As we sat down to watch it, I recounted to Mum what Diana had told me: that the man who played the lead protagonist, N!xau ǂToma, was a real-life bushman himself. ‘Also, Diana said that her mum said that he didn’t know what money was, so when they paid him for the film he didn’t know what to do with it and just let it blow away. Diana’s mum also said that they only paid him like’ – I paused, trying to think of the amount but was too eager to finish telling my story – ‘well, I don’t remember how much exactly, but not much at all, because he didn’t know what money was.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Uh-huh. Also, he’d never seen white people before he was asked to be in the film. Can you imagine? One day you’re just doing nothing and then the next day you’re in a movie.’
I had so many more facts to share with Mum about the film, but I decided I would wait until certain scenes to inform her about them.
We started watching the film and I held my breath, waiting to see whether or not Mum would laugh. She did, and so I laughed along with her. After our camping trip to Mana Pools, Mum had told me that her favourite part of the holiday was getting to see me experience it, and at the time I thought that was the silliest thing I’d ever heard; why wasn’t her favourite part when we cooked marshmallows on the fire or went on that long hike through the bush? But watching her watch a movie with me made me kind of understand what she meant.
We were just twenty minutes into the film when a text dinged on Mum’s cell phone.
‘It’s Mr Wallace,’ she said. And with those two words, I knew that my time with Mum was over for the day. She stood up abruptly, and my legs fell from her lap. She pulled the blanket that had slipped off the sofa back over my feet, and gave me a kiss on the top of my head.
‘You keep watching, sweetie. I’ll just pick up from where you’ve got to. Won’t be long,’ she said, before she disappeared into her bedroom.
But I knew she would be long. And watching it alone wasn’t the point: I had already seen the movie – twice. I wanted to watch it with her because there were lots of funny bits that I thought she would like.
I continued watching the film, but I didn’t laugh as much as I would have if Mum had been there too. At one point, halfway through, I paused the VCR because I didn’t want her to miss my favourite bit. But then I could hear that she was still on the phone, her voice terse but controlled. I pressed play again.
Half an hour later, I heard sobbing coming from her bedroom. I tiptoed over and paused outside her door to gauge if she was still talking to anyone before knocking. She let out a deep sigh before opening the door a few seconds later.
‘Hi, sweetie. How are’ – she cleared her throat – ‘how are you enjoying the film?’
I told her it was good, and there was still a lot left to go, offering to recap the parts she’d missed.
‘Aww, thank you.’ She turned away from me, thinking I wouldn’t notice her wiping at her tears as she pretended to look for something on her bedside table. ‘Perhaps we can watch it together another day, but right now … isn’t a good time.’
‘Maybe watching a movie will make you feel better,’ I suggested, knowing how much I appreciated being able to slip into a fantasy world whenever I felt sad. ‘I can make you a cup of tea?’ She turned back to face me, but didn’t say anything. ‘Or a hot chocolate?’
‘Hannah, I don’t know if you realise how serious this is … your dad … your dad has put up another roadblock. And he’s going to keep blocking and manipulating and … until we’re bankrupt. I can’t afford to keep fighting him in court. I just can’t.’ She grabbed at the skin on her neck, which had turned red and patchy. ‘Look, finish watching the film without me. I need to speak to Nana about something.’
I lumbered back to the lounge room to continue the movie, hating feeling out of the loop and seeing my mum so agitated and upset. It had to be something really important, more than the usual stuff that went on, or else she would have waited for Nana’s regular weekly call on Wednesday night and would’ve spared herself the cost of calling long distance to Australia.
I knew that she would be using the landline in her bedroom. After a brief deliberation, I paused the movie, rushed off the couch and picked up the second phone on the table near the kitchen, putting my hand over the receiver so as not to alert Mum to my eavesdropping.
