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

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  “So what now?” asked Vaida.

  Abel reached for his bag and pulled out a Bible.

  “Pray with me, my sister.”

  * * *

  The Guest Who Disinfected the Furniture

  Abel Muranda refused to stay another night at Vaida’s. Nothing could change his mind. He had endured a night of drunken clients and sexual advances from a persistent host. He insisted that his decision to leave was not a reflection of his opinion of Vaida. She was a good woman on the wrong path. But that did not matter. She had been kind to him and would always be his sister. If he got the job, he would buy her something nice. He also wanted to introduce her to his wife, but that probably would not be a good idea. Mrs. Muranda was a conservative, rural woman. She would not understand. Moreover, he had seen Vaida naked. The incident had killed any prospect of a sisterly introduction.

  Abel Muranda left at six o’clock that morning. He did not say where he was going. It made no difference; Vaida had not asked. He probably did not know anyway. The only thing they both knew was that he would be in Harare for three more Tuesdays.

  Later that morning, Vaida walked through the rooms in the house to assess the damage. The patrons and the girls had left. Apart from a broken lamp and a forced door handle, everything was largely in order. Her two cleaners had come in at nine-thirty. They had done a fantastic job as always. Vaida had asked them to skip the room that Abel Muranda had slept in. After the cleaners had left, Vaida walked in and sat on the bed.

  Abel Muranda had been there for less than twenty-four hours, and yet his aura hung over the room with an authority greater than any other man who had visited Vaida’s place. His resonance was partly due to his geometric personality. It was charming in its own way. Even if Abel Muranda had been an ordinary man, his presence would still have lingered after his departure. He had left a plastic bag with a mouldy wet towel in the room. The stench escaped in all its glory when Vaida opened the bag. To her dismay, the odour bounced around the walls like a swarm of flies looking for the exit. Even then, it still felt like the cleanest room in the house.

  Vaida opened the window to let in some air. This act had nothing to do with Abel Muranda’s smell. It had everything to do with his memory. The incoming breeze slowly replaced the final traces of the aspiring hangman. It was sad, but necessary.

  * * *

  Consolidated

  Somewhere in Harare, there was a four-storey building. Above its main entrance was a faded plaque. The ghost of the last surviving word continued to haunt the bottom corner of the sign: “Consolidated”. No one seemed to know who or what was once consolidated. No one cared. That was exactly how it was meant to be.

  The building was neither large nor small. It had regular windows and plain brick walls. Nothing about it invited curiosity. In fact, the structure was so ordinary that if it had fallen from the sky and landed on a pedestrian, other passers-by would have first commented on how unremarkable it looked before they attended to the victim.

  Mr. Gejo’s office was on the second floor.

  For the past seventeen years, an elderly doorman had sat dutifully on a wooden chair by the entrance. For the past ten, he had slept for more than half of every shift. When he was awake, Sekuru Nyota had a foul temper. He shared it generously with anyone he suspected of absconding from church. Everyone ignored him. Anyone entering the building knew exactly where they were going. No one ended up at Consolidated by accident. It took effort to notice. Even for a burglar.

  When Vaida approached the entrance, she walked faster to avoid Sekuru Nyota. The old man appeared to be sleeping, but as she neared the stairs, a crusty voice pursued her: “Church, young lady! Church! None of this malingering ... None of this tomfoolery!” He promptly fell back asleep.

  When she reached the second floor, Vaida stopped at the reception. She greeted Shuvai, a young woman who had once worked for her. After a few bad experiences, Shuvai had reached the point where no amount of money was worth the danger of servicing the perverse manifestations of the male libido. Vaida had helped her to obtain secretarial training. After Shuvai completed her course, Vaida convinced Mr. Gejo to give her a job at Consolidated.

  Today, Shuvai was all smiles.

  “Hello, Vaida! Good to see you!”

  “Likewise, Shuvai,” said Vaida, returning the smile. “You look happy and well.”

  “I am. I love it here. At first, I was scared that the men would be like the ones from my past life. But here, I am treated with respect.”

  Shuvai looked down the corridor to make sure no one was within earshot.

  “To be honest, I think I am respected because Mr. Gejo hired me.”

  “True. Mr. Gejo’s protection is a repellent for unwanted attention.”

  “Yes. Besides, most of the men don’t talk much. Everyone is too busy. I have no idea what they do here, but the people in this building are really smart.”

  “I am sure they are smart, Shuvai, but I am certain you are their equal. They are simply more respectful.”

  “And sober. But this place is different, Vaida. People here are smart on a whole different level. Last year, one of the new recruits asked me for a Harare phone book. He flipped through it for ten minutes and then closed it. I asked him if he had found the number he was looking for. He simply smiled and said, ‘Yes.’

  “Two weeks later, we had a plumbing problem in one of the men’s toilets. The janitor came by to let me know. I was about to look up the phone number for the nearest plumbing company when the same recruit passed by the reception. He must have overheard my conversation with the janitor. Without stopping, he listed three companies within a thirty-minute radius as well as their phone numbers. He recommended the second company because the other two did not provide service after-hours. Then he disappeared down that hallway.

