“Yes, but nails and hair are dead. Besides, earlobes don’t grow back.”
“Not an issue. Remember, some people are born without them, and they do just fine.”
“Sure, but they will bleed when you remove them. I think for most people, blood and pain is a good indicator that you should not be doing something.”
“Like surgery?”
“Well, there is a rationale for the blood in that case. Surgery provides medical benefits.”
“Like plastic surgery, for example. Or ear piercings? Those involve blood too, no? Are you telling me that it’s okay to punch holes into your ears but it’s not okay to remove the lobe that would hold the earring?”
“But the real issue is not the removal. It is the purpose of the removal.”
“Still, the criminal code does not outlaw the purpose of an action that is otherwise legal. Just because certain impulses are strange does not mean they violate the law. Besides, my client’s condition was nonrecurring. Her urge would disappear after indulging it for the first time. She said so herself. I believed her. Still do.”
“I still think it is disgusting. The judge and policeman have my sympathies.”
“Hey. We all have needs.”
“Like eating pieces of our loved ones?”
“Sure. I don’t recommend it, though. Besides, my clients were a loving couple, Professor. All they wanted was to bond over the wife’s angustī canibalis. It’s not like she wanted to eat his brain. Only his redundant earlobes. Since both parties consented, I don’t see why the police or the courts needed to get involved. That is the problem with this world, Professor. People want to use the law to stifle certain choices simply because they cannot see themselves ever embracing them. The law cannot be used as a weapon to impose or modify the private values of others.”
“‘Values’ like angustī canibalis?” asked Professor Khupe, biting his lower lip.
“Sure!” said Mr. Gweta. “Especially when the accused only contemplates but does not exercise her values.”
Mr. Gweta gazed off into the distance.
“Imagine how wonderful this world would be if potential criminals asked the police for permission? ‘Please, may I kill my boss?’ ‘No!’ ‘Please may I steal a cow?’ ‘No!’ ‘Please may I burn my neighbour’s house? He is so annoying.’ ‘No!’
“We could slash the law enforcement budget by ninety-nine percent. We would only need a single police officer and a desk. The officer’s only job would be to say ‘No!’ And he would be allowed to do it in any way he wanted. He could yell or whisper. He could even paint the word on the wall with his own blood to keep things exciting. But the answer would always be “No!” Imagine all the money we could save.”
Professor Khupe could almost see the solitary policeman sitting at his desk as he said “No!” to aspiring criminals. Mr. Gweta’s dreamy eyes were glistening with the euphoria of a fantasy that would never come to pass.
“No ...” whispered Mr. Gweta under his breath.
Professor Khupe could not believe what he had just heard. On the one hand, the conversation had been disturbing. On the other hand, his host had an endearing persona that made his arguments sound more mischievous than morbid. No one, except conservative police officers and judges, could hate Mr. Gweta.
“You made all these arguments to the judge, didn’t you?” Professor Khupe was smiling.
“Yes, I did,” admitted Mr. Gweta.
“Was he convinced?”
“No. My delivery was passionate, but he was unmoved. The couple was fined three hundred dollars and given a stiff warning. That was a lot of cash in those days. I had to pay it because they had no money. That bill cost me a quarter of my salary, but they were grateful. That was not the last time I covered my clients’ fines. In my opinion, the punishment was too harsh. My clients had consulted the justice system before proceeding. They were tragically punished for a courtesy that should have at least mitigated their penalty.”
“I suppose,” conceded Professor Khupe.
“Anyway, I finally got tired of being broke. After five years of taking cases that no one wanted, I finally left the Office of the Public Defender.”
“What ever happened to the couple?” asked Professor Khupe.
