B∙O∙O∙M∙E∙R∙A∙N∙G

© Copyright tmagorimbo March 2016

5.5” x 8.5” (13.97 x 21.59 cm)

Black & White on White paper

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by
any means without the written permission of
the author.
ISBN (13) 978 153 356 8335

(10) 153 356 8332

ISIN B01EYJ4VSE
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Temba Magorimbo was born on the 9th of

August 1966, on a Tuesday in the afternoon in
Gwelo, Rhodesia, [now Gweru, Zimbabwe]. His
father was a [British South African Police]
Constable, His mother was a housewife. This
was in Rhodesia during the Ian Smith era. The
country was separated on a 3-tier racial
system. His family moved around police camps
dotted in and around the city of Gweru albeit
Old Camp, Mkoba, Senga, Monomutapa. His
primary education was (four months) at
Bumburwi in Old Mkoba and Senga Primary
[1973 – 1979]. The effects of the civil war which
mainly became serious between 1975 and
1979-80 affect his writing. He went to schools
segregated by race with his race being the
bottom of the tier. He went for secondary [high
school] at Nashville High (two weeks) and
Ascot Secondary from 1980 to 1983. He is
married to Itayi and has two daughters Pelagia
Namatai and Pamela Shamiso.
DISCLAIMER

All the characters, events and the story in this

novel BOOMERANG revolving around Harare,
Marondera, Rusape, Cape Town, New York
and Dubai are all figments of my runaway
imagination. The story, events and characters
have no direct/indirect relationship to anyone
living or dead. Should there by chance be
such a relationship, it's regretted as being
purely coincidental. However, should I have
misrepresented facts, I stand to accept
correction. Please note the customs mentioned
can be fictitious. There are no new moon
dances where chiefs select wives for their
subjects.
 __________________________________

Other books by the same author

_______________________________

Check the back flap of the books

NO TITLE ISIN# ISBN #

1 BOOMERANG B01EYJ4VSE 978-153-356-

8335

2 BUTTERSCOTCH [MEET B00JNN8APW 978-149-934-

ME IN ALBERTA] 5232

3 CHILD OF PROMISE B015E9GC9E 978-150-857-

4613

4 FOR ALL HAVE SINNED B00DJTURMA 978-149-934-

5283

5 IF WOMEN CAN WEEP B00ITPI460 978-149-934-

5339

6 LAKE OF MY HEART B00IQRK5MW 978-149-934-

5399

7 LET CLOSE ON ME B00DK6N256 978-149-934-

5429

8 OFF THE EAGLE’S CLAWS B00I6CNZTW 978-149-934-

5453

9 PATA – PATA [SOFT B00ONSONTE 978-150-109-

 FOOTSTEPS] 9825

10 SPLASH IN THE LOCH B00K45BQDQ 978-149-934-

5488
two generations ago
motsi (1)
_________________________________________

He was puffed up by the time he

reached his target. He reached the tree. He
had spotted it while taking a drink down by the
river. Why had he been drawn to the tree? That
he couldn’t tell. All he knew was there was an
attraction between him and certain types of
big trees. It was an attraction like that of a lazy
snake showing its scale colours to a
mesmerized duiker which ended up because
of its curiosity within the belly of the reptile. It
was the same attraction that water had to a
set of warthogs, wildebeests or zebras after
travelling long distances.

Their urge to drink overcame the urge

to be careful. One swift move and a crocodile
would get hold of an animal either by its head
or its leg dragging it to take more of the water
than was permissible. It was the same
attraction. That was the same attraction that a
male spider had to a black widow female
spider. After consummation, the female
devours the male. The tree was the victim.

He was the one wielding the axe. He

looked up at the maze of trees within the
forest. He could hear the chirping of birds or
cicadas’ hiding under leafs or cracks in the
ground or trees. A woodpecker looked at him
from his patch. He had found a dry part of a
tree with a lot of insects inside from which he
was being disturbed. On discovering that the
man was not a threat, the woodpecker went
on picking at the wood outside hiding him from
his booty. Just a little bit of a while before he
would fill his stomach.

He surveyed his chosen piece of dead

tree carefully checking the bottom for termite
work which went up. He grabbed the tree with
both hands from different sides. He was tall and
gangly. His hands covered about seventy
percent of the thick stock. He searched for
groves created by termites slightly below the
bark. The deeper they were the more likely the
wood was to be soft and brittle. He also
checked for axe damage further up. Maybe
some woodsman had tried felling the tree.

An axe could inflict deep cuts inside

which may conflict with whatever he wanted
to carve the wood for. The tree was just dead
and fine. He climbed up to prune away the
smaller branches from the dead tree.
Thereafter he started cutting the stock he
selected. He worked hard. It was not a day’s
work. It could require a larger saw so that if he
wedged the tree he would use the saw. A two
man cross cut saw would do if he paid one of
the men now that they were in dry weather he
would select his labour.

For the meantime he selected and cut

off a dead log. He pulled the log behind him
heading towards his hideout for the day
beneath a sunshade looking at the river below.
He watched out for snakes, scorpions and the
proverbial teams of black ants whose sting was
unnerving. These smelt a lot. These were not
poisonous. He just didn’t want to be their
victim.

His dressing was grey shorts with

nothing on his chest. Instead he normally tied a
cloth around when the weather was chilly
otherwise he subsisted through the heat by
wearing the minimum of clothes. How many
females did one encounter in a forest setting to
worry about bare shoulders, biceps and hairy
chests? Custom did not permit him to talk to
female members of the adult species with his
hairy chest and biceps on view. The opposite
was true after all.

The last time women had gone about

naked from the waist up was when the
Europeans were still subjecting Rhodesian
Africans to their rule.

There were his tools of the trade, a

chisel, a wooden mattock, a saw, wire, wire
brush, iron file, iron rasp, wooden mattock and
what looked like a hoe but which had a sharp
and narrow metal part with which he chirped
at the wooden blocks he had to make rough
shapes. There was a steel piece with holes and
abrasion which he used to file away at rough
edges. What came out after rough working he
carried home to his homestead from whence
he worked further with a chisel and iron file into
best shape.

This was his trade. He loved silence

hence he worked here alone like a hermit
examining rocks for trace mineral elements.
Here he worked. Here he observed. He noticed
when the birds were flying around. He saw
them when they took fright. He noticed when
they were edgy. He was there when they were
running across their mating habitat. When they
were edgy or took fright, he checked for the
reason. A lone man sitting on a ledge could
easily be victim of a puff adder, cobra or black
mamba too lazy to take fright. Other creatures
like leopards, hyenas, lions and wild dogs had
gone with human habitation.

Occasionally rock rabbits came out of

hiding to spy at him shrieking an alarm when a
shadow of a bird as much as passed nearby. In
the air the eagles, ravens, sparrow hawk,
falcons and the hawks were riding on air
thermals he could not see from the ground. He
however saw their small heads turning left and
right. They spotted whatever creature moved
on the ground. Occasionally, sometime ago,
he had been sitting contemplating his next
move when he had seen the shadow of an
owl. He heard its gentle swoop. It had moved
in and among the trees.

He had seen a rat on a dead tree less

than three seconds before the owl had
swooped less than a centimetre up from the
dead tree. The owl was gone into the thicket of
trees. The rat was nowhere to be seen. The
hunters rode these thermals with their eyes on
the ground. When he saw the sudden shape of
a swooping eagle, he knew whatever prey was
as good as a nest meal for some eaglets
somewhere.

At one time while working he had

observed an eagle flying into the air with a
snake in its talons. Working at the homestead
has problems of noisy and nosy neighbours
who wanted to know what he was making.
How can a man expect to have conversation
with him as he worked maybe for four hours?
At every turn he would be asked questions. The
worst was being given directions when he
knew in his mind what he wanted to produce.
They disturbed him from his thought tracks
when he created his carvings.
 Did he ever converse with a farmer who
was hoeing his crop? Did he try to have
conversation with a man busy beating two
drums at one go with both hands and at times
using his elbow to impress on the drums? Did he
ever try conversation with a person shaking a
gourd full of seeds that rattled creating music
while the person had shakers on his legs and
hands as they danced and blew their whistle
like a railway guard telling the engineman that
it was time up? He gave his respect to those in
their duties.

Why didn’t someone come up close to

a security guard out on patrol holding his well-
trained dog as big as a he-goat and try
chatting them up? Why didn’t people go to a
fence where there were Rhodesian security
personnel at air forces, army depots and
prisons and chat up those guarding the
installations holding their G-3 rifles and being
pulled or pulling their security dogs on leash?

Woof!

___________________________________

“Neighbour Kangira the bull elephant I

see you.”
 Someone had said that sometime later
while he sat in a forest on one of his fashioned
stools. This was a tree someone had cut down
hacking away the rest of the wood leaving the
stump. Kangira had worked with his chisels and
instruments smoothening the stump into a
natural stool. When the rains came the shoots
would appear from any of the 360˚ sides. By
then Kangira would have been onto another
work bench in the wild.

“Yes neighbour I recognise you too.”

Kangira had looked up from work of

shaving a wooden piece roughing out the
edges of what would be a unique creation.

“Do you still have that wood curving of

an elephant?” the other went to the point.
“The one you showed me when there was a
beer party by the mountainside?”

“Maybe it’s somewhere.”

“I found some white guy wants it for the

price of a goat,” the other suggested.

Kangira thought carefully.

“There is a master in Marandellas who

wanted to see my samples. I can’t sell that until
he sees the miniatures and the real ones,”
Kangira had replied.
 “A goat!”

“Hold on till I visit Marandellas next

week.”

“My friend _______.”

“What is the hurry? Why the hurry? A

goat is a goat whether there is sunshine or the
rains are continuous or not.”

“These white folks ____,” the other was

suggesting. “They need delicacy in
negotiating. I negotiated on your behalf as if I
didn’t know you. They will never release the
payments in advance for fear of being run into
a scam though the police can pick me up like
a dead piece of wood because my particulars
are known by my employer.”

“I am also dealing with the same ruling

class of European and Boer folk so what’s the
difference besides that the Boers speak English
with a twisted tongue and they are more prone
to be racist?” asked Kangira. “They are all
Europeans except the Boers came by the
Great Trek. They all have no totems. They don’t
have rural areas they have farms. They have no
knees since they wear trousers every time.

“They talk about long live the queen

except the Boers who hate the queen of
England. They can send the police or the
Rhodesian forces against us at their whim. If
they sneeze we lose our productive agricultural
land. If they fancy the whole of Goromonzi
district can be handed to one European
farmer to raise a thousand and a half beef
cattle and grow a thousand hectares of
tobacco. Yet they don’t just come
confisticating what you produce. They
negotiate and offer better prices. They speak
through their noses so what is different?”

“My friend, you are slow in dealing, you

could make a lot of money,” the other
suggested.

“Masvosva, you see those forty-three

goats and sixteen cattle without calves being
included?” Kangira asked. “If I was that slow in
dealings, how come I have more stock than
some of you who have four wives and sixteen
children? I am slow in dealing yet the district
commissioner has never had problems with my
land taxes yet most of you so tactful in dealing
flee when you see the green Land Rover with
headlights in a grill that is inside looking like a
baboon’s eyes in their sockets.”

“I know there are yours. I was just saying

this baas is just unique. This is your chance to
make a good connection, Kangira. This is for
you to be a real bull.”
 “I mean why do I hurry to get another
goat when I have all these?” Kangira asked. “I
can even afford to do my craft while giving the
goat’s kids to those who look after my stock. I
only have to carve a few pieces then buy a
ticket and submit my pieces to the agricultural
show society for a few days. By the end the
Europeans will be telling me where to come
with what carvings to bring. Do you know that
those people that oppress us with their
Whitehead government have a way of
determining prices higher than I normally
offer?”

“Okay let’s negotiate.”

“Masvosva, I have pieces to finish.”

Kangira had dismissed his neighbour. “There is
one I am making for one of the Europeans for
free. His missus will have that one. She is the
one that gave me the steel framed bed and
mattress that made me the first in my home
area to sleep in a double bed. For a man who
is slow in dealing I certainly have better
prospects than those who are quick witted.”

__________________________________

“Bwana,” Masvosva was saying.

 He had his cap underneath his armpits.
He wore a one piece overall that left his socks
bare. He had on what looked like boots
rejected by the military because their heels
were worn out halfway on the outside which
made them slightly off balance. If there was
wheel balancing for vehicles his boots certainly
needed balancing, maybe a new sole and
heels.

At this rate they made him look crippled

which he wasn’t walking like a child who had
rickets. He was meanwhile clapping his hands
before a white farmer who had been passing
through where he was working. Underneath
the overall, Masvosva had a short and short
sleeve shirt. The farmer he was talking to had
green shorts with elastic waist and a single
pocket at the back.

He had tucked in a short sleeve shirt. He

had a wide brimmed hat on his head. In the
pocket at the back he normally took out a
tobacco porch while he had a sling around his
neck from which was hung a pipe. He smoked
the pipe at will.

“Why can’t you lead me to this

picaninny?” asked the farmer. Why didn’t he
choke in the grey rings of smoke rising from his
pipe?
 “These are rural areas master where if
you are seen without permission by the district
commissioner _______.”

“I can get permission if you know where

this carver lives because I want his carvings.”

“He refused the price you named for

the elephant,” Masvosva side stepped the
reply.

“Maybe I should talk to him baas to a

boy like I do with you,” the farmer said. “That
would reduce a lot of clutter.”

“I will tell him you offered enough to

buy him four goats last time.”

“Raise it to seven goats.”

“Yes bwana.”

Smoke rose in pillars. The farmer took his

pipe to his moth drawing highly before
exhaling as if he was a man on death’s door
clamouring for breath.

___________________________________

“Kangira.”
 Masvosva was huffing.

“That is me the wood carver.”

Masvosva had been walking very fast

up the rise behind which Kangira’s huts lay far
removed from those of his siblings. The very big
tree that Kangira had used some oxen to haul
had produced the elephant bull with his tusk in
the air smelling for danger, females, another
herd or a lone bull willing to dispose him as
alpha male. The top part had produced an
eagle feasting on a rabbit.

Kangira did not like sibling rivalry

especially when siblings younger than him had
married earlier than he. When the wives found
time to tussle he was included being as single
as he was. The wives would mention in full view
of the whole village that maybe Kangira
needed to marry a woman with a bus full of
children because he was incapable of being
interested in women.

They had called him a village queer

who would die without a wife, without a child
and dependant on the generosity of his
brothers’/sisters’ or half-brothers/sisters children
or grandchildren. They had sworn they had
seen it happen somewhere.
 At the last tussle between two women
of the same sibling, one of the woman had
suggested even if she was given a week with
Kangira she would come out like a nun.
Kangira was known to be the reserved type
that did not take part in family politics
especially squabbles. When the nun had been
mentioned in his ears he had played the
disappearing act going behind a round hut
down the dale, out and away.

A nun perhaps?

He did not play games with married

women no matter how they tempted him. Was
he a queer one that shied away from
womenfolk?

“What?”

“Old-smoke-stacks, the European dairy

farmer wants the elephant. He says three goats
now.”

“Sorry I am not selling to a white guy

that cheap.”

“Three goats! Are you crazy?”

“Tell him from me to come and sit on

that stool. He can see my handiwork,” Kangira
replied. “I will negotiate with him on my own. If
the English is a bother I will call the school head
teacher to assist. If he wants to come by bus I
will fetch him in my 3-speed bicycle that I
acquired from Marandellas last time I was
there. It goes singing like a small canary bird.”

“But ______but ______,” the other

stammered. “Kangira no wonder why
everyone calls you a loner. You don’t see
another person’s point of view.”

“Does it hurt him to come, sit there and

talk?” asked Kangira. “Do you mean to say this
European has no sitting apparatus?”

“I will see what I can do.”

“You can tell him gently that his stock

rules Rhodesian but I, Kangira, rule my carvings.
The area around my homestead is my own little
Rhodesia where no queen or Huggins or
Welensky rules. Of course he can smoke as
much as he wishes in my presence. Only the
queer ones rule the roost here.”

__________________________________

Kangira rode the bus into town.

 Going to town was an occasion which
started very early while it was still dark. It meant
waking up early. He put water in a steel pail
before a wood fire. It was cold outside. He had
to take a bath while seeing what he was doing
by using a spirit or kerosene lamp whose smoke
did not augur well for him. After this he had to
select well ironed clothes which the cast iron
with holes had ironed. One or two live ambers
were put into the cast iron before the rest of
the cold charcoal was loaded inside. The lid
would be closed and fastened.

The iron was then raised by the hand

and moved 180˚ inducing fresh air to blow
against the live charcoal. After a few twists of
the arm the charcoal would start smouldering
giving out heat which was used to iron clothes.
This was the prerogative of the womenfolk who
wanted it seen that they could launder clothes
for their husbands, mend them and iron them.
Without a woman Kangira did this himself
except if a female relative came overnight to
visit.

He had to select his clothes for the day

and those for changing on the following day
including a casual jacket and neck tie. He did
not forget to include two sets of fresh socks for
the journey and the next day after which they
could be washed. He did a rarity cleaning his
teeth with toothpaste otherwise he used
certain bushes which had a stingy taste in the
mouth but they did the same job. The fluoride
toothpaste left a sweet smell. His customers did
not like to see yellow teeth with plaque. He
included a brown hat on his list of things to
carry.

The causal jacket would be under his

arm while a suitcase with steel reinforcements
would be appropriate to ferry what he wanted.
What couldn’t fit in was rolled in sack cloth and
ferried by scotch cart to the bus stop. Lastly he
secured his hut knowing he had made
arrangements with two nephews to sleep
overnight to prevent rural burglaries.

The bus stop was the centre of

attraction as those seeing them off were more
than those getting on the bus. The reception
on coming back was more of curiosity to see
who alighted from the bus especially visitors not
known to the locals. These would give hints to
the local people on who was rumoured to be
getting married. Children normally clogged the
bus stop to help ferry goodies of known
relatives. Kangira was known to offer tokens of
biscuits and sweets.

They met and talked while waiting for

the bus. In winter the nearest villager or the first
one to the bus stop would light a fire and put
some twigs which would be used by everyone
to keep their hands warm. Occasionally as
they chatted, they listened because vehicle
traffic was rare on that dirty strip of a road.

They then would hear the rumble of the

bus engine or its whine as it negotiated a rise
before they saw the headlights if the sun was
not yet up. In most cases wheel balancing had
not been done hence the vehicle moved as if
the front wheels and rear wheels were treading
on different places even on a straight path
which gave it a lopsided or sideways moving
look.

He had given his seat to an older man

with a cane. It took him, almost two hours of
turning and twisting bone cracking rural roads
before he reached the town. At times the bus
edged uphill at a pace which could be
matched by a man walking briskly. At times
there was the sound of gears changing and
failing to engage. Then there was a sound that
echoed within the bus from the front to the rear
until the gears engaged. At times there was the
smell of burning rubber especially when going
downhill towards a small bridge across a river.
This could be from brakes or the bus’s body
working on the tyres when it was overloaded.

At times the roads swerved, twisted,

dunked low or went up rises looking the
opposite way. They could see the road again a
few metres up a hill going in the opposite
direction before the road would snake again
making an ‘S’. By the time it reached
Marandellas he unconsciously knew every bus
stop. He now knew most of the passengers with
rare glimpses of new ones. He dusted his
clothes before seeking his sister’s child from
whose home he came from the next day into
town, well dressed with long set of trousers,
ironed shirt, a jacket and neck tie.

“Kangira!” A Caucasian said when he

was announced.

“Yes baas, I am finished with the

elephant, the warthog and the eland bull. I
have started on the stork and the baboon with
a maize cob in his hands looking for human
encroachment on his territory.”

“You ate them all!”

“I carved them all baas. There is a lot of

interest in the elephant from another white
person,” Kangira replied. “There is an eagle
having his dinner though.”

“No you don’t try and outsmart me. I

have been good to you selling your stock to
other Caucasians as far as Durban,” the white
man had said.
 Kangira had a hat under his armpit. He
stood at a construction site. He smiled
sheepishly at the Caucasian gentleman. No
black man would pass a European while
wearing a hat and would not remove it except
for the uniformed forces and security guards.
No black man would talk with a European
without removing the hat including security
details both private and national.

“Yes baas Whitehead.”

“Come into the office,” Whitehead had

invited.

He was shown a seat where he

remained while the white man attended to his
employees, other white people and to the
telephone. He greeted the other Europeans by
the term ‘baas’ or using a mixture of Shona,
English and Ndebele called ‘lapalapa’. He was
given tea and scones. Ha, that was a delicacy.
Kangira smiled at the tea boy from his own
African stock. He knew the tea boy was taking
it as an insult to serve another black person.
Kangira didn’t smile because they were of the
same race. He knew the tea boy was
perturbed that for wooden carvings he Kangira
could sit with Caucasians. If the tea boy’s
relatives wanted water to drink they had to use
the back entrance.
 “Thank you sir.”

“As we had agreed,” the white man

said to him at last. “I am giving you almost two
steers for the work.”

“And a goat baas.”

“It was a steer and a half. I have upped

it to two.”

“A female goat will breed very well sir.

You know these goats. At times they mainly
produce two kids.”

“Don’t call any of your livestock Moses

after me,” Moses Whitehead had replied to
which they had burst into laughter. Kangira
thought he would name one of the animals
Tea-boy to spite the office orderly who didn’t
like him.

“I am coming to your kraal this Saturday

to ferry those three,” Moses Whitehead had
replied. “I will write you a note which you will
take to the shop in First Street where you will
get polythene plastic sheeting to cover the
carvings. I have written the shopkeeper to find
some favourite groceries for you for Rhodesian
$5 to add to all that.”

“That is all right and thank you baas,”

Kangira said. “You are so good to me over the
years. Thank you especially for the advice not
to sell willy-nilly.”

“I will bring the cash-in-lieu of steers as

agreed.”

The elephant was well worth more than

three goats at that rate.

__________________________________
piri (2)
 __________________________________

“The old horse is down. He has been

down for some time now. He used to lie down,
kick out and stand straight again on wobbly
feet before staggering. The old bones have
withered and waxed within the tattered flesh,”
someone said.

“Old horse?” queried Kangira. “What a

eulogy you are speaking? You speak in
riddles.”

“The old chief is very sick,” another

person had explained in terms more
understood by the general populace. “Are you
a child that you can’t read riddles?”

“Really, I had heard of late he is not

feeling very well. What can you expect from a
man that explains about the Ndebele warrior
raids into Mashonaland?”

Kangira responded scratching his chin

hairs which were itching. Maybe he should
have used a lot of soap when he was washing
his face. This was the downside of removing
facial hair that made him look like a cross
between a Moslem and an apostolic sect
member.
 “By now had you married Kangira we
would be betting you would be the next chief.
You would be that because you are the oldest
male child from the first wife,” the other replied.

“Let’s check this out,” Kangira

scratched his beard. “The issue is not about
marriage because if it was any married man
would assume the chieftaincy. Gone are the
days when you needed an assegai, a set of
bows and arrows to go and overthrow a chief
in order to assume the chieftaincy, take all the
land, especially cattle and any young and
pretty wives of the deposed or any pretty
mature daughters too. We no longer do that
because it’s modern times. How did those old
people dispose of a chief by taking his young
wives and mature daughters and marrying all
at the same time? That is mother and
daughter.”

“That would be step-mother and step-

daughter no blood ties except the step
mother’s children with the disposed chief.”

“The late and rested chief, my

grandfather had four male siblings from within
his old man’s harem of six wives. The chief is the
youngest surviving one and the rest are down
and out. Maybe it is the turn of me and my
siblings or half-brothers now.”
 “What of the one who runs with the
wind?” asked another.

“Mamhepo is far younger than me by

far.”

“He is married too.”

“What has marriage got to do with

chieftainship?” asked Kangira. “All there is
should be that the next chief will be from my
father’s first sons which happen to be me by
the first wife. My father represents grandfather’s
first sons. After that the chieftainship will get to
the first son of my nearest male half-brother or
surviving brother whatever is the case.”

“Can you be our chief without a wife?

Would our female donkeys, goats and sheep
be safe?” someone asked.

“Would someone please stop teaching

grey haired men about sex because that is all
they think about,” one of Kangira’s half-sister’s
sons said to laughter. “Uncle you talk of goats,
sheep, donkeys and female cows. Did you
practise with them before you married your
two wives?”

“You son of Marweyi, I will hit you.”

His uncle who had asked the question

tried to pick up a rock but the nephew sat
within a group of other people. Other grey
haired men held his hand to prevent him
throwing the rock.

“But to make a mockery of uncle

Kangira is alright. The same to you becomes an
insult?” another man asked. “Did uncle Kangira
threaten to hit you?”

“Is there anymore opaque beer? Who

brewed this beer?“ someone asked.

“Why do you need to know who

brewed the beer? Why don’t you just guzzle
like a Ford Anglia taking fuel? We are talking
about the next chief not about beer.”

“Henry Kissinger is looking for these

good brewers.”

There was laughter to defuse the

situation which had risen to tense levels.

Order! We are talking of the

chieftainship here gentlemen. Those who like to
think of their mothers’ milk go and eat
peaches, guavas or oranges elsewhere. This is
serious business. If you haven’t cut your teeth
thinking vamoose.”

__________________________________
 “The chief’s council has met and
deliberated after the death of the chief. It has
been three months without our substantive
chief. We had appointed his son Mapinga to
head the people for about six months. As you
know there are negotiations to be made, tribal
councils to be held and village meetings
whose resolutions the chief should endorse. The
district commissioner wants us to come up with
the name of a substantive chief before long or
they will impose one on us.”

“So what is your decision?” one old

man with a blanket cast over his bony back
asked leaning on a cane. His beard and side
beard were off white. Age was changing the
colour of his hair to grey. Even the colours of his
eyes were changing.

“How many families are running for the

chieftainship?” asked another sage.
“The chieftainship is now returning
to the first born of the old chief the
grandfather’s family. The first born means
consideration is being made of the family from
which the Mamhepo, Kangira, Mapeto and
Mapinga come from. The dead one is their
surviving uncle, the last born in their father’s lot.
Had their father survived his elder brother, we
wouldn’t be making these considerations.”
 “The first born of that line is Kangira the
man of the woods.”

“Mapinga will be the new chief. We will

advise the district commissioner about this.”

”Mapinga is not the first born. The first

born from the senior wife is Kangira. Mapinga is
three years down the line from Kangira.
Mapinga is from the third wife. What sacrilege
are you starting gentlemen? Why don’t you
add water when you drink? Instead of smoking
direct, do like they do in Binga and use a bowl
of water. Further to which don’t smoke
marijuana here. Think clearly and straight like
an arrow released from its shaft.”

“Nobody needs a bowl of water we

are not smoking marijuana but tobacco rolled
in khaki paper. Does that bother you that we
smoke tobacco bought in packets instead of
cigarettes bought in packs too?”

“Just check your packet maybe there

are marijuana seeds inside.”

“Had it been Lobengula’s time you

accusing us of drugging ourselves would have
received a throwing spear into the heart.”

“Your wish will never come true. I will out

survive all of you misdirecting yourself
concerning Kangira and Mapinga.”
 “I support Machada’s statement.
Kangira is years older than Mapinga which I
agree to as this old man Machada has said.
Mapinga is from the third wife because the
second had a litter of girls with two sons too
young for contention.”

“What of Mamhepo? Who is older

Mamhepo, Mapinga or Kangira?”

“Mapinga is older than Mamhepo while

Kangira is older than Mapinga. Mamhepo
though is from the first wife as Kangira’s blood
brother. Mamhepo is more at home with his
beer, fishing for income, game poaching and
another woman in his bed. Give him a set of
drums and he will keep you entertained for
sure. With that raucous voice he can sing very
well.”

“Now it becomes a crime for Mamhepo

to drink and have his women after his dance
and sing song routines? Don’t you call him
every time there is a harvest because of his
impressive skills at the tall drums and dancing
including leaping over the drums themselves?”

“Kangira is a woodsman, Who wants a

set of people being run by a man who stays in
a tree carving _____,” the man saying so hadn’t
finished when Kangira rose removing a curving
mattock from where he was sitting. People
rushed to hold him down before he had thrown
the mattock. “Who wants to be judged by a
man better left to stay at home with
woodpeckers? He should have the totem of
the monkeys or the baboons that frequently
climb up trees."

“Are you saying Kangira is not worthy

because he is a good man with a set of tools if
given a dead piece of wood? Haven’t we had
chiefs who had once been messengers of the
men without knees or tea boys? Haven’t we
had chiefs who did other crafts besides wood
carving?” asked another sage.

“He spends all his time carving not

leading the people. Mamhepo if made a chief
will collect all the women from broken
marriages or the loose with children. He will
create a new tribe with all of them.”

“Have you ever given Kangira the

chance to lead the people?” asked another
one. “Why do we have departed chiefs from
oral history with different traits including one
who had the penchant for making six of his
half-sisters pregnant?”

“That one was using black magic. He

was under the control of black spirits. He wasn’t
human that is why he walked and did rites at
night.”

“He wasn’t human but we have his

descendants in here in this constituency.”
 “If you are so good at criticising Kangira
why are you perched on your backsides on a
stool he made?” asked the same grey haired
old man. “How many tassels and arguments
have you seen Kangira being involved in
despite the insults that you push at him for
being single? Have you ever seen him dipping
his head into a calabash of beer or standing
beside the road with a widow or divorced
woman?”

“He was paid for this stool I am sitting

on. Besides if I see him with my wife at night I
fear not because he doesn’t have the
capacity ______.”

“Hush, hush” one of the older people of

the council said. “Let us and Kangira sit down
and discuss. Cool down the tempers otherwise
the chief’s council will expel you from here.
Your decision or your vote won’t count after
that.”

Later.

“Kangira, I offer you the village sub-

head,” Mapinga had offered.

”That is an insult,” Kangira had replied.

“You of all people adamant at offering me
what I should be offering you? That is mockery
in the wildest sense. If you and the
downtrodden chief’s council think I am not fit
to be chief Kangira of Goromonzi district, fine.
Keep your village committee headship, village
headship or kraal head whatever you call
them.”

“You are insulting the chief’s council

now,” someone suggested.

“They have no balls _______.”

“Kangira!”

“They have tails instead of heads

______.”

“Hey!”

“Gonoremvuu,” Kangira was livid with

rage. He pointed with a shaking finger. “You
shut up. You have usurped the council’s
decisions. You are an intruder chased away
from Mutoko for underhand issues at night. You
delve too much into black magic so you think
we are afraid of your spirits visiting us at night?
Are you not a descendant of a woman who
was used by her half-brother for a wife? Do you
see any broom and winnowing basket you can
fly in at night? Is this a meeting of wizards to
you?”

“But you will still be working with me

more than up those dry trees of yours,”
Mapinga had replied.
 “Watch your mouth Kangira,” one of
the elders said. “You two what has gone into
your heads?”

"You, Mvemve don’t come here telling

me to behave. Your son was not dead six
months when you started creeping into his
wife’s quarters. What do you call that which
you produced, a daughter or a
granddaughter? Now you tell me what to
say?” Kangira asked. “Who is a worst sacrilege
me and my virgin bachelor status and you with
a daughter in law whose breast you suck?”

There were times when it was better to

be silent, gentlemen, these were the times.

“Hey gentlemen I am now the chief.

Everyone including Kangira has to respect me.
The first way is to leave our dirty secrets where
they belong. Nobody asked you Kangira to
broadcast. Is that why you don’t talk to other
men and worse women?"’

“People have fought wars over

chieftainships. We are trying to cool tempers
here. If you can speak with your tail coming out
of your mouth that is your own funeral but I still
warn you to hold your fiery tongue. People said
you are the silent type, is this your breed of
silence shouting obscenities and secrets?”

“Stuff the headman ship into you’re

a!@#$%,” Kangira rose. “Better still offer it to
those who talk a lot to other men and those
that whistle at women!”

“Hah?”

Kangira went off past the fields of

mellowed dry maize stacks. He reached a
shallow well near where there were green
vegetables being grown. He stopped looking
around for a gourd to help him quench his
thirst. He had eaten too many roast peanuts
and roast green maize.

“Kangira”

“Ah, mai Kudzanayi, how are you?” he

replied.

“Are you looking for someone?”

"I was looking for something to use to

drink water,” he had replied truthfully.

“Not my younger sister Gloria.”

“Yes you can call her after my share of

water, yes.”

“So, should I call her?”

“Yes thanks,” he had replied.

When he had drunk he sat down and

waited. Soon he saw a young woman
appearing holding a tin container of about
twenty litres in volume which at one time had
engine oil. It had been smartly cleaned with a
circular hole on the top. She was singing. She
was short and a little fleshy with wide rolling
eyes like the hills in misty weather.

“Is that you Kangira?”

“Gloria, how are you?”

“Ah, Kangira I see you.”

“I heard you were in.”

“What is it Kangira you hardly find time

to talk to me these days.”

“I want to marry you.”

“You lost the chieftainship, didn’t you?”

“Those are a crazy bunch of council

who misinterpret the customs.”

“So what will you be?”

“A village head.”

“I can’t be a headman’s wife. Better off

to be the teacher, Cliff’s wife.”

“I am serious. I have the livestock for

marrying you.”
 “No Kangira. I will be Cliff’s wife. Was
there anything else you needed?”

“Where was Cliff when we were talking

under the moonlight?”

“No you were busy with your carvings

while Cliff was whispering stories in my ears.”

__________________________________

“Kangira, I am sorry about what the

chief’s council did in choosing a younger half-
brother to you for the lucrative post of moving
the people forward. Had we maintained
the Ndebele style it would have been easy and
straight forward. The first son from the first wife
inherits the chieftainship,” he had said.

“The Ndebele were kings not a set of

chiefs like us. Chiefs come under a royal
household where there is a king.”

”Ah, I see you Kangira.”

"I see you Moses,” Kangira had replied.

It was much unlike him to be sitting

under a large mahogany hardwood tree on
the fringes of his property picking his teeth with
nothing in his hands. Men were commiserating
with him. Kangira chose his words well because
the same men could as easily be feeding his
words to the chief. They would be taking words
from the chief and his new council back to him
making news out of nothing.

The chief was keeping tabs by making

friendship with a male sorcerer like
Gonoremvuu who was much feared. Unless he
wanted visitation at night by spiritual issues,
Kangira chose his words well. Mapinga had
started appointing his cabinet by retiring some
old grey haired and taking their children in
place of them for customary reasons. There
was a lot of walking to be done. The posts
though ceremonial had added benefits of
honour and first preference in certain terms.

“Thanks Kangira. I advised you about

three months ago that there is a rural area
accessible through Rusape where there is a
chief who has heard of your curving skills. I
grew up there I know this kind hearted chief
and his people. He has shown interest in your
work.”

“For the time being I only go into the

woods to worry about my loss. I am in between
just doing nothing or just walking in the woods
avoiding people especially women looking for
firewood. I avoid those at all costs. You talk to
one and she goes telling all the village women
at the water pump that she saw me crying
when all I did was blow my nose.”

“Kangira, don’t age yourself too much.

Mapinga is now moving with Gonoremvuu, our
most feared male sorcerer and charmer who
was ejected from Mutoko for black magic
underhand dealings. Any wrong move and you
will be buried. You tussle with him you will start
seeing snakes in broad day light.”

“Moses I didn’t just loose the

chieftainship. The women I wanted to marry
eloped for someone else while another now
bulks at marrying someone rejected from the
chieftainship. While the first one told me to
marry first she was seeding babies with another
man,” he had replied.

“You can reflect on that down in

Rusape while the chieftainship battles die
down. Everyone is afraid you can take an axe
and hack someone down. They have never
seen you spewing so many words or raising
your voice so much. Even the siblings or half-
brother’ wives who used you for a joke are
afraid of a raw hide whip from you now.”

“A rural area in Rusape?”

“Yeah just outside Rusape to the north

or north east heading into the hills.”
 “Tsanzaguru?”

“No, Makoni rural is between Rhodes

Nyanga National Park and Rusape. You
remember that area where because of the hills
within the highlands the winters are very chilly
such that our normal trees grow to dwarfs
there? You remember the large tract of land
given to Cecil John Rhodes who pushed out
the locals?

“On the land they started plantations of

trees and a national park which is preserved up
to today. Close to that, within a wide radius
stays this chief I am talking about. They grow
large eucalyptus, gum or fir trees my friend. You
know my mother and father separated when I
was young. She took me to Makoni which is
where I grew up most of the time.”

“Start all over about this chief and the

district that he directs.”

____________________________________
tatu (3)
 ____________________________________

He dropped from the rickety bus that

plied the route. The bus rattled and shook
emitting black smoke as it lifted off the bus stop
heading further into the interior. He put his hat
back on his shaved head lifting his trunk with his
tools from whence he started walking after
asking for directions at the local shops. Though
it was cloud cast, he felt warm as he walked.

The trunk was heavy yet he had no

option. He did not know anyone otherwise he
would have left it at the shops to be collected
later on. He had a small bag slung over his side.
He kept exchanging the trunk from the left to
the right hand pausing for breath. The hat on
his head was removed when he met women
folk. The cloudy weather did not help matters
much because he was sweating profusely. He
asked for directions further down.

“Go down that path towards the river

and up. That which we are seeing from here is
the homestead. You see that umbrella like tree
let’s go left counting two large trees. That
whitewashed large house belongs to the
compound you are inquiring of. You won’t miss
it. What you see in blue colour to the east is a
school. You avoid that too by turning towards
the direction the sun rises in the morning. The
homestead is behind that school which has the
same name as what you seek.”

“Thank you. Do you happen to have

water?”

“No, I just have my twelve stones and a

catapult. You will get some in the river.”

“Thank you.

He hoisted his issues that consisted of a

suitcase and his tools heading down the path
towards the river avoiding the school as had
been mentioned by using a short cut. Near the
river he saw two young men eating something
from a pouch. There was a depression from
where he was from which emerged a footpath
punctuated by rocks which stopped drain
water from erosion. He was feeling both hungry
and thirsty.

He greeted the youths. He asked for

directions.

“Who is this man to you?” one of the

young men asked.

“I heard he asked for me.”

“What is your trade if we may ask?” the

other asked.
 “I am called Kangira. Woodcraft is my
trade and staple feed.”

“Yes, they mentioned your name

somewhere. Maputi, carry the elder man’s
luggage and I will round up our cattle.”

“Okay Never, you are always bossing

me around.”

“Didn’t you say you were as strong as

an ox the other day?”

“Never mind if I said that to you. I had

had too much mahewu.”

Kangira asked for water. Maputi

stopped before the river and hollered.

“Hey girls, are you through washing and

decent? We want fresh water to drink and pass
through,” he said.

“Wait a moment.”

A few minutes later two young maturing

girls appeared climbing up the embankment
from the river. Though they were both dressed
they all had cloths wrapped around their
bodies from the top of their bosoms down. The
cloths had seen their days with dents and holes
here and there. Their knees seemed to move
sideways as they made it up the steep rise.
Their heads seemed to bob up and down.
These cloths showed they were wet, meaning
either they had been bathing, doing laundry or
both.

They greeted the two, their knees

bending in respect. One seemed short going
on being stout with an emerging rounded
medium heavy bust while the other had a
mango face. The short one had a wide
undercarriage, greater than that of the taller
one whose bosom looked like it had been
carved from the wind running down a steep
mountain towards a precipice.

She was tall. She had shoulders that

could pull a few things on a village homestead.
Her legs were long and thrust out. She was
coming of age as a young woman. Her bust
was small to medium pointing like rifle pellets or
banana fruit looking up. Normally Kangira
avoided looking at the chest of women or
mature girls but his eyes went down. The taller
one was slightly slender.

"Our esteemed gentleman visitor

requires a drink,” Maputi instructed.

Kangira was offered a water melon by

the shorter girl. He had taken water from a
gourd offered by the taller one.
 "Water on an empty stomach is not
good,” the taller girl had said.

“Thank you so much. Are you sisters?”

he asked.

“No we are just a pair of good friends,”

the shorter one said. Her voice was hoarse,
maybe she had flu.

"This is Ndanatsiwa,” Maputi motioned

to the taller one with his hand. "The other one is
called Shashe. This is the wood carver the chief
has been talking about."

"Glad to meet you sir.”

“Thanks so much Ndanatsiwa and

Shashe for the hospitality,” Maputi had said.

“Not to mention.”

“Thanks a lot ladies for the reception,”

Kangira had said.

Maputi took him the rest of the distance

to the chief’s residence. He needed not carry
anything now because Maputi was shouting
instructions to bigger boys he met to ferry
Kangira’s luggage. He was well received. He
was provided with food first before water for
washing his sweat and dirt. In the evening he
sat down to await escort to the chief’s place
where he met with his council. Someone else
had to escort him. They moved with their torsos
bent while clapping their hands until they had
taken their seats.

The council of the chief also clapped

their palms until the visitors sat down. After that
his escort showed him how to greet the chief
by hierarchy and following that order until his
word had reached the chief. It was quite
interesting. Kangira would send a greeting to
the escort who told the next higher ranking
who in turn told the next until the greeting from
the chief returned the same way with lots of
clapping and interjections of assent.

“Many people have heard of your

curving skills,” the chief had said.

"I have come.”

____________________________________

Why do they call you Maputi?”

Kangira had asked one day. He sat on a knoll.

“My grandfather was given that as a

nickname now it’s within our family.”
 “Oh, so what relationship is there with
Never?”

“Never and me are more like cousins.

His father and mine are as good as siblings,”
Maputi had replied. He was watching the older
man working on what had been a tree.

“What are you to the chief, Katokwe?”

“My father is a village headman. He

was not there when you came on that day.”

“Maputi!” someone was calling.

“I am coming Never,” Maputi had run

off. “If you had been born a woman Never we
would have had a scandal.”

___________________________________

“Kangira, I see you,” someone said

standing near a knoll up a hill where Kangira
sat on one of his production sites. Kangira’s feet
were wrapped around a log like a passionate
man in his prime. Kangira had a small knife
between his teeth while he had been using an
axe like object to reduce the size of the piece
of wood. Before that he had stood surveying
the tree stump turning it over and over
assessing its breath, weight, depth and height.

He dropped the knife by letting his jaws

relax.

“Ah, the chief’s messenger, I see you

too.”

“How are you sir?”

“Never been better, just working.”

“It’s hot.”

“One wouldn’t believe it’s just after

winter.”

“Yes. I am looking for my livestock. Seen

any in this forest?”

“To the east is where I saw a brown bull

with a hump on his back, about a mile down
there. Maybe he has smelt a cow that has a
calf that was weaned.”

“Did you see the one with spots on the

tail?”

"Yes that one."

“Thanks a lot neighbour.”

 “Not to mention. By the way step
closer.”

“Sure,” the other man said picking his

way through the dry grass and branches. He
had been a hunter when wild animals had
been many. He avoided branches. Maybe he
had learnt the art in the industries walking past
sleeping guards without a sound while taking
company merchandise home. Noise was the
point for arrest and instant dismissal.

“What does it mean when the chief

sends a woman wrapped in cloth carrying
water to my site?”

The other man burst out laughing.

“You are laughing at me.”

“My friend,” the other said. “It shows the

chief wants you to marry. You have been too
lonely Kangira these women talk. He sends a
woman with a cloth wrapped around her
clothes carrying water on her head. There will
be another standing in the shadows to tell the
chief of your choice.”

“They talk about?”

“Whether you are queer one who does

not want a woman beside him. None of them
has accused you of a leery eye or squeezing
their bottoms or their tits. These women of
marrying age normally meet at points like the
grinding mill, the river to wash or bath, the dip
tank with their stock, the school for church
services or collection of water and the bus
stop. They exchange the latest information of
who was seeing whom or who is walking with
whom of marriageable age. They sing songs
about their betrothal to be or suspected to
come. None has sung of you.”

“No, I got turned down by two women

before I left my village plus there were words
spoken after the chieftainship wrangle. I was
still mourning to start looking at available
females here. Besides I don’t believe in
throwing seed around,” Kangira had replied.
“Tell me more.”

“How many women has he sent?”

“Two.”

“The custom is he sends a woman or

women wrapped in a cloth with your bath
water. If the woman is a girl, he means get
married. If she is a local single mother he
means get some romance. Cast out some
seed maybe it may germinate. He normally
sends two of them of different make up so you
can make a choice. You are a man look
around instead of having blind dates thrown at
you. You choose which of the women you like.
You take her to rub your back as you bath.
Afterwards you have a wife.”

“I thought so.”

“The chief likes you a lot.”

“I heard so.”

“You are a quiet one Kangira.”

“I know one of them who were sent said

she has a child from a broken marriage. I am
not picking up loose luggage.”

“You can choose the woman or

women you like and approach them. They will
solve a lot of problems. Let me check on my
livestock. Had it been me, given a damsel by
the chief, land and all your attention, hey
things would have happened!”

“Thanks a lot messenger of the chief.”

“Not to mention. Besides when the chief

does that there are rules concerning the
women or girls offered.”

“Is it?”

“You don’t become intimate then eject

the woman or girl the next morning. He sends
you these ladies for you to choose. If you select
some or one and leave the other, the other
tells the chief what transpired. The chief will
send the selected girl or girls’ parents an ox
each as a token of marital appreciation. You
will meet the other costs like a goat and cloth
for your in laws.”

“That’s complicated.”

“It’s not very complicated. You are

allowed to view them with a lantern in the
night as they kneel before you. There will be a
mature woman in the periphery that won’t
come into your yard in case the chief has sent
one girl whom you fancy. Whatever he sends is
picked from the best and responsible families.
He won’t send you those that have turned into
evening entertainers in the mines, towns or in
Salisbury or Umtali to name a few.

She will do the reporting. You cannot

also handle their backsides or their feeding
apparatus until you select whom you want.
You can’t even detain them overnight even if
you don’t become intimate. It will be
tantamount to intimacy and will be treated as
a marriage. If you turn them all away, each
one will cost you a goat.”

“Thank you for the information

Mutumwa.”
 The other man picked his way down. He
found a foot path on which he increased
speed. Kangira scratched his beard thinking on
the revelations. The village women thought he
was queer, right? The men thought he was
queer too? Those in Goromonzi had seemingly
rejected him from the chieftaincy because he
liked wood carving more than arguing about
customs and traditions.

They had probably rejected him

because he refused to accompany them at
night when they went appeasing area spirits.
Mostly they thought he was queer. Right? Did
he need to prove that he was or he was not?
No, he did not need to live on someone’s
imagination. He was a different human being.
That was why he had a name different from
the rest.

He returned to the piece of wood. This

was his joy and started working out the rough
edges so that when he carried it down it
wouldn’t weigh much. In the evening he
descended from his patch carrying today’s
trophy. The sun was setting. At a certain level
he could see women and girls on a rock face
by the river speaking in loud voices.

He stood and watched. There was

nothing wrong. Those bathing carried their
water into the grassy thickets to cover their
nakedness and stop soapy water from
reaching the river proper.

Whom of these would the chief send

next?

_________________________________

Kangira had a local stone mason

create three round huts with a diameter of
about three and a half metres each which
another craftsman had thatched to standards
that made people passing by stop and look.
One he used as a kitchen especially when it
rained. The other he entertained visitors. It had
six wooden curved chairs and some that had
been made from reed by another craftsman
good at weaving reeds.

These reed bucket chairs totalled eight

which could take in a lot of people. The other
had a cowhide in the middle, blankets neatly
arranged on one side and his clothes on two
wires strung from four poles.

He had had the huts’ rock covered by

earth mixed with clay in different hues of colour
taken from rocks crushed in mine activities. The
door frames were his speciality which came
from local gum tree poles curved and fitted
well. The doors were crudely fashioned by
presentable. They were made from drums
flattened down. They had hooks that he used
for locking when he was moving out. The rains
had no effect on the metal drum turned doors
when they were well painted. Termites liked the
wood in any form hence his were blackened
with oil that repelled these creatures.

The floors were rammed earthen which

required cow dung to be dressed to prevent
dust. This tedious task he paid someone to do
once in a while. Windows had been fashioned
on two sides of each of the huts by square
pieces of logs with drum cutting being opened
to give light and air in the morning. He was
very busy with his wood carvings. The locals
were creating a brisk business though they liked
to haggle and cut him down.

"Kangira I see you."

”Mutumwa how is your family?”

“The family is all right. I heard you were

in Rusape?” the other asked.

"I had gone to see a Caucasian about

some of my carvings which I presented there.
The Caucasian market brings me goodies like
the order bicycle that I ride and the clothes
you see.”
 Unlike his custom, Kangira had risen to
come to the footpath walking side by side with
Mutumwa.

"Look at those three breeding cows

coming,” Mutumwa said stopping in the road.

"What is so peculiar about three

women?” asked Kangira. “Do you want them
to wear wooden boxes over their bosoms and
their behinds so you won’t comment?”

The women were moving and stopping

sharing a story forgetting about the world. Two
wore floral dresses while one wore skirts and t-
shirt. One had a cloth wrapped around her
waist.

“Look at the hips and the bosom of the

middle one, without the cloth and wearing a
dress with green spots” Mutumwa had said
ogling from a distance.

“The hips are to bring the baby out. The

bust is for feeding the baby so what’s so
interesting? Why do you bother looking at
both?”

“I like them when they become

mothers. They realize they are no longer as
marketable as they were when they were girls.”
 “If you don’t watch it, some man will
put an axe between your buttocks.”

Kangira and Mutumwa greeted the

women who were crossing paths with them. In
customary respect the men went one side
while the women the other. The women were
called by their children’s names while the men
by their totems or titles. Everyone was calling
Kangira by the local dialect for a wood carver,
maybe they meant woodpecker? Because
they knew each other handshakes were
exchanged while the women dipped their
knees. They talked about life before going their
different ways.

When he had seen Mutumwa off giving

himself a break he came up the rise towards his
homestead in an entirely opposite direction an
hour and half later. He went through his fields
that were still going through preparations.
What he sold is what he paid for draught
power, seed, fertilizer, pesticides, technical or
agricultural assistance help and labour.

_________________________________
 Mutumwa on his way met a short and
slim woman whom he had known for some
time on his footpath.

“Hello my good and fair lady.”

“Hello old man,” she replied.

“I am still young not that old. Why are

you standing by the side of the road? Whose
daughter are you?”

“Nothing just resting from the heat, is it a

crime?”

“Whose daughter are you anyway?”

“I am Emma, the daughter of the

grinding mill operator.”

“I could, if given half a chance make

you a mother of three babies in four years,” he
replied. “I have enough goats to settle with
your father.”

“So?”

“I am such a good breeder I am looking

for a breeding cow.”

“Good,” she replied. “Hold on and tell

my husband, Stewart!”
 Mutumwa heard rustling from a bush
nearby where a man was emerging from
taking his relief. By the time the man had
properly fitted his belt, Mutumwa was a
hundred metres away. His feet were digging
into the soft earth. For a middle aged man he
had speed and sudden business to attend to.

________________________________

"Old man I see you very well,” one

young man said when Kangira emerged from
the fields.

“Never, how are you?”

"I will ask the same of you. I and Maputi

with Shasha passed by but you were not
around yesterday evening. I am lucky to bump
into you now.”

"I had gone to Rusape to follow on my

sales.”

"Okay. Shashe wanted to thank you for

the stools you fashioned for her and her friend
Ndanatsiwa. It’s not proper for a young woman
her age to visit your bachelor quarters so I had
accompanied her. Ndanatsiwa had a running
nose. She couldn’t come in her condition. She
was complaining of a headache as well."

”Never, tell me between you and

Maputi, who are Shashe and Ndanatsiwa to
you both?"

"Maputi is a friend of mine. Our fathers

are good friends. When my father comes from
his messenger job at the District Commissioner’s
office and Maputi’s comes from the Rhodesia
Railways, they take time to chat between the
two of them. We are good friends too.”

"Where do Ndanatsiwa and Shashe

come in? I have seen you with them."

"Ndanatsiwa is Maputi’s maternal aunt’s

daughter. That way to me she is a relative in
the same fashion as a young sister of my own,“
he had replied. "Shashe is the meanwhile is not
related to any of us. She is the daughter of a
very good friend of Maputi’s maternal aunt. It’s
going to be full moon soon. She is a good
friend of Ndanatsiwa. I hold her like a sister of
my own."

“So, full moon ________.”

“There will be a dance at the chief’s

homestead. You should come elder father
Kangira. That is where the young men show off
their dancing skills to get the young unmarried
women and senior maturing girls. The men who
are looking for another set of wives look for the
single mothers with potential or the divorcees.
Don’t ever go for a woman with a husband at
home or away you will get the axe in the
buttocks.”

"Oh?" Kangira said. Full moon dance

parties were his younger brother Mamhepo
had made his bread, butter and reputation.
However, there and then, no chief was sending
mature maidens into prospective bachelor
territory.

