Hope Is Our Only Wing

by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  “You?” she gasped.

  “You!” Tinotenda replied, stepping back in astonishment.

  40

  Tanyaradzwa’s father sat on the couch opposite her, his fingers punching away on his laptop as though his life depended on it. Her mother was in her bedroom, scrubbing again. She did that a lot lately. It seemed to help her cope.

  The generator hummed in the background, relieving them from ZESA’s Houdini acts. Tanyaradzwa lay on the couch, disregarding the heat and covering herself with a quilt. The bread and cheese her mother had brought her sat on the coffee table, untouched. Her eyes blinked lazily at the television. Her ears picked up the sound but she was beginning to give in to sleep.

  An unexpected song blared from the television.

  “Mai Tanyaradzwa! Mai Tanyaradzwa! It’s starting!” her father hissed.

  Tanyaradzwa’s eyes flipped open. She tried to sit up. Baba would find it disrespectful if she didn’t.

  A procession of uniformed soldiers marched musically across the screen in their green berets, facing sideways and holding a rifle at an angle with both arms. Her mother raced down the stairs and leaned on the couch. Tanyaradzwa turned just in time to see the excitement on her face.

  The two political parties had been at loggerheads for years. It was a miracle they were even in the same room, uniting to form an inclusive government. People had died for this. Her own teacher, Mr. Mpofu, had been badly injured. Tanyaradzwa’s eyes shifted to her father. He sat on the edge of his seat, nervously rubbing his leg, watching the television intently.

  They all went quiet as they watched the president and the newly inaugurated prime minister, a member of the opposition party, shake hands and agree to work together. The last time the country had had both posts filled was back in 1980, right after independence.

  “This might be promising,” her mother said, dancing slightly. It was the first time in months there had been a glimmer in her eyes. It was subtle, but Tanyaradzwa noticed it all the same. The hope was there, but like a dying fire it needed to be gently blown into.

  41

  The crowd had grown. Shamiso felt exposed.

  “We should call the police,” someone suggested.

  Both Shamiso and Tinotenda panicked.

  “Get in the car,” he hissed at her.

  “I’m okay,” she protested.

  “Get in the car!” he barked again.

  She scurried toward the passenger door and slid in. He drove off, breaking up the crowd in the process. He watched through the rearview mirror as they waved their fists. His heart was racing.

  “What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be at school or something?”

  Tinotenda turned to her, eyebrow raised. “Shouldn’t you be in school? Oh wait, I forgot, you’re not allowed there!”

  Shamiso looked out of the window.

  Tinotenda’s eyes returned to the road. He glanced back at Shamiso, discomfited by the silence. “Okay . . . Mom! It’s the school break. Gee, bruh, ease up a little, will you?”

  Shamiso kept her gaze out of the window, watching the cars rush past as Tinotenda drove on.

  “How far is the class on math? Is Mr. Mpofu still coming to class?” Shamiso asked after a while.

  Tinotenda glanced at her. “Ummm . . . we were told that Mr. Mpofu has been missing since that rally he went to near the school. People think that he got himself in trouble because of his political opinions.” His voice was quiet.

  Shamiso drew down the window and breathed in deeply. She knew what missing meant.

  She looked at him suspiciously, then returned her gaze to outside the window. Her phone vibrated. Tinotenda glanced over at her and she covered the phone so he couldn’t see the screen. Tanyaradzwa’s mother had been calling all morning. She could not bring herself to answer the phone. In case . . .

  Shamiso stared at the screen, ashamed yet shackled by fear.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “But for reals, you know I could have run you over back there, right?”

  “Tinotenda . . .” Shamiso breathed in, tying down the lumps of anger that were beginning to build up in her voice. “I said, where are you taking me?”

  “Just relax, okay? We’re going to get a drink.”

  Shamiso sniffed the air. “You were drinking?” Her voice trembled. “You could have killed me.”

  Tinotenda kept his eyes on the road. “Stop the car!” she insisted. He didn’t react. She shoved him in the shoulder, forcing his hands to jerk and the car to swerve.

  “Dude! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to get us killed?” Tinotenda pulled his car from the fast lane, getting ready to turn. “It’s just a little alcohol, for crying out loud. It’s no big deal! Don’t act like you don’t drink!” He turned the car into the Parkade.

  “I’m underage.”

  “And yet you smoke,” he said with a smirk.

  She kept her eyes on him as he came to a halt, undid his seatbelt and got out of the car.

  “Listen, I know it must be hard with Tanya being ill . . .”

  Shamiso looked at him for a while, face wound up in a knot.

  “I mean, I barely know you, but I’m guessing things aren’t exactly easy right now . . .” He stopped as Shamiso looked away.

  “Listen, all I’m saying is that a beer will relax you a little. C’mon.”

  Shamiso thought for a while.

  “They won’t allow us to drink anyway. Not without ID.”

  Tinotenda pulled something out of his pocket. “I’m sure the bartender will understand that I changed my name to Andrew Jackson,” he said, waving around a US twenty-dollar note. They had begun flooding the black market. The US dollar was much more reliable and didn’t have an infinite reserve of unpredictable zeros. Shamiso bit her lip. She had nowhere else to go. She would have preferred a cigarette, but at this point any sort of distraction would have to do.

