by Andrea Eames
At the camp the next day, Abel let Hazvinei touch the gun for the very first time. To make her feel better? Perhaps – but I suspected he might be trying to make me feel worse. She ran her fingers along it, caressing it. It looked like a black snake in her hands.
‘It is nice, yes?’ said Abel. ‘Here, Tinashe.’
He balanced his gun across his two open palms, weighed it, and then held it out to me. I was surprised, but I took it. I liked to feel its smooth weight in my hands, heft it to my shoulder and stare down the barrel. I liked the thrill of knowing that it was loaded. I pointed it at passing birds, lizards, a rock rabbit unwise enough to poke out its head from behind a bush.
‘Have you ever killed anything?’ Abel asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said. Insects, a bird or two when I was throwing stones.
He pointed into a tree, where a drab brown bird was sitting. ‘Shoot that.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a bird.’
‘I know, but …’
‘Shoot the bloody bird. Go on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see you do it.’
My heart thudded in my ears. I wished I had never picked up the gun. I wished I had stayed leaning against my tree, doing my homework.
‘With your gun?’
Abel spread his arms wide. ‘Do you see another gun?’
The metal burned my fingers. The long barrel seemed unfriendly now.
‘Go on,’ said Abel.
I aimed and shot. Wide. The bird flew off with a flurry of feathers and a smile on its beak. I heard Hazvinei giggle.
‘Good job.’ Abel cuffed me around the ear. ‘Try again.’
‘Another bird?’
‘No, me. Yes, another bird.’
I picked out one in a tree. A thrush, this time. Bigger. Easier to hit.
‘Good. Go on.’
I aimed. I took more care, this time. When I fired, the bird dropped out of the tree so quickly that I thought it might have had a heart attack before my bullet hit it.
‘Good. Come on.’ Abel walked with me to the tree. The thrush was on the ground, not quite dead, its eyes half-closed, and its little breast heaving. The feathers separated and fluffed out as it inhaled, then flattened when it exhaled. Its feet were curled into claws of pain. ‘Look at that,’ said Abel. ‘You got it in the wing, I think.’
Yes, where the wing became the shoulder. I crouched down. I am so sorry, I wanted to say. I am sorry that I killed you because Abel wanted to prove a point and because I wanted to prove it too.
‘You will need to kill it,’ said Abel.
‘It will die soon anyway.’ I looked up at him.
‘That is cruel, to leave it in pain. It is better to kill it quickly.’
Is it? It is easy to say when you are not the one dying.
‘It is just a bird,’ said Abel. ‘You think too much.’
He took a step forwards and put the full weight of his foot on the bird’s head. It crunched.
‘Hazvinei,’ he said. ‘You try.’
Hazvinei pushed past me and took the gun. I had felt her eagerness behind me as I took aim; I could feel the twitching of fingers that longed to close around a trigger, and her scorn as hot and painful as sunburn when I missed.
‘Stand back, Tinashe,’ said Abel. He pulled me back to stand beside him. I watched Hazvinei: watched as she took aim, watched as she pulled the trigger, watched as a bird fell from the air. And then I watched as Abel smiled at her, and as she smiled at him, and a shadow passed in front of the sun. Abel and Hazvinei. Hazvinei and Abel. There was no room there for Tinashe any longer, and I could not blame them for that.
They started to go to the camp together without telling me. I sat and read my schoolbooks in the lengthening shadows and did not see them until the sun turned red and I heard their laughter approaching. I was too proud to complain or to ask them to wait. I knew that I deserved this punishment.
I was walking home from school when I saw VaStephen again. He was coming out of a shop with a plastic bag full of food. Groceries. Of course he had to shop for groceries, like everyone else, but for some reason I found it hard to imagine him sitting down and eating as we did. He saw me and waved. In the heat his face was shining and pink.
‘Masikati, Tinashe!’
‘Masikati.’
