Harare North

by Brian Chikwava

  Farayi and Shingi make the usual respectful greetings that you do with elderly person and shake hands. She look absent-minded, or tired. But she is old spirit; she presence make everyone stand still and quiet and wait for she to talk.

  Now I creep in behind Shingi to see.

  I'm still hiding behind Shingi and suddenly I can't tell if MaiMusindo is staring at me or at Shingi. She tongue come out: 'I have hear about you from Tsitsi. Your people – where they hail from?'

  She is talking to Shingi.

  'Chi . . . Chipinge,' Shingi say with big football-size eyes.

  MaiMusindo nod slow. Then she wander out of conversation in funny absent-minded way and everyone don't know if she's talking to us or to sheself, or if she is just rethinking what she have just said. Then suddenly she awaken from she trance and she sneeze in funny way. She remember the point that she is wanting to make now: 'Tsitsi has tell me about you,' she say to Shingi as she turn round and head for the door, leaving everyone under spell.

  'What did you say?' Shingi ask Tsitsi.

  'Nothing. I don't know.' She shrug she shoulders and hop around on one leg like naughty likkle flea and stomp upstairs to she room.

  'It's because of Shingi's Chipinge roots,' Aleck say.

  Farayi start making fun of Shingi and saying that maybe MaiMusindo want to learn tricks from Shingi because people with Chipinge roots is supposed to have dangerous knowledge of sorcery and stuff, especially mamhepo, the avenging spirits.

  Farayi laugh all morning. Aleck now also jump into making fun of Shingi saying he have mamhepo spirit pursuing him; Farayi is making joke but anyone can sniff sniff that Aleck really mean it. Shingi don't find it funny.

  Mamhepo; the winds – someone can raise them against you and your family if you kill they innocent relative. That's what Aleck say as he pace about in our room with hands in his pockets.

  Farayi keep quiet now. Aleck continue his lecture in his style of talking without looking at person that he talk to.

  There is grandmaster Banda who can do all that stuff and heaps more, me I know. He live in the dry and dusty malaria district of Chipinge, the rural home of Shingi's family. He is witchcraft grandmaster with big reputation. He can shrink any beast down to the size of grain of sand. He do that to dozens of herd of cattle, and use his wife's straw broom to sweep them into old envelope and then board bus to whatever part of the country he choose. On arriving he undo the spell and sell them cattle having suffer zero transport costs. Many people go to Banda but some of them things they ask him to do don't involve shrink cow, but the frightful business of invoke mamhepo for families that want revenge if family member has been killed by someone. They say some fat cat try to patent Banda's cow-shrinking magic but get stuck when, while filling them patent forms, he feel desperate to pee and run to toilet only to discover that his tool has vanish clean off him. Me I know all this but I don't go paparapapara showing off like Aleck.

  Banda is big man. But sometimes his magic don't work as expected. Especially with them other things that is not the winds. Like when he shrink cattle down to the size of grain of sand and sweep them into envelope. In some cases, even if the cattle reduce in size, they weight remain the same, so people find that the bus they board, under weight of tons of cow, either break down or is not able to crawl out of the bus terminus.

  6

  Me I get £2.45 per hour. Eight hours per day. Five days per week. That make £98 per week. But after they do emergency tax code it come to about £68.

  You spend them weeks shifting mud with shovels and sweat beads come out of every pore in the body because you is putting out heaps of effort while your buttocks point to high heaven and migrant flesh start to stink around you as shirts and underpants get damp. Here you quickly know that the weight of your buttocks increase by the hour and come down only by night when you is sandwiched between blanket and mattress.

  Then one day you hear: Take them your things and move it. That's what they say to us in Wimbledon. The graft end without warning. Everyone on the site have to move it now after we go to work one morning to find the site closed. One servant come out of the house, and looking pleased, tell us that there is disagreement between the owner of house and our employer because them pavings that we have lay and the retaining walls that we have build is not up to standard. And most of them plants that we have plant in the past months have dead, he add. He have been tell to advise us to contact our employer, in Romford, if we have any issue to complain about.

