by C. B. George
24
When Patson spotted the murungu emerging from the Jameson bar arm in arm with Mandiveyi, the CIO who’d dropped the gun in his cab, his heart stopped beating. The murungu scanned this way and that, looking for him. Patson slipped the car into gear and, without turning on the headlights, swung left along Samora Machel and ignored the angry horns until he could pull in a hundred meters further up the road. He then stopped, got out and lit a cigarette, which gave him a sharp pain in his chest. He held a palm to his sternum and his heartbeat was fast and irregular.
His phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and answered. “I am very close, Uncle,” he said. “I will be there just now.”
He moved onto the shadowed step of an office block from where he could just about see the two men. They were talking like old friends. This was just a coincidence—it had to be a coincidence. Harare was a small town and he was always going to run into Mandiveyi again at some point.
By the time he saw Dr. Gapu two days later to pay his weekly rental, he had removed the “Gapu Taxis” stickers from the car. He should have done it before. But he’d figured that, on the night of the incident, the CIO had been so drunk that he would surely remember nothing about the cab he’d taken or its driver. Only when Patson saw him again, in the flesh, did he understand with a sudden and breathtaking certainty that this was an assumption he couldn’t afford to make.
Of course, Gapu was none too pleased to discover that the stickers he’d had custom made by Starlight Adhesives Msasa (PVT Ltd) had been so recklessly abandoned. However, Patson pointed out that the doctor hadn’t paid for a municipal taxi license. Consequently, Patson was consistently pulled over by the cops and forced to spend half an hour arguing his poverty or otherwise pay a fine. “It is better this way, Uncle,” he told Gapu. “This way I just use clients on the phone. It is much, much better.” Any doubts the cab owner had about Patson’s argument were mollified when the driver paid not just the two hundred dollars’ weekly rental, but a further twenty towards his long-standing arrears.
Patson was home in Sunningdale by seven thirty. This was his new routine. Four nights a week, he ate with Fadzai, Gilbert and the kids, before Gilbert took the car out again for the night shift. Patson was loath to admit it, but his brother-in-law was proving a blessing, with a seemingly limitless work ethic that belied his feckless reputation. Gilbert helped at Fadzai’s kitchen from Monday to Thursday before taking the cab out in the evenings, then drove the day shift in the taxi on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. It was no exaggeration to say that Gilbert’s contribution had revolutionized the household—Patson’s taxi was making almost double money, and Gilbert’s loyalty scheme seemed to have eliminated Fadzai’s competition, letting her clear up to a hundred and fifty dollars at the end of each week.
Most of all, something had shifted between the married couple, a shift of which Patson had long given up hope. Where for years they had moved in separate orbits—around the house, around their children—Patson and Fadzai now, suddenly, found synchronicity. There were little things that signaled this—the way she served his food and made his tea, for example, or the fact he now allowed her to bathe before him in the morning and felt no inconvenience. But there were big things, too: they now sat on the veranda when Chabarwa and Anashe were asleep and the silence was companionable and his wife would even light a match for his last cigarette of the night.
And, of course, there was the rekindling of their sex life. So recently the act of going to bed each night had been a statement of war, whoever made the first move seemingly saying, “You see? This is what I think of you.” Now they seemed to melt beneath the blankets simultaneously, silently folding into one another, and within seconds it was as if each didn’t know which limb, which mouth, which hand was their own; and all was hot, lubricious and unidentifiable sweat and spittle and juice.
On one occasion, afterwards, Patson said to Fadzai, “We are like newlyweds again.” Fadzai said nothing, then murmured a vague but conclusive affirmative. In that instant, Patson understood his wife perfectly. Because they both knew that it hadn’t been like this at all when they were newlyweds. Where their sex life as a young couple had been frequent and urgent—brief and memorable acts of explosive copulation—it was now of a different order entirely: soft, slow and strangely, dizzily, all-consuming. Fadzai’s murmur, therefore, was one of assent, but it also told him not to talk further. Because she understood—and, now, he understood too—that this new synchronicity was a magical thing, which shouldn’t be explained, analyzed or discussed for fear of breaking the spell.
