Some kind of animals breathe and scatter your thoughts like heap of leafs; I spend all day in bed trying to collect my head into one heap. First you is at the mercy of them winds – gust sweep it in one direction, another blast in another direction. Then this thing scatter it all over. Still you try to keep them things together.
The wind blow into our house and into my room; it scatter and gather papers and things into heap at the corner of room. I sit on my suitcase by window doing nothing.
There is big rough knock on the door and I run downstairs to ask who is there but there is no answer from outside. I ask again who is there but I only hear them heavy footsteps walking away.
I run upstairs to my room to look outside from the window but on the street there is only two kids playing with they bikes. I go back to polish my screwdriver now. I polish the thing until it shine like trumpet. The only fault with screwdriver is this small lump and dimple near the tip which I am suspecting was caused by Paul testing car battery and maybe some spark jump onto the screwdriver and melt it. The lump look like the wart that Dave have on his nose. Now I polish the wart so it twinkle like likkle star. This house need order.
In the kitchen, Shingi stagger and talk like he have drink too much. His left hand is twitching in funny way and his mouth is hanging. On his mobile phone there is two text messages for me from Original Sufferhead: all that US$4,000 was just big jazz number, that's what he say. Cde Mhiripiri just wanting to hit people's pockets to make himself rich. He try it on many people. Angirayi was also running around because Cde M say they want US$4,000 from him. Angirayi never find the money and he is still there and police not even interested in him or any of us because what they want is Cde M because he have humiliate them many times and Goromonzi police inspector have got scores to settle with him. And now people say he is part-time BBC in London.
The rush of whirlwind inside my head scatter me all over. Mother, she lie heavy in my heart. The head swirl. The air inside our house turn and shift my head into sixth gear. From way beyond the blue hills inside my skull, back in my rural home, where Mother's bones lie scattered, trampled and broken by JCB, where my grandmother used to go to the river to carry the water, come back and keep the fire burning, I now hear them voices tell me that I am still among the living.
I put the screwdriver in my pocket, and manage to leave the house without running.
It's not right.
I march straight to the chestnut tree. Among them all the homeless and asylum seeker, there he is, wearing his brown cap. Before I even speak he give me one tricky look. I look down at my feet, but he hit me square in the face.
'Speak, young man,' say the Master of Foxhounds.
I clear my throat but nothing else come out.
'Have cigarette.' He flick the cigarette box open and stretch his hand out in my direction. Sitting some few steps from him, I have to decide whether to stand up and walk to him or wait and see if he come to me. For funny reason I stand up, reasoning that maybe he meet me halfway. He remain seated.
The moment I step across the halfway line onto his side, it is like he have cast some spell. Before I can reach for the cigarette, his eye jump jump inside its socket and give me this look that fix me to the spot. I don't know whether to turn back and sit down or to take his cigarette, but my hand, on its own, shoot out. He pull his hand in slight and draw me in. I stretch, reach out and manage to pull out one cigarette from his box. It is time to return to the spot where I have been sitting, which now look like long long journey. I feel light as the wind. I am not sure if giving back his cigarette will help me get upper hand again.
My feeties bolt. They take me down Coldharbour Lane. I get to them traffic lights at the corner of Atlantic Road. I have to go back; I have to face up to him.
He is still there when I get back. I try to catch his eye but he don't want to look and now again pretend he don't know me as usual.
'Why you play cool style and try to deny me? In case you don't see – the past stand tall before us, the wind is blowing she skirt up, and there underneath she, soon I see you huddling down; no more cover for you now,' I hit him square on the face with the question as I light cigarette. He look at me with heap of confusion on his face.
