16
I eat Farayi's baked beans without no permission and Aleck try to expose me as thief. I have break them house rules, he say. But I only eat Farayi's beans because I know that I will replace it soon. Farayi don't complain; he just keep quiet because he is nice man. But Aleck, me I don't get the score with his problem.
It's two weeks since Shingi disappear now and another margarine quarrel start between Tsitsi and Aleck. This time Aleck is accusing Tsitsi of being heavy-handed and spiteful with the way she use the sugar and milk.
Me I decide maybe I fill my time by fixings things that Shingi pick from the skips and put in back garden. I can't just watch all this shouting; I have to do something that involve skill to take my mind away from this.
I get my screwdriver and start tightening loose screws on them old computers and whistling to myself thinking how there must also be lot of loose things inside this house.
Tsitsi again desert she room upstairs because she is frighten Aleck will do something to baby. Now things is moving faster than dog with ten legs, you can tell. That's because out of the blue Aleck come from work full of them blues and threaten to beat the poo out of Tsitsi. He say it's because she fail to cook for him proper when he work so hard and she spend day grazing the food off them shelves and then running off to tell on him to MaiMusindo. But there is nothing that I can do if the quarrel is only about food. Now Tsitsi come to sleep with us downstairs.
I give up my bed for she and sleep on the floor. I don't touch she. She can turn into porridge or into your mother in your hands and then what do you do with that?
Aleck get vex by this move. In the morning he give me long stupid looks. When he leave for graft, me I hit his sausages and leave nothing in the fridge.
He come back from work in the evening and lash out at Tsitsi for wasting them sausages to fatten sheself. When I tell him that it is me that hit them sausages he chill with big speed. He don't even apologise to Tsitsi, and maybe now Tsitsi also start to have the battered-wife kind of thinking because I am left feeling cheap and stupid when they make up and he apologise and promise to take she to she aunt next week. She move back upstairs. What kind of mother is this?
No sooner have Tsitsi move back than Aleck start throwing them tantrums again. He come back from work looking like he have not sleep for twelve donkey years. This time he accuse she of not looking after baby proper because the thing have been crying all night and Aleck don't get no sleep in his room. Farayi have not yet come back from work that evening and me I am the only other person at home when this is happening. There is nothing that I can do. Even when he push she on the face and send she tumbling backward down them steps. I walk out of this house and spend hours wandering through nowhere and everywhere and with unlit cigarette hanging from my mouth because I even forget to light it.
Tsitsi and baby move downstairs again. And again in the morning Aleck give me funny look. When he leave for graft, me I hit all the bread that he have buy the day before.
He come back from work and scream himself hoarse calling me dunderhead pig because I don't have no O levels like him. I don't say one word.
Tsitsi is now crying all the time. Then he try to drag Tsitsi upstairs. That's when I put my foot down. 'If you as much as touch she again, you can expect some very sweet tender loving caress from me. And heaps of forgiveness. You don't do that to mother,' I warn him.
Shingi is back in the evening. Farayi also don't want to have anything to do with all this what is going on.
The kind of thing that Aleck have been doing – he should not complain if Zimbabwean community in Harare North start throwing funny kind of mouth around, I tell Shingi. I am now sleeping on the floor because I have offer the bed that we was sharing to Tsitsi and baby.
Shingi is worryful about what is happening. That night he sleep on floor with me but he have big stress about Aleck who have lock himself up in his room and don't want to talk to no one.
In the morning, Friday, when Aleck and Farayi have leave for graft, Shingi now spin me some jazz number about how he just want to take walk. He have been so worryful last night he even forget to tell me that he have lose his salad graft.
Everyone is away all day, me I give my mouth permission to hit everything that was buy by Aleck in the kitchen. I tell Tsitsi that she can share food with us. Shingi is back and he have bit of money. Me I have to be careful with my savings now.
Aleck arrive from work and do the most dunderhead thing, coming straight on me with them flying fists and all. I dodge his girlie jab and, in one styleful and thief-like ninja move, I sock him straight on the mouth. He tumble on the floorboard, pick himself up and run upstairs with speed of animal with ten legs, spitting bloodied tooth. He is now in trouble, Aleck; ancestral spirits is giving him heap of forgiveness with long stick, MaiMusindo warn him. Me I am heavyweight spirit, he should know.
Shingi roll back into the house at midnight and everyone have go to bed. Me I am still awake in the dark room but I don't want to start talk about what have happen because Shingi maybe start to get worryful and all that kind of regular civilian people's style.
In the morning we wake up and Aleck is gone. Just like that. Tsitsi is first to discover that Aleck have leave the squat. London is breathing into his room through them open window, sending copies of the Metro and many other papers flapping about. We all take looks into deserted room and quickly go downstairs to our room. None of us need explanation what this mean. All Aleck have to do is to stop at nearest phone box, call them police and tell them about nest of them illegals who is occupy this house. Then he simply jump into sea of 10 million Londoners.
