by Tendai Huchu
He was a mouse-like man with whiskers, who sweated beneath his heavy winter suit. I soon formed a low opinion of him. What kind of lawyer drives a Mazda 323?
Everyone else fell over themselves to try and please him, as if that would change the contents of the will he was holding before him on thick white paper. He was sitting in Baba’s chair, the best in the house, though the springs must have poked his backside or else he had haemorrhoids because he kept shifting about as if he was trying to scratch his bottom.
Once we were all gathered he began, and I was not too impressed by his English. He had a thick Shona accent with r’s where his l’s should have been.
‘Thank you for werucoming me in the house. As you aru know, your son reft a wiri which we were given by the Bhuritish Embassy…’ He went on to read and explain a number of legal issues before getting down to brass tacks. The house was so quiet. His clothes, which were to be shipped over in due course, were to be shared among all the male relatives gathered. An uncle and aunt got his TV set, which he must never have watched when he was alive. As the list of his worldly possessions was read out, I felt it was a deconstruction of what his life had been in England, sterile and functional.
The part everyone was waiting for was about the house. I had overheard Takesure and Knowledge, our two eldest brothers, discussing it in the weeks before. Takesure, being the oldest, would take the main house and Knowledge and his wife could live in the cottage.
‘I give my entire interest in the property, which I have purchased in full, together with any insurance on such real property, but subject to any encumbrances on the said real property, to my sister Vimbai Hozo and my niece Chiwoniso Mabayo. If said devisee fai-rus or devisees fai-ru to survive me then this gift sharu lapse and become part of the residue of my estate.’
I shook my head, unable to believe what I was hearing. If I hadn’t been supported I would have swooned on the spot. Takesure leapt up and grabbed the will from the lawyer’s hands.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He tore it in half and threw it on the floor.
The lawyer shrunk back in the chair but Takesure grabbed him by the collar and shook him so hard that his head bobbled like some sort of rag doll.
‘Porice, Porice!’ the poor lawyer shouted. He was given a hard slap across the face.
‘Let him go. It doesn’t change anything,’ Baba said, prising the lawyer from Takesure’s furious grip. The lawyer shot off like a bolt, shouting that he would sue. He didn’t sue, and remained the executor of the estate to the very end.
The following months were full of wrangling. Takesure and Knowledge threatened to beat me up if I didn’t sign the house over to them. It was as though they felt entitled to it by rights. Baba and Mother agreed that the house should go to them. ‘What if I got married?’ they argued. The family would lose the house. I would have given in, if half of that inheritance didn’t belong to Chiwoniso. I had to protect her birthright.
Takesure and Knowledge moved their families forcibly into the house. It was only after months of going to and fro to the courts that they were evicted by the police. I endured endless threats, which only stopped when I won a peace order barring my family from being a hundred metres near me or my house.
Eight
I got to the salon early and on time on Monday morning. I have a sixth sense about things and felt that on the one weekend I’d been away something radical had happened. The smirk on Agnes’ face as she greeted me confirmed my fears. She had just opened shop and was arranging the stocks.
‘Mama wants to see you later.’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know. Your habitual lateness, I suppose.’
‘Everyone knows what time I come in.’ My threat about how I brought in half the customers lingered on my tongue. I wouldn’t waste it on Agnes, she was too stupid. ‘So how did Dumisani do on his first day?’ I tried to sound as disinterested as I could with my question.
Agnes put the packs of hair products she was holding down and faced me. There was a glint in her eye. Some sort of devilish aura emanated from her.
‘That’s for you to find out later,’ she said, and waited for me to speak. It was clear she wanted me to grovel. I went to the kettle instead and boiled some water.
Dumisani, Yolanda and Memory came in together. They were laughing at something as if they were all old friends.
‘There is the wonder boy himself,’ Agnes said, giving Dumisani a hug. She might have suffocated him in those folds of fat if he had not pulled back to catch his breath.
‘You must be Vimbai,’ he said, coming over and kissing me on both cheeks. I was unused to this type of greeting and found it wholly inappropriate.
‘I am looking forward to seeing you work,’ I said coldly.
‘That can’t be true. I have heard about your work. I honestly can’t wait to see you at it. There is so much I can learn from you.’ He laughed and I felt disarmed.
‘Dumi is lying. He knows his work is much better than yours.’ The words sunk in as Agnes studied my face, trying to see if she had achieved the desired effect. My brows knitted against my will.
‘That’s not the case,’ Dumi said, smiling a little.
I looked at Yolanda and Memory and their faces dropped to the floor. I reminded myself I was the Queen Bee here and poured myself a cup of tea. I arranged my chair and got ready for the first customer.
She came in soon after. A professional-looking lady with tons of make up on. She was not a regular so I pointed her to my chair. Mrs Khumalo insisted that I styled new customers myself to guarantee they came back.
‘I am looking for a guy called Dumi to do my hair,’ she said as she sat down.
‘It’s okay, I’ll do it,’ I replied.
‘I want Dumi, he did my cousin’s hair on Saturday and she told me that he’s really good.’
