The White Shadow

by Andrea Eames

  I shook my head. ‘It is nothing like that.’

  ‘No? Baba told me about the drought.’

  I climbed into bed, drawing the blanket up over the goosepimples on my skin.

  ‘You see?’ said Abel. ‘You do not want to talk.’

  ‘Good night,’ I said.

  And I lay in the unfamiliar darkness, listening to the sound of traffic from the road and clenching my teeth together hard so that I would not cry.

  So Babamukuru knew about what had happened in the drought. I wondered what else he knew. Had Baba told him about the visit to the N’anga afterwards? I thought I had burned that knowledge along with the powders and potions, but perhaps it still hovered around us. The bad fortune could not be allowed to follow us to town.

  Every morning all three of us helped with the chores. Babamukuru could have employed a maid – he was wealthy enough – but he wanted Abel to learn to work for himself. I did not mind. I had performed the daily chores since I was old enough to carry a bucket, and Hazvinei, for once in her life, was made to scrub floors and clean dishes like everyone else. Some small, shameful part of me was glad about this, although there were plenty of times when she was able to cheat me into doing them for her, by claiming tiredness or headache or debilitating grief. Then she would sit back and watch me as I worked, biting on a piece of sugarcane she had torn from the bush.

  We learned the mysteries of the indoor toilet. I went in the garden for as long as I could, but after a few days I worked up the courage to use it.

  ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands,’ said Tete.

  The toilet was green and cold, made of porcelain, with a pile of toilet rolls on top, covered with a woollen tea cosy. I took a piss, being careful not to drip, washed my hands and went into the kitchen again.

  Dinner was on the table.

  ‘You start your meals,’ said Tete Nyasha. ‘I’m just going to the powder room.’

  We sat down at the table. There were proper napkins, cloth ones, with brass rings around them.

  Tete Nyasha came back with a serious face. ‘Tinashe.’

  I was very confused. I had washed my hands. I had made sure that there were no splashes.

  ‘You must flush the toilet when you have finished,’ said Tete. ‘It is the silver handle on the side.’

  I felt Abel’s eyes on me. My cheeks grew hot. ‘Sorry, Tete.’

  ‘It is not your fault. Just remember to flush from now on.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I could not even take a piss without doing something wrong. I missed the sweet stink of our outdoor toilet at home, where I could count the moths around the bare bulb.

  Tete Nyasha had been a stranger to me, but since Abel would not talk to me and Babamukuru was at work all day, I spent a lot of time with her in the kitchen. She was glad of the company, although disappointed that Hazvinei did not want to help her with the baking or join her for gossip and cups of tea.

  ‘Why did you never come to visit us, Tete Nyasha?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, well …’ she wiped her hands on her apron. The bruises on her ear had faded to a dull shine now, but a new swelling showed at the edge of her jaw. (‘I am so clumsy,’ she said with that high-pitched laugh that Hazvinei loved to imitate. ‘I am always walking into things.’)

  ‘I was very busy,’ she said now. ‘I have told you.’

  ‘But you never came to any of the parties,’ I said. ‘You would have liked them.’

  Tete Nyasha turned to the sink. ‘I am very happy to have both of you here, now, Tinashe.’

  Tete Nyasha had been pregnant after Abel, we knew. Amai had talked to the aunties about it in a hushed voice at home. Hazvinei had overheard (as she always did) and she had told me (as she usually did). We knew, therefore, that Tete Nyasha had become pregnant twice after Abel was born, but that both babies had died in her stomach.

  ‘The spirits took them,’ Amai had said. She did not say that Tete Nyasha had done something wrong, but disapproval hid behind her words.

  ‘It would be easier if she had more bloody children of her own,’ said Hazvinei. I told her not to speak that way, but secretly I agreed.

  Tete Nyasha always had to be touching us. Even while she was making dinner, she liked us to sit nearby, and she would put out a hand to smooth our hair, or grip our shoulders. Hazvinei shivered off Tete Nyasha’s hands as if they were so many flies landing to suck the juice from her skin. Hazvinei was perpetually annoyed those days: knees drawn up tight to her chest, arms crossed, elbows sticking out ready to poke the ribs of anyone who came too close.

