A Child Called Happiness

by Stephan Collishaw

  He had advanced about fifty yards, when he heard a shout and a single gunshot. He glanced up and saw in the light of the moon the figure of one of the warriors leaping forward close to the building. Jumping to his feet he ran screaming at the top of his voice. Ahead of him there was shouting, the gunfire again, but this time muffled.

  When he leaped the low wall he slipped on the wet earth. Falling heavily, he reached out with his hands to steady himself. Beside him, inert on the cool earth, lay a body. His hands were wet with blood and when he raised them it dripped from his elbows. He wiped them across his face and got to his feet. The sounds had moved around the building. He heard men’s voices shouting. Terrified voices and then from further away, the high-pitched scream of a woman.

  By the time he had rounded the corner of the farmhouse he was too late. Fire rose from the thatched roof of the house, spreading quickly, like water poured out across the earth. In the flickering light he saw the body of one of the white settlers, the head almost severed, tongue lolling from the mouth as blood pumped out onto the earth. Not more than five feet away lay the body of one of the warriors slumped in the doorway, half blocking it.

  He hurdled the body. Inside the building it was difficult to see. Smoke billowed from the roofing, thick and dark. The flames cast a wild, jumping light that made inanimate objects leap. Two more bodies lay strewn across the floor. As he stood, the smoke burning his lungs and making his eyes water, a shadow leapt out at him causing him to scream. The young warrior, no more than fifteen years of age stood grinning before him, his face black with soot and blood. In his hand he held up a severed head – the pale, gold curls entwined between his fingers, long and beautiful. The blue eyes wide, staring. A white woman.

  Tafara had never seen a white woman before.

  The young warrior dashed past him, out through the doorway and into the night. Tafara turned to go, but could not move his legs. The smoke had grown thicker and it was hard to breathe. His toes squelched in the blood that seeped across the hard-packed earth. The sound of the thatch burning had grown from a crackle to a roar and the heat of the flames scorched his flesh.

  He stumbled forward and fell over the bodies. The decapitated corpse of a white woman, her belly rising like a high hill. A kopje. The woman had been heavy with child. He crawled on hands and knees as burning embers rained down upon him. The smoke choked him and his eyes watered so that he was unable to see anything, but could only find his way by touch; the touch of burning flesh, blood soaked earth, the blistering barrel of a rifle.

  He lay in the ditch trembling. The night was dark. The moon had been lost behind cloud that had shouldered its way across the sky. Tafara’s skin was raw and painful to touch. It was quiet. He lay still, too afraid to move.

  11

  The drive to Harare from the farm was a picturesque one. Sitting in the back of the Land Rover, jolting, holding tight to the handle of the door as Roy sped over the cracked and pot-holed road, Natalie gazed out at the lush scenery. Roy and Kristine had an appointment at the bank, and Natalie had been glad to hitch a ride with them, partly to get off the farm for a while, but also because she wanted to buy some resources for her students in the village.

  On her previous visit some young men from one of the neighbouring villages had hung around until she had finished teaching. As she made her way back to the Kawasaki, they approached her shyly.

  ‘Teacher,’ a tall, elegant young man said, stepping forward.

  Natalie turned. The young man was a similar age to Natalie. He spoke deferentially and bowed slightly, but his face was enlivened by a bright smile that did not suggest submissiveness.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Teacher, we have heard that you are setting up the school here,’ the young man said. He smiled again, cheerfully. ‘We would like to help. We will help to rebuild the school building, but we have no money to pay. Our children too need to go to school, and at the moment there isn’t one around here. The closest now is in Bindura and that is too far and it is already full.’

  Natalie was startled. The men stood before her, their expressions hard to read. She shrugged, not quite understanding their meaning.

  ‘I have no money,’ she said.

  The two men stared at her, a look of confusion shadowing their faces.

  ‘I cannot afford to give you any money,’ Natalie explained, theatrically pulling out the pockets of her jeans to show they were empty.

  ‘They don’t want your money,’ Memories explained. She had sidled up and stood beside Natalie. ‘They are offering to help to rebuild the school; they would like for the children of their village to go to the school, but they have no money to pay you as the school teacher.’

  Natalie laughed.

  ‘I don’t need paying,’ she said. ‘It would be great, though, if you could help to rebuild the school.’

  Memories caught her arm, as she sat on the Kawasaki. ‘They should pay,’ she said. ‘They could pay you something, even if it is only a chicken or some of the crops that they grow.’

  ‘Well, Memories, maybe I’ll make you my business manager.’

  She left Memories looking thoughtful at the top of the lane, a small smile creeping up one side of her face.

  Roy dropped Natalie off on the corner of Jason Moyo Avenue and Second Street. Behind her stood the Meikles Hotel, towering over the Africa Unity Square Gardens. The park was thick with stately jacarandas, startlingly blue. On the other side of it were the Anglican cathedral and the parliament building.

  On the corner was Kingston’s Bookshop, a government owned store and it was there she headed. Browsing the education section, she found some basic maths textbooks and exercises in English grammar. She also picked up some school jotters and pens and pencils.