“Yes if you like to dance you can

dance. If you like just mingle and chat up the
girls, young mothers or the men folk. Beware of
the hostile brothers they don’t like us getting
their sisters into bushy spots at night or into
abandoned huts either. Jealous brothers guard
the virtue of their sisters more than husbands
with flirting wives guard their prizes.

“They the jealous brothers forget that

they also chase after other people’s sisters or
daughter. Chief Katokwe does not take kindly
to having single people caught in bed at such
a venue. If you are caught in that
compromising position the chief will be the
presiding officer at your first marriage
ceremony. You might get a hiding if you are
too young for marriage. If you are caught with
a married woman then several cattle have to
exchange sides.”

“See you at full moon or before then.”

"Okay older man,” Never continued on

his way.

_________________________________
ina (4)
 ________________________________

In the east the moon rose majestically. It

was yellow at first growing in size as it
unsheathed from the mother’s pouch. It rose
higher seeming to grow backwards in size to its
original position. Now the yellow colour was
cast away like a grasshopper taking off its
former skin. Its evening radiance began. On
the full moon gathering Kangira appeared two
hours after darkness carrying a small khaki
pack on his shoulder.

He had fashioned a stick over his

shoulder from which hung the pack by its
pockets. The stick was forked at the end
meaning the pack had no way of sliding out of
his grasp. One day the forked stick would be a
well carved walking stick. He sought out
Maputi while Never was dancing with the other
boys.

“The four of you,” Maputi had handed

the pack. “Measure out which is which and
which is appropriate for the gentlemen.”

“Thank you my father.”

Kangira had danced alongside other

people before the chief addressed the people
telling them the prospects of the future
including a new strip tarred road to replace the
gravel one so that European visitors would
proceed to view mountains and the lakes
being created. He talked about a fish called
trout which would be introduced in mountain
streams so that fishermen with permits would
come to fish. Then fishlings would be released
every year after the rains. It was expected that
the villager poachers would desist from taking
away state revenues.

“Do the poachers hereby present

agree to stop poaching trout?” the chief had
bellowed. “If you poach you will be stealing
the revenue of the Sir Godfrey Huggins
government of Rhodesia and Nyasaland. We
won’t sing God save the queen for you when
you stand on trial.”

There was a lot of laughter with bellies

moving in and out, teeth showing in the moon
light. Some names were called out. There were
owl hoots, cheers, hand claps and whistles
from the gathered populace.

“You can now dance, drink and eat the

whole night. Let us see the bulls and cows that
will still be awake early in the dawn.”

He sat down in a stool which Kangira

had fashioned out of a dead tree trunk. He sat
in it because his whole body fitted inside the
hole in the curved tree. He was using his fly
whisk looking at what was happening from a
high rise which Kangira had created by fusing
logs, bolts and nuts.

He did not see both Never and Maputi

trying their leather sandals bought in Rusape
neither did he see the girls, Shashe and
Ndanatsiwa wearing canvas shoes that
Kangira had brought as presents. The girls tried
their new cloth wrappers tying them slightly
above their breast line or the waist watching
the effect.

The chief saw Never pulling Maputi to

talk to Kangira. He remembered it was these
boys who had brought the carver in when he
had first arrived. Then he saw the trio leaving.
He spied two young girls maturing with age
who were causing young men sleepless nights
approaching the trio. They knelt down and
clapped their hands thanking Kangira for
something or other.

The group stood talking before the boys

joined the melee and menagerie on the
dance floor where dust was rising like winter
cold. The two girls remained standing on either
side talking to Kangira.
 “Why does the chief select women
after this dance to send to people like me?”
Kangira had asked.

Both Shashe and Ndanatsiwa burst out

laughing.

“When you laugh at an older person

you are disrespecting,” Kangira advised.

“No, no, on the contrary,” Shashe had

replied. “It is very difficult to answer that
question.”

“So what happens?”

“The chief likes to be a romantic

father,” Ndanatsiwa replied. “He won’t send
anyone but those he had seen you conversing
with who are not married or are not attached
to somebody. That shows he respects the
person he is doing that by picking the best of
the marriageable age women or mature girls.
He does that to people who have exhibited
very good behaviour who showcase the area’s
talents or culture.”

“Why?”

“He does not like men dying while still

single. The custom is to catch a number of rats
to put in the grave which is a handful,” Shashe
had replied. “He believes no rural home of
stature should fail to have a wife.”

“Then let me breed a colony of rats and

mice. It’s so easy they require stockpiles of
maize stalks. That way more of the men can
remain bachelors.”

Both girls burst out laughing.

“You are laughing?”

“Sir, every grown male must have a wife

so the chief is just saying he likes you take a
wife from those he thinks you like,” Ndanatsiwa
replied. “We are rural. There are chores for a
wife like cleaning, sweeping, cooking and
washing of clothes or their ironing. Besides that
a man requires a helping hand when the rains
come to till the land, apply manure or fertilizer,
ridge if necessary and see to the animals.
Generally every household requires the
presence of a woman and a man.”

“So I could look for my sister’s daughter

or my brother’s daughter then?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Shashe had replied.

“When is he likely to do it again for

me?”
 “We haven’t yet heard the rumour and
at times we don’t. We hear of it when his right
hand man starts asking questions,” Shashe had
replied. “Usually within ten days after this
dance.”

“Why hasn’t the chief seen that I am

very friendly with both of you?” he had asked.
“I think I need to tell the chief whom to send
with my water.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know,”

Shashe had replied.

“Neither do I want to be involved,”

Ndanatsiwa had replied. “I have had elder
men with wives approaching my father for my
hand in marriage. I refused.”

“Shashe,” Kangira had said. “How old

are you both?”

“I am turning eighteen in June and

Ndanatsiwa is turning nineteen in November,”
Shashe had replied.

“I think I will tell the chief whom to send

next week,” Kangira had replied. “Then I will
choose between friends who will make sure the
village knows Kangira is not queer. Is there any
harm in choosing between friends?”
 There was laughter from both girls. Was
it hysterical? Standing between the two, he put
his hands on both their shoulders. None
removed his hand. Which one was it going to
be? It was also against custom for an
unmarried man to put his hands on the
shoulders of an unmarried or married woman
whatever the case was unless she was his sister
or mother.

“I think I will join the dancers,” Shashe

suggested.

“Why not dance?” Ndanatsiwa replied.

“The night is still young.”

“Just before you go,” he held their

hands holding them back. “It will be one of you
so, behave. You are good friends of mine.
Besides which, if the local boys had any
designs, they can wait for my choice first
because I have the chief’s backing. Has any
other told both of you that you are very
beautiful especially at night? “

“No,” Ndanatsiwa replied.

“And Shashe?”

“None too,” they both lied.

“Well what a mixture of a short darker

skinned voluminous girl and a taller lighter
skinned slightly slender girl? The shorter one is as
beautiful as the sunset. The taller one is as
lovely as the moon. The other is as lovely as
grains of wheat. The taller one is as great as the
large grains of the maize plant. You are both
like fresh milk in a gourd, ready to be drunk,” he
had said pulling their heads close to his.

“If I sat with you here I look like a man in

a haystack on a European farm who has no
worries waiting for the moon to shine. In old
days, women like you were what made the
Ndebele warriors kill their male enemies to get
at. Thank God that we no longer have raiding
parties of the Ndebele coming here. We have
the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland
government instead with its police, district
commissioners and European administrators.
Not all the beautiful women are found in
Matebeleland only.”

“Sir, do you drink?” Shashe asked.

“Have you been drinking the local sorghum
and maize malt brew?”

“I take water in intermittent doses. Beer,

no I don’t. No one could supply the bottled
version free for me. However I will be waiting to
drink on both your beauties. I get drunk in your
midst.”

“Thank you,” Ndanatsiwa had said.

 “I will be waiting _______.”

Both had joined the dances which

continued throughout the night. They now
avoided him. It wasn’t for long. In time he was
chatting with Maputi, Never and a few other
emerging men from different villages. Around
midnight he would walk the three miles to his
place leaving the young people with energy
and courage to fight sleep and tiredness.

He knew the girls had able escorts in

Maputi and Never. The rural life was free from
dangers of the night like marauding parties of
muggers. Everyone knew the other hence
crimes were quick to be solved. He had heat in
his loins. Where had all those words come
from? He had never talked to a girl or a
woman like that before worse of all to two of
them at the same time.

_________________________________

The chief craned his head from his

patch. He screwed his eyes further. They were
not as sharp as they had been years ago. Or,
was it the sorghum and maize malt beer he
had been taking?
 “Majora!”

“Yes my chief.”

“Come here.”

“I was here besides you chief.”

“Did you touch my beer keg?”

“We were exchanging drinking from it

my chief. If I don’t do that they may kill you
alone. If I exchange drinking with you both of
us can die so that no one will say I put poison in
your beer, my chief.”

The chief pointed through the

moonlight.

“Do you see the wood carver standing

there?”

“Yes I see him my chief. I greeted him

when I was down there mixing with the people.
He made me a walking stick to use when I go
uphill. We caught a man stealing vegetables in
my patch. The walking stick broke into two. I
advised Kangira to fashion a new one. I am,
not the one that will have a painful back for a
month or two.”
 “Check out those two girls standing on
either side of the wood carver. I hope the
shorter walking stick is not ticking now.”

"I am too old for that, my chief. One

short with a big bust and then other who is
much taller?”

“Yes. Why do you notice the bust?”

”Chief, I was given much milk. I know

where my babies’ milk comes from. I have seen
them much but in this moonlight I can’t tell
whose they are.”

“The big bust or the two girls we are

talking about?”

“I mean the two girls my chief.”

“Go and find out who they are. Get to

know whose daughters they are. What is their
village? Who is its headman? Find out if they
have been offered in marriage before. If you
have to discreetly ask them then do so. Then
you will have a big keg of beer. Don’t look at
their stomachs, upper legs, busts or their sitting
apparatus.”

“Yes my chief. You are very generous

with beer, beef, roast mealies and food. Had I
now been running around, up and down, I
would have rivalled you with a growing
stomach.”

“Yes, but don’t trip over backwards on

your stool like you did. I don’t trip on my own
chair”

"I was stoned my chief. It’s a new style

of sleeping which I was trying out. Your chair is
wedged backwards.”

“The other time you fell flat into a

drainage ditch dead drunk Majora.”

“I was walking looking backwards at

night my chief.”

Find out and find out fast. Let’s see if the

village rumours are true that he is a queer
one.”

_________________________________

The Europeans in Rusape had sold all

the carvings Kangira had brought. He came
back walking to his homestead planning in his
mind. He had photographs of what the masters
wanted. One was of an eagle with its head
craned 180˚ degrees backwards sitting on the
edge of broken branch. For that a Melsetter
farmer was willing to pay a bull and a steer that
had just been weaned. It had to be as tall as a
short man.

The other was of a lion crawling after

prey with his head down and tail down as well.
The bones of its hips and fore legs had to be
sharply jutting out, its mane curving
downwards. The last photograph was of a
settler standing beside a large wheel of a
wagon. He needed a harrow, a plough, a
scotch cart, a span of oxen which he had
already seeded in villages for herding and he
had a full homestead.

But there was no wife. That was odd by

rural standards. That was very queer. When he
walked at night before dogs announced his
approach, he had heard people talking by the
fireside about a wood carver without a
woman. He would have liked to reply to the
voices that carried mostly at night or when it
had rained that he was not bewitched against
women.

He would have liked to reply that he did

not curve using the spirits. He would have liked
to respond that women were anathema to the
spirit being he used to make life from wood
curving. There was no spirit being. If there was,
he was yet to know of it.
 He arrived at his homestead when the
sun was far down. He sat by the middle of the
yard in one of the fashioned stools with a fire
nearby. He heard voices. He had eaten his
staple food in Rusape in a café near the bus
terminus weary of hands searching his pockets.
Now he had been onto his second cup of tea,
a delicacy. He turned around to see the
shapes of women carrying buckets on their
heads without even holding them.

The footpath passed below his

homestead about thirty metres away and
about nine metres down. No sane woman
would be at a borehole, water well, river or
spring at this time of the evening. Sundown was
a sign that those that fetched water had to be
in their residences. Men who fetched firewood
did not look for these at night because they
would very well carry within the wood pile a
brown or black mamba.

These had left the footpath and were

coming through an area he had cut trees and
replaced them with fruit trees like mango,
peaches, guava, lemon and oranges.

“Chief Katokwe, I had forgotten,” he

said under his breath.

They stopped by the homestead edge

and knelt down. He knew he was in trouble
with the chief again. They started walking on
their knees towards him clapping their hands
making sounds. Half way they clapped their
hands more aggressively. The chief had
selected five women instead of a couple as he
had done each time in the past three
attempts. Was there a discreet mature woman
standing in the shadows below his homestead?
Did the chief expect him to bath with five
buckets of water when one was more than
enough?

“May we arrive at your court?" One of

them said.

“Peace, my sisters,” he had replied.

“May I enquire on your business?”

“We come in peace my young father.”

They proceeded on their knees. He put

more wood into the fire which now gave a
better light. One of them was tall and weighed
about seventy to eighty kilograms with a
drooping but steady bosom for a young
woman.

The other was short with sharp features

on her face that glowed in the radiance of the
light and stout with bigger hips was almost the
same weight. The other was short with boyish
features, slim and tender like a small kid. He
had seen her somewhere but he couldn’t
make out where.

The next was also short with a weight

displacement of between forty and fifty
kilograms without any noticeable bosom like
her compatriot. The other was not short or tall
with an oval face, a moderate bosom and
wide hips. She was light in complexion while
the set of short ones seemed a mixture of dark
and lighter brown in complexion. The stout one
was moderately dark in complexion while the
taller one was a mixture of dark and light
ebony.

"Is everything all right?” he asked.

“The chief sends his regards,” the shorter

one said. “He said you should choose whose
bath water you will take tonight. It will cost you
a goat for every one of us you send home if
you don’t take any.”

“Really, am I supposed to keep losing

goats to the wise and elderly chief? The last
time I lost two goats now the chief wants me to
lose five?” Kangira rose and entered one of the
round huts. He came back with a spirit lamb
that he lit on the fire ambers. “Who are you?"

“I am Letwin. I live near the store."

 “I am Aida the daughter of the tractor
driver Masarira.”

“I am Linda the younger sister of Emma,

the daughter of the grinding mill operator.”

“I am called Ndanatsiwa the daughter

of the village sub-head.”

“I am called Shashe. My father works in

Bromley.”

“Of the five of you, whosoever has a

child let them be free to go while it’s still light,”
Kangira replied moving against them with his
lamp.

“As long as you understand the rules of

the chief,” Letwin replied.

None of the women moved.

“Ah,” Kangira replied. “I will now call

upon my hornets, any that screams should
leave.”

“The chief’s rules still apply,” Aida

replied.

“When I first arrived, whosoever greeted

me by a river where they had been washing
and they gave me water to drink and a
watermelon, remain,” Kangira said.
 There was silence. No one moved.

“Whosoever is related to two boys that

helped me carry my luggage remain.
Whosoever has been greeting me with my sub-
totem remain.”

Silence.

“If you are not the sister of one Never or

Maputi you can leave.”

There were feet shuffling as three

women stood up. They started tracking out of
the homestead.

“Come, get on your feet and follow me

you two,” he had risen from his stool.

They clapped their hands getting to

their feet. He collected a metal bath tub from
his hut which had been fashioned out of 20-litre
containers of cooking oil. He walked to his bath
house using the spirit lantern. He showed it into
the grass enclosure.

He had shown his light where he had

placed the bath tin. The enclosure was grass
thatch right up to about a metre and eighty
centimetres. The whole area within he had put
in small pebbles that helped drain the water
and prevent mud when he was bathing.
 “There,”

“Whose do we pour?”

"If you don’t know your business, pour

your water on the ground and vamoose.”

“That would be a sacrilege against the

chief. If you don’t want water you should have
led us out of your homestead on our knees,”
the taller one said.

The shorter one poured her water into

the bucket. She removed her wrapper
preventing harm to her dress. In one
movement she removed the garment by
pulling it over her head. She soon stood naked
in the light. She weighed about seventy
kilograms with firm backsides, a rounded belly
and ample feeding apparatus for babies’ to
come. Kangira closed the grass door to the
bath house.

There was the sound of the other

container pouring. The taller one also took
away her wrapper. She pulled off her skirt then
she followed with her blouse. She glistened in
the moonlight standing slightly shorter than
Kangira but taller than her mate. She too had
young, healthy flesh added to which she had a
good rump with smaller shapes for baby
feeding.
 Kangira removed his clothes slowly
because he would never be in a hurry again.
He had all the time in the world to wash away
the disappointments of the chieftaincy and the
two girls who had jilted him.

“No one that is not queer is coming

out,” Kangira had voiced. “Thank you for the
wise choice,” Shashe had said.

“You are elegant as a man,”

Ndanatsiwa had said. “We promise we won’t
ever disappoint you.”

“Great let’s see who rubs whose back

now,” he had said.

Bath time took a long time full of

laughter. There was so much time to rub each
other’s backs and their appendages.

The laughter carried to the villages

below.

“Kangira has taken a wife,” someone

suggested.

“Maybe wives,” someone said in return.

There was the smell of roasting green mealies.
“You all talked of him being a queer now let’s
see when the babies start arriving if he is a
normal like me. Had I been given a wife by the
chief, she would be pregnant by now ____.”

“Philip!” a woman called in rebuke.

“What mother of Mavis?” Philip asked.

“Don’t you as men have anything else

better to discuss? And you Jethro mature as
you are and married too should have better
advice for the likes of Philip.”

“My brother’s wife, what is it?” asked

Jethro.

“Isn’t Netsai enough for you?” asked

Philip’s wife.

"She is my brother’s wife,” Jethro had

replied. He whispered, “And the chief is
herding two good bulls to the parents of both
while Kangira will meet the rest of the
mundane issues. If only it was me and you elder
brother."

“If wishes were horses _________.”

“And the woman has ears ______.”

____________________________________
 Six months later he reached his
homestead. There was the sound of a voice
near the kraals where someone was closing the
kraal with logs to prevent the animals from
wandering at night. There was a fire in the
middle of the homestead where cooking was
being done.

After he had taken on both wives on

the same evening, Kangira had resorted to
normal married life. His in-laws on both sides
had supplied him as was customarily with two
children for running of errands. One was a boy
aged around nine and another was a girl aged
around a year younger.

The boy did manly tasks for a boy like

rounding up goats, feeding the dogs, watering
the garden and fruit trees. The girl did chores
close to home under supervision of the adults.
Both left early in the morning and returned mid-
afternoon from their school.

Both were helping each other to count

the goats before closing the kraal as he
reached the outskirts of the home stead. He
carried a sack on one shoulder. The two ran to
meet and greet him in different forms of the
word uncle.

Further into the homestead they went

with the children carrying the sack while he
walked behind. Greetings were made with
Shashe kneeling to show respect. Her face now
looked almost square because her hair had
been pulled back in gathers behind her head.
The hairline at the front was not as readable as
before. When she smiled, the slight gap
between her two main teeth showed.

Presently the taller frame of Ndanatsiwa

appeared. She knelt bringing her palms at right
angles as she greeted him by clapping them
several times. She asked after his day where he
had gone the previous morning returning now.
She and Shashe also asked after their relatives
to whom he had quartered the previous
evening. Ndanatsiwa’s hair was tied in bundles
on her head creating about six of them which
had been done neatly by a good hand. They
were connected by twisted curls of hair spun
around a black thread from one bundle to
then other.

These two were still inseparable though

marriage should have brought them
squabbles. Shashe spoke a lot while
Ndanatsiwa was reserved. He always identified
where the two were by the sharp resonate
laughter of Ndanatsiwa or the short and fast
speech of Shashe. Shashe spoke with her
hands moving up and down while Ndanatsiwa
was a good listener.
 "It will be full moon soon.”

“Another dance party at the chief’s?”

he had asked.

“Most certainly,” Shashe replied.

“Do I need show my dancing prowess?”

Kangira outstretched himself. He began
dancing which led his wives to hoot with
laughter. He had been working very hard that
day. “I remember it was that dance party
which had me saddled with the two of you. But
it was a blessing. I should have requested you
two within a few months of coming into this
area.”

“Baba,” Ndanatsiwa said.

“Yep.”

“The chief may send you another

woman with bath water,” Ndanatsiwa had
said.

“How do you know that?” Kangira

asked.

"I have ears to the ground,” Ndanatsiwa

replied. “I heard and I was told. You
occasionally go to Rusape to consult with
Europeans whom buy your cravings. Look at
the rural places here. People subsist on fruit
trees and their harvests or they sell livestock
they raise. We subsist on your carvings, our
harvests, our fruit trees are still growing and our
livestock need destocking. Females see the
good life and opt into such a family pressured
by their parents.”

“And?”

“The two of us are enough for you,”

Ndanatsiwa replied. “Was there anywhere
were we were lacking?”

“What if I want another wife?” asked

Kangira.

“Are we not that good the two of us?”

asked Shashe. “We are still young and
presentable. There is no wife number one or
two. We are just your choices and one team. I
wouldn’t want a competing body to come for
us.”

“So what happens?” he asked looking

at the two through the kerosene lamp which
flickered when the wind picked up. The
children had been laid to sleep. Both of them
sat on either of his side with Ndanatsiwa having
her elbow on his tired legs.
 “You have to find a way to tell the chief
that two wives are enough,” Shashe had
suggested.

"I will be going to my old rural area after

the dance party to sort a few things. They kept
sending messengers,” Kangira had replied. “Let
me be a man enough to face up to the crowd
back there.”

“Will you be a village headman back in

Marandellas?” asked Shashe.

“That is what I will discuss. You keep

things moving here,” he had replied. “I don’t
want to hear stories of men creeping into my
homestead when I am away.”

“Kangira! It is you who could very well

bring another wife from Goromonzi,”
Ndanatsiwa replied.

“I promise not to if you remain warm

and kind,” he had replied. “You both look like
you are pushing wheel barrows. What
happened to you too?”

“We have the case of kwashiorkor

which has swollen our bellies,” Shashe had
replied.

“Supper first,” Ndanatsiwa had given an

instruction.
 “After that we will all go to the grass
enclosure for a bath. You will be like a baby as
we rub those aching muscles that carry logs
and carve trees,” Shashe had replied.

“By mid night no one will have the

power to create kwashiorkor,” Ndanatsiwa
replied.

“And to think at the last presentation by

the chief, I was not certain whom of the two of
you I would take up,” Kangira had replied.

“Don’t frighten me,” Ndanatsiwa said. “I

and her had cast lots with Never and Maputi.
The boys said both of us. We bet them a goat
that it was Shashe.”

“I was betting on you Ndanatsiwa,”

Shashe had replied.

“Did you deliver the goat?” asked

Kangira.

“We gave them the proceeds of our

fields and vegetable gardens before you took
us on board. Yes, they got more than was
worth a goat,” Ndanatsiwa said.

“Now be certain that two are enough,”

suggested Shashe.
 Supper was served. It was fish fried in
hot oil with his favourite thick porridge and
some green vegetables cooked in oily water
besides. These women were getting at pains to
get hold of fresh fish from the rivers nearby.
Almost three times a week he was being
served fried or boiled fish. The vendors were
making brisk business here.

Both of them were spotting different

looks. Shashe by her short magnitude
appeared like she had her back coming in
while her stomach filled out as if she was
carrying half a sack of potatoes. Ndanatsiwa
was tall as a Russian guard on duty at the tomb
of the Unknown Soldier in Moscow with a
displacement on the stomach which made her
appear like a famine survivor carrying lunch
strapped on her stomach.

“Now,” Kangira suggested. “I am

calling in to rest. Let’s have out nightly bath in
the grass enclosure”

“Some thick sour milk to wash down

your food perhaps?” asked Shashe.

“No fish is okay for me,” he had replied.

Why were they not in favour of beef or other
fleshy meat these days?
 He waited for their nightly bathing ritual
to wash away all the dirt of the afternoon. He
sure needed to have his shoulders, waist and
neck messaged by two sets of careful hands.

Three weeks later after dancing at the

party, Kangira requested audience with the
chief. He talked of his old rural area and the
chieftainship wrangle.

"I want to go there and tie a few loose

ends. I will be back within three moons,” he
had replied.

"I hear you.”

"I will leave my fine set of two wives for

the meantime. No additions. They are enough,
a man has to rest at times,” Kangira had
replied.

“These people said you were queer

Kangira. You have proved them very wrong.
Now they come to me to say chief, consider
my grown daughter for the Kangira
household.”

At that the chief and his aides laughed.

The chief rubbed his stomach with glee. Why
did some men stop at two wives when he had
seven?
 _________________________________

Kangira was gone a few months.

“Kangira,” his half-brother had said.

“What is it that you are stating about moving to
Makoni? If you have married there, that place
is your wives’ birth place. You cannot join your
in laws there as per our own custom. A wife
comes to live in the rural area of her chosen
man not the reverse.”

“I went there when I was single. A year

and a few months later I married so it wasn’t
me choosing their rural area after I had married
it’s the opposite. Now six months after that I am
here. Had I married them being here in
Goromonzi and I had opted for their rural area
you would have said I am under petticoat
government. I found them there like any
person moving rural areas. Why do you people
move to Gokwe and marry your wives there?
Why don’t you come back here to stay?”

“Why do you forsake your traditional

rural area for another? Had it been the city or
town I would have understood?”

“I guess you were asleep when the

chieftainship was discussed _____.”
 “I know that but you can still live here.
People have forgotten or forgiven the
chieftainship issue.”

“I hear you. Why is it that men go to

Salisbury and marry foreign women whom they
met in Salisbury and bring them here?” asked
Kangira.

“They bring them here, yes.”

“But they remain in Salisbury with their

wives and children,” the other had replied.

“We can now go to see the chief but

no nonsense about you staying in Makoni.”

“Mapeto, then we can sit here and eat

roasted peanuts I am not going.”

“Kangira the chief is waiting.”

“He is my younger half-brother _____ he

can wait. That is why I no longer want to live
here. You people think because you have titles
then I am under your beck and call when I am
older? You start breeding with the girls and you
think you are older because you have more
children and I don’t?”

“Okay I won’t say anything.”

 Mapeto and Kangira visited the chief in
the evening. He sat by his veranda after having
eaten his fill sampled from all his wives. After
customary greeting whereupon Kangira
insisted the chief should greet him first because
he Kangira had been the first to see the moon,
stars and the sun, the chief had relented.

“Now, my elder brother Kangira, your

old homestead is no more.”

“I have no need for that or my fields

that I used to till,” Kangira had replied.

“Your customers are asking for your

products. The village carvers are not as
professional and articulate as you were,”
Mapinga had replied.

Now that he had been chief for a few

years he had his royal gown around him
alongside his dog collar like ensign that hung
from his neck. He had both a whisk and a long
cane. For him to leave the quarters of his main
wife where he had been resting to come to the
open space within his homestead, some
subjects who had come had had to clap their
hands until he had sat down.

Males did it while crouching while the

women folk had to kneel. Kangira had refused
to do that deciding to stand by the round hut
of someone out there. Kangira guessed if he
wanted that done to him then he only had two
wives to clap hands when the children had
gone to school.

“That is good. It makes other carvers

come out of their shells,” Kangira had replied.

There was a large and strong looking

buff dog that came to sit beneath the chief’s
chair. He looked at the gathering of men and
barked. He growled. There was the deep
sound coming from with the pit of the animal
as if it was a tape recording being unwound. It
was a deep growl from ma strong and well-
loved guard dog of a homestead. He held the
breeding, grooming and feeding rights here.
He did not want to be challenged.

“Shut up you black monkey,” the chief

shooed the dog away. “There is still the issue of
the village headman ship which you didn’t
take on board Kangira.”

“I am too much into the woods to lead

people,” Kangira had replied. That was one of
the principal reasons used to usurp his
inheritance. “Your goats and cows are safe
now that I have two wives on board.”

“Kangira my elder brother,” Mapeto

smacked his lips after taking the brew which
was passing around. Kangira held on to a mug
of tea. “You have to agree that you can be
headman can’t you?”

“With all due respects council, I didn’t

come all the way from Makoni to Goromonzi
via both Rusape and Marondera to talk about
heading people. I came to see people like
you, my friends, relatives and everyone before I
go back. I also came before there are
negotiations to be done pertaining to goats,
sheep and cattle that I left behind. Some of
you have usurped them from the appointed
herders. I will make that a bi-yearly ritual as it
may.”

The buff dog was back. It looked like a

small calf. It barked. It was reprimanded by the
chief who shooed it away again. Was it called
black monkey, Kangira wondered. It wasn’t
black after all.

“You mean you insist on going back to

a foreign land?” asked Mapeto.

“I decided that when I first left. Some of

the villagers here went to Wenela in
Johannesburg and never returned. They
married foreign women there. Some of them
are leaving for different places including Fort
Victoria, Salisbury, and Lusaka to name a few
so what’s so important about me? I discovered
that some of my compatriots have settled in
Murewa, Mutoko and Gokwe to name but a
few places.”

The party of Mapeto and Kangira left

the chief’s homestead around in the evening.
As they were seen out, the buff dog was
appearing ahead of them.

Kangira stopped to let out excess

water. The dog barked.

“Shut up,” a young boy said. “Don’t

worry sir he is worse off when he barks.”

“He is a good dog. Whose is he?”

“The chief’s. He is very aggressive at

night.”

“Good one. He looks like those I see

British South Africa European police reserves
holding whenever the black people strike or
boycott things,” Kangira suggested. “What is
his name?”

“The chief calls him Kangira!”

____________________________________
 He returned with a lorry ferrying his
belongings like harrows, ploughs and other
issues including a brand new a scotch cart that
he had bought in Rusape. In the lorry were
building materials for a large home that he had
planned.

There were wooden door frames, large

wooden windows frames, wooden brick mould
for getting bricks that would be burnt first,
timber for rafters, nails, wire, wooden doors and
corrugated iron sheeting. Most of the window
frames were twelve or fifteen panes. It was
unheard of in a rural area. This one would have
a large veranda to hide from the rising or
setting sun and three large bedrooms with an
equally large common room for family
discussions under a tin roof.

Both Shashe and Ndanatsiwa came to

greet him with babies strapped on their backs.

“Baba, while you were away some

Europeans came and looked at your carvings.
They wrote on a piece of paper and left.”

“The new dogs I see running around,

did anyone name them after me?”

___________________________________
the present generation
shanu (5)
 _________________________________

First there had been rumours. Then their

chief and his council had confirmed that there
would be a full week of activity. It was almost,
six days. Every night there would be dancing to
their African rhythms with drums, hand held
shakers, leg strapped shakers and other
percussion instruments which could be
fashioned from the point of view of the African.
There were going to be people singing as
soloist, choirs, duets and others.

There would be dancing from individual

to professional. There would be those who liked
comedy standing on old drums to shout out
friendly banter that formed their customary
comedy. There would be poets saying out
praises to whom they wanted. Young men
would compete for the ladies available. Beer
would be sold for those with thirsty throats as
well as generous helpings of food. The beer
guzzlers and the food gourmands would be
separated and known. The chief wanted the
area’s spirits appeased. There had been a bad
run of droughts and natural disasters.

Soon the villagers gathered for the first

night where all nature of the best in traditional
music playing, singing and dancing had
gathered from sun down until sun up. She was
there among the best because she could play
hand held shakers while she had some
strapped on her ankles. She was known in all
their villages under the single chief for her high
pitched alarm bell of a voice, her dancing skills
and her general camaderie. She was good at
motivating her apprentices in their craft. She
was good at training those that wanted to be
trained in traditional music.

Early in the morning after the first night

she saw him. He was tall and slightly lanky.
Those spindly legs had danced on the
platform. His legs had moved left and right
while his torso went in the opposite to quite an
acclaim by the villagers. Men and women had
gaped as he had danced. It looked like his
waist went left while his legs went right. It
appeared as if he had no waist at all through
his dances. His hands played patterns when he
danced as if he was playing the banjo, drums,
shakers or clapping.

Then he could play at running away

where he kept his hands behind his sitting
apparatus while his legs swung left and right as
if he had no chest. A dancer next to her who
wore a cloth over her baby feeding apparatus
and a short under her short skirt had said this
particular dancer had a way with women. He
had a reputation of taking his fill of them then
dumping them. She didn’t listen to that
because what young man would look at a
widow who had been on the marital bed for
more than nineteen years?

She did not know if he was drunk

because he had a reputation of standing and
talking while sloshed with traditional brew.
Unfortunately there was no ticket for dancing
under the influence of beer especially on a
rural reserve for black people without a white
man around to enforce their rules. He stood
straight after having shown he was the best
that is why the chief’s council had parted with
two cattle for his attendance alone. When he
had appeared there had been men with
instruments which they pointed at those
performing. Flashes like lighting followed when
these were focused on the platform.

“You dance, sing and play well

a’mbuya,” the man had said clapping his
hands in greeting.

“Thank you, but we have heard of you,”

she had replied.

“What have you heard of me?”

“That you play the drum or shakers very

well. They said you can dance very, very well.
That when drunk you are a real comedy.”
 “I only do the best I can,” he had said
as the night wore on. On the dance floor were
mainly those who had been drinking. To them it
was six days of sheer pleasure every evening.

“Do you live close by?” he asked.

“Not very far,” she had replied.

“I want an hour’s sleep. Can we go and

rest a bit?” he had replied.

“Don’t you see that I am a grown

woman? You are but a young man,” she said.

“Gogo, just putting my head down?”

he asked. “Would that cause a scandal? Who
wrote the rules of the matrimonial activities or
any activities aligned thereafter?”

“As long as you behave yourself young

man I will take you there. I am an old woman,”
she had replied.

“Will you behave yourself

grandmother?”

She took him to her village which was

less than thirty minutes away.

“You are not married?”

“I am a widow,” she had replied.

 “How many children do you have?” he
asked.

“Four,” she had replied. “The oldest is

nineteen years old. I had him when I was
eighteen.”

“You were supposed to be in school

and there you were in a maternity ward,” he
complained. “You are too young to be a
widow.”

“Our age already had two children

each. I had had a miscarriage a year earlier,”
she had replied.

“Hardly through puberty and you

already have a husband,” he complained.
“How old is the youngest?”

“About five years old,” she had replied.

“How long has the father been dead?”

“Three years,” she had replied.

He put his arm over her shoulders. There

were bare. She still wore her costume. She
removed his hand and was gone for five
minutes. When she returned she had taken off
her costumes. She wore a blue or black dress.
He was not sure because the fire side was a
little way off. There was no moon or if it was
there, clouds had covered it.

He put his hand over her shoulder. They

started moving away from the chief’s quarters.
When she did not resist he put his arm around
her waist. When she didn’t resist he felt the
baby feeding apparatus. She said she had last
used four years ago or so.

“Hey stop touching me there. I am not

at the age of producing children. The last one
was by mistake,” she had replied.

“Who told you, you were so old men

don’t look at you twice?”

“I just said I am past child bearing age,”

she had replied. “After all you are too young
for a mature woman like I.“

“Haven’t you heard village scandals of

twenty-five year olds marrying forty something
year old women?” he had asked.

“It’s normally the reverse,” she replied.

He continued to fondle. They walked

faster because there was urgency. Her
homestead was not far away. She reasoned
why he had a reputation with women.
 He had returned an hour before sun up
to join his team. Every night he stole away into
a village homestead not far away coming
back within an hour.

“I am called Tanaka,” she had said one

day. They walked back to the stage. “You
never say my name.”

“I am twenty-four and you are thirty-

nine. In my culture I do not call you by name
but your son Clever’s name,” he had replied.

“Why didn’t we think of culture when

you were on my bed all these days?” she had
asked. “Why didn’t you think of the age
difference when you were asking me to quote
your totem?”

“Yes, why?” he had asked to which she

had laughed.

“They are giving me a goat,” he

explained in low tones now that they were
within earshot of the majority.

“Me too,” she replied.

“I will make sure mine is a he-goat and

yours is a she-goat. Then I will give you mine so
that he breeds with you like I was doing to you
______,” he was still explaining when she hit him
playfully on the back.
 “I have enough goats already,” she
had replied. “And remember I am an old
woman, post menopause.”

“It will help increase your herd. You are

still a beautiful widow who excites young men
the same way young girls do. Watch out that
those young men old enough to be your sons
remain at bay otherwise I will hear that one is
the alpha male.”

“Won’t you return sometime?”

” I will.”

“I will be waiting for you.”

“I will give you my he-goat then.”

“I have a brown and white stripped he-

goat already.”

“That one is old. Take it to the pot.”

“Did anyone name them after me?”

In time the festivities were over. The

dancers and performers went their ways. In
those days there were no landline telephones.
Communication was by letter or if the state of
Rhodesia was required somehow the district
commissioners knew how to get hold of the
African masses they wanted.
 He gave her a he-goat which was a
huge one. To prevent tongues wagging she
took it by nightfall and sold it three villages
away. Her old one became biltong hanging on
a line in her kitchen. Any normal villager who
bought a goat from a nearby village tethered
it to a tree until it had lost sense of home. She
brought a new he-goat home tethering it
within the periphery of her home. It was a black
and brown striped he-goat. The one she had
sold in exchange was buff coloured.

In November her she-goats gave birth

with other goats of hers to twins or singles that
were buff or black/brown spotted. She by that
time was the talk of the village. This was the
month when nature worked its fluke and goats
were giving births to young ones. Multiple births
in goats were not unusual. Most of them
needed to replenish whatever stock was used
to feed their masters especially at Christmas,
marriage rites, funerals and family gatherings. It
wasn’t about family gatherings either.

People were not talking about that

either. Not that her goats had increased. She
was a heavily pregnant widow. She had a
highly visible large bump on her stomach
which made her belly swing from side to side.
Being a tall and agile lady, the bump made
her very visible indeed. Her back seemed to
have retracted.
 She had a knife edge tongue. None
bothered to say it in her face. She went into
labour at their nearest clinic travailing for a few
hours before she called her baby daughter,
Fiona.

_________________________________

She went to sell her wares in

Muzarabani. She boarded the buses as was
usual intending to be in the hot Zambezi Valley
by night fall. She and some of her partners
carrying wares to sell did not want to walk at
night. This region had farmers and people living
there.

However it also had hyenas, lions,

jackals, buffalo and on water bodies there
were crocodiles and hippos. Buffaloes were
known not to wait for provocation. They simply
slid into attack mode. Hyenas were known to
be lazy but just one bite was enough to excite
the whole pack though attacks on humans
were rare. She wanted to avoid both
carnivorous animals and the grazers/browsers.

On the bus she talked to her fellow

passengers.
 “You are going to sell goods?” the man
who had asked was short and slim with the
looks of a government official complete with
neck tie.

“Yeah,” she had replied. “What is

Muzarabani like?”

“Hot and full of mystery,” he had

replied. “After all what do you expect of the
area near the Zambezi River?”

“You are a teacher?” she accused.

“I am called Jonasi,” he had said.

“I am called Fiona,” she had replied.

“I am not a teacher. I work for the

district commissioner under the African
Development Fund. I am a tractor mechanic,”
he had replied.

“I come from Chiweshe,” she had

replied. “However these days I stay with my
mother’s younger sister in Mazowe. I am
studying but hey, it’s difficult to go to school
and earn a living at the same time.”

“Neither can you study while in the rural

areas like Muzarabani or Chiweshe,” he had
replied. “Where will you sleep?”
 “I will check out the shops at Mahuwe,”
she had replied.

“Let me be of assistance.”

They reached Mahuwe after sun down.

Jonasi helped her to carry her luggage. She
found a place to stash her commodities that
she shared with other women of the same
idea. Jonasi showed her around the business
complex. She found that she was sweating a
lot. It was a lot hotter here near the Zambezi
River than in Mazowe. Jonasi was well known
at the rural service centre. He came back the
following day to check on her early in the
morning before she had started selling her
wares on a makeshift market where villagers
came to haggle.

“How are the tractors?” She asked.

“I haven’t reported for duty yet,” he

had replied.

“I heard you are married. Your

homestead is less than a kilometre away,” she
accused.

“Yes. I am a local. I wasn’t like looking

for a girlfriend.”

“That is why they know you so much,”

she had replied.
 “Let me get to work. Did you eat?”

“We organised tea and bread later the

seven of us,” she had replied.

“Okay I will pass by in the evening,” he

had promised.

He came at lunch on a massive John

Deere tractor. She sat by one of the steps while
she talked with him. The driver had
disappeared somewhere. It was hot. She had
gathered her dress in the middle of her legs as
most women did here. However she had left an
ample amount of flesh on eyes row. Most of the
women here didn’t do such a sacrilege.

When she left for the market, the driver

suddenly appeared. He took her out in the
evening. She and Jonasi sat on a shop window
whose construction had seen financial
problems. There was no moon. The night was
pitch black. They sat by an opening meant for
windows.

As they talked she put her hands on his

trousers and started feeling up and down. In
between talking, he was soon gasping
because she was onto his flesh now. She made
a firm grip working on one hand. He rose from
where he had been sitting making her to sit on
his lap. He was a large man.
 When he had yodelled, she went to her
sleeping quarters. They saw each other quite
well for the seven days as she was selling her
wares. She saw him when she was leaving.

“Tomorrow I go back via Harare to

Mazowe,” she had said.

“I will miss you,” he had replied in his

common drawl. “Maybe I will find time to
come to Harare on business.”

“No you won’t,” she replied. “You will

make your wife pregnant again. I saw her with
a shiny rounded stomach.”

“That is our second child.”

“I will write care of the shops here,” she

had promised.

She returned to her base of Mazowe

via Harare. About seven months later she was
in Chiweshe to see her family. Being a last born
she was the doyen. However she had had to
fight for her rights because people had a way
of saying things which were truthful but that
hurt. Jewish sons inherited from their father’s
property. In the African custom, property was
male centric as well.

Children from outside the man and

wife’s union mainly brought in by the women
were exclusively left out even from land for
growing crops. Every one of her mother’s
deceased husband’s relative had made her
know she was born out of their family. The
African culture had a name for those born out
of wedlock. They called her a wild cat. With
some she had cracked a few lips or scratched
here and there in fights.

With others she had used her sharp

mouth to scold. In return she remembered
being kicked in the groin. Then one of the
males she had answered word for word had
made sure his opaque beer was deposited on
her dress.

“Mother,” she said in the evening. The

assortment of grandchildren which her mother
had around her had succumbed to sleep. They
sat outside shedding the heat of their foods off.
“I am at that age where I should marry.”

“Fiona, I thought you would marry the

teacher.”

“He was a drunkard,” she had replied.

“One would mistake him when drunk for a
village herdsman. He didn’t identify as a
professional.”

“He had a steady job at least. There

were brains in his genes. For some time I
suspected you were carrying his child,” her
mother had replied. “There is a time around
two in the morning when I heard you and him
talking in the round hut. I was using the toilet.”

“I never carried his baby,” Fiona had

replied. “There is a clerk of works at a
construction company in Salisbury. He has
promised to marry me. He is quite a promising
character with good references.”

“Really?” the mother asked. “What is his

name? What is his rural home?”

“He is called Walter Shashe. He comes

from Murewa near Bora centre. He is decent
enough to be a good and compassionate
husband. Your husband’s family should be
invited to the wedding because I have
suffered under their hand.”

“Okay. They did tell you the truth when I

wasn’t around.”

“Who will marry me off?” she had

asked.

“Why?” her mother asked.

“Mother everyone in the village says my

father had been dead four years when I was
born. His family have told me I don’t belong to
this homestead,” she had replied. “They said
you were the mistress of another man with a
homestead near the bus stop. They suspect
that he is my father. I however doubt it. I don’t
see any resemblances.”

“Oh that one was before you were

born. Your real father is far, far away. Your
maternal uncles who helped me raise you will
do the honours,” the mother had replied. “Your
elder brother Clever who is in Zvishavane will
be much interested in marrying you off.”

“Mother, my bridal price cannot be

used by the likes of mukoma Clever. He is a
child like me. He should marry off his own or
wait for his daughters Tabitha and Theodore to
marry.”

“Are you sure you are settling down?

You do have a reputation here. One of my
friends says she saw you last time when you
came here. You were coming from a
homestead near the grinding mill.”

“One needs to settle down after flirting

and experiments mother. I think I picked one
guy from the pretenders. I also learnt from my
flirting mistakes. I flirted with some men who get
jealousy and showed their colours. I got beaten
once at the dip tank by someone who is now a
husband who commits domestic violence.
Mother?”
 “Yes?”

“Who is my father?” she asked.

“One day I will tell you. Now you say a

Salisbury based man wants to marry you. What
does this man from the rural council look for in
you when you are around?” the mother asked.

“It is called flirting mother, choosing the

best for the marriage,” Fiona had replied. “I
have never gone to bed with the Salisbury
based man mother. I want to see what your
late husband’s family will say when Walter
Shashe pays the bridal price. Do you know that
one day one of them insulted me near the
gardens? I have your sharp tongue. I used it.
The young man threw me into a shallow well.
He followed dunking me in the water for about
a minute three times. He pulled me into the
garden.”

“Why didn’t you tell?”

“You were sick. I did not want your

blood sugars to go up. Besides which he was
one of your favourite male relatives. I had just
had my first abortion.”

“How many times have you been going

to Muzarabani to sell your wares?” the old
woman asked.
 “For the last six to seven months for
about five nights each month,” she had
replied.

“Fiona, you are expecting a baby.“

“Mother!”

“I am telling you, your stomach is

shaping up. This is not your first pregnancy
that’s why it’s visible.”

By the end of the evening she was a

hundred metres away talking to ‘the man from
the district council’ for about an hour. The
wind blew fast, slowed down or almost
stopped. They didn’t listen to it. They stood by a
tree. Sometime later they rocked back and
forth, forwards and backwards. A casual
observer would have seen two people and
one set of legs.

Afterwards she picked stones on the

ground while he held her by her waist rocking
forwards and backwards again. She came
back home around ten thirty in the evening.
The chill was in. Was it something she had
eaten? She vomited twice throughout the
night. She woke up feeling dizzy before
vomiting again. All the way on the bus to
Harare she was feeling sick rushing to the
lavatory wherever the bus stopped at growth
points. She never went down with her wares to
Muzarabani again.

She was three weeks pregnant and

suffering from a venereal disease at the same
time.

___________________________________

“Bruce, I heard you company has

advertised the positions of accounting officers
(finance)?” the person who had asked said
walking through the aisle of the 76-passenger
bus which was starting off.

“Yes Frank. I am told the managing

director authorised the recruitment,” Bruce had
replied.

“How many are you looking for?” Frank

asked from several rows down.

“Frank, don’t sound as if the company

is owned by me. I am just an employee,” the
other replied. “I am sure they have about
seven vacancies. I cannot confirm.”

After that Frank and Bruce talked

about soccer mainly the rivalry between the
two main teams within the city of Harare which
were Dynamos and CAPS United. The first was
a community team that had survived the
decades running from relegation of taking the
top spot most of the time. CAPS United was
mainly sponsored by the pharmaceutical giant
CAPS. Both of them had junior policies that had
drawn talent from the bottom rungs of the
ladder at an early age rising through the ranks.

Bruce disembarked within the confines

of Mabvuku which was a large sprawling mass
of high density housing. He walked towards his
lodgings. On the morrow he had hardly arrived
when someone knocked on the door. One
tenant used the lounge and bedroom while he
as another tenant used the kitchen and the
other bedroom. He opened the door.

The lady who stood there was slightly

shorter than his one metre seventy. She had the
volume akin to women. There were big hips
and a behind to match which could swing
patterns when she walked. She had very huge
lactation organs that gave her a physique of
as if she stooped.

“Hello,” Bruce said.

“Hello brother,” she replied. The hair

was permed.

“May I be of assistance?” He had

asked.
 “You work for Dairy Marketing Board?”

“D. M. B. yes,” he had replied. The sun

was now parallel with the ground casting an
eerie yellow reddish glow over the horizon.

“I heard you company is recruiting

accounting clerks,” she had replied.

“Yes I think so,” he had replied.

“My name is Fiona. Could you have the

details of the recruitment including
qualifications?” she asked.

“No, I don’t,“ he had replied. “I didn’t

ask from the personnel section.”

“Could you find out on my behalf? I will

handsomely reward you,” she had replied.

“No reward,” Bruce had replied. “If

you check tomorrow maybe I will have
something from the personnel section.”

“Thanks, sorry for bothering you.”

He watched her waking out until a few

seconds later the wall hid her from view. He
went inside rushing to the window. He watched
her closing the gate.
 ____________________________________

He got the details from the personnel

section. He went home looking around
expecting her to come. She did not turn up
that day. She didn’t come the day after or the
next. He went back to the personnel section to
talk and chat. After all he was well known in
the transport and logistics section as a senior
person below several managers.

He was home when she knocked. He

opened the door and asked her to come in.

“Sorry I was pressed up where I am

currently working,” she had said.

“You are working?” he had asked.

“I am working at a medium hotel in

Enterprise as an accounting person. The
change over from the Rhodesian government
to the new system of blacks has seen the
Caucasian bulk that formed our customers
shifting to South Africa, Australia and overseas.
We have seen an imminent decline in business.
Our locals consider our services a little bit
expensive,” she started taking and he let her
talk. She could talk taking gulps of air to keep
her alive.

She wore white longer than knee skirts,

a blue short sleeve blouse and black leather
shoes. Her arms jutted out of the short sleeve
blouse filling it out like ice cream coming from
a cone. She had an umbrella for the heat of
the day.

“I am afraid in my section we haven’t

seen a decline in sales,” he had replied. “The
company has adopted an export culture of
finished products which helps keep the jobs
internal. The farmers supplying us seem happy
to keep increasing their supply margins.”

“Tell me about this job,” she had said.

He explained.

“So you could stand by me,” she

enticed.

“Let’s look at your qualifications,” he

had checked her envelope. “You are
married?”

“Yes I am a mother of two. Both of us

are busy studying to improve our situations.”

He started drilling her on possible

question and her possible answers. She was
intelligent. She was quite knowledgeable. She
was also very attractive. She kept her stare on
his face as he taught her. He watched and
noted every movement of her lips, her tongue
and her cheeks. She had a habit of gathering
her skirts in the middle of her legs. Those big
bold eyes shook his foundations. The short
statute with flesh made him soft and tender.
She promised to come the day after tomorrow.
He saw her to the bus stop. They talked
allowing two buses to go by.

“I will see you Bruce,” she had given him

a quick hug then she released him.

There was a Peugeot 404 station

wagon pirate taxi calling for the city route. He
watched as someone opened the boot for her.
He waited until the vehicle had moved off
before going home.

She came again. They sat on the floor

while he grilled her. First his hands held papers
while she recited or gave answers sitting next to
him. Then his hands ended up touching her
face and her legs. They ended up on the bed
in a heap. Questions and answers were now so
easy to follow.

___________________________________
 On a weekend they sat in Harare
Gardens while he drilled her on the about forty
questions he had solicited using various means
that were likely to come.

“Are you married Bruce?’ she had asked.

“There is a wife and a kid,” he had

replied. “My home is in Chishawasha so she
comes and goes.”

“I have two children,” she had replied.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” he had replied.

“The same age,” she had replied. “I am

a married woman so when I am moving with
you, you know the drill?”

“Let’s get back to the questions,” he had

drilled her gain until they left Harare in the
afternoon. The selection interviews were done.
She came to his home in the evening on a
Tuesday.

When he opened the door, he asked

her in. She checked they were alone before
she embraced him. For a moment she hung on
his neck with her hands around his neck and
her legs in the air. He actually carried her for a
few minutes.

They kissed mouth to mouth then tongue

for tongue. In between human nature and her
excitement she talked about being awarded
the job. She left late in the night around nine in
the evening by which time he cancelled his
intended visit to the rural area because his wife
would smell a rat. All the blankets and some of
his clothes smelt of rich perfume.

She came almost twice a week or they

met elsewhere depending on the situation.
One day he saw her at work crossing the road.

“Hi Fiona,” he had said. “It’s been almost

two weeks since you last visited.”

“I am pressed up by work commitments,”

she had replied. “Besides which I am attending
college.”

She never visited him again.

Two months later he entered her office

while on a casual visit.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You are pregnant?” he had said. “I

have been seeing the small bulge on your
midriff for some time now.”
 “Are you telling me?”

“Did you use me to get your belly filled?”

he asked.

“Bruce you are an adult. You are

married so am I. What makes you think it was
you who made me pregnant?” she had asked.
“Why couldn’t it be any other men besides you
if I am pregnant?”

“Suppose it was me _______?”

“Get out!”

He was hurt watching her. The

pregnancy grew against her short and stout
frame. She went on maternity leave seven and
a half months later giving birth to her third
baby, a girl. Why did she continue producing
offspring that were growing taller and bigger
than her? Why did each pregnancy stretch her
to the limit of her short stature? This one
weighed 2, 870 kilograms promising to be taller
than her as usual.