I kept walking, looking down at my shoes and hoping that he would let me go.
‘Iwe!’ VaStephen was coming after me. ‘Wait.’
I stopped, but did not turn. ‘Yes, VaStephen?’
‘Something the matter?’
I could not look in his eyes. Abel was reflected there, still. I could feel it. ‘No, VaStephen.’
‘Hokay.’ He stayed, looking at me.
‘Is something wrong, VaStephen?’ I wanted to get away. I could feel myself wriggling and fidgeting – ants in my pants, as Amai would have said.
‘There have been reports of gunshots,’ he says. ‘Behind the school. We looked, but could not find anything.’
I stayed silent.
‘Have you heard them, Tinashe?’
‘No, VaStephen.’
‘It is dangerous to play with guns,’ he said. ‘Someone will get hurt.’
Why did he ask me these things? Why did he talk to me? Was my guilt written all over my face? I clenched my fist around the lucky bullet in my pocket.
‘I am sorry, VaStephen. I have to get home.’
‘Off you buzz, then.’
I felt guilty for not talking to him. But I did not trust my tongue to form words other than I have been there. I have heard them.
An unimpressed Hazvinei stood with arms folded the next day as I reported this conversation.
‘It is not safe to go to the camp anymore,’ I said. ‘It is not safe to shoot the gun.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The whites know that something is up. They have heard the shots. They are looking for us.’
‘They could not find their own backsides,’ said Hazvinei.
‘It is not funny, Hazvinei. It is serious.’
She snorted. ‘They will not find us. It will be fine. Come on.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now.’
‘After everything I have told you?’
‘Do not be such a girl, Tinashe.’
I lunged to pinch her, but she skipped out of reach.
‘Come on! Or are you too scared?’
‘I am not too scared!’
‘Then come.’
Once more, I followed her.
‘Masikati.’ Before we had even turned the corner, Njiri loomed out of the grey-green morning light like a ghost. I clutched at Hazvinei’s elbow.
‘Masikati.’
‘Going for a walk?’ He stood with his legs apart and arms crossed, smiling, but blocking our path.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Be careful, hey?’ He watched us. Still smiling.
‘We are just going to the school,’ I said. I pulled at Hazvinei’s arm. ‘Come, Hazvinei.’
We said polite goodbyes and walked away.
‘We cannot visit today,’ I said. ‘It is too dangerous. They are watching us.’
Hazvinei snorted. ‘He does not know anything.’
‘Still.’
‘It will be fine.’ She looked behind us. ‘Come on.’
The camp was empty; the ground blank and bare, no trace of cooking fires. A bird shouted at us from the trees. Hazvinei sat under a tree, and waited.
‘Hazvinei, we should go. Abel is not here.’
‘He will be here soon,’ she said.
We waited for a moment.
‘Perhaps something has happened.’
‘Nothing has happened. You think Abel sits here all day?’
‘But Njiri said …’
‘It is fine, Tinashe. Gara pasi.’
I sat beside her. We listened to the high-pitched hum of the insects. I watched a line of ants march over my takkie.
�
��Perhaps we should stop coming,’ I said again. ‘It’s not safe.’
Abel greeted us, throwing down his pack. ‘You are here early.’
‘The whites,’ I said, the words hot and urgent, tea from a boiling pot. ‘Njiri. VaStephen. They know that you are nearby. They are looking for you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They told me that they heard gunshots. They are looking for people with guns.’
‘The whites will not find us,’ Abel said. ‘They are looking for a big rebel camp, not a few boys playing at soldiers.’
‘You are playing?’
‘They will think so.’
See? said Hazvinei’s raised eyebrows to me. I ignored her.
‘So long as we are careful,’ said Abel. ‘And I know we are careful. Yes?’
Abel’s idea of careful was very different from mine. I left school without him one afternoon and found him talking in a low, urgent voice to a skinny man with bad teeth on a street corner. I watched him gesticulate, watched him pull a bundle of notes from his pocket and hand them to the stranger. I watched him take a small packet in return, smile and nod goodbye.