  ‘You’re taking this seriously,’ Roy said, when they picked her up two hours later. ‘You need to be careful you know.’

  ‘I’m just teaching some of the children.’

  ‘There’s no “just” in Zimbabwe, Natalie,’ Kristine said quietly, as the car eased out into the busy traffic. ‘Just remember what happened to the last teacher at the school.’

  ‘But they said he was working for the MDC.’

  Roy glanced over his shoulder, briefly meeting Natalie’s eye. ‘They say that about anybody they want to shut up.’

  Natalie sat back against the scorching leather seat and gazed out at the city. Exhaust fumes billowed from the ancient cars; stuck in the traffic beside them was a decrepit Mercedes taxi, its windscreen cracked and its body rusted. From it pumped Zimbabwean Jit, a fast-paced, up-beat music with a mbira like sound created on the electric guitar. The taxi driver, a worn man of indeterminate age looked up and, catching Natalie’s eye, grinned at her and raised his thumb. From below his seat he pulled out a bottle wrapped in brown paper and took a swig and grinned wider.

  Natalie felt a sudden chill in the pit of her stomach at Roy’s warning. She could not imagine who might have the slightest interest in her teaching some of the children from the village. She was not a politician or even interested in the political situation. It cast a shadow over her mood and as they made their way back to the farm Natalie felt a prick of resentment at her uncle and aunt.

  When they arrived back, she excused herself quickly and went to her cottage, shutting the door and throwing the books and pens onto the bed. The maid had cleaned the room, and there was Fanta in the small fridge, cold, with perspiration slipping down the side of glass. She took one out thankfully and, flipping off the cap, took it out to the veranda and sat watching as the sun began its quick descent, listening to the throb of the cicadas and the frogs finding their voice again now that the heat of the day was subsiding.

  12

  Just before sunrise Tafara thought he heard a noise. Heart thumping, he eased his head up enough to see above the ridge of the hollow in which he hid. He strained his eyes but could see nothing, only the smouldering remains of the house on the top of the hill, sparks picked up occasionally by the gusts of
wind, trailing lazily across the black sky. At one point he slept, but dreamt of the white woman’s head bobbing bloodily on the end of her blonde hair, and he awoke immediately cold with fright.

  As the sky lightened slowly behind the scum of cloud, Tafara moved. Scuttling through the undergrowth, keeping low, alert not only for the sounds of the white warriors come to seek revenge, as inevitably they must, but also for sounds of the other Shona warriors, those of his own raiding party. The idea of meeting them filled him with horror.

  At midday he found a stream, up in the ridges of the mountains. Greedily he drank from it and then washed. The dried blood and dirt ran from his body, discolouring the pure flow. He was no warrior, he thought, gazing down through the glittering sheen of water at the pebbles, not seeing the reflection of himself that rippled upon the surface.

  Avoiding looking at it.

  He longed only for his village, for life as it had been. For the slow rhythms of his days, the care of the cattle, the sounds of the children and the women singing. Longed for nothing more than to sit outside his hut and watch as the sun descended across the valley. For the companionship of his brothers and the knowledge that Ngunzi could teach him of the ways of the ancestors.

  He slept that night in the hollow of a rock in the mountains. Weary from his journey and from the lack of sleep the previous night, he fell asleep almost immediately. At first it was peaceful; for three hours he did not move, but slept like one of the dead, curled in the corner of his refuge. The moon had risen and climbed into the sky when his father appeared. Chimukoko stood above him, his chest bared to the moon – the flesh restored to it, so that he no longer stood stooped, body frail as Tafara recalled him from the last years, but proud, strong as he remembered him being when he was a child.

  ‘Father,’ he said.

  But his father said nothing, just stood, assegai in hand, staring down at him darkly. And when his father was gone, he wept.

  Later Anokosha came to him. She ran her fingers across his face, her nails clicked through his hair. When she moved out of the shadow he could see that her breasts were heavier, that her belly had grown. That she was with child. His child. He held his hand against the warm, taut skin of her belly and wondered.

  ‘You are carrying my child,’ he said to her.

  She smiled and touched him tenderly.

  ‘I will come for you,’ he promised, but she turned her face away from him.

  ‘I will come,’ he assured her. ‘I will bring you back to the village and we will raise our child there.’

  She took him in her hand and guided him into her. Gently easing her weight down. She moved slowly and only when he came did he notice that she was silently weeping, hands cradling her distended belly.

  He awoke as dawn broke.

  He arrived back at his village at the end of the next day, having not met a single person on the journey. The previous evening he had seen a column of white soldiers riding west. There was something sombre and determined about them that cast fear into his heart. He retreated further up into the mountain, keeping as far from their path as possible.

  The village was deserted. Many of the huts had been burned to the ground and the ground itself was littered with the shards of broken pottery and clothing. The embers were cold and no smoke rose into the cool air; it had been burned some days before, probably, he thought, the day he had left.

  The day that he had killed the white man.

  He squatted down in the ruins of his home and wept.