Secretly, Patson considered he might know the source of the magic, and early the next morning, when his wife was bathing, he went to the chest of drawers and took out Mandiveyi’s gun. He tried to grip it, to see how it felt in his hand. He read and re-read its mysterious inscription: “SIG SAUER, Sig Arms Inc., Herndon VA.” He then buried it at the very back of the drawer and vowed not to look at it again.
Since the first night he and Fadzai had discussed his options, Patson had turned them over in his mind again and again and he had quickly concluded that his wife’s position on the matter made little sense. She had told him not to dispose of the gun in case Mandiveyi came looking and he was left with no bargaining chip. But Patson knew that, if the CIO came looking, admitting he’d had it all along was less bargaining chip than admission of guilt. What was more, Patson felt his subconscious working through a terrifying equation that he didn’t dare allow to crystallize. He knew the rumors surrounding Rex Nhongo’s death: about those in government who would benefit, about the gunshots heard before the fire. But he reassured himself that there was no reason to assume a connection and he ignored the concomitant implication that there was also no reason to assume none. Either way, it was surely better to throw the weapon into the river as he’d originally planned and, if it came to it, deny any knowledge of its existence. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because Patson had come to believe that it was the gun that had transformed his marriage, its magic the magic of fear that bound the two of them clinging together in the unspoken thrill of a shared threat that could take away everything they had. And all they had was each other.
25
Sasa and me in the TV room. In Amerika, Momma only let me watch one day a week, but now I watch evry day. An evry day Mom come in an she say, “You watch too much TV, Rosie.” An I say, “I don!” An she look at me an it like she don know whadda say next an fold her arms an jus stare an, long as I stare right back, I know that she gonna look down and give up in the end. This time, tho, she come in wid Gladys an they both stand there, arms folded, lookin at me an then each other like I already done sumthin naughty.
Momma say, “Isn’t this scary, Rosie?”
I turn to the TV. Iss a cartoon about the puss in boots what got a sword an fight against an evil ogre by stabbin his toes. “Iss not scary.”
“Watching on your own…” Momma say.
“I not watchin on my own,” I say. “I watchin with Sasa.”
Momma look at Sasa, but I know she can’t see him, even though he flappin his wings, an sayin, “Look at me! Look at me!” Then she turn to Gladys with eyes like a question an Gladys shake her head an walk in front of the TV so that her big backside in the way an she say, “Enough TV for today, little bird.”
Sasa start jumpin up an down an his mouth all little sharp teeth an he sayin all kinda curse words like Daddy when he angry, an I giggle cos I the only one can hear them.
Gladys tryin to turn off the TV only she don know how cos she jus the maid. So I slide off the couch an I start to scream—“No! No! No!”—an I hit Gladys hard as I can.
Mom say, “Rosie! Stop it!”
But I don stop it and Mom come over an try an pick me up. So I struggle an flap my wings jus like Sasa, an he goin, “Bite her! Bite her!” So I do. I bite Gladys jus as hard as I can on her leg, an now she scream too. An it sound so funny that I laugh an Momma holdin me under my arms, right up to he
r face, an she say, “It’s not funny, Rosie! Stop it! Stop it!”
An I say, “Iss funny!”
She whisk me through the house an put me on the naughty step by the kitchen door an I start cryin and she say, “You stay there till you learn how to behave, Rosie. Ten minutes. On your own.”
I cry harder cos, whateva Sasa say, I don want Mom to hate me. But she wrong cos I not on my own an Sasa go, “There, there, little bat.”
Even though I don want to cos I still sad, I laugh an I say, “I’m not a little bat! I’m a little bird!”
An Mom turn round an she go, “What you say?”
So I jus bow my head an make a sad face again.
On Sunday, it jus me an Momma cos Gladys don come Sundays an Daddy away workin again like always. She give me bath time and breakfast all by myself an then she cornrow my hair an, even though I complain cos I don like all that pullin, I like it too cos Sasa not there for a change an it jus me and Momma an she look at me like she use to when I was a little girl in Amerika. She put on my best dress with the purple butterfly on the front, which Aunty Dionne sent me by post on my birthday, an she go, “You look smart, little bird!”