  “If I decide to drink, it’ll just be one beer.”

  “Of course.” He winked.

  42

  Tanyaradzwa stared again at the helicopter fan on the ceiling. She could feel the soft beats of her heart. Little traces of fear threaded their way through the darkness. It was all unpredictable now.

  She glanced at her phone again. Shamiso had not been in touch.

  The door creaked slightly. Her mother popped her head around.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this surgery?” Her mother did not hide her desperate hope that her daughter would reconsider.

  Tanyaradzwa kept her voice breezy. “I’ll be all right.” She wished her parents would conceal their fears.

  Her mother stood there a while longer. “Are you going to ask your friend to come see you? I haven’t been able to get her on the phone.”

  Silence.

  “Maybe she’s scared too?”

  “That is no excuse!” Tanyaradzwa said in her broken whisper. Her mother came in and closed the door. Streaks of moonlight made it in, sneaking through the open spaces between the leaves of the tree outside.

  “It’s okay to be hurt when you feel like people have forgotten about you, or when it feels like they’ve chosen to live without you,” her mother said, rubbing her daughter’s arm.

  Tanyaradzwa kept her head low, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay to be upset. But, darling, maybe if you accept that people are people and they’re made out of a lifetime of mistakes and fears, maybe you’d find yourself a lot more gracious.”

  Her mother paused in the stolen light, then slowly drew her crying daughter into her embrace.

  43

  The sky shone bright and clear again, harboring wisps of clouds. Shamiso’s head hammered, throbbing
at her temples and threatening to break through her forehead. The one drink she had intended to have the day before had turned into several. Everything about the previous night was a blur. She hardly remembered how she had made it back home. But whatever had happened had not impressed her mother at all.

  She had barely said anything, but her silence spoke loudly. In fact, she had woken up early, switched on the radio and then put a CD of Oliver Mtukudzi’s timeless voice on repeat at a blasting fury of volume.

  The monotony of the song mocked her, hurting her ears, like rubbing Styrofoam against the wall. Nothing made the pain stop, not even holding her head. She lifted it again and stared at the radio, eyes twitching.

  Mtukudzi went on singing. “Help me Lord I’m feeling low!”

  Shamiso rubbed her temples and looked down at her feet before heading to the window. Jeremiah stood there, talking to her mother in hushed tones. Shamiso watched his hands making gestures, and his head turning back and forth like cautious prey. She wondered what he thought he was giving away with those gestures.

  Her mother’s hands reached up to rub her eyes. Shamiso watched her rocking herself gently as she stood there. Jeremiah lingered silently for a while, then put his hand on her shoulder. Shamiso looked away. Jeremiah looked far too cozy with her mother. Her father would not approve!

  Before she knew it, her hand was tugging at the door.

  “Of course I understand this is sensitive, but I can’t keep this story to myself. I’ve already organized to meet with a journalist who will run the story. People must know. Just as Shamiso must . . .” She heard Jeremiah’s murmur. They both went quiet as she approached.

  Jeremiah fidgeted nervously.

  “I need money,” Shamiso said to her mother, eyes fixed on Jeremiah.

  Her mother pulled her face into a knot.

  “For a movie or a burger; something!” Shamiso insisted. “Since you’re clearly busy, I think I have to get out of the house—”

  “Shamiso,” Jeremiah interrupted, “I think you should know that when your father came here he was chasing after a story.”

  Shamiso felt her eyes turn to knives. She turned to her mother, whose face was shouting for Jeremiah to refrain from whatever he was doing. Jeremiah kept his gaze fixed on the ground and continued.

  “Your mother will tell you in detail, but your father discovered that one of the ministers was giving farms to his friends and auctioning them off to businessmen who could afford to bid more for them than actual qualified farmers. I think he suspected that his life was in danger and he wanted me to tell this story to the world because it was sent to me in an envelope addressed in his handwriting.”

  Shamiso’s heart began to race, her mind drowning out every other noise. The envelope! It had been in her satchel and she had not read it. Her father’s story! She had not flipped a single page!

  “Jeremiah, please leave!” her mother insisted, shattering the silence.

  Shamiso stared at Jeremiah, her body a raw wound, her flesh seared.

  “This story will be in the papers tomorrow; I am already making sure of it. But I didn’t want you to find out from a newspaper.”

  “Leave now!” Her mother shouted, her veins popping out of her skin.

  Jeremiah quietly nodded and headed out toward the gate.

  Shamiso waited for her mother to say more but she only rocked back and forth, incapable of speech. How could she have kept all this from her? The lump danced uncomfortably in her throat.

  Suddenly, her mother came back to life and said confidently, “I have a job in Chishawasha Hills today.”

  “Is what Jeremiah said true?” Shamiso gasped, choking on her anger.

  The bags under her mother’s eyes darkened. “You will come with me. I need help.”

  Shamiso stood there, unable to breathe and shackled by rage. She could not understand why her mother was carrying on as though the conversation had not happened.