Without one word, I pack my suitcase and make my way to the chestnut tree, where I sit and smoke cigarette. Shingi is not happy, but he come with me having realise that even if he is not illegal, the police still able to bag him if it turn out something is unlawful about the squat. I have tell Tsitsi that because she have baby and she is just likkle girl, she don't come with us but maybe go to MaiMusindo.
Shingi – I can tell from the look on his face that he blame me for everything. He is quiet and it's like I am big headache for him. We sit for long time without exchange of word.
Them chestnut-tree people have not yet arrive. As Brixton people get out of they beds inside they warm houses we sit silent.
Tsitsi is still gathering she things inside the house. Me I am worried that them police will find she, but soon we see she shuffling down Acre Lane and cross Brixton Road to go to the hair salon with baby on she back. We watch she crossing the road at the traffic lights outside McDonald's and then go down Coldharbour Lane.
Then them homeless people start to trickle to the tree with they dogs, ready to start to put out the burning truths of they lives with buckets of brew and all.
17
We spend the morning sitting under the tree, but by about afternoon Shingi maybe relax or feel pity for me.
He wave olive branch and start talking about where we is going to spend the night. I have been whipping them pounds out of Sekai and she have now decide to take few more weeks off in Zimbabwe. I don't want to go sleep at they house and spend time with Paul.
Shingi don't want to go to his relatives and leave me alone in them streets.
If I t . . . take you to m . . . my relatives they is not going to be happy, he say. Maybe I s . . . stay with you for the night and then we s . . . see.'
I have also help him in the past when he don't have graft and his family have him on the ropes about money issues while he try to spin jazz number of having graft.
You are kind man, I say to him. We is back on talking terms. He don't want to take me to his relatives because they already propaganda against me, I know.
'Where are you from?' It's this man that have Karl Marx's beard. He sit cross-legged and hunch over his left arm while the other hand stroke his beard. He have siphon part of his beard into his mouth and is chewing. Our eyes clash and me I look away.
Under the tree, sitting opp
osite me is three faces. Three faces and they two dogs. They sit silent on low brick wall that border the lawn area, each wait for his turn to take swig from bokkle that is doing the rounds. Some few steps to they right is three dreadlocked Rasta faces, one of them try to cheer them up, hobbling around and singing and shaking them mangled dreads. Karl Marx at the corner of wall to the left of them three faces and they dogs. I don't want to answer questions from no one right now. He get the score without me saying one word.
Shingi come back to the tree with flyers for free concert called 'African Guitar Virtuosos' or something at Southbank. I tell him we should just start heading to Southbank because me I don't want staying here with this Karl Marx guy. But before we step away I go and check in military style if any police is already crawling all over our house. The house look deserted. It look at me with them sad eyes, this Shingi's head. No sign of police yet but me I am not stepping inside that head. Not today. I go back to the chestnut tree and we step off to Southbank.
Bada nepakati, Shingi instruct me. With both hands me I hold the loaf that he buy from supermarket. I pull and it tear in half. Shingi grin in nervous way and he look at them people around us. The bus is full and everyone on the bus point they eyes at us.
I apply myself on the bread. This feeling that I have not have in years now come over me; my senses get more fire. I clutch the half loaf between them arm and ribs, and rip into it with them fingernails. The warmth of bread against my body, together with it the happiness of discover the freedom to tear down loaf of bread on London bus, send message of goodwill to my bones. I feel free.
Then out of the blue sky we get ourselves some fan: one small plump boy sitting with his mother leap to his feet with big eyes. He wear T-shirt written 'Made Of Money'. Shingi have good talent at reading them people so he see quick that likkle boy Made Of Money is in grip of big hunger. He break small piece from his bread and stretch out in that good-old-uncle kind of way, and hand it to the likkle man. The look of horror on the likkle boy's mother's face can kill a hippo. She look on but she is helpless. I can see that she want to stop she son from taking the bread but hold sheself back because she is frightened of the racialism thing. She remain on she seat, and only watch with sickly smile as she son hit the bread with more fire.
Southbank is crawling with them Africans in they colourful ethnic clothes it make you feel like you is not African enough. Many of them is also them lapsed Africans because they have live in London from the time when it was OK to kill kings, queens and pigs. You can tell because they carry smiles like they have take over the palaces at last. We is only one wearing jeans. But this is make up for by the fact that after the concert we have good cheerful smiles because of the one person who have had the sense not to lumber himself with them ethnic things. That's the original native from Kinshasa.
The guitar men step onto the stage. Three of them. All of them is dressed in flashy African clothes except for him the Kinshasa boy. The other two guitarists is just lapsed Africans, but they is busy spinning clouds of jazz numbers that they is Tanzanian and Cameroonian and whatever they can think of. But the worst is him the one that want to be Cameroonian; he change his costume three times during the show. Three times, I count it. Even girls don't do that.
Cameroonian man twang away while his Tanzanian friend is busy ripping away them lines off his guitar. But the original native – he is dressed in jacket and tie and is sitting onstage like lost schoolboy. Even when he was introduce at the start of the show he look like he have heaps of confusion on his face, you know like what it's like when the native have just hit Harare North.