She called her Lydia.

_____________________________________________
tanhatu (6)
 ___________________________________

“My name is Wallace. I am an

employee with the Salisbury Municipality
working under the municipal council in
Mufakose or better known as Crowborough
District. I am here on behalf of the director of
social services within this borough of Harari. It is
my sincere and extreme pleasure, on his
behalf, to declare this workshop for the ladies
officially open. What would we do without our
loving mothers, father’s sisters or our own
dotting sisters? Today is a day for the women,
enjoy your day. May the best club win the best
awards. May those that falter, learn and come
back recharged.”

The young man standing there was tall.

It was if he wanted to unbolt the rafters from a
classroom without using a step ladder. He had
flesh added to bone. He stood more than six
feet and a half towering over the table there.
His fingers were set on the table. They were
long too. He was handsome. He had the
ebony mixed colours of dark and light brown.
The voice was bass to baritone with a rasp at
the end of it.

At that there was ululation and dancing

from the ladies. The baking club activities were
opened. Wallace and other men moved from
stand to stand talking to the ladies and asking
about their products. He moved from stand to
stand with his hands behind his back stooping
to talk to the ladies cracking jokes here and
there. The judges were three ladies and a
gentleman. They too moved right round with
their clipboards. The man had a pencil stuck on
his ear like a carpentry instructor.

“Hi,” he rasped so close to her she was

startled.

“Hello,” she recovered just in time. She

had been sitting on a chair day dreaming
while watching the festivities.

“You don’t seem to be the ages of

women here. Pardon me but you do look
rather too young,” Wallace had suggested.
“The average age here is of a nursing mother
to grandmothers. You are no way in between
the two.”

“Yes I am not of their age. I came as an

associate of my mother’s younger sibling sister,”
she had agreed. Yes to what? She should
scratch her head but the pig tail braids did not
look kosher at being scratched again and
again. ”I am here representing my aunt who
couldn’t make it.”
 “Oh that is great. I am Wallace,” he
turned around to look at the full Mai Misodzi
hall which had baking exhibits.

“I am called Judith,” she had replied.

“I work in Mufakose district or at times at

Remembrance Drive here in Harari Township,”
he had advised.

“You seem well educated.”

“I just trained as a social worker dealing

with delinquent children and social welfare
cases and activities,” he had replied. “Are you
going to school?”

“No. I missed on marrying when the

octogenarian I was to marry died drinking too
much tea and bread with too much fruit jam
_______,” she replied.

He had a hearty laugh. Was that funny

or he was laughing to be polite with her?

“I told you my name.”

“I said mine is Judith.”

“Okay,” he had replied. “Where do you

live?”

“I live in the Beatrice Cottages area.”

 “Which school did you go to?”

“I went to Mudzengere primary and

secondary in Mount Darwin.”

“You are a Korekore?”

“Certainly.”

“I know about Madziwa mid-way

between Mount Darwin and Bindura. I went as
far as Masembura communal land to the east
of the main road there. I am from Buhera North
down there. I went as far as junior certificate
before taking a course with the department of
social welfare from whence I ended up joining
the city of Salisbury.”

“I also did junior certificate though I

didn’t proceed further neither did I write the
examinations. There were no facilities plus the
situation was rough on the family. I am here
staying with my mother’s younger sister and her
brood.”

“You know Beatrice Road going down

towards Fort Victoria? There is a bus stop after
the radio station to the left near Mbirimi Drive
and Mhlanga Street. After it there is a service
station which sells very cold mineral drinks. I will
be there tomorrow by five in the evening so
come and see me,” he had risen without
consulting her further.

She remained speechless. His tall frame

was moving along the stands. He neither
looked towards her nor acknowledged her
presence for the rest of the show.

____________________________________

“I thought you could be in uniform,” he

had said. They stood by a side street near
Harare Baptist Church close to the perimeter of
Harare High School.

Judith wore a white frock which had

whitish interior details. She had to look up to
him at times because she was about five and a
half feet tall. The dress was tight. He liked the
shape coming out though she was dressed
decently. It showed she had flesh in the right
quarters. Why, he thought, was it that men who
had grown up in the rural areas measured a
woman by her ability to till the land, ferry water
or heavy objects?

“How many times have you seen me in

uniform?” she had asked.
 “Three times have I seen you in uniform?
I like the shape of your body in that uniform.
You look like a school child,” he had replied.

“Do you ogle me in that uniform or do

you fancy senior girls in secondary school
uniforms?” she asked

“NO. Let’s walk.”

“The uniform for the college where I am

doing my sewing looks like that of a certain
church. People think we are part of the ladies
union,” she had replied. The cobblestone
sounded underneath his heels. Her canvas
shoes did not raise a racket with twigs or coal
dust either.

“Why don’t you grow taller?” he asked.

“My height is okay.”

“But I have to look down.”

“You are the man.”

“Hey grow taller,” he took her by the

armpits rising her up. She shrieked. He soon had
her cradled like a baby on his stomach.

“Wallace, Wallace, put me down.”

 “I didn’t do anything wrong did I?” he
asked.

“Oh do put the child down she is

complaining,” a passer-by voiced.

“Wallace!”

“If you scream I will take you into the

grass there. I won’t let you go until when the
sun is rising in the east.”

“Okay, just put me down,” she said

gently. “My dress is way up to my hips now.”

“I am not seeing anything so don’t

shriek,” he had replied,

“My legs are out. What will people

say?” she had asked.

“They will think we are practising for our

wedding,” he had replied.

“Do be a gentleman and put me

down.”

“First tell me how much you love me. I

won’t carry you into the grass there,” he had
said.

“First promise to marry me Wallace then

I will tell you,” she responded.
 “Let me pull the dress up and see if
your stomach can carry nine of my children in
twenty years,” he had replied.

“NO.”

“No to the nine children or what?”

“Don’t pull the dress up. I will have six of

your children.”

She looked down and started kissing

him on the lips while he continued to hold her
up her legs flaying. He looked up and she
looked down. They kissed and kissed forgetting
about passer bys. He pushed his hands up her
dress further moving over her shoulders. He
raised her up carrying her into a carpet of
green maize field. Maybe he wanted to check
if she could carry six children to term.

“Wallace, _______ Wallace, ______ stop

it _______.”

____________________________________

She was moving at the shopping centre

looking at the long line of workers awaiting
transport which was arriving in stages ferrying
them after the buses were full to the industries
or the city proper. She watched the lines
moving into an Albion bus. Some of the workers
were in overalls while others carried theirs in
bags. Others wore casual clothes.

“Hi,” she had not expected it but he

stood before her.

Though she was shorter than him she

was stocky with wide hips and a rounded
behind.

“Hello Wallace,” she had replied.

“Can you walk me to Remembrance

Drive?” he asked.

“Why not,” she had turned around

walking with him. “Where is your rural area?”

“Buhera.”

“Do you go past Hwedza?” she asked.

“At times we don’t go through Hwedza

we go towards Birchenough Bridge or Sabi
River, why?”

“Just asking.”

“What will you be doing in the

evening?”
 “I am not sure. When will you take me to
Buhera?”

“Whatever for?”

“Just to see the place which is done by

people seeking to be real couples. I invited you
to Mudzengere but you refused.”

“I said I was unaware of the customs I

could end up getting beaten,” he had replied.

“Don’t you think it’s a time we had a

place of our ever since we have been dating
almost a year and a half?”

“Not yet?”

“Who is Chishamiso?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s the name of a neighbourhood girl

you have been seen coveting with. She does
explain how you kiss and tickle her under the
armpits. With all that sweat you find it funny
_____?”

“I am straight and as innocent as they

come.”

“Next time when you take ladies of the

night to bed, use protection. I have been
seeking treatment for that and you should
also.”

____________________________________

Wallace was hardly home in the

evening in Mufakose when there was a knock.
Who would be coming to see him at this time in
the night? It was around something to nine. His
latest girl who lived in the next street did not
come here. Her parents would see her
knocking. They had a habit of swearing in
Chewa. He yanked the door open.

“Hello,” the woman who stood there

had a wrapper around her waist as was
customary.

“Amai, how are you?” he had asked.

“My name is Mrs. Zandenami, I am

Judith’s paternal aunt. Our grandfathers are
siblings. I am here with your works,” she had
indicated.

Judith and another woman came out

of the shadows. He would have sworn if asked
that it was the first time he had seen the
swelling on Judith’s stomach. Maybe it was too
much acid.
 “Okay,” he reversed his direction
getting into the small house issued by the
council. It had a cubicle of a kitchen, a sitting
room which was airy and large and a standard
bedroom.

They talked shop.

“Do you have any of your relatives

here?” the aunt asked. “We are absolutely not
going back with her. You should have thought
of all that when you were romancing.”

“Not here, in Mabvuku,“ he had

replied.

“Anyway we are leaving Judith here as

is customary when a girl is pregnant. She and
us will advise you how to approach her
parents,” she had said. They left within twenty
minutes.

He saw them off before returning

home. They stared at each other without
speaking for ten minutes. He rose. He locked
up for the night. She followed him into the
bedroom where there was a single spring bed.
She made her bed next to the spring bed. They
slept separately. She heard the spring bed
creaking. He turned in his slept. Sometime later
in the night, he removed from the spring bed to
the floor for consultations. He went back again.
In the morning he left for work. He pushed his
hands from the stomach and her back.

“Are you sure you are pregnant?”

“Why don’t you take me to the clinic

and find out?” she asked.

The clinic said she was three and a half

months pregnant. Negotiations started
between the two families. Three weeks later his
father arrived from Hwedza. He addressed
Judith.

“I am taking you to our rural home. I

have a custom that none of my daughters in
law live in the city. They make their homes
there,” he indicated with his thumb backwards.

That is how she got to live in Hwedza.

Upon her arrival, she discovered she was the
only daughter in law of their only son. Wallace
did not come to the rural areas like he was
supposed to be doing when he was off duty or
after pay day. His mother was nosy, loud
mouthed and very jealous of her.

Four months later she had a

miscarriage. They took her to a local clinic
where she was interned for about two nights
then she was collected.
 “Baba,” Judith had addressed her
father in law. “I wanted to go to Harare to
recover.”

“My rules are unless your husband

collects you from here, you stay put. You
remain here until we put a headstone on your
grave.”

“The father has spoken,” the woman of

the house had replied.

“But mother, you are a woman

_______.”

“No one is going to Harare or

Mufakose full stop,” the mother had said.

She worked at the rural homestead,

bringing in water, going to the grinding mill and
tilling the land. There was no sign of Wallace.
Whatever he sent for her or their sustenance
was not controlled by her. She made friends
most of whom did not bother reaching the
homestead. If at all they greeted from a
distance. Her mother in law had a reputation
of using her mouth. The mouth twisted and
turned. The tongue came out forked spitting
out words.

She wrote to Wallace and her family.

Her family replied. Her mother in law made sure
her replies were read to her by any one of the
nearby school children. She was making sure
information was kept within the family. Wallace
did not come neither did he reply. She passed
through the nearby primary school one
evening checking mail. She talked to two of
the teachers before resuming her journey
home. She stopped by the shops to rest her
legs. From the shops it was down valley to her
homestead. She passed through a friend’s
place.

“What is that?” she asked when she

saw about ten 25-kg khaki bags.

“Its agricultural lime for improving

whatever is called the ph of the soil,” the other
woman had replied.

“I had thought it was cement,” Judith

had replied.

“It can make you sneeze if you breathe

its vapour. It is made by Circle Cement the
same company,” the woman explained. They
talked and talked.

“For a moment I would have said your

lime is like gypsum that we use on potatoes,
sweet potatoes and other tuber crops that
produce fruit under the ground like ground
nuts.”
 “I wouldn’t mind throwing a handful of
gypsum near you. Not lime, you would sneeze
all the way out of this kitchen” the woman had
replied.

“Tendekai?”

“What Judith?”

“Is that a small tummy?”

“No I am not pregnant,” Tendekai had

replied to which they had a heated but friendly
argument. Tendekai checked that there was
no one near the round hut kitchen they were
sitting in. She opened her blouse to show that it
was a normal after birth stomach she now had.

“I thought Simbayi had had you,”

Judith replied.

“No,” the other replied. “We agreed

on spacing children.”

“Have you ever been to where Simbayi

works?” asked Judith.

“They move around from one tent

camp to another wherever he as a plumber is
required in new construction. At least he
comes here every fortnight,” Tendekayi
regretted her speech. All the ladies knew what
harrowing time Judith was under.
 “Can I have some lime in a small
bottle? There is something I want to experiment
with it?” Judith asked. She seemed not to have
heard what her friend had said last.

“Take the cloth, cover your mouth and

do what you want,” the other had said.

Her friend saw her off before returning

to her own homestead. After it was dark,
having done her chores Judith readied to
sleep. Her father in law sneezed while talking to
his wife. It sounded like a tractor engine
misfiring thrice. The last sounded like gear levers
shifting without clutch. When the couple had
retired she went towards her bath as was usual.
First she took a little lamp to wash her body. The
bath was surrounded by grass thatch with the
door closed by a sheet of material. She
splashed the water around listening carefully. In
some parts the thatch had parted.

With a towel around her nose and

mouth she used a reed to lift the dry lime. She
shook the reed which deposited the line on the
thatch. For a moment she thought she would
repeat the process. Then she heard someone
sneezing not once, not twice but continuously.
Though the person was holding back and
suppressing the sneeze she could hear the
sound of a tractor engine misfiring all the way
past the round kitchen, her quarters and further
on. There was the intermittent sound of shifting
of gears without a clutch.

She never had the feeling that

someone was watching her while she was
bathing again.

____________________________________

“Amai,” she had addressed her mother

in law. “I passed through the councillor’s place.
Drought relief is being given at the school
tomorrow. If I could get two of your
grandchildren after school I can collect
whatever is being given.”

“We can both go,” the mother had

replied.

“Mother, you were complaining about

pain in your legs and chest.”

“I said we are both going!”

The old woman was jealousy of her

driving two bullocks and a scotch cart all the
way to the school and back. It was a distance
of about seven kilometres. If she needed go to
the grinding mill, her mother–in-law would insist
on coming. She would wind up asleep in the
scotch cart or dozing on one of the donkeys as
the strain told.

While waiting for drought relief she

moved amongst the villagers exchanging
stories. Her mother in law kept a careful watch
on her. She talked to the shop owners and their
wives, the school head, a few teachers and
other villagers. It was a laborious process that
saw them with their cart and draught oxen
moving with their allocation around nine in the
evening.

She had to keep telling her mother in

law to watch out for tree stumps because at
her age at night she wasn’t seeing them. When
they reached home the elder lady was limping.
Judith took the task with her father in law of
carrying their allocation indoors. She took the
bullocks out to their kraal which was a hundred
metres or so.

“Ah, amai,” a voice said from the

footpath near the kraal.

She walked towards the hazy figure of

the person. “Hello, who is it?”

“It is me, Mutasa,” the voice said.

Mutasa is a totem. They greeted. “How are you
doing Mutasa?”
 “I am doing fine. “

“Will you be going to Harare?” she

asked.

“This Friday in the afternoon,” he had

replied.

“I wanted to send you with a letter to

my husband and my parents. My in-laws should
not see both. Otherwise the letters won’t go.
Someone will be asked to read them in my
presence,” she had replied.

“I am going down to a funeral to pay

my respects. I will pass this way in two hours,”
he had replied. “Wait for me by the road used
by scotch carts and vehicles to get into the
hinterland. There is a large tree there which
was hit by lightning some years ago.”

“I will be here. You wait for me.”

“I won’t wait more than twenty

minutes,” Mutasa had ambled off.

For a youth he was not worried about

walking in the pitch black night. She went to
her room and composed her letters. Checking
that the elderly couple were asleep she tip
toed towards the village road to wait for
Mutasa. She had to double back waiting by a
bush looking at her round hut bedroom just in
case someone had been up and nosy. There
was no one. He did not come. She returned
after thirty minutes. She was asleep an hour
and a half later when she heard the dogs bark
once then there was silence,

She turned over in her room to

continue sleeping. There were two places
designed with the shape of triangles which
cats used to get in and out and which allowed
light. She heard a sound like steel shaking or
rattling on one of the triangle. She woke up.

There was a hiss.

“Who is it?”

“Not so loud. It’s me, Mutasa.”

“He will kill you.”

“Okay,” he said. “Hand over the

envelopes.”

She lit a light and did so. She watched

through the triangles as he ambled off into the
deeper night. Why hadn’t the family’s dogs
barked more than twice?

She knew her letters had reached home

when a week or so later she was having a bath
at night. There was the sound of keys. She
switched off the light. The old couple had gone
to sleep. She usually felt the sound of steps near
her round hut. She made it a point to sweep
gravel and sand towards the hut’s walls.
Usually her mother-in-law almost always started
sweeping from Judith’s round hut! If not she
pulled a dead branch for firewood past
Judith’s hut on one side.

“What?”

“I was in Mufakose,” he had said.

“Remain by the tall tree there, no

noise,” she had finished bathing.

She went into her room checking that

the other couple were asleep. She made a
sign. He was silent. She locked her door with a
log as was standard while they talked in
hushed tones. There was no light. She just wore
a wrapper around her body.

“Did you see my aunt and uncle?”

“I saw them too. Why don’t you tell

them the way he is treating you?” he asked

“I have an idea. I want him to feel the

pain I feel,” she had replied.

She silenced him removing her

wrapper. They moved to an ox hide that she
used to lay her blankets atop. He was a good
post man such that he left around three in the
morning. He came three to four times a week
on the chance that he may be a hand
postman again.

She fell ill while doing her work

sometime later. She was rushed to the local
clinic.

“What is it?” her mother in law had

asked.

“She is okay. It’s just the early stages of

pregnancy.”

“What?”

“You will be a grandmother very soon.

Congratulations!”

“A grandmother?” she asked herself.

She hobbled home. “My son hasn’t seen hide
of his woman for the last twelve months and
she is pregnant?”

________________________________

Judith was back in Mbare by mid-term of

her pregnancy after a drama with her in laws
who had bundled her into a bus off to her
Mbare parents. Her parents had told her in laws
that as far as they were concerned their son
was the culprit. Now she was back to doing
what she knew best buying commodities from
farmers and selling at her market. Some lady
had moved with her husband to Mabvuku and
bequeathed her the market stall. She rented it
direct from council.

It gave her joy during her term of

pregnancy each time she met Wallace. He
was a frequent visitor to Mbare. She made it a
point to call him out with a wave. He was surely
seeing the big and bold tummy that was under
sizing the rest of her body as it grew each time
they met.

She at last gave birth calling her baby

daughter Ndanatsiwa. She wrote letters to her
former husband’s rural area but Mutasa replied
one in three until afterwards, he ceased writing.
She was hurt but she understood the scandal
and implications it would cost him.

She ran her market stall while staying in

Mbare with her maternal aunt while her baby
grew. One day she was coming from the city in
a ramshackle Peugeot 404 station wagon
pirate taxi. Someone opted to put Ndanatsiwa
on their knees since she had goods. She was
coming from Mount Darwin to see her parents.

“Thank you sir,” she had said.

 “What’s Cinderella’s name?” The man
had asked.

“She is called Ndanatsiwa,” she had

replied.

She thanked the tall darker skin

complexioned man when he alighted near
Rufaro Stadium.

“Are you bound for the game?” she had

asked.

“Yes,” he had replied. “Highlanders is in

town. It’s the battle of the giants. Today all we
Dynamos supporters are supporting CAPS
United against the Bulawayo might.”

“Okay, thanks again, sir,” she had

lighted off at her usual bus stop.

She didn’t worry about her load. The

cart operators knew her so well they
negotiated a fair deal. She was on her market
working with a feather duster.

“My sister, we meet again,” the man

extended a handshake. She drew a blank.
Who was he?

“My, oh, my, what a small world,” she

had replied. Where had those words come
from?
 “That day, CAPS United played well but
Highlanders were the better team at scoring.
We lost 3 – 2.”

“Come this way,” Judith had

remembered. He had washed his hands. He
had consumed a bull mango and three ripe
peaches from Nyanga. They talked for about
ten minutes before he left. “Next time you go
for the game check my stall.”

“How is the little girl?”

“Ndanatsiwa is all right,” she had

replied. Every game on the weekend he
passed by on the way or from the soccer
game sitting and chatting with her. “I brought
Ndanatsiwa these colouring pencil and
colouring books. I don’t know how I took them
to the game at Rufaro Stadium. I don’t want to
go in there holding anything because I can
throw it at the ground or supporters if I get
excited either way.”

“Thank you very much Ambrose,” she

had replied.

Ambrose passed through even mid-

week until he was a usual visitor. She normally
left someone on her stall seeing him off as far
as wherever he was going. One day he asked
her to visit his place in the locale near Chatima
Road. He had advised her of that a day or two
before.

She brought Ndanatsiwa with her. As

they walked, he carried Ndanatsiwa on his
shoulder. He lived in a neat wooden shack well
furnished by bachelor standards. He took
Ndanatsiwa hand and disappeared outside.
She picked herself up from where she sat in a
longer than knee flowered blue dress. She
swept the room, dusted furniture and mopped.
Then she ran a brush and dry cloth over the
exposed bare cement floor.

“Oh thanks,” he had replied when he

came back with Ndanatsiwa. Ndanatsiwa was
finishing an ice cream.

They talked about a lot. First he sat a

metre from her. By the time Ndanatsiwa had
gone outside to make new friends, he sat next
to her. He put his arm around her waist and
squeezed. He put his fingers underneath her
chin raising her head up.

“Ambrose, I am a single mother hence I

don’t want to be involved,” she had said. “I
don’t want another child.”

He kissed her again.

 “I fully understand that. Now tell me
your story,” he had said.

“I eloped for someone that didn’t want

me,” she had explained leaving out the parts
about Mutasa.

“I also took someone on board. They

were not very favoured by my parents on
account of us being different tribes,” he had
explained.

“And if they don’t favour me?”

“She didn’t have a strong heart of

being thoroughly stubborn,” he had replied.

She thought of what she had done to

shame her in laws and force their hand. How
did Wallace feel whenever they met and she
had Ndanatsiwa by her side. Maybe he had no
heart. Maybe his heart was made of Portland®
cement mixed to create concrete.

The only point for electricity was a bulb.

He kept either seeing her at the market or she
found time three to four times a week to come
and visit him. He shifted accommodation in
between to better quarters. A few months later
she advised him that she was expecting a
baby. She was taken by her aunts to his place.
She operated from there going back to her
stall until his parents had collected her for their
rural home as was expected.

On a weekend he came home to

Magunje near Chinhoyi.

“Ambrose,” his father had stated in a

family meeting. She was there so were some
relatives. “Why did you choose a woman with
a child? Are you so incapable of creating your
own that you chose a stranger’s. What
happened to your elder male cousins’ children
for you to do that?”

“Was I supposed to marry an angel?”

Ambrose asked. “Does one choose whom they
marry or its fate?”

“Fate works for you alone, mukoma?”

asked one young brother.

“Where there no virgins?” his mother

had asked.

“Father,” Ambrose said. “I married a

woman from Centenary. You two said she was
not fit to be your daughter in law. She went
back there. You tried holding onto her child
and the police frog marched you to jail,
remember? You are now forgetting. You now
want to approve a wife for me?”
 “I am not comfortable with a daughter in
law who has known other men before you,” his
father stated.

“Father, aunt got married after having a

baby with another man. Your own sister did the
same for goodness sake!”

“No arguments. I have spoken. If you

dare take her and stay in the city but no
daughter in law like her will stay here. Had you
run short of girls within this locale?” asked his
mother.

“Maybe he is blind he doesn’t see the

women and girls who are here,” the father had
said.

“Father,” a woman had replied. “The

women and girls here are rushing into being
married three of them to one man. Which one
is eligible enough for my brother?”

“Constance, shut up! Go to that useless

husband of yours. Why are you here anyway?”
the father asked.

“I _____,” Constance wanted to reply.

“Aunt,” Judith had whispered. “Why

don’t you support your family? I am a stranger,
tomorrow they will remain there by which time I
will be gone.”
 “The women here, muroora, they are
either married at sixteen or are those that
parade their bodies at the rural service centre
or they work/live in towns. Whom do they want
as his wife?”

Constance had exited the kitchen as did

the other young people including Ambrose’s
sisters and female cousins. They knew the old
man well when he had had a beer on top of
which he had a bone to chew right or wrong.

On the morrow Judith was back in a

bus for Mbare. She went back to her stall. Her
stomach grew larger by the week. After a
month Ambrose appeared sheepishly. He took
a stool and started talking to her in her market.
She served customers.

Now that he had followed up she didn’t

know whether to be happy or to be sad. She
now didn’t know whether she wanted married
life or to remain a single mother with two
children from two failed marriages with another
man in between. She left someone at the stall
while she called in her maternal aunt’s family.

After a session that involved the go-

between as was custom who negotiated on
behalf of Ambrose because a prospective son
in law could not meet face to face with his in
laws she was asked.
 “Judith,” her maternal aunt’s husband
had said. “The ball is now in your court. I talked
in the shoes of your father. I will have to take
the bus on a weekend to go and see my
brother-in-law and advise him of what we
came up with. Do you want to go and live with
Ambrose?”

“He said he is prepared to take me

back.”

“Is it a yes or no?”

“Yes,” she had replied. She knew she

wanted the feeling of being married not being
a single mother with two children from different
men.

“Mukuwasha you can tell Ambrose we

are preparing his family, maybe they will be
there tomorrow evening.“ The uncle had said.
“Has Ambrose eaten?”

“Yes he was served with food.”

“Maybe he likes tea afterwards like

me.”

“He had tea uncle. He will have tea

with you when all issues are resolved.”

She saw him as far three of four houses

down the street. It was now night time. She had
her arm on his right shoulder. He was taller than
her. Why did she choose the taller gentlemen?
Why did they choose her too?

“Don’t walk on foot. Jump into any one

of those pirate taxis,” she had advised.

She was holding her waist. The strain of

the pregnancy was telling. He hugged her
feeling her huge stomach. She removed his
hand because doing that in public was against
culture. He kept his arms around her consulting
like eager young and hot blooded lovers in the
streets and hedges lost to the world.

“Is the baby kicking?” he had asked.

“You will find out tomorrow,” she had

replied. “You will have to whisper a lot in my
ear so that the baby gets to know your voice.”

He went into a Peugeot 404 station

wagon on his way deeper into the labyrinths of
Mbare. He was home early from work when she
was presented to him by the same aunt. He
saw the two women off as far as the road
before he returned.

“You left the little girl,” he pointed out.

“My mother’s younger sister will look

well after her,” she had replied.
 “A child that young needs its mother,”
he had pointed out.

“Now that we are back together, can I

keep the market?” she had asked.

“If you get someone to lift heavy

objects for you and do the donkey work in the
morning. You will also have brought
Ndanatsiwa in here within a week,” he had
instructed. “Do you know how you look with
that protrusion on the front?”

“No.”

“You like a fender of an Oshkosh truck.”

“Ambrose!”

She ended up living with Ambrose until

she had another daughter within seven weeks.
When his parents came into Harare they
passed through Mbare without greeting her or
Ambrose. In three years’ time, Judith had
produced yet another daughter. Each and
every one of them was more beautiful than
her, taller and more intelligent than both
parents. Becoming a mother of three
daughters so early did not diminish her
impressive looks neither did she stop working
hard to look after her family and their relatives
who passed through.
 “You are a breeding machine,”
Ambrose had said. He was getting ready for
work.

“Do I breed alone?” she asked.

“That is a good question. Can I see the

man responsible?” he had said.

His company had shut shop but not

before they had given their workers severance
pay. The Caucasian owners did not like the
limitation on external funds and new rules
under the ESAP (Economic Structural
Adjustment Program). Ambrose was now
running a place where wood products were on
sale from wood used to manufacture furniture,
roof trusses, doors and others. They now lived in
Glen Norah.

“A woman is supposed to produce

children,” Judith had replied. “After all African
society looks down on single mothers and
especially those that are barren. We the ones
giving birth to daughters are placed in the
same basket as the barren and single women.”

“A child is a child whether male or

female. Three girls are good enough plus
another in centenary. In seven years you had
three,” he had replied.
 “We have only been married four
years.”

“Including Ndanatsiwa,” Ambrose had

said.

“There is one missing daughter

somewhere in Centenary,” she had retorted.

She wished she could look after his

daughter the same way he had made
Ndanatsiwa take the mantle of the eldest
daughter in the family. Not many men in the
society wanted another woman’s child in their
family.

“The mother though remarried refuses

to leave her daughter just like you did with
Ndanatsiwa,” he had said.

As he left for his workplace, he had two

girls one on the left, the other on the right
whom he had to see off to their school before
he walked to his workplace. Within an hour she
would leave the servant with her smaller child
to attend to her market stall. The servant would
come around two to relieve her while she
would come and prepare supper.

It was the routine except that on that

day, Ambrose’s parents gave in and passed
through her house for a week.
 ____________________________________

Ambrose and Judith had been

allocated a residential stand in Glen View
where they had earnestly soldiered to build in
between which baby daughter number three
had been announced.

“When we made plans for the house

near Gutsai Spar, I didn‘t know that one day
the bedrooms would get saturated with
babies,” he had said holding a little bundle in
his arms.

“I guess we will have to constantly

extend the house,” she had replied.

On a winter day almost four years later,

Ambrose surprised his wife. The house had
been finished. It had four bedrooms with the
main one having a walk in wardrobe, toilet and
shower. There were three other standard
bedrooms, a long passage, a lounge, dining
room with a serving hatch and a fitted kitchen.
Besides there was a garage attached to the
house made of wrought iron and covered by
asbestos. The whole house was under tile with
ceiling, fitted cupboards, built in wardrobe and
other assortments like ceiling fans.
 She heard a vehicle horn blowing.
There was the sound of a well serviced engine
revving before being shut off. There was an
Austin Westminster in their driveway with
Ambrose on the driver’s side looking proudly at
her. The colour of the vehicle was silver grey.

“And what is this?”

“A 1971British manufactured Austin

Westminster A110s 4 door salon which can sit
five people. I testify it was built in Longbridge,
England,” he had replied. The neighbours were
peeping through the hedges.

“Four daughters and us make six,”

Judith replied.

“There is a space for the toddler,”

Ambrose replied. “I will promise you that none
will be stored in the truck. However I can’t
promise you won’t find pieces of wooden
planks in there or saws, planes or set squares
either.”

“Does the vehicle have an engine?”

she asked when she had taken a tour of it.

“This one has a Vanden Plas Princess 3-

litre engine with 4-speed manual transmission. I
can tell you the type of gear box oil this vehicle
uses.”
 “Why do men know more about
vehicles than the fact that their wives are
pregnant again and the scan said baby boy?”

___________________________________

Ndanatsiwa was in the second year at

Highfield High School when she fell sick. Judith
took her first to the local clinic. She was referred
to Harare Hospital in an ambulance. This
proved the magnitude of the problem.

“What is it?” Judith had asked the

doctor who was doing the rounds.

“You can see me in my office when I

am through with my rounds,” he had
suggested.

Judith and a few other relatives waited

by the doctor’s office. He came forty-five
minutes late. They had no choice but to wait
for him. He rounded the corner in the company
of two female nurses. He was wearing a white
dust coat which was open all the way over a
navy blue set of trousers and a checked shirt
with red and grey.

“It’s about the girl Ndanatsiwa whom

you are attending,” Judith had said.
 “Is your husband here?” asked the
doctor.

“No just my in laws and stuff like that,”

Judith had replied.

“I will feel okay to talk to you alone

without everyone being present if you are the
mother,” the doctor had said.

Everyone else left the room.

“How old is Ndanatsiwa?”

“She is turning fourteen,” Judith replied.

“She is pregnant. She tried to abort.

She could have succeeded but she lost a lot of
blood. She may have infection too from
whatever she used to try to abort.”

“What?”

“She tried to abort the baby but

couldn’t then and there. There is too much loss
of blood we will have to detain her and send
her through a blood transfusion system.”

“Doctor, at fourteen, you say she is

pregnant?”
 “Yes,” he had said. The doctor had to
call the relatives in because a pregnant
mother had collapsed.

____________________________________
nomwe (7)
 ___________________________________

“Doctor,” Ambrose had sat in the small

office in the hospital complex within Harare
Hospital. He did not feel at all that then hospital
was built like the acropolis, on top of a hill. It
was visible like a tower light from all around the
industrial or residential areas of Workington,
Southerton and Rugare.

The smells differed from day to day but

it was mostly the smell of ointment, medicines,
bandaging or laundry. He had paced up and
down waiting for the doctor to finish his rounds.
It was about thirty minutes waiting yet to a man
who was on edge it was like half a day. He also
acknowledged that there were some
educated people with whom he would have
to be patient. He knew crisis were part of life. If
ill managed they caused stress.

“You are the father?”

“Yes,” he had stammered. What did it

aid the doctor to tell him he was the adoptive
father?

“How is your wife? I didn’t notice she

was pregnant.”
 “She is doing well. She is pulling through
with this crisis. I am here about the girl,
Ndanatsiwa. She is the origin of the merry go
round the family is spinning in. The two of us
may just collapse because of her.” He replied,
“Man to man let’s talk doctor.”

“Go ahead,” the doctor had said.

“At fourteen she can’t marry

whosoever made her in child.”

“You tell me,” the doctor said. “That is

under the legal age of majority which is sixteen
though she can’t be an independent child until
she is eighteen.”

“Is it possible to have a legal abortion

in this situation?” Ambrose asked.

The doctor and Ambrose were talking

while standing. The younger man looked like he
was tired and wanted to see some more
patients or some medical review. Ambrose
thought, no wonder these doctors go for five
years training at college. After a barricade of
tests they emerged as junior doctors working
under supervision for two more years before
they could leave government run hospitals and
join the private sector or run their small
surgeries. There they made their money and
fame.
 “The current law in Zimbabwe requires
a court order for that to happen. To get a court
order you first need to file a police report. To
get to the police you need to know who was
responsible. If they are over eighteen, you
need to get them under lock and key at a
police station first,” the doctor had replied.
“Those are the basics. The other issue for an
adult could be if she was raped which works
even for a minor. The next point to rape is
incest by the father, brother or close relative.
It’s all boiling down to child sexual abuse by an
adult. All these need the police and the
courts.”

“You can then abort?”

“It will depend on the size or lengthy of

the pregnancy. With a court order any doctor
here can perform that operation,” the younger
man had instructed. “With a court order we will
be bound hand and foot to terminate the
pregnancy otherwise the current laws do not
allow that. Then there is the issue where illness is
such that the hospital has to save the mother
and let go the baby. This one does not require
a court order. Yours is a minor below the legal
age of sixteen, try something.”

____________________________________
 “Judith?” Ambrose asked the woman
he had married who had been interned after
her collapse at Glen View Polyclinic. The nurses
there were observing the situation.

“Did you see Ndanatsiwa?” she asked.

“No, some other people did. I was with

the doctor. It was a long wait,” he had replied.
“Do you know the boy responsible?”

“I don’t Ambrose. This was a complete

shock! Whether it’s a boy or a man I have no
idea.”

“Get well soon,” he rose and exited

the clinic. He met a man whom he knew who
was seeing a relative in the maternity ward. He
thought of a plan. He waited until the man was
coming out. They talked.

Ambrose drove to a part of Glen View

1. When he reached Harare Hospital he had a
uniformed police constable. They gained entry
to see Ndanatsiwa.

“Lady,” Ambrose whispered. “The

officer here wants details.”

“Details about what?”

 “He wants to know who was
responsible and how it happened. You may
end up finishing your high school in Chikurubi
Prison if you don’t co-operate,” Ambrose had
replied. I am made to understand Chikurubi
and HwaHwa prisons have prison officers who
have studied at teachers colleges. I am also
thinking they have interned teachers who went
haywire with the law. These reformed prison
mates would teach you some subjects if you
don’t tell him the truth.”

“How is my mother?”

“She is hanging on the truth. She is

waiting upon your little secrets to be revealed,”
Ambrose replied. “Would you like her to lose
your only brother because you didn’t tell the
truth? Or would you like to be an orphan,
without your mother and intended little
brother?”

Big bold brown eyes looked at him

growing larger. After a short interview they
drove to Kambuzuma and asked for audience
with her best friend. They left behind a lot of
tears and nursing staff consoling a minor.

“What do you know about this?” The

office had asked. For fifteen minutes he
scribbled on a jotting pad. Ambrose drove
back to Glen View.
 “When I dressed up in my uniform I
wanted to terrify the daylights out of the two
girls,” the police officer said. “Now we have to
report this as statutory rape otherwise should it
blow I will be discharged.”

“We have the boy’s address?”

“Yes,” the police man replied. “He is

called Vincent Gonoremvuu. They say his
grandfather was a famous wizard or witch
doctor whatever you call him in Goromonzi.”

“I was a boy once. I was also naught.

However I never tried on little schools girls,”
Ambrose had said. He went into Highfield,
Egypt lines and asked for the address they had
been given and the boy by name. He wasn’t
at home. They left word that they would return.
“If he doesn’t take flight, I am not to blame.”
Ambrose made a report detailing what
had happened. Armed with the police report
he approached the courts on the following
days. The police had failed to discover where a
nineteen year old called Vincent had
disappeared to. He had last been seen in his
residential area of Egypt Lines. He had left
hastily dressed in what he was wearing.

Ambrose visited his wife who was soon

discharged. He ferried her to Glen View their
home to stabilize. She was in a delicate
condition.

“Judith if you worry you will lose the baby

boy you were so worried about,” Ambrose said.
“How many years did you pray for a male child
in order to risk losing one like this?”

“I know. Have you seen the child?”

“No, everyone else including our

relatives is there I was running around.”

“Kids,” Judith summed up.

She sat on a three seat sofa looking the

outside world. Her blood pressure had gone up.
An attending doctor had warned her that they
may operate to save her or the baby but not
both.

“Don’t worry nothing untoward will

happen.” Ambrose had promised. “You are
the one who can push this family into the
cemeteries.”

On the next day he brought

Ndanatsiwa home. On the third day he took
her for check-ups. She was detained overnight.
By the third day she was back.
 There was no sign of whatever had ailed
the family. Seven weeks later, Judith gave birth
to her only son. It was her last child.

____________________________________

“Sir,“ the woman had said. “I am telling

you that the girl Ndanatsiwa is pregnant. I am
reliably informed.”

“I heard your story,” the man behind the

panelled desk said. “We will discuss as school
authorities thank you.”

He was holding a Parker pen in his

hand. In his huge hands, the pen became a
toy. He was opening and closing the pen. The
nib was coming out and going back. On the
same row with the woman were a
professionally dressed woman and another
man in a navy blue suit. While the bigger man
was about five and a half feet tall sitting on
about ninety kilograms of weight the other was
about six feet sitting on about sixty kilograms of
weight. The leaner and taller man had a cloak
of white or grey on his neatly combed head.

“My pleasure,” the woman had said

leaving the office.
 “Senior woman, what is your uptake on
this?” the big man behind the desk asked
relaxing in the comfort of the swivel chair.

“Yes I heard sir. Besides her report, there

is a team of girls that told me the story too,” the
senior lady had replied. “You will be surprised
at how the other girls turn the tables on their
own fellow students while they are themselves
prescribed to the same naughty medicine of
experimental sex. There is always a whistle
blower from any corner of the school.”

“What is your say deputy head?”

“The girl in question has been

hospitalized twice according to the reports that
I got,” he replied. “Let us wait until she has
recovered. The parents are middle class they
may know the law more than the written law.”

“The laws of the country say when a

child is pregnant they are expelled from
school,” the big man had said.

“Sorry, headmaster,” the deputy head

had replied and reasoned. “We cannot prove
she is pregnant though we may bungle and try.
We can prove as the parents can also that she
is hospitalised for any number of reasons that
can lead to us thinking its pregnancy like
ulcers, appendix or so on.”
 “I could have her and two teachers
take her to clinic for a urine test,” the senior
lady had replied. “However there is something
funny. The woman who was here is the mother
of Ndanatsiwa best friend. I suspect so. She has
a terrible tongue if you get the other side of
her. She has tongue lashed one teacher
before. I now remember. No wonder why she
was familiar.”

“Still we need let her recover. She isn’t in

school yet,” the deputy head had replied.
“Then we can discreetly have the urine sample
as you suggested.”

“We need to be firm,” the big man had

replied.

“Yes sir,” the deputy replied. “I will

advise is she comes to attend to her lessons.”

“Good,” the head pulled his chair in.

“There is the matter of the three boys caught
jumping over the school walls _______.”

__________________________________
 “Ndanatsiwa are you doing anything
great this weekend?” someone had said on
the telephone.

“I need check my schedule of court

cases,” Ndanatsiwa had replied.

“I am driving down or I am supposed to

drive down to Goto district within Hwedza or
whereabouts to where my son is attending a
form I selection interview at St Anne’s Goto
High School. A long time ago students applied
by writing letters. Parents didn’t worry much as
we do now.”

“Why do I need to go down to Hwedza

negotiating mountain passes if I am heading
down towards Buhera or Bikita East or West?”
she asked.

“You will do it for a friend,” she had

replied.

“For a single mother when I am not

either a single mother or a mother at all?”
Ndanatsiwa asked.

“Yeah, you are the same girl I went to

the University of Zimbabwe for four years with.”

“Why is it that the best boarding schools

this side are in Marondera, Rusape or
Nyanga?” Ndanatsiwa asked.
 “The weather I suppose. This is Hwedza
which is prone to drought and lowveld heat
with mountain ridges here and there scattered
like ice on your soda shake.”

“If I am free I will holler Cynthia,” she

had replied.

Friends like Cynthia had started

appearing from her early childhood years. They
appeared and disappeared depending on
situations. As the economy contracted some
had moved with their families outside the
country while others had soldiered on. How
many children did Cynthia have now that she
had a twelve year old most probably who was
trying for boarding school placement?

In the end for the sake of a friend she

had driven in Cynthia’s Mazda Capella with
two other students that Cynthia had luckily
found. Their parents helped reduce the fuel bill
to and from. One of the reasons Cynthia had
decided to take her on board besides keeping
their friendship was that she slept half of the
way while Ndanatsiwa drove all the way into
Hwedza. Cynthia took over from there right to
the school her child had applied for.

“How is Andrew?” Ndanatsiwa had said

“Andrew?”

“The boy’s father,” she had corrected.

 “Oh you mean the young doctor?”

“I remember you and him, being an

item when we were at college,” Ndanatsiwa
had replied.

“Ndanatsiwa, when I came to the

university in Mount Pleasant for four years I was
a mother of two already,” Cynthia had
explained. “It was my intention before college
to be a mother of five. However fate worked
out the wrong way for me. I and my husband
had parted before then. He was busy dealing
with a new woman in his life and looking after
her because every three years she produced
for him someone to continue the clan.”

“Oh?”

“Andrew was in medical school the third

year when we met and he had been a junior
doctor for a year when we parted company.
By then he was not inclined to marry a mother
of two when he was about twenty-five years of
age.”

“You have three children, Bernard,

Sheila and Dorcas.”

“I married early. I married a man who

ejected me after these first two kids were born.
He came from a big business family,” she had
replied. “Andrew and I did not have any
children. He was very practical that it would
never happen. We almost lived together but
that was it.”

Ndanatsiwa did not press further into

personal issues. The children attended their
selection interviews while the parents milled
around worried and apprehensive with friends
like Ndanatsiwa finding space to tour around
with no worry on their mind.

Ndanatsiwa was coming from the ladies

room when one lady confronted her.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“You look like someone I went to school

with but she was shorter and less in terms of
volume,” the other had replied. “But I would
have vouched that you are siblings.”

“Where was that?”

“At Christe Mambo.”

“No I didn’t go to any boarding school. I

was a day scholar.”

“Are you a Katokwe?” asked the other.

“Yes that is my surname,” she had

replied. “But I grew up more of in Mbare and
Glen View not here.”
 After about fifteen minutes Ndanatsiwa
knew a lot. She knew there was a line of
people with her surname starting with Evelyn,
two other sisters and a brother stuck
somewhere. Ladies have a habit of opening up
when they want to. They did not know whom
they were talking to. Yet there was no scandal
in their discussion. It was about going to
different schools and colleges with [people
they were trying to find as ex-classmates.

__________________________________

“Mother,” Ndanatsiwa said on the

telephone. “I wanted you to accompany me
somewhere this weekend.”

“Depends on my schedules,” the older

woman replied.

“Make sure you are free this week,” she

had replied. “Make arrangements with daddy
about it. There are times when an elderly
mother and her spinster daughter need to
drive out,”

Instead of approaching from Hwedza,

she approached her quarry from Headlands
going in almost the opposite direction as if she
knew the area beforehand. She asked for St
Anne’s Goto High School and its directions.

At last she reached the school. While he

mother used the toilets she asked for other
directions. They drove into a modernised rural
dwelling complete with brick under asbestos
strictures.

“Where are we going?” her mother

asked.

“There is someone I want you to meet,”

she had replied.

Her mother had a long intake of breath

when Ndanatsiwa asked for a man by his
name and profession.

“Ndanatsiwa, you are going to kill me

one of these days.”

“You are not going to die, yet mother.”

They were led to a grass thatched shed

where the wind was cooling them. An elderly
woman called her husband there. He walked
straight and shook hands. When he saw both,
he made an exclamation then he greeted
them before sitting down. No one took notice
of the smart rural residence complete with
feeding of the national power grid. No one
took notice of the bevy of chicken runs and
piggery projects that was there.
 After customary greeting, Ndanatsiwa
opened the ball.

“My name is Ndanatsiwa Katokwe,” she

started.

“She is as like Evelyn as if they were

twins,” the elderly woman said. “I am called
Caroline Katokwe. I have been a kindergarten
teacher for as long as maybe three to four
years less than your age.”

“Welcome to my residence. I am called

Norman Katokwe,” the man said. “It has been
a long time. Your mother insisted that it should
be hush, hush. I respected her decision. You
are a big girl now.”

“Mother of Evelyn this is Judith and her

daughter Ndanatsiwa. I think I told you the
story of what happened.”

“You are welcome. I know the story.

Welcome to the home of two elderly
teachers.”

“Ndanatsiwa made her own

investigations,” Judith had said. “Ndanatsiwa
this is your biological father. I never met Mrs.
Katokwe. When I left the region, your father
was known as teacher Mutasa.”
 __________________________________

Later as they drove back Judith told

Ndanatsiwa to drive through a dust road
heading north. It had a lot of ruts and road
abrasions. It appeared like the rural district
council had forgotten to maintain some
patches of the road.

“Mom, are you sure you know where we

are going?” Ndanatsiwa had asked.

“On that inverted Y turn to the north. I

never asked where we were going when you
were heading for the Katokwe residence.”

“It wasn’t fair for you not to tell me

everything about my biological father. I know
the man I called dad did everything he could
do for his own daughter for me. I respect and
love him for that. However, children born out of
wedlock are very inquisitive.”

“You surprised me so let me surprise you

with my knowledge of these roads,” Judith had
replied.

The road opened up to be clear though

dusty. Inside an hour and a half she drove
towards a school.

“You can stop here,” Judith said.

 In the heat of the mid-day sun,
Ndanatsiwa chose to drive under the shadow
of three trees. Judith led her to the road
leading into the school where they posed for
photographs.

“This is where your biological father

taught for about twelve years.”

“Mom!”

“Yes.”

“Right there is the same borehole which

is being repaired time and time again from
which school children drink their water. I used
to come here coming from the ranges over
there to drink water and rest.”

“And he would see you?”

“Whether he did or not wasn’t the

concern. There was a short cut through here
before the school, fenced off its orchards
because people were feasting on the
mangoes, peaches, guavas and other fruit.”

Driving onwards Judith pointed out

where the grinding mill was and the shops that
had relocated to another place used to be.
The grinding mill had like the shops and the
school been places where the community met
to talk and chat while awaiting services.
 “Down that valley, you see those gum
trees?”

“Yes.”

“Between those gum trees and that dry

stump of a tree if you perceive about a
kilometre away is the rural home where I lived
while my husband masqueraded in the city of
Harare almost a year and a half.” Judith said
remembering years before Ndanatsiwa was
born. “He did not come home or contact me. I
was like a slave working for his elderly parents
who watched over me like an eagle watching
a pack of mice moving around. They made
sure no male came near me because I was still
ravishingly beautiful. To think I was so loyal
thinking Wallace would see reason. He didn’t
unfortunately.”

“What happened to Wallace?” she

asked.

“The last I knew was when I was a

mother of three when I met him in Runyararo
Road. I asked about his life and he confessed
that he had married after me and divorced.
Since then I have no idea where he went. He
liked his women but at the same time he
allowed his parents to intervene in his marriage.
The fact of having a wife in the rural area while
a man dates someone else has destroyed
many generations. A married couple should
stay close to prevent temptations and
accidents. From Mbare I heard news before
you were fourteen that his father was the first to
pass away. He should have developed a liver
problem because he liked illicit beer brew. The
mother followed some years ago.”

“So my dad used to leave the school to

come and see you?” Ndanatsiwa had asked.

“Yes, when it was dark he slipped in

three to four times a week for several months
until my pregnancy caused a furore. You know
young men can be quite romantic. The old
couple tried to stay awake until I was asleep.
He would come around midnight leaving within
two hours. An elder man can’t do that. You
need the strength to walk the distances, the
light footedness to make no noise, the ability to
befriend the dogs during daytime and sharp
sight because he only came when there was
no moon for obvious reasons.

“Then I made it like that to spat on

Wallace before I realised that I was actually in
love with your biological father. He however,
was afraid of s scandal in moving in with
someone’s wife so things did not work out as I
had anticipated in the end.”

“Mother, there is a lot that you hid from

me. Please tell me more details. Why did you
keep my paternity a secret?” she asked.
 “Don’t ever, ever invite a young man to
your room during the night while we sleep,” she
had said. “At least I had married. Wait for that.
Your father is the grandson of a line of chiefs
though his father moved to their present place
near Goto Mission.”

“Why did you hide all this from me,

mother?” she asked.

“Ndanatsiwa some things are best left

unsaid. Look at the fact that someone is spilling
beans on every move you make from your
abortion to every boyfriend you have had. Had
they known you were a teacher’s daughter
born out of wedlock, what do you expect?”
Judith had put her arm around her daughter’s
waist.

”I will not mention this to anyone. Yes,

everyone in the country would have known
that. Mom you owed me the right to know my
biological father. We all make mistakes when
we grow up. I made my won worse mistakes
than yours. However I love you mother. Had
you aborted me like I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Your father was known by his totem

that is why when you had his surname no one
raised an eyebrow. Besides which he could not
marry me for fear of a scandal. His grandfather
was a chief of an area that has since changed
boundaries shrinking as the population grows.
Out of the old chieftainship that existed during
his grandfather’s time has been made two
different but distant related chieftains. He was
in line for the chieftainship through his own
father who was also in line through his male
siblings and half-brothers.

“His father never succeeded to the

chieftainship. The line was too long and life did
not allow. You know our system of chiefs where
an elder brother is succeeded by the next in
age be it a sibling or half-brother. This would
not have been very complicated had men
married a single woman. However he decided
to move to Hwedza to set up a rural home
there and head a nearby school.”

____________________________________
sere (8)
 ____________________________________

The girl stood in the street. She was

about a metre and sixty-five centimetres tall.
She had a slim boyish looking body with a small
noticeable bust. She talked rapidly without
resting. She threw her face which was oval in
front of her as she spoke. The rest of the body
followed behind the mango shaped head. She
took her breath far in between in gulps as if she
was getting drowned. The man she stood with
was taller than her with broader shoulders and
a higher weight. He was listening. She talked
with him occasionally touching her shoulders to
which she thrust his hands away.

“So, who is she to you?” she asked

pointing almost pocking him in the eyes.

The man was at pains to explain again.

“She is from the same rural area as I,”

he started saying. “We have the issue of
sahwira. We get so friendly in that customary
trait that she hugs me and holds my hands like
a girlfriend.”

“Mhanduwe, don’t lie. I wasn’t born

yesterday,” she accused. “I saw that leery eye
you gave her, pushing her like a girlfriend from
the small of the back. You were all over her like
a hyena seeing a lion with a kill.”

“I am telling the truth.”

“Go to her place then,” she had

turned. She started walking away.

“Gladys!” he ran and caught her by

the elbow.

“Let me go.”

“What if you break with me and you

discover you are pregnant?” he asked the last
in a whisper looking around that none would
hear it. “Let’s discuss like grown up people.”

“Oh,” she had replied. “I will just dump

the baby at your workplace. Your mother can
do well by raising it up.”

“Do we need break up on suspicion that

I was seeing another woman?” he asked. “We
had a good relationship going.”

“What am I to you?” she asked.

“You are a friend.”