“I bumped into them ten months later on Samora Machel Avenue. They were pleased to see me, but the husband appeared self-conscious about his woolly hat. It flopped heavily over the right side of his head like the fold of a beret stuffed with rocks. I could not see his ear. This was odd because it was in late December. The heat was unbearable. His head must have been boiling, and yet, he was wearing that woolly hat. The couple tried to act casually, but I knew right away. Beneath that hat was an ear with a missing lobe. I guess the wife’s angustī canibalis later became unbearable. I hope it did not mutate and refocus on other body parts. It has been known to happen, you know?”
“How could it? I thought you invented the condition?”
“I did. But the benefit of inventing a condition is that you have the power to decide its pathology.”
The distant look returned to Mr. Gweta’s face.
“Sometimes you never know what happens to clients after they walk out the door.”
After stewing in his nostalgia, Mr. Gweta snapped back to the present.
“Please, take a seat,” he said.
The two men collapsed into the most comfortable sofas that Professor Khupe had ever sat in. He felt like a nobleman resting in a bed laden with velvet pillows. If only the lovely ladies at the reception were to dangle sweet grapes above his mouth, Professor Khupe would declare himself emperor.
The sofas were positioned in the middle of the office. The arrangement made the place look more like the lounge of a mansion than a place of work. This was where the wealthy and powerful sought advice on how to use the law to become wealthier and even more powerful.
“I spend a lot of time here,” said Mr. Gweta. “Sometimes, I have to stay overnight. The place has to feel like home.”
“Of course,” replied Professor Khupe. “You have done well for yourself, Mr. Gweta.”
“Thank you. It has been a crazy journey to this office. My daughter will never understand the struggle.”
The mention of Mr. Gweta’s daughter made Professor Khupe cringe. How he hoped she would not tell her father about the conversation they had had in the elevator.
“Ketiwe has the same idealism that I had when I was defending earlobe eaters. At least she does not have to compromise her idealism for material comfort. I don’t mind that she does not have corporate ambitions. I am happy as long as she is providing high quality services to a good cause. Ketiwe is a hard worker.”
Professor Khupe nodded like a proud uncle catching up on news about his niece. But inside, he was thinking about high-quality services. About how he, Professor Khupe, was a good cause. About how great it would be to work hard with Ketiwe. Concertedly.
“I will continue to live the idealism of my youth through her,” continued Mr. Gweta. “I just hope she finds a good boy with a solid head and respectable ambitions. The boy she is seeing at the moment has a wonderful personality. However, he is a bit scattered and unfocused. I am not sure how he got into law school.”
Boy? What boy was this?
“Ah, so Ketiwe has a boyfriend? That is very good, Mr. Gweta. I guess this means you will soon have a son-in-law?”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that. Things are different with modern youth. They like to test the waters before deciding whether to stay with someone for the long term.”
What! The boy was testing the waters!
“True,” replied Professor Khupe calmly. The proud uncle was restraining the jealous beast inside. “Well, Ketiwe seems to be a sensible young girl. I am sure the testing is chaste.”
Mr. Gweta’s eyes widened slightly.
“I trust her judgment completely,” he said with a smile. “Anyway, he is a nice boy. Kind and respectful. He is in his final year of law school. He st
arted two years after Ketiwe. I am not sure if he will pass his final year, though. He has been struggling with his Constitutional Law and Contracts classes. But Ketiwe has been tutoring him, so I expect he will pull through.”
That little maggot! He was using the classical “tutoring strategy”! The pervert was probably stealing glances down her blouse whenever she was looking at the textbook! When will these young girls ever learn!
“Well, we all need help with our studies from time to time. School can be hard,” said Professor Khupe. His tone was soaked in sympathy, but he wanted to grab that insolent tadpole by the neck and twist a screw into his head! Then he would yank its brain out like a cork! It would go “plop!” and leave a gaping hole in an empty skull. That’s if the miscreant had a brain to begin with ...
“My daughter is passionate about helping people,” said Mr. Gweta. “I hope she stays that way.”
How could a father hope for something like that?
“Anyway, it took an embarrassing incident to cure my own impulse for self-sacrifice. When you call yourself a lawyer, but a girl won’t date you because you are broke, something has to change.”
