwa looked confused.

  “This place—it’s the reason why he’s gone . . . yet it’s the only thing that ties me to him. How am I supposed to love it?”

  Tanyaradzwa recognized the pain. It looked different on Shamiso, but she knew it all the same. She could see defeat wrapping its icy fingers around her friend. It was a slippery slope. Her eyes welled up in sympathy.

  Shamiso wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  Tanyaradzwa hesitated, knowing fully well that comforting an injured soul was a mammoth task. But then it struck her: healing is what they had in common. She took a gulp of air and closed her eyes as she imagined it gently touching the broken pieces inside her.

  “Your dad, the journalist . . . ?” she confirmed.

  Shamiso nodded.

  “He wrote hope into people,” Tanyaradzwa offered. “I think your father loved this place for a reason. Give it time, and once the pain isn’t all you feel, you will start to see it too. No, things are not the way they should be. They will not go back to how they were before, but it will be better than it is now. The pain will go away.”

  Shamiso’s face twisted into a scowl. She sniffed. “How can you possibly know that?”

  Tanyaradzwa smiled. “Well, hope is our only wing out of a stormy gale, isn’t it?”

  Shamiso sat there for a moment, frozen. The words circled around her, and she could almost hear her father’s voice. She knew the quote well; she’d heard it once too often.

  His last affair with ink and paper had been a heartfelt oration of the olden days robbed from his beautiful country; of the many children of the soil pushed out of the country by the creeping cancer; of how he had been unable to fly back home from the diaspora to bury his father because the airfare could do more important things like paying for the burial. His grand exit—an articulate, impassioned piece that Shamiso had read so many times she almost knew all the words—was the last memory she had of her father. She turned back to Tanyaradzwa.

  “Let me guess—you’re one of those the-glass-is-always-half-full kind of people, aren’t you?”

  Tanyaradzwa smiled and looked at the night sky. Shamiso could see her silhouette moving in the moonlight. Flashbacks of her father trapped her, pressing against her brain. She could almost see him, spinning around in his swivel chair with his pen in his mouth, trying to write. She could practically smell the cold coffee in the mug on his desk.

  “If you hung out with me more, you’d know how very untrue that statement is. I’m definitely one of those people who thinks that if the glass is half empty, you might as well drink whatever is in it,” Tanyaradzwa replied at last, looking Shamiso in the eye. Moonlight danced across her left cheek. “But I know your dad was right about hope.”

  Shamiso narrowed her eyes. She wouldn’t listen to such talk. “If you ask me, hope is a dangerous thing. It can be a leap into endless darkness.”

  Shamiso’s heart pumped as she walked briskly back to the hostel. It was clear from the pace of her feet that she was running from something.

  27

  The students went about their business, hoping that their history teacher would keep striking and not come to class. There had been talk that the school’s parents’ committee was arranging for incentives to be given to the teachers to compensate for their outrageously low salaries. The students, led by Tinotenda, debated whether or not this was a good idea.

  Shamiso and Tanyaradzwa sat in their usual seats; Tanyaradzwa was pretending everything was all right between them, while Shamiso kept her nose buried in her book. Suddenly, she grabbed her satchel and searched for her schedule. She peered inside the bag. The envelope was gone! She flung open her desk and checked to see if she had put it in there.

  “Have you seen my yellow envelope?” she asked Tanyaradzwa, her face set to show that it was not a call for a truce. Tanyaradzwa shook her head. Shamiso cursed herself for not opening it sooner. She wondered if she had dropped it or if someone had taken it. She put the satchel down, trying to comfort herself with the fact that she still had parts of her father in the articles he had published.

  Mr. Mpofu appeared at the door. The class fell silent. He held a rolled newspaper in his hand and seemed to have fresh bruises on his face. Tinotenda immediately stood up, heading toward him to get the paper. The teacher waved him down.

  “Muloy,” he said.

  Shamiso’s eyes left her book. She heaved in frustration as she anticipated another squabble. Mr. Mpofu signaled her over with the paper in his hand.

  “I don’t read,” she protested.

  “But can you?” he asked, walking slowly into the room, his other hand still in his pocket.

  “Yes.” She smiled at the absurdity of the question.

  “Well . . . it’s settled then,” he said, extending the paper in her direction.

  She stood up and headed to the front of the room, facing Paida who sat there as always. Paida sat quietly, avoiding any eye contact with Shamiso. She moved her backpack to her lap. Shamiso breathed in, trying to make her annoyance dissolve.