“Mhanduwe is that all? The European

family I work for will expect me to be home. I
will see you later,” she had said.
 A few days later he came home from
work and found her waiting for him at his
singles quarters. She was in a green polycotton
dress that she had gathered in between her
legs. She was not very tall not fleshy. She did
not beautiful either. He didn’t know why he
liked her so much. He was like a duiker looking
at the colours flashing on the stomach of a
leopard in grass.

“What is it Gladys?” he asked as soon

as he had turned the corner. “What do you
think it is?” She had fired back. “You are so
apprehensive by just seeing, me here yet you
liked stealing into my rooms in Strathaven for a
bit of fun didn’t you? That fun is all that matters
to you now.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Your looks and manner do say that.”

“You are too short tempered,” was all

he had said. He opened the door. He had told
the truth. She was rough of speech. She was
quick to speak more than she was quick to
listen.

“I came to see you,” she stated.

She had entered the room. Some things

were done with speed then negotiations
followed afterwards when people were
sheepish. After five minutes he left and was
back about an hour later. Supper was ready.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“I am in between jobs,” she had said.

“Don’t worry I am not eloping for you. I am
moving from one family to another. Maybe this
time I will be back to work for a European
family in Lochnivar because blacks are a
problem. Had I not come you were going to tip
toe at a Strathaven home, the workers
cottage. You would have received a beating
of your life.”

That day he slept early.

She found another job three weeks

later where she could come and visit him every
weekend. One day she came overnight.

“Mhanduwe.”

“What?”

“I am going to have a baby.”

“Whose?” he asked.

“Whose do you think? When you were

sharing those mouth to mouth sweets what did
you think was the end product? Why were you
grunting squinting your eyes? Why did you like
me to tell you your own totem?”
 “Not mine. Don’t even come close to
me,” he had said.

They had an argument and a fight. He

tried using fists but she could throw fist for fist.
She could aim and attack. He ended up on
the floor with her holding a pan which was
working on his face. The neighbours managed
to rescue the situation. He slept outside while
she slept on the bed.

She left the next morning. That was the

first night he had not touched her. When she
came back a week later there was a new
tenant in the quarters who had never heard of
William.

“Where does he work?” the new

tenant had asked.

“I think I know the company in

Willowvale,” she had replied. Two weeks later
she visited the company.

“Mhanduwe the driver?” the guard

had asked,

“Yes,” she had eagerly replied.

“He was fired for coming to work dead

drunk more than two weeks ago. I haven’t
seen him since. Maybe he went rural to
reconsider.”
 That was the moment a baby in
someone’s tummy decided to kick.

“What about a driver’s assistant called

Charles Maputi?”

“He is on two months leave starting last

week but one. He went rural.”

____________________________________

The women group were finishing their

prayers and projects at the church when they
started hearing loud chatter. Though they
concentrated on finishing up they could hear
tit bits of conversation outside the church. The
chatter was coming from outside the church
perimeter where there were fields which
people tilled when the rains came. Most
people had a rural background hence they
wanted their rural greens at harvest time.

They planted maize, pumpkins, beans,

jugo beans, monkey peas and other crops. The
fields at night were the preserve of hoodlums
because green crops gave them cover from
the tower lights. Soon a group of women
stormed the church gates one of them holding
a parcel in her hand, running and trotting.
 “What is it?” One of the senior mothers
asked.

“Some men passing by the patch of

green mealies there heard a baby crying.
Some loose lady dumped her baby there.”

“Hold on,” the reverend’s wife

instructed. “We need rush the baby first to the
nearest clinic or hospital before going to the
police. Mrs. Kangira, come with me. Would you
also like to come?”

The pastor’s wife had asked the one

holding the baby. The question was answered
when the pastor drove into the clinic with four
ladies. The baby was washed, cleaned up,
bandaged and fed. The little group shuttled
from the clinic to the police station and back
to the clinic with a lady police officer to take
statements. There was excited talk as the
witnesses told the constable what they had
heard from the men who had called them in
upon discovery of the baby boy. The reverend
took the lady police woman back to the
station while the rest went home.

Early on the morrow Nyashadzashe

Kangira found herself at the clinic looking at
the little boy dressed in napkins only who was in
a little glass.

“That is the baby I was talking about,”

she addressed her husband. “He was lucky to
be heard crying by those men. Ants had
started swarming all over him. The women who
picked him up used their mouths to blow some
little ants off his wrapper and body.”

“What manner of a woman dumps a

male baby in a field to die?” he asked.

“So girls should be dumped?” asked a

nurse with a smile.

“No, “ he had replied. “We all make

mistakes my sister. You bring the child to your
parents and they will look after it.”

“Richard some African parents are

saying take your pregnancy where you got it.
The girl may have had no option. However
dumping a baby is a very dangerous option
because it involves giving birth alone and
keeping secrets. What is there are birth
complications?” Nyashadzashe said. “Let’s
hear what else the baby requires above what
the church women brought in.”

“Your mother is a task master,“ Richard

said to the same nurse.

There were at home having supper

talking about the event too excited even to
watch a local comedian doing his tricks on the
television show Mukadota and Family.
Everyone was excited and digesting the news.
The police were eager to question a maid
servant called Gladys Mabvakwese. She had
been a maid for some time in the locality. Her
former employer had told the police she had
been pregnant. She had disappeared into thin
air.

“So mother, you took some clothes,

lotions and food to the clinic, what will
happen?” asked her daughter.

“Miriam if you play around with men,

you will end up like the mother of that child,
dumping a baby,” Nyashadzashe had replied.

“You haven’t answered my question

mother,” Miriam replied.

“I and the other ladies will keep visiting.

It’s been a week now since the incident,”
Nyashadzashe had advised. “The baby boy is
doing well now. The last time the clinic said he
had passed the 2, 2 kg birth weight.

“Mom what if you took the baby here

and raised him? I only have one brother
Takunda Richard junior and when he is at
school _________,” Virginia suggested.

“Virginia,” Richard started. “What type

of an idea is that? It is much against our
Africans custom. If we need adopt, we will
collect from our relatives and raise children
up.”
 “Daddy,” Virginia had replied. “That is
incorrect. You raised that grandson of chief
Mapinga and what did he do? He married
without even advising you. How much does it
cost to say I want to marry here is my bride to
be? Whereas if you adopt the adopted child is
yours forever. If there are spiritual problems
then it’s time the family learn about collective
prayer. Why didn’t you marry three wives like
your cousins? We have to constantly adopt
changes into our culture.”

“Worse things than that about relatives’

children,” Nyashadzashe had replied. “They
don’t become your children. They remain the
extended family. That is a good idea Virginia. I
have been mulling that for a week.”

“No,” Richard had said, “If you want

another baby ________.”

“Richard, the last time I almost died

having Miriam don’t forget what you said. I am
not going to have another baby, ever but I am
welcome to the idea of adopting the little
boy.”

“No more children but no adoption

either.”

“Moses the best prophet that ever

lived was adopted by pharaoh’s daughter,”
Miriam had suggested.
 “The blacks in America adopt
frequently. We always hide under our culture,”
Virginia had replied.

“I will call the pastor and his wife for a

conference.”

“Nyashadzashe ________”Richard had

complained.

He had to drive his Ford Anglia through

the church again where his wife was consulting
the pastor. Afterwards, they had to drive to the
Social Welfare department and an orphanage
where the baby had been taken. They filled in
forms and brought proof of residence and
employment status for Richard.

In the end a European handed the little

baby at three weeks to Nyashadzashe.

“Meet tomorrow at Market Square so

we can get the little urchin a birth certificate,”
the European had handed papers to Richard.

That night home it was for the strange

little baby boy.

“What will we call him?” asked

Nyashadzashe.

“Richmond,” suggested Richard.

_________________________________
 “I heard that you picked up a boy in
the streets,” Kangira said.

“Yes, “he had replied.

“People explained it different terms.

Someone came to me and said has Richard
run short of relatives with children? I replied that
those relatives can also pick children from the
orphanages that way the government would
close the department of social welfare.”

“Thank you very much father for the

much valued support and advice.”

“Why is it that someone marries and

wants another person to look after their child
while interfering with the process only to snatch
the child when they are working or before
marriage? If you can have children, look after
your own. Both Islam and Christianity say it’s a
sin not to look after your own.”

Richard explained as was customary

though he knew the old tiger had been briefed
by the bush telegram. He shuffled his feet. He
had received a lot of flak from when he had
married that he was always letting g his wife
have her way. Unfortunately none of the flak
had come from his parents. His father was a
diplomat who kept his lips sealed. One could
not tell if he approved or not. He selected
solitude when arguments came up.

“Well honestly Richard, it is none of my

business. My business is wood,” the older man
had enthused. “I have had enough, what with
getting thirteen children from two wives of
which three passed away before I did. At least
I beat you all children.”

“Dad, none of us children married two

wives.”

“All the same I beat you all by thirteen

to four for you. Now make that five but you
need eight more to make it equal.”

“Thank you my father. I have received

a lot of flak from every Tom, Dick and Harry
about the young baby boy. I would have liked
to keep it a family secret but people are
broadcasting the issue. Everyone is explaining
without being asked what had happened.”

“We tend to be mesmerised by what

does not matter to us,” the older man had said.
“When last did you pass through Goromonzi
near Marondera?”

“It’s been a while. I last passed through

your old place to see the chief, our uncle when
I was with his nephew the army officer.”

__________________________________
 Nyashadzashe stood near Jabavu Road
leading to Mhofu Primary School in Highfield
road awaiting the arrival of the lady teacher
she knew stayed near the street. She had
allowed Richmond to move ahead because
she didn’t want him listening to his teacher’s
concerns. Presently she saw the teacher
coming with a hat on her head.

They did their greetings.

“I am Richmond’s mother,” she had

introduced herself.

“I suspected you were a mother of one

of my pupils,” she had replied. “Come before I
get roasted by the headmaster for being late.
We will talk.”

“Yes?”

“Who is Virginia?”

“My eldest daughter who is at Harare

Hospital as a nurse student final year,” she had
replied.

“Richmond said he had two mothers so I

was just clarifying.”

“Okay that is his elder sister. He has three

sisters and a brother.”
 “What is this elder brother doing?” she
had asked.

“Oh, he is at Kutama College starting his

first year as a boarder,” she replied as they
moved.

“Do you know that Richmond has a craft

he is good at? He like carving with a small knife
and he produces from wood certain objects.
There are periods every time when kids can be
creative. Some do crotchety, weaving, sewing
and boys try painting and art. Richmond finds
pieces of wood throw away by the wood work
class for junior boys. Out of them he creates
things the girls fight for,” she had replied. “I will
confess. I gave him a piece of soft wood, a
block of it. He made four doves of different
sizes which are in my display unit at home.”

“Yes, we saw that.”

“There is a European who normally

comes to my church who has been talking
about this type of art including visual arts,
drawing or knitting or sewing things and
objects. I would invite you to church on
Saturday 1400hrs,” she had replied. “You need
to see this gentleman maybe he and
Richmond will start a mentor and student
relationship.”

Nyashadzashe had dutifully bundled her

eight old charge with her to the Dutch
Reformed Church on a Saturday at 1400hrs.
While the adults were talking shop within the
house of the Lord, Richmond had a small blunt
parrying knife while a European looked
uninterested, he spied an elephant with his
trunk in the air, stomping the ground as he ran
ostensibly from poachers appearing, roughly
but surely.

“What is the elephant doping?”

“It is running away from a group of

poachers,” Richmond had replied. “I didn’t
carve the poachers. I don’t like people who kill
elephants for their tusks.”

“When the elephant runs away from

poachers he doesn’t raise his trunk. He does
that to smell the air for enemies,” the European
had said in broken Shona to Richmond.

The child pierced together what the

elder man was saying. It was an honour for a
white person to talk to a black boy. These were
the ruling class. It was like a child of a Negro
slave being singled out for favours by the
master. It did not mean they would be free
persons. However, it meant life would be more
bearable and easier.

“Oh?”

“He keeps the trunk down when running

away from enemies. It weighs something.
When running away, his trunk is tucked under
his lips before his front feet. When he charges
at an enemy at short distance, that is when he
raises the trunk.”

__________________________________

They went rural arriving on the evening

on a Friday. They left in a Toyota Crown 1990, 2,
491cc Royal extra station wagon. It had rails on
top where a roof had been fitted and here
would be their groceries and travelling bags. It
was not surprising that any highway police man
first looked at the roof rack. Then they
pronounced the vehicle was over-laden and
the luggage on top would be weapons when
there was a vehicle accident. The children
piled into the boot space while adults
occupied the bench seat behind the driver
and his wife.

When they left 28th Street in Highfield

heading west for Jabavu Drive, it was raining
yet it was not yet summer. Jabavu Drive led
them north east before leading them east
towards Lewisham Road. They moved into
Mangwende Drive West before turning north
along Bvunzawabaya Street .In time they
emerged in Willowvale Road heading towards
the south-east from where they emerged in
Seke Road driving down past Chitungwiza
Police Station to their left.
 They went through the outer fringes of
Seke rural making a left turn after where there
was a confluence of roads, to the lefty was
Mahusekwa Road, with a little bit further on a
fork of Hwedza Road. They turned left into
Hwedza Road heading north and east towards
Mutare Road that they joined slightly before
Marondera.

They headed about ninety kilometres

further away from Marondera into Rusape. The
town had two main roads that made a T. To
the south was Mutate Road and to the east
was Nyanga Road. They turned east for their
rural area bin Makoni district. The heat had
receded giving way to sometimes a violent
storm. Showers of rain were being pushed
forwards by the wind forcing those seeking
refuge from the rains out of verandas as it
rained within there.

In some days they went to Vengere

residential area to visit one of Richard’s half-
sisters who would create quite a banquet for
the large family. Her husband had
approached Kangira with a business idea. He
and Kangira had sat before a European who
had changed the idea. Now the brother-in law
had an eatery near the bus terminus which
they ran as a family.

At times they stopped in town. They

would sit around an eatery table to share a
meal that included minerals drinks. They would
talk much exchanging experiences and asking
after each other’s health. Aunt Fatima being
close to was more of a frequent visitor
therefore she was well armed and
knowledgeable.

“Father,” Richard had said on the

morrow when the older man had emerged
from his bedroom to sit on his court. There was
no log fire because it was warm in the morning.
Every male within was seeking the refuge of the
thatched roof which prevented the intensity of
the sun while the open sides allowed the wind
free reign.

“I hear you.”

“I want you to check the boy’s

handiwork.”

“Which boy is that?”

“Richmond,” Richard gave Kangira a

carving.

“Did he make this?” Kangira asked

looking at a wood carving. He turned the
carving over and over slowly as if mesmerized
by a dream. “These grandchildren’s names
confuse me, Richard junior and Richmond.”

“Yes,”
 “Good,” he had replied. “That alone
does not make him at par with my craft. It does
show some roughness that needs to be worked
on. Art is a craft that requires one to put their
mind before they can be successful.”

Richard thought the old man was being

too proud. After breakfast, the old man called
Richmond up. He had his walking cane and a
bag of tools. He didn’t appear to notice that
two sons and a daughter had driven all the
way to see him. He rose now.

“Where to father?” asked Richard.

“Business. You can follow. If I need go to

the toilet I will make you stand away from the
wind,” Kangira had Richard laughing.

“Dad for years I used to walk with you

through these woods though half of them have
been hacked down to make farmland,”
Richard had replied.

“And you and your wife have hands that

can’t till the land,” Kangira had suggested.

“We hire people.”

“That is wisdom that I learnt at an early

age. You pay someone for professional services
which you are not able to perform or are too
tedious for manual tasks. How is your piggery,
fowl runs and other projects doing?”
 “I can’t complain father.”

“People thought I was bonkers when I

made my craving giving them to whites in
Marondera and Rusape to sell on my behalf.
Those that I felt were cheating, I simply side
stepped.”

The older man pointed at Richmond with

his cane.

“You tie up your shoe laces. There are

snakes in the woods. It takes less time to die of
their bite than to run away. Watch were I step
and follow. Frostbite is a better and slower killer
than snakebite. I haven’t died from frostbite
though I have suffered from it every winter.”

“Okay grandfather.”

Richard knew where his massive sense of

humour came from. He followed the trail into
the forests where Kangira found his usual
place. He laid his tools down and started his
craft while Richmond borrowed some tools. The
rest did the talking and fetching of objects and
water and lunch. In the evening they returned
home.

“What is your comment on Richmond?”

asked Richard.

“He is one of us,” was all that his father

had said. Every time he came near to
Highfield, he would request to see Richmond’s
crafts which were displayed to him. He
critiqued Richmond only in the boy’s ears.

__________________________________

One time the kids went rural as they did

every school holiday. It was a chance to catch
up with their rural friends and relatives
exchanging experiences. The rural relatives
also made it to town to see their relatives. It did
well for them to write constructive compositions
of what they had experienced. They went
fishing, herding livestock, harvesting, chasing
imaginary thieves and wildlife using their dogs.
They helped in every other activity that
required their attention on the rural
homesteads.

“Grandfather,” Richmond had sounded

one time.

“Yeah that is me.”

“Dad says you went to Johannesburg

one time?”

“The Europeans took me there. Those

people raised me up. They put me on a
pedestal. Have I tried representing myself with
my craft I would be tilling the land for a packet
of sugar. They dressed me up shaving my hair
and beard, trimming me. If you go into the
foyer before the main lounge the photographs
in black and white attest to that.”

“Tell me more,” Richmond said.

They carved sitting in a forest clearing.

From here they had a vantage point over the
homestead. They could not discern who was
moving over there. However they could see
visitors who drove in by motor vehicles. They
could intercept these by climbing down the hill
if need be.

“I was about forty years old then. Your

father was not yet born. By these days’
standards I wouldn’t have seen you because
your father wouldn’t have been born. I went to
Johannesburg where I carved while the
Europeans watched. I went to East London,
Port Elizabeth through Johannesburg and
finally Nairobi. There were television crews
watching me work.

“There were other carvers and sculptors

too. The Zulus were doing paintwork while their
womenfolk did quilt work. It was impressive I tell
you. I concentrated on what I knew best. I did
my carving from the heart loving every
moment because I couldn’t compete with arts
that I don’t know about.”
 “Then you came back grandfather? How
long where you away from home?”

“These were three separate journeys. The

first long one was Johannesburg for about
seventeen weeks then I came back.”

“What did you bring back?”

“I brought home goods not readily

available to the African in Rhodesia. Among
the chests that I railed in I brought a radio,
jackets for your grandmothers and blankets
that are so warm in winter especially in these
hills. I brought wooden crates of stuff including
bicycles for your aunts and uncles to take them
to school. Those were days of discrimination.”

“These were the days when my uncles

and aunts were going to school?”

“Yes and the Europeans who bought my

crafts always told me to invest in good
education, Hence none of my children could
go to local schools after the fourth grade. They
migrated to boarding schools. That was before
your father Richard was born, I mean when I
went to Johannesburg.”

“Was that all grandfather?”

His grandfather looked around then he

looked at Richmond who was about fifteen
years old then.
 “Your grandmothers, both of them, they
all fell pregnant because I was too hot when I
returned.”

At that they laughed as they enjoyed

their carving experience.

“Grandfather, of the two grandmothers

of mine, did you have any favourite?”

“No on the night of the dance I didn’t

know which one to select the shorter and
fleshier variety of the taller and slimmer ones. If
a man married more than one wife, they
should not have favourites even with children.”

“Where did the names Mapinga,

Mamhepo, Mapeto or Kangira come from?”
Richmond had asked.

“Can you hand over the water?” Kangira

had asked. “We were country bumpkins. When
the civilization started encroaching we went to
get identity documents. In those days people
had to move with their identity papers and
passes. You could not leave the rural area
coming into town without a pass. There was no
pass without an identity document. Women
were not bothered. No black woman could
buy any major asset without her brother or
husband by her side. An identity document
looked like an A-5 piece of paper and it was a
paper. We said our nicknames instead of the
family name.”
 They had a laugh again. “So the names
held?”

“It is up to infinity down the generations.

There were seven of us, three siblings from one
side, two from another and two cousins who all
said their nicknames instead of our
grandfather’s name.”

“Grandfather Mamhepo, why did he get

that name?”

“People looked down on his craft of

drums and dancing. In the absence of both
the Bible and literacy, people assumed his skill
was led by spirits of the wild. That is why they
gave him a name synonymous with the wind
and evil spirits. He had a reputation for doing
drums and dancing very, very well. He got paid
in fowl here, a goat there but mostly a keg of
beer because we have a way of exploiting
each other then we blame the Europeans.
When he was drunk he demanded they give
him a single mother unmarried. The single
mothers complained that when he was drunk
he did stuff that hurt.”

Again they laughed.

“Later some European and influential

African Rhodesians heard of Mamhepo. He
was called to many cultural festivities where he
emerged with a homeland, cattle and a
reputation. Those women who had rejected
him for being a drunkard who could dance
and play the drums found themselves
regretting. He had a penchant for women
however. He also married by making three
women pregnant in five years. By the time he
passed away, he had added to his harem
three former single mothers that we knew and
many we didn’t know.”

“Why did the women on cultural

activities agree to his demands?”

“Mamhepo was handsome and

charming when he was sober. Single women
looked forward to harnessing life-long partners
not being used as fodder by the likes of
Mamhepo. A few bored and irritated fathers
had beaten him once in a while for enticing
their daughters into illicit activities. Single
mothers and divorcees did well for him
because they had lesser expectations. After all,
he left them with most of the dance payments.
The name Mamhepo was coined because of
his erratic behaviour when drunk.”

“So now people respect him?”

“Why can’t they respect a person who

shook hands with various European district
commissioners? He was being called to
perform in places as far afield as Bulawayo,
Gatooma, Gwelo, Nkayi, Gokwe, Wankie,
Lusaka, Ndola or Kitwe to name but a few. As I
left Marandellas then, Mamhepo had started
realizing that his lavish and reckless activities
were costing his future. That is when he started
settling down.

“He had started naming a fair prize for

rural performance not just a keg of traditional
brew which at times was so illicit it caused
drunkards to go early to the grave. The only
problem was the further from home the more
likely he brought a woman. Three of those he
married and had children with later left. There
are Mamhepo(s) in Sanyati where his former
wife returned. There are Mamhepo(s) in Kitwe
because he had taken a Banda woman. There
are Mamhepo(s) in Gutu where another
woman returned before the war. ”

“You kept it at two?”

“Yes and I know my children. All of them I

know by name and physical looks. My brother
did not know all his children because he
fathered children by all his women. I wasn’t to
believe there may be about three in
Goromonzi and two out there, who knows
where? If you hear of a dancer who jumps over
drums and plays the drums, check their
appearance, they may be your great uncle or
great cousin _________.”

“Grandfather, what if one of our

generations would be like your brother moving
from one single woman to another?”
 “Your age are now decimated by
diseases from illicit activity. In our time a man
could smoke or drink as much as he could
take. Now you are dying of lung cancers. You
are dying of liver problems caused by alcohol
content. You are getting insane at an early
age from smoking too much marijuana.
Maybe, my brother will have one like him.”

“What of chief Mapinga of Goromonzi?”

“He was a crook who took away what

should have been mine. They approached me
after he had died. I rejected the offer because
I have seen better things to do than fight for
the chieftainship. My principals who found me
markets or what they call fences, advised me
against the chieftainships because I would not
concentrate on carving. These days what
happened to me would have been taken to
court. The courts would have examined the
customary way of choosing a chief. Maybe I
would have become chief Kangira of a part of
Goromonzi.”

__________________________________

“Grandfather, then you went to

Nairobi?” asked Richmond.
 A teacher had described Richmond’s
compositions as being lively and imaginatively
set in rural areas where there was a forest,
three generations and dance festivals moist
times. The teacher had told Richard that his son
could describe a dead tree slowly becoming
manure alongside the woodpeckers picking at
the worms within in detail.

“Have you ever read of Daniel Arap

Moi?” grandfather asked,

“He was the president of the republic of

Kenya.”

“I shook his hand. I met part of his

cabinet. I was there for seven weeks doing
some great carving as part of a team to
create murals for their Mau-Mau rebellion
shrines,” Kangira had explained.

He had described in detail what had

transpired. Ironically Mamhepo was there on a
cultural exchange program. He was showing
them how to dance. He had this way of kicking
his left foot out and right foot out before
jumping over two sets of drums and those
holding them. He appeared in a front page of
the Daily Mail with legs spread out one
hundred and forty degrees jumping over both
drums and men holding them as if heading
towards President Arap Moi.

“Wow.”
 “I will give you a piece of advice my
grandson which I liberally give to all the village
children here. Don’t waste your youth. Find
your niche and go in hot and penetrating.
When you find your vocation don’t let people
stall you.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t waste your manhood chasing

after girls. Just close your eyes and pick the one
all the men say is the most difficult to
approach.”

“You mean the no-nonsense type of a

girl grandfather? You mean the type of girl that
insists on a love offering for her father first
before anything else?”

“Yes. A man who goes to the bed of a

married man with a woman is taking a risk. The
woman can be pregnant of either or none of
you. You risk getting your neck on a dead tree
with the husband holding a sharp axe. You call
another man’s children your own while yours
languish in poverty. Marry well and stick to your
morals, huh?”

“I hear grandfather. But what of the

stranger called love?”

“I don’t remember if I was in love with

your two grandmothers. I however remember
that from the moment I thought of them highly
and married both, I never looked at another
woman again. I was a straight and principled
young man. Do the same Richmond when you
are eight to ten years from now. Don’t
compete with these running with women into
bushes because you will compete for the same
women passing on diseases and misfortune.”

“It’s no longer advisable to follow our

culture of many wives,” Richmond had
interjected.

“Yeah I know. My choice was one girl

who had a god friend so I took both by
circumstances I will explain one day. You of
these days say its anathema to have three
wives yet you go on to have children outside
marriages and you maintain girlfriends who
produce children whose paternity you are not
as certain as your married partners’ are.”

“By this time grandfather, my father was

in school?” Richmond asked.

“He was in high school like some of his

brothers or half-brothers all the same. The boys
went to St. Augustine, Kutama and Fletcher
while the girls went to St. Faith in Rusape or
Bonda Mission. Now Richmond you should find
a good woman.”

“What is a good woman grandfather?”

 “That is a woman whom your heart
yearns for thirty years after you married her.
Look at our villages here, these little
grandchildren of mine are not your type. You
need search for a woman who will stand with
you when you are out in a foreign country
speaking through your nose. Not a woman who
will look at the Europeans once and becomes
a bitch in heat for the money.”

____________________________________

“I am called Richard Kangira. I am your

mother’s male cousin from Makoni.” Richard
had said as soon as he had managed to catch
his breath.

“I know. I suspected you look alike those

of my uncles from Marondera.”

“Thank you. Tell your mother that this

week we are headed for Rusape. The old man
is having problems breathing. He has been sick
off and on. If she requires a ride, I leave
Highfield by 1800hrs. I will not collect people at
their homes. That would see us driving at
0400hrs.“

“I will advise to my mother,” the girl had

replied.
 When her mother had arrived from her
Thursday meeting at church she had relayed
the information.

“Mom?”

“Yes Chiedza?”

“How are you related to this Rusape

grandfather?”

“My father and his were cousins,” she

had replied.

They had gathered in Rusape where the

old man was suffering from his breathing
ailment.

“Father, do we take you to hospital?”

Richard’s eldest brother had asked.

As the eldest he was in charge of

keeping the family together.

“No,” the old man had shown by his

hands. “No, no.”

After sometime he motioned with his

hands. One of Richard’s stepsisters reached
over.

“He is calling for Richmond.”

“Go call him,” instructed the eldest

brother.
“He is probably asleep.”

“Then wake him up.”

“Richmond in the best of days is a light

sleeper,” Richard’s wife had replied.

Richmond appeared. He went to his

grandfather’s side.

“Help me up,” croaked the old man.

“He says rise him up,” Richmond had

said.

They obeyed. The old man whispered

something to Richmond.

“Uncle Denford is requested,” he had

replied.

“He did not make it here,” another man

replied. “Maybe he will.”

“Uncle Denford is outside,” Richmond

had advised the old man.

He made a motion with his hands.

Kangira nodded. “He came in rather late. He
has driven through the night.”

“Richard?”

“Dad, he is calling you,” Richmond had

said.
 Richard had come to kneel nearby.
Kangira held his hand.

“Richard.”

“Father?”

“Of my six sons and five daughters, who

sired the boy Richmond?”

“Father I wouldn’t know. I have asked

with no answers. What is none of my siblings or
half-brothers are responsible?”

“He has the Kangira blood in him, find

out! Check from my notorious brother,
Mamhepo’s progeny scattered all over. He is
one of us. Where is Richmond?”

“Here he is father,” Richard took

Richmond’s hand in that of the old man. He
moved back.

“The two of you, you Richmond and

Denford the son of my brother are much like
me. Denford sculptures with stone but we two
are the only wood carvers in the village,” he
had said breaking into laughter.

“That is right grandfather,” Richmond

had said.

“What did he say?” an aunt had asked.

Richmond translated for the adults.
 “Richmond?’

“Grandfather?”

“Don’t ever carve me.”

“Yes grandfather.”

“Tell them to let me lie down, gently. The

European is coming to inspect my carvings.”

“Grandfather said let him lie back,

gently.”

Kangira looked at Richmond before the

mist started in his eyes. He pointed with his
finger as if to say, never, never, never. The wise
eyes and the sharp nose that looked like a
beak of a bald eagle lost their aura. The eyes
became listless. He succumbed to a deep
sleep from which he needed not wake up
again.

Maybe another type of European had

taken him home.

_____________________________________
pfumbamwe (9)
 ____________________________________

“Beloved ladies and gentlemen hereby

present, all due respects to the chief of the
area, the headmen present, village heads,
fathers and mother, our in laws either sides and
everyone present,” Richard had said moving
slowly looking down then up as he presented
his speech.

It was a feat to be asked to say a word

on the funeral of one’s father. However he was
the one fit enough to stand up and say a word
because of several factors. The most talkative
people at large gatherings were those who
were born orators, teachers, politicians,
evangelists or in the ministry of agriculture
working as rural agricultural demonstrators.
They were used to addressing large crowds.
Politicians were the worst, they could tell the
crowd the deceased would still vote in their
grave!

“Before you speak mukoma,” someone

had pointed out. “Remember you are not
wearing gumboots or hard area hats or those
protective shoes of yours.”

“I think you need a dip, munin’ina,”

Richmond had replied.
 “Neither do you have your family Bible,
don’t preach ____,”another had advised.

“I have been asked to say a few words

relating to the deceased. We have heard
words from our father’s sisters and related
families. We also heard words from the families
of our close relatives from Marondera with
whom the deceased last lived regularly more
than sixty years ago. Time does not dissolve
relationships. We are still related, through
Adam. They came all the way from Goromonzi
East.

With all due respect and all protocol

observed, you are here to lay to rest our father,
grandfather or great uncle, uncle, paternal or
maternal whatever the case depending on the
situation. Some came as far as Wenimbi,
Svosve and even South Africa where the family
is busy settling. I can honestly say that there are
countries represented here from South Africa,
Namibia, Botswana, Zambia. Mozambique,
Kenya and others. So it’s an international
funeral.

“Grandfather Kangira was not

educated in the modern sense. He went as far
as standard 4 which is equal to fifth or sixth
grade in school these days. You no longer do
Arithmetic. You now do Mathematics. You no
longer do Latin. They did cursive writing. You
now write like a cock turning 360˚. At some
time he lived in Chikwaka with his father’s sister
for about four years. He was a woodsman. A
man at home when he had a sharp piercing
axe like tool with a short handle that he use to
carver his wood when he commenced his work
before he refined his creations with chisels,
mattocks and files.

The first peculiar thing about him was

that he could use two separate logs with no
joints and no glue to make a chair that is about
nine years younger than me but is still being
used. These days we have gone indigenous. If
any of you want, I have some indigenously
made sweets in my pockets. The manufacturer
did not put plastic wrappings. My handkerchief
is in there too _______. “

There was laughter as a point was

made.

“In spite of his lack of formal education,

no one here could speak the English language
like grandfather did. I remember growing up as
a young man. Grandfather could correct our
spoken English from the sense to the
pronunciation. I am not the first born so think of
what it means. None of us have been to the
countries he went to including India where he
made a carving of Gandhi their founding
father. He was quartered at some time for
about two months before uhuru in Kenya,
Mombasa while making uhuru murals there.
None of us have been there. I have been to
Victoria Falls,” Richard had explained to which
the gathering of close to two hundred
mourners started laughing.

Richard waited until the laughter had

subsided.

“Grandfather in his time had three

brothers and two sisters added to which he
had about eleven half-brothers and sisters from
different wives of his own father. I will call out
names. These people should just stand up then
I will give them a kick each before they sit
down.”

Richard called out names. Several

people stood up.

“In our culture each of these standing

are representing grandfather’s brothers, sisters,
half-brothers and that is a union of different
people under the banner of culture. Thank you,
you can take your seats if they haven’t been
taken. Some of you came from Sanyati near
Gokwe. That means pall bearers really enjoy
their jobs. You would wonder at the distances
travelled by people to hear me speak.

“I said earlier, grandfather Kangira was

not formally schooled though he was able to
read and write. None of his children went to a
day secondary school. Yet when those eagle
sharp eyes pierced at us, we ended up telling
the truth. The seniors knew I was very good at
keeping secrets. That is unless my father looked
at me or my mother pulled my ear or raised me
by the face with both hands on my cheeks. I
don’t know why the KGB doesn’t try those
tactics.

“We did our stuff at local village school

up to grade five or six before we transferred to
boarding schools. The first day at boarding
school, someone taught me to be wise by
putting me inside a cupboard and leaving me
there. Those of us that have been in
cupboards, they only operate one way know
the feeling. When I was a young boy, my elder
brothers or sisters or mothers used to dress me
up. I wonder why then, when I dressed alone I
was able to put two legs into the single socket
of a short when I can’t do the same today. Last
week I tried it and Nyashadzashe, my wife
n____.”

“Richard, stick to the point!”

“Alright queen of the castle I heard.

Those were the days when we went late to
school for one reason or another. My elder
brothers taught me to buckle up after wearing
two shorts with one inside being a jean short,
resilient and tough. That made the strokes of
the cane lighter. That was until I had a running
tummy. I needed go to the Blair toilet ____.”
 Richard paused because people were
beside themselves with laughter.

“Richard!”

“At school we gave teachers names.

We also gave each other names or short cuts
to long names. None of grandfather Kangira’s
children failed to be supported after finishing
secondary or high school either in college or
vocational studies. He even went on to take
the eldest two occasionally from his sisters, half-
sisters, brothers and half-brothers to do the
same. Grandfather Kangira scored many firsts
in his life.

“He was one of the first people to have

a phonogram. It was something which was
cranked up. Long playing records were put on
it. A needle was used which produced music.
The music was not like what we hear these
days ______. In those days boys and girls in their
seniors including men/women too came to
crane their heads to hear the music being
played. Did I mention the speaker was like a
horn? It rumbled like thunder in the rain
season.”

For some time he had to stop to let

laughter subside.

“We had stacks of records from the

Beatles, John Lennon, Hugh Masekela and free
sermons galore. We heard stories of Noah and
the Ark told in our language by Europeans
speaking accented local languages. He was
the first to have a house with corrugated iron
sheeting which when it rained made all people
not hear each other. Then there was no need
for a phonogram. In the heat of summer we
sought shelter outside under the trees. This one
had strange architecture never seen in a
village.

“It had half-moon walls and windows

panes were made of wood, never seen before.
The outside doors were made of fabricated
metal which had no problem with the rains as
long as it was well painted. We as children did
scratches on metals. Then rust came in. That
was one way of learning about science. Metal
door frames and metal hinges meant squeaks
that foretold our goings especially at night.
When the old man became inquisitive,
someone taught us to use used engine oil. The
old man did not grow wiser. The rest is history.
The first one had three bedrooms and a sitting
room.

“The second one had a large veranda.

We termed it the store because of its shape.
The windows were set within the veranda
meaning even when it trained we had no
problem. This was the first house to have
wooden doors outside which were not
affected by weather. It had a long passage
from one end to another with about six rooms.
In time it was razed with the kind and free
assistance of military personnel trained in
Mozambique holding Bazookas, AK 47 rifles
and RPGs.

“I didn’t know that wood and fire would

be used as weaponry especially to set alight
our homestead during the war. The villagers
were the cavalry that came in with logs and
hammers to break it down. We changed sites
from a kilometre away to here. I didn’t pay the
villagers who got hurt razing it down because
they didn’t account for the pigs, chickens,
goats and three cattle left in the range. It was
replaced by this one with brick under tile which
has about two wings for bedrooms and several
bedrooms that I won’t mention for security
reasons.

“The youngest in the family uses it. He is

a renowned farmer. If he continues breeding
pedigree beef cattle, pigs and chicken they
will soon call him a sell-out. When we started
courting local boys and girls, grandfather got
hold of a horse tail hide whip. I stopped writing
love letters. We were good at games. One of
them was throwing stone to find out if we could
hit a stationary target. That was unchallenging.
We began throwing them to intercept running
goats, chickens, pigs, sheep and calves.

“We were learning to be the finest

snipers for the military. The adults joined in the
game. We got walloped if we were seen. Hey
going to bed was an extreme in those days. It
was child abuse. Imagine two boys sharing a
single blanket. In winter we knew who had
stock of the blankets. If you got the blanket you
lost the pillow. Sleeping by the fireside in the
warm kitchen was great yet grandfather or our
grandmothers did not allow us this feat for
obvious reasons. The fact that we didn’t die of
carbon monoxide poisoning or burns means
those three people were very intelligent
indeed.

“Then there was the issue of putting

food in the same plate as per custom and
sharing. Then we had a visitor whose palms
were very large. While it took me fifteen
handfuls to get rid of the hunger, this one did
three handfuls to clear the plate. Remember
his share was not there. He had joined the
party when we were eating. I remained
hungry. Then we got to herding cattle, calves,
goats and sheep. Out in the pastures we would
milk and gorge ourselves. I don’t know why
grandmother Shashe or Ndanatsiwa or even
the late wood carver knew when we milked
the cows.

“Grandfather would just look at us

once. He would get a green stem of a pine
tree. The reception had us scratching our
backsides. I now know we should have
approached him in the nude with ashes stuck
all over our bodies. Then at night one day there
was a ceremony to appease spirits in the dead
of night with no moon. One of our relatives
took two live logs, climbed into a tree and hit
them together moaning like a ghost. There
were a few broken bones yet there was swift
retribution when grandfather discovered it.

“We were the first to have a two

wheeler bowser dedicated to fetching water. I
want to believe it could ferry about 500-litres of
water at one go. It made us great friends when
others wanted to ferry 20-litres and we were
not even one third of the way scooping water
into the tank. In the end, we used a hose and a
hand operated pump like a bicycle. You had
to bend down and cycle using shoulders as
weights and sources of power. It was all right
until the neighbour girls came along. In trying to
show off, we burnt muscles!”

“Richard!” Nyashadzashe reprimanded.

“You were not supposed to be listening

to history before you came. You were not born
then. The bowser in the early days was
connected to a set of yokes. We would use
about four cattle to ferry the precious
commodity from a spring well to our home on
two wooden yokes. Don’t ask me who made
them. Then we were the first ones here to run a
300-hp Massey Ferguson 294 MFWD tractor. The
whole village came to see it. The problem was
consumption of food. Everyone wanted to
overstay.

“People thought there was a funeral.

We connected the bowser, plough, cultivator,
sprayer, seed drill or harrow depending on the
mood. I was no longer the field tilling champion
of the Kangira clan in Makoni district. The
tractor could do that in two or three times
before the crop was ready for harvest. It ran on
power paraffin rattling along. Uphill one could
run and wait for it at the top. The difference
was that it could tow a bigger load than a
span of eight bullocks.

“The Massey Ferguson 294 MFWD came

alongside a new contraption. This one looked
like an air compressor complete with circular
cylinders and a drive shaft. It however did not
hiss, puff or gyrate like a Nyau dancer, choke
or throttle. It stood on spindly legs like a dancer
on platforms. It was mounted on a frame on
which were mounted a set of two collapsible
wheels. One Caucasian who set it up thought it
was a derrick which we would use to drill for oil.
We connected a steel pole like shaft to the
tractor’s behind or backsides.”

“Richmond, there are kids here”

“Uncle no wonder why your elder

brothers and sisters opted that you give a
speech. People are now releasing hot air
here!”
 “Elder brother, will you ever finish?”

“Sorry, we connected it slightly behind

the huge rear wheels. Then we engaged a set
of gears while the tractor engine was running.
The tractor should have been called a multi-
purpose military and civilian vehicle. There was
no need for show off when the neighbourhood
girls showed up because it took less than
twenty minutes to fill the bowser.

“By then every villager knew what we

were doing because of the din of the engine.
We filled neighbour’s buckets so fast they
could not bring them fast enough. You
remember the story in the Bible about the
widow and the oil jars? What ran out, the oil or
the jars? Oh me, I became a hospitable future
son in law of every mother around. Did I state
that the water pump sucked water out not
pushed it out from a submersible pump. The
pump stayed above the ground. So first we
had to haul water into the system until the
cylinder could start sucking.

“That is when the neighbourhood girls

liked to show up with me having my trousers
wet from the waist down _____. Hey it’s bad to
think that a guy had lost control of his bowels.
Then there was a time when I was coming out
of a well. There were the mature girls. I was
younger than them. I just like competing with
the moiré mature boys. I slipped and went into
the water with a splash. The other guys ran
away thinking it was a crocodile. I didn’t know
that crocodiles would live in shallow wells fed
by spring water.“

“Richard, are you going to finish?”

“I am on page 7 out of 39,”Richmond

stated. “I cannot see page 9 though. I will
improvise. The Massey Fergusson was soon
joined by another contraption which looked
like an old woman mid-wife extending her
hands to the air to bless the newly born baby.
We fed dry maize cobs into it while the tractor
was running. It converted work done by a
family of twelve in six weeks into two days work.

“All we need was haul it into the maize

field. Then we would haul the trailer too. Then
we would start work with it converting dry
maize cobs into maize proper. It also sorted out
the maize in sizes. Nothing like that had been
seen this side of our rural area. It meant people
who used to be fed on rich milk, beef, chicken,
goat and sheep milk had to go without. None
would think of coming to our homestead to
assist in work in lieu of a meal. The tractor and
its implements did not cook for us rather.”

“Bravo, tell the youths what we

experienced.”

“According to statics released in 1985,

while we are conducting this funeral over three
hours, 129 babies have been born and 28
people died.“

“Richard!”

“The long pole of the water pump had

to be filled with about three five litre buckets of
water by precision before we started pumping.
We had to first ferry the buckets to the water
pump then pour without stopping because
there was some wastage inside the water
source. You ask anyone who lives in the city
about the sewer or water bursts they know the
difference. As soon as the water reached the
top of the cylinder, we cracked the pump. Oh,
the tractor gear was engaged to start the
pump.

“Our water source by then would have

gone under by two metres which meant the
girls had to do a lot of talking while the water
seeped back its way up! By then grandfather
would be sitting on the mudguard jealously
watching me drive the Massey Ferguson 294
MFWD. If I looked at neighbourhood girls, I
changed from the road to the sides.
Grandfather always had a cow hide whip
nearby.

“Then we had a Leyland Octopus six

wheeler truck to ferry produce. It announced
its arrival by its hissing and coughing but very
reliable diesel engine. In winter the engine
behaved like a German sentry on duty during
the push into Russia. The sentry could freeze on
their posts. The engine needed to be warmed
which was done by idling. That required ear
muffs if you understand what I mean. The
colour of the truck was underground green.
You could see where it was by the smoke and
rolls of dust going up. One traditional healer
once mistook the Leyland for a spirit medium
when the engine fired. He went on his knees
and started clapping his hands throwing
tobacco on the ground.

“Grandfather refused me permission to

ride on the plough. By the time the war had
ended some residences had no toilets but we
were into another decade with our Blair ones.
He later bought a radio set that operated on a
battery. We would put a wire into the nearest
branch to help the aerial while listening to news
from around the world. That is how I got to
know but not see Jomo Kenyata and Samora
Machel.

“The static was bad. If you used the

short wave well you could hear Radio
Mozambique. We had to go up a hill to catch
it. We stopped listening to it when my father
was mentioned as a European sidekick who
needed a live grenade in his mouth.
Unfortunately, most of those that fed the
guerrillas with the wrong information did not
out survive him. It shows who was blessed
during the war. Listening to the radio made us
appreciate when we heard each other
speaking clearly.

“It helped tune up our ears. We were

the first to have a scotch cart which was
derived from the rear of a disused truck which
had an axel. It also had springs and a number
plate though it never paid road dues. It was a
wonder here. Then we went solar in time such
that grandchildren could watch television but
the whole village came to see Mukadota and
local drama shows.

“The television which was black and

white was positioned such that it was a metre
and a half above the ground. The pictures at
times drew patterns like clouds before
adjusting. We watched Redd Foxx and his
antics in Sanford & Son so we could tell the
township boys who did not have televisions.
Then there was JJ, Bill Cosby and Dallas. I never
got to be called JR though.

“Hey and there were your

grandmothers Shashe and Ndanatsiwa rest
their souls. We were naughty as children. With
grandmother Shashe, she could pull your ear
while going somewhere. As a child you had to
match her speed. Now grandmother
Ndanatsiwa was a different proposition. She
was the sprinter. You couldn’t out run her
because she had long legs! When she got hold
of an erratic child, she lifted them by the ears.
That was the only time when my toes didn’t
touch the ground. Look at all my siblings and
some of their children who underwent the ear
treatment. Their ears are a little bit elongated
or offside their heads. Last time I almost got a
traffic ticket for my ears.”

“Richard! Anyone who looks at my ears

will get a cow hide whip on their sitting
apparatus.”

“However the life of my father and his

family was not as easy as it sounds here on
paper. In reality, we also had funerals of three
of our siblings within thirty years after he had
married, one before I was born. Further to
which grandmother Shashe was the first to
depart from this world about eighteen to
nineteen years ago followed by grandmother
Ndanatsiwa about ten years ago.

“Grandfather lived to be above the

age of ninety. Though he was active there was
no hint of a scandal after he became a
widower neither did he re-marry. When he had
entered the class of a widower, he could still
walk long distances without a cane. Those that
had him fashion canes will testify to that. I am
not saying he was a saint. When he was ill us his
children were the last to know otherwise he first
told his grandchildren. He still had knowledge
of the woods, roots and herbs to assist him
against illnesses. We at times had him see
doctors who were surprised he reached the
age of sixty without taking a single anti-Malaria
tablet.

“I am not saying shun hospitals no. Times

were different and things are different now. We
are eating too many processed or refined
foods with additives. Somewhere between
1973 and 1979 there was nationalism. The
liberation war affected all rural people
because that is where the war was fought as
the guerrilla tussled with the Rhodesians for
control of the country. You will be aware that
the Rhodesians and their military machinery did
not give ground easily neither did the guerrillas
surrender. In between there were we as
civilians caught in crossfire. Unfortunately, my
father sold most of his wares to the Europeans
and you know the story.

“My father was taught about personal

insurance, medical aid, dental aid and life
savings and pensions by the same people you
fought against. He made sure he invested in us
and our future when the going was great for
him. For listening to the white man who
provided him with a market he was branded a
sell-out. However he was warned by one of you
or your parents a few hours before a gang of
armed men arrived to burn the whole
residence down driving away every livestock to
feed the war. When we were war refugees in
Rusape I used to think that sell-outs were
educated people, people with an
independent mind, Christians and those with
assets and businesses.

“Fortunately my father had listened to

advice from his European contacts as rumours
of war approached. He destocked to a
quarter of his might. We lived temporarily in
Rusape town renting a house. This was the first
time in our life that our father and mothers lived
in the city there. He continued to make his
wood carving making the grades. For about
three years I watched him. He suffered from
lack of his normal surroundings. The forests were
no go areas as Rhodesian security personnel
were patrolling everywhere. He suffered for
lack of his natural forests. He was at home
walking in the woods with his dog or me
following.”

There was laughter.

“In time I was replaced in following into

the woods by his numerous grandchildren
including and not forgetting Richmond. Not
only does he almost look like my father but he
was ugly enough to understand my father’s
craft. My father knew the woods. By looking at
the rocks he would tell you to watch out for
what type of plant that would harm you. He
knew every type of tree including where to
pick mushrooms. He also knew the places
where snakes made habitations.
 “He could describe the mellowness of a
piece of wood by just looking at a log in the
fire. After the war, Kangira and his brood
returned to reconstruct from scratch and today
here we are. I hold no malice to those who
enjoyed his misery and ours too. I wonder who
the sell-outs where, him or them who advised
the guerrilla to desecrate our homestead.
However, out of the disasters of the war, we
reconstructed by choosing a new place and
rebuilding afresh using hygienic and urban
standards.

“My father liked to equate himself with

Jacob. He always said he left Goromonzi in a
huff after his birth right had been sold against
his wish. He said when he crossed that river
there; there was just he and a bagful of tools.
Today we are all gathered, his children,
cousins’ children, his grand children and
grandchildren of his in-laws.

“My father always quoted a biblical

verse. He quoted Genesis 49 verse 27 which
states that Benjamin is a ravenous wolf who
hunts during the day and divides the spoils at
night. To him it meant work very well and hard
in your youth investing so as to sit and relax in
your old age. My father had a British pension
established by one of his contacts who went to
the United Kingdom after the war. I think this
European guy was a sell-out. He sold father to
Southampton Insurance plc registered in the
United Kingdom.

“Besides which he invested in us. He

never lacked. None of us, his blood children
are lodgers because whenever we came of
age, he always had something salted away to
help either buy a residential plot or a deposit
on any mortgage. Some of us have failed to
take up his artful skills including the dancing
skills of his younger brother and late
grandfather Mamhepo but if you ask where
you are sitting there are dancers within our
blood. We have wood carvers and stone
sculptors too.”

“One each,” someone suggested.

“Only two are famous,” Richard had

said. “Some will find their footing. I am artful in
the skill of treating cattle diseases or animal
disease. I know the medication just like a
pharmacist. Call me a livestock pharmacist
with agricultural training. I lost count of the
number of grandchildren but they are more
than twenty with about eight great
grandchildren. One of the great grandchildren
is married and has a two year old son.

“Then there are the differences in

generations. In my father’s generation he
counted half-brothers/sisters and his step-
mothers until his hands and toes could not help
him. I when I grew up numbered them. So I
could just call out brother #12 or sister #4. Now,
your generation is much better because you
can count your siblings and your cousins all
with two palms!”

After laughing at Richard’s antics in his

speech, singing and dancing, the crowd
gathered following pall bearers going towards
the graveyard. They buried Kangira in between
the two graves of Shashe and Ndanatsiwa, his
wives. He had made clear when Shashe had
first succumbed to kidney failure years ago
followed by Ndanatsiwa about fifteen years
later. They returned a year later to create on
the ground a single grave stone with their
history and up above the ground three stones
with their dates of birth and deaths.

Kangira had lived to be 96-years old.

___________________________________
gumi (10)
 ____________________________________

“Ndanatsiwa where are you off to?“

Lydia had asked in her high pitched

voice. Her voice moderated on it’s on rising
and falling. She spoke like a German soloist
doing a lonely performance rising and lowering
their voice.

“I have an engagement at Denmark

College. I have a few lectures on Corporate
Law and Governance to cover for a male ex-
college mate who is in Namibia for a short
while,” Ndanatsiwa had replied. “Where are
you off to Lydia?”

They walked on the cobbled street.

Had they listened they could have heard their
high heels’ tips sounding on the pavement.
They both wore trousers like female horse riders
in breeches going for a walk with their mounts.
They also had winter jackets because of the
chill. The cloud cover had saturated the
country with cooler temperatures.

“I have to meet Clive,” Lydia tossed her

hair back.

“This Clive business almost every two

days, are you sure he is not married? Looking at
the hair growth on his chin I suggest he is in the
middle thirties,” Ndanatsiwa had replied. “It’s
not a good idea to date another woman’s
cherry of the picking.”

“We are both spinsters, sister!”

“So, being late twenties and unmarried

warrants hanging out with the married Mr.
Coopers?”

“He is definitely not married, Ndanatsiwa.

I asked him. He said he is not. I took him on his
word. Would you be surprised that there are
some men in their thirties who are yet to tie the
knot?” Lydia had replied. “I will see you. Clive is
strict on time.”

“Are you having sex with him?”

“Ndanatsiwa, confound you!”

“Okay,” Ndanatsiwa proceeded to her

lecture.

Clive picked Lydia up heading as usual

out of Harare. They returned two hours later.
Lydia made it to her parents place in
Westwood near Kambuzuma. She had her own
access to her spacious bedroom with ensuite
facilities which she had done by converting an
old veranda when the whole house was given
a makeover in reconstruction. New walls had
sprung up while some old walls had been
knocked down. Who wanted a ceiling which
had been inserted in the 1970s?