  ‘Try to be kind to her,’ I said when we were giving the chickens their night-time feed and stacking the firewood.

  ‘Why?’ Hazvinei threw the feed at Tete Nyasha’s chickens as if she hated them. The chickens, being chickens, did not care, and pecked at it anyway. They were fat and lazy and produced one egg a day between them, if that. On the kopje they would have been sentenced to the pot.

  ‘Because she is our auntie.’

  Hazvinei snorted.

  ‘Is that not enough reason to be polite?’

  ‘I am being polite.’

  ‘You are not.’

  ‘She is a silly, fat old woman,’ said Hazvinei, ‘and she smells.’

  ‘She does not smell.’

  ‘She stinks of floor polish.’

  ‘She spends all day on her hands and knees polishing the floor. Of course she smells of floor polish.’

  ‘And she is stupid. Oh, Hazvinei, you’re so clever! I don’t know how you know the things you know.’ She imitated Tete Nyasha’s high-pitched, breathy voice. I smiled despite myself.

  ‘Hazvinei, she just wants to look after you.’

  Hazvinei spat, a round glob of liquid that made a tiny crater in the red soil. ‘That is what I think of Babamukuru, and that is what I think of Tete Nyasha.’ She dropped the feed bucket on the ground with a clang that echoed off the walls. ‘I want to go back.’

  ‘Hazvinei, stop that. Babamukuru will be angry.’

  ‘I do not care.’

  ‘You like Abel. Do you not want to stay with him?’

  ‘Abel is different now. Tinashe, you are just trying to make everything quiet and peaceful, like you always do.’

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’ I asked, but too late, because she had gone inside.

  I wanted to be quiet and peaceful. We were safe from the spirits here, I thought. They could not live in this place with its unnaturally green grass and rain that rose like magic from the ground. Hazvinei had not talked about the spirits since we arrived in town. She had not woken me at night, whispered secrets in my ear or tried to show me the shape of something invisible. I hoped that the cholera had taught her a lesson, as it had taught one to me.

  One night at dinner, Babamukuru sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth. ‘Well, you can’t sit at home during the day much longer,’ he said. ‘It is time for you to go out to work.’

  ‘Work?’ I said. It seemed disloyal to think about starting something new when our parents had not been dead three months.

  ‘You are going to start school with Abel, Tinashe,’ said Babamukuru.

  This was more than I had expected. A shameful bubble of happiness rose in my stomach. Abel’s school! Desks and new books and proper examinations and the chance of university after that. A school tie, a blazer and smart leather shoes. I swallowed. ‘Really?’

  Babamukuru saw my expression and smiled. ‘Yes, Tinashe. You have been a good boy, and I know that you work very hard at school. You will be a little behind, but you will soon catch up, I know.’

  ‘Thank you, Babamukuru.’ I resisted the urge to clap my hands together, as Amai would have done. He looked like a god to me in that moment, even with his napkin tucked into his collar and his forehead shining with sweat. He turned to Hazvinei now, and said, ‘You will stay at home.’

  Hazvinei looked up. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be rude, Hazvinei,’ said Tete Nyasha. She put
a hand over Hazvinei’s, but my sister jerked her own hand away from underneath.

  ‘To help your auntie with the chores,’ said Babamukuru.

  ‘Fine,’ said Hazvinei, and carried on eating.

  ‘It will be good for you,’ said Babamukuru. He was staring at her with a strange, intent expression. Hazvinei looked at him, lifted a forkful of mashed potato to her mouth and put it in, still looking. It was very disrespectful for her to hold a man’s gaze in such a way.

  ‘It will be good for you,’ he repeated, louder.

  Abel dropped his fork. It clattered in the silence.

  Hazvinei stopped eating and looked at Babamukuru. ‘Why?’

  ‘You need to learn what hard work is. I have noticed Tinashe doing your chores.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said quickly.

  ‘It is not a man’s place,’ said my uncle.

  Hazvinei’s eyes were so narrow that they almost looked closed.

  ‘You need to learn a lesson,’ said Babamukuru. He held out his water cup. ‘Get me a drink.’