  “You want money for a movie?” Her mother chuckled. “You think I slave like this so that you can watch movies?”

  Shamiso said nothing.

  44

  A cluster of gray clouds gathered above them as they walked up the incline on Pine Street. Shamiso tried not to think how the gray skies reminded her of England.

  Her legs began to protest. It was a long walk from Rhodesville. She did not want to go to work. She wondered if this qualified as child labor. Her mother walked slightly in front of her, a small handbag under her arm. She seemed to be enjoying the wind as it cooled her face.

  The environment had already changed.

  Somewhere along the way, the yards had grown bigger. The lawns had become greener, whistling sprinklers raining water onto them. Trees stood proud, dancing in the rich breeze and blowing cold air at Shamiso. She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms.

  A black Hummer passed them. Shamiso watched it turn into a driveway a small distance away. As the gate slid open, two Labradors shot out barking. Shamiso froze. She did not even blink, keeping steady and praying that they would not come any closer.

  Her mother continued on. The Labradors raced in their direction.

  Shamiso’s legs backed up. She held her breath. She had heard they could smell fear. But fear oozed out of her and stained the air she breathed. If they could smell fear, she was sure she was about to die. She watched the beasts heading toward her with their teeth out. Her pace quickened, her body still facing them as she walked backward. She had heard they didn’t appreciate running. Who came up with these things?

  “Shumba! Come back here, boy!” a white man beckoned, finally coming out of the Hummer. The dogs magically turned into puppies and raced back to their owner, tails wagging high in the air. Shamiso breathed out.

  Her mother looked back and giggled. Shamiso scratched her neck. Her mother had not smiled much, let alone giggled, since their dreadful loss. It was just a shame Shamiso could not bring herself to appreciate the humor.

  Shamiso marched on, ready to bolt at any time. Her eyes stayed glued to the gate as it slid shut. She continued up the slope. The houses grew fancier, the yards even bigger. For a moment she wondered if the drought had reached this part of the city at all.

  “We’re here,” her mother said at last, confirming the address on her phone. Shamiso fidgeted. Her legs were worn out. She hated the reason they were here.

  Her mother pressed the intercom.

  “Yes?” A stern voice erupted from the machine.

  “Er . . . we . . .” She paused and looked at Shamiso. “I am here to do the laundry?”

  Shamiso’s eyes shifted to her mother. Somehow, although she already knew the types of jobs her mother did, it bothered her to hear it said out loud. Hearing it made it real.

  Her mother waited, bent over the intercom. Shamiso glanced at her hands. She wondered how many times she had washed dirty clothes to put food on their table.

  Their old life had really vanished. Things were different now. Somehow her complaints about the dietary changes back at school felt trivial all of a sudden.

  The other side of the intercom remained quiet. It seemed the voice had disappeared, but just then the gate buzzed open. Mother and daughter walked in.

  Before them stood a white mansion surrounded by a colorful flower garden. She watched as two gardeners clipped away on opposite sides of a hedge, shaping it to size. The gardeners paid no attention to them. Shamiso and her mother followed the path to the door. Her mother knocked. They could hear voices in the house. Shamiso looked up nervously. The clouds had disappeared. The sky had become bare again.

  The door opened and Shamiso recoiled in horror.

  45

  The doctor felt Tanyaradzwa’s chest for a heartbeat. Tanyaradzwa smiled faintly.

  “Everything seems fine. Someone will come get you in a few minutes and take you to the theater. I will be waiting for you th
ere. Do you have any questions?” The doctor wiped her spectacles as she spoke.

  Tanyaradzwa smiled again and shrugged.

  “Right, see you in a bit then.” The doctor got ready to leave.

  “It’ll be okay, right?” Tanyaradzwa asked in a feeble whisper.

  The doctor hesitated. “I will do my very best. You have my word on that. But if you’ve changed your mind, there are other . . .”

  Tanyaradzwa shook her head. The doctor nodded and walked out of the room. As she headed to the theater, she passed by the nurse’s desk. The nurse on duty was wearing scrubs and punching something into the computer in front of her.

  “Everything in order?” she asked.

  “Yes, doctor. You have my word that nothing will go wrong,” the nurse promised.

  46

  Shamiso could not believe it. She wished there was a hole to creep into. She stepped back, chin up and hands folded.

  Paida stood by the door, equally dumbstruck.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, fear making her brown skin almost pale.

  Shamiso’s mother’s eyes darted between the two of them.

  “I believe you have dirty laundry?” her mother asked, her voice suddenly cold.

  Shamiso could just about see the inside of the house. The size of the place was astonishing, decorated elaborately with expensive pieces of furniture.

  “You can’t be here, Shamiso, you have to go,” Paida said as she glanced back into the house.

  Humiliation seized her and she began to turn away.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “I don’t understand. I was asked to come and do some laundry.”

  “There’s no time for this. You have to leave.” Paida grabbed Shamiso’s arm. “Now!”

  Shamiso stood there completely lost. She pulled her hand away and looked at her mother. She did not understand any of it.