Kinshasa boy wear black oversize jacket and them baggy grey trousers; you can tell these is clothes that he is suppose to have taken to dry-cleaner but maybe somewhere in the township the original native decide that this is something that he can handle with box of Surf powder and bucket of water; now they is puckered and getting all out of shape in that way that make them more African than them thousand cotton garments with blue lizards, green fish and ethnic patterns. This cheer our face.
Shingi, he have big grin ripping through his face right up to them back teeth. The music crackle away like rhythm of them hoofs of herd of donkeys at full-speed gallop. Shingi's attention is fix on Kinshasa boy, who is looking at them the other guitar men with mix of shyness and absent-minded style that often hide native impatience. He tag along nowhere near his limit while them other two is at full gallop.
Suddenly something snap inside his head and Kinshasa boy get off his stool. From the way the hairs on my back stand on they ends, you know that now something is in the air. He throw left leg forward in that playful way like he say, catch it if you can. But this is that style that is awkward by purpose, you know them those crazy 'I don't care' ape-style ndombolo moves. He step and sway. He peep. At you. Sometimes.
Kinshasa boy. He do sharp feint. He sway and step. Bobbing head. Phantom step; he almost shake. One jink, and he send the whole audience swaying the wrong way. Then it come one deadly sideways leap of the eyebrow that kill all the xenophobia, hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia and yugoslavia that exist in London.
His trousers, they flap mad. Like some flag in middle of big storm. Now he cling to his guitar with more fire and hit the crowd with heap of notes that come out faster than light machine gun.
'My friend, you, civilian person like you, if you is not careful you will drop small poo in your pants because of this pleasure,' me I tell the man sitting next to me with high-wattage grin on his face.
Even them, the other guitarists, is now just onlookers like us. And when Kinshasa native start to get down to stepping on the rhythm with some mental ndombolo footwork, whipping his own back with them hot riffs, too many truths that cannot be named crawl out of they holes and start crawling everywhere. Me I nearly throw £50 onto the stage but Shingi hold me back.
When the show end, the whole concert hall is crawling with termites you don't even know where to put your foot.
After Southbank we hang out at Trafalgar Square for the night. We wake up late morning and decide that maybe we check what happening in our house. If it come to the worst, at least the police is not like Zimbabwe police; here they call you 'sir' instead of 'thief' before they start touch touching you.
Some ghetto bird start hovering and chopping the air in the sky above when we jump out of bus in Brixton.
'Is this another case of police chasing prisoner that have escape from Brixton Prison or what?'
Shingi say nothing. He is staring at this teenage boy leaning against scaffold on his bike outside Woolworths. The skunk smile on his face is like he is laughing at us carrying our things.
We go and stand at the corner outside KFC. You can see things better here – down Coldharbour Lane, up Acre Lane, down Brixton Road, up Effra Road and up in the sky. But Brixton is funny place this afternoon. You can just see it when you look around. Them, the street vendors, skunk dealers, the incense vendors, Tube ticket touts, homeless people and thiefs. I don't trust no one here.
'Repent! Repent! Humble yourself because the Second Coming of the Lord is as sure as the First!' one man cry. He is speaking to us.
'. . . He says he doesn't like his brother, but he loves the Lord Jesus?' He raise his Bible up in the air as if he expect someone from the crowd to respond. Then he slam it into his left hand to emphasise, 'Do not be deceived. Do not let the Devil deceive you, my brothers and sisters!'
Before we know it two police is upon us; fat man and thin wire-like woman.
Relax, think like e . . . e . . . everything is normal; p . . . put the suitcase down and relax.
We is outside KFC where it's full of teenagers that loiter in they hoodies, bling-bling and wanting heap of respect. Them officers is a few steps away and walking towards us.
'You behaving yourself, Jay?' the policewoman ask with likkle smile as they walk past them teenagers.
'Yes, officer, I am good these days,' the boy answer in proper English now.
'I
t was just ghetto behaviour, it's tribal,' someone laugh.
Them officers walk past. They don't say nothing to us.
You never know if the police have play people's mouths and get information about you. The whole afternoon we run around to corners and don't want to talk to no one. When the sun go splash down dead, we put on bold face and step easy easy to our road. It's quiet and there's no sign of funny thing. The house with its nose and them big eyes look at us. We forget to switch off the lights when we run away; they is now shouting out bright.
18
'Don't sing them funny songs to the baby or he grow up thinking he is animal. Sing him nice revolutionary songs,' I say standing by door. Tsitsi nearly jump out of she skin with fright. On the bed, baby have been thrashing about trying to crawl towards mother as she sing 'Dangwe rangu', my firstborn. Now we smile at them and baby start to cry.
All by she own self, she was now singing pure animal sound from the hills, doing that hair-raising yodelling thing called gule except there's no mbira instrument to accompany she. Something had wake up inside she, me I can tell. She don't even hear us creep inside the house and we find she in she room sitting careless on she bed – one leg point to the mountains and another to the river; no worry or fear on she face. But she is happy to see us. She come back to the house this morning.
'MaiMusindo is away on funeral so I spend one night with Eunice in animal and something,' she say with big happy eyes.
'What animal?'
Harare North Page 12