  Hazvinei stared at him.

  ‘Fill your uncle’s cup, Hazvinei,’ said Tete Nyasha, an anxious smile on her face. ‘You should be glad to do something for him, after he has taken you in and been so kind.’

  Abel said nothing, but chewed his food and kept his eyes lowered to his plate.

  Hazvinei took the cup. A smile fattened Babamukuru’s face. He watched as she stood and walked to the refrigerator. And then he watched as she furrowed her smooth brow as if she were thinking, pursed her lips and spat a white, unladylike gob of saliva into his cup.

  Babamukuru pushed back his chair. It fell over. Tete Nyasha scrambled to pick it up, and I went to help her.

  ‘No, Tinashe,’ she said, flapping her hands at me. ‘Sit down. Sit down. Stay quiet.’

  Babamukuru looked at Hazvinei for a long time. Then he looked at Tete Nyasha, who was flapping at his elbow, tugging at his sleeve, asking him to sit down. The purple in his face faded back to brown, and he sat.

  ‘Hazvinei. Go to your room,’ he said.

  Hazvinei left, walking tall. I felt as though we had escaped something terrible, although I did not know what it was I feared. I did not dare to look at Babamukuru’s face, but I glanced at Abel’s. He was grinning. I had not seen him smiling so widely since we moved to town.

  I was happy that Babamukuru was sending me to Abel’s school, and ashamed that I was happy so soon after my parents had died. Abel gave me some pieces of his old uniform to wear until Tete Nyasha had time to buy me new clothes. I did not care; they were better quality, even second-hand, than anything I had worn on the kopje, and I could not wait to visit this land of shiny new books where I could sit at a proper desk, instead of on the floor. Tete Nyasha made us each a packed lunch with a coin hidden under the sandwich.

  ‘What is that for?’ I asked Abel.

  ‘The tuck shop.’

  ‘What is that?’

  He shrugged. ‘You can buy sweets there,’ he said, ‘or Cokes.’

  Money for doing nothing at all! And the sandwich had thin slivers of ham inside it, flat and pink as a dog’s tongue, and smears of yellow mustard. I could not wait for lunchtime to come so that I could eat it.

  ‘Does Babamukuru take us to school?’ I asked. Now that would be something, arriving in his big silver car!

  ‘No,’ said Abel, picking up his school suitcase. ‘We walk.’

  The school was a long, low, white-washed building on stilts, to keep it away from the easily flooded clay soil. Boys who looked just like me, in uniforms just like mine, kicked a football around outside. They all had shining, freshly polished school shoes and socks pulled up to their knees. They looked well-scrubbed and healthy, with fat cheeks and smooth skin. I felt grey and thin next to them.

  ‘This is my cousin.’ Abel kept the introductions as brief as possible. I had worried that he would ignore me at school, leave me to my own devices, but he stayed by my side as the boys greeted me. I was glad he stayed there, because it was the first time I had heard a school bell and I would not have known to go inside and sit down at one of the wooden desks.

  Once the lessons started, though, I was at home. I recognised the books. I recognised the fresh sawdust smell of new exercise books and the taste of new pens. I put my hand up to answer my first question, and I was so excited to get the answer right that I forgot to be embarrassed at standing up to answer when I should have remained in my seat. My grin had become painful by the time the bell rang again and we were released for lunch.

  ‘You are enjoying this, hey?’ said Abel.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, as if he could not tell.

  ‘You always liked school,’ he said. ‘I never understood it.’

  But he softened, and when we opened our twin lunchboxes to eat our twin ham sandwiches, he introduced me to his friends. I did not remember all their names, but I was happy to be part of a gang again – even as its smallest and skinniest member. I saw the sideways glances and heard the quieter, whispered words meant only for Abel and not for me, but I thought that this was because I was an awkward country cousin, and I did not mind.

  After school, Abel had football practice.

  ‘You must try out for the team as well,’ Babamukuru had said. ‘You will be good on the field together, yes?’ His two boys, making him proud.

  ‘Yes, Babamukuru.’

  Abel had packed two sets of his football kit. The shirts had red numbers on the back. When school finished, the boys who were staying for sports practice went to the changing rooms, while the others went to catch the bus or walk home.

