35
Paida sat on her bed, staring at the yellow envelope she had carried from school. She felt obliged to protect her father against whatever those papers meant. She looked at them spread out on her bed, scratching her head and pacing around in her room. The writing itself seemed as though it had been created to deceive. Only the first few paragraphs were legible. She ran her eyes over them for the hundredth time.
All evidence points to the minister. I’ve even spoken to one of the farm owners. We have proof Jeremiah!
The problem was that this hardly explained anything to Paida. She sighed in frustration.
The gate hummed as it rolled open. She could hear it from her room. Paida rushed to the window and watched a train of cars drive into the yard. She grabbed the envelope and scurried down the stairs. She stood by the end of the staircase, staring at the door to her father’s study.
Her brother sat in the living room, watching television. She held the envelope close to her chest. The sound of men laughing outside drifted into the house.
Her father did not like to be disturbed when he had guests. The rule was always that the kids stay out of his way when he was working.
She peeped through the window to see if he was still outside. He did not take kindly to people in his study. She glanced at the envelope one last time before leaving it on her father’s desk. As she headed out of the room, she bumped into him in the doorway with a train of men behind him. He did not say anything; he simply looked at her, his eyes heavy with disapproval. She smiled nervously and skittered out. The door clicked as he shut it behind her.
She could see her brother as he shuffled TV channels, boredom written all over him. She sat on the sofa close to him, curled up into a ball.
“You were in Mr. Hyde’s office?” Her brother looked shocked. They had started calling him Jekyll and Hyde because of his unpredictable nature. Paida peeped over her shoulder. Her brother shook his head and waved the remote in the air, offering it to her but she didn’t take it. She glanced yet again at the closed door of her father’s study. She knew whatever they were doing in there must be to do with the power-sharing deal between the political parties. But she didn’t know anything beyond that. Most of her knowledge came from the news. But what if they were now talking about what was in the envelope?
“What are you going to do with the farm Dad got you?” she asked her brother curiously.
Her brother shrugged. “I don’t know. I have a guy selling the tractors and fertilizers already though. Dad’s lost it if he thinks I’ll become a farmer.” He continued flicking through channels.
Paida’s stomach churned. “You don’t care that that farm was a big tea estate before?”
Her brother chuckled. “I’m not the one who took it from its owners.”
Paida turned her head in the direction of her father’s study again. Whatever was happening in that room seemed to be taking forever. When the door finally opened, her heart sprang at the same time as her feet. Her brother looked puzzled. The men continued to speak as they headed out of the room. Her feet carried her to her father, a frown on her face.
“Paida,” he said sharply.
She waited to hear his response. Would he do anything about the information in the envelope? Would he ask where she got it from?
“What did I say about being disturbed when I have company?”
Her brother watched her as she stood there, nervous and confused.
Paida shuffled across and glimpsed her father’s desk through the open door. His briefcase sat on top of the envelope. He had not yet read it!
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said, before quickly scurrying back, leaving the letter for whoever might find it. Maybe he did not want to talk about it in front of his friends.
As she turned away, she caught a glimpse of the helper entering the study with her brushes and brooms. With her back turned, Paida could hear her humming, unaware that she was arranging the mess on her father’s desk, sweeping up all the letters and envelopes, and taking them to be posted.
36
Heat simmered under Shamiso’s feet. The days had been peeling away like old snakeskin. She had only been back for a few days since being suspended, but it felt like it had already been a year. She was realizing to her shame that the challenges of boarding-school life were nothing compared to the naked reality at home.
She had been in the queue since morning. It was now noon. Her stomach grumbled in protest. Food was scarce. She knew almost all of the people around her were suffering from the same plight. The queue had become a common ground for everyone: the teacher, the lawyer, the gardener.
Things were crooked, a sad sort of topsy-turvy. A few weeks back, supplies in the stores had been plentiful. It seemed that Rhodesville had gotten stuck in a nightmare overnight, far from its normal suburban comforts with stores full of supplies and people at their usual hustle and bustle. Not so long ago, the country had been known as the breadbasket of Africa. Now it stood in the aftermath of what seemed like the work of a deadly disease that had furrowed its way to the heart of the country, leaving a trail of turmoil.
A plump woman stood in front of her, holding her sleeping baby. The child lay peacefully in its mother’s arms, completely oblivious to what was happening in the world. Shamiso envied the oblivion. Growing up was a tiresome task.
“Excuse me, this queue is for bread, right?” she asked the woman. To her horror, the woman shrugged. Shamiso narrowed her eyes. How could the woman not know why she was in a queue? But then again, neither did she. Shamiso wondered what she would have been doing if she was at school. Part of her longed to be among other teens, sharing in the despair of study time rather than standing in a queue. She glanced at her phone. She had another missed call from Tanyaradzwa. She shoved it into her pocket, as though hiding it would make it go away.