  Mr. Mpofu handed her the paper. Shamiso unrolled it and looked at the front page.

  “This is an old paper,” she said in surprise.

  “I know . . . We already celebrated Independence Day last month, but since your history teacher . . . is not coming in today . . .” He paused as though he had forgotten that he was in the middle of a sentence. “I thought you could read one of the best pieces ever written commemorating our independence. No matter what happ
ens . . . you kids must know we have a beautiful country, with a beautiful spirit. Don’t forget to fight for it when you must.”

  The class listened in confusion. It sounded like a farewell speech of sorts.

  Shamiso sighed. She slowly read the headline, emphasizing her disapproval of this whole exercise. Her eyes slid to the tiny print with the journalist’s name. Her lips beat her mind to it and read out the name first. Her hands clenched the paper. Paida pulled her backpack closer to her. Tanyaradzwa perked up.

  Shamiso turned to Mr. Mpofu. He smiled softly and nodded.

  She blinked away the tears as she watched him walk out of the room. She sat down on the teacher’s table, voices in her head screaming at her to run. She cleared her throat and pushed herself to read out the short excerpt from her father’s archives.

  28

  The trouble with swallowing your pride is that, like any other thick bone, it can get stuck in your throat. And like any reasonable person, the only remedy Shamiso knew was to drink a lot of water. She sat restlessly, trying to avoid looking at Tanyaradzwa. She refilled her glass and took a gulp. Last night had been intense.

  The girls sat in the dining hall among a sea of chattering students. They waited for the servers to bring the food to their tables. The hall echoed with clunking spoons and cups, students eager for their morning tea. It seemed to be taking a little longer than usual. Finally, the uniformed servers exited the kitchen to the sound of cheering as they pushed trolleys heavy with food bowls, placing one at each table. Once they had done so, silence fell as the prayer was recited by one of the students. The silence was broken by a resounding amen.

  As the bowls were uncovered, they unleashed a thick aroma of fat cakes together with shock and protests.

  A prefect stood at the front of the dining hall. “Students, due to the situation in the country, we have been unable to acquire bread for your teatime. But you’ll be pleased to see an alternative has been provided. Please note that the school is doing everything it can to ensure that you are well taken care of. Your understanding and cooperation are greatly appreciated . . .”

  The students were not impressed, but most of them accepted the change. Tanyaradzwa sat watching the girl at the top of the table pour tea from the giant teapot into the ten mugs, one for each person. It was the first time the tea had been black, but the reason for that was the same as the story behind the fat cakes.

  A prefect signaled for Tanyaradzwa. Shamiso watched as she followed him. As she went outside, Tanyaradzwa saw her father’s car parked under the proud jacaranda trees. Her heart thudded with excitement. He was standing close by, talking to the principal.

  A short distance away Paida also stood by a red Mercedes, balancing two huge boxes and talking to a uniformed man, probably a driver. This had happened every week since the food shortages. The two of them seemed to be the only ones allowed regular visitors. It made sense for Tanyaradzwa because she was ill. For Paida, however, it must have been thanks to her father’s big name. She would get two boxes of food every week and was never shy to share the information though she was not so generous with the food. Everyone else was struggling to get supplies. Paida seemed to be struggling as well, but with a better problem. From the quiver of her shoulders, it looked as if the boxes were too heavy.

  As Tanyaradzwa approached her father, she prepared herself for the same talk they had every time. He would insist that she should come home; she would insist that she had to stay.

  “You look strong,” he said, extending his hand to greet her. She smiled as she tightened her collar.

  “We are taking care of her,” the principal reassured him.

  “Thank you very much for making sure she is well,” her father said, his face bright with gratitude.

  The principal nodded and excused herself.

  “How are you, Baba?” Tanyaradzwa asked, clasping her hands in respect. She knew he did not like being called Dad.

  “I hope you are studying hard,” he said as he opened the door of the car for her to get in. Tanyaradzwa slid into the passenger’s seat and waited. She guessed her father wanted to speak in private. He had told her time and again that she should not forget how privileged she was to be getting these regular visits when it was against school policy. And that flaunting it would be an insult to the other students.

  “Most of the teachers are still on strike,” she informed him.

  He nodded. “You must not let that slow your pace though. We’ll arrange for a tutor during the holidays.”

  She waited for him to ask her again to come home with him. But for once he talked about everything else instead.

  “For now you must keep studying on your own. I brought you these textbooks,” he said, handing her a pile of glossy new books. She smiled and put them on her lap. They sat there in silence.

