The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  “You came to Harare in search of a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this job?”

  “I prefer not to discuss it, if that’s okay with you.”

  Vaida gazed at her guest from across the table.

  “Do you read Zuva Redu, Abel?”

  “I have no business with newspapers. I can neither read nor write.”

  “I am sorry —”

  “Don’t apologize, Vaida. Apologies are meant to make someone feel better. I know you mean well, but your apology does the opposite. It implies that I have something to be ashamed of. I am a man with no shame. Only priorities. None of them ever involved ‘stationery’.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s talk about something else. Flowers. Do you like flowers, Abel Muranda?”

  “You are the second person to ask me that question since I came to Harare. Is it a coincidence, or are city people more obsessed with pretty plants than they are with nutritious ones?”

  “So someone already asked you how you felt about flowers? Now it all makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “You are interviewing for the hangman’s job.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Well, I know the job is available. I also know that Tongai has a special interest in filling it. There has been a sense of urgency around the recruitment for some time.”

  “Did Mr. Gejo tell you all this?”

  “He didn’t have to. When you bring together powerful men, alcohol, and pretty ladies in the same place, you tend to hear things that are not reported in the newspapers. Even when you don’t want to know them. There is something about sex that encourages confession in some men.”

  “Well, the sins of other men have nothing to do with me or my family. All I know is that I will find out about the job three weeks from now.”

  Vaida buried her face in her hands.

  “Abel. Have some sleep. Tomorrow morning you can take the first bus back to Gwenzi. I will give you enough money to buy food for six months. In that time, you can travel back here and look for proper work.”

  “I appreciate your generosity, Vaida, but I cannot accept your money.”

  “Why? You accepted money from Tongai Gejo, but you won’t accept any money from me?”

  “Mr. Gejo owes me support. I owe you respect.”

  “Well, I am sorry to tell you, but the cash I am offering you came from him too. I am sure you know how. I am just an intermediary. Accepting the money from me is the same thing as taking it directly from Tongai Gejo. My involvement in the transaction makes no difference.”

  “No. It makes all the difference.”

  “I see. So the money is tainted because it passed through me?”

  “No. It’s unacceptable because it burdens me with an eternal debt.”

  “Abel, I don’t expect you to pay me back.”

  “Just because a debtor does not expect repayment doesn’t mean a debt has not been incurred. Vaida, I could never repay what your clients take from you.”

  “That’s adorable of you, Abel, but my clients take nothing from me. My body is a house that I fill with cheap furniture before the overgrown children come to play. Sometimes they trash the place. They leave scars and stains all over, but it doesn’t matter. As long as they don’t set the place on fire, all I lose is second-hand furniture. I simply bill them for it and replace it with another set before the next client arrives. None of them know that I keep my valuables locked away until they leave. To be frank, none of them can tell the difference between a moth-eaten sofa and a velvet curtain. They cannot distinguish between false ecstasy, and an affectionate gaze cast at a stubborn man who is looking for good things in bad places.”

  “Maybe you should have been a poet, Vaida.”

  “Poetry doesn’t pay the bills, Abel.”

  “Neither does listening to it. Poetic words are usually more stimulating than accurate. Taking them too seriously is a mistake. For example, I am not even lucky enough to own a moth-eaten sofa. If I had one, I would be very upset if someone stained it. I do not even know what velvet is, but from what you said, it sounds like something that the wealthy buy to spite the poor. Even if I could afford to buy it, I would not waste the money. But that is a problem I have never been privileged enough to worry about. My family sleeps on the floor. My children each have two sets of clothes. All are second-hand. All should have been left in retirement after their previous owners discarded them. However, the garments’ lives were extended when the Muranda family surrendered its pride to avoid the indignity of living in the nude. We try not to sit for too long. If we burn through the threadbare fabric, our buttocks will be left exposed. So forgive me if I cannot relate to your poetic example. Realize that all your furniture is valuable, not just the expensive pieces. None of it should be treated with disrespect, even by its owner. So when you offer me money that was earned through such disregard for your own worth, I cannot accept. I stand with your furniture, Vaida, not with your bad judgment.”

  Vaida’s blurring vision made it even harder to see in the dim lighting. Her left eye cleared when the swelling pool of tears tumbled over her lower eyelid. It bounced off the exposed thigh which had failed to seduce the man who had made her cry.

  “Where were you twenty years ago, Abel Muranda?” she whispered to herself.

  “I was in Gwenzi, tending to my livestock,” he answered simply.

  Vaida smiled as she shook her head. Abel Muranda continued.

  “I have thought about this job very carefully, Vaida. It will change my life forever.”

  “Don’t do it, Abel! I am not criticizing your rural background, but it is preventing you from realizing that there are other options in the city.”

  “Do any of them provide health care and housing for an illiterate man with no education? How many will allow me so much time off to spend with my family?”

  “Well, there are —”

  “Of the jobs you have in mind, how many are legal?”

  Vaida looked away.

  “This is the only job for me,” added Abel Muranda. “Besides, if I don’t do it, someone else will.”

