Little Stones

by Kuiper, Elizabeth;

  ‘You’re trying to turn her against me,’ Dad said, gesturing broadly in my direction. Mum had come to pick me up at his house after our scheduled visit, but this time asked if she could come inside so they could talk – which I was sure already aroused his suspicions and put him on guard. Mum didn’t dance around the subject, announcing the plans to move before he had time to make himself comfortable on the sofa. She explained the rationale behind leaving for Australia, shifting from the personal to the economic to the political.

  ‘Hannah needs to be with her grandparents … and the education prospects are so much better for her, she could do better than you or I did … This country is failing. There’s no bread in the shops. We’re paying with Monopoly money. And maybe not now, but in the future they’re going to be trimming the fat at the stock exchange, and I’ll be out of a job. This is just forward planning.’ She told him about the robbery, and how she thought that would put everything in perspective, as the final straw, and the need for our emigration would be clear.

  When Dad looked at me and asked me what I thought, I said that I agreed; moreover, I was eager to go.

  ‘You’re turning her against me,’ he repeated. ‘You just want to take her away from me.’

  ‘Steve, you know that’s not true. Don’t be ridiculous. And we will be back to visit as much as we feasibly can.’

  ‘You can’t just switch things up whenever you feel like it. This is absolute rubbish. I have rights too, you know.’

  ‘Oh, do you, Steve? It seems that you only care about these rights when it fits in with your own agenda. You don’t seem to care about the right to support her education when it comes to actually paying, or—’

  ‘Support her education? Of course I support her education. I certainly don’t want her to end up like your mother, marrying a farmer, barefoot and pregnant on some tobacco farm in god-knows-where.’

  ‘Don’t you dare talk about my mother,’ Mum spat. ‘She is the most intelligent woman I know. And you know what she said to me, before we got married? She told me I was making the wrong choice. And every day, every single day, I have to concede that she was right.’ The two of them looked at each other, anger seeping out of the pores of their skin, until Mum spoke again. ‘I am not having this conversation with you if you’re going to be unreasonable. I’m going to leave.’

  Whether Dad knew he had crossed a line, or whether he could not summon any words that would cause more hurt than the ones he had already spoken, he said nothing more.

  Back in the car, I waited several minutes before breaking the silence; I knew I had to get the timing just right with Mum or else it may backfire.

  ‘Hey, Mu-um … Do you want to get some takeaway pizzas from St Elmo’s for dinner?’

  ‘Sure, sweetie, that sounds good.’

  When we were nearly home, with the heat of the pizza warming my lap through the cardboard and the clunky VHS tapes hired from Rainbow Video jostling against my feet as we drove over potholes, I asked Mum what she was going to do about Dad.

  ‘I’ll make a plan. We’ll find a way. I definitely can’t be pressuring him for maintenance anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said, poking my index finger through one of the air holes in the side of the box, trying to sneak a piece of pepperoni through the gap.

  ‘If I argue he needs to pay maintenance, it sends the message that I am not able to support you on my own. And if I can’t support you on my own, why am I taking you to Australia? That’s what the lawyers will say, at any rate. No. I have to bite the bullet. It just means Diana’s mum or maybe Stella will have to pick you up from school, so you’re not waiting out on the grass for hours, like the other day.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Soon this will all be over. You’ll be at your new school, making lots of friends, and we’ll be walking Oscar Wilde on the beach, and enjoying the Aussie sun. A new start.’

  32

  They say that if a frog is dropped into boiling water, it will jump out. But if the same frog is placed in a pan of tepid water, which is gradually brought to the boil, it will stay until it dies. The erosion of infrastructure and depletion of the dollar did not happen overnight. There were people who had the means to flee, but chose to stay, adjusting to the heat. They built boreholes and bought battery- powered generators; they reinforced burglar bars and accepted that police would falsely accuse them of speeding so they could receive a salary. The robbery had seared my mother’s skin and she knew we had to leave, but we soon realised that someone had placed a lid on the pot.