We early at church cos Momma say she gotta talk to the pastor. We go to a house behind the church an the pastor meet her at the door an hold her one hand in his two. He look down at me with one of them big smile that don mean nuthin an he say, “Look at you, Rosie! Growing bigger every day!”
Him and Momma talk in his office while I sit outside on a plastic chair. The pastor’s wife, who wear makeup like a clown an kinda scary, bring me orange juice. Altho I do bad things, I’m a good girl, so I tell her that I not allowed juice before lunchtime. She go an aks my mom who say iss OK jus this once. Thas how I know that what she talkin about with the pastor sure serious.
When they come out, pastor got his arm round Momma’s shoulders an she been cryin. But I know not to say nuthin, cos when she cry an I say, “You cryin, Momma?” she always say, “No, little bird. Not crying.” So wos the point if she gonna lie?
The pastor look at me with those same eyes like a question. He turn to Momma an say, “It’ll be OK, Kuda. We are a strong congregation here at UFIC and the holy spirit works miracles.”
Tho Momma talk to the pastor for ages, we still sum of the first people in church—we real early. Generally, we sit near the back with Gogo, but today we right at the front behind the choir. I say, “Momma? Am I goin to Sunday school today?” Cos I like to play wid other kids even if they don speak no English.
But Momma say, “Not today, little bird.”
Church go on for ages an I so bored I can’t keep still an Momma get cross, but she bring my crayons an paper so I draw a picture. I draw a picture of Sasa wid his big wings, pointed teeth an sharp claws. I try to show her but she all busy wid church an don look.
Then the pastor say sumthin an Mom pull me up an suddenly we right at the front an evryone lookin at us. I don know wos happenin but the pastor got his hand on Momma’s shoulder an I can feel her shakin. He go, “Many of you know our sister, Kudakwashe, recently returned from the States.” Then he say sum other stuff I don unnerstan, but I unnerstan the people real excited all right.
The pastor tell Momma to let me go an she do like he says. I scared now an I start cryin—why Momma don like me watchin the puss in boots but do this? The pastor say, “It’s OK, Rosie. Don’t be afraid.” He touch me on my forehead an my chest, even though my dad say no man allowed to touch me there but him.
I don know what happen after that. Nex, I jus outside the church an Momma holdin me an she still shakin an evryone comin up to her an goin, “God bless you” an “Trust the power of the spirit.”
Momma say, “How do you feel, little bird?”
An I say, “Fine.”
The pastor come up an he go, “This is a…” I can’t say the word. “…spirit, Kuda. I haven’t seen it before. It’s not from Zimbabwe. Did you hear its language? Maybe Twi.” Then, when Momma look shock, he go, “It’s gone now, Kuda. It’s gone. Everything will be OK.”
When we get home, Momma different. Iss like she had hiccups an now they better. She say, “What do you want to do, little bird? Let’s do some baking. Cookies.”
An I say, “I wanna watch TV.”
But it don make her angry. She smile at me. She go, “OK.” An turn on the TV for me even tho I know how to do it my own self.
Sasa sittin on the couch. He say, “Where you been?”
“Church,” I say.
An he say, “How was it?”
An I say, “Fine.”
He look at me like I already done sumthin naughty an he start to bounce up an down an shout an scream until I don hear nuthin else.
26
Late afternoon, Shawn Appiah sat in the driver’s seat of the battered Isuzu bakkie, legs splayed out of its open door, smoking a cigarette and shading his eyes against the bright orange sun making a rapid descent over the golden hills of…wherever the fuck he was. He resented the fact he was smoking, because he didn’t like the taste and it made his lungs feel like shit. But he needed something to do with his hands, something to pass the time. At home, in New York, he’d have been tugging on a reefer, enjoying the calm wash right through him. He’d heard the local grass was good, but he’d decided early on that he couldn’t be seen buying weed and suchlike. He’d already concluded that, in the absence of sufficient water and electricity, Harare ran largely on gossip.
