Shamiso stood up. Four days. Her heart skipped about wildly and her feet wanted to run. Four days! But in the calm of the noise, her father’s words echoed, etched into her brain.
She stared her choices in the face.
55
One of the machines hooked to Tanyaradzwa beeped. Shamiso watched the little white light as it skated on the screen, running up and down drawing the green patterns of her heartbeat. Another machine made calculated huffs as though it was a pump someone was playing with. Shamiso’s eyes drifted toward the sleeping Tanyaradzwa. Silence seemed most appropriate.
She had to stay. It felt right for her to be sitting in that chair.
“You know, being hooked up to machines is a good way to get out of showering every day.”
Shamiso turned in surprise. Tinotenda stood by the door, pretending to be in deep thought.
“It’s actually a clever way not to do dishes as well. Except that she’s missing all the fun of queuing for bread and stuff,” he continued.
A slight smile shone from behind Shamiso’s eyes.
Tinotenda shrugged. “Too soon?”
Shamiso remained silent for a few more seconds before breaking into tears of laughter.
56
Shamiso opened the door to the cottage. Her grandmother knelt by a box in the lounge, packing away her father’s papers. Her tufty gray hair was uncovered. Shamiso closed the door behind her.
“Good afternoon.” She removed her bag from her shoulder.
Her grandmother lifted her head and looked at her. “How is your friend?”
Shamiso shook her head lightly. But this time the fear had let go of her hand. She would be there. She would be a friend. She would be a daughter.
“How is Mom?”
Her grandmother turned in the direction of the bedroom. “Come make yourself useful.” She beckoned her over. Shamiso placed her bag on the white chair by the wall and knelt beside her grandmother. They stayed next to each other for a while, in silence, sorting through her father’s belongings. Her grandmother would pull each item out of the box, hand it to her, and she would either stack it in the pile to burn, or in the one to keep. All his papers, all his notes. It was time to let them go.
Then her grandmother pulled out the mbira. Shamiso’s heart stopped.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked.
Shamiso nodded.
“Did you know I taught your father how to play?”
Shamiso hesitated.
“You don’t believe me?” Her grandmother chuckled as she shuffled back and set her bottom on the floor. She put the mbira on her lap and cracked her knuckles. Shamiso watched her fingers as they brushed the keys of the instrument. Her shriveled hands brought the mbira to life. The skin on her fingers had furrowed slightly and her nails were rough and brittle. But strong, just like her father’s.
Her grandmother placed the mbira in her hands and put one arm around her. Shamiso could smell the cinnamon stuck to her jersey from the fat cakes she made every morning. The old woman’s hands rested lightly on top of hers and she pressed both of their fingers on the keys. Shamiso smiled. Her grandmother’s hands had the same soft touch as her father’s. The old woman slowly took her hands away.
“Don’t stop. Keep going,” she said as she stood back up.
“It hurts my fingers though. And I’m no good.” Shamiso put the instrument down on the floor.
Her grandmother smiled. “You sound just like your father when he first learned to play.”
“Really? I thought he loved the mbira.”
“He did,” her grandmother said. “But at first he couldn’t stand it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, his father—your grandfather—told him he had a choice to make. He could quit if it was the instrument that was making him miserable. But if it was the learning he was trying to avoid, he would have to toughen up.” Shamiso watched the wrinkles tighten as her grandmother smiled. She stared at the mbira and picked it up again. Her fingers started to strum.
“Ambuya, can I ask you something?” she said as she struggled with the keys.
Her grandmother nodded.
“How come you and my dad didn’t get along?”
Her grandmother continued arranging things as though she had not heard her, and Shamiso returned to her strumming. A light shadow grazed her feet. She turned her head. Her mother stood by the door. She rested against the frame and stared at Shamiso.
“Keep playing,” she said softly.
Shamiso glanced at her grandmother. This lesson had turned out to be longer than she had anticipated. The tips of her fingers burned, but it was worth it. The tune gradually took shape. Her mother watched her, blinking slowly. Her grandmother kept folding and ripping papers.
Then suddenly her grandmother stopped packing and held up a photograph. She turned to Shamiso and her mother and burst out laughing.
“Did your father ever tell you about his bell-bottoms days? He thought he was the most stylish of them all.” She handed Shamiso the picture. Shamiso took it and grinned.
“Aren’t these bootleg jeans, Ambuya?”
Her grandmother seemed to draw a blank, though she was still smiling.
Shamiso studied the photo. Her father seemed happy, his head back and teeth showing. He stood in front of an old car with Shamiso’s mother on his arm, back in the day before most photographs carried color. Once, when Shamiso was nine, she had asked him what it had been like to live in a world where everything was black and white. She could almost hear his laugh in her grandmother’s voice.
“He sure loved to laugh,” her mother said. She took the picture from Shamiso’s hand.
“Yes, he did,” her grandmother said.
Shamiso held her breath, watching her mother.
“Even when he wrote about serious things, he always tried to make people laugh.”