  “That is the point, Abel. No one else wants to. They have had difficulties filling this job for eight years.”

  Abel was about to respond when Vaida interrupted him.

  “Yes, I know other candidates have come forward. However, you are not in flattering company. Your competitors are murderers, thugs and madmen. But you are a good person, Abel Muranda. No jewel has ever polished itself by jumping into a festering wound. You will find nothing but pus, pain and horror. Please don’t keep fighting for the opportunity to kill other people for a living. This job is a poisoned worm at the end of a fish hook. They have cast it in the water to catch a particular type of fish. Why do you think they have not hired any of the enthusiastic brutes clamouring for the job?”

  “The answer is simple, Vaida. Regular murderers are driven by a desire to kill. They love the thrill of stalking and overpowering a victim. Even when a murder is carefully planned, the killer is still driven by a thoughtless passion. It blinds his conscience and prevents him from appreciating what he is doing. Sometimes that passion builds over many years, but the murder it eventually inspires is still driven by roused emotions.”

  Abel Muranda held up his forefinger to highlight the point that was perched on its tip. Vaida was tempted to point out that Hofius had used the same technique to stress his point. She decided against it. Noting this pointless fact would blunt Abel Muranda’s momentum.

  “Vaida, the killers you speak of are not suitable for the job. Being a hangman requires you to take someone else’s life based on someone else’s judgment, and carry it out on someone else’s schedule. The job does not provide the same satisfaction that an ordinary murderer gets from smashing a skull. It robs them of the fulfillment of plunging a knife into someone’s throat. In the world of capital punishment, the prisoner’s crimes have been sanitized by years of sitting on
death row. By then, the execution is a cold and impersonal affair. There is prayer, a noose, and a few last words. The prisoner then experiences a sudden rush of blood to the head. At the end of it all, you have a broken neck and a dead body swinging from the end of a rope. That is it. You don’t get to manhandle them with your own hands. That’s why the brutes you mention will never be hired. So you see, Vaida, this is not a job for a murderer. It is a job for a humanitarian.”

  Vaida shook her head.

  “You are a very special man, Abel Muranda. I am not sure that is always a good thing.”

  “I don’t want to be special, Vaida. I just want to look after my family. This job will allow me to do that.”

  “Okay. I understand. I will even admit that in my heart, I agree with your reasoning. But there are other things you should be worried about, Abel. Things that have nothing to do with the ethics of capital punishment. Ask yourself why they want a hangman so urgently. The death penalty may be abolished next year. Why can’t they wait until that is decided before hiring a new hangman?”

  “The interview panel refused to discuss that question. However, I do not see how the answer will feed my family. Vaida, my decision is final. If I get that job, I plan to take it and praise the Lord. Maybe you should too.”

  “I sure hope you know what you are doing, Abel Muranda.”

  “I do.”

  Vaida folded her hands and sighed. This was not a fight she was going to win. Summoning her courage, she decided to redirect her arsenal to another battle she had already lost that night. “Persistence pays,” she said to herself. Vaida planted her shoulders into the back of her chair and slid her lower body towards the edge of the seat. The fabric of her retracting skirt increased the protrusion of her legs. When she was in position, Vaida made a fine adjustment to achieve the desired view.

  “You know something, Vaida?”

  “Yes, Abel?”

  “I don’t see too well in my left eye. Especially in dim lighting.”

  “I wouldn’t have known. I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “You seem to be doing well enough, though.”

  “I learned to supplement my eyesight with the power of prediction. I improve my vision by combining what I see with my understanding of the environment. Contrast helps. The stronger the contrast, the easier it is to identify what is before me.”

  “What do you see now, Abel Muranda?”

  “A familiar contrast.”

  Vaida pushed her back harder into the chair.

  “Is familiarity inspiring a change of heart?”

  “No. It’s inspiring a growing impatience.”

  Vaida sighed and sat back upright. Abel Muranda had turned away form her.

  “The ability to identify things without fully seeing them can be a blessing, Vaida. It allows us to reverse mistakes without having to accept that they happened at all.”

  “Is it because you don’t like scarred women?”

  “You keep distracting from the main point, Vaida. I did not come to Harare to study other people’s scars. I have my own to worry about. They make me sick. I will never recover from the events that carved them into my body. You should focus on healing yours instead of creating new ones.”

  “Well, I am not ashamed of my scars. Even though some of them still give me nightmares, they heal me. This one saved my life.”

  “Mine remind me of great tragedy. No matter how well this job may feed me, I can never recover what I lost. But that is my burden to bear. I have nothing against your scars, Vaida. They are made from the same tissue as the smooth skin on either side of them. Still, I have no business with the texture of both terrains.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Something you have known and tried to ignore since you walked in here. My wife means far more to me than anything I could ever get in this room.”

  “Okay. I don’t disagree. I have a strict policy of never criticizing my clients’ wives, so –”

  “I am not your client, Vaida. Don’t insult me.”

  “Fine. But something tells me you would respond in the same way even if you weren’t married.”