She still could not bring herself to reply to any of her texts or answer her calls. As soon as her phone showed that it was Tanyaradzwa calling, the cycle would begin. The image of blood trickling down Tanyaradzwa’s nose while the mbira tumbled to the floor; the memory of her own father’s beat-up face in that silk box . . .
The queue had barely moved since she had joined it. All she could see from where she stood was a truck with its back doors open, packed with boxes. A man in overalls sat inside, fighting off the impatient crowd. Shamiso did not understand what was going on. Why weren’t they just selling the bread, or whatever it was? But the man in the truck seemed to insist that the boxes be unloaded first, but it was unclear why it hadn’t been emptied already. Shamiso didn’t think it looked as if there was any bread in there.
Joining a queue had become an adventure, the people unsure what the queue was for, and the shop owners the guardians of a secret they were reluctant to disclose.
An old man stood a few heads away from her, shouting at any outsiders trying to cut ahead.
“You think I won’t have bread today? You are joking!” he called.
She closed her eyes and breathed out slowly. She had to remain calm. Her neck itched. The heat gushed hot air in her face. It was all too much!
Suddenly two ladies hurried in front of her. They glanced back and moved in closer to the plump lady, careful to conceal whatever information they wanted to share. One of them held a package, wrapped carefully in a newspaper. Shamiso tilted her head slowly, trying to read it.
“Imi Mai Thandi, they’re selling sugar next door,” one of the ladies whispered, glancing at Shamiso to make sure she could not hear anything. She rolled her eyes. There was barely any personal space between them so of course she could hear what they were saying.
“It’s sugar, Mai Thandi,” the other lady insisted, her eyes twinkling at the thought.
“But I’m already standing in this queue,” the plump lady answered, rocking her sleeping baby.
“The manager told me they’ll be announcing it soon. I
f we go now before a queue forms, we can get a few packets.”
The plump lady hesitated. Shamiso smiled. Sugar was such a sneaky temptation. After all, was it not a bag of sugar that had ushered colonization into the country?
“Did you say there’s sugar?” someone else piped up.
The ladies immediately started for the store next door. Within seconds, everything was chaos. The queue dismantled as the crowd dispersed. The plump lady’s child broke into sobs as the woman tried to maneuver herself to the front of the new queue, insisting that she had heard the news first.
Shamiso stood there paralyzed, the painful shrieks of the child ringing in her ears.
The queue had now moved next door. Only four people were left ahead of Shamiso, including the old shouting man. She shuffled closer to the front. In no time at all, she had made it. She watched the old man in front of her pull out his wad of notes, licking his lips as though he would devour the bread right away.
“After I take this home, my wife will definitely know that I am the man of the house today!” He grinned, handing his money to the teller, who in exchange gave him a large packet of crisps.
“Where’s the bread?” he protested.
“Move along, old man!” the teller called out as he waved him away. The old man left begrudgingly, muttering to himself. Shamiso watched this exchange in bewilderment. She glanced over at the queue next door and watched as people left the store with loaves of bread.
“I would like some bread, please,” she said.
The teller looked at her lazily. “And I want a holiday in the Bahamas. This line is for crisps! If you don’t want them, we’ll give you back your money.”
Shamiso swallowed hard. She picked up a packet of crisps. She had been in this queue for more than an hour so of course she wanted them. She just would have appreciated it more if they had also had bread!
37
A week had passed with Tanyaradzwa’s mother away. This time she had been the one who had left the country for work—and the one who could buy a few groceries while she was there.
Tanyaradzwa sat out on the veranda, soaking in the air and waiting for her mother’s return. The gardener watered the lawn. The smell of heated grass rose as water poured from the hose onto the parched lawn. It seemed as though he was putting out a fire. But this was the situation. The water shortages were increasing. At least they had a borehole, unlike most people.
Tanyaradzwa flicked on her phone to check the time. Her mother would be home any minute. She glanced at it again, disappointed that Shamiso still had not replied to any of her messages. Perhaps their friendship had only been temporary; it was possible! Perhaps she had mistaken their conversations for something more. Perhaps Shamiso, like everyone else, only saw her as a ticking time bomb.
Her father’s Range Rover arrived at the gate and honked. They were back. The gardener dropped the hose and raced to open the gate. The car drove in and halted in front of the house. Tanyaradzwa stood up and dragged herself to the pillar at the entrance to the veranda.
“Tanyaradzwa,” her mother called, arms open wide and heading straight for her. She swallowed her daughter in her embrace. At the same time, their helper headed for the car, peeped into the back and grinned. The trunk of the car brimmed with loaves of bread.
Tanyaradzwa looked at her mother and smiled. “I feel strong, Mama,” she said.
Her mother looked at her and nodded lightly.
“I really do,” Tanyaradzwa insisted, her voice beginning to shake.
Her mother gripped her by the waist and kissed her on the forehead.
38
Shamiso walked through the gate. The long wait for bread had tired her. In spite of her debacle with the crisps earlier, luck had pitied her and sent bread her way. Who would have known bread could be so priceless? It was hardly one of her favorite things, but somehow it now felt absolutely vital to have. The loaves had been rationed though. The shop owner, thinking he was a paid version of Mother Teresa, had insisted that each customer only take one loaf of bread, to allow everyone to get a share.