  13

  Over the next few weeks Natalie’s class grew to five. Three girls and two boys all around the same age as Memories apart from one of the boys who was sixteen. Memories was by far the most able of the students; she was attentive and learned quickly. She was an able reader and devoured all of the books Natalie gave her. She did not enjoy mathematics as much, but she learned what she was taught and when Natalie left her with exercises to do, she had always completed them by the next time she came.

  On the first Monday of November the school room had been repaired enough to start teaching lessons there. They gathered in the village and walked down to the building together. The children buzzed with excitement. Behind them some of the mothers followed and ahead, proudly, the young men from the neighbouring village led the way.

  It was a clear day; the storm clouds that had been building up over the previous days had dissipated and the air was lighter and the sky clear. Outside the school the flame trees were ablaze with colour and the grass, which on her previous visit had been overgrown and neglected, had been cut roughly short.

  While one side of the low building remained dilapidated, the main classroom had been cleared and repaired. Sufficient corrugated tin roofing had been salvaged from the rest of the buildings to cover the classroom. The inside had been swept clean, with all undergrowth cleared and the mould scrubbed from the walls; there was no glass in the windows, but there never had been. Five desks and a number of chairs were all that was left of the school furniture and the young men confessed that they had to argue with locals to return those chairs from their village huts.

  The students seated themselves, the older ones on the desks and chairs, the younger ones on the floor, while many of the mothers and the young men stood at the back of the room as Natalie began her lesson. She had prepared a lesson on poetry. While she found it difficult pitching a lesson to such a wide variety of ages and abilities, the fact that the students were so keen and so ready to try work, made it easier than teaching in England.

  While the younger students happily gathered describing words, she got the older students to work on similes and metaphors. After half an hour she glanced around. The students were all working, heads down, the younger ones sprawled across the floor, struggling with the pencils, the older ones bent low over their new school jotters and she felt a sudden burst of pride as well as fear. It was a school. Twelve students now. She marvelled at how seriously they all took it. The parents who had lingered at the back of the classroom too.

  At the end of the lessons that day, she set out a timetable. Each weekday from ten o’clock through to one-thirty she would teach them. If they were going to attend they must come every day and take the lessons seriously. And with Memories prompting, she told them of the cost. Every few weeks they would have to bring her some eggs, or some fruit or some other produce they could afford. Memories warned her that if she did not make them pay they would not take her school seriously.

  ‘What would I do with the eggs and the fruit?’ Natalie asked.

  Memories looked at her, her wide brow furrowed slightly. ‘You would eat them.’

  ‘But we have more than enough food up at the farm.’

  Memories shook her head and fell back on her first argument. ‘If you do not ask them to pay, they will not take you seriously. That is how it is.’

  She loved Memories’ serious face and the earnestness of her manner. Nodding then, she agreed. She would, she decided, leave any of the produce she managed to gather at the village.

  It was at twelve o’clock a few days later that the police paid a visit. They had just begun a lesson on multiplication and Natalie had summoned Memories to the front of the class to model a simple sum. Memories approached the blackboard seriously and took the broken stick of chalk. She enjoyed being at the front of the class and more and more often Natalie was calling upon her to help with some of the younger children.

  As Memories stood at the blackboard writing the figures up with a careful hand in the way she had taught her, Natalie saw the faces of the children turn suddenly and felt the atmosphere of the class change. The students stiffened. Swivelling around, she noticed two figures in the doorway, dark shadows, the brilliant sunshine behind them. It was not until one of them stepped forward that she realised they were policemen.

  A sudden silence descended upon the classroom. The whispering, the sound of pencils scratching on paper, even the breathing seemed to cease as the children watched.

  As th
e policeman moved from the doorway he became visible. He wore a pale blue shirt and trousers, which were creased and frayed at the cuffs and the collar. His hair was short and he was clean-shaven. His cap was tucked beneath his arm. He looked around the classroom, as if admiring the work that had been done on it. Bending down he examined the book of one of the younger students, nodding his head slowly. The girl sat silently, frozen.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Natalie said, seeing the fear in the children’s faces.

  The policeman stood up, stretching. Natalie could not but notice the pistol in its leather holster on his belt. A bead of sweat stood out on the policeman’s forehead. He smiled. Natalie had not seen him before; he had not been one of the policemen at the station in Bindura.

  ‘So,’ the policeman said, a nod of his head indicating the room as he spoke. ‘You’ve opened the school again.’

  ‘We’re just doing some lessons,’ Natalie explained.

  Memories had stopped writing on the board. She stood with her back to the wall, behind Natalie, staring at the policeman as he advanced across the classroom.

  ‘Carry on,’ the policeman told her. ‘Let’s see what you can do. Let’s see what the teacher has been teaching you.’

  Memories turned back to the board and continued with the sum. Natalie saw the almost imperceptible quiver of her hand, and the uneven execution of the figures on the board. She wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it was all right, to hug her, but she said nothing and did not move. Memories finished the sum, stood back for a second to reflect on it, made clearer where she had carried a number over from one column to another, then, content, she turned and, handing the chalk to Natalie, went back to sit in her seat.

  The policeman clapped slowly and, throwing back his head, laughed. Natalie could not tell if he was being ironic.

  For some moments they stood silent, the children staring. No one moved. Then the policemen nodded again and turned away.