  One Thursday evening I was sitting in the living room having just started to watch an episode of Midsomer Murders.

  ‘This was no accident,’ Detective Tom Barnaby announced, as he continued pacing the length of the room. A seventysomething-year-old man had been found dead earlier that morning, lying facedown in the rosebushes of his front garden. He’d been discovered by his neighbour, who was now sitting on the couch across from the two inspectors, having just made them a pot of tea. She suggested the man simply lost his balance on the balcony after one tumbler of brandy too many, but Barnaby knew there was something more sinister afoot.

  The theme music began and the familiar luminescent words of the show’s title appeared, washing the room in blue. A faint click. Blackness. There was a beat where I thought the program had an unusually lengthy fade-out, before I realised what had occurred.

  I groaned and reached over to flick the light switch by the door. Nothing happened. Before I could open my mouth to call her, my mother appeared in the room, wielding a flashlight.

  ‘Power cut,’ she said, spinning the torch in her hand, casting brief shadows across the ceiling.

  Even in the exclusive Borrowdale Brooke Estate we weren’t spared from the everyday inconveniences that had affected us before the move, with water and power cuts a familiar nuisance. We considered ourselves fortunate when the water was cut after an evening shower; and if the lights went out once dinner was cooked, and not before, it was a sign of divine intervention.

  ‘Third time this week,’ I replied, staring at the screen. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been able to watch a single show to its completion. Watching television was akin to driving on the roads here; you got from point A to B eventually but the potholes (or plot holes) prevented you from enjoying the experience.

  ‘I hold ZESA personally responsible for my inability to enjoy Midsomer Murders,’ I said, half-jokingly. Of course, the Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority was not wholly to blame, but it was easier to channel my anger towards a distinct organisation. I pushed the red ‘off’ button on the remote, out of sheer force of habit, and got to my feet.

  I walked to the kitchen from memory, grasping around the stovetop until I retrieved a box of matches to light the candles we had haphazardly scattered around the house. Uninspired birthday gifts from over the years now came in handy, and the room was lit up with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, vanilla and honey.

  ‘Do you think the lights at the top of the hill are on?’ I asked my mother, as I touched the wick of a long, white candle to a series of small tea lights.

  ‘I’ll bet you one billion dollars they are,’ she said, pushing the ‘b’ in ‘billion’ out of her mouth as though it were a wayward fly.

  Mum and I walked to the back verandah together. There, at the highest point on the hillside, a grand mansion lit up the rest of the dark estate. I counted eighteen, no, nineteen windows producing a source of light. Mum let out a sigh, nearly blowing out the flame in my hand.

  The man who inhabited the house was Emmerson Mnangagwa, member of the ZANU-PF party. His house never lost power, as much as we hoped it might. Mnangagwa was the Minister of Justice, the irony of which Mum would often point out at times like these.

  In the early evenings, we would walk Oscar Wilde around the gated estate, occasionally crossing the road that led us p
ast Mnangagwa’s mansion. Every time, without fail, Oscar would begin barking madly at the baboon sculptures that lined his front lawn. Five of the hideous creatures faced outwards, baring their sharp teeth at pedestrians, stiff tails pointing to a gaudy water feature behind them.

  I continued staring at the great house on the hill, glowing like the star atop a dead Christmas tree. I asked my mother if she knew what happened to Ephraim from the farm, who was never seen without his tattered baseball cap, which boasted a defiant black palm motif against red, yellow, green and black stripes.

  ‘He’s probably found work in Chegutu,’ she said, focusing intently on the house in the distance, not blinking.

  I was trying to decipher whether it was the candlelight that made her eyes seem wet and glossy when I spotted a figure moving across the lawn and towards our house. It was Gogo.

  ‘Madam,’ she said, addressing my mother when she reached the door, ‘I have run out of candles.’

  ‘Just a moment, Ruth,’ Mum said, disappearing into the pantry and emerging ten seconds later with two packs of red candles.

