The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)
Page 8
“If it makes you feel any better, I will answer your question, Zacharia.”
“No, Abel Muranda. I had no doubt that I would not accept his offer from the moment he made it. I never considered changing my mind. I never will. I am only telling you this because you are a good man who is walking into a bad decision. I don’t know what that decision is, but I am sure your journey to Harare has something to do with it. Beware. You have caught the attention of some dangerous characters. I would go back home if I were you, Abel Muranda. Anyway, what do I know? I’m just a crazy man who lives under a bridge with photos of a family he cannot bring himself to look at.”
Zacharia shrugged.
“The man left you that that thing over there,” he said pointing to some pebbles near the river bank. Abel Muranda stood and walked to the spot he had been directed. Wedged between two rocks was a green vine about the length of his arm. The exposed roots were abnormally thick for a plant of that size. They were curled inwards into a tight fist that was clenching a fleshy object. The tangled mass was the size of rat. It was partially decayed. Abel Muranda concluded that the vine had been planted atop the carcass of a dead rodent in the soil. As the plant matured, its expanding roots had woven themselves around it. Though the structure was odd, it looked unremarkable.
“What is this thing?” asked Abel Muranda with a grave curiosity.
“A sign of good faith.”
“How so?”
“The stranger cut it out of Jokoniya’s body. But he assured me the patient is still alive. I don’t know what that thing does in the body, but I guess it’s something Jokoniya can do without. If I changed my mind and accepted the offer, I am sure the next plant would be feeding on an organ that Jokoniya cannot do without. Don’t touch it, Abel Muranda. I will get rid of it myself.”
Poor Zacharia. What an elaborate world he had created in his head. Overnight, he had integrated Abel Muranda into an unfolding story in which a villain fed his enemies’ body parts to plants. A story in which he, Zacharia, could display integrity and selflessness by rejecting an offer from a man who promised to reveal the location of a family he probably never had. All he had to do was to ask Abel Muranda one question, a small sacrifice for such a great reward. Many words could be used to describe Zacharia’s world. “Boring” was not one of them. But “tragic” certainly was.
Abel Muranda rejoined Zacharia where he sat.
“You can’t stay here, Abel Muranda. You know that Zacharia’s home is your home too. However, this is not a good time for you to be here. Go further into the city and look for a place to sleep until you hear about your job. Ask about the churches. Some of them will give you food and shelter while you get yourself on your feet. They may ask you to help with tasks such as gardening, but you will be better off than you could ever be living under a bridge with Zacharia. The churches also have soap to keep you clean over the next three weeks. I don’t keep any around here. I don’t spend much time with people who have a sense of smell.”
“You are better company than anyone I could find in the churches, Zacharia.”
“And you are a good man, Abel Muranda, but you still can’t stay here.”
“If you feel that way, I will leave.”
“I do.”
Zacharia looked at his new friend with searching eyes.
“Will you come to visit me, my brother?” asked Zacharia.
Abel Muranda’s heart broke. There was a child in those eyes that had never been loved by anyone, for any reason, at any point in his life.
“I promise I will,” replied Abel Muranda. “I promise to visit you as soon as I take care of my business in Harare. You have my word.”
Zacharia was taken aback. The answer was unexpected. He averted his gaze and looked down to the ground. He shook his head gently. Zacharia stood silently and walked to his massive pile of belongings. He rummaged through a sack full of empty cans and glass bottles. His eyes lit up when his hand found the item he was looking for. Zacharia retrieved a stone carving of an elephant. It was the size of his fist. Apart from his disco outfit, the carving was the only item in the heap that actually resembled a possession.
“This is for you, my brother. Thank you for chasing Jokoniya away. He has tormented me for many years.”
Abel Muranda took the small carving and put it in his bag. He turned to Zacharia and held out his hand.
“Wherever I go, I will tell everyone that I have a brother in Harare. His name is Zacharia. He is a good man. In fact, one of the best I have ever met. I will tell them that I visit him often. And you know why I will say that, Zacharia? Because I will.”
Zacharia started crying. His face broke into a wide smile. Only half his teeth were left.
“Happy waiting, Abel Muranda. May your wait end with good news. I hope they don’t leave you hanging ... At least not for too long.”
* * *
Mrs. Sibanda’s Vagrant
Every successful mission requires a clear plan. Tonight, Mrs. Sibanda’s mission was to enjoy some gratification. She would not be denied. Her plan was as clear as oxygen. It involved an expensive perfume, a bottle of wine, and audacious underwear. Yes, for such battles, lingerie was always a critical component of the offensive strategy.
As Mrs. Sibanda prepared to declare war against morality, she studied the weapons on her bed and frowned. This battle plan was incomplete. After poring over her arsenal, it dawned on her that her preparations needed a finishing touch.
“Of course!” she exclaimed when she solved the puzzle.