The tin roof was gone replaced by tiles.

The ceiling that looked like it was made of
corrugated iron had given way to a new
modern set. The cooker unit which had 6 solid
plates built it looked like it had been fashioned
in the period before jet travel had gone out. It
had been replaced by a Monarch® 4-plate
electric stove with oven and warmer drawers.

She had finished running her bath

when there was a knock on the outside door.
She went and yanked the door open. She
turned sideways by instinct as a liquid was
thrown. Then she screamed, screamed and
screamed. When she came to, she was in a
bed at the Avenues Clinic.

She picked up a clipboard at the base

and started reading.

“Acid attack ____,”

She went out, out. When she came to a

nurse was shining a torch into her eyes.

“What happened?”

“Hold still and keep from blinking.”

Later.

“What happened?”
 “You had good braids that we cut off
barely living the hair.”

“Is this the way you answer questions?”

“I am explaining. Why rush.”

“I didn’t come to a hospital because I

have braids, did I?”

“Some good friend of yours used acid to

attack you. The hair had come over your face
so the hair took the brunt. The acid was meant
for your face. Had you taken it full brunt, not
many men would look at you again.”

“I remember now ______. That bitch!”

“We don’t use rude language here.”

Ndanatsiwa visited her at lunch time.

“Don’t say a word.”

“I know,” Ndanatsiwa replied. “”I

suspected that he was married. I warned you
the last time we met.”

“My sister, I could have lost my face.”

“I heard your mother say the police have

picked up Clive’s wife for questioning.”

“Yeah I remember seeing her and two

other ladies at the door.”
 “Lydia, we do date. However, try as
much as I can, I stay away from breaking
marriages. I don’t want mine broken. That is if I
make it into the bridal gown. How did you
know she was his wife when he had professed
to being single?”

“I didn’t know honestly.”

“Why do I doubt that?” Ndanatsiwa had

asked.

Her friend was discharged about three

days later. She was back at her normal post as
both paediatric nurse in charge of her unit and
a tutor to the student nurses. She knew by the
stares and whispers behind her back the news
had travelled fast.

__________________________________

Clive telephoned in the evening before

she was due to leave.

“Lydia here.”

“Shashe?”

“That’s me.”

“Clive.”

“What is it?”
 ”I haven’t sunk my teeth into your bosom
in days.”

“Honey, you need to talk to your acid

throwing wife Clive. I don’t think I and you
should remain an item.”

“She is starting her three months in prison

for your attack ____.”

“Was there anything else to discuss? We

need not talk about that because you and I
are history.”

“You cost me the freedom of my wife

and this is how you treat me?“ he asked.

He heard the dull throb of an engaged

landline telephone note.

__________________________________

Clive gathered his courage and waited

by the counter. There was armoured glass
before him and a telephone hand set. Besides
which there was a guard close to every
telephone console listening in to the
conversation and watching those seated. He
picked up the handset. The guard indicated by
hitting his wrist with his long finger. It was timed.
He wondered if the conversation was
recorded.

“Ja!”

“What do you want?” she asked point

blank.

“I am still your husband.”

“I don’t think I need one. There are some

ladies here who can do what you should have
done in three minutes instead of your eleven.”

He watched her face for tell-tale signs of

her being unwell. Someone had been shrilling
that she had lost weight. In normal times, Susan
was just a metre and seventy in height with a
weight of about sixty-eight kilograms. As she
had walked to the console the prison dress had
not shown that the weight was anything less
than fifty-five as suggested,

“Hello Susan.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, you don’t but you keep holding

the telephone handset.”

“This is just mere courtesy.”

“My name is Clive. It’s been a while since

I last talked to you. I could offer you dinner but
as it is, let that pass.”
 “I know the man who has given me
headaches with his penchant for other ladies.
Don’t you grow tired of f ----g?”

“You can ask the ladies here if they grow

tired too. We can choose to be civilized.”

“She is worse than Marian.”

That was below the belt. Marian had

been a house maid with whom he had had a
fling until all hell broke loose. Her employer had
fired her while Susan had put Marian’s head in
a tub. Had it not been for the screaming of
some children maybe Susan would have been
on death row here. He wondered if Marian was
still in Umvovo, Chegutu or married to someone
by now.

“Was this one worth my incarceration?”

she asked.

“Susan you did a crime don’t forget.”

“So?”

“Your parents took the two children

______ with them.”

“Did you want a house maid to look after

a three and five year old so that you would
bed her?”

“They now come around to say they

want to be paid for what happened.”
 “You didn’t even finish paying the bridal
price and here I am languishing in jail.”

“I am still at the flat in Old Mazowe

Road,” he replied. “They wanted almost every
piece of furniture. Did you talk to them?”

“Clive, I am here and you are there. I

don’t know what is happening out there.”

”I will come and see you again when I

find the time.”

“Thank you for the visit. Let it be the last

time you visit me. There are some ghosts that
are best kept in sealed boxes.”

He drove out of Chikurubi Medium-

Maximum Prison complex after undergoing all
the necessary security checks and being
frisked. If they had tried searching his bodily
undercarriage they would have known what a
man who had not had a woman for a week
was like. He had asked one bored jail guard
what was expected of the visitors to bring for
their interned relatives.

“It is the wish of the state to have all

prisoners resuscitated. Bring them literature,
goodies and letters that we censor ______.”

He made a telephone call from the

office.
 “Lydia?”

“What is it?”

“Clive.”

“What is it?”

“Can I see you?” he asked.

“Clive, wake up and move on. I don’t

like the taste of acid in my mouth ________,”
she had cut the line on him.

By around six thirty in the evening he had

had three pints of beer. He drove off towards
Old Mazowe Road. He was shifting his 5-speed
manual gearbox. He parked his Nissan Sunny
B11 1488 cm3, 8-valve petrol driven sedan and
walked to the fourth floor. He knocked. He
knocked again. There was no response. It was
just as bad to ask the neighbours because no
one knew what their neighbour did.

He returned after an hour and a half

having visited a nearby bottle store. It wasn’t
good to buy beer, drink it outside while having
a 360º view of the drinking hole in case police
raided them as they usually did. Public drinking
was a nuisance at law. A drunk was no match
for the recruit police constables who had just
passed their training. The fines weighed against
the cost of a pint of beer were very unfair. He
had had his share of paying these fines. Worse
of all was the prospect of having a few beers
then being marched in double file towards the
nearest police station holding their empty beer
bottles as exhibits.

“Someone should take the police to

court for breaking our leisure time chasing us,”
once Clive has suggested that to his drinking
buddies.

“Good idea but it costs a lot to enrich

the lawyers.”

“When they are off duty do the police

drink?”

“Not in public. Any police man off duty

who is caught in a public drinking will be sent
to a disciplinary hearing.”

“I guess they won’t give him more beer

there.”

After an hour or an hour and three

quarters Clive took his blue beloved Nissan
Sunny b11 towards a block of flats. He
knocked. The door was yanked open. Lydia
Shashe stood in the embrace of a short and
slender young man. She had opened the door
while standing hard against the wall squashing
her buttocks in the process. One of her legs
was against the wall with a lot of free leg room
on view. The young man had one hand on her
chest cavity the other on the freely available
flesh hanging around like a butchery dressing.

“Is he your brother?” the young man had

asked retreating.

“No Jehovah’s Witness Jethro. Don’t

worry about them.” She had replied.

The length of her dress came between

her buttocks and knees. The dress was hooked
to her neck by two sleeves. It looked like it was
so strung around her she needed to get into a
ladder to get inside. For a moment the younger
man had released his hold on her behind.

”Yes?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Can we talk?”

“Clive, I am busy,” she slammed the

door.

He heard the laughter and stifled kisses

within. The burglar screen right before his eyes
had prevented him from the stupidity of being
incarcerated within the confines of Harare
Central Prison, Harare Remand Prison or
Chikurubi Maximum Prison. He moved to the
kitchen window which was open.

Lydia and the young man were moving

down the passage with her dress now to her
bosom line while a set of trousers were on the
floor. Clive hoped the young man
remembered what safe sex was. Had he, Clive
remembered?

He headed home to a flat too lonely for

a single man.

____________________________________

They released her earlier than was

planned. Good behaviour in prison was a
contributing factor to early release. He
sentence was not for a serious crime. It was
classified as gross bodily harm. She gathered
her civilian attire on her way out raising her
hands to those of her class that she had been
with. She had her loose change.

Clive was sitting on the hood of his Nissan

Sunny b11 series outside the prison fence and
gate post.

“You look familiar,” he said.

“I didn’t expect you here.”

“Did you plan on going somewhere?”

“I was thinking of Dzivaresekwa,” she had

replied.

“The last time you lived there was more

than five years ago,” he had said.
 “I had my son at the local clinic about
four years and nine months ago. I remember
that now.”

“I can drop you there if you insist,” he

had replied.

“The kombis are going to the city. They

cost less than a litre of fuel. You have caused
me enough problems as it were Clive.”

“Free lift,” he opened the door for her. “If

you learn to blame others for everything you
won’t make it in life.”

“Clive, when I met you I was just

seventeen but ever since you have been
eyeing and taking to bed other countless
women including maids, barmaids, shop
assistants and the like.”

“In most of the cases you have been so

jealousy you failed to notice the difference
between flirting and extra marital affairs. There
are women out there who sieve men. They just
don’t rush into relationships. They take time to
study and reject men including me.”

“You caused my incarceration.”

“Did I buy the acid?”

“I did it to protect myself.”

 “Susan you should have poured acid on
me not her or her likes. If I am the hunter,
damage me to prevent me hunting. You don’t
beat a buffalo to stop a lion from hunting it.
You injure the leader of the lion pack.”

He drove out of the security complex

heading into the city. Most of the traffic he saw
in Arcturus Road was heading in the opposite
directions. Most of the traffic was
circumnavigating Mutare Road on the way to
Mabvuku and Tafara by using a longer route. It
was pleasant to be driving freewill while those
in the opposite direction were bumper to
bumper.

He drove into one of the many tree lined

avenues within the Avenues area and
stopped. He took her out to a restaurant which
he knew that had a popular bar nearby
divided by a brick wall. He picked his meal for
the evening. For someone who worked in oily,
hot and sweaty conditions, he choose their
local staple food, thick porridge created using
maize flour and beef bones with green
vegetables. She chose an entirely different
package. She selected piri-piri chicken and
chips.

“Is that delicious?” he asked towards the

end of the meal.
 “I didn’t know that I had ordered for one
and a half people,” she had replied taking a
glass of water. Her mouth was aflame.

“You mean you are pregnant?” he

asked.

“Clive!” she rebuked before falling into

laughter at his joke. When she finished laughing
half of her left-over chicken was on his plate.

“This piri-piri is good for drunkards,” he

had said tastefully.

He finished with a pint of beer while she

took a mineral drink. He found her in the
vehicle dozing. She had her arms around her
body cross wise holding onto her shoulders. Her
knees were bent.

“Tired?”

“I was praying.”

“I also pray that the hot temper of yours

will be warm now.”

“Clive, I am still a young woman under

twenty-seven years of age. If any other woman
went through what I went through especially
with your hookers, she would go crazy. I don’t
like to visit the doctor yet again because you
had unprotected sex with a street girl. Next
time it will be HIV AIDS.”
 “Susan, you are twenty-five years old. I
am still three years your senior.”

“Take me to Dzivaresekwa until you

negotiate with my parents,” she had replied.
He drove to the flat.

“This is not Dzivaresekwa,” she said. He

had parked.

“You can wait while I run a bath and

shave,” he had exited the vehicle.

She followed in the evening light a few

metres behind him to the third floor of the
block. He opened the burglar screens while she
followed. The flat was still the same except it
needed several hours of cleaning. It smelt of
beer, sweat, mildew and dust. It didn’t smell of
women’s perfume though.

“This is home.”

“I thought when I attacked the prostitute

our marriage was over,” she said. He ushered
her into the place she had last seen months
ago.

“She wasn’t a prostitute. A girlfriend is not

worth breaking a marriage for,” he replied.

“I don’t want to talk about her or to

argue,” she removed her shoes tiptoeing into
the bathroom. He didn’t hear the lock centre
into its home. “Are the kids still at my
mother’s?”

“Yeah two of them are still there. What

did you do back there for entertainment?”

He locked the outside screen and the

door. He came back to put his stereo system to
his favourite reggae music. She was singing
when he opened the bathroom door having a
tub full of water.

“Hey, what’s the big deal?”

“What?”

“Clive _______.”

“Sorry,”

She sank under the tub leaving a few

bubbles. He entered from the other end. Her
head bobbed out. She was breathing harshly.

“Sue _____.”

“What?”

“For a start can we start all over, no

bickering?”

“Remain on that side and I will remain

here.”

“What was jail like?’

 “You wouldn’t want to know.”

“I heard the prisoners fight over other

prisoners to make wives or husbands of them.”

“I guess that is where same sex stuff

started,” she replied.

“It started in Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“At least you know. How did you escape

the brimstone there?” she asked.

“I reserved it for you.”

“Let me enjoy my freedom Clive. We

took some things for granted.”

She later pulled out the plug and rose

majestically opening up a hiss of cold water.
The cold water washed away the soap and
their tiredness. He remained sitting while she
came and sat on his lap.

“Was there anything else you wanted to

say?”

“Do the prison guards take female

prisoners to bed?”

“The male ones?”

“Yes.”
 “No, they would end up being
sodomised,” she replied. “Neither do the
female guards molest the female prisoners
sexually. It is the prisoners themselves who
abuse each other.”

“Did you abuse anyone?” he asked.

“If I did, I am not telling. The others

seemed desperate too. I don’t know if it were
the long sentences or the criminal record that
made them difficult. I am glad I am home. I am
happy you appreciate me as you wife,” she
replied.

She wrapped her hands around him and

forgot what had happened to separate them.

“Clive?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you on steroids?”

“No, natural.”

“Clive, if you were not into philandering

you make a good husband.”

“I promise no extra marital affairs or

casual sex outside the home if you promise to
curb your temper and jealousy. Whatever
those women did with you in jail you were
under duress. Here I am the man and I do
things that please us both. You are the wife,
you do your best,” he replied.

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” he replied carrying her to the

lounge wrapped in an evening gown.

“Clive? You once called me a witch?”

“You called the male variety, a wizard.”

“If I were a witch I would cast the

museum policy spell in marriages on you.”

“Which is?”

“You visit a museum to see the artefacts

on display. You don’t touch. You don’t own.
You don’t personalize. The same with other
women and girls out there especially the
Avenues hookers. Just look, don’t ogle. Don’t
touch or fondle. Don’t take them to their bitchy
homes because you have me. Here you have
no competition except if the children are wide
awake. There, you may entertain where John
had just left. The diseases associated with that
are horrendous.”

She missed out on college the next year

because the growing protrusion on her belly
did not allow her much to study. It made her
parents and her own children call her Humpty
Dumpty.
 ____________________________________

“The church is organising a single day

excursion for the youths. We are quartered
either in college studying or at work stressing
up. Now it will be an open Saturday. It is an
easy day with minimum fees and fuss to join.
We will be out early before sunrise. We will see
the sun setting as we leave. We will arrive here
while the night is still young. The Young &
Restless, Santa Barbara, Generations, WWF for
wrestling not wildlife may have been done. I
intend leading you out from early in the
morning,” the youth organising secretary had
said to abut twenty something youths that
were around him. “How many of you have
been to Domboshava before?”

Some hands went up.

“Hey, put down those hands, we are

going to Domboshava. Six o’clock sharp you
should be here,” he had replied. “If you see the
sun getting out of its sheath before you are
within the church buildings, you are sunk.”

“Will we be fasting?”

“No, we will be ferrying foodstuffs.”

They hired a Toyota Coaster to ferry all

the youths from their Glen View suburb church
circuit. They went past Mataure Shopping
Centre moving into 8th Street heading east
towards Glen View Way. Glen View Way
opened the way into Willowvale that soon had
them turning left heading west towards Budiriro
along High Glen Road.

They turned into Bulawayo Road

heading up until they found Domboshava
Road. They sang hymns or occasionally
chatted. Ndanatsiwa looked outside the
window once in a while. This was the privilege
of not driving. You could look at the terrain,
residences, imposing gates and roadside infra-
structure. . The vehicle brought them into
Domboshava. They went further into the interior
of the sleepy village, they turned right past a
boom gate with a bored official who counted
them, checked his pad and wrote a receipt.

There were three other churches that

had come with the same idea of taking their
youths/members for fellowship into the hills to
commensurate with the Creator. Ndanatsiwa
was the last behind her group. They climbed
up. She had taken off her jacket. Her body was
emitting enough heat to counter the cold
spells brought in by the wind.

She followed picking her way up

carefully. An elephant when forced up these
hills picked the easiest route. Someone who
observed elephants had built the Mapinga to
Lake Kariba road by choosing the way
elephants travelled in between the two points.

“Hi,” someone was at her elbows. She

hadn’t noticed them coming close to her.

“Hello,” she had responded.

The gentleman was tall, broad, and light

in complexion with a lopsided smile. He was
stooping forward. They walked further up
increasing in elevation.

“You are not from my group,” he said.

“No,” she had replied. “You are lost.”

“I can find them.”

Her youthful group had almost run up the

inclines. At that age they didn’t feel the heat in
their knees. She had decided to follow at her
own pace. She knew where she was going.
She knew why she was here. It was difficult to
be amongst youths aged seventeen and
above most of who were below her age. They
had an excitement and knowledge which she
didn’t relate to.

“My name is Clifton,” he had said.

While she perspired, he was taking it

easy.
 “I am called Ndanatsiwa,” she had
replied.

“Where is your group from?” he had

asked.

“Glen View,” she had replied.

“We are from Ruwa, Windsor Park to be

exact,” he had replied. “We are from a large
branch of the church.”

“Are you a pastor?”

“No I am just a peer youth advisor.”

They reached a depression from which

water was flowing from a little higher up from a
crack or series of cracks within the rocks. Clifton
had a digital camera. She had never thought
of photographs. He used it. He showed her how
to operate the piece. They washed their faces,
hands and sweat from their necks from the
stream flowing by before resuming. They found
a spot to rest exchanging notes. After ten
minutes she could feel the cold brought by the
wind.

“We should be on the move,” she

offered.

“I was more concerned about you than

me.”
 He offered her his hand. They went up
further viewing balancing rocks. There was
what appeared like a base upon which was a
rock sitting on top. The volume of the base and
the top when they met was less than two
square metres. They wondered why this rock on
top did not tilt since it edged out precariously
to them. It appeared like a worm moving with
the top up and the middle touching the base,
the head up in the air. They went around this
structure before resuming.

The next structure was a set of rocks

which looked like a gecko‘s head. The colours
changed with the day in hues of red, orange
and brown reflecting the heat to the ground.
Further on there were more small streams of
water coming from rocks collecting on its way
down. Further up rocks on top of their bases
looked like sentries. She didn’t notice she was
going further up without sweating or breathing
a lot because she was arguing with Clifton one
point to another.

They reached a depression with sudden

cliff that fell a few metres into a tree lined
alleyway as if it was a horse shoe or it had
been stamped by a giant in a neatly rounded
shoe. On the way up towards a beacon that
marked the highest point in the region they
saw a rock which looked like a cartoon dog
with his fore and hind legs stuck in the mud with
just parts jutting out in three places. It rose
majestically on what would have been the
cartoon dog rising up above the ground. The
headed up towards the trigonometrical
beacon.

‘”Thanks Clifton for chatting me up,” she

had said. “I have to join my group.”

“It’s my pleasure ma’am,” he had

replied.

“Let me join the younger staff.”

“Are you in the books?” he had asked.

She gave him her work number before

joining the younger beings. They separated at
the top while she joined her youths in praise,
worship, the word and other issues they had to
contend with. They went down the hill after
having their packed lunches. At least she was
thankful the youths with their speed at the
ascent or descent carried everything they had
brought including food and litter.

Whatever parts of Domboshava rural

they passed through on their way back, they
hardly saw because the sun was down. They
could see lights here and there or the odd fire
in the open. No one could tell the area had
beautiful granite rocky outcrops which drew
tourists in. No one would suppose that there
rocky hills had a way of holding rain water that
allowed the area to be Harare’s market
gardening basket.

No one knew there was a damsel looking

forward to a date very soon.

____________________________________

She was back from the Administrative

Court when she passed through their
reception. The receptionist was tall and slim
always with a smile. In her youthful days she
must have been good at picking fruit from
trees while her peers looked for chairs. It looked
like wherever she was sitting down she had
earphones routing calls from one office to
another or attending to queries.

“Ndanatsiwa,” the receptionist called.

“That’s me,” she had replied.

The reception offered a paper written

‘While You Were Away’ at the top.

“Thanks a lot Roxanne,” Ndanatsiwa had

headed for her modular office. She read the
paper.

Clifton Muparadzi telephoned at 1046hrs,

1053hrs and 1139hrs. He left this number.’ She
asked for a line.
 “Clifton here,” he had said.

“Hi, it’s Ndanatsiwa,” she had replied.

“Sorry, I heard you were out,” he had

replied.

“Yes,” she said.

“You do have a DVD player at home

don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes why?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. Are you free after work?”

he had asked.

“Where are you?” she had asked.

“I am in Newlands. I will leave the office

around 1635 – 1645hrs,” he had responded.

“There is someone I wanted to pick in

Glenara Road,” she had replied. “Can I pass
through your office 1600hrs?”

“Fine,” he had given directions and the

name Minet Insurance Company. She met and
did business at a client’s home for less than
forty minutes before she drove down Enterprise
Road turning into the Newlands Shopping
Centre where she asked for directions. She
parked her vehicle and entered the offices of
Minet Insurance Company.
 The receptionist telephoned. She gave
directions. She walked down a corridor
checking the door numbers.

“Excuse me, can I help?” a man pushing

a trolley with cutlery that had been used for
tea asked.

“I am looking for Clifton,” she had

replied.

“Turn right, second door on your left,” the

man had said.

“Thank you sir,” she had replied.

She checked the door. There was a small

plaque on an opaque class that read ‘Clifton
Muparadzi – Actuarial Assistant’. She knocked.
There was a response. She went in.

Clifton was well dressed in a buff business

suit, white long sleeved shirt and brown striped
tie. He rose briefly to shake her hand. He
showed her to a set of three armchairs. She
selected one. He sat almost at right angles to
her pushing one foot over the other showing
black shoes with heels. Her eyes ran over the
neat, orderly and appointed office. There were
no family portraits, just three of him in various
instances.

Thirty minutes later he saw her to her

vehicle.
____________________________________
gumi nerimwe (11)
 __________________________________

“Your door was written Actuarial Assistant

of some sort,” she had said.

“They told me not to allow spies in the

office.”

“Clifton!”

“I am just a senior office orderly making

tea and sharing biscuits.”

“I don’t know much about that

qualification but I suppose it needs a lot of
calculating stamina for a school leaving
student. The guys I went with to high school
who wanted to be that post or better than
what’s on your door believed in Pure and
Applied Mathematics as different subjects.”

“No, it’s not that top heavy in

Mathematics though Mathematics is a
requirement. It is just a course like engineering
that requires a student to concentrate and be
innovative. All these vocations are there to test
a student so that they can be innovative. They
bring out fresh ideas from the discerning
students. Marketing is even tougher than
Actuarial sciences yet you don’t need that
breed of Mathematics.

“The marketing guys bring the bacon

that we feast on. I did a Bachelor of
Commerce (Actuarial Science) degree at the
National University of Science and Technology
(NUST) in Bulawayo. Hey imagine the first time a
guy gets to live away from his parents who
were in Mateta II in Gokwe rural. That was
some time ago before I joined Progressive
Insurance Brokers in Gweru for a short time,” he
had replied.

“You lived in Gweru?” she accused.

“For almost a year and a half I worked in

that city from an office block where I could
watch OK Bazaars supermarket. I was in the
third floor of a building that looked across at
Fourth Street corner Livingstone Avenue. It was
a great time. Most of my former college mates
were scattered in Zvishavane, Mashava,
Masvingo and of course in Bulawayo. Now it’s
different we are stretching away from each
other. Gweru was good because on a Friday I
could drive to my rural home through Nkayi.
The bone shaking body tempering roads made
sure I couldn’t sleep. That required a sturdy
vehicle like a pick-up. Now driving home is
expensive in terms of the distance, the time,
the fuel and the logistics.”
 ”Harare as a large city has many
attractions, which you can’t find in the smaller
cities like Gweru, KweKwe and Kadoma.” She
had replied. “It is worst of all in working in
Gokwe. I wouldn’t like to work in a very small
town though there are advantages like
residential stands are larger, cheaper and the
area is more hygienic.”

“We have a lot of pressure here too.

Small cities have a laid back life unlike here
where we are trying to do three jobs at the
same time to survive. We try to copy and paste
the lifestyles of others. Life is different. Some of
us grow up, go to school thence to college
and work. We then have to support parents
and fifteen siblings. The others work. Their
parents buy them residential stands to wean
them off the family residences. We then play
catch up.”

“A sibling is a blood brother or sister. I

have never heard of a woman lately having
fifteen children.”

“In rural Gokwe it happens. You see

women who get pregnant almost once every
year and three months starting at around
eighteen. You find by fluke such a person
continues giving birth to the age of forty-four
by which time she is a grandmother of three to
four.”
 “You are creaming up stories. Such births
could lead to complications.”

“Okay obviously not fifteen in this

decade but maybe you look after five siblings.
Rural people have a way of marrying early like
a man married before he turns twenty-two. By
that age I was teaching Mathematics at a
school not far from our rural homestead while
buying newspapers weekly scanning for job
openings. My parents are rural cotton growers
yet they sent all of us to boarding schools when
we reached high school age. I never went
under the burden to look after siblings.”

They were in King George Road at the

George Hotel in Avondale sitting on chairs with
their table looking at the traffic both passenger
and vehicular. It was night time now. The street
lights were on. The traffic lights were more
visible from far away. The neon lights were alive
now advertising services for their intended
market.

“What if I may sound vain are actuarial

sciences?” she asked.

“It’s an element of industry that does risk

management. We play a leading role in
creating a stable investment portfolio for
business by helping them manage risk. You find
insurance companies, banks and the leading
industries will not risk without planning which is
where we come in.”
 “Sounds like a challenging job,” she
replied.

“On the way down from Domboshava

with my church youths and others I kept
looking for you. I thought you had been left
behind by your youthful group,” he said.
“Maybe you wanted an all-night session
worshipping in the hills.”

“No, the way down was faster because I

didn’t want the sun to set before we had
cleared the boom gate,” she had replied. “The
national park rangers there told us there were
many black mambas and/or African cobras
inhibiting crevices which they left when the sun
was setting because the heat would have
receded.

“They said the area had a lot of rats or

rodents including rock rabbits which made the
snake’s main diet. The rangers did well except
they didn’t know they had placed ice in our
youthful minds. I thought of a snake that can
move at 11-kilometres an hour when rushing
swishing its tail and side winding towards me.
That made me increase pace. I saw the
urgency to be inside the bus as soon as was
convenient.”

“The black mamba is a tree dweller as

well. The time when we went to Domboshava is
spring. Had you been strong minded enough
to live in their terrain for a night you would have
heard their hisses as they mate. They gestate
after 90-days, much better than you females,”
he said that with a crooked smile. “After the
eggs hatch the young are on their own. They
make up a good feast for the birds and bigger
lizards while clearing the area of any small
pests.”

“9-months are all right to me,” she had

replied. “The snakes only mate once a year at
a particular time. Now as for us humans it is
365/6 days a year to produce fifteen children
who will look after each other late in life.”

“Children?” he asked.

“None,” she had replied. They ate their

meal. There was the sound of fork, spoon or
knife on porcelain or the softy sound of a glass
on a table cloth. “And you?”

“I am still searching.”

“How old are you?” she asked with a

smile to charm the daylights out of him.

“Can I date you regularly, just in case

you had other ideas?” he asked.

“Like what?” she asked.

“I hate competition,“ he replied. “I am

not promising to be a prince in shining armour.”
 “I am not dating. I wasn’t searching
either,” she had replied. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I am twenty-eight,” she had replied.

“Good, you were saying ______.”

“I was afraid of the black mambas. The

tour guide also said Domboshava mountain
ranges are holy to the African traditionalists
who believe in ancestral spirits. He showed us a
rocky outcrop called Ngomakurira which got
the name because at night they hear mystical
spirits playing the drums.”

“They believe what I heard,” he replied.

“However on black mambas you have a right
to be afraid. The venom can kill a grown up in
three quarts of an hour.”

“That and Ngomakurira made me

descend at speed.”

“The snake though avoids humans. When

threatened it can coil and lift its body up to
about forty percent. Being about 2 to 4-m tall it
means it can strike at speed from a distance.”

“That means it has no natural

predators?”
 “That’s the opposite. Mongoose and
snake eagles mainly feed on snakes including
the black mamba. “

“Why didn’t you become a nature

guide?” she asked.

“I know about black mambas because

our rural area had rocky hills and kopjes. One
time we went running up a kopje after some
mischief to hide from boys pursuing us. Right in
our path, between two rocks, in a darkened
alley a puff udder uncoiled itself and hissed less
than two metres from us. Both we and our
perceived enemies fled for home. The fact that
home was two kilometres away and the puff
adder was not chasing us was lost to reason.

“On another occasion we saw a rock

python that should have swallowed a rock
rabbit. We had heard some black magic
theories about these venomous snakes so we
crept away, bare foot.”

“You of all people going barefoot?”

“I went barefoot wearing short trousers

which had two maps at the back without a
patch on them at times.”

She looked at him who was wearing jean

trousers, cape on his head, sneakers and a
colour coded t-shirt which was exclusive to
some good clothing boutiques in the city.
 “I grew up herding goats,” he had
replied. ”I was fully rural weeding cotton plants,
maize shoots, sunflowers and hunting bees for
honey at night. “

“Tell me about your family?” she asked.

They rose from their table walking down

King George Road into the periphery of
Avondale shopping centre which was neon
sign posted in the evening. Traffic was a haze
mainly going away from Harare which was a
kilometre or so away.

“There were six of us,” he replied. “My

family was rural though we had relatives in
Kadoma, KweKwe and Gweru which I used as
staging posts for looking for jobs. It was these
relatives who kept me informed on job
advertisements by putting them on the nearest
bus heading our way. I was the third in line to
the throne. All of us made it to college one
form or another.”

They talked for about an hour before

heading back. His arm was around her waist.

“Let’s hear more about you,” he had

said.

“I grew up in Mbare before the family

moved to Glen View 1. I attended Highfield
High School before moving to Girls High School
between the second and fourth form. We
shifted accommodation to Glen View when
Glen View was still a few new housing units. We
later changed to the Glen View 3 extension
stands which are larger than our old one near
Gutsai Spar.”
At the end of it, he picked her chin up
and kissed her before she took her vehicle. She
drove off first while he followed later going in
different directions.
She became a frequent visitor at his
place at Charingira Court. One day she was in
his bedroom doing her hair. She just had a
white towel around her huge body. They had
been exercising before taking a bath together.

“Ndanatsiwa,” he had said. They had

been talking. “Is it true that you aborted at the
age of fourteen? They said it is the reason you
changed schools?”

Cold water went through her feet.

“Who told you that?”

“You didn’t tell me did you?” he had

asked.

That was the last time she visited his flat.

He never called upon her again.

____________________________________
 Clifton drove from Beitbridge where he
had been to collect his latest vehicle. He had
used his cell phone after clearing customs.

“So where are you exactly?” she had

asked.

“I will be in Masvingo in about three to

four hours,” he had replied. “I will be there
around three in the afternoon.”

“I am leaving Chivhu in twenty minutes

for Masvingo,” she had replied. “I will be in
there in two hours at the most.”

“Drive well,” he had replied shutting off

communication.

He drove out. Beitbridge was a bust

thoroughfare with buses and huge haulage
trucks snaking through the road which reduced
speed. He had to be patient enough in the
road conditions to overtake as impatience had
been the cause of many headstones in life.
Before the city of Masvingo, he turned south
east towards Morgenster.

He phoned for directions.

“The lodge is set against the backdrop of

granite outcrops.”

“They are many granite outcrops,” he

had replied.
 “A male lion knows when a female is in
heat by smelling the air,” she had replied. “It is
up to you. At the twenty-five kilometre peg
start looking.”

The Lodge at the Ancient City was on a

granite outcrop. He saw and identified it. It had
been constructed in the same fashion as the
Great Zimbabwe Monument. It looked across
at the expanse of the Msasa valley. He went
through the necessary security checks. He
parked his vehicle getting out taking his small
bag. He knocked at the door of the unit as he
had been told.

“Come in,” the lady said. “Do close the

door and lock it. There are adventurous
monkeys and baboons that pick things.”

“Baboons?” he asked locking the door.

“Why doesn’t one run away with your
handbag?”

“In South Africa one baboon sped off

with the camera. He was taking selfies by the
time it was recovered.”

The lounge was where he was. Straight

ahead was a kitchen with fitted cupboards, a
fridge, a four plate stove with oven and a
microwave oven. He negotiated his way.

“To your left,” she instructed.

 He needed no persuasion.

“How long have you been here?” he

asked.

He kept his hand on the open bedroom

door. There were two beds pressed together
set up in royal African colours.

“About an hour,” she sat up. “I am

furnished. I was waiting for you.”

She was wearing a wrapper around her

body. The wrapper covered from the bosom to
the middle of her upper legs. The bosom
covered was only half. He wrapped his arm
around her sucking her tongue with his. He
pulled at the wrapper. She spun three hundred
and sixty degrees to reveal her nudity. After
traditional rites had been observed they shared
a shower.

“How many days do we have here?” he

asked.

“We only have two nights only

sweetheart before we run towards pour work
appointments. Tomorrow we tour the Great
Zimbabwe monument. You will come home
with all your joints aching you won’t make
love.”

“Are you that sure?”

 “Wait and see,” she had replied.

“Otherwise how are you Juliet?”

“I am fine and you?” she had replied

settling in his arms. They washed up.

“How is Avenues Clinic doing?”

“The clinic is doing fine so is my

department.”

“What more do you like being a nursing

sister or a lecturer?” he had asked.

“Both are just in the blood because with

nursing there is the practical more than the
theory. The poor misty eyed girls and boys can
watch you demonstrate on a real patience or
you can watch them under your supervision,”
she had replied.

“And the young male nurses dream of

you,” he said washing her body with his eyes.
“My, has anyone told you that you are
extremely attractive?”

“You just did,” she preened herself like a

peahen.

They drove out into the night for supper,

pool games and beers before returning. In the
old days people appeased their spirits the
whole night long in dances by firelight drinking
beer following instructions to the letter. He
appeased his other side until in the morning.

They had the hill complex at the ancient

city to contend with first. Juliet being slightly
shorter than him but stockier did sweat going
up. He could hear her huffing as she struggled
up the steep ascent. They reached the top
were only the king, his advisers, bodyguards
and spiritual leaders were allowed. On the
complex the chief looked at his harem down
below deciding who would be his bed mate
for the night.

On the same complex was an ascent

which was called bloody because that is
where traitors and attackers were allowed to
use to their death from stones, arrows and
spears falling from above when it was such a
tight squeeze one could hardly run without
breaking a led.

He was ready with a bottle of water for

her. She emptied the 750-ml half into her
stomach the other half by pouring over her
neck soaking her long flowing dress she had
on. After touring the village including the cone
shaped tower which was the most
photographed of all, they left.

They had lunch at Great Zimbabwe

Hotel even though they had self-catering
facilities. They were just bushed by the
complex.
 “Have you ever gone up the hill before?”
he had asked.

“I came here first when I was in third form

at Kambuzuma High School. I came again
when I was in second and third year at Harare
Hospital as a student nurse.”

“I have been here before but each time

it looks different,” Clifton replied. “I challenge
you and me to go up the Nyanga Mountain.
Let’s scale the highest point in Zimbabwe.”

“I will think about it,” she had replied.

“Great Zimbabwe is so mystical one wants to
return time and time again.”

“Like giving birth,” he replied with a

twinkle.

“Yes the woman travails in labour yet

she comes again and again to produce more
and more fruit.”

“Our generation we were six siblings.

Now, none of my married siblings have more
than three children.”

“How many will you have?”

“How many will we have?” He

corrected. “You tell me Juliet, how many of my
children will that round stomach hold and
produce?”
 “Not more than three,” she replied.

“Let’s retire to our rooms. Let’s see if we

can practice producing one baby.”

The Heavens were opening for him. After

lunch they visited the massive dam wall with its
steep cliff faces to the river snaking below.
They toured it from end to end walking and
holding hands or posing. Their lodge awaited
them for the evening.

On the morrow they cruised on the lake

for four hours before coming back. He had
issues to settle after which they had a shower
before driving off for Harare. He kept over
taking her on the way. He would be relaxed
then she would blow her horn going before
him. While he headed for Charingira Court she
headed for a block of flats near Harare Sports
Centre.

It was around seven thirty in the evening

when she opened the door getting in. Twenty
minutes later, there was a knock. Just in time.

“Hello,” she had replied when she had

yanked the door open. The burglar screen still
protected her from unwanted persons.

The man who stood there was about

forty years of age. The hair was beginning to
thin at the top of the head going backwards.
He had a stomach that looked like a woman in
the third of her pregnancy. He had been
smoking. He killed his cigarette.

“Spencer, you know I don’t like smoke,”

she said.

The screen opened. He moved in without

saying a sound opening and shutting doors
checking for occupants. She stood in the
passage until he had satisfied himself that she
was alone. This was the first time and first
impressions were important. A lady in the
Avenues who paraded her wares at night had
said this one paid well if the woman was young
and beautiful. She had overhead and followed
up on the name until she had found him. He
was in the construction, agro-industry including
potato production and poultry. He was into the
haulage business too.

“Does your wife tolerate this amount of

jealousy?” She asked.

“I am a business guru. What if there is a

photographer lurking?” he had asked. That
was partially true. “So this is what you hired to
charm me out of my comfort zone of
Marondera?”

“Better than a hotel with staring eyes,”

she had replied.

He checked the furnishing of the flat

which was up to modern standards since the
flat was hired out to tourists or local visitors for
about four or more days stay. He felt the
cushions and smelt them.

He came looking around. His hands

reached underneath her blouse. With one
movement he had removed the brassiere
checking the size of her lactation organs. He
looked at her squarely. She kept her gaze. He
had given her some instructions. The rest, he
had said was a surprise package he kept for
new comers. He next put his finger under the
sink washing his hands. He came towards her
opening her mouth. He put his fingers between
the lower and upper jaw looking at her rows of
teeth.

“Tongue out ______,”he instructed. “Are

you wearing high heels?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Remove them,” she kicked her shoes

off. He tipped her chin up with his two fingers
inside her mouth. “Suck you!”

She sucked fingers.

“I did say you must be in a short dress,

not too short or too long,” he groaned. “I want
to see those upper knees but not the start of
the sitting apparatus.”

“I am in a short one.”
 “Aaaaah,” he groaned in delight. She
was holding him where the fruit was produced
and stored. “Get on your knees woman!”

She did on one knee. He traced his

hands on her thighs. He yanked his trousers
down while she knelt putting her warm mouth
on his crotch.

“Get down on both knees.”

Business was urgent and swift. He was

quick to address his heat cooling down inside
her mouth. Her eyes went wide open like a
woman who had seen lightning at close range.
She had never imagined this sort of surprise. To
make matters worse the curtains were not
drawn. He was shielding her but any peeping
tom could see what was happening. He pulled
her hard against his crotch.

For a moment she thought she could not

breathe. She had not known about this
otherwise she would have foregone the
money. Whatever was left of the hefty
discharge went on her face swiftly. It was
quickly addressed. She rushed into the
bathroom to wash up while he followed
leisurely.

“I want you to suck until I am ready

again.”
 She wasn’t coming out without having
sucked him again.

Clifton telephoned on the third day. She

had been right to keep Clifton out. She was
recovering from the oral sexual abuse she had
had to undergo almost four to five times a day.
Whenever she saw a sink she wanted to vomit.
That was where he would wash his genitals
before it started all over again. He never
penetrated, not even once.

“Honey.”

“The man of the house is around.”

“You didn’t tell me you were married

_________.”

“We divorced. Once in a while he

inspects his apartment. The father of Morgan
_______. I will call you ______________ later.”

“Don’t ever _____,” he replied.

He shut off communication. At the other

side Juliet looked at the windows and smiled.
Who was Morgan?

____________________________________

Juliet was at a quaint hotel just past

Marondera with a spa and Jacuzzi all on the
house over a period of two nights with her
Marondera date. They had gone horse riding.
She had been terrified of the neighing
creatures. However when someone was
paying the bill in top dollar mode, one had to
kiss a frog if it meant cash. She had gone
wadding in a flowing river trying to catch fish.
The thrill of catching had been great.

She had never been taken fishing or

hunting before. Now on the range on
horseback they had made believe they were
hunting the African fox down. There was no
wildlife because urban and rural farming
encroachment had sent the wild animals into
pans and roasting fires.

She had enquired from him on driving

directions before the week end was nigh. She
had been told to report to a former residence
and now an office in Eastlea where she had
obtained a petrol driven 2.4-litre V-6 BMW 7-
series to take to her home before coming to
her meeting on the morrow. There was also
some pedicure, manicure and hair treatment
in preparation. Her wardrobe had been from
the best of the boutiques in Harare. There was
no cheating to say she had bought. The
monies were wired there directly. All she did
was buy.

She had forgiven but not forgotten the

first impressions he had done upon her in
Harare. She had sworn to herself that no man
would ever degrade her to use oral sex again.
Here he had rudely surprised her. He had made
her sweat for the money that he splashed
around her and his dates when he was in the
mood. She was ready. It looked like an easy
task of just bringing a body he didn’t use
concentrating on her mouth and its stomach
for his release. She knew this was the lowest
point for a woman to be dehumanised yet the
money was a breathing apparatus.

She had come here against her better

judgement. He had given her three weeks to
recover. How many women had sworn as birth
pains ran through them that they would never
allow a man to do that to them again? Then
how many of them had entered motherhood
again against the same experience? The first
time he had surprised her by feeling her
lactation organs. They had had a bath. She
had performed well for the money rubbing
soaping, oiling, applying lotion to him. She was
expecting oral penetration. He had asked her
to get on her knees. Then he had penetrated.
She had least expected that.

“That is the wrong hole. That is my sewer

hole.”

“Shut up,” he had replied. “Remain on

your knees.”
 Her backsides were burning. She felt as if
some of her sewer emitting tissue had come
out. He had touched nothing else besides her
anal cavity. It had been from stroking to oral
then to her sitting apparatus. Did he do this to
his wife? She was perusing through a laptop
while they were sharing some beer. She had
her legs up on a settee wearing a gown
covering most of her middle parts resting her
sitting apparatus after the fire and storm
challenge was over.

“Pachanjika,” she said. “There are

several photographs of people in black and
white.”

”Photos of what looks like traditional

dance?”

“Yes,” she had replied.

“Are you seeing a tall one with a whisk in

his hand who is wearing a king’s head gear of
buffalo hide and in some photos he is jumping
over tall drums?” He had asked.

“Yeah I do,” she had replied.

“That one is my father. He is tall gangly

with a horseshoe goatee beard.”

“This is your father?”

 “I don’t have his name on me. My
mother was around forty-three years of age
when there was Chibuku® dance festival that
reached her rural area of Bora in Murewa. She
associated with him for about two weeks so I
am told. I am a result of that union,” he had
replied. “By then he was about thirty years of
age. It is the reverse with us. You are a spring
chicken. However you won’t get pregnant to
raise a son who doesn’t walk with his father.”

“Oh?” she asked perusing the

photographs. Was that why he picked younger
women? Was that why he punished them? The
newspapers had said he had made it from
scratch. “So you were never close with your
father?
“I never knew him. My mother had
separated from her husband. I was confirmed
as being the reason for the ultimate divorce.
You know the African male when a woman has
a baby with another man,” he had said. “Even
if the man is living with another woman and
they have been on separation four years he still
wants a very holy ex-wife. Even when he is
becoming a father out there he still wants his
former wife to practice secondary virginity.”

“So where is your mother and him? “

“I am told he passed away at a later

stage. My mother left this world when I was still
selling tomatoes from a UD truck in Mbare,” he
had replied. “I was just starting to create an
empire to afford your likes.“

Had he practised with the women in

Mbare?

“Wow, I never knew you had such

humble beginnings,” was all she had said.

He never dated her again.

____________________________________

She was home some months later when

her mother was cleaning up some things.
Periodically she had seen women taking up this
spirit of moving everything furniture or fittings
armed with a grass broom thoroughly getting
rid of all things clogging their households. This
was one of the days when her mother had
decided to do just that. Juliet was rummaging
through old photographs when she stared at
two that came up.

“Mom?”

“Yeah,” the mother had replied.

“Who is in these photographs?” she

asked.

The mother reached her checking the

black and white photographs.
 “Ah I got these when my mother mbuya
Tanaka passed away. They had my name and
were in a sealed envelope like safe keys to a
strong room deposited in a bank vault,” she
had replied.

“Who is the man in the picture here

playing drums and there jumping over them?”
she asked.

“That is your grandfather. This is the man

who was my father. My mother kept it a secret
until she died. The villagers have sharp tongues.
Those that remembered told me they
suspected it was him. Europeans did cloud
seeding to bring rains to sun perched Africa.
This one did child seeding with different
women. I think more of his children were
bastards than those who are known. If any of
them take his seeding genes in these days of
HIV/AIDS. I wonder if they will get to retire.”

She poured over the photographs again.

She turned them over. They were written left to
right, Mamhepo (the accused), Sheunopa
(unknown), Fiona (co-accused her
grandmother) etc. She blew up the
photographs putting a framed one of her
grandmother playing her shakers with both
hands while the drummer was Mamhepo.
Technology allowed the photo technician to
hide the others nearby neatly. She hung the
portrait in her bedroom.
 Next she telephoned Richmond. Things
hadn’t worked out well with him. He had
slipped through her net like an eel electrifying
the fisherman trying to catch it. He was
behaving like they were on the set for Tom and
Jerry.

“Hello,” someone had answered the call.

“Richmond is not around but you can leave a
message.”

“Where is he?”

“He is out on business.”

“Whom am I speaking to?”

“Ashley.”

“Okay, I will give you my number. I am a

reporter working on a story about a drummer
and dancer called Kangira. Could he phone
me back?” she asked.

“Could I have your name ma’am?”

She had almost forgotten the issue when

Richmond telephoned about two weeks later.

“Since when did a holder of a Bachelor

of Nursing Science honours degree on top of a
general State Registered Nurse qualification
become a reporter?” he had started.
 “Hi, Richmond,” she had replied. “I
thought you could call back early. Where the
heck had you been?”

“I was out of the country. I heard you

called.”

“Are you the first born?”

“No, the last of five,” he had replied.

“Okay, I wanted to find out more about

Kangira the drummer,” she had replied.

“He is called Mamhepo. He came from

Goromonzi. He was a well-known traditional
dance practitioner who could jump over tall
drums. He played at dancing like an old man
with a walking stick while blowing a whistle like
a former soccer referee gone senile. He could
put his foot on top of the drum he was playing.
He could get into a Bedford truck or a bus
while playing the drums and come out still
playing. I never had the occasion of seeing him
perform though I have enough photographic
and verbal evidence. He only visited about
twice when I was too young to know of the
historic significance.”

“Who was he to you?” she had asked,

“He was my grandfather’s younger

brother. I am equally as good as one of his
grandsons. He died when I was not yet in high
school. They were siblings. They had different
diverse talents. Mamhepo had a reputation
with women. He was a Komatsu grader that
collected the single mothers, divorced and
widowed with certain consequences.”

“Why don’t we sit down over a meal and

talk about this?”

“I am pressed for time. I will ask

Ndanatsiwa to make the necessary
arrangements,” he had replied.

“I wanted it to be private,” she had

replied. “I don’t want her to know why I am
after this Mamhepo guy for the meanwhile.”

“Name the date, time and place. I will

check my schedule. At times I am pressed up.
At others I wonder how I will spend the day.”

She did. She dressed up in a white dress

with pig tails at the bottom. From where the pig
tails started, it was about fifteen centimetres
over her knees. The tails lefty flesh hanging here
and there as she walked. It had a V-neck that
was way down to half her bosom. She put on a
colour silver pedant hanging down as if
pointing to her cleft.

She put on a black cloth with which she

covered her neck, shoulders and bosom when
she required decency. She arrived well in time.
She was led to a table with three chairs.
Richmond was on the terrace. He came when
the waiter told him to. He shepherded a
seventeen to nineteen year old girl before him.
He pulled out a seat for the girl.

“Hi,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.

This is my eldest sister’s eldest daughter Ashley.
She dots on me and I on her. What will we
have?”

She gathered that not everyone was a

Komatsu grader.

____________________________________
gumi nemaviri (12)
 ____________________________________

“Lady, can I dance with you?”

That was a question. One didn’t expect to

date on a wedding reception. She was not
part of the bridal team either to be expected
to dance. When she wanted a date the most
she wasn’t keen to take to the dance floor.

“Why should I?” she fired back. “Do I

have to?”

“It’s a wedding. People are dancing.”

“I am not the bride or the maid of

honour. I am not the only lady around go find
another dance partner.”

“Neither am I the groom or the best

man,” he had replied in kind. She wished she
hadn’t said that. “You are cheeky!”

“Go find a dog, it’s less cheeky.”

“I insist. Will you grace the honour of the

next dance with me?”

The question and statements came from

a lanky lad who looked like his knees had
buckled under pressure when he had been
formed in his mother’s womb. If looks and
dressing were described he was tall, slightly
slender with no muscles to see. His chin was
enshrined with a forest of black hair which did
not go beyond the chin or on the sides either.
He looked like a he-goat coming out of a
cave.

He wore off white set of trousers with

black cross belts over his shoulders. His short
sleeve shirt was grey with checked lines. The
socks left part of his skin out. He seemed to
have outgrown his set of trousers. The shoes
were soft heeled. They were a perfect fit. He
seemed to fall within the nineteen to twenty-
three year age group.

“I don’t dance with small boys.”

“Lady I have been divorced twice!”

“Try a third time.”

She had responded after giving him one

look. Where had he seen her dancing? She
had been too busy to be a bridesmaid besides
her baulk didn’t fit. All the bridesmaids here
were medium to tall in height and slender to
match the bride. She would have appeared
like the bride’s mother. She did exercise a lot
but maybe nature wanted her to maintain her
natural weight to which she always returned.

“The dance floor is that way my lady.”

 “I just said something didn’t I?” She was
asking.

“Ndanatsiwa, let’s see you dance

again,” someone shouted. “What a great
event to celebrate your co-worker’s wedding.
You are a good dancer. I saw you on one
wedding video dancing backwards to collect
your partner. You people should celebrate
whatever talent God bestows you with
including dancing. Move that body!”

“Maybe you should have tried playing it

forwards,” someone had suggested.

“Ndanatsiwa is normally a Manyika

name or Ndau down to the south of the
Manyika stronghold,” the youth had advised.

“Stick to miss for you,” Ndanatsiwa had

replied. “I didn’t ask about the meaning of my
name in Manyika or Ndau dialects neither am I
a Manyika.”

“I am called Philip,” he had replied. “I

am not a shareholder in Philips Consumer
Electronics or the defence industries variant
though I would have liked to be.”

“Whatever, “she had replied.

They had a dance. Philip was quite a

good dancer. They danced for four or so
minutes moving along the floor to applause
reserved for dancers only. She retired
afterwards. She stood by a wall watching other
people doing single dances when she saw
Philip with his tall frame coming back. He was
stealing the show dancing with an elderly
woman almost one and a half times his age.

Those legs were working magic. Philip

danced flapping his hands and coming down
or rising up as his legs carried him. He had a
habit of using his long legs more in his dances
than other parts of his body. He swayed and
kicked. He danced like someone doing
kickboxing.

At times he swayed his body to the right

while his hands were on the left playing
imaginary drums. Then at times he was kicking
his legs while his hands were on his behind. The
man had the whole floor section with his
dances. She attended to a few friends going
out of the hall.

“Ndanatsiwa,” someone called.

“You are not yet going, are you?” That

was from Philip. To her it was very annoying.

“I am going to the toilet,” she had two

ladies snivelling.

“The gents are where you are going and

the ladies are that side,” he had pointed
backwards with his thumb.
 “Is it?” she had asked going past him
back into the hall. “Maybe I am a she-male.”

An hour later she was sitting after ice

cream. Philip came and sat next to her.

“You dance well Ndanatsiwa,” he had

said.

“So do you.”