  Gogo bobbed her head as she accepted them. ‘Thank you, madam.’

  Mum pointed out the house at the top of the estate to Gogo.

  ‘Ngwena,’ Gogo said. ‘Evil crocodile.’

  ‘Well, if there’s anything else you need, let me know,’ Mum said, moving towards the back door.

  Gogo turned to leave, before pivoting back. ‘My brother-son, Goodluck, he is in trouble,’ she said, pursing her lips.

  ‘Your nephew,’ I corrected her.

  ‘Yes, my nephew,’ Gogo said, looking at me with wide brown eyes. ‘He has been working for the MDC, for Tsvangirai, and—’

  Mid-sentence, the lights flickered back to life. I left the conversation and headed inside, flopping back down on the couch, jamming an impatient thumb into the green button on the remote.

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid you’re in trouble now, Mrs Cunningham,’ said Detective Barnaby, holding up an empty pill-bottle by its cap, lightly shaking it in front of her ashen face.

  ‘They beat him, with sticks,’ I could hear Gogo saying from the verandah. ‘They were waiting in the bushes. He was walking home from work.’

  I turned the volume up, drowning out the sounds of the conversation occurring outside.

  ‘You poisoned him, didn’t you?’ Barnaby accused the woman. ‘Every day for a year, slipping this into his evening brandy.’

  33

  In the weeks following the robbery, I felt a great sense of guilt whenever I spent the weekend with Dad – knowing that Mum would be home alone, probably not sleeping. The guilt was enhanced by the fact that my parents were still at loggerheads regarding the Australia move. Mum had put in a request for full guardianship rights. And as predicted, Dad was going to fight her on the move. Mum had wanted to avoid engaging in yet another legal battle with him, but it soon became obvious that there was no other form of recourse, since appealing to his sense of decency and compassion was not an option.

  ‘It’s no longer safe for us to be here,’ Mum said to him, after she came to collect me from my next visit.

  ‘You’re overreacting,’ he said. ‘How many years have you lived here, and this is the first robbery? You think people in Australia don’t have their things stolen?’

  ‘It’s not just about the safety. There’s other things too. You know that, I know you know that. But I can’t keep repeating myself to you, because you don’t listen. Ultimately, we are leaving this country. There’s nothing you can do about it. I hope you can see past your ego and realise this is for the good of your only child.’

  ‘I want the wedding ring back,’ Dad said.

  ‘Huh? What?’

  ‘I want the wedding ring I gave you back. You’re not stealing my daughter and running off to Australia on my dime.’

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘Return. My. Ring.’

  ‘I don’t have it Steve – it was taken.’

  ‘That was my grandmother’s ring,’ Dad said, taking a step towards her.

  ‘I. DON’T. HAVE. IT.’ Mum took two steps back, moving behind the open car door to address him. ‘Everything was taken. We were robbed.’

  ‘It was priceless. Give it back to me.’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Are you not listening to me? You’re not making any sense. You have officially lost it.’

  That was how most of the conversations between them ended, either on the phone or in person, with raised voices and heightened accusations. When Dad was angry, his jaw would lock in place and it would barely move as he spoke, his words just escaping through the thin gaps in his teeth. Mum would look around her, hands in the air, as though she were engaging with a crowd of invisible spectators, as if to say: Can you believe what the hell is going on here?

  Once a court date was set, Mum refused to engage with Dad by phone or in person, staying in the car when she came to pick me up or drop me off. Mum would make her case in court instead, and we would hopefully overcome the first hurdle in our plan to emigrate.

  ‘He didn’t pitch,’ Mum said, as she dropped her handbag to the floor, letting it land with a thud. She had just walked through the door, having only set off for the city an hour prior.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘He wasn’t there. In court. His lawyers said he had an emergency work meeting in Johannesburg and asked if we could reschedule. For three weeks from today.’ She sat down on the couch and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I’ve also got no fuel left, because we live so damn far out from the city now. Chitty is running on fumes. I’m surprised I made it past the boom gate.’