  We have been stitch up, I know straight away. But there is nothing we can do, so we scatter without quarrel.

  Samuel, who is from Senegal, tell us that there is another company in Finsbury Park that is looking for labourers. There is also one street corner in Mile End where if you is foreign labourer you can go and hang around with your toolbox. Soon some van come and someone, sitting in the van, will point at people that look like they is up to hard graft. If you is lucky you get picked. We don't have no toolboxes to pose with on this street, so we don't go there. Also there is now too many Polish builders to compete with there, someone say. And they all have toolboxes.

  Finsbury Park is better, that's what everyone agree as we wait for bus. But with this kind of graft, now I see there is big danger that you can work until you grow horns and still you won't catch US$5,000. But Shingi is keen on Finsbury Park so me I keep quiet.

  If you find graft as porter at some hotels that is visit by Saudi princes then you can land your native bum in butter because them princes give good tips and can drop £1,000 in your pocket if you is sweet when you carry they luggage for them. That's what I have hear. But right now I don't even know which hotel to look out for.

  The bus arrive and we queue up to get in. Suleiman is first. He flash his fake bus pass and immediately put this hard-set look on his face, looking straight ahead rigid as he march like soldier past the bus driver.

  'Excuse me, sir, can I see your pass?' The driver stop him. It's at moments like this that the city can get chance to break your disguise with them questions: what's your name, sir; where did you get this, sir; you know this is crime offence, sir?

  'Where did you get your card from, sir?' the driver say playing big mischief with politeness. This title that the mud-shifting boy have been given is too heavy for him now.

  'Sir?' The driver pull down his glasses in professor-style so they sit low on his nose.

  This 'sir' thing put Suleiman in proper straitjacket. His tongue weigh same as hippo and he can't lift it now. He turn his head to the door, spot an opening and go for it. His trousers explode and rip at the crotch as he leap over pram. He land on pavement, stumble and regain his balance. Quality people in nice clothes at the front of the queue have already turn into heap of arms and legs on the pavement. They struggle to free theyselfs from each each as mud-shifting boy take off. Frightened, he plunge into them pedestrians, shoots past pub, past the supermarket, he take a corner and take his ruined trousers elsewhere. Near me the mother of the baby in the pram is like ice sculpture; she is so pale she is nearly transparent. Not one drop of blood in she face.

  One by one we fall out of queue and march to another bus stop.

  Harare North is big con. We have already put many Mars bars inside people's pockets, and now look.

  We show up at contractor's plant yard in Finsbury Park, along with handful of them other guys from the Wimbledon graft. Some foreman with fierce face say he is looking for people who want to work on drain repair project; workers who is prepared for challenging work; excavating and stripping them old drainpipes out of the earth, laying new ones, and going down pipes to remove blockage when necessary. All for £2.40 per hour, take it or leave it. I have not been in London long time but me I can smell big con from miles. Especially that we was getting £2.45 per hour in Wimbledon. And that was the lowest rate Shingi have ever do.

  'Does anyone have any question?' the foreman ask, with cigarette in mouth. He don't sound English. The cigarette in his mouth is in big troub
le – on one end he have put it on fire and on the other he is chewing it with them long brown teeth. Me I am not doing no graft for this man, I make up my mind quick.

  'Does anyone have any question?' Them migrants fidget and grind they teeth; the foreman have hit they heads and get them out of gear and they is not able to say anything.

  The foreman nod with big satisfaction and give the cigarette another crazy bite while he scan them faces and smile. He bite and chew. He bite again. The migrants shake and blink like convicts.

  'Hands up people with work permits?' the foreman demand.

  Shingi have one finger raised in the air.

  'OK, only three. Rest of you have to get new IDs. Passports. We do it for you but it cost you £300.'

  Me I am not having none of that con, I tell Shingi when we leave. I warn him to stay away from people with them funny habits like biting cigarettes. That is suspect style. But Shingi say he have do lots of graft in London before. How many graft have you done in London? he ask me.