‘Abel!’
He turned, startled.
‘I looked for you at school.’
‘I left early.’
‘What are you doing?’ The smell of overripe fruit and smoked meat from the street vendors swirled between us. ‘You bought something. I saw you.’
We fell into step. Abel did not look at me.
‘Is that who you bought the rifle from?’ I said. ‘Abel? Where did you get the money?’
‘It is none of your business.’
‘Tell me, Abel.’
He stopped. ‘I took it from Baba. All right? Are you happy?’
‘What?’
‘I took the money from Baba.’
My breath came quickly. ‘You are crazy.’
He pushed me. The street vendors and beggars, sensing a drama, nudged each other and catcalled. I shoved him back, and he nearly crashed into a cart of bananas. The woman selling them shouted shrilly, flapping her hands at us as if we were a pair of naughty dogs, and we ran.
‘I told you it was none of your business, Tinashe,’ panted Abel. ‘He is my father, not yours. You stay out of this.’
That night, Hazvinei went to bed early. Abel was out – with his friends, Babamukuru thought – but Tete Nyasha, Babamukuru and I sat together in the kitchen, listening to the radio and reading. The news bulletin came on, and we sat in silence as we always did, hearing that calm white voice tell us that everything would be all right. I could not listen to it calmly, however. I shifted in my seat, scratched my head and banged my feet against the chair legs, thinking of the white policemen.
‘Do you have ants in your pants, Tinashe?’ said Tete Nyasha. ‘Sit still.’
‘Yes, Tete. Sorry, Tete.’
‘Leave the boy alone,’ said Babamukuru. ‘He is excited to hear the news.’
Babamukuru loved the news. He sat with his eyes half-closed and a smile on his face. Although he did not approve of the fighting, and tut-tutted when rebel activity was mentioned (‘This is not the way to go about things, Tinashe. Remember that’), he liked the lists of statistics in the same way that he liked to write up the family accounts once a month, in neat blue columns of neat blue handwriting. We listened to the stories of raids and skirmishes, of talks in London and America, of weapons from China and Russia. The world expanded when the news was playing. The walls of the avocado-green kitchen fell away and we floated in a larger space. Sometimes I had to rest my head on the fresh-scrubbed table and close my eyes to keep myself from spinning off into the emptiness. I did not want to be carried away by this war, as Abel had been.
Chapter Nineteen
THE CHANGE WAS almost too gradual to see, but Hazvinei and Abel continued to drift together and away from me. Soon, several days passed between each of my visits to the camp, and I spent most of my afternoons alone while my cousin and sister went to shoot birds together in the half-light of the bush.
‘It is good to see that you are concentrating on your studies,’ said Babamukuru, seeing that I spent all my time reading and writing. ‘You must not be distracted from the entrance examination.’
Distracted by your sister, I heard him thinking.
‘It is a big opportunity for you, Tinashe.’
I knew that Abel was planning a big opportunity of his own. I could see it in his swagger, his bold eyes and his new tendency to talk back to his father. Hazvinei did not tell me what it was, and I did not go with them to the camp to find out. I was waiting to be invited, so that I would not have to go begging, but no invitation came. I sat with my homework in the atmosphere of building excitement, refusing to speak to either of them and listening to Abel’s mutterings and sleeping breath with resentment.
I was getting ready for school one morning when Hazvinei came in. I saw that she was getting ready with more care than usual, smoothing Vaseline into her face, paying particular attention to her eyelashes and lips, and tying a fresh dhuku over her hair. Abel had left earlier that morning. I watched her smile into the sink as she washed out her cup.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘You must be going somewhere.’
She smiled.
‘Hazvinei, tell me. Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘I will see you tonight, Tinashe.’
‘I am coming with you.’
‘And miss school?’ She made an exaggerated surprised face. ‘You never miss school.’