‘… You won’t believe it. He bribed the bloody child psychologist. So now none of her notes can be used in the case because she is officially a hostile witness. The court said it would be unfair to Steve to have someone prejudicially decide against him. He tried to bribe the woman: how about that for unfair? So now we have to go through the whole charade again. Another month as they organise another psychologist. And who knows what excuse they’ll come up with to muddy the waters again.’ Mum exhaled, causing the line to crackle. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I should … Oh, I don’t know … And poor Hannah, going through all of this. Sometimes I think, shit. Maybe I am not a great mother. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I don’t know how you did it, Mum. Out there on the farm, Dad off fighting. I don’t know how you did it … I don’t know what I’m going to do now …’
‘You have to be strong, Jane,’ came Nana’s voice, distant and delayed.
‘Nothing I do, nothing I argue or say, is going to make a difference. None of this is going to stick to him. He’s just going to keep changing lawyers, or nipping to Johannesburg on business trips on court dates, or … or … god knows what. I wonder how much he’s paying the solicitors to get them to go along with his nonsense, forcing them to delay proceedings. I can’t afford to keep going through this, Mum. I can’t. The system’s just so fucked …’ Mum’s voice trailed off.
‘It’s messed up,’ Nana agreed.
‘I think … I am going to have to pull out the big guns. I don’t want to ruin him … I just want us to be able to get on with our lives. And you know what Dad always says: we live the Zimbabwean way. Normal rules don’t apply. It’s live or die.’
‘You need to do what you need to do.’
‘Keith Hunzwi has sent me everything that proves Steve’s involvement. It’s all right there. I think I’m going to hand it in to the police tomorrow, then send some over to ZANU headquarters. Who knows, they may walk straight over to the paper shredder. But if Mbofi is unpopular within the party … Well, that helps us. All I know is that this is probably our only chance to get out of the country, to be free from the reign of that man.’ Mum stopped. ‘It’s not the ideal solution. But I don’t know what else to do.’
‘You know I don’t like the idea of you getting involved in any of this,’ Nana said. ‘But I’m not going to stop you. If you think this is what you need to do.’
‘You’re not making it any easier for me, Mum.’
‘I’m sorry, Jane. I just worry.’
‘I know. I know. God, what a situation …’
‘You know what? We saw a kangaroo yesterday. Came right into the backyard.’
‘No way. Really?’
‘Really. They’re like rats here – they’re everywhere.’
I got the sense the conversation was about to wrap up, so softly put the receiver down and went back to watch the rest of the film. But I was only half paying attention, mulling over what Mum meant by pulling out the big guns. Why was Mum’s old colleague from Standard Chartered mentioned? What did he have ‘proof’ of ? And where did the man who’d visited my father’s home, and had appeared in static images on the television screen, fit into it all?
A few minutes later, Mum returned to the couch.
‘Hannah, sweetie, do you mind if we pause the movie for a bit. I need to talk to you about something, and it’s very important, okay?’
I picked up the remote and pressed pause, the screen lingering on a shot of a group of bushmen gathered in a circle. Mum reached over to stroke hair out of my face, tucking the
stray strands behind my ear.
‘I just want to make sure that leaving for Australia is what you want. And that you know that if we leave, you … you might not be able to see your dad for a while. But you’ll have me, and Nana and Grandpa, and … and we’ll be starting our new life together.’
I assured her it was what I wanted, and that I understood all the consequences that followed. Mum wrapped her arms around me, bringing me into her chest. When she let go, I noticed her tears had left thick streaks in her make-up. I told her what Stella always told me: that if there’s no blood, you shouldn’t cry.
‘Well,’ Mum said, and started wiping away the wet trails with her thumb, ‘life’s a bit more complicated than that.’
43
While waiting for mum to return home from court, I tuned into a live broadcast of the ZANU-PF National People’s Congress. Mum had cancelled our satellite TV subscription, as we could no longer afford it, and the only channel left was ZBC. At the commencement of the event, Mugabe took to the podium, set to deliver an impassioned speech. Displayed behind him was a large banner that read: ZIMBABWE WILL NEVER BE A COLONY AGAIN.