  “I cannot be certain, but I think he memorized the entire phone book and recited the numbers without referring to it. But what shocks me even more is that Mr. Gejo constantly worries about that man’s fitness to work at Consolidated. From what I heard, they were conflicted about hiring him in the first place. They are now regretting their decision because ‘he is a little slow.’ Apparently, they do not give him significant assignments. I think they are only keeping him because he has influential relatives.”

  “That sounds intriguing. I am glad you are enjoying your job, though,” said Vaida.

  “I am. Actually, I am also taking Chinese courses at the University of Zimbabwe. I spend ten hours a week in class. Consolidated is paying for them.”

  “That is nice to hear, Shuvai. I am proud of you.”

  Vaida leaned on the desk and looked towards Mr. Gejo’s office. The door was shut. Shuvai’s smile faded.

  “There is something going on, Vaida. Mr. Gejo is very busy.”

  “Too busy to see me?”

  “Yes. You know how things are around here. Everything is normal when people talk in whispers. Nothing is normal when the whispers stop. There have been no whispers for several weeks now. That means Mr. Gejo is very busy.”

  “I see,” said Vaida with disappointment. Shuvai looked towards the ceiling and tapped her pen on the counter.

  “I need to go to the toilet,” she said. “I feel like I drank a gallon of Mhondi Beer.”

  With that, she stood and left. Vaida looked down the hallway. A few highly forgettable people were walking in and out of ordinary looking rooms. In the course of an eventful life, Vaida had learned that the best way to access prohibited places was to walk with the confidence of someone who needed no permission. With that in mind, she headed straight for Mr. Gejo’s office.

  * * *

  It’s Too Late to Succumb to Adolescent Emotions

  Just before she reached Mr. Gejo’s door, Vaida passed a man of medium build. He had two eyes, two ears, and hair on his head. She smiled at him. He smiled back. As she walked past him, Vaida realized that she would not recognize him if they met on the street later that afternoon.

  It was
widely known that at Consolidated, forgettable faces were doted upon like supermodels. Many budding romances had fizzled when the confession of a long-held crush was met with the words: “You left an indelible impression on my memory.” In one case, a man almost shot himself when his love interest told him: “You stick out in a crowd like a mountain in Saskatchewan.”

  The successful courtships only blossomed after someone noted: “I will never remember your face.” As with all human relationships, these harmonious matches had a superficial basis. They provided the lovers with the daily thrill of meeting someone new through the same person. Each person was a blank canvas that could manifest as many faces as the beholder could project onto it. As they said at Consolidated: “True beauty is manufactured by the eye of the beholder.”

  The gift of engaging people without sparking recollection had a more practical value. It was the currency that could buy impunity from surveillance. In fact, the Consolidated recruiters were rumoured to have photographic memories. They could capture details in their peripheral vision that most people failed to record with a direct line of sight. Apparently, no field officer was ever hired if the recruiters could look at their picture for one second and still pick them out of a crowd the next day. In fact, Consolidated had a self-elimination test that budding recruits had to undertake before they could submit an expression of interest. It came in the form of a simple question:

  “If you were stuck on a desert island with a bored photographer, would she notice you? If so, don’t bother applying.”

  The worship of visual amnesia applied to everyone except the most noticeable man at Consolidated: Tongai Gejo. Everyone revered him.

  Mr. Gejo was on the phone when Vaida walked in. He jerked back in surprise as she opened the door and sat across from him. His eyes remained locked on hers. He pressed the earpiece firmly against the side of his massive head. The mouthpiece was almost buried beneath his moustache. Mr. Gejo did not say a word for ten minutes. He was listening intently. Finally, he put down the receiver. He had not made a single note during the entire call. He had not even said goodbye. If Vaida had not known him for so long, she would have thought there was no one at the other end of the line.

  “You look like you have seen a ghost,” she said.

  There was a flash across Mr. Gejo’s face. Surprise? Anger? Annoyance? Vaida could not tell. It was not even clear what features of Mr. Gejo’s face had shifted to create the impression, but the reaction was unmistakable.

  “Hello, Vaida,” he said. His eyes were staring right into hers, and yet he appeared to be looking straight through her.

  “There was no one at the reception desk so I let myself in,” she said.

  Mr. Gejo smiled.

  “Ah, Vaida. It is always good to see you.”

  Mr. Gejo’s pupils had shrunk to the size of pinpricks. He said nothing more. Vaida thought of breaking the silence, but decided against it. She would wait until he said something.

  Mr. Gejo was known for his attentiveness, especially to Vaida. The two were so close that she was the only person who could call him by his first name and live to tell the tale.

  His full name was Mr. Tongai Kuviringa Gejo.

  Today, there was no familiarity in his gaze. Mr. Gejo was not with her. He was fighting an unknown beast in some turbulent corner of his gruesome mind. It was too early to tell who would win the battle.

  After two minutes, Mr. Gejo’s pupils slowly relaxed. His glassy expression softened. The friendly creases at the corners of his eyes returned. Tongai Gejo was smiling beneath his giant moustache.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be home recovering from your surgery?”

  “I feel great, Tongai. Women recover quickly.”