  I can't argue against that. Shingi can be stubborn; just like them millipedes. Mother spend decades sweeping millipedes off she doorstep. You sweep millipede away and half-hour later it come back to your doorstep, right where it was. Grandmother keep telling Mother that if you don't want millipede to come back you also have to throw away the straw broom that you use to sweep it away. 'But here in the township how many straw brooms will I have to buy to throw away with every zongororo?' Mother always ask, shaking she head. Sometimes she throw the broom away to make Grandmother happy but the zongororo always come back to the same spot, until someone step on it.

  Now, me I also throw away my straw broom and watch.

  Civilian people sometimes don't have nothing to say about bold plans. I lay my big plan to Shingi and ask what he think: I have to start checking out which hotels to mau-mau. But Shingi don't have nothing to say.

  Every day now, Shingi come back from his new graft and tell everyone about how good them fake EU passports is because one of his workmates have even used it to go to Belgium and come back and no one catch him. He have heaps to say about this.

  Big ginger for this idea of having fake EU passport start to grow inside Shingi's head. He don't even need the fake passport except maybe to catch illiterate girls by telling them jazz numbers saying that he is French man.

  At first I ignore this talk because such stories is all over Harare North. Soon the idea start to grow into proper tree and it bust out of the back of his head, tilting his head back. Now he can't pull his head back to look down where he is stepping. But because he look after me, buying all the food and paying the rent, I don't want to upset him and say this is getting out of order. So me I sweet him and tell him that maybe soon he will have French passport too and become big Frenchman. He go kak kak kak about this. Soon I call him Mr Chirac; you know what it's like when you have to keep big cheer on the face of your comrade while you is planning next move.

  Maybe when I get French passport I give you my Zimbabwe passport so you can use it to look for job, Shingi laugh. He have hear from his graft that everyone that don't have the right papers have got French passports organised for them now. French passport is easy to thief, that's what people that sell fake passports on Tottenham Court Road say.

  Maybe when you get back home you can tell big story about life in Harare North; big story about how you can become labourer, sewage drain cleaner and then French President; being many people in one person.

  I tell Mr Chirac this because these kind of stories rolled into one can be sweet story if telled while one big mug of chibuku brew is passing around the table until the teller have also forget which part of story is just sweet jazz number and which is true; when you only tell truth by accident.

  Now give me pocket money for small packet of cigarettes, I ask Shingi after giving him this suggestion.

  Before I have even finish doing list of hotels, Shingi disappear, and in the house President Chirac take his place. It is up to me to feel free to use Shingi's Zimbabwean passport and National Insurance number whenever I feel like I want to.

  'I . . . I am not original n-native now,' Chirac tell us all, Tsitsi, Aleck, Farayi and me. 'W . . . we is not the same any more, Aleck. Wh . . . while yo . . . you graft hard in Harare North, me I will soon be hitting French wine and wiping my bottom with them butter croissants,' Chirac say, leaping into squiggly dance and disappearing to the kitchen.

  7

  History is littered with them ruined underpants of small people leaping about in vex style and trying to save they bread from the long throats of big people. Me I have already lose one pair of them underpants trying to save my Mars bars from long throats. That is one pair of underpants too many. Now is time for new tactics. I am about to finish investigating which hotels to check out.

  Shingi have give me £20 to go buy food for us for the week but that is too much money so me I only use £15 and make saving of £5. When I come from Tesco supermarket I can see our house, this Shingi's head, looking at me like it accuse me of things.

  I step inside, put bread on table and drag myself onto the cupboard by the kitchen sink and sit with my back to the window. Everyone else have go to they graft and Tsitsi is washing them dishes in the kitchen. Sometimes when she wash dishes she also start talking to me about how she used to climb them guava trees when she was small.

  'Just like boys,' she say.

  'You wanted to be boy?'

  'No; boys always get cysts on they eyes.'

  'Why?'

  'Because they always peep up skirt of girl if she climb tree.'