* * *
Barbara Kuonyesha
Mr. Gweta threw his hands in the air. He opened his mouth before quickly shutting it again. A conflict was brewing behind his fluttering eyelids. The lawyer wanted to share a personal trauma, but was hesitant about confiding in a client.
“I am sure she was a special lady,” said Professor Khupe. He sprinkled a generous pinch of solidarity over his words. The comradeship in his overture hid the curiosity in his voice. Mr. Gweta smiled and nodded.
“Her name was Barbara Kuonyesha. She walked with a rhythm that could derail a speeding train. In my fourth year in the Public Defender’s office, I finally convinced her to come back to my place. I felt like a hero. I made sure that my law school diploma and graduation photograph were the first things she saw when she walked in. My apartment was modest, but those two objects were omens of a bright future. I wanted to present myself as the promising start-up company that attracts savvy investors with the promise of a future windfall. Barbara was a savvy investor.
“Officially, she was coming over for a quick meal and a Bible study session. I picked her up from the bus stop and walked her back to my apartment. My smile was chaste, but my anticipation was less than holy. I was goal-oriented. Barbara played it cool, but I knew she was hatching unholy plans of her own. You see, Barbara was a ‘Sperm Pirate.’”
“What is a Sperm Pirate, Mr. Gweta?”
“Ah! Excellent question. It’s a term that my friends and I coined in law school. It describes women of parasitic ambition. The Sperm Pirate seeks financial security by falling pregnant to a wealthy or upwardly mobile man. She is cold, calculating and pragmatic to a fault. In her world view, love is like cake. It’s good if she can get it. However, she won’t lose any sleep over the foregone calories if the alternative is foregone comfort.”
Mr. Gweta furrowed his symmetrical brow. This was a prelude to the important point he was about to make.
“The key trait of a Sperm Pirate is that she is not driven by desperation. Escaping poverty or hardship is not her motive. She usually has a good education and access to the same opportunities as the man she tries to trap. However, she understands that it is more efficient to enjoy a lavish lifestyle through the sweat of another’s labour. But the Sperm Pirate is acutely aware that the infatuation of a hormonal man has a brief shelf life. This poor collateral must be cashed in before it expires. A pregnancy is the best way to convert this volatile resource into a stable asset. Babies are reliable insurance policies. They create legal obligations for financial support, even when the sweet milk of passion turns sour.”
“That’s a cynical view of women, Mr. Gweta.”
“Only some women, Professor. Besides, cynicism is the only tool that can scrape away the tint off rose-coloured glasses. People would get into far less trouble if they used it more. You know, almost a quarter of the boys in my class became fathers before graduation. None of them saw it coming. The mothers were usually beautiful girls who didn’t seem to be affiliated with any faculty. We concluded that they were taking master’s degrees in seduction. Each girl was the dean of her own faculty. And boy, those faculties were the subjects of many confessions every Sunday, even for those who were not religious. Trust me: We felt the heat of their studious attention.”
“But if these Sperm Pirates were so dangerous, why did you pursue Barbara?”
“It was a wilful lack of judgment, Professor. Sometimes you know that it’s stupid to do something, but you do it anyway. I don’t know why.”
Professor Khupe wondered whether Ketiwe’s mother had been a Sperm Pirate. She probably had nothing more to offer than her master’s-level genes. Her beauty had expressed itself through her daughter with unforgiving force. If she was responsible for a child that looked like Ketiwe, then the lavish lifestyle she enjoyed at Mr. Gweta’s expense was a fair trade.
“Anyway, Barbara was a Sperm Pirate. I’m sure she postponed our dinner date until she knew she was ovulating. I don’t think I considered the consequences of her scheming at the time. The hormones must have been clouding my judgment. My only defence against her ambitions was a single condom. I had borrowed it from a friend, actually. I am not even sure I would have remembered to use it if things had gone well.”