He cleared his throat.
‘Zimbabwe is for Zimbabweans. And only Zimbabweans can determine who shall rule them and who shall not. Whether there is a situation here of political disorder, of lawlessness, violation of the rule of law, violation of human rights, lack of democracy, our neighbours would know that better than the British government … It is our land, ancestral land, our sacred land, never an extension of Britain.’
A while later Gogo walked past the lounge room, catching me slumped on the couch in the same position I’d been in for the past hour. I was still watching the broadcast, but a decidedly less engaging member had taken the floor, and I wasn’t focusing. I had bitten off most of my fingernails and was now gnawing on the cuticle of my thumb, gaining some small satisfaction with each piece of dry skin I managed to peel off.
‘Come on. Get up. Come outside with me,’ she instructed.
‘Uh-uh,’ I let out a muffled protest.
Gogo gently grabbed my hand, taking it out of my mouth and pulling me up from the couch.
‘And don’t do that to your hands. Yucky,’ she chided.
I followed her out to the washing line, spotting a chongololo curl into itself at the sound of our footsteps.
‘Help me take these things down.’
I did as I was told, and we worked together in silence. The smell of laundry detergent and the rhythm we developed – tossing the pegs into the tin on the grass, then folding clothes into the basket – calmed some of my nerves.
‘I know you are scared,’ she said, unpegging the several tan school socks that lined one row of the washing line and handing me pairs to roll together. ‘But you shouldn’t be. Your mum has a plan.’
‘She won’t tell me what’s going on. She just said that today was really important. She should be home by now.’
We continued working in the late-afternoon sun until we reached the last line of linen.
‘Alright, you grab this side,’ Gogo instructed, handing me two sheet corners. She took the opposite end, shaking out the creases before folding it in half, and in half again.
Our ears pricked at the sound of a key turning in the front door, then being dropped into the key-bowl. We left the washing outside and dashed back into the house to find Mum.
‘We did it,’ Mum said. She embraced me, then Gogo, before moving back to me again. ‘We did it.’ She was crying, but not in the same way I’d seen her cry over the past year. Her smile was so wide that tears were caught in the crease between her eyes and her cheeks.
Mum sat me down and explained that, due to a pending criminal investigation, coupled with his frequent abuse of court processes, my father’s guardianship rights had been revoked. He could no longer legally oppose our decision to leave. It was over. The court appearances, the signing of documents, meetings with Mr Wallace, and seeing the psychologist – it was all over. Dad’s conniving and manipulating had finally caught up to him. He was no longer able to bluster and bribe his way through to the outcome he desired.
Once our visa approval came through, we were free to go.
The second term of Grade 7 started the following week. The first morning back was a mad rush, as usual. In the midst of getting dressed, I heard Mum give a short honk from the car, so I dashed down the driveway with my shoes and socks in hand.
Mum winced when I brushed the dirt and leaves off my bare feet onto the car mat.
‘Didn’t want to be late,’ I explained.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll make it in time.’
After exiting the estate, we rounded the corner and saw a group of men were fixing the great crater of a pothole that had formed in the centre of the road. They had lined the inside with offcuts of bricks and large rocks from nearby construction sites, and were filling the gaps with little stones.
Mum asked me to grab some money out of the glove box.
‘Tatenda,’ she said, rolling down her window to hand them the cash. ‘I was convinced my tyre was going to burst on that one day.’
At the traffic lights on Bishop Gaul Avenue, Mum bought a copy of The Herald from one of the paper salesmen who ran up and down the intersection. Instead of pulling up in front of the school to let me out, Mum parked in the car park so we could read the paper together. We knew there was going to be an exposé on Mbofi that would likely mention Dad, but it was still surreal to see his name in print, appearing a few paragraphs below the headline: Mbofi Stripped of Ministerial Position, Awaiting Trial. I had not seen my dad since that day with the child psychologist, and I couldn’t help imagining him reading the same article, newspaper folded over his knee, glasses pinching his nose.