  Me I have nothing to say. She mind is already made up on everything: boys get cysts on they eyes; if you is small girl and take chicken egg that has just been laid and rub onto your chest you never grow breasts; if you is boy and rub the egg on your chin you never grow beard. Evil spirits can imitate voices of people that you know and call your name at night and if you answer your voice will never come back. Owls can call your name too. If someone jump over you while you is sitting down you will never grow taller unless they undo they jump.

  Tsitsi start singing as she wash them dishes. She always sing them songs that she have carry from she rural hills where them women sing while carrying they buckets of water from borehole. But some days she sing them real ignorant songs by villagers that have never even peep inside classroom window:

  Look the train go geje geje rolling through dusty land

  Look the white man's iron puff smoke

  Look it grind itself through the hills

  Look the puffing iron take my child away to the city.

  Now this big moth fly through the air and land on she shoulders. I stretch my hand so I can pick it off but Tsitsi brush me away with wet hand.

  I take it off myself, she say without even looking at me. Then she continue washing up and singing.

  Tsitsi finish washing and go out to visit MaiMusindo and she friends at the hair salon. I have nothing to do; I spend the afternoon in our room lying down and reading one of them Yellow Pages books that junk mail people sometimes leave outside our door. There is hotels inside it.

  Shingi's passport and National Insurance card is on my pillow while I read hard and make final list of hotels.

  Tsitsi come back inside the house. She have come with bunch of sunflowers. She throw the bunch of them flowers on Farayi's bed and also throw she baby there. I rub my eyes because I was about to fall asleep. Now I feel like I want to be useful so instead of just talk talk talk with she, me I open my suitcase, get my shirt out and start to sew back my button that have fall off. I light my cigarette; now smoke is coming out of my nose and mouth.

  Where you get all them flowers?

  From the salon. Eunice go to buy flowers this morning to decorate salon but flower vendor is friend so he give away too many, she say.

  MaiMusindo give them to me because no one else in salon want them.

  MaiMusindo have also give Tsitsi bottle of some funny perfume – Moschino Parfum i
t say on the label. It look like old people's kind of perfume but me I don't say nothing.

  She go to kitchen and come back with knife so she can start cut stem ends of them sunflowers. But before Tsitsi have even sit down, the baby start to cry. She sit on Farayi's bed and start to feed him.

  What's his name?

  Tafadzwa.

  She start singing to she baby:

  Dance around together

  Holding hands together

  Dance around together

  Holding hands together

  Tissue, tissue, we all fall down.

  I know that from when I was smaller than teaspoon, I tell she.

  Yeeessss! she eyes bulge and she start talking with hand and all: yari yari yari we hold hands together in circle and go round and round singing Dance around together; oh when it get to tissue you get ready because when we all fall down comes you all crouch down; oh then you go on and on again.

  No, you throw yourself complete down to ground.

  But your clothes get dirty, she say in very sharp way.

  Tsitsi start talking that baby language to she baby. Me I am smoking and sewing. When she finish feeding baby she sit him on the bed with Farayi's pillow behind because the baby always fall backwards.

  My screwdriver is on the floor. Tsitsi pick it and give to she baby to play with because it have bright yellow-and-black handle and babies like them such things like that. Now the baby is trying to pick it up but only manage to dribble all over it and me I don't like baby dribble on my screwdriver. But I don't say nothing.

  Tsitsi start cutting them flowers and putting them inside big jug.

  You hungry? she ask me when she have finish cutting them flowers.

  Me I don't want to break them these house rules or else people start throwing ugly kind of mouth around, I tell she.

  Tsitsi curl and twiddle she small toes and say nothing. There is funny silence between us. Me I don't want to talk too much to Tsitsi about them house rules because I have to be careful with she; she is bubbly bubbly likkle mother but she is also just simple girl that can ruin your life by telling people things without knowing that she is ruining you. You know that kind of madness that is always inside them rural people. I don't want no one to start saying that I only stay inside the house so I can hit they food while they is doing graft. Me I am principled man.