‘Well, I will miss it today.’
‘You do not even know what I am doing.’
‘You are going to see Abel. You are going to do whatever it is that the two of you have been planning.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘It is nothing dangerous?’ I said. ‘You know that the policemen are watching out for you. And Tete Nyasha will be angry when you are not here to help with the chores.’
‘I am just going out,’ she said. ‘Come with me or not. It is up to you.’
‘The walk will do me good.’ I stood and made an exaggerated stretch.
Hazvinei smiled at me, her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Fine,’ she said.
I followed her. I followed her past the school and the camp, to a part of town I had never visited before. Here there were no lush green verges and manicured storm drains; no high walls and iron gates. The pavement here was cracked like dried skin, and weeds straggled through the veins of dirt that showed beneath the tarmac.
‘Hazvinei? Where are we going?’
She smiled.
‘Are we going to see Abel?’
She said nothing.
We reached a patch of open ground, littered with paper and cans. There was a white tent in the centre, and from it came the sounds of singing. A church group?
‘We are going to church?’ I said. ‘What is this place?’
But Hazvinei had turned away. I followed her gaze and saw Abel standing at the edge of the road.
‘Tinashe!’ Abel’s smile was big and welcoming. ‘It is good to see you. Hazvinei said you would be coming.’
Hazvinei. Of course she did.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked us.
‘Yes,’ said Hazvinei.
‘I do not know what we are doing here,’ I said.
‘She has not told you?’ Abel picked between his teeth with a fingernail. ‘We are doing our part for the revolution.’
He was lit up and cocky with excitement at his first real act as a mukomana. I saw that he carried a bag.
‘What is that?’
He pointed to the tent. ‘They do not support us.’ He smiled at Hazvinei – a secret smile. My heart leapt against my ribs.
‘Who is “us”? And what is this place?’
‘It is a meeting,’ said Hazvinei. ‘A political meeting. People who do not believe in what the freedom fig
hters are doing. Abel heard that it was being held here …’
‘It is good that you are here also,’ said Abel. ‘Your help will be useful.’
‘It sounds like a church group,’ I said.
‘It is a church group,’ said Abel. ‘It is a church group opposed to the struggle.’
I could not go home. I could not leave Hazvinei here. She and Abel looked at me – both smiling, both sure of my response.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We are going to teach them a lesson,’ said Abel.
‘Abel …’ I shook my head.
He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Tinashe. I am not going to hurt anyone. But I am going to give them a shock.’
I remembered my dreams of being a guerrilla when I was a little boy. I remembered Abel telling me that my own personal feelings did not matter – that the revolution was more important. That I had a duty. It was a game, I knew, but perhaps it was not a game to him.
‘Of course, if you are too scared …’ Hazvinei began.
‘I am not too scared,’ I said. ‘But this is a stupid idea.’
‘It will take five minutes,’ said Hazvinei.
‘And were you planning to tell me about this, if I hadn’t seen you leaving this morning?’
‘I wanted to tell you.’ Hazvinei’s eyes were wide. ‘Abel said he did not want to bother you. He knew how hard you were working.’
They looked so alike, those two, as they stood together. Two pairs of bright eyes. Two white smiles. There was no space between them for anyone else.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I will stay. But you promise that no one will get hurt? What are you going to do?’
‘Look.’
We crouched on the ground outside the tent. I could smell my own sweat and the sweat of the others. Abel unzipped his bag and pulled out a bottle stuffed with cotton and with something else that I could not identify.
‘What is that?’
‘It is a bomb,’ said Abel.
‘What?’ I forgot to whisper.
‘It is just a small one,’ said Abel. ‘It won’t do much damage. It will just make a big noise and give them a fright, that is all.’
I looked into two pairs of eager eyes.
‘Where did you get this, Abel?’
‘I bought it,’ he said.
‘How? From whom?’
He looked down, fiddling with the bottle.