Mr. Gweta shook his head.
“I tell you, Professor, growing up is a full contact sport. Somewhere in our brains, foolishness and naïveté join forces with a false sense of invincibility. Together, they score own-goals against their host’s interests. All this happens while that referee known as ‘reason’ is collapsed in a drunken stupor, unable to stop the madness. When he finally wakes up, all he can do is grant the useless penalty known as ‘hindsight’. But the outcome remains unchanged. The game is lost …”
“It sounds like you had an active youth, Mr. Gweta.”
“I did. But Barbara was not part of the activity. That possibility evaporated when we walked into my apartment building that evening. We were making small talk but both of us were ready for battle. The loser would either be an unwilling father, or a woman who parted with her honey but failed to populate her beehive. In the end, both of us lost. Before my carnal intentions could further her maternal ambitions, my lucky stars dislodged from the heavens and fell into the sewer.”
Mr. Gweta bit his lower lip. So many years later, the pain was still fresh.
“My landlady appeared as I was opening the door to my apartment. She politely reminded me that my rent was overdue. She also hinted that this was a regular occurrence. If I wanted a discount, I knew what I had to do. She did not elaborate on the conditions of the reduction. However, such statements are demonic seeds in the mind of a girl who is assessing your potential as a future source of comfort.”
Mr. Gweta wagged an instructive finger at Professor Khupe.
“I negotiated a three day extension on my rent, but the damage was done. I tried to make excuses about how I had loaned the money to a friend. I was a bad liar back then. Barbara was not convinced. She asked me where I worked. At that point, she knew I was a lawyer, but she did not know the nature of my practice. You know how people can be, Professor. They think when a lawyer gets his diploma, he is also given a license to print money. When I told her that I was a public defender, she stared at me with a blank expression. I had to explain that I represented poor people. Her face darkened. I swear I could hear her ovaries clawing back the eggs they had released.
“I had always been proud of my work on behalf of marginalized people. However, on that day, I felt embarrassed when I had to admit it to Barbara. She cringed as though she was looking at a rabid rat. A quick calculation told her that I earned less than she made as an interior designer. Having my babies would amount to a lifelong pact with that middle class illness known as ‘work’.
“Barbara started to make excuses. She told me that she had to go hom
e to knit a woolly hat. She could not put it off any longer. Her mother had a cough. I pointed out that it was the height of summer. If her mother had a cough it had nothing to do with the lack of such a headpiece. Besides, our Bible reading was more urgent. Barbara disagreed. She left me standing in the hallway with a bloodstream poisoned with hormones. That was it. Her womb would be fertilized by a worthier man. That day, I vowed to become ten times wealthier than any man Barbara chose to procreate with.
“I saw Barbara the following month. She was with Rhombus Dzvene, one of my classmates from law school. The couple was walking together along Leopold Takawira Street. Rhombus was a boring man with an angular head. Still, he worked at a law firm that was quite prestigious at the time. Barbara was looking fertile. Judging by the way Rhombus was leering at her, I knew he had no intention of using any contraception. They looked so happy together.”
Mr. Gweta looked up at the ceiling.
“Do you think woolly hats are a bad omen for me, Professor?”
“I don’t believe in bad omens, Mr. Gweta. I am a scientist to the core.”
“Of course!” said Mr. Gweta flashing his charming smile. “Anyway, I am glad nothing happened between me and Barbara. That incident changed my life. It sparked the career change that brought me all this. You may be pleased to know that Barbara and Rhombus have three children. They are solidly middle class. He never made partner at his firm, but he is a reliable worker. I send him a few cases from time to time. He doesn’t know about my history with his wife so he is always grateful. But Barbara knows that each file I send to her husband pays for a year’s worth of school fees for their children. More importantly, she knows that I own watches that cost more than that.”
Mr. Gweta raised his hand to display the timepiece that was wrapped around his wrist.
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 12