“Do you happen to live in the western

suburbs?” he asked.

“Dzivaresekwa?”

“Mount Pleasant, the Grange, Bluff Hill,

Greencroft, Mabelreign, Marlborough, Sentosa
or the Chisipite line?”

“No,” she had replied.

“Flat in the city?” he asked.

“Boy, I am not available whatever you

are looking for added to which you are half my
age. Scram,” she had replied.

“My pastor said there would be harsh

words towards lent,” he had whispered. “He
said I may have tests and tribulations.”

“What?”
 “Someone cast a lot that the two of us
should dance again,” Philip had risen.

The speakers were repeating their names

over and over saying someone had bet they
could dance better than real couples. She was
stuck for three to four minutes with Philip. He
was a good and courageous dancer.

She sought her friend Lydia. “You have

been scarce.”

“Ndanatsiwa I saw you dancing with that

young man. He dances very well.”

“And where were you?”

“Girl,” her friend had replied. When she

rolled her eyes and excitement showed in
them, it meant she had been lining up possible
dates. Her eyes were spinning. The eyelashes
were moving up and down. These had been
trimmed and taken care of. She was very
excited. “A party is where you move around
getting noticed. Who knows you may be the
next one to host a wedding.”

“Can we go before you start hosting your

own wedding?” She had asked. “You are in
dreamland already seeing your knight in
shining armour.”
 “I will get hold of you. There is someone I
have to see off before I run away from them,”
Lydia had replied. She had disappeared.

For a big woman like herself, Lydia had

moved as if on tiptoe. There was a comforting
spirit when the grounds were green with a lush
lawn. However for ladies’ high heels, the tips
sunk to the stock. Lydia had not been
bothered by the heels sinking in. She had set
her mind elsewhere. Ndanatsiwa saw her friend
on the phone heading for their vehicle. She
stood there before a tall framed man with long
limbs came to stand next to her chatting.

“Can I get you a drink?” Philip had asked

on her side.

Where had he come from? Was this

wedding venue haunted with spiritual beings
that walked in the flesh?

“Some mothers do have them,” she had

replied.

“What?”

“Never mind,” she had replied. It wasn’t

time to explain about the British comedy.

“Wonderful couple don’t you think?” he

had asked.

“I suppose so.”
 “They said she is a legal assistant of some
sort,” he had replied.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And you are a workmate?”

“I suppose so.”

“What is the difference between a

lawyer, a solicitor and a barrister?” he had
asked.

“They are all lawyers.”

“What’s the main difference?” He had

asked.

“A lawyer is a general term for a person

who gives legal device and who conducts
cases in a court of law. We normally treat a
lawyer as the same as a general medical
practitioner. A legal assistant like the bride is a
person working her way up with a law degree
to the position of representing matters in court.
It takes a lot of research to come to court and
argue before a judge, jury, panel of judges or a
magistrate. They are all learned and vested in
law so legal assistants like her are needed as
new blood.”

Where had the words come from? She

wasn’t given to being very vocal. It was quite a
wonderful wedding for her co-worker much
junior to her who had come on board less than
a year ago. She had known the couple well.
He used to pick her after work.

“Oh really?” he had asked. “And what is

a barrister in legal terms?”

“Normally a barrister speaks in court

before a judge or panel of jury. Normally these
are well versed in court etiquette and legal
practice over and above the relevant law
degree and registration with the legal
profession. In practice barristers had better
right of audience to the higher courts than a
solicitor. Barristers don’t normally deal direct
with clients. They work under instruction from
solicitors including the fact that clients pay
solicitors who get invoiced by barristers. This
became a norm as a legal qualification did not
entitle a person to know court procedures
hence the experienced lawyers took these
matters to court while the inexperienced learnt
on their way up. It’s like why are some criminal
cases handled by a senior magistrate,
provincial magistrate or chief magistrate
instead of an ordinary magistrate.“

“Now define what a solicitor is?”

She sighed.

“A solicitor normally provides legal

advice and drafts contracts/agreements. They
interact with their clients making legal decisions
on their behalf. A solicitor at times is the
backbone of the barrister,” she had replied. “I
need visit the ladies.”

“Okay,” he had replied. “Don’t be long I

have questions.”

“You don’t tell what time to take,” she

had snapped at him.

When she was gone two young men

came to him. “Are you winning the dare and
the bet?”

“I am not sure but she does appear to

be hard to crack,” he had replied. “Tonight we
seem to have chosen the bitter ones. Did you
two win?”

“Both we tried were offended.”

“Keep trying if you want your free beer,”

one of them had said.

“I will see Oswald,” Philip had replied.

“She looks familiar,” Oswald had said. ”I

think she came to the law practice when I was
doing research. Sorry you picked a very big
momma.”

“She is a lawyer definitely we had not

counted on that. I could tell by the legal
advice she gave,” Philip had replied. “That will
help when we go back to the fourth and
penultimate law degree course at Mount
Pleasant.”

At last Ndanatsiwa had left the wedding

reception with her friend Lydia who was
driving. They were chatting. Lydia negotiated
through the tight streets heading for
Lomagundi Drive which was a major artery that
took traffic away faster to or from the city.
Ndanatsiwa was dancing in her seat with Lydia
singing on cue. Westlife came with Bop-Bop
Baby. Lydia turned into a road feeding into
Lomagundi Drive. There walking towards the
road was Philip and two young men.

“That’s the young man who was all over

me,” Ndanatsiwa had said. The vehicle lights
bobbed up and down showing pedestrians on
the far left of the road walking on the grass
verges.

“Ndanatsiwa he is young, cute and

palatable,” Lydia had said.

“Lydia!”

Lydia stopped the vehicle.

“Drive!” Ndanatsiwa had suggested.

“No, I may have gotten hold of a date so

I have to be kind,” she had opened the rear
door of the VW Gold Citi into which the three
young men fitted in.
 “Hi, we meet again,” Lydia had started
conversation.

“I saw you both at the wedding,” Oswald

had remembered.

The ladies had surprised the three men

with their extensive knowledge of European
soccer including the UEFA championships
taking place. Lydia drove to the city. The other
two dropped off in Fife Avenue.

“Where do you drop off Philip?” Lydia

had asked. They cruised into town.

“Park Street will do. I will get own

transport to a friend’s den.”

“Okay,” said Lydia.

“Ndanatsiwa, can I have your call

card?” asked Philip.

“I didn’t carry one,” she had replied.

“I saw you give one to a lady called

Theresa. She and I share the same maternal
grandmother,” he had replied.

“She will give you my number then,”

Ndanatsiwa had replied.

“Ndanatsiwa don’t be rude,” Lydia had

inferred.
 By the time he dropped out, Phillip had a
call card with him. Lydia drove Ndanatsiwa
through her parental residence in Westwood
via Fourth Avenue.

“Don’t stop on the way honey,” Lydia

had said. Ndanatsiwa had started reversing.

“I know the drill,” Ndanatsiwa had

replied.

She hugged Fourth Avenue back to

Kambuzuma Road. She headed south down
the road until after the railway junction. She
turned east onto Aspindale Road increasing
speed as this was a sparsely used road at this
time. No sane driver stopped to check what
flying objects had hit their vehicles at this hour.
She turned right before coming out hugging
the eastern corner of Eaglesvale private
School.

She turned to her left, towards the north

on Glenagleas Road into Dagenham Road
which led her to turn to her right heading South
along Willowvale Road where she picked up a
larger volume of traffic. Further on she turned
left heading east along High Glen Road until
she turned right heading south along Gumbe
Road towards her parental residence.

“Someone was calling on the landline,”

her mother had said when she had come into
the extensively well-built residence.
 “Oh?”

“Someone called Philip. He said you

should call back. I wrote the number on a
piece of paper near the Harare directory,” she
had said.

“Thank you mother,” she had gone to

her bedroom. “Good night. How is daddy?”

“He is worried now that Newcastle is

down to ten men 2-1 down too with thirteen
minutes to go.”

“I am too tired to watch with him. Let me

sleep.”

Ndanatsiwa opened the door to her

ensuite bedroom which had walk in facilities for
her wardrobe. She had been the first one into
the family when her mother had married again.
She was almost the last one out now. With
Lydia they had been friends since high school.
They shared a lot in common.

For starters both were not yet married.

Both lived with their parents. Both had helped
extending their parental residence and both
had extensively well designed decorated and
furnished private bedrooms within the main
property. Only that Lydia’s had an outside
access door.
 Ndanatsiwa’s mother had baulked at
the plan saying her daughter was not a hooker
who needed bring in clients clandestinely. As a
result, Ndanatsiwa had chosen the old route of
walking through two passages to her own
room. She first had to announce herself near
the lounge access through an arch so
everyone watching television in the lounge
could log her time at entry.

Then some days later they met again.

“My name is Lydia, we met the other

time at the wedding reception in the western
suburbs,” Lydia had said extending her hand.

“I am Philip. You gave us a lift. There was

I and my two buddies,” he had replied. “Are
you related to Ndanatsiwa?”

This lady had his breath catching. Did all

the young men dating friends feel like this? Did
they feel at some point they had made a
mistake in dating the other one? He wondered
who was more attractive of the two. This one
was an edge above her friend. Maybe it was
just that the friend had more weight and
height.

To him, Lydia was an angel. She was as

beautiful as a lily in the valley after soft wash by
the rains. Somehow through her beauty she
seemed to have what looked like a slight
discolouration on one side of her face. It ran
from near the left eye going down towards her
chin. The colours of her skin there were different
with a major discolouration. This was visible if
one stared at her. He was cuckolded.

“Friends,” she had replied.

“Is she coming?” He asked.

“She is,” Lydia had said stretching her

legs. “What’s your number Philip?”

Philip watched the long legs encased

with a grey set of trousers with a white blouse
as the top. There was a breathing fire in his
groin. Any medical examination would find his
blood pressure up. His blood had become hot.
He could see the blouse top rising and falling.
He was not sure he should be happy that
Ndanatsiwa was coming or sad that she should
not have come.

He gave her.

“How is university?” She asked.

“College is a cup of cake. Where you

ever there at Mount Pleasant?” he asked.

“I did three years there,” she had replied.

“I first trained three years as a state registered
general nurse at Harare Hospital. When I
graduated at Harare, I was about twenty.
Three years later I was at the national
university.”

“Are you at Harare Hospital?”

“No I am a senior operation theatre

nurse and tutor at Avenues Clinic,” she had
replied.

“Good,” he had replied.

“You dance so well Philip. Is it in your

family to dance?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t know but my father is a great

dancer too. He has featured in videos by some
local artistes because of his skills. He mainly
dances in church activities.”

“What does your father do?”

“He is an electrical technician with the

national broadcaster, ZBC-Tv.”

A guy in a striped two piece suit came

kissing her on both of the cheeks. He smiled at
Philip. Philip smiled back. Philip guessed that
the milk teeth of his were showing. He thought
maybe he had Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s baby
face which made men know he was not a
dating threat when he had elder ladies like
Ndanatsiwa and her friend Lydia. Lydia was
literally more attractive than her friend
Ndanatsiwa though they all tended to have
the same huge frame as if they had been
created in a plastic mould.

“Howard, this is Philip our friend,” Lydia

had said with a smile. “He is at college. He can
dance.”

Lydia and Howard, Ndanatsiwa and

Philip soon had dinner together. Ndanatsiwa
was the least talkative of the foursome while
Lydia and Howard were too talkative arguing
and cracking jokes. Philip on the other hand
appeared like a man riding the waves coming
here and there with a point that cracked their
ribs with laughter. In arguments, Philip would
remain neutral coming up with a point to kill
either side. He was learned after all.

After supper Ndanatsiwa took Philip

home. Lydia was driven out by her charming
escort. Philip’s parents lived in Houghton Park.
She drove leisurely while he talked with her. She
stopped in his road near his gate. He reached
over his hands resting on her upper thigh. Her
dress was between her legs. She removed his
offending hands.

“I will see you Philip thanks for the time,”

she had said,

“Thanks for supper. A hug and kiss would

do.”

“Another time perhaps,” she had replied.

 “Drive well sweetie,” he had replied.

She made a U-turn. She blew the horn.

She drove past his gate. He raised his hand in
the night. He went indoors. He was at lunch
when he met Oswald and the other friend.

“Now even if you lie we will still have a

beer with you,” suggested Oswald. “Our
wedding dare at dates all fizzled out except
yours.”

“Nothing happened,” Philip told the

truth. “She is a good woman much older than
me. She is much heavier too as you saw but
the bet remains a bet. We do date here and
there but not even a kiss or a hug.”

“Just enjoy the experience,” suggested

Oswald. “We will compare appropriate notes
later. Don’t fall in love Philip. Older women are
not okay. I don’t know what I would say to your
Social Studies degree student girlfriend Nyasha
if you did.”

“Had it not been for her friend I wouldn’t

have had her number. The friend is more
accommodating,” Philip replied. “Nyasha and
Ndanatsiwa seem to be blood sisters. They
should both have done well in a nun order of
some sort. Morris how is the attachment in the
insurance industry?”
 “Not bad,” the friend had replied. They
had their beers. “Is there anyone who has
managed to date an older woman and
enjoyed the benefits?”

“My date said you are old enough to be

my son. That was the last time she appeared,”
Oswald had replied. “I should have asked her
why older women were having children with
men the same age as their sons. I read such a
scandalous story about forbidden love in a
rural locale.”

“With me the secretary from the sister

company is a single mother. She is on her
guard. It’s just a case of meeting and talking
before she gets into her transport home or if we
meet on her way to work,” Morris said. “I tried
talking of bus fare and assignments costs. She
brushed these aside. I have to buy my own
lunch when I am with her. It’s like dating your
sister.”

“Why don’t you try taking both ladies to

church?” suggested Oswald to which they had
a hearty laugh.

“Would anyone care for another round

of beers?”

At the end he telephoned the home

landline.

“Hi, is Ndanatsiwa in?” he had asked.

 “Hold,” he was told.

After three minutes talking he hung up.

They made their way home. He had intended
telling her off about her stiffness. She had
instead asked about his assignments
comparing his with her master’s degree
program running within two years. She was
more kind and considerate compared to the
women his friends had tried dating.

Maybe the bet should have been on

getting a sisterly older woman rather.

On impulse he dialled the numbers of

Ndanatsiwa’s friend when he was home.

“Hi Philip,” Lydia had replied. They spoke

for about two minutes. “She can only chill
down if you keep probing. Don’t lose heart.
There is a party somewhere I want you to
dance there. I told them about you. I didn’t
have the intention of inviting you though.”

“Just holler,” he had replied.

Mid-week he saw Ndanatsiwa less than

twenty minutes per the three days. Her moods
changed like the eastern wind blowing from
Mozambique across the Pungwe Valley
spinning around Mount Nyanga. She was too
sharp with him at times behaving like a hen
protecting its nest of eggs. He had seen female
tigers in heat almost killing the male who
wanted to sire his line with them. Maybe she
was like that. That excited him. Maybe he was
going to win the prize.

“Phil?”

“Yes that’s me at home,” he had replied

on the landline.

“How is your dating schedule?” She had

asked.

“That one should be wearing a habit,”

he had replied to which the other had
laughed.

“Be patient,” she had replied.

“I am losing patience,” he had replied.

“Here is your chance once more. I am

inviting you to this party. Be decent and watch
what you do because she can raise hell,” she
had replied.

“I will.”

He attended the party which was

celebrating the life of a grandmother who had
reached seventy. On the individual dances
category there were no prizes. Philip showed
his prowess at dancing. He took his beer and
accepted invitations to dance. He was given
standing ovations for that craft.
 “Just in case you need go home I am
off,” Ndanatsiwa had sought him.

“The party is still young. I will catch a ride

on any one vehicle,” he had replied.

“I am not leaving you here,” Ndanatsiwa

had replied. “I brought you here remember.”

“The women here seem to appreciate a

young man better than you do. Who knows in
whose bed I may end up by the middle of the
night?”

“Who knows which husband, boyfriend

or brother will make you get to hell quick?” She
had retorted.

“They promised free bear hugs and

French kisses. You won’t get pregnant hugging
will you?” he had asked. “I did like a good
looking corpse while I am still young. Write on
the epitaph, he died trying to ejaculate ____.”

“Philip! Why don’t you behave? Don’t

be a nuisance or embarrass yourself. Never let
beer talk for you. Find you at the vehicle in
thirty minutes time,” she had replied.

“I am partying ____,”he turned to go. She

got hold of his belt and pulled him back.
“Unless you promise to kiss and hug and not
behave like a gum tree I will stick here. Who
knows I may get hold of a single mom with her
own digs! You are the one making a scene
now.”

“Maybe I am not.”

“It’s one word. I will come,” he replied.

Philip had raised both hands in the air.

One hand held a bottle of Castle. She let him
go. He was popular in the dance category.
Forty minutes later Ndanatsiwa called him on
his cell. She thought he would argue. He didn’t.

Philip relented. She took him home. He

unlocked the door at his parents’ home around
eleven in the evening. He remembered that
Ndanatsiwa had been yielding. They had
kissed and smooched in her vehicle. He had
embarrassed himself by dumping his load
when she had stoked him. She had refused to
have casual sex.

He had telephoned her friend to

complain about being bundled off when the
night was still young.

“Another party?” he had asked.

“Yes you have a reputation,” Lydia had

replied. “Do you see me and my friend as
being thirsty for youthful men?”

“I never said that. Why do you have to

put words into my mouth Lydia? The last one
she cut me off by taking me home.” Philip said.
“The party was just beginning. There was
limited beer however.”

“Let’s say I will drop you and pick you up.

No questions,” Lydia had replied. “In between I
have issues to deal with.”

“Is Ndanatsiwa coming?” he had asked.

“For today, let’s leave her out,” she had

replied. “You have to behave at the party. I
don’t want a rude report.”

After classes in the evening he had

waited by CABS First Street looking across at
Africa Unity Square looking squarely at the cul
de sac that led from Second Street. He saw her
wave when she turned in a foreign looking
vehicle he had not expected.

“Hi,” Philip had said. He went into the

passenger seat.

There was a man shorter than Philip.

Obviously he was not Howard. He had more
flesh. He looked like a secret police operative
from the movies complete with dark glasses. He
could see because he was driving.

“Hello Philip this is Stephen. Stephen on

our way to Mazowe we are dropping Philip at
Patricia’s party,” she had replied.
‘ “That is in Greendale?” Stephen had
asked.

“Yes go through Arcturus Road,” she had

directed.

“Mutare Road is better, just the traffic,”

Stephen had replied.

The secret policeman had grunted.

Lydia had her legs up, her body was down as if
hiding from traffic. She wore a short white skirt
and a blouse with tie ends on both sides in
royal blue. Three quarters of her upper legs
were on view to the driving seat at least.
Stephen kept glancing in the rear view mirror.
Philip could not find a position to watch the leg
display show. Philip would surely see him doing
that. After all, it wasn’t for his benefit. She had
colourless high heeled shoes that looked like
they had been fashioned out of glass.

He was formerly introduced to the host in

Coronation Drive. He didn’t see when Lydia
and Stephen had left. Why did people ask for
him to dance? He did dance and drink. When
he last checked the time it was around eleven
in the evening which meant he was going to
find transport to be a problem.

Philip did not worry about time. The

drinks flowed with the late night. The dances
continued. He was sitting on a crate after
visiting the gents watching the revellers. People
had thinned out, each leaving in available
transport when he heard his phone vibrating.

“Yap,” he had answered.

“Did you leave Coronation Drive?” was a

question.

“I am still there but half the people have

left.’”

“You saw the lady host I talked to?” she

had asked.

“Yes.”

“Go and say good bye and leave the

house,” she had shut off communication.

He walked into the road. It was dark.

Who had said they were having extremely hot
sunny days when the night was as chilly as the
Sahara Desert at midnight? He looked around.
There were no sand dunes or rocky outcrops.
There were walls within which were residences
bathed in light with dogs baying here and
there to keep intruders out. It was very quiet at
that hour. A vehicle flashed its lights. He
headed for it. The passenger door next to the
driver was opened. He got in.

“How was the party?” she asked.

 “Excellent,” he had replied. She was
applying lip ice or gloss to her mouth which
turned her lips cherry red. “How was Stephen?”

“If you made any advances on the

ladies I will know first thing in the morning so will
she,” she had replied.

“I was just drinking and dancing as a

cousin of yours. It’s almost midnight,” she had
replied.

“Yes I know. You told me to behave.”

“Good observe the rules.”

“It’s not safe time for a lady to be driving

alone,” he had replied.

She started the vehicle. The skirt was a

different one. This one was flared with the
colour of banana yellow. It was longer than her
knees hiding the legs display that had been
happening in the vehicle on the way here. Had
the display been for him or for the other guy?

“That is why I picked you up,” she had

replied.

“Why did Stephen leave you to drive on

your own?” he had replied.

“If you need to know Stephen is in the

arms of his loving wife,” she had replied.
 “I thought you were dating.”

“We do that is why I am here,” she had

replied.

“So what happened in Mazowe?” he

had asked.

“We booked a room. More questions?”

she asked.

What had she been doing in Mazowe

this late at night? They had booked a room so
what else did he want to know?

“You will need to book a room for me. I

am hot,” he had replied.

“Do you take me for a hooker?” she had

asked.

“I was not inferring that. When you have

a hot crotch you can say anything,” he had
replied,

“Isn’t this what you should be saying to

Ndanatsiwa and your other girlfriends?” she
asked.

“The college girls look down on those of

us not gainfully employed. The ladies like your
friend take time to agree to bedroom games.
The loose ladies, they bite faster than a shark.”

“And you are caught in between?”

 She slowed down. They headed towards
a series of amber lights that changed to red.
There was no other traffic. She kept her speed
low looking both ways on the intersection.

“Don’t stop.”

“I know you are afraid of thieves.”

“Men they will beat or knife/club to

death but beautiful, sexy females with big
bosoms like you they will first rape without
protection,” he had replied. “I don’t know why
African men think making women pregnant is
macho.”

“What does protection have to do with a

rape?” she had asked,

“You will get HIV/AIDS a few seconds

before they kill you,” he had replied.

She increased speed shooting past the

intersection.

“Maybe I will meet a bunch of

homosexuals who will let me watch while they
sodomise a young boy.”

“Man not boy.”

“I wasn’t referring to you. You would

have been dead by then.”
 “And sodomy from men has several
issues. Any homosexual man used as a ‘wife’
by other man, can sodomise a female rape
victim. Then an ordinary hoodlum who is
straight sex wise can also sodomise women just
before they kill them. It takes different types of
things to bring a man his joy. Or the reverse, a
homosexual ‘wife’ or ‘husband’ or a straight
man can still rape a woman the normal way,
no excuses for us both.”

“So you would really enjoy my

discomfiture?” she tempted.

“At least rapists in Zimbabwe have not

yet started forcing oral sex on their victims,” he
had replied to which she had laughed. Ï have
read court papers. I am yet to come up with a
sodomy case involving females but young boys
have suffered. I haven’t read of oral rape any
in this country.”

“Like you said on sodomy, oral sex on

rape victims can be used for both sexes,” she
had responded.

“With me they wouldn’t enjoy touching a

flat chest or buttocks as lean as a Texan
rounding up his cattle. But for the fairer species,
the bosom and the backsides would be too
much of an attraction,” he had replied. “In
both cases rapists fear oral sex because the
victim can lock their jaws to death. The results
can be very discomforting.”
 “Philip, I am driving stop making me
laugh lest we end up at Parirenyatwa Hospital.”

“If I wasn’t going out with Ndanatsiwa I

would make you a mother of twin fraternal boy
and a girl,” he had suggested.

“I am incapable of having children. I had

whatever that makes a lady a mother
removed surgically.”

“I am turning twenty-three years old.

How old are you now Lydia?” he had asked.

“A woman’s age is her secret,” she had

replied putting him five to six years below her
age.

“I wasn’t going to The Standard to reveal

your age.”

“Anyway I don’t practice unprotected

sexual contact,” she had replied. “Further to
which I am not a hooker. I am a qualified state
registered nurse who increased her
qualification to a bachelor’s degree. I am both
a lecturer and nursing consultant.”

“I am a law student, final year. Have you

tried being a lactating mother? I heard the
experience is very good especially if you have
a man much younger than you to be the
father.”
 “I am not dating boys.”

She took him to a flat in the Belgravia

area. She parked the vehicle after going
through the security on the boom. Other details
were patrolling the car park for the residential
complex.

“Come this side,” she instructed. She had

switched off the engine.

He did. She locked the door from the

inside. When he came around she gave him a
bag of groceries to carry. She followed behind.

“Is this where you live?” he asked.

“No,” she had replied. “As for you, you

only come here when invited and given time.
Stick to time.”

“Then where do you live?” he had asked.

“I live in Kambuzuma with my parents. I

am their third born. I have an elder brother and
an elder sister. The three of us bought the
place I will show you. We rent it off. Both are
out of the country. Below me there is a younger
brother and a sister. My mother Fiona and her
husband Walter had us five siblings within
fifteen years.”

“You have a tight family huh?”

“And you?”
 “I am the eldest of four. The sister after
me is doing money and banking first year
degree at Midlands State University. The other
two a boy and a girl are in boarding school.”

“Really?’

“Is the elder sister married?”

“People in the United Kingdom rarely

marry, If need be they just live together,” she
replied. “They don’t like raising children too.
They are chasing after the British pound
sterling.”

“Are you married Lydia?”

“Philip if you are fond of kicking with your

mouth watch out,” she had said on the second
floor. She had a foul tongue and a temper to
match.

Maybe that was why she wasn’t married.

He took the groceries on one hand and
wrapped the other around her waist. She did
not complain even when his arm was
removed. He instead inserted it from
underneath her blouse removing her breasts
and fingering her tits as they walked.

“I was just asking. Maybe we should just

kind of live together.”

“You heard the rules?”

 “Yes I will abide,” he had replied.

“Do you have a choice?” she asked.

“I wait for supper.”

“Didn’t they feed you at the party?”

“Not this type.”

Why did this woman have such a point

blank short gun charge of a mouth? He could
feel the heat of her body pressed against his.
He was in second Heaven serve that he was
breathing in more than two orifices. They went
up to the third or fourth floor. The complex was
silent. They were the only traffic going up the
steps. Her heeled shoes were making sounds.
By the time she started for the third floor, he
had put his hand underneath her sweater
going up the steps arm in arm caressing her
baby feeding apparatus. By the time she had
the door locked and secured, he had no
clothes on. Her hands were inside his crotch
taking a gamble.

“Sorry about that. First impressions are not

the best.” His body had invested in premature
production.

“I should have known you are just but a

grown up boy.”
 “Do you have to scold me time and time
again?” he asked. “Where does your father
work Lydia?”

He pulled her to him and closed her

mouth with his for the next ten minutes
kneading her bosom. He showed her he was a
real man. He made her know that he was the
boss for that day. He made her realize the
statics were right. Young men had too much
staying power.

“In case you want to marry he is a

construction manager with Fort Concrete while
my mother is an Administration manager with
Dairibord Zimbabwe head office. I am the third
child out of five of Fiona and Walter Shashe,
anything else?”

“Lydia you are so pretty.”

“Why, thank you,”

“Why don’t we live together?”

“No, I am not a sugar mummy,” she had

replied.

____________________________________

Three weeks later he woke up in the

morning in the flat. He had a hangover. He had
been living in paradise with a queen. He had
been proving to her that he was a man well
worth consideration. The other guys were being
mesmerised by his stories and free beer. In the
flat she was strict on hygiene because she
didn’t want the cleaner to have a double duty.
They didn’t live together. He only came here
when invited to which was at times two days in
a room within the week when it had no visitors.

She used it fully furnished as a rental

property to tourists and locals coming into the
city with families that did not want the costs of
hotels. It had one ensuite bedroom with two
sharing a toilet and bathroom. There was a
well-designed and furnished lounge, dining
room and a fitted kitchen.

“Hi,” she said from the other side.

“Hello, good morning. I could do with a

beer.”
“Not this early in the morning. You know
what Philip,” Lydia had said. “We have to be
out of here in a jiffy. Did you contact
Ndanatsiwa?”

“She was the one who contacted me

about three times. Each time I had valid
reasons to reject her dates. She fizzled out. She
never contacted me again,” he had replied.

“Don’t contact her again.”

 “Why do I need to when I have you as
big momma?”

“Hey stop pulling at my blouse. Didn’t I

say we have to be out? Didn’t I give you rules
before?” she had asked pulling out of his
embrace.

Why did beautiful women become

vixens at most times? Why did they change
from being warm and yielding to standing on
their high heels moving their head, eyes in slits
and coughing out their authority? Why did they
want their man at a certain time and not at
when the man was breathing fire? How did
one tame such a wild vixen of a woman like
Lydia?

“What?”

“I never date the same man for three

weeks so you better dress up and leave before
someone comes along,” she had replied.

“Just like that?” he had asked. “Are you

chucking me out of the flat or our romance?”

“You saw the character I took with you

to the Coronation Drive party?” she asked.

“Yeah.”
 “If you say anything to Ndanatsiwa or try
to contact me again he will kill you. He is with
the secret service. Get out!”

____________________________________
gumi nematatu (13)
 ___________________________________

Richmond had business to attend to. He

was scheduled to be meeting with his clients
elsewhere when his Mazda pickup was
involved in a side collusion with another vehicle
in Westminster Avenue, Sentosa. When things
went wrong they just turned wrong one after
the other. They had talked like grown men. The
reason had been council or they always found
reasons to blame council. There was a patch of
grass that had overgrown which had meant
Richmond had not seen the other vehicle or he
was just in a rush. In a polite sense, he was
wrong and liable to cover the damages.

While some Good Samaritan motorist

collected two police traffic details, Richmond
agreed to have the other party’s vehicle
repaired. That made the police report much
easier to come out. They signed the short
statement the police detail had written which
acted as a legal basis of a memorandum of
agreement/understanding as long as the
police detail did not lose the small notebook.
The notebooks were never lost. The bigger files
called dockets had a way of disappearing. He
called a break down truck to collect his vehicle
while the other man decided to drive his as it
was pending panel beating, body filler, sand
papering and spray painting.

The accident was chewing on his

resources in the later stages. Right now he was
way behind time. He ended up in Danberry
Avenue after taking a ride on public transport.
The problem with public transport was it
depended on their routes. The other problem
was he was very much unused to this type of
transport. Earlier in his career either as carver or
carpenter, when he had no transport,
Nyashadzashe or one of his siblings always had
a reason to leave a vehicle in Highfield.

Even his late grandfather had known the

value of time. When they sent a message
through their Rusape based aunt that they
were coming, there was always a tractor and
trailer or a Daihatsu truck awaiting them. He
didn’t fancy driving around in Richard’s Isuzu
250-D double can however. Taxis were hard to
find in outlaying suburban areas except near
the shops were people with fuel savers offered
services. Near to shopping complexes he had
discovered a few private vehicles that were
used for taxis. He had attended his meeting
with one of his clients better late than never.

“The price is daylight robbery Macario,”

Richmond had finalised.
 “But your carvings are already in Paris,”
Macario had cried. “Look at the conveyances
and other costs.””

“Tell the dealer to ship them back at

cost.“ Richmond had said.

“But Richmond,” the other had said.

“That is a loss in business.”

“Daichi, I am the creator. I think this is too

low a price,” Richmond had replied.

“But who will suffer the loss?” Macario

asked.

“If both of you are not willing to suffer the

loss, consider carefully,” Richmond said. “You
can cancel the contract. If it is legal impossible
then gentlemen let’s use our handkerchiefs as
we make a slight downward adjustments in
profits.”

“Richmond,” Macario said. “You are

being impossible.”

“Macario, I worked out the mathematics.

I won’t incur that loss as to sell for a pittance. I
did rather resale them elsewhere where people
appreciate a good price,” Richmond replied.
 “We have a contract ______, “Macario
replied. He swore in Greek. He was big and
beefy like his brother.

“Go and read the details gentlemen. I

can withdraw any sale from anywhere as long
as I don’t engage another agent.”

Richmond had walked out of the

residence. The two Greek brothers did not see
him off as they were used to. It was a bad day
getting worse. He felt the pressure coming to
bear. Sweat ran down his hairline onto his neck.
His handkerchief was not enough to keep the
rivulets at bay. He started down Dunberry Road
heading south towards Sherwood Drive to get
a lift. He was just into Sherwood Drive when the
rains he hadn’t noticed started falling. Large
raindrops started hitting the ground.

First they chose different spots each time

they came. As he walked briskly they increased
in both density and speed at falling. When had
the cloud gathering started? Why hadn’t he
been aware of the clouds and drop in
temperature? Oh the Greek brothers had a fire
going in their range. He had been too upset by
the status report from the agent in Paris to
notice. He stood there by the corner of the
road making signs for lifts but the vehicles were
whizzing past.
 All he could see were the lines created
when water in the road met with tyres creating
hissing sounds and upward movement where
the water fell a few centimetres away from the
crunching wheels. The tarred road
temperature had equalized to that of the rains.
The rains had stopped producing a white
steam as the heated tar met the cooler rains.
The raindrops were just ricocheting off the tar
or the vehicles passing by.

The rains increased in density. A curtain

of white like misty rain was coming down
Dunberry road towards him driven by a rise in
the blowing wind. A metallic orange Volvo V60
sedan screeched to a stop. The rear door
opened.

“You are wet?”

“Yes ma’am,” he had replied. “I stood

like a baboon sentinel trying to find a lift to no
avail.”

“Get in.“ She had instructed. “I don’t

pick up passengers especially the male variety.
The rains made me make an exception. I felt
sorry for you. It’s just a lift into the city at no
charge.”

“Thank you very much ma’am.”

 He closed the rear passenger door that
had been opened for him.

“You can be a human sentry in the back

seat if you don’t mind,” she had replied.

“I will try and be a scarecrow too,” he

had replied.

She started driving off. Thank God for the

women who came after Adam. Somehow she
found a face towel in her handbag which she
handed to him. There was the sound of music
and the swish swash of wipers. The vehicle
looked modern and well kempt. Maybe
because it was lady driven it kept its interior in
beautiful shapes. The seats had been covered
in a layer of secondary seat cover to protect
the original. These covers looked like a person
was sitting on winter wear or winter jacket
material. These had a tendency to be warm.
They exuded comfort like now.

“I am headed for the city,” she had said.

“Any way into the city will do for me,” he

had replied.

She switched on her heater filling the car

with warm air. She drove almost southwards
heading down Suffolk Road into West Road.
From West Drive she turned left to Drummond
Chaplin Street driving with first Old Hararians
Sports club to their right followed further down
by Prince Edward and Allan Wilson High
Schools to her left while Selbourne Rutledge
School was to the right. She turned east, left
into Jameson Avenue West before turning right,
to the south into Rotten Row.

“That is my old school.”

“Which? Wilkins Infectious Diseases

Hospital?” she had asked.

They had a good laugh.

“I did my lower and upper sixth at Prince

Edward High School coming all the way from
Highfield.”

“I did my lower and upper sixth at Girls

High School,” she had replied. “I was coming
from Glen View. I was not far away. Through
the sporting activities, debates etc. why didn’t
we meet?”

“We may have.”

In between they talked.

“I had a bad day.”

“You walked into the rain?” she asked.

 “Not only that. I had collusion in
Westminster Avenue. I was too psyched up not
to notice the other car. I should have observed
the give way sign. I can’t blame the city
authorities for not cutting grass. Not much
damage but I let the tow truck take away my
vehicle. I didn’t want to drive a vehicle that
called for stares.”

“Oh?”

He emptied his heart.

“You are an artist?”

“Yes, I will have to brace for a loss and

costs of relocating my artefacts,” he had
replied.

“I couldn’t even paint a face at school,”

she had replied. “Are you a visual artist?”

“Yes. Visual arts include fashion design,

interior décor, decorative arts like you see on
vehicles in the Indian sub-continent. They
include ceramic deign art, drawing and
painting, photography, sculpturing and
carvings too. It is quite a long range of things
that fall under visual arts. In overseas countries
you can take a degree in these alone.”

“Do you display your craft work by the

side of the road like they do near the Heroes
Acre along Bulawayo Road close to the
National Sports Stadium?” she had asked.

“No I work with renowned galleries in the

city that link to overseas buyers. My material
can be viewed in these galleries before it is
shipped overseas. It is shipped with others
materials when there are available containers
and berths in Durban. That is a shipping and
forwarding agent’s job. Mine is to create what
my customers will buy. Since I started I noted
that local art lovers are rare and far in
between.”

“Maybe it’s like the Saudi Arabians not

knowing the blessed value of sand.”

She stopped at an eatery in the city.

“Let me offer you a hot meal on my

ticket.”

“Thanks,” he had agreed. “At times

when I am worried or on edge I don’t eat
which causes me stomach problems.”

The lady thought that he was poor. He

didn’t wait to correct her. He ordered T-bone
steak and mashed potatoes while she selected
leg of lamb and pasta. They rounded it up with
ice cream and different shades of salad.

“My name is Richmond Kangira.”

 “I am called Ndanatsiwa Katokwe. Now
tell me about your contract and stuff like that. I
am not promising anything but legal advice.”

“You are a lawyer?” he had asked.

“I am in the legal trade. I won’t charge

you though,” she had simplified. “Do you
smoke or drink?”

“I don’t do either.”

“I don’t also,” she had replied. “Where

do you stay?”

“I have a rental flat in Montagu Avenue

corner Fourth Street near Harare Sports Centre.
However I was supposed to have a meeting
with my family in Highfield,” he had explained.
“Where do you live lady?”

“I live in Glen View with my parents.”

After their meal she drove him in the

front seat now that he was warm and
comfortable for Highfield dropping him home.
It was surprising how a chance encounter had
released so much information from both of
them.

“Highfield is synonymous with politics and

political heavy weights not artistes.”
 “The difference is we don’t represent a
constituency neither do we campaign for
votes. We work in the background. The
limelight is not very good before you become
established. We hardly make it into the news.
Those that do are either well established or
they receive a visitation from the print and
electronic media by freak chance.”

“Meeting you has been very, very

productive Richmond.”

She had shaken his hand when she

stopped the vehicle before the imposing gates
of the Highfield residence before her.

“Thanks a lot Ndanatsiwa. I will call you

later.”

“My pleasure sir.”

She reversed before heading home.

“Thanks a million Ndanatsiwa, please

take care.”

“See you too Richmond.”

_________________________________
 He had a date with her again. They sat in
her office perusing his agreements with the
Greek brothers for about an hour. She had
slotted the time between twelve thirty and two
after he had telephoned twice. First she had
told him to phone after she had left the Deeds
Registry. That way she now had lunch time
covered. She had ordered for them food from
TM Supermarket.

He had selected mashed potatoes,

salad and stewed beef while she had taken
beef and rice with salad. They had topped up
with mineral drinks that had been chilling in her
office refrigerator.

“As far as the agreement is concerned,”

she had given her own opinion. “If you cancel
you are liable for damages. If they also cancel
the same unless you mutually agree.”

“I just didn’t like the downward trend in

prices offered.”

“Then both parties have to meet the

costs based on your percentage structure.
They will meet the percentage they should
make as a loss,” she had replied.

“Can I take you out for lunch?” he had

asked.
 “My schedule is tight unless you want I
and you ______ don’t worry. I have your
number I will call you,” she had replied.

Was he to dream on those big eyes

dreamingly looking at him from their sockets
behind which was an intelligent and educated
brain?

____________________________________

“Richmond, besides carving which is

artistry work, what other things do you do for a
living?” Ndanatsiwa had asked. “What else
butters your bread if I may ask broadly? I once
thought you were a little mouse that exhibits
besides the roads where tourists travail. Now
that the tourist arrivals are in decline because
of the drought, I was feeling sorry for you.”

“I am a skilled carpenter by profession,”

he had replied.

“You mean you are an employee?”

“I used to work for Johnson & Fletcher

the building merchants before they downsized
when the economy sneezed. I mostly do
consultative and contract work for any projects
where I am remembered by friends, family or
someone sees my personal advertisements. I
advertise in the press normally on Thursdays,
Business Herald and Sunday in the Sunday Mail
or News when people enjoy the newspapers
the most then normally Tuesdays in the
Financial Gazette and Fridays.

That is where my bread and butter come

from. Artwork on the other hand can consume
my time but it does pay well except that it
mainly does that after an exhibition. It is like a
tobacco farm working against the weather
deep in debt with the local banks having to
wait for the floors to open so that the auction
can take away the red ink. If you sale before
the auction you may short sell by some margins
that can buy a John Deere tractor. We share
the same problems with us artistes.”

“I am not prying,” she had said feeling

bad. “I am just establishing some bare and
hard facts.”

She was wearing a pink short sleeve V

neck blouse. Underneath she had a long skirt in
black that reached between her ankles and
knees. She had on her feet what looked like a
mixture of a sandal and a shoe. The top was
open with shoes laces that ran from her toes to
her ankles. Her head had been attended to.
Her hair was in curls without any gathering or
apparatus to keep the hair in shape and in
place. Her face looked radiant like she had
won a competition.

“Have you been married before?”

“No, never,” she had replied. “I fell into a

trap of having long dates that fizzled out. You
know when you go out with a man for a year
and a half its time wasted when you discover
that he has chosen another girl in your place."

“Women, you normally check the man’s

bearings before accepting marital proposals.”

“What sort of bearings?”

“Employment status versus your own cosy

jobs and perks. You don’t want to marry below
your level.”

“Would you marry an unschooled rural

lady who just flunked ordinary level?”

“No.”

“Then we are equally to blame.”

“A man can go out with a lady below

their social status without much of a problem
except that the gents club will remind him of
that. You women on the other hand don’t wait
for disapproval from friends. Seem lady even
asked for my payslip.”

At that she had laughed her head off.

 “Richmond don’t flutter me.”

Imba Matombo restaurant was a very

beautiful professionally run establishment to
bring a lady for supper. They served good west
and African dishes. Richmond was picking on
his roast pork ribs, mixed spinach and parsley
vegetable salad and rice while she had
chosen her local breed of staple, sadza and T-
bone steak with green beans in tomato soup.

“Apprentice trained?”

“Yes for four years though by the time we

were attested to journeyman status it was four
years and a quarter plus several weeks in
between. Blame in on bureaucracy or red
tape. The biggest and most exciting part of the
training was the area I frequented while under
instruction was the same rural area my father
comes from. I was moving from Mutare,
Chipinge, Rusitu Valley thence north to
Nyanga and right into Rusape via Headlands.”

“There are so many carpenters here. If

you drive down Rotten Row going south east to
north east where after the traffic section near
the cemetery the road becomes Cripps, tom
the left and right, right up to the junction of
and in Harare Road South, there are many
carpenters, welders and other artisans there.”

“There was the Economic Structural

Adjustment Program that saw government,
state assisted, state run and other companies
shedding excess labour which ended up in the
streets doing the same work they did in the
manufacturing industry. You only have to go to
Mbare’s Siyaso Market to see people welding
hammers, chisels, set squares and planes. The
carpentry they do most is self-taught or they
became assistants to carpenters who were
taught by skilled carpenters.

The difference is in professionalism. A civil

engineering technician can lead a team of
workers building a bridge by his understanding
and experience and that of a civil engineer
are different. I once worked and I still work with
civil engineers. I design roof system and civil
engineers disagree with my design for different
reasons not the reverse.”

“You are comparing yourself with others.

Unfortunately in my trade we have legal
assistants who can be lawyers who have just
graduated. Due to registration and legal
constraints they do not practice but can be as
knowledgeable as the senior partners.”

“I can read house plans to quantify the

amount of carpentry and joinery needed. I can
prepare layouts of the project including
estimation of materials and labour requires
based on the plan if it’s the construction sector.
I check out height, width, length, weight,
materials including the bonding of wood and
other materials like granite top finishes.

“I use chisels, planes, saws, drills, vice

grips and mattocks for repair or erection of
work. I am used to working with ladders or
power tools like drills, grinders, saws and
electric planning machines. I know the
specifications of council, the safety concerns
and durability of materials. The carpentry hang
outs you are talking about can’t read plans or
take instructions from civil engineers because
they never trained for that. I can do mock ups
to see how the plan will look.”

“You work in the construction industry?”

she asked.

“If we get such a contract I can

supervise. I can supervise the construction of
doors, ledges, beams, lintels, complicated
roofs, fitted kitchens, built in wardrobes and
other issues.”

“Oh, remind me when I need the roof

done.”

“We do work fit for men not like you

women. It takes you twenty minutes to do your
face for dinner.”

“I didn’t take twenty minutes,” she

responded.
 “Women!” He snorted. “Why don’t you
go natural like us men?”

He took his carafe of wine. The carafe

was as big as his face. When he held it up her
face was the colour of honey mixed with
mahogany. Her lips were spreading in size. He
put the wine glass down. Maybe the waiter
had put Heineken instead.

“Natural as in _______?”

“You put on facial make up. You do your

hair this and that. You shampoo it. You pit on
false nails. You do eye shadow and make up.
We just have our hair and beard trimmed.”

“What exactly is your point?” she asked.

“Nothing, just boasting.”

“And you do not add anything to your

face?”

“Very little,”

“You smell of shampoo or perfume,” she

retorted. He looked around him to which she
burst out laughing. “Gotcha!”

“Did you go to the local university?”

“Yes for four years. I was a resident there.

My father refused to have me commuting,” she
had replied.
 “After advanced levels the choice of
degree I had received at University of
Zimbabwe did not do well for me. I instead
went for apprenticeship carpentry with Dave
Solomon Timbers for four years in Mutare.”

“So you speak the Manyika dialect?”

“Yeah I do.”

“Do you have your own biological

children?”

“I am still single.”

“In the closet, like illegitimate?”

“Like none that I know of. I made sure

the women were barren,” he had replied. “I
learnt a lesson from my grandfather not to
throw seed around.”

She had had a laugh. She looked at him

with a smile on her face. Her hand was
propping her chip up.

“How old are you Richmond?” she

asked. “You are so sweet to talk to. Is that how
you charm the daylights out of all your
women?”

“Twenty-seven/eight and no to the last

question.”
 “Why, we are almost the same age,” she
had replied. “Our breed of unmarried seniors is
thinning every year.”

“Really?” he had replied. “What other

things do we share?”

She drove him home leisurely.

“You could come in,” he had said at his

flat.

“Not tonight thanks Richmond. Another

day perhaps?” she had replied.

“Are you afraid of your virtue?” he had

asked. She reversed back into Montagu
Avenue.

“I don’t have any virtue to defend. No,

besides I am not barren.”

“I don’t throw seed around.”

She had driven away. Besides the dull

engine sound he heard her laughter.

__________________________________

He had paid the tow truck, the panel

beater and spray painter while taking
everything to the insurance company in the
event that he got reimbursed. After this he had
to track the exports he had made through his
agent which were moving from one country to
another. They had not yet reached the freight
forwarder when the Greek Brothers called him
in. They moved the freight to Cyprus instead
where there was an exposition.

“Sorry, we Greek are known for our short

temper,” Macario had said. “Putting the stuff in
Cyprus will give us time to think. If our contacts
suggest otherwise we will advise you.”

“Okay. “

Richmond had shaken hands with

Macario and Daichi. Why was it that when he
visited the two, their wives were always in the
background, out of earshot? When food was
suggested, a black maid suddenly appeared.

He got into the neon lit city of Harare in

the evening. He checked his cell phone. He
alighted from the vehicle. Ndanatsiwa had four
missed calls yet he hadn’t heard them.

“I am in Fife Avenue,” he had said. “I was

on my way home. Sorry I didn’t hear the phone
ringing or see your missed calls list until now.”

“I am in um the last road sign post that I

saw said Divine Road, Milton Park about to
leave. I will drive down Clayton Road towards
Princess Road. Did you say you did your
primary at Selborne Routledge School?”

“I did my junior school in the high density.

We made raiding parties into the grasslands
surrounding Highfield to look for grasshoppers
and to hunt birds.”

“So you would have offered me a locust

or grasshopper whatever the difference had
we met earlier instead of a rose? Okay
secondary is when you went to Wilkins
Infectious Diseases Hospital?” she said before
breaking off with laughter. “Sorry about the
lose joke. Can I see you somewhere?”

He remembered the first sight he had

seen a big lady in a Volvo vehicle who had
given him a lift when it had been raining.

“The flat?” he had suggested.

“No ways. Remain at Five Avenue shops I

am coming,” she had suggested.

“Oh you are afraid of your virtue?”

“I am not barren. I may end up the

mother of visual artistes.”

They had supper in an upmarket upstairs

joint. It was marinated beef, roast potatoes,
apple and pineapple salad and their mineral
drinks. There was a comedy show in a bar
nearby which they joined half way through.
They laughed a lot most of the time. The
comedy was good. They joined the dance
floor for a dance or two. He was very
impressed with her. For her bulk, she could
dance very well. He took her hand. They went
down to the streets below.

“Are you not going to Highfield?” she

asked.

“Why not?” He asked though he had

had no intention.

“How will you come back to the flat?”

she had asked.

“I will worry about that later,” he said.

“Come,” she said.

He opened the passenger door. She

drove leisurely for Highfield singing songs with
him. She headed for Glen View instead. She
stopped the vehicle outside her home. He
traced his hands on her hand on the gear shift
lever.

“I will trust you bring my vehicle to the

office tomorrow morning without fail, without a
dent in the paintwork.”

“Are you the first born?”

 “Yes my two younger sisters have married
ahead of me.”

“I am the last,” he had said. “I am also

the only one who hasn’t married, yet.”

He stood with her by the vehicle for a

few minutes. He took her in a bear hug. Her
fingers drummed on his back. He chose her
mouth in the darkness. His hands wrapped
around her back moving up and down. If it
was a massage, she seemed to like it. He kissed
her. She didn’t resist.

“Richmond I am not ________,”

He closed her mouth with his hugging her

again. She was warm, soft and yielding.

“I like you Ndanatsiwa. You are so

simple.”

“Really? I was just saying I am not a saint.

I made mistakes in life. Don’t expect to date an
angel,” she had replied.

He hugged her again. He drove to

Highfield before going to his flat block an hour
later. Why did mother say she was warming
food for about half an hour? Ironically, he
parked her Volvo next to his Toyota Harrier.

____________________________________
 “Are you free Saturday?”

She had asked on the phone on a Friday

while he was at the studio finishing up around
seven in the evening. Why did the muse come
when he was pressed with appointments? Why
did he become so creative after suffering
blocks of non-creativity?

“Saturday is tomorrow.”

“I know that.”

“I will freeze my appointments,” he had

replied.

“Can I pick you at the flat or in town?”

she had asked.

“I will phone you and give you the finer

details,” he had suggested.

Darius had told him one time that he was

too serious. He should take breaks which
improved his work.

“To remove the clutter,” Darius had

suggested. “Break off. Take time in a holiday
resort. Get a girl if you don’t have one already
and release the pressure. Two weeks later
when you come, less artefacts and more
value, huh?”

“I will consider that.”

 “You should have a Greek ancestor. You
are hard headed.”

“Darius!” He had broken out laughing.

“Maybe we are related.”

“Go to Athens for three days and relax.

Had we colonised your country, you would
have been living in Athens.”

“I am afraid of the Macedonian air

force mistaking my passenger plane for a
Serbian military transport.”

He had texted her to be in Baines

Avenue by seven in the morning or earlier. He
had further expressed her to be in long shorts or
loose trousers with loose fitting t-shirts or cotton
blouses plus to carry a change of clothes
including a hat/cape.

“Since when do you dictate a lady’s

taste in clothes?” She had fired back.

“You can wear what you want. You will

be on a merry-go-round. Dresses will fly
upwards,” he had texted back. “Then you will
fall flat on sandy muddy soil.”

“Hmm?”

She rang him at a quarter to seven telling

him she was in the Volvo. He came trotting in
half-length jean shorts and cotton short sleeve
shirt holding a small one hand bag. She stood
outside the vehicle. She wore jeans shorts cut
around her knees with an overlapping blouse.
Underneath it was a black tight top without
sleeves. She hugged him before taking the
passenger seat.

“I intended taking us to a game reserve

in Marondera,” she had said.

“Did you book?” He had asked strapping

up.

“No need for two people to book,” she

had replied.

“Let’s go to Marondera,” he had replied.

She found them hugging traffic in

Lomagundi Road heading west instead of east.

“Marondera Road has changed its

views. Now I see the Westgate shopping centre
instead of Ruwa turn off.”

“You need spectacles girl.”

He drove her to Chinhoyi for a day

outing on that Saturday. They were at
Chirorodziva Pools by nine seeing especially
the sleeping pool. They had breakfast in
Chinhoyi afterwards. They discussed the beauty
of the caves and their sleeping pool. They
talked about all the legends that they had
heard of.

“Is it true that there is a link from

Chinhoyi’s subterranean paths to Lake Kariba
as suggested by people?” She asked over
breakfast.