  “That’s unfortunate. I was just ordering some flowers to help you feel better,” he said.

  “You are too kind, Tongai. But you know I am allergic.”

  “I remembered that halfway through the order so cancelled it.”

  “Without saying a word?”

  “Yes. My florist can read minds. How can I help you?”

  Vaida glanced around Mr. Gejo’s office: white walls, a window, and a desk. There were also two chairs. She was sitting in one of them. He sat on the other. There were no books, pens, or any form of stationery in sight. There was no computer, fax or printer. No photographs on his desk of grinning children or a doting wife. For such a large man, Mr. Gejo left a small footprint in the world. Vaida turned back to face him.

  “I have come to see if you would like to order more printer paper,” she said bluntly.

  “I think we have enough, Vaida. We ordered ten boxes from you last month. That should last us another two hundred years.”

  “Excellent. I just like to check on my customers from time to time. Especially the good ones that pay well.”

  “We are more than good clients, Vaida. We order much more than we need, pay more than we should, and write the cheques sooner than necessary.”

  “That is true, Tongai,” said Vaida. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome. And thank you for coming,” he said.

  Vaida leaned forward and placed her elbows on his desk.

  “Now that I am here, there is something else I need to talk to you about.”

  “Okay. But I only have five minutes.”

  “Busy?”

  “Very. I lost my stapler. I need to find it. Urgently. I cannot afford to order another one from you. Budget cuts.”

  “Fair enough, Tongai. Five minutes is all I need.”

  “Good,” replied Mr. Gejo.

  “Abel Muranda,” said Vaida.

  “What about him?” asked Mr. Gejo.

  “Why did you send him to my place?”

  “He was hungry and needed a place to sleep. I considered a few friends in town who could host him but decided he would be better off with you ... and the girls. He has been through a lot recently. I wanted him to be treated to some rest and relaxation.”

  “Well, you misread him. Abel Muranda only wanted a place to sleep. Nothing more.”

  “Is that so? Then maybe I didn’t misread him after all.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. Is he still with you?”

  “No. He left the next morning. I don’t know where he went.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Gejo.

  “He said he didn’t hold my work against me. He just couldn’t live in such an environment. I tried to convince him to stay because he doesn’t know the city. He refused.”

  “So your method of persuasion sent him packing? That must have been a new experience.”

  “No ... I ... of course not,” stammered Vaida. “It was the whole arrangement he found distasteful. I sent one of the girls to his room. Apparently, he was unresponsive.”

  The creases at the corners of Mr. Gejo’s eyes tightened ever so slightly.

  “That’s unfortunate. I was just trying to help a man in a tight spot, that’s all.”

  “Your generosity to strangers always has a motive, Tongai.”

  “You misjudge me. Besides, I thought he would make good company for you. Abel Muranda is quite intelligent for an uneducated peasant. Articulate, even. He speaks in the Shona of five generations ago. Wise, reflective, prone to using the most unexpected words. His outdated version of the language reflects values that may be misplaced in modern times, but still, the man himself is interesting.”

  “Tongai, there is nothing wrong with living in times of better values. Sure, I am not the one to preach about this, but that does not mean it is not true. Besides, his illiteracy doesn’t matter. Real intelligence does not come from schooling. Abel is more knowledgeable than all of my educated clients. He is certainly more thoughtful and articulate. He has had a lifetime of hardship to sharpen his views about the world.”

  “Has he told you about his life’s hardships?”

  “No. But they left scars on his face, his hands, and probably other parts of his body.”

  Mr. Gejo
eyed Vaida as he stroked the tip of his moustache.

  “Was there something else, Vaida?”

  “Yes,” replied Vaida. “I know why he came to Harare.”

  Mr. Gejo’s eyes narrowed slightly. The glassy stare returned before disappearing again.

  “What did he tell you about the interview?”

  “Nothing. In fact he did not want to talk about it at all. I figured it out myself. I am a smart woman, Tongai. I am not as brilliant as you, but I can connect obvious facts.”

  “Vaida, I know that knowledge is power. But the one question many people often fail to ask themselves is: the power to do what? That is where problems often begin.”

  “Tongai,” said Vaida, “when it comes to our powerful clients, my girls and I avoid knowledge. You know this. As soon as some drunken politician starts to confess about his demons, we quickly deploy our skills to redirect the conversation. We fear knowledge. I did not come here to look for it. I just want you to do me a favour.”

  “What favour, Vaida?” asked Mr. Gejo.

  “Please make sure that Abel Muranda does not get that job. You know everyone who matters in this city. You can easily find him other work that will allow him to feed his family and provide them with ‘health care’. Besides, I’m sure there are enough people in this country with no souls left to lose. Hire them instead. What about that bandit who was terrorizing people in Gokwe?”

  “Butt-Crack Barry?”

  “Yes. The one who killed his victims by suffocating them in his rancid armpits. Really, who kills people that way? Can you sink any lower?”

  “Yes. He could have suffocated the victims in his butt-crack.”

  “Come on, Tongai. You get my point. He would do the job with pleasure. You just have to grant him an amnesty and buy him a belt to keep his buttocks from showing.”