  ‘Are we going to change?’ I asked. Abel did not move.

  ‘You can,’ he said. ‘I have something to do.’

  I clutched our bag and waited.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I will see you at home.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘And do not tell Baba,’ he said as he walked away, leaving me standing on a field full of strangers in clothes that did not fit me properly.

  When I returned home from soccer practice, I was hot and angry. I had become lost on my way back from school, remembering the route wrongly from that morning, and the kit Abel had given me was stained and smelled of sweat. Some of the boys showered at school and changed back into their clothes, but I had come to the bathroom to find my school clothes gone – hidden as a joke by some of the boys with whom I had talked earlier. Without Abel there, it was clear that I was a rural nobody who would be treated as such. I found Babamukuru’s high wall and iron gate amongst all the other high walls and iron gates on the street, and I opened the front door of his house to find Abel and Hazvinei eating sandwiches together and Tete Nyasha standing at the sink.

  ‘Tinashe!’ She folded me in a fat hug, and then sniffed. ‘Why are you wearing your sports kit home?’

  ‘I lost my uniform,’ I said. I looked over her shoulder at Abel, who was staring at me with no expression.

  ‘You are filthy,’ said Hazvinei. She wrinkled her nose. ‘And you stink.’

  ‘Abel told me that you stayed later to play with the other boys.’ Tete Nyasha wagged her finger. ‘I know it is exciting to start at a new school, Tinashe, but you must take care of your clothes, yes?’

  Anger was cold and hard as the bullet Chenjerai had given me. I had left the precious bullet under my pillow – now I wished I had it in my hand so that I could throw it at Abel’s impassive face.

  ‘I am sorry, Tete Nyasha.’

  I resolved to do the best I could in school. Clearly Abel was not to be trusted. No one there was to be trusted. All I had was myself and my schoolwork, and I was determined to make the most of this opportunity. It was all I had.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT WAS EASIER to hear the news in town. Baba’s tokoloshe-possessed radio was stored along with the rest of his belongings, but Babamukuru had a smart new radio and received the newspaper every day. Over breakfast we listened to the bulletins, and then Babamukuru f
licked through the musty-smelling pages, pursing his lips and shaking his head at the reports of terrorist activity. He passed the comic pages to Hazvinei and I to read, but he did not offer anyone else the bulk of the paper. If I wanted to see the headlines I had to fish it out of the kitchen bin. This is how I learned that black majority rule was meant to come in two years’ time – that important men had spoken and deliberated, and that this was the result.

  ‘You see, Tinashe,’ said Babamukuru, ‘this is how important things are decided – by educated men talking. Not by guerrillas killing each other in the bush.’

  I wondered what Abel thought of this. He said nothing, but the expression on his face told me that he did not place much value on the voice of Babamukuru’s radio.

  Even here in town, however, we could not escape the white policemen. There were two who walked our neighbourhood and I had come to know them over the past weeks – to look at, at least, and to shout a greeting. I did not mind them. They kicked a football around with us boys occasionally or gave us chewing gum. Walking home, I saw them standing at the corner of Babamukuru’s road, listening to their hand-held radio – a crackling, braying voice telling them about a ‘disturbance’. A disturbance on our green, silent street?

  I walked faster, but I heard the younger one call to me.

  This was the first time he had spoken to me directly, and I wondered how he knew my name. Babamukuru was an important man, I knew, but his skinny country nephew could not be of much interest to men like this.

  ‘Sir.’ I stopped.

  ‘Mangwanani,’ said the policeman in careful, accented Shona.

  ‘Mangwanani.’

  ‘Marara sei?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Stephen,’ said the older, fatter, hairier policeman, who had come up behind him. ‘We don’t have all day.’

  The younger man smiled at me, and I smiled back. I liked him. His Shona was not perfect, but it was good: and at least he bothered to try and work his way through the long traditional greetings that made most white men impatient – white men like this other one, whom the people of the neighbourhood called njiri, warthog. Njiri always looked hot and red, like a piece of boiled beef fresh from the pot and dripping, and his beard moved up and down when he talked.