“If it were true that there is such a

legendary link remember that Lake Kariba was
constructed in 1955 to 1959. So how come the
legend is so modern? Besides which before the
construction of Lake Kariba, the valley where
the myriad waters flow as a lake was called
Gwembe. This means in my language a
disease valley because of the impressive heat
and dryness. Most of the heat was caused by
microwave effect of the hills surrounding the
valley and the rocks below. Had water been
seeping from an underground river towards
Gwembe Valley, we would have heard about
it. The source of Lake Kariba is the Zambezi
Valley not a stream from Chinhoyi.”

“Maybe there are underground tunnels,

more like natural ones,” she had suggested.

“Had they existed, the Rhodesian army

would have mined those tunnels years ago
between 1973 and 1979 when guerrillas were
crossing the Zambezi River infiltrating the
country. The guerrillas would also have used
them to transport arms and equipment.”
 “Maybe they are too small.”

“I wouldn’t know Ndanatsiwa. However I

understand there may be underground river
channels linking the Zambezi Valley to Chinhoyi
which I doubt. The whole country has
underground water with small streams flowing
from one higher area to another but no known
real river like the Gijon in Jerusalem.”

“You just want to disbelieve my story.”

“Those are hard facts my dear. I

understand the Sleeping Pool is quite deep.
They estimate that it is between 80 to 90 metres
depending on the rainfall received. The more
abundant the rainfall, the deeper the pool
becomes. Some divers have gone in and
explored with some fatalities when air ran out I
heard otherwise I wouldn’t dive in there for a
dollar.”

“The parks and wildlife rangers said the

name Chirorodziva means the pool of the
fallen,” she said.

“The Ngoni tribes when they passed

through the area centuries ago are said to
have thrown the local inhabitants they
captured into the sleeping pool or the dark
cave. You know in those days warriors killed
men of war. Men were treated in the same
way that a raiding party of male lions do to an
alpha male responsible for the pride. They
either kill the alpha male or maim and send it
out of the tribe. They kill all cubs to start their
own progeny.”

“Where we talking of lions and alpha

males?” she asked with intelligence.

“We were talking about the Ngoni tribe.

They captured the pretty wives and daughters
of the defeated tribes. Women as pretty as you
or my sisters were hustled away.”

“So?” she asked.

“You would have survived the raid.”

“Richmond!”

“I wouldn’t have minded being a chief

then being presented with eligible spinsters to
take as wives. With someone like you I wouldn’t
remember how to fight a war again. Who
would marry many wives with a woman as fair
as you? The Bible says that Sarah and Rebecca
were very fair. I am just willing to be Abraham
or Isaac and you remain fair.”

“The rangers said there was a bandit

called Nyamakwere who ran an outlaw outfit
that robbed and threw people into the pool
before he was defeated by a chief called
Chinhoyi hence the name,” she responded.
“We took had our own pirates and Robin
Hoods who operated before the land was
desecrated by the Caucasian blood.”

“Are you a relative of this Nyamukwere

outlaw or his band?”

“Richmond! Whatever the story maybe it

is a true fact that people used the caves to
escape their enemies during tribal warfare.
Unfortunately both defendants and the
besieging armies were thrown into the caves
themselves. That is why villagers talk of ghosts
that beat drums at night or cattle that are
heard in the pits of the caves. True or false I
don’t know except that dolomite stone is not
good for sculpting.”

“And my theories on beautiful women go

up in smoke?” he asked.

“That is flattery.”

“Ndanatsiwa you are what some people

call big and curvy chick. You are a tall mature
woman with a strong physique. You are a
voluminous but highly attractive lady. To
someone you are just a big woman blocking
their view. To me you are the most beautiful
woman this side of the country has ever
created. May my sun rise and set upon you.
May you experience me as your sole provider
in terms of love?”

Where had the poetry come from?

 “Could we tour the small town? I have
finished breakfast,” she had suggested putting
her napkin down and standing up. She
adjusted her top.

Whatever he had intended to say he

forgot or he forgo. He paid taking her for a
walk into the town emerging with ice creams
coming from the opposite end from where
they had parked forty minutes later.

He drove back through the Great Dyke.

Folds in the Earth had created rich hills full of
mineral deposits stretching from Zvishavane
four hundred off kilometres to as far as Lion’s
Den. It expressed itself by broken hills and
twisting roads. From within the vehicle he could
just hear the audible hum of the engine as it
did not even strain up the hilly passes.

“The hilly stretch is very pleasant,” she

suggested from the passenger seat.

“It is unnerving if you are in an over

loaded passenger vehicle like a bus and it
stops with the engine running unable to climb
because of the load and strain on the engine.
Worse if it starts to go in reverse.”

“It is very difficult to climb these hills if you

are in a pickup loaded with hardwood stubs
meant for some carver and the brakes start to
fail,” she suggested.
 “When Nyamakwere raided in the old
days, no woman dared make fun of her
husband/man. He would exchange her for
Nyamakwere’s peace. Women then were
bargaining chips. A man just needed to marry
many beautiful ones,” was all he said for the
moment. They topped a rise. He drove into a
straight road leaving the hills behind. “They
needed not be pregnant because
Nyamakwere did not like another man’s seed.”

“Unfortunately the raiding parties are no

more.”

He turned south of south east towards

Darwendale. He took her hand in his. They
cruised through the hills and dales going
through valleys and stretches of flat land. He
changed gears with her hand under his. The
roads twisted and turned avoiding hills and
negotiating between hills. They could see parts
of the large expanse of what locals called
Darwendale dam which was Lake Manyame.

He stopped the vehicle were a

shimmering carpet of water could be seen.
Ripples appeared like communication signals,
moving from one end of the other as the wind
blew gently. Those that died on the way were
joined by fresh ones made by the wind or any
creature dipping into the water.

“No one advised me we were heading

towards a lake,” she summed up.
 “You are just too bulky I would have
stopped the vehicle.”

“And?”

“I would have picked you up and run

into the water with you on my shoulder. After
the baptism maybe you will feel inclined to be
more yielding to quench the heat inside of
me,” he had said.

“Fortunately I am too big. Unfortunately I

don’t feel like doing the reverse.”

“Your cousin the hippo would welcome

you.”

“Richmond! I may be ugly but not as ugly

as the hippo.”

“Okay ugly duckling.”

He followed a road that twisted and

turned with hill buttresses appearing like
Ndebele warriors showing their butts to the
white colonists. They reached the expanse of
the lake which at one time had been the
largest inland lake in the country before 1980.
The dam wall alone was about two kilometres
across.

For lunch she chose lasagne. He

selected mashed potatoes soufflé with Gouda
cheese and ham slices. They had a lake cruise.
His idea of finishing his carving was blown to
pieces yet he had relaxed. Both had talked to
local fishermen who wadded into deep water
to fish casting lines. He had tried catching fish.
They returned in the evening. By the time they
drove back she knew the dam wall was so
wide she had walked back and from for more
than three and a half kilometres.

She also knew the names of fish found in

the local river systems. She had also changed
the third and last time into denim shorts and
overlapping blue t-shirt with gold ensigns. They
had walked hand in hand and arm in arm for
more than an hour. She now knew tiger fish
only inhabited Lake Kariba and other large
bodies of water. She also now knew the shrill
call of the fish eagle.

“Thanks for the outing,” she said from the

passenger seat. “This was a jam-packed day.
Maybe it required accommodation near the
lake.”

“That is what carpenters do when they

date ladies with degrees,” he had replied.

“Nobody is suffering from inferiority

complex.”

“Thank you for the assurance.”

“I told the game rangers to count the

Mopani trees and not worry about their
delicacy, the Mopani worms. Though they are
hardwoods, I warned them there was a wood
carver with power tools and equipment
prowling around __________.”

“Ndanatsiwa!”

He drove to the flat as the sun was

setting.

“Do come in for a cup of coffee or a

can of Coke.”

“Of course why not,” she had replied.

She went up ahead of him when he

unlocked. Women! Her first port of call had
been the toilet. She liked what she saw. On the
ground the entrance opened into an entrance
foyer which was adorned with portraits on both
sides. There was a single settee. To the left
there was an arch that opened to the lounge
which had modern furniture with French
windows to bring in solar sanity and fresh air. To
her immediate left a passage led to the
kitchen on the left and a dining room on the
right plus a visitor’s toilet which was her target.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms with
wall to wall carpeting. There were built in
cupboards. There was a separate toilet then a
bath and shower room with a tub. He showed
her all the way to his master bedroom with its
large queen base and mattress adorned with
beddings that matched the curtains.
Besides that she liked the large
headboard and its honey brown coating
complete with a dressing table, chest of
drawers and reading lights. There was a
desktop computer, central processing unit, a
printer and a scanner tucked in a corner with
their own desk. He opened the curtains and
windows to allow air to rush in.
“What a wonderful flat?” She peaked at
his neighbours across the divide. “It’s almost as
good as a townhouse near Newlands
Shopping Complex that I had a privilege to
tour.”
“Thanks,” he had said.

“Do you own or rent?” She had asked.

“I own it. I gave up two flats that I had to

buy this one. They were however bedsitters,”
he had replied. “In my trade you have to invest
in case the rainy days without sunshine come
and you are caught in the open flagging down
lifts that won’t stop.”

“What do the other rooms have?”

He opened both bedrooms for her

inspection. One had two single bunk beds. The
other had a double base and mattress plus
headboard, chest of drawers and a dressing
table. He caught her in his arms on her egress
by the door. His hands went below her back
while hers went around his neck.

“I am not a harlot like those that patrol

these streets,” she said. Their faces were almost
touching.

“I didn’t say you are. How do you know

about those?”

“I know these streets at night are full of

ladies that will be sleeping during the day. They
wake up and search for customers at night like
lone tigers searching for prey. They raid men
like a pack of lions surrounding a herd of
buffalo at night. Watch out!”

“Hey thanks for a word of advice.”

“I am not holy either. I have made many

mistakes when I thought I was in love,” she had
said.

She was still speaking when he closed

the gap pressing her against the wall. He
pushed his hands under her tee shirt moving his
hands against her back. He pushed his hands
over her fat near the stomach coming up to
squeeze some muscle that jutted out. The
muscles were soft, yielding and cuddly like
kittens he had caressed when he had been a
small boy paying them a service for keeping
the rats and mice away.
 “Richmond don’t remove my brassiere
_____.”

“Sorry I got carried away. I just wanted to

feel their weight,” he had replied.

He felt their weight squeezing in his

hands. One hand was not enough because
she had large state assets both behind her and
in front of her chest.

“Can we go downstairs before you start

to undress me?” She had asked.

She pulled his hands from her backsides

where he had been kneading on flesh.

“I only deal with the barren.”

He had closed the gap pressing his lips

across hers again. She returned each kiss with
her tongue for tongue, lip for lip and hug for
hug. Her arms encircled his neck like a lady of
virtue while his hands were around her waist if
they were not interfering with her sitting, baby
feeding or walking apparatus. Minutes later
they came up for air. He could feel the warmth
of her embrace. Her legs were wedged against
his. They met somewhere there downstairs
moving to set like concrete poured into
moulds.

“Let’s talk as civilised people downstairs. I

may end up being barren.”
 “Whether upstairs or downstairs your
virtue is still intact.”

“I did rather go downstairs,” she had

replied pulling down her tee shirt under which
her black body top that covered her bosom
space had moved upwards. She made
adjustments.

They kissed again downstairs slowly

without hurrying. They exchanged stories. They
sat on the floor pouring over old school
photographs after she had inspected his
portraits and carvings.

“Can we have supper like now?” he had

invited.

“Sorry I telephoned home that I would

join them for supper by nineteen thirty hours. I
have to get home Richmond to my parents. It’s
nice to sit and chart with you however too
much can be misleading. We have raced too
much today. Thanks for the day. I am sorry to
disappoint you for supper. Maybe when I
introduce you we will have supper as a family.”

____________________________________
gumi nemana (14)
 ____________________________________

They had met for cheese burghers and

mineral drinks in the city. They normally made it
a point to meet in the middle of the runway, at
lunch having snacks before rushing off to their
busy schedules. It made sense because he was
working with a building colleague who was
bringing state of the art houses on the market
in Mandara. These exclusive properties
required carpenters who could do the job well.

Richmond was supervising and

managing the team of other skilled carpenters
and a civil engineer doing all the carpentry
work from fittings in the kitchens to every part
of the housing units. In the evening he was too
rushed up to head for the gallery and find time
for supper with her. Somewhere within his busy
schedule he always found time to stand in his
mother’s kitchen taking a plate and discussing
with her and his father while enjoying a home
cooked meals.

The place was crowded yet people

were appearing on television complaining that
the state of the economy was not pleasant.
The tables and chairs were jammed with mostly
families after having spent the better part of
time in the city. It was an out of the city joint
overlooking Mutare Road just after Cresta
Oasis.
 As soon as someone finished eating the
workers appeared from the shadows to clean
the tables picking up the used plates, spoons
or what was for the rubbish bin. There was a
table for four. There were two of them half way
through the meal when a lady brought her
chicken and chips plus mineral drink to their
table. The other chairs and tables had started
having intermittent vacancies.

She wore loose fitting trousers, blouse

and a jacket which matched the uniform of a
private hospital. She looked well dressed,
elegant and cultured. At a glance Richmond
could see the texture of the skin was that of a
woman who stayed in the periphery of the city.
Those that tilled the land in the rural area but
frequented the skin did not have this texture. It
was of an educated professional lady or
daughter/wife of an upper class family.

“Hello, I have been told about you. You

are more handsome than she explained. She
was reserving you like royalty. Did you think I
would snatch him Ndanatsiwa?” she asked.

The chin and cheeks moved. He realised

in a flash that it was like déjà vu. He had seen
about forty of her photographs somewhere. Oh
yes, he remembered seeing her on
Ndanatsiwa phone which he had called a
think pad or a miniature TFT television because
of the 10-inch screen.
 She had extended a hand to Richmond.
He was equally surprised. He did take the
offered hand. It was soft and yielding which
showed the difference between professional
ladies and those who worked hard or worse
those that stay in the rural areas. She had a firm
grip like a golfer hitting a stroke.

The hand that shook his moved like the

pedals of a Lance Armstrong, firm and hard.
She released the hand like a discus player
sending his discus away. The hands holding her
food looked like they had been dipped in
honey and milk for a week. They were soft and
tender with fake nails at the end. It looked like
they had shaken hands for two minutes.
Maybe his next date should be chosen by
shaking hands.

“Lydia!” Ndanatsiwa had castigated.

“Did I ever say that much to you?”

“Thanks, and both of you are beautiful,”

he had paid a compliment. “I wouldn’t know
whom to choose where I be asked to choose
who is more beautiful of the two of you. You
must be the Lydia she is always yearning for.”

“Richmond meant me Ndanatsiwa, not

you. I am Lydia Shashe. I went to school with
Ndanatsiwa though we lived in different
communities. I was in Kambuzuma when she
was in Glen View. We are still friends,” the
woman has said. “When she is with me it’s
always Richmond this and that. I guess with you
it’s all about me.”

“I will tell you what you must do

Richmond, don’t listen to Lydia.”

Ndanatsiwa had her hand in his by the

elbow squeezing. It was as a sign of possession.
Was he being tussled for between two
charming ladies? He let his day dreams slide
away. He woke himself from his reverie.

“I must marry both of you,” Richmond

suggested.

“Now you got him talking on his most

favoured subject, women!” Ndanatsiwa stated.
“He is going to use us as bargaining chips
should war break out.”

“What?” Lydia asked.

“It’s a long story. I will tell you of his roots

one day when I am very happy,” Ndanatsiwa
had said.

“You are happy,” Richmond suggested.

“If you are this radiant and not happy,

then I don’t know the measure of happiness.”

“When I am happy I will tell you.”

“Lydia, my date is a queer one.”

 Lydia was slightly shorter than
Ndanatsiwa with a firmer body. Her backsides
and her bosom were noticeable. The top she
wore made her bosom jut out. It was
fashionable yet in the religious and traditional
dress circles, it was letting out too much private
skin of the chest.

“Really?” He had replied. “I am called

Richmond Kangira. I deal with wood from a
pine tree cut down when ripe to a rafter. I take
my dates into the forests to see huge Mopani
trees with Mopani worms. I allow the ladies to
climb up the Mopani trees or gum poles. My
test for an eligible marriageable lady will be
how fast she climbs up to the top of a sixty
metre high gum tree. I have buried a few
already.”

“I handle cases like your workers who fall

ill,” she had replied. “Do fall ill on my duty and
let me attend to such a handsome face.
However, don’t ever commit company law
crime because you will meet Ndanatsiwa
arguing with the authorities there.”

“She is a very talkative nurse,” added

Ndanatsiwa.

“The lawyer is recording all the details in

her legal brains,” Richmond said.

“Richtie, you are supposed to defend

me against her.”
 “I didn’t know there was a war.”

“It’s undeclared,” suggested

Ndanatsiwa. “Otherwise how are you guys?”

“Richmond there will be no sweet kisses

tonight,” Lydia had suggested with an elbow
movement to her. “Judging by her looks you
will be put on starvation diet.”

Ndanatsiwa eyes bulged out, huge and

brown like small golf balls. They receded into
their eyelids like a crocodile that had missed its
intended victim lying in wait for the very next
one.

“Lydia!” Ndanatsiwa exclaimed. “Will

you two remember we are in a public place?”

“Will you be hurrying to his flat?”

whispered Lydia.

Ndanatsiwa held her chin and tried to

force a smile off her face.

“I and Richmond are not as corrupt as

you think,” was what she said.

“To change your light winter wear for the

cold,” Lydia finished. “He needs change that
passage bulb that keeps flicking on and off.”

“Why at his flat if I may ask? I can

change in the ladies room here where there is
no flickering lamp.”
 “That is what happens in the Mills & Boon
that I am reading.”

“I thought you had left those books for

the high school students with their crushed on
stars in the school sports teams.”

“I only had a crush on Richmond before I

met him!”

“Lydia”

“Utter girl,” Richmond said. Her hands

were like a vice grip on his elbow. He could
feel her warmth and the mint taste of her
breath was on his nose.

That was how he came to know Lydia

Shashe who was more beautiful and more
composed than his own date. They
exchanged news and contacts. Three of four
times a week Richmond and Ndanatsiwa had
snacks with Lydia. Lydia was more talkative
than Ndanatsiwa. He in turn was more talkative
than Ndanatsiwa yet he was less as talkative or
provocative as Lydia.

“She likes dealing with constitutions and

company law,” Lydia had accused her friend
one afternoon. “Tell me Richmond. On a lazy
Sunday morning what do you do to entertain?”
 “I go to church regularly. I mostly miss the
mid-week services due to commitments or
being too far from my assembly.”

“Oh?” Lydia had smiled. She took her

snack. “I meant hobbies besides taking
Ndanatsiwa out.”

“I like cricket as a sport which I play and

watch the professional “A”- class teams. I like
and play golf too especially with my old man
when he has no duties bothering him. We
normally go to Chapman’s, Warren Hills or
Albatross Golf Courses. Besides I like to watch
and playing rugby alongside tennis. Besides
that I like walking in the woods or in the park,”
he had replied. “I jog early in the morning right
round our blocks before taking the trendmill.”

“Where is Albatross Golf Course?” asked

Ndanatsiwa.

“It is next door to the Aspindale Fertiliser

plant in Mufakose.”

“Oh that one? I never knew it had a

name.”

____________________________________

His phone rang. He was looking at a

small scale model of a house to be
constructed in Borrowdale Brooke. Someone
had consulted him over bread and butter
issues.

“I will need to check the design in the

computer again to be sure,” he had replied to
the main contractor. He flushed his hand into
his pocket and took out the offending Nokia
Lumia. “Hello.”

“Hi Richmond. It’s Lydia. I have texted

you an address can you be there in thirty
minutes?”

“I am in a tight spot. Can I call you in

twenty minutes?” He had asked.

“Okay,” she had said. It took him more

than an hour and a half to reach an
agreement with the civil engineers at the city
council concerning the roof after he had
addressed their misgivings.

He started for the city.

He checked his Lumia again. There was

an address, time and he was almost five
minutes late. He found himself before a grey
looking block of flats.

He climbed to the fourth floor. By the

time he knocked, it was thirty-eight minutes
after the initial suggested time. He heard
footsteps. He was sweating. Why was it that
sweat chose the small of the back to tickle
down?

“Hi,” she was standing on the door,

“Hello Lydia.”

He had greeted turning from where he

had been observing other things on the block
of flats seeing through things rather. His eyes
ran over her. She stood on the doorway
without any shoes on. She wore a white cotton
dress with button details from the waist up. It
was sleeveless with a U neck too. The bosom
line was cut at angles rounded in a semi-circle.
The bosom seemed to have been lifted off
from the entire body. The dress had not been
made to match her behind. It seemed to have
stopped somewhere soon after her backsides.

“Richmond won’t you come in. There are

no lions inside.”

“I am rather tied up for the moment I

almost forgot about your message.”

“Richmond, what sort of a guy forgets a

date with a woman?” she had asked.

“I know I didn’t plan to meet Ndanatsiwa

that is why I have scheduled others things to
do. I have to meet a Caucasian in ____,”
Richmond looked at his watch. “I will have to
be quick. I have less than fifteen minutes.”
 “I thought we could discuss issues
between us, as in Ndanatsiwa, me and you,“
she had replied.

“Today I have issues. Another day

perhaps?” he asked.

“What a disappointment.”

In her naked feet she saw him off coming

down to the second floor. There she had had
to pull the dress down so it could fit midway to
her knees.

“Lydia let me rush I may miss my

appointment. There is a lot of bacon in the
tourist whom I have been tasked to meet over
dinner.”

He went down the steps fast heading for

his vehicle. She returned to the flat. She stood
by the wall and shook her hands. She went for
her handbag.

Her cell had been on silent. “Hello.”

“Maurice here I have been calling you.”

“Why don’t you call Maureen and maul

her instead of bothering me you rude offshoot
of the male lion clan?”

“Are we still crossing swords?” he had

asked.
 “She seems to be so good to moon all
over you. Go to the bitch,” she had replied.

“I thought we could talk like humans.

Last time when I took you to Lake Chivero, we
really fused together didn’t we?” he asked. “I
told you are a spring chicken. I haven’t even
started yet. I will book us two rooms two nights
in Mutare, heh. Hey, had those park rangers
see us mating would they have fired their single
bolt action rifles or handed us to the police? Or
would they have watched in amazement at
the spectacle of young bloods.”

“I am at the flat for a limited time. Let’s

meet there in thirty minutes,” she had switched
off the call.

Half a loaf was much better than none.

She was after anything to take the rude shock
of her disappointment away.

What was wrong with the man who

hammered nails into planks?

____________________________________

He was free a few days later when he

remembered the flat. He drove there. He went
up the steps to the fourth floor. He had a thing
for remembering addresses. His grandfather
had said he never lost direction to a tree he
wanted once he had picked up its sight and
scent. Did that inhibit him too? He pressed the
buzzer. The door opened, a man stood there
with no shirt on.

“Hi,” Richmond had said.

“Hello,” the other had replied. “May I

assist?”

“There is a woman called Lydia, best

friend of my date that lives here. May I see
her?” he asked. “I am a bit pressed for time.”

“Oh, my girlfriend,” the other showed him

in.

He sat in a tastefully decorated lounge

discussing soccer when Lydia emerged five
minutes later from somewhere within the maze
of rooms. She had a burgundy bath towel
around her body leaving a good sight of her
skin top and bottom. Her hair was bound up on
and around her head. She was surprised to see
Richmond.

“Lydia there is someone to see you.”

“Let me dress up Maurice. Hello

Richmond. Maurice, Richmond is Ndanatsiwa
current date. Feel at home guys I will be out in
a jiffy.”
 She never called him to the flat again.

____________________________________

“We are live on radio this evening. We

are talking about the arts which are an industry
to be reckoned with. Imagine if all the
Jamaican reggae artistes were paying taxes
on their music sales including live shows and
syndications/endorsements etc. to their home
country. Then imagine all of them investing in
their homeland while living overseas. Imagine
the same here in Zimbabwe with our artistes be
they writers, actors, musicians or whatever
other profession doing the same.

“Jamaica alone has a great GDP from

musicians that were born on the island. I am
told one of the largest concentrations of visual
artistes is in Paris. Imagine First Street, Harare
being open outdoor studios of thousands of
painters. With me are two gentlemen whom I
will ask not to say their last names until we settle
into the program. Good evening.”

“Good evening Zimbabwe.”

“What is your first name?”

“My name is Denford.”

 “Good day Zimbabwe. I am called
Richmond,” the other had replied.

“What similarities are there between the

two of you?” the radio presenter had asked.

“My rural home is in Mutasa District of

Manicaland province once past Rusape along
Nyanga Road,” Richmond had replied. “We
are more of Manyika in terms of dialects than
others.”

“My rural home is Goromonzi, just outside

Marondera, about an hour’s drive from either
Marondera or the city of Harare. In both
respects we use Mutare Road when going
rural. Me, I turn east soon after Bromley.”

“The two of you are both famous.”

“You tell me,” Richmond replied. “That is

another similarity we had not mentioned.”

“I will start with Denford. Where does the

skill to turn stone into figures which the
international community marvels at come
from?”

“There is brute talent which is like a rough

diamond. Then there is persistence, blind
determination, sweat and hard work which
bring out the polished stone. The skill is in born. I
am not the only sculptor who is raising dust for
the country outside the borders. I want to
believe that sculptured images exist we only
chip the rough edges out like polishing of
diamonds.”

“And your turn Richmond?”

“I don’t know where my craving skills

come from but I just like to create things out of
wood. Like he has said it’s hard and frustrating
work. I am not sure if it’s more talent than
training. Whatever, there is need for broad
imagination, discipline and hard work. You
would not believe the time some of us wake up
to dream of a creation. We put our dreams on
pencil and relive them in our minds before
committing the curving axe to wood. Locally,
people don’t appreciate our efforts while on
the international market the up and down in
prices is affecting most of us. Locally people
don’t pay top dollar. If you get lucky enough to
be picked by the big millionaires out there in
the world, you will cry all the way to the bank
treasury.”

“How are you two related?”

“My father was born by a man called

Mamhepo who is now late who had an elder
brother called Kangira,” Denford was saying.
“My grandfather Mamhepo had a reputation
for playing the African drum. He was a bass
and baritone singer. He could dance. He was a
tall and lanky gentleman who was called a
kick dancer. He liked besides playing drums
and shakers to take his beer. He could dance
whether drunk or sober at a rural festivals,
gatherings, weddings or field days. He could
leap more than a metre above the metre high
drums.

“I still have a framed portrait of him

doing this before some white gentlemen at a
cultural exhibition in Gweru. When he was in a
good mood no man within the broader
constituency of Goromonzi, Marondera rural or
peri urban or even Harare had the dancing
and drumming skills he had. I don’t know why
dancing didn’t rub on me. I do dance
extremely well but not for public performances.
I however shifted from his dancing to turning
stone into artefacts. I spent a lot of time with
my grandfather almost every school holiday
yet I didn’t become a dancer by profession.”

“So the famous wood carver Kangira is

related to you all as well as well as Mamhepo?
That is very interesting. I know from history that
Mamhepo won the Chibuku® road show
festival cultural dance competition several
times in consecutive years. I know of Kickboxer
1 and 2. I have yet to see the reviews for the
kick dancer.”

“Exactly. Our grandfathers were siblings.

Chief Mapinga is not talked about much but
he was a half-brother to both Mamhepo and
Kangira. He ran his chieftaincy while the other
two made waves outside the chieftaincy.”

“None of your father’s generation is a

wood carver or stone sculptor” the radio host
asked.

“There is none that we know of. Some of

my distant cousins are into dancing and music
maybe following after their grandfather,”
Denford had replied.

“Denford you have been to France,

Mexico, Canada and Europe with your
sculpting business. Besides this sculpting, who is
Denford?”

“Denford Mamhepo is a father of two.

He is married to a woman called Irene. I started
off as an art student at Harare Polytechnic
before fame found me. I struggle to know if I
should be teaching dance, being a
choreographer for videos or wedding dance
routine tutor/choreographer, art tutor or doing
sculpting.”

“Currently how old are you?”

“Thirty-four,”

“Where were you educated Denford?”

“I went to Goromonzi High School for four

years of secondary education. I did relief
teaching in the Chikwaka area for two years
before joining the polytechnic for four years of
study. By the time I had graduated I already
had a Datsun1200 sedan, royal blue in colour
with big mug wheels because my artwork was
paying dividends. I should also say that there
was a lot of peer misunderstanding about
college courses on offer. There was prejudice
against us art students. Most of us ended up as
art teachers especially in high schools in light
density suburbs. The students regarded the
engineering department as macho. I can
employ several engineers now.”

“The Datsun 1200 spent a lot of time

chasing a girl who was doing Food Sciences in
Education at Belvedere Teachers College,”
Richmond had suggested. “She made the
mistake of cooking him a meal on his birthday.
He pursued her like he was a copper
conductor and she was a bolt of lightning. I
know that because I played escort, chaperon,
sentinel, little and beloved brother. She loved
me more than the boss whom I won’t mention.
She felt sorry for him and she married him
instead of me about ten years ago.”

“That was supposed to be a secret,”

complained Denford.

“It is no longer a secret I guess.

Richmond?” asked the radio presenter.
 “I did ordinary level at Highfield High
School in Highfield before moving to Prince
Edwards for my advanced levels where I did
arts as a main subject besides English and
divinity. I belonged to a network of artists who
met in Hatfield, Logan Park to be exact at a
large residential complex. There we made our
creations. Our potential buyers came and
haggled. The owner of the property, an artist
too, fine arts, made a commission. The chosen
career path at the local university would have
made me a man of the cloth,” Richmond said.

There was laughter.

“And what else is there reverend or lay

pastor?”

“The local artists were a mixed bunch of

wood carvers, painters, those who did
crotchety which was a ladies domain and
stone sculptors including me,” Denford had
added. “I cut my teeth there as well. There are
several such communities here in Harare with
showcase of talent done at the National Art
Gallery.”

“Richmond,” the radio host had asked.

“When did you start showcasing your work at
the National Art Gallery near Harare Gardens?”

“By the second year at high school I had

work being showcased there. My first overseas
sale happened when I was in the first form. “
 “I guess we know who bought all the girls
in one class ice cream?” suggested Denford.

“Yes and no. That was supposed to be a

secret because some of the girls who used to
moon over me are married. I remember going
with dad to open a junior savings account with
Standard Chartered Bank, Karigamombe
Branch. I was self-important and smart in my
uniform with my bankers draft in dad’s pocket.
Dad kept explaining to the bank staff that I was
an artiste at my age. Then I appeared in
magazines like Moto run by the Catholic
Diocese of Gweru under Mambo Press, Parade
and the Sunday Mail magazine. He was the
one to read about his younger relative now.”

“To the schooling part you were saying?”

“I had ordinary level passes in sciences

and mathematics. I joined Plate Glass Industries
as an apprentice carpenter which is my current
professional qualification, journeyman
carpenter. In Denford‘s experience of dancing
with his grandfather Mamhepo and my carving
with grandfather Kangira, we both served an
apprenticeship which horned our crafts in
different forms. That way I stayed within my
vocation of woodcraft.”

“With you Richmond, Kangira is a direct

descendant? “
 “Yes through my father Richard who is in
the agricultural field and at times appears on
television talking about livestock and their
treatment.”

“What a famous family. Richmond the

Zimbabweans listening to this evening program
would like to know if you are married.”

“Not yet. There have been a few

disappointments but not yet.”

“What is your current age?”

“I am almost twenty-nine years old.”

“Like Denford, have you graced the

international scene?” the radio host asked.

“I have been to Italy, Turkey, Greece,

Israel, Saudi Arabia and Thailand to name a
few though I passed through numerous
countries on visa entries. I exhibited in India a
little while ago. I passed through Singapore,
Hong Kong and Sri Lanka on my way
elsewhere. I went up Mount Meru much closer
to Mount Kilimanjaro. I didn’t reach the summit
because we were pressed for time. Our group
did reach the Little Meru which is 3 820-metyres
in height.“

“What is the future like in sculpting and

carving? Are we going to see you making the
grade or maintaining the same grade as
famous sculptures like Dominic Benhura to
name but a few of Zimbabwe’s best and
quality exports?” the host asked.

“There are famous sculptors like Dominic

Benhura, Nesbert Mukombneranwa, Joram
Mariga the late, Edward Chiwawa and Norbert
Shamuyarira to name but some of the cream. I
don’t see any problem with maintaining the
grace of making it to the international scene,”
Denford replied. “As long as we remain
focused and hard working we will make it. I
have to stress that we have to create original
work.”

“What type of stone do you use

generally in Zimbabwe for sculpting?”

“We are blessed in that all the sculptures

made and exported from Zimbabwe are made
from local stone. Soap stone is the easiest stone
to use. It is very brittle. It does not make the
international grade. We use spring stone, fruit
serpentine, leopard rock from Nyanga, opal
stone or Domboshava opal and lepidolite.”

“Richmond what are your own words?”

“Joram Mariga started as a wood

carver before moving to stone sculpture. We
do have many wood carvers in Zimbabwe. On
choice of material, we use wood that is
palatable. Hardwood has staying power yet it
can break a carver. We use wood like rose
wood. There is ironwood too. This is a name
given to different types of African hardwood
whose interior is yellow or white and the core is
dark brown. Ebony and mahogany are known
well for their lustre. Ebony is a very expensive
wood followed by mahogany rare and very
beautiful. We also use African Walnut,
Olivewood or Lead Wood.
“We avoid freshly cut wood because
when it dries it can crack. After cutting the
wood must dry naturally which means unlike
the era of my grandfather, I don’t keep piles of
wood that is curing. I but that has already been
years at times in drying up. We can also use
wood that has been glued together into one
massive forum that can create shapes that are
very large.

“My grandfather reached the sky

considering he was rural. I guess given the
chance we should maintain the glory. We have
art teachers, exhibition masters, buyer’s guides
and scouts and the international scene which
were not available forty years ago. There was
also the dividing line of race. Now there is no
more race there are country duty and import
requirements that may work hard against us as
artistes. However if you are invited to a foreign
country like I experienced in India, one should
be able to do their artistry there.”
 “Denford what is your word of advice to
the young and upcoming artistes out there?”

“The main problem is that we have copy

cats that reproduce what the experts will have
done. If you copy other works by famous
artistes, where will you be if the international
community calls you to come and display?”
Denford asked. “We are all different so let’s be
as original as possible. Let’s work at perfection.
If you need use materials use local durable
ones that can withstand the test of time. I don’t
use soap stone because though it’s almost free
it’s very brittle but easy to work with.”

“Richmond?”

“It’s a difficult industry but let’s persevere.

The industry has seen mushrooming of artistes
and artistes colonies where they display their
work. Try and display to the international
community the very best work ever. Artistes
including those in the music industry or even
writers face one major problem. We do not
have an insurance policy against eventualities.
We lack a safety net in case of problems.
When you make the grade follow what your
agents and guides tell you. Don’t sell cheap.
Let your quality determine the price. When you
get paid invest in your life because you never
know what may happen. The Bible says
Benjamin is a ravenous wolf who hunts during
the day and divides the spoils at night. Work
during your time but invest in the future.”

“Richmond what are your highlights as a

craftsman?”

“I was in Italy during an exhibition when I

saw one of my grandfather’s pieces in an
exhibition there. It was stunning. It was
wonderful to see about ten photographers
taking pictures from every angle. Who knows
what value our products will have when we are
gone? The value of the piece was such that it
was under armoured glass. I wouldn’t afford it
yet it was displayed with his name and home
including the town of Rusape and Makoni
mentioned.”

“And to both of you, what differences do

you notice between sculptures and wood
crafting?”

“Sculpting refers to working with stones

and other materials besides wood,” Denford
said. “Some even use steel or iron.”

“Wood carvings are more likely to be

kept indoors or on verandas than stone
sculptures. Wood carvings suffer weather
damages especially from rain, heat, cold and
especially changes in weather like the desert,”
Richmond had replied.
 “Richmond, the question is for you. Your
grandfather, Kangira was a famous wood
carver right?”

“That is very correct.”

“One, did you ride on his fame to

become what you are now?” asked the radio
host. “The second part is what major
differences or challenges did Kangira and you
now face?”

“To the first question,” Richmond replied.

“My grandfather horned my skill by giving
critical judgement. Two he introduced me to
some contacts in Rusape that I took
advantage of though mostly I worked with
Denford and other carvers and sculptors here
in Harare. The Rusape sons of Kangira’s late
contacts carried on their father’s work of
exporting handicraft. They found contacts
overseas for the export of basketry, weavings,
sculptures and carvings to name by a few
including crotchety. I used my grandfather to
the full.”

“And now what major differences are

there between you Richmond and your
grandfather?”

“Grandfather used hand held tools to do

his work. It was hard and painful fraught with
mishap and the occasional bandaged hand,
shin or knee. He listened to and took advice
from the Europeans who formed his core
customers. We must always be open to
changes in technology. In my grandfather’s
day no one thought of boarding planks with
glue or other adhesives to create very large
carvings. No they do. When I came on board, I
started using power tools, electric saws, electric
grinders, electric sandpapering, and electric
sand blasting if needed and so on. I do use
hand tools in the initial stages but now I have
gone electric including scientific seasoning of
carving where we introduce the fine polish like
wood gloss finish.”

“Richmond, some people would say

being represented by a Caucasian or
someone the Rhodesian blacks called
Europeans is a sell-out thing and tantamount to
exploitation. Can you not be represented by a
black agent? What is your comment on that?”
asked the radio host.

“There is what is called black political

talk. Unfortunately a learned Member of
Parliament within the House of Representatives
misled himself and an agile committee by
insinuating that they could represent us. Hubert
Masvosva is a political party representative
who should continue to represent his
constituency of Goromonzi and not me as a
carver. I have my own way of dealing with my
customers without going through political
channels.
 “I do not broadcast my problems in the
house of representative either neither do I want
my dirty linen discussed there. As to exploitation
by so called whites, why do you use their
mannerisms and language in parliament of all
bodies? Why do judges still dress in wigs and
gowns if whites are racist exploiters? During the
war we said exports of resources mineral or
agricultural was exploitation. Now here we are
under black administration exporting tobacco,
beef, gold, coal, asbestos, chromites and
associated metal groups to name but a few.
Why don’t we stop exporting them?” asked
Richmond.

“Our balance of payment system would

collapse,” added Denford.

“As to who represents who, why do we

have a Caucasian family called the Blacks
representing the country in tennis? Had it been
Byron alone we could have said it was a fluke
but three of them, Byron, Wayne and Cara.
Why don’t we cultivate our own black
professional tennis players?” asked Richmond.
“There have been misplaced statements by
some people who want the commission better
than representing and sweating for the artistes
with the results that artistes in the music industry
have found themselves stranded on foreign
shores by inept management.
 “I will not fall for such a trick whatever
politics is said behind my back. They can have
their thematic committees dressing down the
British while driving Land Rover Discoveries and
talking nonsense of the United States while
driving Jeep Grand Cherokees. I am an artist
not political blubber or praise mouth. I stick to
my core values of turning wood into an item an
art connoisseur will value.”

“There is raw talent. It’s either you have it

or you don’t,” Denford said, “There is no
political correctness in the art industry. We
went through a liberation war, yes, I respect
ethos of this war. However, as an artiste if all I
show are war memories even here in
Zimbabwe people get tired and don’t buy. If I
work to remind people of the armed struggle I
will have no income.”

“Now, I cannot be a producer of a

material, an agent for its export and a
representative to the customer. I work on a
product, someone markets at a commission. A
freight agent handles the exports and my bank
handles the transactions coming from overseas
including deducting all agents’ commission. It is
a fair deal.

“We have a farmer in Mutoko. He grows

tomatoes and leaf vegetables which he brings
to Mbare for export. Why doesn’t he sell them
at home for fear of exploitation? These are
bought by vendors who in turn create a profit.
The baker does the same, why doesn’t he sell
to the whole nation getting rid of all the UD
delivery trucks?

“Why do big companies offer rampage

sales to get rid of old assets? Is it not to reduce
the costs of running these assets? That is the
same thing with an artiste. You concentrate on
the product, someone else does the
marketing, another does the customs
clearance and yet another exposes your work
in a foreign gallery. Why do we have local
business people who think they can represent
us by covering every front while sitting in their
condos here in Harare?”

“In politics,” Denford suggested. “We

should leave the artistes out. I have heard the
same sentiments expressed. Do you want me
to sell my crafts to the Soviet Union where there
is no market?”

“Denford can you say a few greetings?”

asked the radio host.

“I would like to say hi to my wife

Stephanie including the brood of Matthew and
Prudence. Please prepare supper, we are
famished. I am bringing Uncle Richie home for
dinner. He eats a lot.”

“And to you Richmond now that supper

is promised?”
 “To a woman called Nyashadzashe and
her grey haired but still young humorous
husband called Richard who form the crux of
my parentage, I owe you. She keeps looking
younger while his greying hair shows his
growing wisdom and experience with life. You
only have to see him speaking at wedding
gatherings to enjoy his humour streak. Against
custom, tradition and culture they raised me
up and supported me through my wandering.
To the gentry and ladies of the Kangira clan in
28th Street, Highfield near 89th Street, thanks for
the support. To Virginia Homani nee Kangira,
you got me confused early in my life, sister or
mother. Now I know you are a big bossy sister.
Thanks all the same.”

“This is radio live in the city of Harare. We

are being received everywhere throughout our
borders. Further to which our DSTv audio
channel is broadcasting as far as Bujumayi in
Zaire if that is the correct pronunciation. Then
we are being heard far, far in the north of north
east Nigeria in Kano. We have in the studio
Richmond Kangira a famous wood carver
combined with carpenter and his mate a
sculptor, Denford Mamhepo. These two are
very related indeed. I will take only eight calls
while music plays in the background.”

____________________________________
gumi nemashanu (15)
 _______________________________

“I heard your radio interview,” she had

said. “I was not interested in finding time for
radio. I had a heavy workload added to other
pressures of life. However one of the assistants
at the office recorded it. I have it on compact
disc. I played it as I was going through my pile
of work. You only tread of issues coming to
court you never read of legal minds sleeping at
two in the morning in order to be sharp and at
court by eight in the same day.”

“So I do not need to tell you what

transpired? I have the recording on compact
disc too in my briefcase if I didn’t leave it in my
vehicle. For someone without a legal mind, I
tend to forget. Had I been cross examined by a
smart lady lawyer in a camisole top I would
have stuttered and stammered like a 1970
diesel engine coming to life.”

“You didn’t mention me by name,” she

had replied.

“This was a national event. Remember

you have not yet introduced me to your
parents and vice versa. We haven’t reached
that stage, yet.”

She had not heard what he was saying.

She had not been listening.
 “In future interviews I am called
Ndanatsiwa Katokwe. I am the first child of
Judith and Ambrose though I do not use my
adopted father, Ambrose’s surname.”

“I was afraid of the legal

consequences,” he had replied to cheer her
up. What was a lawyer without a good sense of
humour?

“When a man does not mention a

woman’s name in a radio interview it means he
has others out there. You have other women
shelved like library books to be used in different
areas of study.” She had said. “Who are they?”

“No, not on the contrary,” he had

replied. “I read that your legal firm is in hot
soup. Don’t let that get to your head.”

“You said you are not searching

_______.”

Hadn’t he talked about a legal firm in

hot soup? Weren’t lawyers the ones putting
companies and individuals in hot soup? You
only needed to get a summons to appear
before a magistrate dragged by a client with a
good lawyer to understand about soup
making.

“Am I searching?” He had asked.

 She was not listening to the sweeteners
that he was throwing around.

“You want to be a roving bachelor?”

she asked. “You want to be a bachelor well
sought after by all the available, charming and
eligible ladies? You want them all eating out of
your hand like doves and pigeons on leash?
You want women at your beck and call?”

Maybe he should have her blood

pressure and sugar level checked.

“Listen,” he had said. “I will send you a

card with directions to a function where I am
officiating. You are certainly in a bad mood
today. You are free to come.”

“Okay,” she had replied. “It is true our

legal firm may be broken down. There are
issues I cannot discuss in public or private which
are sub judice. I very well may be out of a job.
For the past year I have withstood salary cuts
and late salaries. I however feel sorry for the
junior personnel especially the ones with
families. Before I stop working I have to be
according to my moral ethics of giving a good
legal representation when asked to do. It is
straining I tell you.”

__________________________________
 He was at his home when there was a
knock. He went to open the door. Had he left
the pedestrian gate near the road open? The
lady who stood there had once been his date
on and off. She had had a habit of just
disappearing and coming back again to
resume the same relationship with him. Luckily
she always found Richmond in between short
and sour relationships.

She was a lady whose looks would cause

a man to miss his step or his mouth to go dry or
remain ajar. She was physically a woman any
man would approve as being an elegant
pacesetter. The problem had been in mixing
her beauty, elegance, education,
background, family esteem, expectations, high
standing, reputation, charm, work and
personal commitments.

“Hi Richie,” she had said.

“What is it Mildred now?” he had asked.

Mildred was not as tall as Richmond was.

She was slender with a small bosom. How many
dances had they had so close together? He
remembered one wedding reception were
both of them had been wearing jean trousers
and black t-shirts as if on cue. That had been in
Norton where they had ended up in a lodge
before Lake Chivero for the night. They had
been pronounced as an eligible couple. Things
had not worked out. Mildred took her heart
and mixed it with her work commitments. Who
knows maybe she was a heartbreaker
everywhere she took her work. Maybe he had
been just one lonely cowboy waiting for the
city girl to roost when she was dancing in the
bright lights.

“I was passing through when I decided

to drop by,” she had replied.

“I don’t think it is kosher to drop by a

men’s abode at this time of the night,”
Richmond checked his watch. “It’s a quarter
past eight in the evening.”

“I was visiting a relative nearby when I

decided to check on you,” she had said. “Can
I come in for five minutes? I didn’t say I wanted
to sleep over with you. If I did I would have
booked us a room at the Jameson Hotel which
is cosier than here.”

“I am not even tempted.”

She always came with temptations

laced with excitement in order to raise his
blood pressure. Somewhere somehow his
breathing was getting hotter. How did she
know where he was exactly each time? Was
she abusing state machinery? He had bought
his first bed sitter in the Avenues before they
broke up.
 When she had resurfaced he was near
Baines Avenue in a different locale and she
knew exactly where he was including the flat.
The flat was not mentioned in the telephone
directory though it had a landline. He had
since sold both bedsitters to buy this more
affluently one that could take a family that
required three bedrooms efficiently.

He moved into the interior of the flat into

the tastefully decorated and furnished lounge.
The kitchen had both an electric four plate hob
and a two plate gas stove. The fridge was a
double door 300-litre plus upright local variety.
He hardly cooked at home. The fridge
contained fruit, mineral drinks, milk and other
preservatives. Tea he brewed walking up and
down on the balcony pondering on the next
carpentry move or wood carving poise.

There was the sound of an English soccer

match with two teams that emerged as
Leicester and Bolton battling for three points.
The home theatre system was carrying the
sound in different stages as if he was in the
stadium observing a Mexican wave going
around.

“Get to the point Mildred,” Richmond

had taken a seat.

There were two double settees and two

single settees all of them in black leather trim.
In the middle was a glass topped coffee table
set. Looking across was a wall to wall unit in
mukwa into which had been fitted a 29-inch
colour television, decoder, DVD player, 5-CD
changer audio set with radio and a home
theatre system whose speakers where
enshrined at different angles within the rooms.

The passage from the entrance was

adorned with portraits starting with those of a
wood carver of repute, those of a man playing
drums, jumping over them or wearing
traditional head gear while playing shakers in
both hands and others. There was a wood
panelling that was a stand-alone on which
were hung a portrait of Nyashadzashe and
Richard. It was so big a high school child need
be on tip toe to touch the top.

“How are you?” she had started.

She took a seat at right angles to him. His

flat was carpeted wall to wall excluding the
stairs that spiralled upwards like a pirate
climbing plant hanging onto its host.

The skirt was white, floral and flared.

Now it ran up to her legs leaving some chunks
of flesh on eyes row for sample. A hand
unconsciously closed the gap in between her
legs moving the skirt down. The top was fine
except that there were two buttons down. A
push up bra was not helping matters. Mildred
was tall but not as tall as Richmond. Her small
eyes looked even smaller with her eyelids
trimmed and painted black. While Ndanatsiwa
had large rolling brown eyes swimming in their
irises, Mildred’s were black.

She was way slender when compared

to Ndanatsiwa. If she looked backwards in a
standing position and put on jeans and jean
jacket, anyone would be hard put to know if it
was a man or a woman. She however was very
attractive with a flat nose, medium white rows
of teeth and brown to light olive complexion.

The colour of her hair was darkish brown

matching the colour sprayed over her
eyebrows. Someone had worked on her hair
because it still showed her curls. For almost four
years they had known in and out. She was
secretive about her life. He knew she was
unmarried and without a child. Her father was
a top ranking government minister with clout.

He didn’t reply to her peculiar question.

“Mildred, I have other things to do.”

“There is a relative of mine who wants to

go to the United Kingdom,” she started. “My
father and our family are on the sanctions list. I
can’t assist that way.”

“And where do I come in?” he asked. “I

do not issue UK visas.”
 There were invitation cards, a few on his
coffee table. She picked one up absent
minded. She was looked at the design. At the
back was a map showing where the invitee
was expected to go. She put the card down.
She rubbed her hands. The skirt was a little way
up reminding him of those care free days. Why
hadn’t they become parents?

“I heard in the news recently that there is

a cultural exposition to the United Kingdom
and you are included in it for six weeks,” she
had replied. “It has the likes of your cousin
Denford Mamhepo. There is a plethora of
carvers and sculptors from six countries show
casing their workmanships. The British promoters
are calling it the African Experience,”

“So?” he asked.

“My friend is willing to be attached as

your assistant in order to gain entry into the
United Kingdom. You know these days they are
strict on visas. You remember one DRC singer
being accused of importing singers onto the
island? They came as his entourage and some
remained.”

“And why should I do that?” he had

asked. “I sweated my way to be recognised by
the UK government unlike some of you who
used political mileage.”
 “If you arrange that, I promise to come
and give you what I have always reserved for
you, my body,” she had said. “You and I made
a mistake on careers. We should have been
married four or so years ago.”

“Why don’t you include your sister when

the president’s entourage leaves for Europe
seeing that you are part of the presidential
press team?” Richmond had asked.

“I would lose all my privileges if there was

a hint of a scandal,” she had replied.

“Then I have to be the sacrificial lamb?”

he had asked.

“Remember when I and you had the

same hotel floor in France and India during one
of your exhibits. I was so loyal. Maybe we
should have created a family. Then we walked
naked from our ensuite bathroom to our beds
which were side by side.”

“Mildred,” he had risen. “I have things to

do without having unknown assistants that I
don’t know about.”

“Richmond,” she stated. “The economy

here is falling. My sister’s company closed. Her
husband went to Mozambique. He has since
married another woman there.”
 He headed for the door. As he reached
it, there was the sound of the doorbell. Mildred
was following behind him. He yanked the
French door open.

“Maybe we can work out another

business arrangement Richmond,” Mildred had
said.

“No ways,” he looked up.

Ndanatsiwa stood by the door. She was

dressed in field green long sleeve dress coming
below her knees with a black light top which
was open. The V around her neck was in white
material. Mildred edged out looking
Ndanatsiwa in the eye.

“Oh you have company Richmond

darling I thought I was the only one.”

“Only one for what?” he had asked.

“I will ring later darling Richtie____,” she

had said in a swish of skirts.

She left the flat holding her handbag.

There was the clip clop of her high heeled
shoes on the pavers heading for the perimeter
wall and gate that was swung open. Maybe
he should have locked the gate. The sound
getting lighter meant she was advancing away
from them.
 “No wonder you didn’t announce in your
radio interview that I existed. There is Mildred,”
Ndanatsiwa had said. “Why didn’t you mention
both of us then?”

“It is not what you think,” he had replied.

“She is over dramatizing to stab you.”

“Why should she when I only got to know

of her today?” Ndanatsiwa had asked.

“Had you been a Russian, in your mood

today and a few days back, you would have
died of Vodka abuse,” was all he said.

“I worked late. I thought I could just say

hi. I didn’t know I was disturbing you and pretty
miss charming,” she said. “You like them smaller
and slender than me.”

“I am tired. I don’t want any arguments,”

Richmond had replied. “Are you coming in or
you are staying out?”

“No I did rather stay out and safe than in

and abused. I am not part of the barren!”

___________________________________

Richmond still submitted an invitation to

Ndanatsiwa’s office though she had rudely
made a U-turn going out through his small
garden pathway to the road beyond. He had
not followed her out to settle matters. He had
telephoned her to confirm.