The stress of the day kept piling up. She could hear voices in the house. The thought of a visitor in their cottage annoyed her. She quickened her step, eager to find out who it was. She leaned in at the door and listened.
“She’s only a little girl,” she heard her mother say. “Things like this are not for little girls. It’s not how we do things.”
“It should be how we do things! Do you think when this comes out anyone will care that there are children out there? It’s better if we tell her now, ourselves, in a way she will understand.”
“That will not happen because it will not come out. You know what would happen if it did. I won’t say anything, and neither will you.”
Shamiso frowned, her mind spiraling. She immediately pushed open the door of the little cottage and headed in. Papers were scattered everywhere! Her mother sat in the middle of the mess. Jeremiah sat with his back facing Shamiso. Her eye spotted a yellow envelope on the floor next to Jeremiah.
She walked into the cottage slowly.
“Where did you get that?”
Jeremiah turned and began to speak.
“Jeremiah!” her mother cautioned sharply. The man went silent. Shamiso flinched.
“Mom, what’s going on?” she said, her voice held tight in her throat.
Jeremiah glanced at her mother, who remained quiet for a while.
“Why don’t you go on and make some tea and bread?” her mother suggested.
Shamiso scowled. She could not believe it. All her mother cared about was bread? When it was more than obvious that she was hiding something. The lump in Shamiso’s throat tightened. The hand that held the bread shook gently. She tried to hold herself together.
“Shamiso, did you hear me?” her mother asked softly.
Shamiso blinked, then flung the bread at a startled Jeremiah before charging out of the cottage and slamming the door on her way, crisps tight in her hand.
39
Shamiso stepped out of the kombi as it docked at the Fourth Street bus terminus. The conductor handed her the “many” dollars that made up her change and she shoved them into her pocket. The road was close to chaotic, with kombi drivers making it clear that they owned the streets. She stood completely still, staring at the distant vision of the Eastgate Mall towers.
Her father had spoken of his many meet-cutes there and his attempts to charm young women before he met her mother. It had been called the Sunshine City; Harare—the city that never slept. Her father had told her that in Harare dreams flew in the air, which shimmered with endless possibilities. She remembered his narration of how the city of Salisbury had been renamed after independence and how proud he had been when the newspaper agency had given him the opportunity to write about the end of the war.
“It was a big job for a young reckless boy like me. But it was Sunshine City. Anything was possible! And of course I would never have said no. I had to write it because taivapo—we were there!” His voice had gleamed with excitement.
She stood by the edge of the terminus wondering if that sunshine her father had felt would ever return. She watched a woman under an umbrella with tomatoes laid out neatly in front of her fan herself energetically. The woman leaned on a big pole with the sign that read “No hawkers allowed.”
Shamiso wiped her brow. The sun still stung, but her melanin had adjusted and her skin had toughened up along with everyone else’s. She felt a strange warmth. Maybe the stories her father had told her were starting to thaw her heart. She moved quickly, careful not to get herself knocked over. The queues of passengers waiting to get into kombis were ridiculous. It was hardly rush hour yet. There must have been petrol shortages again. She crossed the road and stood on the pedestrian island, giving way to the speeding cars.
Her mind was busy. Her mother seemed to be spending mor
e and more time with Jeremiah. He had just come from nowhere, claimed to have worked with her father and attained an audience for himself. Her mother didn’t seem to miss her father; she was doing just fine without him. It was as though everyone had forgotten he had ever existed. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat. As always it seemed that whenever her thoughts were a blur, her mind went to Tanyaradzwa.
She pulled out her phone and then pushed it back into her pocket just as fast. The loss still lingered. She wished she had someone to talk to. She wondered if her friends in Slough even remembered her. How could they have abandoned her in such tough times? She scratched her neck. Maybe that’s what Tanyaradzwa felt. Her stomach turned.
The cars buzzed past her and came to a halt in front of the traffic light. She looked around. The light shone a bright red.
She stood by the edge of the road. Too much was happening in her head. The frustration with her mother sat in her stomach, but at the same time she couldn’t erase that look of disappointment in her mother’s eyes when she had come home from school. The image of those hands that had worked tirelessly to pay her fees. And then there was her failure as a friend . . .
She stood there dazed, unsure why she had come here or where she was going. She didn’t know anyone in town. The queue of cars began to disperse. She turned to the traffic light. It had turned green. Her feet entered the road blindly, crossing the road toward the garage. Screeching sounds hauled her back to reality. She caught sight of her right hand on the bonnet of a black jeep.
The driver jumped out.
“What the hell is wrong with you, man!”
Shamiso stared at her trembling hands. She was unsure what had just happened. A crowd of people from the pavement began to form around her. Shamiso checked to see if she had been hurt, but she could not see any blood. She glanced at the driver.
Hope Is Our Only Wing Page 8