  “An Abel Muranda without his wife and children would be a wandering bachelor without any dignity. He would sleep in caves and feed on wild berries. But no matter how lonely life became, he would never come to a place like this.”

  Vaida bit her lip.

  “You know, Vaida, on my way to Harare, I stopped by a village to ask for some water. While I was there, I saw a group of people gathered around a homestead. Some of them looked sombre, others appeared to be excited. I asked a young boy what was going on. He told me that a local man had been killed in a bar fight. As compensation, the killers had to give away twelve young virgins to men from the victim’s family. Why? To fend off the dead man’s ngozi, of course. I was told that half of the men in the crowd were eager creditors who had come to collect.

  “The girls were terrified. All, except one. She was the only one clutching a doll. The ragged toy was even more pitiful than her. Though the girl looked concerned, her face did not reflect the fear she should have felt under the circumstances. She just stood there, glancing up at the strangers while clinging to an older girl’s hemline with her free hand. That older girl was no more than twelve years old. But at least the children’s sacrifice was not in vain, right? After all, the sins of their elders would be erased if the girls were impregnated by a group of lustful men.”

  Vaida looked away towards the window.

  “Were they taken away?” she asked.

  “Thank you for your delicate criticism, Vaida. You know that I have no idea what happened to those girls. If better souls came to their rescue, I was not among them. I simply drank my water and left.”

  “Abel Muranda, we only just met, but I know that you didn’t just walk away from such an injustice.”

  “You are right, Vaida. You and I only just met. You probably understand me well enough. But you cannot predict what any person will do unless you completely understand their motivations. You failed to account for the importance of my family.”

  Vaida’s voice cracked.

  “So you walked away from those girls?”

  “No, Vaida. I walked towards my dream job. I felt the same outrage that you feel right now. But what was I supposed to do? Exhaust my failing body by fighting off a dozen men? Abel Muranda only has enough strength to prevent such a nightmare from befalling one family. Winning this job will ensure that my daughters don’t end up like those girls. My children’s aspirations will not be strangled by the selfishness of any man’s sexual desires.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Abel?”

  “To help you understand that if such tragedy failed to distract me from my goal, nothing else will. The funnel of my family’s salvation must continue narrowing towards the gallows. That journey cannot begin at the parted tips of another woman’s toes.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Abel Muranda. Both funnels probably lead to places of equal peril. The only difference is that the funnel to the gallows is much less fun.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Then maybe you should become familiar with both. That way, you can make an educated comparison. There is nothing more gratifying than disproving a theory.”

  “I don’t know much about education or theories, Vaida. Still, I am certain that nothing useful is ever learned from activities that require people to replace thought with impulse.”

  Vaida laughed.

  “‘... to replace thought with impulse.’ Your Shona is so formal, Abel Muranda. You speak like a man from the past century.”

  “I will walk into any century if it will grant me the dignity of a living wage.”

  “Then maybe your life is not as bad as you make it out to be.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. You have not yet fallen to the bottom of the pit, Abel. When you do, you will find that it is a crowded place. You will join the compan
y of many others who once sought the dignity of a living wage. Sadly, at some point in their journeys to reality, they were forced to resign from dignity in order to earn that living wage. The clamour of everyone’s humiliation will make it impossible for you to focus on your own regrets. If you are lucky, you will find a corner to reflect on how your fall could have been mind-numbingly pleasurable. And then you will think of me ...”

  “That will not happen, Vaida. The pit I fell into has no bottom. It only has a dangling rope that I must grab to break my fall and climb back to the surface.”

  “Abel, the problem is that each length of rope you pull past on your journey up will be the neck of another man. Does that sound like ‘climbing out’ to you?”

  “Generally, I have no business with other men’s necks. But if clutching them will save my innocent family, then yes, it sounds like ‘climbing out’ to me. A length of rope and a guilty neck are the same thing. Both have enough space for a stabilizing grip.”

  “All that sounds good, Abel. But gallant values always feel better to express than the consequences they court. Anyway, we will talk at leisure when you hit the bottom. Don’t fool yourself. There is only one pit. Misery is not creative enough to dig a separate one for charming men with lofty goals. The bottom may be crowded, but things are more tolerable when you have good company. Look for me.”

  “Vaida, I hope that one day the girl with the tattered doll grows up to realize that she has outgrown her oppression. I hope she will find the courage to walk away from, instead of embrace, her indignity. An oppressive past is a devious beast. It fuels a self-defeating bitterness. It misleads people into accepting that their misery is a diseased limb that cannot be severed from their future. Vaida, such bitterness is often more gratifying to express than the freedom won from setting it aside. You are not at the bottom of any pit. If you ever were, you have since climbed out. The problem is that you decided to spend your life looking back down into the darkness. In the end, it is the same thing as living in it.”

  Vaida repositioned herself in the chair. Her hemline retreated from her hips and slid back towards her knees. The satin garment she had recruited for seduction had just become the fabric of a restored dignity. As it advanced, its fibres generated little friction with her skin, producing no sound to announce her surrender. If the guest with poor vision could not hear the capitulation, then his host could retreat without conceding defeat.