  “Well, I can’t stay for long or I will miss my flight. I brought your medicine and a few eats,” he said at last, handing her a plastic bag full of food. The brands were all foreign.

  “There’s no Mazoe in the stores, so you’ll have to make do with that juice,” he said, patting her on the back.

  Tanyaradzwa smiled at him. She knew he was going to Botswana again. The recent announcement that all businesses were to be majority-owned by citizens had scared off his investors. He was trying to move the business out of the country.

  Her father said goodbye and set off. She watched his Range Rover drive away, leaving a trail of dust in the air.

  Shamiso walked out of the dining hall with the rest of the students and made her way toward Tanyaradzwa. She watched her for a while, noticing for the first time that her friend’s body looked scrawny, fragile. She was losing weight.

  “Everything all right?” Shamiso asked, using curiosity and concern to wash down her pride.

  Tanyaradzwa broke into a mighty grin. “We have food,” she said. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  She opened her bag of goodies, a peace offering that inspired both of them to laugh at the same time.

  29

  There are three main things to remember on a blazing hot day: drink lots of water, stay in the shade as much as possible and don’t get caught with a stolen chicken’s scrawny legs dangling from your jersey. The heat is brutal, but an enraged principal is much worse.

  Shamiso stood beside Tanyaradzwa at the head of the assembly lines outside by the school quad. They could see the crowd of students turning to the left and cracking up. The laughter spread like a virus. The girls lifted themselves on their tiptoes, trying to see what was causing it. The gazes of the students moved slowly from the left to the front. Shamiso’s gaze followed Tinotenda as he was hurled onto the stage by the principal, his right arm in her firm grip. His face showed a unique mix of fear and mischief. The school tried to suppress giggles that were no doubt inspired by the terrified white broiler chicken under Tinotenda’s cardigan. The boy seemed to be under strict orders to make sure it did not run free.

  The principal stood facing the students, her face stern and her spectacles balancing on the bridge of her nose.

  “Good morning, school,” her sharp voice rang out, sending the students into immediate silence. “As you all know, most of our teachers are on strike. The school administration is doing everything it can to ensure that the situation is resolved. As I told you last week, the instruction from the Ministry of Education is that students remain in school . . .”

  The principal went on, talking about the strike and the dietary changes. Shamiso watched Tinotenda, who still stood by the principal’s side. His once clucking chicken was now calm and seemed to be enjoying the attention. The principal’s speech continued for several minutes. Her voice grew quiet, her eyes roaming over the room. The students dared not even sneeze.

  “Here at Oakwood, we do not tolerate stealing! Even with the drastic change of diet in your dining hall. I’ve called you all here because Tino
tenda has decided to bond with one of the school farm’s chickens, as you can see.” This last part sent the students into a roar of laughter.

  She remained serious; not a single facial muscle flinched. “Under normal circumstances, Tinotenda would be suspended. But because of his vital role in preparing for the school band’s participation at the national music festival, alternative discipline will be administered.” She pushed her spectacles up again. “For now, the school supports this new friendship he has made with one of our very own . . .”

  Laughter.

  Shamiso’s eyes bulged as Tinotenda’s wry smile disappeared. He fidgeted, avoiding the crowd. She glanced at Tanyaradzwa, whose muffled laugh rippled from under her cupped hands. Shamiso smiled; her expression a fusion of nerves and amusement at the sight of the chicken cozying up to the boy’s chest.

  “I am very disappointed in you, Tinotenda! You are here for the sole purpose of learning, not socializing with school animals.” She paused to allow more laughter. “Students, I want to make it very clear that nothing has changed. You are still expected to focus on your studies. Anyone caught on the wrong side of the rules will be dealt with accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

  She turned to the boy who was now looking down in embarrassment. Humiliation was certainly a dish best served in public.

  30

  The sun sank into the horizon as the moon stared it down. The sight always brimmed with magic. Students were already walking back to their hostels, before heading on for supper. Study time would follow soon after.

  Shamiso walked to the music room, wondering why Tanyaradzwa had insisted she come to the rehearsal. As she drew near, she could hear the band playing in the music room. A team of four students; three boys and Tanyaradzwa who met every week to rehearse. The walls in the room were different from those in the other classes. The band was set up on one side and, on the other, different instruments sat by the shelves. They were practicing for the annual music festival whose likelihood of taking place, given the situation in the country, stood uncertain.