Mrs. Sibanda blinked rapidly before locking her eyes into a well-timed squint. She calibrated the distance between her eyelids to the last micrometer. A glaze of tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Then she tilted her head towards the bedside lamp. When the angle was perfect, she froze. The rays of light were infused into the film of tears. This consummation created a devilish twinkle in her eyes. Her plans were complete. Her selfish agenda had been expressed.
After rummaging through her drawer, she found the physical manifestation of her self-serving scheme. She carefully unfolded the document and smiled to herself. It was the invoice for all the items on her bed. Mrs. Sibanda had ordered the goods through a company that specialized in “choreographing special moments”. The company provided a range of services at different price points but she had settled for their basic “Two-it-Yourself” package. It was all she needed. A more decadent package would have been wasted on her intended target. When everything was ready, she picked up the phone and dialled a number with an unusual recurrence of eights.
“Hello, Rhesus?”
“Yes, Mrs. S.”
“Your number has too many eights in it. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t until you just told me for the hundredth time.”
“At least you are aware. So, I have an assignment. It’s on the usual terms.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need you to find someone. I know where he was a day ago, but I lost track of him.”
“You can count on me, Mrs. S. Tracking people is my speciality. My dog-like features are not for decoration, you know.”
“Of course. And that’s why your parents named you Rhesus. Now listen. The person I want you to find is deferential to authority. He will only come with you if he believes the summons relate to official business. A recent experience would make him reluctant to come here if he knew my business was actually personal.”
“I see … Okay. I will wear my most authoritative expression.”
“I have a better idea. Wear a suit. Tell him that I need to see him about his interview. However, we can only meet at my place. We must be discrete. Technically, the meeting will involve a breach of protocol.”
“Among other things …” muttered Rhesus under his breath.
“Among several other things, Rhesus.”
“Okay. So where was the last sighting of this man?”
“I hear he was living under a bridge along Mutare Road.”
“A vagrant with strong hands. Their dexterity is required within the next forty-eight hours. Any later will be unacceptable.”
“Even dangerous, I would assume. I believe that Mr. Sibanda returns on Friday?”
“Yes. It would be a pity if I had to waste my recent purchases on him. Get busy, Rhesus. Call me when you find him.”
“Sure, Mrs. S. But you didn’t give me a name.”
“Abel Muranda,” she said. “I will succeed where another has failed.” Mrs. Sibanda’s eyes twinkled.
* * *
THE CONSULTANT’S REPORT
“I will not mince words. There’s been enough mincing for one day.”
There’s Been Enough Mincing For One Day
“I will not mince words. There’s been enough mincing for one day. Therefore, I shall ask my question bluntly: How does a man know that his body has been turned inside out? … His eyes can see the back of his skull with an alarming clarity. I am told it hurts like hell. Especially when he refuses to explain why he has been investigating the hangman’s replacement.”
—My former captor
Dear MUSHAKABVU,
If every person is granted a lifetime budget of bad luck at birth, I am sure that your assignment has exhausted mine. The most unfortunate event befell me after I was captured by the man who delivered the quote above. I hoped that my escape was a sign that my personal allocation of misfortune had been spent. This hope is currently being tested in the most alarming way.
As I write this letter, I am perched on a tree with a wild animal circling the base. I hope it cannot climb. I have been fleeing my captors for the past fifteen hours. To die now, like this, would be tragic. My mother would be vindicated. She always told me that she had long made peace with the likelihood that I would die before her. I hope her fears were not prophetic.
Despite my situation, I did find information of interest. I believe the attached report will answer some of your questions. I am also sure that it will raise many more; however, I am afraid that I cannot assist in answering any of them. The dangers of continuing to research this topic are greater than I am willing to tolerate, even for thrice your generous fee. Therefore, you can expect nothing further beyond what I have provided in this communication.
My time is limited so I must hurry. I ask for your tolerance of any typos, and beg your forgiveness for my failure to anticipate any queries that would benefit from clarification or elaboration.
Your receipt of the package means I managed to escape Zimbabwe and find a reliable postal system to deliver my confidences. From the postmark, you will notice that I sent the letter from Zambia or Mozambique. I do not know which I will aim for. My odds of reaching either are even.
MUSHAKABVU, I may be in a tough spot, but I am more worried about you. I have never experienced anything close to a sense of kinship with any of my clients, let alone those I have never met. However, the world you sent me to investigate has inspired a selfless concern that is uncommon between strangers. I hope you are just a curious, distant observer in the affairs I have been probing ... But something tells me this hope was frustrated long before our acquaintance.
My full report is attached. I prepared it under less urgent circumstances so it is more comprehensive than I can be at present. I hope you are a powerful man, MUSHAKABVU. You have chosen to wade into a swamp where the crocodiles are considered adorable. No doubt, you will need all your resources to fend off the coming onslaught. I wish you the same survival that I pray will allow me to reach a place where I can mail this package.