“You know I still can’t agree with his politics, but I’ve always admired how determined and courageous he was.” Her grandmother wiped her eyes. “I only wish we hadn’t let our views come between us.”
Her mother’s face twisted, lines on her forehead forming, tears falling. Shamiso found herself stumbling forward and embracing her. Her grandmother swept in and joined the hug. Shamiso felt the gentle stroke of her grandmother’s hand on her back, rubbing both of their backs. Then the old woman stepped aside and switched on the radio.
Due to the evidence found against the minister concerning corruption allegations in line with the land redistribution, he has been dismissed from office by members of parliament. Furthermore, he awaits trial regarding Patrick Muloy’s death in the high court. This ends this news bulletin.
57
Shamiso sat in the same armchair she had been in for the past four days, watching Tanyaradzwa as she lay there in the bed. Tanyaradzwa’s parents had stepped out for a moment. Shamiso slid her hand into Tanyaradzwa’s. Her palms were soft and warm and full of life.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said as she pulled her hand away and picked up the mbira. “I don’t really believe it either. I used to be rubbish at this. I mean, I’m no musician, but I can play a few songs now. My grandmother has been teaching me.” She looked at Tanyaradzwa. The machine beeped. Tanyaradzwa’s body was still, her chest moving slowly up and down as it always did.
Shamiso placed the mbira on her lap and started playing. The mbira awoke, the jazzy clicks of the keys sending melody into the room. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she played, and she kept her eyes fixed on Tanyaradzwa, hoping the music had done something.
Nothing . . .
“If you don’t wake up now, they’re going to unplug you,” she said, grabbing Tanyaradzwa’s lifeless arm. “It’s scary to fight, I know that. But you have to try! This can’t be how your story ends.”
The beeps kept sounding. Fear c
ircled around Shamiso, screeching and croaking. But she would not give up on her friend.
She rubbed her arm gently and waited.
Nothing . . .
She finally resorted to anger.
“You’re such a hypocrite! You told me I had to fight and you throw in the towel?”
She felt a tap on her shoulder. Tanyaradzwa’s mother stood behind her.
“Shamiso,” she said softly. “Can we have a few moments alone with her?”
Shamiso nodded. She picked up her mbira and headed out.
58
Shamiso sat in between her mother and grandmother in the tiny living room. Her grandmother was telling stories about her younger self during the war. She glanced at her mother as she rippled with laughter. Shamiso had not heard that laugh in a long time. She smiled and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.
The midnight news bulletin played on the radio in the background. The clock struck twelve. The last day had officially passed. She stole a glance at her phone.
Still nothing. She wondered how the pain she expected to feel would sting her this time.
The phone rang. Her mother and grandmother stopped talking. They both looked at Shamiso and waited for her to answer. She hesitated, not wanting to hear the bad news.
Her mother picked up the phone and pressed the green button.
“Shamiso.” She extended her arm. Shamiso’s heart stopped. Her mother smiled. Tears fell from Shamiso’s eyes. She grabbed the phone and placed it next to her ear. She could hear breathing on the other end.
“Shamiso?” Tanyaradzwa’s gentle, husky voice rang out. There was no mistaking it.
Shamiso burst into jubilant sobs. Her mother nodded as she watched her. The lump melted away.
59
Tinotenda sat on the teacher’s table in front of the class, as he always did, reading the paper. He had made it his mission to carry on the tradition of keeping everyone updated, in honor of Mr. Mpofu who had still not been found.
Tanyaradzwa and Shamiso sat next to each other, working out sums together. The new teacher walked in. She was a young, tall, dark woman with her hair pulled tightly into a bun. She seemed fresh out of university.
“Please get out your books,” she said in a sharp voice. “You guys were making a lot of noise. Where is your class monitor?”
The class kept quiet. Shamiso glanced at Paida’s seat. She had not returned. All they had heard was that her mother had moved her to another school, perhaps to avoid the humiliation.
“Okay, who can solve this for me?” the teacher asked as she scribbled a problem onto the board. The students remained silent. They had not covered this in class yet.
Shamiso smiled, remembering the book Mr. Mpofu had used to flood her with problems.
“I can,” she called as she raised her hand in the air.
60
Her neck still itched. But as she held the cigarette in her hand, she could not help but wonder what it would feel like to find solace in something else. Perhaps music. Perhaps writing.
Shamiso stood backstage, listening to the crowd as they sang along to the band. She had never played in front of an audience before. She could feel the nerves setting in.
Tanyaradzwa emerged. “Are you ready?”
Shamiso nodded. Her heart danced a tango in her chest. The master of ceremonies announced their band. Shamiso breathed in deeply. The crowd cheered and the girls walked on stage.
She could see her mother and grandmother sitting in the front. Tanyaradzwa’s parents were away to one side, under the trees. She glanced at Tinotenda in the back, standing with his saxophone in his hand, ready to whistle away. She signaled for the band to start.
