Hope Is Our Only Wing

by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  She opened the door softly and made her way inside. All heads turned toward her as the sole of her shoe tapped on the wooden floor.

  Tanyaradzwa immediately stopped playing and made her way to Shamiso. “We’ve just gotten the harmonies nailed. I can’t wait for you to hear this,” she said.

  Shamiso smiled.

  “Can we finish with this first and you ladies can gossip afterward?” Tinotenda bellowed.

  Tanyaradzwa rubbed Shamiso’s arm. “As soon as we’re done, okay?”

  Shamiso nodded. She watched Tanyaradzwa return to her seat. Tinotenda stood close to the white walls at the back of the room, fastening the little wooden mouthpiece to his saxophone. Shamiso wondered how well he could play. All he ever seemed to do was clown around. Another boy fumbled with his guitar, possibly tuning it, and the third lurked over his bongo drums. Tanyaradzwa sat in the middle, mbira on her lap.

  Tinotenda signaled for the music to start and the instruments sang.

  Shamiso watched as Tanyaradzwa strummed away at the mbira. She had a way with the instrument. There was something about the sparkle in her eye that reminded Shamiso of her father. Her stomach tightened.

  She had never heard such a beautiful collision of instruments. The melody tied everything into a weeping wind. The saxophone synchronized with the dancing strums of the mbira. The sweet rings of the guitar strings pulled that melody and thrust it against the confident beats of the bongo drums.

  Tanyaradzwa’s rusty voice pulled the chords together, riding with the harmony of the song. Shamiso marveled at the level of talent. The music messed with her memories and raised buried ghosts. In a bid to shut out the sadness, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the notes of the music. As she listened, the music began to change. Tanyaradzwa continued to sing, but her voice was unraveling into whispers. Tinotenda stopped playing and stared. Tanyaradzwa pulled through, her fingers strumming the mbira as though nothing was wrong. The other two boys stopped playing too, but she ploughed on with her whispering song.

  And then suddenly her left hand let go of the mbira. Shamiso watched as the African guitar tumbled to the floor. Little drops of blood leaked from Tanyaradzwa’s nostrils. A deafening din blasted Shamiso’s ears. Sound stood still. All she could see were lips moving. Her mouth dried up. She hit a desk from behind. She turned in panic. Her eyes scurried around the room, her breath breaking into desperate gasps. It was that thing again, that thing in her throat. She knew Tanyaradzwa lay there on the floor, but she could not tear her eyes from the abandoned mbira beside her.

  Her mind screamed as the three boys hoisted Tanyaradzwa out of the room. She watched Tanyaradzwa’s lifeless arms wave in the air. Shamiso could barely move. Sounds, noises, screams shot through her ears. She closed her eyes and fought to breathe.

  31

  Shamiso lay in her bed back in the hostel, begging sleep to come. Evening prep had been canceled due to another episode of load-shedding. The corridors were almost silent. Just a few rooms glowed with candlelight; a sign of the overly diligent.

  Shamiso had been tossing and turning for a while. Her mind taunted her with crawling fears of loss. The fears grew bigger, feeding on her indulgence of them. She turned to face the direction of the door. Tanyaradzwa’s bed sat there, bare and empty, mocking her.

  She had gathered from the other students that a man in a white Range Rover had come to collect Tanyaradzwa and her belongings. In her cowardice, Shamiso had stayed in the classroom, pretending to study. It had been too much for her to stomach.

  She fidgeted again.

  The itch crept up on her.

  She had not had a night to herself in a while. No one was watching. She reached for the little box under her pillow and headed to the laundry room, conversations with Tanyaradzwa playing over in her mind. The stairs felt like a burden. She remembered the hidden corner she had first visited and hurried there.

  Shamiso opened her little box and stared. Only one cigarette was left. She knew once she smoked this, there would be nothing left to numb her. Unable to resist, she drew it out, brought the lighter to its tip and raised the filter to her lips. She could feel the smoke hitting the back of her head and calming her insides.

  Just then she heard footsteps. She crawled from the exposure of the light into the shadows.

  “How much do you have?” she heard.

  “A couple of thousands.”

  “Nah, tomorrow those won’t buy much. I’d rather you do my homework for a week.”

  Shamiso knew that voice. She peeped out from behind the wall. Paida stood there holding several bags of crisps and talking to another girl from their class! It seemed like some sort of trade.

  “Do you smell that?” Paida asked suddenly. “It smells like cigarettes.”

  Shamiso drew into the cover of the wall dropped the cigarette and held still. The cigarette released a light swirl of smoke. Paida’s footsteps headed in her direction, so she reached for the butt with her foot and stamped it out as quietly as possible.

  “Paida, I’ve got to get back before they realize I’m missing,” the other voice murmured.

  The footsteps halted and changed direction. Shamiso sighed in relief. She dragged herself back to the hostel. The corridors were still pitch-black. As she tiptoed toward her room, a sudden light met her eyes. She could make out the outline of a hand holding a flashlight.

  “Where are you coming from?” She heard Paida’s voice! Shamiso covered her eyes, lifting her right hand and exposing her sacred secret box.