Shawn was all about business, and business here meant playing the game. Playing the game was why he was smoking cigarettes, why he was driving this crappy truck, why he was watching Peter Nyengedza, his geriatric co-director in the recently formed NA Holdings, standing on the stoep of some shitty shebeen ten clicks north of Mazowe Dam in intimate conversation with three gold-panners who, to judge by the threadbare state of their clothes, were hardly an advertisement for their industry.
Shawn watched the old man in his three-piece suit explaining the finer points of the deal. Every now and then, the panners looked towards the large American lounging in the truck, as if to confirm both their worst suspicions and best hopes. In the end, Shawn couldn’t resist waving a smoke signal of greeting. “Hello, motherfuckers!” he said loudly, confident they’d only half hear him and wouldn’t understand anyway. One, the youngest, who was wearing a torn Lakers vest over a pair of denim shorts that revealed muddied ankles above filthy, bare feet, raised a nervous hand and half-smile by return. “I fucking hate the Lakers,” Shawn announced to nobody.
This was the easiest way to make money that Shawn had ever discovered, so why was he finding it so hard? The principle was simplicity itself. Gold fetched around forty dollars a gram on the Harare market, while the desperate panners who were, frankly, often two-thirds of the way to starvation would accept as little as twenty-five, sometimes less. All Shawn had had to do, therefore, was buy a Gold Purchasing License from the Chamber of Mines, form a company and find an “indigenous” Zimbabwean to take fifty-one percent. This was where Peter Nyengedza came in—thanks to April Jones of the British Embassy, no less. Shawn had invested twenty-five thousand dollars, Nyengedza nothing but his name. Still, at the current rate of progress, NA Holdings was looking at an official return of a quarter of a mill in the first year and exponential growth thereafter. So, what was so hard about that?
Primarily Nyengedza. Shawn liked Nyengedza—respected him, at least. But Nyengedza laid down ground rules for the business that, even as they made sense, ticked Shawn off (because this was his idea and it wasn’t like Nyengedza was risking jack). The old man, for example, had told Shawn he had to trade in his top-of-the-range Pajero for this piece of crap Isuzu, the reason being that a fancy car would lead to all sorts of fancier expectations from the panners selling gold in the fields. Fair enough. But Shawn couldn’t help resenting the principle as he ground through the truck’s gears on crummy dirt roads and seemed to spend as much time with his head under the bonnet as over the wheel.
Lik
ewise, Nyengedza had insisted on making first contact with the panners. He would facilitate a relationship, which would allow Shawn to buy on his own thereafter. It was a plan that had already borne results with four “collectives” in the Mazowe area. But if Shawn couldn’t fault the old man’s reasoning—Nyengedza spoke Shona and struck up a good rapport with the locals, which, in turn, enabled them to trust Shawn—the long-winded, ritualistic process of ingratiation drove him to distraction. Wasn’t it simpler to just make these guys an offer, say, twenty bucks a gram, with twenty-five as your final position? Didn’t they understand the basic principles of capitalism—supply and demand? Why all this need for soothing and buttering and false respect?
It was, in fact, the negotiating process that seemed to crystallize what Shawn was finding most difficult of all—simply, he was really starting to find himself hating Zimbabwe or, rather, its people.
Shawn stubbed out his cigarette. Nyengedza was approaching. Everything about the guy was meticulous, even the way he walked, picking his way through the dusk like Bambi through a minefield. Shawn swigged from his water bottle. He considered lighting another cigarette. He didn’t. Instead, he reached under the passenger seat for his fanny pack, which held the cash. He switched on the interior light, so that he could see what he was doing. When Nyengedza eventually arrived, he said, “Yes, Peter. How much have they got?”
“Quite a lot,” the old man said. “They say they can bring a hundred grams tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“They haven’t got it with them?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, they’ve got it with them or yes, they haven’t?”
“Yes,” Nyengedza said. Then, sensing his partner’s irritation, “Yes, they haven’t got it.”
“Fuck!” Shawn said. “So now what?”