The song began, instruments harmonizing gently and building into one voice, the band sending it into the air. The mbira led the tune “Ishe Komborera Africa.” The slow, jazzy sounds of the saxophone danced on the horizon and provoked the keys of the guitar and keyboard.
Shamiso glanced over to Tanyaradzwa, whose rusty voice wove all the sounds together.
Heaven wept, touched by the melody. Shamiso’s mother closed her eyes, face up, enjoying the drops as they kissed her skin. The crowd gloried in the wild, potent cries of the mbira as it bellowed and awakened a hope rare enough to amaze them and precious enough to allow an escape.
GLOSSARY
ambuya: grandmother
baba: father
chokwadi: honestly or truly
dhuku: headwrap
hadeda: a type of bird in sub-Saharan Africa. The name comes from the “haa-dee-daa” sound the bird makes when it is startled or feels threatened.
helper: in some parts of southern Africa, housemaids are referred to as helpers. This is considered a more polite name than housemaid.
Hondo Yeminda: the fight for land reformation in Zimbabwe in 2004. It was a movement to reclaim the land from white farmers.
“Ishe Komborera Africa”: “God bless Africa.” It is a popular song in southern Africa composed by a South African schoolteacher called Enoch Santonga. After Zimbabwe gained independence in 1980, the song was translated into Shona and changed to “Ishe Komborera Zimbabwe,” the country’s first national anthem.
jarcaranda: a subtropical tree with pale purple flowers that last a long time. This tree is common to the southern part of Africa.
kombi: a minibus used as public transport
mai: mother. It can also be used as a title (Mrs.).
maiguru: a term used to refer to an older aunt. This is the opposite of mainini.
mainini: literally translated as “younger mother.” Used in Shona culture for a younger aunt or young ladies in general.
maputi: roasted maize corn
Mazoe: a concentrated drink produced specifically in Zimbabwe. Although the drink now comes in different flavors, the original and most popular flavor is orange.
mbira: an instrument found in most parts of Africa. Also referred to as the hand guitar.
mfana: kid
mukwasha: son-in-law. Also used in a more general way to refer to young men.
mwanangu: my child
sadza: a thick polenta-like maize porridge that is served with stew and vegetables. Sadza is the staple of Zimbabwe. It is also widely found across sub-Saharan Africa, but the name differs from country to country.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe my deepest gratitude to a lot of my friends and family for encouraging me and supporting me through the whole writing process.
But firstly I would especially like to thank my good friend Janet Johnston, who has been like a second mother to me and who got me to publish this book. Thank you, among so many wonderful things, for literally playing agent for this book.
I would also like to thank my dearest friend and sister, Yeukaishe Hope Nyoni, after whom this book is named, for always being my designated reader and always telling me, all those years, to never give up and to keep hoping.
This book also would not have made it far without one of my loveliest friends, Kamogelo Chadi. I have never met anyone in my entire life who is so skilled at scaring procrastination out of a human being as she is. I owe you so much gratitude.
To my wonderful friends Keitumetse Teko, Tariro Mutyavaviri and Nonjabulo Tabede, thank you for all the prayer and encouragement; thank you for basically always being my support system.
A huge thank you as well to my colleague Jean Moore, who took time out of an immensely busy schedule to read over earlier versions of this story and provide wonderful tips and criticism.
I also owe a lifetime of gratitude to my editor, Felicity Johnston, who accidentally discovered me and helped make Shamiso and Tanyaradzwa’s story come alive. You are a true angel and probably one of the most patient people on this planet.
I would also like to thank Daniel Ehrenhaft, my brilliant editor at Soho Teen, who believed in thi
s book as much as I did and helped bring Shamiso’s story to life. And to the rest of the Soho Teen team including Rachel Kowal, Steven Tran, Alexa Wejko, Bronwen Hruska, and Janine Agro, who have worked so hard to make my dream come true. No words can ever truly express my gratitude, but I hope you all know how grateful I am for your hard work.
I must also thank the brilliant team at Bonnier Zaffre including Carla Hutchinson, Tina Mories, Talya Baker, Anna Morrison and Alex Allden for all the help and support, and for being very patient and extremely supportive to a new voice in YA fiction.
To my siblings, Tafadzwa and Heather Tavengerwei, Tendai Nyoni and Rejoice Gon’ora, thank you for being my back-up memory and helping me remember what 2008 was like when I forgot, and also for the many brilliant insights on what was happening in the country at that time. But thank you as well for always supporting and cheering me on.
Another big thank you to my WTI-Moot family, Andre Apollus, Maria Bravo, Fuji Anrina, Jorge Seminario and the rest of my friends: Anvar Rahmetov, Elloa-Wade Saleh Aboubakar, Selma Matsinhe, Selma Boz and Kajori De. Thank you for all the food that was eaten in celebration of this book.
And of course, though this book is for you, Mom and Dad, thank you again for being you, and being so good at it!
Lastly, thank you to the many Zimbabweans whose stories of hope and perseverance during 2008 inspired this book. Never give up hope.
Hope Is Our Only Wing Page 11