The other girls exchanged conspiratorial glances, which I felt behind my back. Dumi moved in to save me further embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry, Vimbai. It will give you a chance to finish your tea.’ He turned to the woman and asked, ‘Who’s your sister?’
‘Her name is Mercy, you must remember her. She’s very light-skinned, like a coloured girl.’
‘I remember now,’ said Dumi with his trademark chortle.
‘I want you to give me the same style as her.’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean ‘no’?’ the lady said, half-rising from the seat just as Mrs Khumalo came in.
‘She’s a customer. Give her what she wants.’ I rather wanted Mrs Khumalo to hear me say that.
‘I’ll take my money someplace else.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Mrs Khumalo asked.
‘She wants me to give her her sister’s hair style but I can make her look better than that.’
The customer stopped in her tracks. That’s the power of vanity, the desire to go one up. ‘What are you proposing?’
‘I want to cut your hair short.’
Instinctively the woman reached for her shoulder-length hair. It was well looked after; her crowning glory. I expected her to bolt, but she seemed rooted to the spot, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, as Dumi drew nearer. He took her hand and drew closer.
‘You have beautiful eyes and your long hair tilts the balance away from your fine face. Your cheeks are sculpted but your long hair makes it impossible to admire them. Trust me.’
There was magnetism about him that lured her in. She sat back silently in the chair. I could see her shaking slightly as if she was unsure of herself. Dumi took a large towel and covered the mirror so she could not see her reflection in it.
‘Trust me,’ he said gently. We were all watching the scene trying to make sense of it.
He picked up a large pair of scissors and in one quick movement took a snip from the hair on the left side of her head. The woman shuddered as the hairs floated down to the ceramic floor, landing on both the black and white squares. If the mirror had been u
ncovered she would certainly have fled. He began to snip furiously and the hair grew into a small pile at his feet.
‘Come outside. We’ve got to talk,’ Mrs Khumalo said to me.
I went out with her and she drew me towards the lawn, out of earshot. Two half-naked toddlers, her late brother’s children, were playing beneath the clothes line in the yard.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.
‘We have to talk about your attendance. I have reports that you come in late every day and stand around whilst customers are waiting. I will not allow this sort of behaviour. I hope you understand me. Consider this your final warning.’
She walked away from me without waiting for a reply. I wanted to say something but my throat had a lump in it. I wanted to tell her that most of the customers in her shop wanted me and I could go at any time, leaving her without any customers, but I could not. To be dispensable is a woman’s worst nightmare and I was beginning to live it.
Everything was a blur for me back in the salon. I stared at the half drunk cup of tea on the table, which I could no longer stomach. Dumi worked with a furious passion. He seemed in a trance as he put the final touches to the lady’s hair. She slouched in her chair, her eyes closed as he worked his magic. There was fluidity to his movements that I had never seen before. Finally he was finished. He crouched in front of her and asked, ‘Are you ready to see the new you?’
He uncovered the mirror with a flourish and stood beside it with his head slightly bowed. The lady stood up and walked closer to the mirror. She touched her face as if to check if the person in the mirror was really her. I could see a glint in her eye, a slight quiver of her lower lip.
We all held our breath, desperate for her verdict. She swallowed hard. Dumi stepped behind her and peered into the mirror over her shoulder.
‘I look like Halle Berry.’ She sounded breathless. Her voice was a tiny whisper.
‘There are some women like Halle Berry or Toni Braxton whose beauty is beyond ordinary. A face such as yours is a rare thing and it must be shown to the whole world.’ He adjusted a spike in her hair to make sure it was perfect.
The girls broke out in spontaneous applause. I had never seen anything like it before, in this salon or any other. Dumi had a boyish grin on his face. The woman began to thank him profusely but he thanked her in return for allowing him to work on her. I felt my palms grow sweaty and my chest tighten. It was a feeling I was unused to. Then, I couldn’t have named it, but later I realised that this was jealousy.
Mrs Khumalo had a proud motherly smile on her face as she accepted payment from the lady. She went as far as to claim that she had trained Dumisani herself. I recalled a time when she hung over my clients and bragged about my abilities. I tried to comfort myself by telling myself that my styles were better, but when I looked at the supermodel who was about to leave our salon self-doubt crept in.
‘I work at Deloitte and Touche as a chartered accountant. I am sure the other girls will want to know where I got my hair done. I will be sure to tell them about this young man.’
True to her word, that afternoon, the phone rang off the hook with accountants, receptionists and secretaries from her firm looking for appointments.
Nine
A new spot on my face was bothering me. It was deep in my chin and nothing I could do seemed to get rid of it. It was there on display for the whole world to see. It was only a fortnight since Dumi had started and the salon was twice as busy. We stopped allowing people to come in without appointments except for the barber side of things where business had only mildly improved. The books were full and we worked longer hours. It was hard to do your styling when every five minutes the phone was ringing with yet another request for an appointment.