'Do you remember?' I puff out big cloud of cigarette smoke. He don't know what kind of style I'm hitting him with. 'I can get you in trouble with Amnesty International people if you is not careful. Do you remember me? I spend time trying to tell people back home that you being here is just big jazz number. Then I hear the truth. Do you remember this son of the soil?' I ask again and now everyone is paying proper attention. The MFH don't say nothing. I stand close, holding my hands behind to show him what kind of style I can do. My beard point down at his feeties. 'They can walk those feeties but have they ever step on truth? Truth is like snake; you step on it and it bite you straight and square, I know because I have step on it. Now do you remember this son of the soil?'
He is still trying to deny me because we is in front of everyone.
'Goromonzi. That's where I get born again, my friend. On the day the sun forget to shine. Among them tall trees; I blow and trees hide they faces. And you, where was you?'
I change gear. 'You OK there, old man; do you know this kind of style?' I give him the look and I can sniff sniff that he have big fear squatting behind his one eye for the first time.
'You know this kind of style, eh? From them those days? Those days when we go to Goromonzi because of them British-sponsored MDC party supporters. They was crawling on and under every rock, man, even beating up some of our supporters. And you, where was you?'
Now everyone looking at me and the MFH.
'Two dozen boys of the jackal breed, but only one of them carrying the only truth in his back pocket – that was me when we meet outside Goromonzi police station. The son of the soil give few revolutionary barks and we break into song when start to march inside police station: Zimbabwe yakawuya neropa yakawuya nehondo! Do you get this style, eh?' I give the MFH side glance to get his head out of gear.
'We sing and wave them sticks in the air and the earth shake on that day. We march through police station gate singing and the sound make you feel like old fire have start to burn inside you. Do you want me to remind you? Now do you want forgiveness, comrade?' I point my beard at the MFH and he give me the slow eye. Oliver get up and go.
'I run you the whole story if you have forget. When we march to charge office and the officer-in-charge is on the veranda watching some of his men playing game of draughts in the warm morning sun, who was the one that shout, "Is it not too soon for your men to be playing draughts when enemies of the state is still leaping all over us in our sleep and clogging them skies?" Officer-in-charge take one look at us and know who we is because we come with heaps of forgiveness; we is them sons of the soil. In England they don't allow me to give forgiveness but tell me if you want forgiveness for everything.'
'Forgiveness for what?' The MFH throw glances at everyone around like he want agreement from people that this is silly thing. 'I don't know what you talk about, young man; forgiveness for what?' He shake his head, stick cigarette inside his mouth and look another direction like he is getting tired of this.
'Wrong question,' I whip him straight and square. 'Ask again, and if you was listening to me you will know what question to ask.'
'Peace peace peace, make love not war,' Peter start shouting this kind of poem.
'Look at history, my friend. The path of many of us is set by few fat bellies with sharp horns and hard hoofs; they gore and trample you the moment they know you see through they cloud of jazz numbers. And you want me to fight them with poem?' I lick Peter straight and square. The MFH blink like goat.
'I remind you the story again. "Where's the traitor? We bring them bags of forgiveness," that was the style. But now your beard is gone; just some old part-time BBC who never reply letters.'
I get into gear and start singing the story now. '"We only have one and he's going to court next week. We c
an't release him," that's what the officer-in-charge say. Big mistake that, if you remember.' I spin on sole of my boot and look everyone in the eye. I cough and clear my throat, everything scatter like leafs inside my head and now I hear the roar of thousands of pigeons flapping they wings as they take off to the sky. Over Harare North the sky is dark with swarms of pigeons that have been frighten off buildings and squares by my coughing. Thousands of wings flapping above the city and the MFH is wondering what I am looking at. I give him the story again.
'Zimbabwe yakawuya neropa yakawuya nehondo, that was the song. Do you remember the song? When we break into it, who launch into this speech: "Who do you think you serve by protecting enemies of the state when the president have make it clear that we should give them all the forgiveness," his beard pointing at the problem in front of us. Time come when every man have to decide which side they is on.