  “What’s that?” Paida asked, her voice getting excited.

  Shamiso tried to pull it out of sight but it was too late. Paida had already spotted it. The lights beamed back on. The girls blinked as their eyes adjusted.

  Shamiso stood there, unsure what to do. “I can explain . . .” she started.

  “I dare you,” Paida taunted, her left eyebrow raised. “Listen, I can keep my mouth shut—for a price.”

  Shamiso shook her head.

  “What are you girls doing up?” The matron’s voice echoed as she walked toward them, her hair wild, as though she had been wrestling a possessed cat.

  Paida folded her hands, enjoying the calamity that was about to fall.

  PART FOUR

  The next day

  32

  As Tanyaradzwa staggered to the reception in the doctor’s office she could hear the news on the radio. The zeros were being slashed again. It hardly made sense to say bread cost a trillion dollars. It made sense that the reserve bank was doing something about it.

  As she entered the lobby, she noticed the overwhelming absence of human life. Only the receptionist was there, sitting behind a computer, watching something with her earphones plugged in while the radio jabbered on. As she took a seat, Tanyaradzwa quickly adjusted her shirt and sat up straight; she didn’t want the receptionist to think she was dying.

  She had left her father somewhere in the corridor. He had been on the phone, shouting at someone, again. The inflation had really done a number on him. Midnight seemed to have fallen on most of his investments and they were now turning to pumpkins. Inflation played a cruel bargain with the currency too. The zeros kept changing their minds. Her father had spent all morning trying to buy some US dollars on the black market. He had talked to a guy who knew a guy who worked with a guy who said he could help him out. Her mother had traveled to South Africa for work so Tanyaradzwa had to make do with her distracted father. She didn’t blame him really. She understood the stress he was under.

  “Tanyaradzwa?” the receptionist called.

  Tanyaradzwa smiled. Though she did not have the energy to speak, she stood up with her own version of confidence. She pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to the receptionist, watching as the lady meticulously counted the money, careful to make sure that it was all there. Once her hand brushed over the last note, she looked at Tanyarad
zwa.

  “Er, did you come alone?” she asked.

  Tanyaradzwa shook her head.

  “You see, the consultation fee has gone up,” the receptionist explained, shame leaking from her voice.

  Tanyaradzwa looked at her in bewilderment. They had only increased the fees the day before; now they seemed to have done so again.

  The receptionist smiled as she heard her father’s voice coming from the hallway. “You can go in. I will speak to your father about the fee.”

  Tanyaradzwa nodded and pulled herself into the doctor’s office. She walked slowly but held her head up. The doctor sat there, one hand scribbling something and the other holding the phone to her ear. She smiled and signaled to Tanyaradzwa to sit down. Her lips were colored bright red. Tanyaradzwa had not seen her with much makeup before. She walked toward the chair and carefully lowered herself into it, then waited. The poster on the wall now hung by its ear. The fan still rotated back and forth but this time the generator hummed in the background.

  “I’m sorry about that,” the doctor said at last as she placed the receiver down. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little weak, but I’m fine,” she managed.

  The doctor swung in her chair while she looked at her. “You actually look quite weak, Tanyaradzwa.”

  Tanyaradzwa fidgeted, detecting the little wave of pity in the doctor’s voice. She tried to sit up and keep her back straight.

  “Did you come alone? Where are your parents?”

  “Baba is on the phone.”

  “Uh . . .” the doctor said, before flipping through Tanyaradzwa’s file. She scribbled something. The door opened.

  “Mr. Pfumojena, please come in,” the doctor said.

  Tanyaradzwa’s father sat down next to his daughter. He wiped his wet brow and pulled the chair closer.

  “I’m sorry about that. You know, with the economy, we’re all just trying to make things work,” he said, attempting to make small talk.

  The doctor smiled. “The cancer seems rather aggressive and I’m worried that we’re running out of time. If you had come forward like we . . .” The doctor bit her tongue and took a deep breath. “We could keep on at chemo; or you could have surgery. But surgery is very risky and you might not—”

  “I’ll have it,” Tanyaradzwa interrupted.

  Her father slid his phone into his pocket and looked at her.

  “Tanyaradzwa,” he said sternly, his voice brimming with caution. He looked at the doctor and tried to excuse his daughter. “You know these little ones these days. We teach them to speak their mind.”

  “I strongly advise against surgery,” the doctor continued.

  “Baba, please let me have it,” Tanyaradzwa begged, turning to her father and lowering her soft voice.

  He looked at her and scratched the few hairs that made his beard. “Okay . . .” he began. “When . . . ? How much will we need for this?”

  The doctor paused for a moment.

  “If you insist on surgery, ummm . . . don’t worry about the fees for now; let’s focus on getting her better. We could do this at General Hospital. That way your costs would be lower since it is not a private hospital like this one.”

  Tanyaradzwa looked at her father. Disappointment showed on his face. They both knew the trouble with public hospitals and strikes. The private hospital would have been better. But his business was in trouble and they didn’t have enough money.

  He nodded.