The Parkers would’ve heard the news, but I hoped Michaela had the tact to refrain from telling my peers. And that no Bishopslea parent would make the connection between ‘renegade businessman’ Steve Clarke, from Standard Chartered, and Hannah Reynolds, the girl whose grandpa accompanied her to the father–daughter Easter egg hunt back in Grade 4.
My third class of the day was Shona. Mrs Muduma was sporting a red-and-gold headdress that matched the colour of her lips and eyelids respectively.
‘I hope everyone has been practising their vocabulary over the break,’ Mrs Muduma said. ‘Who would like to go first?’ As usual, no-one offered themselves up to the chopping block. So she moved alphabetically through the roll, calling on girls from the list to come up to the front of the class.
However, after Nikita Patel mumbled through her turn, Mrs Muduma skipped straight to Rudo Rusere, leaving me out. A few of the girls noticed and looked at me, including Rudo, who seemed more than unimpressed, but nobody was brave enough to inform Mrs Muduma that she had made a mistake. It wasn’t one, of course. The school faculty would’ve been informed that the reason behind my frequent absences last term was not a series of unfortunate illnesses and petrol shortages, which were the stories I had told my classmates. And I’m sure she would’ve known about the most recent turn of events.
At the end of class, the bell rang for lunch and the class stood up to thank Mrs Muduma and wish her a good day, the chorus more rushed than usual due to the promise of food. Just as I thought I was free, Mrs Muduma called me back to her desk, waiting for everyone else to leave before she spoke to me.
‘You know, Hannah, I have been through a lot in my life. Trust me on that. And sometimes I would think to myself: This isn’t fair. Why me? But at the end of the day, it is what has made me strong. Made me successful. You must take the things that make life tough, and you must use them to make yourself strong.’ The intensity of her gaze and her words made me a little embarrassed and I wasn’t quite able to look at her. ‘Do you hear what I am saying to you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Muduma.’
‘Good. Now study hard, because I will test
you next week. And I know that you are smart and you can do it, okay? So no excuses.’
‘Yes, Mrs Muduma. Thank you.’
‘Okay, now don’t be late,’ she said, as she dismissed me.
The second bell rang out for lunch, and I skidded across the concrete floor towards the boarding hostel.
As it’s one of the few memories that stand out from my disruptive final year of junior school, I have often replayed that conversation in my head. The caricature I had created of Mrs Muduma was false. She was tough, but she wasn’t horrible. And, in retrospect, I understood her frustration. All she wanted was for us to learn the language of the Shona people. The people whose land we lived on. And I understood why she was usually angrier with the black students than the white ones. They were meant to be the best at Shona. The fact that some of the kids couldn’t speak their own language, the language of their people, demonstrated that the British imperialists were winning. It did not matter that white people were being removed from their farms, and fleeing in droves to the United States and the United Kingdom and, in our case, Australia: the crushing effects of colonisation were still being felt, over and over. I had often wondered why English words like phone and computer and motorbike weren’t seamlessly integrated into Shona, why vowels were added, consonants changed. It was the same reason we sang ‘Simudzai Mureza wedu WeZimbabwe’ during school assembly, and not ‘Rise, O Voices of Rhodesia’.
Over lunch, and once I was confident that the other girls around us were too absorbed in their own conversations to listen in, I shared all the revelations about my dad with Diana.
‘Money laundering?’ she repeated.
‘Mum explained it to me. It’s basically when you’re getting money for doing something illegal, but you pretend the money is coming from something that is legal so you can get away with it.’
‘Holy Silly Hairy Impala Toes,’ she whispered, and then we both laughed, our secret language incapable of matching the gravity of the situation.
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