The star of the show was Dumi of course. The ladies said his name with a phoney accent. Whenever he nipped out there were comments on how cute he was, how great his body was. ‘To find a man who can groom himself in Zimbabwe is next to impossible, but what are the odds of finding one who can groom you as well?’ someone said. He would chat with the girls and feel like one of them. A man so comfortable with his own masculinity was hard to find.
Until now no one had bothered to find out how he had become a hairdresser or where he had learnt his trade. They all took it for granted that he had always been this hair god. He also started something, which we had heard of but never thought to have in our salon. I can recall my horror when he asked one client (we no longer called them customers) what contraception she was using.
Charlie Boy looked mortified and pretended to read a newspaper, which was a week old.
‘My boyfriend and I use condoms,’ the woman said, not offended in the least bit.
‘All the time?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s really good. You have to look after yourself with all the stuff going about. Have you heard about the femidom?’ he said, taking a pack out of his bag, which was on the floor.
‘I’ve heard of the female ones but I’ve never seen one.’
He pulled one out of its package and dangled the ‘femidom’. It was a wide rubber sheath with a large ring one side and a smaller closed ring at the other end. He looked like a high school teacher and no one felt the least embarrassed. His slender fingers stretched it out for all of us to see.
‘It is very simple to use. You have to put it on before there is any contact between the umm, squeeze the small ring here like this and put it in your umm umm, the outer ring goes over your opening to protect the sides from any nasties and then the thing goes in there and you’re in business. It’s just that simple and there are instructions on the pack.’
The lady actually held it and played around with it. It was passed round for all our customers to see.
‘Are you sure it won’t get swallowed?’
‘It is better than the condoms and less likely to slip.’
‘Do you have any more of these?’
‘I have some samples if anyone wants to try them out. We’ll be getting a shipment next week and after that they go on sale. They’re very cheap too.’
‘I like this. It gives me control because sometimes men don’t like to strap on.’ Everyone took one from him including Charlie Boy who claimed it was for an ‘experiment’. Agnes hid hers in a paper bag with knitwear. I refused, saying I didn’t sleep around so I didn’t need one. The truth is I couldn’t bear taking anything from him. I was wondering what Mrs Khumalo would do when she realised that her place of business was being turned into a brothel. I didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
Mrs Khumalo walked in and there was a rush to hide the incriminating devices. The only person who didn’t make it on time was Dumi, who was holding the rubber sheath high above his head. The whole room went silent.
‘Vimbai, can you tell me what’s going on in here?’ she said.
‘Ask Dumisani.’ I was quick to deflect the heat off myself.
She stood arms akimbo waiting for her explanation. I was so sure the charmer in Dumi did not stand a chance against the Catholic in Mrs Khumalo.
‘I’m showing the ladies some femidoms. I got them from an NGO and we can sell them here in the shop.’
‘You should put some posters up so that our clients know we’re selling them. I don’t know why no one else has thought of doing this. Very soon all the salons will be copying us, just you wait and see.’ I scratched my ears, unsure if I was hearing right. Everyone in the place giggled like one nervous choir. We didn’t know that for a woman like Mrs Khumalo, it was a simple calculation. Make a little extra on the condoms and if her customers lived longer, then they could keep coming in and putting money in her till.
The golden boy could do no wrong.
There were two brown envelopes on the table when I got home. I knew exactly what they were. Chiwoniso tugged my sleeve.
‘Mummy is busy. Go and play with Sisi Maidei.’
She tugged my sleeve again with more vigour. My hand moved of its own accord. The next thing I
remember was my child, on the floor, bawling. Maidei came rushing in and picked her up. She held Chiwoniso close to her chest. I waved her away with my hand. It was the first time I’d ever laid my hands on my baby. Her subdued cries tore my heart apart.
The city council wanted its rates paid and ZESA had sent me a final notice before my electricity supply would be cut off. If it had not been for the cash Robert had left me I would not have made it this far. That was spent and it would take my entire salary to keep this place without leaving anything for Chiwoniso’s school fees. Why was her father being such an idiot?
I love my daughter but there are times when I look at her face and become angry seeing just how much of her father is in it. When I became pregnant, he changed like a light that’s been flicked off.
‘You weren’t even a virgin when I first fucked you. How do I know it’s mine?’ He knew very well why I wasn’t a virgin and to use this in such a callous way really cut me. There’s a proverb that tells how tender men are when they’re courting but once they get what they want they change entirely. I hadn’t expected this of Phillip; he was different. He said he loved me; he said he would leave his wife for me. I was too young to know that there was nothing new in such lies.
It wasn’t long before I heard rumours of how there were half a dozen or so girls dotted around the country in the exact same predicament. For the first few months of Chiwoniso’s life, Phillip was absent. Then one day he sent a driver to my home with some money and nappies. He even called later that day to find out how the baby was. It gave me the slightest glimmer of hope, but it was foolish hope.
I didn’t see him at all for the next five years, but I was grateful for the envelopes of money when they came. It paid for my daughter’s school, clothing, food, medicine, and then one day he showed up at my gate. It was just after I’d moved to Eastlea. He staggered out of the car holding a beer bottle, the contents of which were spilling everywhere.