  “If we are going to do the surgery, I would like for us to do it quickly. Perhaps next week?”

  She circled a date on her calendar, scribbled something else into the file, and looked up.

  “But I would like you to take these in the meantime, Tanyaradzwa. They should help with the pain and nausea. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about the fatigue.”

  33

  Shamiso waited for the bus, wondering what she would tell her mother. Was there a logical reason for a fifteen-year-old to be suspended? That could be a tough one. She didn’t know if she could hide the incredible sense of relief she felt at being temporarily dismissed from school.

  The matron had wasted no time at all and taken her straight to the principal. She wondered if her mother would understand. Would she sympathize for the way that the principal had looked at her in disgust at the thought of a young woman smoking?

  She imagined how angry her mother would be. And worse, how disappointed her father would have been.

  Her legs were tired from all the standing and waiting for the bus. It had been an hour, at least. There were no formal schedules, especially given the fuel shortages. She pulled her bag closer to the bus stop and leaned her weight on the pole.

  There was hardly any sign of life on the highway. The sun drank the moisture from her skin. She took off her blazer and spread it across her legs. It was the first time in a while her arms had been left bare. Her fingers gently rubbed away the sting of the sun.

  The sound of an engine erupted, hissing from afar. She threw herself to her feet. She could see the bus lurching speedily in her direction. It looked packed. She dragged her bag closer to the edge of the road and waved for the bus to stop.

  “Is there space?” she called as it pulled in.

  The driver laughed. “Mfana, are you going to Harare or not?”

  “Is there space?” she repeated. The passengers in the front griped, waving their fists while the driver changed gear and started easing the bus away from the curb. In a panic, Shamiso jumped on and stood behind the driver, close to the front. The bus shook her around as it moved.

  “There’s no fuel and you’re busy worrying about a seat? Why are you even going to Harare? You’re running away from school, aren’t you?” the bus driver complained bitterly. “Parents are working hard in these difficult times for kids like you to go partying?”

  Another passenger joined in. “Ah, mukwasha, you know, children these days don’t appreciate the struggle we go through for them to have a decent education!”

  “What difference does it make anyway? All the teachers are striking because the government isn’t paying them. She’s probably better off going home.” The comment surfaced from the middle of the bus and was met with dismissive clicks and mumbles from some of the older people. Shamiso craned her neck, trying to see who had said that. It didn’t help that the contribution had come from a young man, who looked like he should have been in school himself.

  “They’re so ungrateful! You’d think with things the way they are, she’d be there at school, but look at her!” An old woman by the window seat made her passionate contribution, perfectly aware that it takes a whole bus to raise a child.

  Shamiso looked at the old woman in confusion. She didn’t know what she had done wrong. All she had wanted to know was whether there was a vacant seat on the bus!

  34

  Shamiso sat on the two-stepped ledge outside the little cottage she was supposed to call home. The door was locked and her mother was nowhere in sight. She racked her brain, trying to come up with a believable story. Her stomach was demanding attention and she had no food, so she lay her head on her bag and slipped into a nap.

  “Shamiso?” her mother exclaimed.

  Shamiso jumped, wondering where her mother had come from. She had not heard her at all.

  Her mother stood there, keys in her hand, waiting for a response. She had grown smaller. Her cheekbones were sharper than Shamiso remembered.

  “You cut your hair?” Shamiso asked.

  “What are you doing home?” her mother countered.

  Shamiso looked away nervously. There was a man standing with her mother. She stared at him suspiciously. Who was he and what was he doing here?

  “Umm, they said something about my fees not being up to date,” she said, her brow tightening and her eyes fixed on the stranger. She recognized him from somew
here. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “Oh, this is Jeremiah.” Her mother’s voice grew quiet. “He worked with your father. You might remember him from the funeral.”

  Yes! She remembered him talking to her mother with his hat lowered to his chest. They had been engrossed. Shamiso glared at the stranger for a minute longer; then without another word, she picked up her bags and headed into the house. Somehow he made her angry. The man had done nothing, but his presence made her rage.

  The two of them followed her in. She dumped her bags next to the bed and stared at herself in the broken mirror in the corner.

  “Tell me what happened,” her mother said, standing by the edge of the bed. Shamiso could see her mother’s knuckles in the mirror. The skin was peeling slightly, possibly from all the laundry she was being paid to wash in other people’s houses.

  “I . . . I tried to tell the principal that we paid all my fees, but she wouldn’t listen . . .” Shamiso began.

  Her mother listened as her daughter’s tongue ran wild.

  “Did you show her the receipt?” she asked softly.

  Shamiso nodded and continued on her rampage of lies. She watched her mother for a reaction, desperate for her to believe her and quell her guilt and shame.

  “I don’t understand why your principal was so unreasonable,” her mother sighed at last.

  Shamiso tried to conceal her smile; her mother had bought her story!

  “I also don’t understand why after being so unreasonable with fees that you clearly proved that you had paid, she was also cruel enough to suspend you for smoking.”

  Shamiso’s fingers raced to her neck, scraping at it desperately as she tried to silence the itch.