'Officer-in-charge suddenly realise quick that even if we is sons of the soil, we have sharp nose for treason. Them stocks clang open and the traitor is quickly handed over. We drag him away to the forest where it is easy to give him plenty of forgiveness. But that was not the only traitor I deal with on that day and you, you will never know. You only chose money. You, you know nothing. You never know of the other traitor, the shoe doctor inside my head. But that's the one that I take out first. Soon I am hitting him with them Yes or No questions and he is bawling his lungs out because he know he is the first to go. Soon I hit him with the truth. Truth is like granite rock because if someone hit your head with it, your head feel sore. One rock of truth can crack your head, comrade commander. Now, after all this heap of time I step on the truth about what game you play. It bite my foot and I wake up to find that you, you was spinning US$4,000 jazz numbers around my head. Everything that the boys do you have betray. You have become traitor. So what was it all for to you, the struggle?'
'What was it all for?' He laugh and shake his head like this is silly question. Now he start going kak kak kak kak so loud like I am fool; his mouth is wide open like cave, the rotten back teethies is pointing. 'Even today you still have milk coming out of your nose, young man. Zimbabwe was a state of mind, not a country.' He laugh like maniac.
'You want forgiveness or what?'
'Forgiveness forgiveness,' now people is starting to shout and the MFH has big alarm on his face.
'You want forgiveness?'
'Forgiveness, forgiveness!' everyone is shouting now and I'm rolling up my sleeves.
'Forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness!' the crowd now sing. The MFH is lugging football-size eye and I'm trying to get to him but already there is thrusting of arms and elbows everywhere as Peter and them other guys is now all over me trying to restrain me. My screwdriver fall out of my pocket onto the ground. The MFH get up, throw his arms up in the air and shuffle away with fearful looks on his face. By the time everyone let go of me the MFH has go down Coldharbour Lane. I pick up my screwdriver and run down the road trying to find him but there's no sign of him.
In the sky, the pigeons have clear out and the sun is falling out of the sky behind big mama cloud and my head slide into sixth gear. My feeties start causing big racket and taking me all the way to Brockwell Park.
I walk into the park and my bladder is full. I want to pee; I go straight to them trees on the edge of the park and don't care if people can see me. The biggest tree. It have one untidy small anthill growing on its foot and the anthill is crawling with them termites. I pee on them straight and square.
I walk from the tree and I come across crippled squirrel trying to drag himself towards bush but he is failing because the back legs look like they was squash by wheel of car or something so he is trying to drag them across. His back is broken; he look pathetic. Soon the thing is going to die; I can't leave him like that.
I take out my screwdriver, put my boot on squirrel's head to pin him down, position my screwdriver right behind the head; on the spine. One quick jerk of the wrist, and snap. The screwdriver go through the neck right onto the grass and wet ground below. The squirrel don't even feel anything. No pain, no movement except them front paws that shiver like the squirrel now go spastic. Blood squirt everywhere. I put him out of his misery and put back some order into his life.
I pick the dead thing and throw him inside bin and wipe screwdriver with my shirt.
My feeties take me around the pond. I sit down. I can't sit. The trees, they is swaying around because of wind. The winds is causing havoc inside our house I know; the windows was open when I leave.
Some old tune have start spinning inside my head; Togure Masango. Low volume; it is like listening to faraway people. Even my breathing now feel like it come from some place else; from way beyond the hills. Everything fade away to great distance.
In the sky one big mama cloud is gathering all its children around sheself. I look at she and she look at me with she big face. My feeties, they take off again. Out of the park. The air hold still, something shift but I am still among the living and I breeze through them Brixton streets like the winds as darkness fall down like dust on Harare North. I can walk. I can't smile. I get hungry. My feeties is vex, my stomach is crying and I am walking into them mental backstreets; I want Marks & Spencer's food.
To the left of Marks & Spencer's bins, some distressed cry for help rip through unlit air. I turn my head to look: there is brain-jangling argument exploding between two people. Shingi is still not sober but sober enough to be frightened. He is stepping backward and shouting for help. The big tramp in front of him is holding sharp instrument, wearing T-shirt only and pair of dark underpants. Before I can even shout his name Shingi have drop his bag of food and bolt down dark alleyway. I hold my screwdriver tight.