  Upon hearing Mum return, Gogo came through to the living room.

  ‘You look tired, madam,’ she said.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Ruth,’ Mum said, with a laugh that wasn’t mirrored in her eyes.

  ‘I’ll go make you coffee,’ Gogo said, shaking her head as she left, a demonstration of the worry she felt for my mother.

  A few hours later, Zayn arrived at the house, pulling a forty-four-gallon drum of petrol out of the boot of his car. I was asked to fetch the hose from the garden. Then Mum promptly cut two metres from the length, twisted the fuel cap off and instructed Zayn to hold a funnel in the opening to the car’s tank.

  ‘Okay, so, I’ve not done this before,’ Mum said. ‘But I’ve seen my dad do it a couple of times. Here we go.’

  I watched in nervous anticipation as Mum commenced her first fuel-siphoning attempt. She shoved one end of the hose deep inside the drum, and put the other end in her mouth, intending to suck the air out. Nothing happened. She took a breath, then tried again, sucking harder this time until the petrol gushed into her mouth and she was forced to spit it out onto the ground. It was an off-yellow colour that looked like a weak pineapple cordial, a little like my polyjuice potion. Mum brought the streaming hose to the mouth of the funnel and sighed with relief as the tank started to fill up.

  ‘Well, that’s only the second-least pleasant thing I’ve had to endure today,’ she remarked to Zayn, as we watched the petrol moving through the semi-translucent pipe and into the car.

  Once the tank was filled, Mum whipped the hose out of the drum. The end result was a lot of petrol lost to the bricks on the driveway, but it was better than nothing.

  Mum went inside to brush her teeth, while Zayn fastened the cap on the drum, hoisted it up and set it down at the back of the garage, next to our old pool tyres.

  ‘Just be careful,’ Zayn said to me. ‘I think you’re a bit young to be a smoker, but make sure you don’t mess around with matches or anything here, okay?’

  That afternoon Zayn joined Mum and me as we took Oscar Wilde for a walk around the estate. I held the leash, walking a few paces ahead, while they spoke.

  ‘I’m confused. I thought you already had full custody,’ Zayn
said.

  ‘Full custody, yes. Full guardianship, no. He still has a say when it comes to big decisions. And Australia needs his express consent before they’ll grant our visa. It’s a real migraine-inducing legal minefield.’

  The houses we walked past were an eclectic mix of quaint cottage-style homes and modern three-storey buildings, the inhabitants encompassing everyone from retirees to young families, all seeking solace in the gated oasis. The sights we saw on the walk were anomalies in Zimbabwe: residents kneeling outside wearing garden gloves, and young girls out on the street with skipping ropes. If I’d had a Super Scooter, here would’ve been the place to ride it.

  We walked down to the golf course, located at the centre of the estate. Mum and Zayn ordered a coffee from the cafe, while I took Oscar off his lead and let him sniff around the green. He scampered around the place, following all the new smells and rolling around on the fresh grass. He took a keen interest in an elderly man clad in plaid pants who was busy teeing up for his next hole. I worried that Oscar might run for the ball, but he seemed content watching from a distance.

  The man got into position and took a few practice swings, at which point Oscar started barking. He ran closer to the golfer, snarling in a way I’d never seen before.

  ‘Get your bloody dog off the course,’ the man yelled out. ‘He’s not meant to be on here.’

  I apologised as I ran over, curling my finger under Oscar’s collar, struggling to pull him away. ‘Come on, Oscar, come on. Be a good boy. Come on.’

  When I returned to the cafe, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, I got the sense that I was interrupting something. As I came within earshot, Zayn seemed quick to wrap up the discussion.

  ‘Anyway … You’ve just got to take it one day at a time,’ Zayn said to Mum as I arrived. ‘Just one day at a time. And don’t tolerate any of the nonsense … Hi, Hannah. Is everything okay?’