* * *
Wanted: Zimbabwe’s New Hangman – A Report For Mushakabvu
You asked me to investigate the following questions:
1. Is it true that Zimbabwe is searching for a new hangman?
2. If it is, who is involved with the recruitment effort?
3. Why the sudden interest in filling the position?
My findings: Yes, they are recruiting a new hangman. However, the time, money and energy they are investing in the effort seem excessive.
Though I have no clear answers for the last two questions, the following information may be of interest.
Background: Zimbabwe’s Last Hangman
Zimbabwe’s last hangman retired in 2004. The death penalty was put on hold until a replacement could be found. The vacancy remains unfilled.
People familiar with the matter have reported that few eligible candidates have stepped forward. According to the traditional belief in ngozi, the spirit of a murdered person will haunt the killer and his family for generations. Some believe that there may be an exception for state‑sanctioned executions. However, none of these people are willing to put their nooses where their mouths are. After all, the spiritual world is not known for respecting the laws and logic of the living. The dead can even take contrarian positions just to spite us.
One candidate who considered applying for the position explained his change of heart: “That job is like unprotected sex. It feels amazing at the time, but there is a good chance you will pay for it later. None of the benefits are worth the pleasure.”
The man did not clarify how the “pleasure” in his analogy corresponded with the hangman’s job. Judging by his muscle definition and the expensive watch on his wrist, I am convinced it had nothing to do with the executioner’s modest salary. Such men can make more money doing other things, and without having to deal with the bureaucracy of a human resources department.
Difficulties With Filling The Post
Though the fear of ngozi has discouraged many aspiring hangmen, every Zimbabwean has been troubled by one puzzling question. The country has its fair share of enthusiastic murderers. They roam deserted roads at night. Their victims’ bodies turn up mangled in ditches, swamps and matrimonial beds. No self-respecting mob can deliver justice without one or two habitual killers within its ranks. So why have none of these people stepped forward to present their candidacy? After all, the job would allow them to combine their passion for murder with a civic duty.
I admit that criticizing the nation’s crop of killers is not entirely fair. Many candidates have come forward. However, it is proving difficult to find someone who meets the four minimum criteria for becoming a hangman.
Qualifications For Becoming A Hangman
First, the successful recruit must be empathetic. This condition rules out the sadistic, the vengeful, and the enthusiastic. Therefore, many of the garden-variety killers who applied so far have had no chance of success, especially those who are already behind bars.
Second, the new hangman must be at least twenty-one years of age. In practice, only applicants over thirty-five are being seriously considered. Apparently, the older the hangman, the less time he has to live with the pressures of the job. However, the recruit cannot be of an age where reflections about his legacy could suddenly shake his commitment to his duties. No upper limit has been cited in the recruitment guidelines. The decision will be made on a case-by-case basis if the need arises. I doubt it will, but there is always a chance. I know several geriatrics whose desire for a notorious legacy has only increased with age.
Third, the rules disqualify those with mental illnesses or personality disorders. Officials have stressed that a self-declaration of mental stability will not suffice. Only a professional psychiatrist can issue a “Certificate of Sound Disposition”. Of those who have applied so far, only two passed this stage.
The fourth criterion was never disclosed. However, one fact is clear: It does not rule out the desperate.
The Recruitment Effort
I do not know who is involved in the recruitment effort. However, the process is even more intriguing than the sudden interest in filling the vacancy. One of my sources told me that an expert has been hired to advise on the process. I could not find his name on any roster of human resources professionals. What I learned came from someone with a habit of knowing information t
hat never makes it into the newspapers. Such people make good friends.
According to the source, the expert spent his career advising on unconventional hiring decisions. He has been consulted on the recruitment of special forces troops, prison officers, pilots, air-traffic controllers, park rangers, prison guards, de-mining experts, ship captains, police officers, stock traders and many others. He even advised on the recruitment of an astronaut.
It appears that our expert advises employers filling high-pressure jobs that often require fast, bold, decisive and accurate judgment. Though the expert retired some time ago, he agreed to help find the hangman’s replacement. I am not sure if he was given a choice. My source did not give a name.
What Inspired The Renewed Effort to Hire Another Hangman?
According to rumours, it was a flower. Zuva Redu first broke the story of carnivorous flame lilies that were found at the Great Zimbabwe monument. I am sure this plant connects everyone who has an interest in finding a new hangman. Somehow, the discovery inspired a flurry of activity to speed up the executions. The plant and death row are mirror images of each other. The two are connected by an invisible fuse. Holding a flame to one end will ignite the other. On what side of the mirror are the explosives located? This probably does not matter. An object and its reflection will always share the same fate.
The real question is: Who holds the matchstick, and what are their intentions? I will soon shed light on the question through my imminent account of a certain “culinary exercise”.
The critical point to keep in mind is that the flame lily has shaken a group of otherwise unflappable men. They fear that this flower is worsening a spiritual disease that is threatening to swallow them. The men believe that their salvation lies in accelerating the execution of prisoners on death row. I will refer to them by the term that one of my sources used: The Bakers.
The Bakers