I have not even take dozen steps but I know that the winds have already rip the sky open; two drops of rain have already find my face on them backstreets of Harare North.
I get to the alleyway. There is no sign of anything. I run to the next turn and I see them turning into another backstreet; Shingi is now limping and the tramp's bum jumping in the air like heap of jelly. But he is now chasing the tramp.
'Shingi, Shingi,' I shout. They disappear.
'Shingi,' I call. Above us big mama cloud throw down one of she children – some big bale that come down crashing onto the streets like great water sachet soaking everything. I get glimpse of Shingi ahead and call his name; water run down my face and go inside my mouth. Big mama o' she throw sheself down at them pointy roofs and church spires – they rip through she and she splash into tatters on the streets of Harare North. I see Shingi soaked; his trousers heavy with the blood of big mama, he holds onto them and hobble into shadows of tall buildings. That's the last I see of him.
Poo happens o'! And the world is not fair place. That's the style of this funny place. It make you fry wire nails. Around the corner, on them wet pavements of Harare North, Shingi is one untidy heap. Naked tramp has give him forgiveness and is splashing his feet away into the night, far from long hands. I feel helpless. I am useless. Everything is useless. I don't know what to do.
And the woman at other end of 999 call – she is also useless. I hear it in she voice; she want to ask too many questions – where am I from, who am I and all that stuff but 'sorry you is not going to get that from me. Me I know your style, I know you is going to put this information inside long hands of immigration people and police. Me I don't want to be witness o' no.' Me I hang up.
I don't wait around for ambulance people or police to arrive. I go sit under the chestnut tree where I can see police car and ambulance flashing blue and red inside dark alley and reflecting on them wet tarmac. The policeman talk talk. The ambulance people point they torches and talk heaps too. The rains have stop falling now, the preacher outside KFC have go home, the djembe player outside Tube station have pack his things and go, chestnut tree is empty and street pavements only have handful of people pointing they umbrellas to the sky where big mama cloud jump out of.
I light cigarette and watch the
ambulance drive slowly down Coldharbour Lane towards King's College Hospital and police go down Brixton Road to police station.
World is not fair place o' and poo happen in it. Before we go to bed that night Shingi is fighting for his life.
'He have been stab stab all over his head and neck in those mental backstreets,' I tell Dave when he come back to our house. I have just finish washing my clothes in bathroom because they was wet and also have squirrel blood from afternoon.
'Shingi decide to go alone in them mean backstreets because you and Jenny won't stop yari yari yari with them other junkies outside Brixton station and you don't accompany him.'
Now, just because I have tell him what have happen, Dave is pushing them big eyeballs in front of me like he care.
'I'm sorry, we was –'
'I have no time for this.' I step up to my room.
24
You want to go check on your old comrade to see how he is doing and if this is serious injury; two times you go as far as hospital gate; two times you turn back. Then you try the phone.
Late at night, Jenny knock on your door and ask if you want cup of tea. It's the first time she ever do this. She look worryful and sorry for you because you is sitting tight on your suitcase reasoning hard. She have big raft of bogey hanging from she nose. When she come with the tea, the bogey is gone and you don't know where it have drop so you don't drink the tea.
Shingi lie in intensive care in deep sleep. Maybe he is bandaged head and neck with them black and blues all over his face, I don't know. But he will be OK.
The air in our house is stiff and blue. No racket from Dave or Jenny downstairs; I have tell them to keep away from Shingi's room now and stay in downstairs room only. The only sound coming into my room is the here and there rush of cars down the road.
My window look down onto our road. I sit stiff by the window. On the street two foxes is getting into fight. I puff cigarette, breath like ghost and wipe sweat from my big forehead.
Harare North Page 16