“No, I am not coming,” she had replied.

“This means a lot Ndanatsiwa. There is a

surprise,” he had replied.

“Count me out,” she had replied. “Why

don’t you ask Mildred to come since you have
two choices, not both of us?”

“You said you are not a saint. Would I be

my age without having dated before?” he had
asked.

“You are double dating. I saw her when I

went down. She was in a Toyota Land Cruiser
V6 speaking on the telephone. Naturally we
ladies wanted to find out who was top of your
dating list. She clearly stated that you were
having bedroom games. She said she is your
latest flame.”

“That is up to you Ndanatsiwa. You are

beyond redemption. There is a bit of inferiority
complex running around. Maybe you need
one of those ‘prophets’.”

“Then invite the inferiority complex to

your party,” she had replied.

“And why not? Thanks for the greatest

idea you have ever come up with.”
 He had replied putting the telephone
down. There was a lot of organising and
telephone to be done between siblings for the
weekend event. The whole week Ndanatsiwa
and he did not consult. His calls went
unanswered. His messages were not replied to
either. On WhatsApp his messages did not
double tick in blue. They remained double
ticked in black.

London was less than three weeks to

come.

____________________________________

The anniversary to celebrate the

wedding of Nyashadzashe and Richard
Kangira was held in Harare. The working
committee had taken the pains to locate the
event out of Highfield. The directions were to
take Enterprise Road as if heading for Mutoko
or Murewa towards the north east. The
directions explicitly advised the invitees to
watch out and not turn left (east) into Beaston
Road as this led into the Grange proper. The
directions said the first turn left after Zuva
Petroleum filling station. Beaston Road is the first
right turn.

It paid to understand left and right from

early primary school otherwise one landed in
the wrong place. From Enterprise Road there
was a need to turn left into Salhouse Avenue
before turning right into Douglas Clark that
meandered to the left. The road changed
names to Kambanji Lane then to Kambanji
Drive further on. The most confusing part was
one could take Arnold Edmonds Drive further
up which led to led to Sugar Loaf Hill Drive in
the same direction that also led to Kambanji
Drive which was not connected to the earlier
Kambanji Drive. Between the two were
swampy areas and a river that appeared after
the rains.

To the left they turned into Yellowwood

Lane into a house with a double storey
aperture where there was a tent for the event.
The grounds appeared to have been
landscaped recently. The house still smelt of
newness but not paint. There was a three car
garage on top of which were rooms and a
balcony. Both Richard and his lady had not
expected the surprise of their wedding
anniversary. They had been drawn in, in
different routes one at a time to meet just near
the gate. Upon reaching the tent, everyone
sang to their union.

“Dad,” Virginia Homani had asked into

the microphone. “We all expect you to say
something as you celebrate your wedding
anniversary.”
 “Oh you got the dates wrong though
you are correct that I married.” Richard said
when he took the microphone. “Nyashadzashe
was the only lady teacher at Nyadire Teacher’s
College to accept my proposal. I will end at
that in order to enjoy the anniversary. I meant I
won’t talk about Nyadire. I met her when I was
working as an agricultural demonstrator in her
rural area of Mahusekwa. She was doing her
second or third year high school at a mission
school. Marrying that beautiful woman was the
only correct thing you people talked about.
Would you like to know how many children we
both have?

“I will speak to you children as individuals

including your spouses. Detention will not be
ruled out. I had a dream that I told
Nyashadzashe about. Someone had bought
me a sea going yacht. We had it berthed in
Lake Kariba. For family members new to
Zimbabwe, Lake Kariba is landlocked
somewhere between Zimbabwe and Zambia.
Did I mention that the huge yacht had vehicle
type seats and air bags in case of a head on
collusion?”

“Richard! Separate your dreams from

your jokes! I told you that you had been day
dreaming. Your description of the yacht’s
upper deck is as exact as the upstairs. I think
you had taken too much tea that evening,”
Nyashadzashe replied. “He said he had been
walking upstairs within the yacht.”

“It was set on 138-actres!”

“Richard! Thank you very much children.

You know your father and his sense of humour.
You usually surprise us be it birthdays or the
anniversary. I think it is hard to be a mother of
five children and face three surprises every
year. However much we prepare, we are
always two steps behind but not for very long,”
Nyashadzashe had said. “It was a real surprise. I
and your father always remember our
anniversary. It’s only that you cheated by
talking me to Marlborough first then here and
him to Greendale before he came here.
Otherwise we had agreed on a family dinner.

“The family dinner had been interrupted

because the children said they wanted to
revamp the house we have lived in for several
decades. We are being told to temporarily
move elsewhere so we thought dinner
wouldn’t do well unless your mother had
inspected the kitchen first. When we bought
into the home ownership scheme in the late
1970s some people said we were stupid. Why
buy a house when you can live in the rural
areas? Then the war came. They never fired
RPGs in Highfield neither did Hunter jet fighter
bombers strafe it. I am glad this anniversary
was not held in the rural areas. Who knows, we
would have stumbled on war ordinance. Then
we were considered the upper class. Ladies
and gentlemen, please enjoy yourselves.”

The two moved around greeting visitors

some of whom had come from different
quarters.

“This is Uncle Thomas from Murewa,”

Richard was introducing someone. “You
remember him do you?”

“Thomas?” the person screwed his face.

“He is one of the sons of our

grandfather’s younger and notorious brother
Mamhepo. You remember the drum king of
Goromonzi?” Richard had said.

“He is a regular visitor to Highfield,”

Nyashadzashe had finished. “He normally
comes once every while.”

“I am called Charles,” the other had

greeted Thomas. “When I and you were
younger, we worked at the same company but
the name is not right. We didn’t call you
Thomas or Mamhepo. I and you used to dive
into the many shebeens and beer halls in
Highfield or Mbare called Harari then. I quit
drinking seven years ago.”

“Charles?” Thomas had asked. “I used to

drive lorries in those days before I was fired for
drinking. I think I moved through about four
companies in Harare. I like my beer so _____
that was it. Where and when did we work
together?”

“You were at Clan Transport in

Southerton,” the other said.

“That is about thirty years ago. I

remember being at Clan Transport.“ Thomas
had said.

“You were not known by your first name

or the Mamhepo name. You loved the ladies
then,” Charles had replied.

“Don’t shout,” Thomas had said. “Why

does Richard keep on trusting that boy he
picked from the streets?”

“Which?”

“That one _____,” Thomas had said. He

pointed at Richmond who was running around.

“He is a wood carver like his grandfather

Kangira. Further to which he is reminding me of
someone. Maybe later I will have made the
connection. He is the youngest of
Nyashadzashe’s brood,” replied Charles.
”Come to think of it there is a carving right here
in the drive which is made on a tree that was
cut about two metres above the ground. That
should be his handiwork. We used to drink
together a lot. What was the name they called
you by?”

“People from Murewa are normally

called Murewa which is a sub-name for the
totem of the monkey or baboon.”

“Not that,” Charles replied.

“Mhanduwe.”

“Yes that is it. They called you

Mhanduwe then!”

“Every male from Murewa was called

Mhanduwe.”

“Thomas, you had a girl called

_________.”

“I can’t remember all the girls. I was

young and hot by then,” he had said.

“It was soon after you were fired. There

was a pregnant woman who kept coming
looking for you for about four months. What I
remember most is that I met her time and time
again when I was going to Gwelo. She should
have relatives there because I gave her a lift
twice.”

“Really what is so particular about a

pregnant woman? Was she your sister?”

____________________________________
 Richmond took time to talk to the
gathered guests as did all people too. He was
getting in and out of groups as the music,
dances, food and drinks flowed. Birthday,
funerals, anniversary and wedding gatherings
had a way of making people meet after
lengthy periods of time. This had been planned
such that every member of the extended
family had to be represented. There were
people from Goromonzi right down to Makoni,
Rusape, Marondera and those from outside
Harare. There were three official photographers
with two brandishing cameras while another
was running a video. He was surprised to see
Mildred in the midst thereof.

“This is Job chapter 1 verse 6 re-

enacted,” Richmond had suggested.

Mildred was looking smart in a two piece

turquoise suit. She even had a hat on the side
of her head like a middle aged Caucasian
woman at a funeral wake or wedding
reception. To think that they had stood with her
butt against his midriff while the Mediterranean
wind blew over them on a yacht in better
days? Now they behaved like fencing cousins
wary of each other.

“Hi,” she had said. “This is Maxine my

friend I talked about.”
 Maxine was tall and slender with a bony
V shaped face. She had drooping eyes. She
might have done well as a basketball player.
She was slimmer than Mildred. Richmond still
remembered meeting her and Mildred many
times. He couldn’t remember finer details
though. He remembered that she had once
driven him from Mutare to Harare when he was
still a young artisan.

“How did you get here?” he had asked.

“I drove in,” she had replied. She fished a

card out of her hand bag. “You were careless
about these at your flat."

“I don’t remember giving you an invite,”

he had replied.

“Don’t worry. Maxine this is Richmond. I

am still trying to persuade him to put you on his
crew for the London exposition. Should he
agree, you will have lesser problems than
before. You will have to be his female escort for
the three to six weeks he will be there. You
don’t mind sharing a bath with him do you?”

“Mildred! This is a party for the seniors not

to talk business which is irrelevant. I gave you,
my answer.”

“We will discuss even though it may

mean I or Maxine or both of us count the nails
on the ceiling,” Mildred said. Just then
Ndanatsiwa came by hearing everything. “I
saw this woman somewhere didn’t I?”

“Hi I am called Ndanatsiwa. I am

Richmond’s date. We met in Montagu Avenue
near Fourth Street.”

“Hello I am Mildred. We talked in the car

park didn’t we? That makes three of us dating
the same guy! There is me, there is Maxine and
now there is you. He likes us in different sizes
and shades of colour. I wonder who is walking
him across the aisle. He was at my flat last night
darling so be easy on him tonight. The batteries
are low on power.”

____________________________________

Nyashadzashe and Richard were taken

on a tour of the extensively built house. It had a
TV lounge that overlooked a green garden.
The windows were wall to wall and wall to roof
with a sliding door for the TV and main lounge.
There was a main lounge with a fireplace. The
dining room and main lounge were separated
by an arch. There was a fitted kitchen with all
the built-in-cupboards a couple would want.

For entertaining there was an electric 4-

plate hob and a 2-plate gas hob. There was a
built in electric oven and a built in gas oven.
The dishwasher was hidden in wood panelling.
There was a large 575-litre four door fridge
freezer fitted into the kitchen panelling. It was
humming. From within, drinks were being taken
out.

There was a walk in pantry. There was

a passage into which one could access the
guest toilet nearby. Further on was a door
which upon opening revealed three appointed
bedrooms. On one side was a room with
exercise equipment including a treadmill. Two
of the bedrooms had built in wardrobes which
ran from one side of the wall to another. The
windows were bay wide.

Every bedroom excluding the ensuite

ones which had air conditioning were fitted
with ceiling fans including the TV lounge and
dining room. The main lounge had air
conditioning units. The two bedrooms shared a
bath/shower room with a tab and separate
toilet. There was an office within the ground
floor bedrooms wing that had a view of the
garden outside. The other bedroom had a walk
in wardrobe, toilet, shower and tab.

Stairs before the bedrooms passage led

up where there was an upstairs lounge
overlooking the garden below. It had a large
balcony to sample the views around the house
from a different angle to the lounge. It had a
kitchenette with a 2-plate electric hob and a
fitted 150-litre fridge plus fitted cupboards.
There was a guest toilet upstairs. There were
two large bedrooms all with ensuite facilities
that were standard walk inn wardrobes, toilet
and shower-tub. There was access to private
balconies from the two bedrooms but here
both occupants could not see each other.

Outside the main house was a system

for water reticulation including two 7500-litre
tanks, booster pump with a submersible pump
in a borehole somewhere. There was a room
besides the three car garage which housed a
4.5-KVa generator for supplementary power
when the national grid went into abeyance.
On top of the upstairs roof were panel of solar
systems feeding into a cupboard were two
batteries stored power which could be
inverted to use for apparatus that had no
heating qualities.

“Gather around, gather around,” the

microphone had sounded. The master of
ceremonies called people in. They gathered
around the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” someone that

had taken the microphone from the master of
ceremonies had said. “I am a military chaplain
by profession. I am a trained soldier. I am a
minister of the word of God with a local
church. Added to it all I am the son of Richard
Kangira’s sister, Fatima and Hubert from
Rusape. My history is that the Kangira brood
including Virginia Homani nee Kangira, Miriam,
Takudzwanashe, Takunda and Richmond all
passed through our place when going to or
from Mutasa. When going to Mutasa the boys
Takunda and Richmond would be wearing
their neat casual trousers and bow ties. When
coming from Mutasa they looked like they had
been carrying live donkeys. They required
decontamination through a series of showers
and change of clothes.”

“You didn’t like them partaking of food,

did you?” asked someone.

“I am going to explain all that. I am

called Reverend Clifford for the day. I am here
not to talk about the Kangira family passing
though our home and looting our food stocks
every now and then ______,”

He stopped for a while for laughter to

subside.

“I liked them and I still do, why, I don’t

know. I have to forgive them for eating too
much in our house or shop because I teach
soldiers to forgive. How else can they forgive if I
didn’t forgive having my apples and bananas
eaten by Takunda and Richmond? Some I
gave free willing I know because I only had to
take a look at those starving boys and I had no
option. You raised them good boys didn’t you
uncle? Okay, ah, Richard and Nyashadzashe
have celebrated more years of marriage than
my years of birth today. Their marriage is older
than Virginia which means you can now
calculate her own age but not mine. Allow me
to break custom and call my uncle and aunt
by their first names.

“Richard and Nyashadzashe gave birth

to five children, two boys and a set of three
lovely girls all married now. I mean the girls and
Takunda are married. I am yet to hold
interviews for the post of Richmond’s wife.
Those interested can drop their curriculum vitas
with me. Do state your marital and maternity
experience, will you? These children were very
naughty. I don’t know why the girls leap frog
the boys. Richmond tails at the end followed
further up in years by Takunda Richard then
Takudzwanashe, Miriam and Virginia in that
order. Besides taking my grapes, oranges and
mangoes when they came to Rusape, they
teamed up with a well-known and rising wood
carver called um what’s your name uncle’s
son? Oh, one called um ______.”

“Richard junior?”

“Richard Takunda junior is a medical

practitioner not a wood carver. He can’t hold
a chisel. He knows a surgical razor or
stethoscope!”

“Richmond then. They teamed up and

worked over the years to make this anniversary
what it is. Richard and Nyashadzashe, the
upstairs you toured, the bedrooms up there
with the lounge, kitchenette, balcony, walk in
wardrobes, ensuite toilet, tub and shower,
massive three car garage downstairs, the
decoders, the fitted kitchen, pantry, living
room, TV lounge and the massive bedrooms
downstairs are all yours! The house is the
pinnacle of your anniversary not the party. You
no longer reside in Highfield but in Kambanji!
Surprise __________________!

“All the three lounges, kitchen, two main

bedrooms are fully furnished so you only have
to carry whatever memories you need from
Highfield to here. Richard did you notice the
yard? There are no fruit trees or herbs yet. The
garage storeroom did you notice Richard?
Uncle Richard, did you see the mechanical
devices therein waiting for you. Aunt
Nyashadzashe, you are banished to the
kitchen, dining room and the interior to make
changes and soft furnishings.

“Auntie Nyashadzashe, you love great

and big washing days don’t you? Here you
have in the kitchen dish washing and drying
machines. You don’t soap dishes with your
lovely hands that once changed my nappies.
Things have gone mechanical. So all the plates
are going into the machine all you do is feed
them, pull them out put them in the drier and
store them. You like to wash rubbing your
hands? No, No, no, there is a washing machine
and tumble dryer for all your washing
requirements.

“Uncle Richard have you checked the

golf bag full of golf clubs in the garage? If you
no longer like golf, why not try the four state of
the art fishing rods/tackle plus the yearly
subscription paid on your behalf at Cleveland
Dam? Oh I talked about golf. Someone paid
the whole year’s subscription at Chapman’s.
Don’t worry the wood carvings and sculptures
are coming in including the medical
stethoscopes too!”

____________________________________

“How can a perfect stranger picked

from the streets be part of a scheme of buying
these a house?” Thomas had asked. “Why do
some people have all the blessings why we
have none?’

“Why not if they saved his life,” Charles

had replied,

“Even though he is not part of the

family,” Thomas had replied.
 “Uncle Thomas,” Virginia said. “If you had
too much to drink why don’t you get a vehicle
and go home. You are delving into the wrong
area. Whenever you came to Highfield you
had a problem with Richmond. Is he your age
to tussle with?”

“Richmond is not a Kangira that is that,”

Thomas said. “Why do I get hated for telling the
truth? When we appease the spirits they say
so.”

“Whose spirits are these? Are they those

in a bottle that make you drunk and open that
channel of that thing you call a mouth?”
someone asked. “Or are they the spirits that
make people remember your surname?”

Everyone nearby had now looked at

them.

“We know that,” Richmond came to the

group. “You made that known to me when I
was very young. I was hardly five when you
told me I would never be part of the estate.
Now tell me Uncle Thomas William Mamhepo,
what do I need from Nyashadzashe and
Richard’s estate? What need I wait for their
death to gain when all I need is what they
raised me with? I had a grandfather who knew
how to plan for his children. The children in term
learnt the same so why should I wait upon their
death for benefits?”
 “That is the truth,” Thomas had said
increasing his volume now. “You are not a
Kangira full stop. You were picked up from a
dust bin in Highfield. That is where you belong.”

“Someone please see Uncle Thomas

home before he messes the party. He is drunk,”
someone suggested. “Make sure the vehicle
doors are locked. He will be dropped at his son
in law’s place in Dzivaresekwa. Make sure he
has access to a toilet but lock all the outside
screens until he is sober.”

“Wait a minute Thomas,” Charles came

up. “You were at Clan in Rhodesia then
______________.”

“What has it got to do with it all?” asked

Thomas. “Will you shut up about Clan Transport
thirty or less years ago? Are you part of the
family anyway? Are you a Kangira, Mamhepo,
Mapeto or Mapinga?”

“Neither. I am called Charles Maputi. I

am the first born of your uncle Kangira’s late
brother-in-law Amos Maputi. My father was
more like a brother to your grandmothers
Ndanatsiwa and Shashe. Or perhaps because
you liked your drink more than your
relationships like grandfather Mamhepo liked
his beer and women you don’t care, do you?”

“Get out!”
 “I get out on your command when the
centre of focus is not you? Are you crazy
Thomas? Yeah you are. You left your brains in
Kambuzuma when you used to drink yourself to
a standstill. Don’t push him out of the tent. I
know about generational spirits. You have
them in tandem don’t you?

“You like them working for you like a

turbo booster? You went about throwing your
seed like Mamhepo did. Let him hear this,”
Charles said. “You Richmond listen and keep
quiet when the elderly are tussling. When you
see two bull elephants or oxen fighting, get out
of the way Richmond. Richmond, stay close to
the Bible and reject the regenerative spirit of
breeding children you can’t look after like he
and his father before him did.”

Everyone was quite now.

“Thomas you were called Mhanduwe. I

heard another name that came like hardwood
to the head for me. I had forgotten we also
called you mukoma William or Thomas and not
Mamhepo. You had a pregnant woman who
came seeking you when you were fired. She
was called Gladys something. I remember you
and me waiting to meet her. I visited you
several times over the weekends. You
practically lived with her. The police later
opened a docket for her when a baby boy
was picked up. She disappeared from
Highfield. You were so interested in women
and beer you didn’t realize you are the father
of Richmond Kangira! And here you are
persecuting your own biological son! You are a
shame to the male fraternity.”

There was one drunkard that went down

fortunately people steadied him.

____________________________________

“My name is Harry,” the man who had

said so was not very tall nor was he very short.
She stood a few inches much higher than him.
He weighed about seventy kilograms. He was a
darker shade of brown in complexion. The area
under his chin was a college of male hair going
upwards stretching. The fact that his head was
covered in hair neatly cropped meant by the
standards of his chin hair he was neither
religious orthodox or of the apostolic sect
disposition that kept beards as if these were
rated on the way to Heaven. “You are
Ndanatsiwa?”

“Yes I stand accused,” she had replied.

“I am your husband,” he had replied.

That in their culture meant Harry was

married to her older sister which wasn’t
practical since she was the first born. The other
fact was that he had married a
maternal/paternal cousin of hers or a maternal
aunt who was a cousin or real sister to her
father.

“I am pleased to meet you,” she had

shaken a firm hand. “Why didn’t I know that I
had a man of the house a long time ago?”

“I am told you are a lawyer,” he had

replied.

“Yes,” she had replied.

“I did a degree in food sciences. I work in

a canning factory,” he had replied. “There is
someone called Pauline. Her mother and yours
are cousins. I married Pauline.”

“That was before we met. Pauline was

lucky. I know Pauline very well. She is slightly
older than me,” Ndanatsiwa had replied. “If I
am not mistaken she lives in Budiriro 4. She used
to be in Bulawayo all this while.”

“Yes we live near CABS houses. We must

have met,” Harry said with excitement.

“There is a time at night. We were

coming from a wedding reception when I
dropped her there.”

“I gave you directions to Glen View

way.“
 He remembered. They chatted for a
while at the birthday bash where they had
chanced to meet.

___________________________________

“There is someone called Harry. He has a

bushy beard. He is very handsome I tell you. He
is predisposed to be of the apostolic sect. Wait
till he makes me his third wife. He is educated
though. None of his wives will have more than
three children neither will he marry any that is
nearly his first daughter’s age like his cronies
are doing in the religious sects.“ Ndanatsiwa
had said to Gladys. “He is a cool and calm
guy.”

“You got a date?”

“Yes,” she had said.

“Can I meet him?” she asked. “What

happened to Richmond?”

“If he is free you will meet Harry.”

Ndanatsiwa had replied. “Richmond and I
didn’t exist well. We were like wine and milk.
Besides Richmond is in a cultural thing for six
weeks in the United Kingdom with either of two
girls he had been sleeping with called Mildred
and Maxine. Maxine is a divorcee. She is much
older than Richmond. I wonder what he saw in
her. Mildred on the other hand at times
appears as a reporter on the state run
television, presidential and parliamentary
affairs department.”

Two months later.

“You are invited for dinner at my home if

you are free Saturday evening.” Gladys had
received an invite.

There was a family meeting over dinner.

There was Harry and his family, Ndanatsiwa two
younger sisters and their husbands. There was
nothing to discuss but they had just covered
there to talk.

“Harry,” she had said pulling him aside.

“You said there was something you wanted to
say.”

“Someone telephoned me,” Harry

started. “They told me everything from the
abortion to a boy called Stephen and lately
someone called Richmond.”

“Did they use a cell?” Ndanatsiwa

asked.

“Yes,” he had replied.

“You will phone the cell when I have

finished speaking,” she had said. “I have a
haunch they are here.”
 Ndanatsiwa stood up. “Thank you all for
coming from all over including from as far as
Ruwa for a free evening meal.”

There was laughter and handclaps.

“I wanted to find out who amongst us is

revealing family secrets. I told one person only
that I was dating Harry. Harry is here. He is the
husband of Pauline my cousin. Even if I run out
of dates, I don’t date married men neither do I
date husbands of relatives. That is not kosher.
That smacks of desperation. I posed as if I was
dating Harry for the very reason of knowing
who is releasing family secrets. Yet someone
telephoned Harry and told him about an
abortion almost fourteen years ago,” she had
said.

There was silence. One cell rang. Gladys

answered in a hushed voice. Harry was at a
corner holding his chin. He emerged from the
corner speaking on the cell phone.

“You can come out and explain what

you told me,” he closed the conversation.

“Gladys!” Judith was astonished. “You

whom I treated like a daughter?”

____________________________________
 Gladys went to a venue where there
were three males. One was a German
national. Another was a South African of
Afrikaner extraction whose size appeared like
he had been military anchor in the South
African border conflict of 1966 – 1989 around
Namibia and into Angola. The last was a
Namibian national whose generation had
survived the massacres of the Herero by the
German colonists.

There was herself and another woman.

All the males but one was Caucasian. It was
less than a week after she and Ndanatsiwa
had fallen out. She was just bored. She had
taken to too much drinking of late. Even Fiona
had commented that Gladys was on her way
down.

“I going down? Where you holy yourself

or your mother for instance?” she had asked.
“How did you come about since your own
father was dead? How did you get those
instant yearly promotions mother? Why do
people say you were the bed mate of an
influential minister? Why do people at your
workplace say I am a splitting image of a senior
transport and logistics manager?”

There was the sound of a hand

connecting with flesh tissue and bone through
a slap that had spun her around.
 “You say that again and you are out in
the streets. My mother never exchanged men
every two weeks like you do. I have stood up to
your hooker attitude long enough,” Fiona had
said.

She was still speaking when she had the

sound of a vehicle starting. She remained there
looking. She heard the sound drive away. She
could see nothing in the night because her
tears were filled with tears that ran down.

“What did I do to deserve this?” she

wailed. “I get two daughters who chase after
men, one after the other. No grandchildren but
just illicit love here and there. A son who is at
home sucking other men’s items? That is what
he is doing in the United Kingdom. He is too
weak to make a woman pregnant, but strong
enough to carry another man on his back for
%$#@!&**(((.”

____________________________________

Gladys was in a double storey house

surrounded by three thousand square metres
of garden in Wayhill Lane. They had beer,
spirits, roast beef/pork and chicken. They went
splashing in the pool walking naked and
unashamed because they had agreed on
that. Both women are young, vibrant, large
breasted and beautiful. The women were all
black. They played games teaming up in pool
volleyball, pool soccer and tug of war.

When Gladys woke up, it was morning.

She lay on a bed undressed. She didn’t know
where her clothes were. There were wine and
beer bottles all around. There were residues of
a meal that had been eaten. She
remembered that she had serviced all the men
as did her companion in between eating
drinking and sinning. The first schedule had
been upon arrival when all of them had been
in the nude in the lounge.

After they had all had their excitement

reduced they had started the games in
between which they had another service by
the pool in various stances. After that they had
finished in the bedroom. She didn’t know how
the three guys had divided themselves into
their two bedrooms but she knew she had
been used by two early in the morning.

But where were the three men and the

woman that spoke English with a lilting tongue?
Of course they had a bedroom on their own.

“What happened?” she had asked

someone downstairs when she had bathed.

“Where you not part of a group that

hired the guest house?”

“I don’t remember. I was drunk.”

 “As long as you remember where home
is because you have thirty minutes to pack and
leave. You did better get dressed too. We
have males here anything could happen. That
open cleavage and those rosy nipples need
cover. I can see through your clothes to the
white G-string within. We have horny males
here too. Remember this is the age of digital
phones with cameras.”

____________________________________
gumi nematanhatu (16)
 ___________________________________

Richmond Kangira was in New York

running his errands when he befriended a light
brown skinned lady. He could not tell if she was
a black person like him or a mixture of what
had been black and white. Maybe she could
be the product of the countless capsules on
the market that made women change their
black skin to look fair. Maybe she was using
lotions with the same effect. Maybe it was that
or what made their backsides to jut out like
F111 fighters producing jet exhaust.

He had lost his bearings and general

direction when she was kind enough to offer
him coffee and doughnuts while walking with
him three blocks to where he wanted to go.
Leaving his old country had been a long haul.
He had looked at reason. Preparing his
handicrafts from Zimbabwe was having
problems of customs, rail, freight and other
issues which meant by the time they reached
their intended destinations the Greek brothers
were fuming at the loss of profits.

From his exposure in London he had

started considering Paris as a venue. On
second thoughts the Greek brothers had
insisted on New York where there was clout
and his customers could be available from the
millions there.

“Demographics Richmond,” Darius had

replied.

Richmond had wondered why Darius

was willing to lose revenue. However the two
brothers were shifting focus to Johannesburg to
represent another college of artistes as the
economy in Zimbabwe tumbled. So they would
have opted that he shift focus to South Africa
or he ship there his creations.

“Worry less be in no hurry even when

late because you are already late,” she was a
philosopher. “I will get us breakfast on the go. I
will show you South East 88th Street where you
want to go.”

He didn’t like his breakfast before seven

in the morning. He didn’t like rich doughnuts
too. Someone he had eaten like a marooned
sailor pulled out of the sea after some hours
without food and drink though they hadn’t
wanted breakfast that early.

“Thanks a lot,” he had said. “What is

your birth star?”

“Sagittarius.”

“What does it say?” he had asked.

 “It is off the rocker,” was all she had
said.

The smile was full and righteous to him.

“Tell me the truth. Was I very, very lost?“

he had asked.

“Why do you worry about that?” she

had asked. “Let’s walk through Central Park.
It’s a short distance.”

“They say New York City is densely

populated,” Richmond had said. They stood
within Central Park. “Look at the three square
metres we stand on. There is no one there so
the population density isn’t correct.”

“People per square kilometre,”

“Right let’s look at the whole park and

count the people.”

“You are funny.”

She showed him points to note in

Central Park. They moved around cutting
through its walking paths. He had asked for her
number but she had refused to give.

She paid the bus driver and told him

where to drop her escort.
 “Same time same coffee shop
tomorrow morning,” he had shouted to the
retreating figure. “Don’t forget neither should
you miss the time.”

She had turned to look at him before

she had waved. He had stood by the coffee
shop on the morrow waiting. It was fifteen
minutes later than the time agreed when she
appeared. He had smiled. Her hair was made
in braids with a cloth with the colours of the
USA flag wrapping them together.

“Hi,” she had greeted him.

She was standing before a pillar

hugging it. Half her head was visible. The head
was tilted. She had probably spied him for
some minutes. He had been pacing up and
down. For a minute he had been reading the
news headline clips on newspapers for sale. He
liked the smile that featured on her face.

“Hello. I thought you were not going to

come added to which you refused with your
number.”

He had been given a quick beefy hug.

There was warmness in the hug. The smile was
great. The teeth were in two rows like F-14 jet
fighters doing a fly past at a military parade. He
mouth opened as she spoke. The tongue went
sweeping before her teeth before retreating
like a chameleon taking its prey.

“I didn’t intend to come.”

“No. You look ravishingly well dressed,”

he had examined her. She had a laptop bag
slung over her two shoulders. “You look very
beautiful like a portrait in an art gallery
laughing at us as we gaze up at her.”

“Don’t patronise me,” she had replied.

“Let me pay.”

“I have an allowance,” he had insisted.

“Yesterday’s coffee was very good.”

“Thanks padre,” the shop assistant had

replied.

“I insist let me pay,” she had replied

which was what she did.

The coffee shop served them coffee in

disposal cups. He took his with milk and a
burgher while she liked hers sweet and black
with soft hot cross buns. They sat on the same
bench ironically all dressed in jean trousers.
Hers had more flesh in them tightly packed as if
she first rubbed them with oil to fit in. It looked
like in buying she had selected a size below the
correct one.
 Maybe she selected the correct size but
overeating resulted in the jeans filling out. She
had a black pull over her blue blouse while he
had a khaki shirt and black leather jacket. It
had been raining. The temperatures had
plummeted.

“Foul weather, eh?” he suggested.

“It will clear any time before noon.”

“You are a prophet?” he had asked.

“Yes,” she had replied. “I watched the

weather report on NBC, Fox TV and CNN
combined.”

“I was watching the French golf

challenge,” he had replied.

“Where do you work?” she asked.

“I am an art student,” he had replied

thinking looking at a Redwood tree in the
distance without seeing it. If she asked for his
name, one plaque somewhere had a
’Harrison’. “And you?”

“I do manicure, pedicure you name the

ladies fashion. If you want your face cleaned
and nails looked after, it’s free on my shift,” she
had replied.
 “I would like my toe nails done but
when I wear knee length boots, no one will
notice,” he had said.

She had given him a set of numbers to

call or leave a message before they had
parted with a bear hug. She was soon lost in
the human traffic. They met for snacks here
and there. He remembered having met her
when they went window shopping looking at
displays.

“Nice baby outfit,” he had suggested.

“Why are you interested in babies? Why

didn’t you notice the other things?” she asked.

“At one time we will be parents.”

“I am in the rat race. The speed is such

that I don’t find time for kids,” she had replied.
“I make sure I prevent them at all cost.”

“If I marry you I intend having about

three,” he had suggested.

“Who said we are marrying?” she had

asked. “People here at times move together.
No children. When you go separate ways no
sharing of children either. There will be no
problems with visiting rights.”
 “Can I come and live with you?” he
had asked.

“No,” she had replied. “The last time

that happened I needed visit a doctor several
times. I had to get a police report and a
restraining order.”

“How old are you Claudia?”

“How old do I look?” she asked.

“Twenty-three?” he suggested. She

hooted with laughter. “Laughing is not an
answer.”

“I am twenty-eight years old.”

“Broiler,” he suggested.

“Spring chicken rather,” she replied. “I

have an engagement Richmond I would have
liked to continue walking and talking.”

She saw him to his station. They walked

arm in arm. On the platform in her high heeled
shoes that sounded like horse shoes on rocky
ground she stood and kissed him mouth to
mouth for about two minutes. She held his face
on both sides with her palms leaving her
manicured fingers in the air as if they had fresh
polish or paint. He had one arm around her
waist the other was holding his sling bag.
 “Take care, till next time.”

“Dream of an infant,” he had

whispered. The last he heard was her laughter
raucous laughter.

She invited him to take the train to New

Jersey one evening.

“I have given you enough time to work

out your own schedules,” she had said.

They sat in a Chinese restaurant. The

eyes were round with black rises looking at him
watching every crease on his face. Her legs
and his were mixed under the table. He didn’t
know that rice cakes eaten with almost raw fish
slices were that good.

“I hear you.”

“It’s great then. That is a few days to

make preparations. I will tell you what to wear
or what to bring, obviously a digital camera
with lens and flashlight plus spare batteries.”

“From there?” he questioned.

“Why does it need be a surprise if I tell

you everything?” she had asked.

“Do you live with parents?” he had

asked.
 “No, we share a flat, three girls,” was all
she had volunteered.

“And on thanksgiving holiday what do

you do? I know you people like turkey and
meeting as a family,” he had replied,

For a moment she remained silent. She

looked beautiful. Irises grew large then small.
She looked at him and smiled. There was
sadness beyond. Why had he seared her with a
hot iron in the heart?

“The last time we gathered as a family

some of us ended up in police cells after a
family fight spilled into the streets,” she replied.
“It pitted males against males while the women
folk had their differences. Hand bags can be
lethal weapons I tell you.”

“Why would that be when you should

celebrate Thanksgiving Holiday as families?”

“Differences as old as ten years still kept

in memories. There was a man who had moved
out of his family life abandoning his wife and
daughter. Then he is staying with another chick
for some years. Uninvited he decides to come
for a visit in the night. He finds his daughter at
his mother in law’s place but not the estranged
wife.
 “Did he sign a contract that his wife
should not work looking after a daughter he
can’t maintain? Some bored drug taking
woman tells him the truth that his wife is much
better off without him. He finds his wife in a
closet with a neighbourhood youth. A fight
ensues. This is Thanksgiving Holiday within the
same locality less than a block away from were
seven police vehicles have pulled up to stop a
fight. The youth gets a beating and calls for
reinforcements. He and his crew gang up on
the man doing him body damage to the head,
shoulders, knees and backbone. How do you
go back to such a menagerie? I ended up
coming back. I rarely go home on Thanksgiving
holiday or Christmas. Instead I get stoned
somewhere,” she replied.

“You drink?”

“Is that a crime?” she asked.

“No, I have never seen you drunk,” he

had said. “That is why I said you should have
children in your youths to find comfort in these
trying times.”

“Not me I don’t have the time.”

He remembered that in South Africa

the whites there had a way of medically
determining races by looking behind the ear.
What would the apartheid authorities have
done in a country where black and white
produced another race? The same race and
white/black would have genes working
wonders. He went behind her ear to determine
if she was black. He rubbed. Instead, she put
her head on his shoulder.

“You are a darling. I do drink do you?”

“I don’t but worry not about me.”

He took the dare finding his way to a

seaside restaurant where they had supper. The
fish was great. It was well seasoned. He
enjoyed the seafood. Why hadn’t he thought
of these sumptuous meals before? While the
vitamins, oil, minerals and starch were moving
in his veins she took his hand.

Her pulled her close and put his arm

around her waist. She had booked a double
deck bus for them that started for the Big
Apples after eight in the evening. They
commented and pointed at places. The bus
moved through the neon lit streets of the big
apple. It seemed like the city was waking up
instead of having more than seven hours of
night still available.

The tour of New York at night was one

of the most pleasant things any woman would
have done for him. He enjoyed the moments
even went they went underground through
networks of tunnels with tunnel lights zipping
backwards. They kept emerging further on.
Though it was wonderful, she had been well
informed to advise him to put a jacket on. They
saw the major bridges including Brooklyn and
Manhattan Bridge.

They visited the Verrazano Narrows

Bridge, Queensboro Bridge, the Gorge
Washington Bridge, Bow Bridge with its iron
structures and Williamsburg Bridge spanning
almost two kilometres and others besides. They
went through several tunnels including the
Holland and the Lincoln tunnel. Times Square
was lit up like a chess board at night. The
Empire State Building at night looked great but
eerie. They visited Broadway through 9th
Avenue, Columbus Circle, going past where
CNN was broadcast live. Then they went
through Times Square and the last the Palisade
Parkway

“If we create time,” she had said near

his ear. “One night we will go up the Empire
State building and observe New York from the
deck.”

“Yeah,” he had replied. “Let’s book a

river cruise to Niagara Falls and sleep over
there then come back.”
 “We will see about that,” she had
suggested. “If the schedules and time permit us
we will.”

“With so many underground tunnels, no

wonder why someone came up with the story
of Beauty and the Beast, with the Beast living in
the subterranean world,” Richmond had
suggested.

“We didn’t even see the tunnels the

trains use neither did we see those that dump
excess rain water away into the rivers or the
lake,” she had replied with her arm around his
neck.

They viewed the Rockefeller Centre.

They saw the Chrysler Building. It reminded him
of what happened when a man was persistent
and determined to achieve their goals and
ideals. They ended up in back in New Jersey
around eleven in the evening.

He disembarked first from the bus. He

picked her from the step putting her down
gently.

“Thanks for being a real man,” she had

said.

He had a pie and a coffee while she

had hot cross buns and a milkshake. The
evening was on put the traffic comprised of
people and vehicles was still there.

“Let’s go to the train station. I think a

cab will do,” he had suggested.

“Okay,” she had risen.

She took a bus with him for about thirty

minutes. They were in the outer skirts of the city.
They walked hand in hand through the lit
streets. Here and there was a siren call as one
bored police detail and their partners checked
traffic rules. They walked hand in hand. She
took him to a motel just a stone’s throw away
after a busy thoroughfare for the night.

They signed the register. He followed

her cue, she had signed as Spathodia
LeGrange. He signed as Matthew LeGrange.
Who cared though they knew their faces were
on CCTv in cases of crime and trouble. Their
rooms were accessible through a paved and
covered walk way. They had to look for the
given room while the motel clerk returned to
the major league game he had been
watching.

If there was a bell boy, they saw no sign

or hide of him. They checked the lettering and
corresponding numbers as they walked. A
guard on patrol helped them decipher the
letterings. They had been going in the opposite
direction.

Theirs was a bedroom with ablution

facilities. There was a television, a telephone
handset, a fridge and coffee making facilities.
By the time he had checked it out her clothes
were a pile in the passage. Her small bag was
thrown carelessly down shedding its contents
including what she had worn on her head. She
had had an elaborate wig. She was in the
shower singing a song by Rihanna.

He locked up for the night before

joining her in the shower. He opened the
cubicle. She turned away from him. She
complained that he was too hard and stiff.

“Who cares we have the whole blessed

night,” he had replied. “Check out is 1000hrs.
Now tell me more about yourself and your
family.”

“I have to be somewhere by 0900hrs I

am tired sweetheart, another time perhaps?”

____________________________________

“Your accent, are you Nigerian?” she

had asked.
 “No. I am from Africa though,” he had
replied.

“It’s good to have a brother in terms of

the same skin colour. I don’t like people who
trade races for love or marriage,” she had
replied. They sat watching traffic going by.

“Is every relationship about marriage?”

he tempted her with a question.

“Not exactly otherwise the divorce

rate in this state alone is making it unworthy to
marry,” she had replied. “Why should people
marry when they can enjoy the benefits and
freedom of being single and harming?”

“The African-American race is resilient.

The Native Americans and the Australian
aborigine races plummeted when they met
the white settlers. We didn’t.”

“Good observation. Are you

working?”

“Yes, “he had replied.

He was enjoying the day though he

thought it wiser to keep his hands inside his
pockets. It wasn’t that his crotch was breathing
too hard but the wind was chilly. She had on a
sweater and a scarf. He didn’t have a scarf nor
the gloves he had. He was still learning about
the weather here.

“What type of work are you into?” she

had asked.

He had experienced working in a hotel

kitchen, as a bellboy, carting luggage and as a
waiter’s assistant. He described what he had
done for four hours a day when he had left
boot camp. It always came back to the
promoters. He had checked the credentials of
one of them. He had come up with questions. It
was like a man almost drowning being asked
to swim back.

Then he had discovered that the same

promoter had other interests and was quite
sound. Against his better judgement, to refresh
he had signed on for a year’s programme
starting with being housed with a middle aged
couple here who had children aged ten to
twenty-five for three months.

Now he was on his own.

“Claudia?”

She was tossing her hair tails all over her

face. “Hmm?”

She wore tight three quarter shorts with

a t shirt over it. She stood about almost six feet
slightly shorter than him but with a weight of
about a hundred and fifty pounds.

“Hmmm.”

“I have to be running. I have another

engagement.”

“Okay Ritchie,” she walked him to his

station. “Tomorrow I will book us another cheap
motel. You don’t have to be all stressed up.”

“Really?”

“I also have to go and hug the

catwalk. There is a modelling assignment
again,” she sounded to be complaining.

“Someone would sell their soul to be

employed.”

She hugged him once. She turned

away. He disappeared in the rail carriages
while she was swallowed by the crowd. He was
running a course in marketing thinking of using
podcasts to sell his creations. Added to all, he
was under a tight schedule.

“Ritchie, this is Claudia, I phoned while

you were out there talking to the fake brunette
______,”she had sounded on the answering
machine.
 He had called her. “I am in Queens two
hundred kilometres away. I thought you were
available.”

“Where exactly, can I come?” he had

asked looking at the time.

“Not tonight friend. Can we have

breakfast tomorrow morning? ”

They agreed on time and place. Six

thirty was okay with him. He woke up early
cleaning his apartment. He did a six block jog
before having a bath. He changed taking the
underground train. He reached their breakfast
place. He started checking the headlines for
different news since he was in time.

They had a proper breakfast before

she walked him down the streets. She had to
go home and rest while he had errands to run.
He took a bus. Someone sat next to him. They
were Caucasian.

“The bitch you were talking to ______,”

he said.

“I wouldn’t call a lady that,” he replied.

“I am sure I saw her somewhere,” he

had replied.
 “Really?” he was sceptical. The city
was very large. The big and beefy character
wrote an email address on a McDonald
wrapper and gave it to Richmond.

“Contact me for details if I am correct.”

He saw her again. “How is the

catwalk?”

“Oh you know the world we live in you

have to chase everything to survive. “Are you a
preacher boy?”

“What is that and why?”

“I wanted to take you for a spin on the

Hudson River in a boat with other ladies and
you did not patch up.”

“If someone is a surgeon and they have

an operation to be done at the same time as
needing to attend a wedding, what do you
think their call of duty should be?” he asked.

“They would save lives of course. Are

you a surgeon?” she asked.

The girl was about a metre sixty-five with

hips that appeared like an appendix to her
waist added to which her bosom was
squeezed outwards by the apertures called
brassiere that pushed the small to medium
bosom out for view. The lady was attractive but
completely stupid. She would never have
understood a parable had Jesus Christ himself
talked to her.

“That is just an example. I am an artiste.

When the muse is on, I wake up late at night
and begin doing my trade. By the time some
friend phones to say breakfast, my phone will
be switched off or off the hook, and I will be
sleeping like a toddler.”

“So you paint?” she asked.

“It’s complicated, “he replied.

Her big bold brown eyes were

increasing in size. They could pop out anytime.

“Do you want to paint me in my

birthday suit before or after I have made you
come?” she asked.

“Claudia!” he rebuked. She had made

the statement in public at full volume.

“You missed out ____. I wanted to give

you the hard-core anus stuff.”

She handled his chin with an index finer

that was smarting with rings.

“I missed out on what ____?”

 “You are so naïve,” she had replied.
Don’t accuse people of being stupid if it can
turn back against you.

“Tell me.”

“Were you a virgin?” she shrieked. The

chatter in the restaurant subsided for a
moment. Heads turned against them.

“Do you need shout? I am not wearing

hearing aids,” he had replied.

She shrieked again with laughter. She

rose. “I will pay the bill preacher boy.”

“I am not a preacher boy. Are you high

on drugs?”

She shrieked the more.

“So you thought I was a virgin _____.”

He rose three minutes after her egress

checking that their bill had been paid.

“The lady, Claudia, did she settle the

bill?” he had asked flashing his credit card.

“She settled in cash,” the clerk had

replied.

“Thanks,” he left the counter.

 “Are you related to your lady?”
someone asked. He took the elevator going
down.

“She is just a friend.”

“You know where she works?”

“I know her number only. Why?”

“If you have an email address I would

send you something,” the man had replied. He
wished he had not tossed the McDonalds
wrapper in a trash can.

“Really?”

“If you need information ________.”

The other pressed a card into his hands.

They reached the ground level. He was
swallowed in the evening traffic. He went to his
apartment. It was funny that he had to ride a
train for about forty-five minutes to get to a
station on the outskirts of a city. From there he
took a bus that led him to his block of long term
rental apartments. He had a fitted kitchen
which had a four plate gas hob. There was a
huge fitted refrigerator with almost four doors
which could freeze food to below zero without
spoiling. The technology got rid of moisture
when freezing keeping food for longer periods
of time.
 There was a dishwasher hidden in wood
panelling. He liked his fully furnished bedroom
with an ensuite toilet and shower plus a walk in
wardrobe and a nook for his studies. There was
a place in his bedroom on the corner of two
walls with wall to wall glass where he had a
settee that watched the traffic far below or the
other concrete building of the city jungle
where he could think on his next project.
Besides which he had access to a balcony
from the main bedroom.

The television in the TV lounge was

hidden under wood panelling. When a switch
was triggered, there was a whoosh and a
whizz. The pressurized air pushed it out into full
view in its full magnificence. The main lounge,
TV lounge and bedroom’s curtains were raised
or closed by an electronic switch or from his
smart phone. The rooms were wall to wall
carpets. There were extras in his bedroom like
an Indian rug on one side and a Cashmere rug
on the other side. There was a guest toilet
somewhere downstairs. The other two
bedrooms shared a balcony.

Each had its own ensuite facilities in

various designs including showers and array of
built in wardrobes. Tucked within a hallway was
a set of doors hiding from view the washing
machine and tumble dryer. The woman who
had done the interior décor had had
knowledge of African tastes. In the lounge
there were hanging paintings of African birds
of prey. There was an eagle, falcon and a fish
eagle,

The entrance hall to the lounge was

adorned with portraits of his family and himself.
There was one of a man on a tractor leaning
downwards while two women on the ground
stood looking at the camera person. It was in
black and white but represented the old
carver and his two wives. The ladies still
appeared very beautiful while the man on the
tractor with his hat on wearing overalls was
very handsome. The lounge looked across at a
traffic junction below.

The lounge was tastefully furnished with

a lounge suite that could accommodate six
adults. Two of the single lounge seats were
recliners. There was a Sony 4K Ultra HD TV 65-
inch screen smart television with internet and
Wi-Fi access. It was connected to a Philips
Fidelio home theatre system.

Technology had become so good he

took a tripod, a camera and accessories to
work. As he worked, he filmed himself. When
free he connected the television screen and
camera non-Wi-Fi checking what he had been
done. Normally he would be standing
watching his own workings moving from side to
side taking mental notes on the next step. On
one of the walls was hung a eight foot square
fine art rug of a gentleman with white hair, a
goatee beard, legs outstretched right in the air
with two long drums and their two handlers
crouching as he jumped over them. In his
bedroom there was another wall mounted 35-
inch smart screen. There was cable access that
he subscribed to.

The windows were wall to wall or

ground to ceiling with curtains that ran on rails.
There was privacy because by manufacture,
the windows did not allow much view from
across another building. There was a balcony
outside where he used to sit looking at the
world outside reflecting on his projects. In the
main bedroom there were double doors
leading therein. When they were closed from
the inside there was a couple with arms across
each other’s shoulders painted onto both
doors smiling into the camera. Both the man
and his charming, elderly but still pretty wife
were having their hair change colour to that of
wisdom white or senior citizen grey.

He was curious to find out. He submitted

his email address trusting to keep his telephone
contacts strictly private. The man replied by the
same way giving him several website links.
 He tried the first. It was a pornographic
website in which Spathodia LeGrange was
featured. One of the websites stated that she
had been estranged from her husband who
was abusive. She had a daughter whom the
parents were looking after who was aged
around eight. She was about thirty-two years in
age. It fitted the Thanksgiving story of a family
fight. She was standing, kneeling, on the bed
posing in various forms of nudity or partially
nudity.

She even had her own site where she

entertained clients and sold her short films of
her trade. She had written that she specialized
in anal, oral or penetrative sex whatever the
client wanted. He closed the site going to
YouTube to check on some videos.

There was a group that played

traditional music fusing with live instruments
which had two of its male members from
Goromonzi which had won a traditional dance
and music competition recently. They had
released a set of videos mostly of their live
performances. Kangira had been right but
which one, thought Richmond wryly as three of
the male cortège jumped over the two sets of
drums in all the videos.

He entertained his guests in the

apartment when they wanted to talk to him
privately without eyes popping out. His agents
here were doing a great and grand job. He
was having lunch with the rich and famous
who bought well. Most of his creations were
being offered on auctions. She telephoned him
a week after he lost contact.

“Big boy where are you?” she had

asked. “Aren’t you thinking of me?”

“You are a porn artiste?” he accused.

“You didn’t know?” she sounded like

she was not moved by his discovery.

“You sound as if it’s okay. Having two

men bearing down on you seems like _______.”

“That is why I asked if you were a

preacher boy. I do ladies hair, manicure,
pedicure or whatever beauty therapy they
want. I have time to make big money by
appearing on porn sites. I make about a
thousand five hundred a week. So what’s the
big deal? You can screw for free. You can
come to my digs or I can come with my escorts
to yours. You get a free ride ______.”

“That is debauchery at its worst

_______.”

“This is life preacher boy. I never said I

wanted to marry you. You can’t afford my
taste,” she had replied. “Think it over. If you
need a bed, holler, I may give you plus a booty
for free.”

“And you are Spathodia not Claudia?”

He had accused.

“Who cares? What is in a name

anyway?” she asked.

It is very unbecoming for a man to cut

off a lady while she was still speaking and
worse to switch off the only number she knew.
He removed the simm card from his Samsung
S7 Edge handset replacing it with one she
didn’t know. He went to the window in his
lounge opening the portal like windows. He
threw the simm card out far and away before
closing the window.

__________________________________
gumi nenomwe (17)
 ___________________________________

She had been detained by the police

while awaiting trial as was standard. A lawyer
was allowed to see her for the period of pre-
court briefing allowed by the state. Her family
and a few friends also visited her. Her case had
been brought before the courts. The lawyer
argued that it had not been her intention that
the sex romp would be public pleasure. The
law did not limit sex between individual.

It only made appearance in such blue

movies a crime if the movie was seen other
than by its creators. The lawyer argued that she
did not know she was being film they argued.
Since she had been drinking her judgement
was skewed. The state wanted tangible proof
like title deeds but the learned lawyer had
contested.

“Your honour, armed criminals who

shoot at their intended victims get away with $
3 000-00 bail. The state wants her title deeds.
The state has lawyers who commit similar
crimes without camera but they want a
sacrificial goat.”

“Objections you honour defence

counsel‘s statements border on reckless.”
 “Counsel, will you rephrase your
statement?” the magistrate had asked.

“I mean they are sinners like the same

round of sinners that wanted to condemn the
woman when Jesus intervened. These are the
type of harsh statements ________.”

“Objections.”

“Counsel, are you going to finish?”

Bail had been agreed at US $ 350-00.

She had surrendered her travel

documents. She had been ordered to visit the
police station three times a week. The matter
had been heard in a few more days and
deferred to six weeks from then.

Her elder sister had telephoned one of

the days.

“Peter and I agreed that the flat should

be let out through Guest & Turner. You will
agree with me the amount of revenue we
were getting wasn’t anything to mention. So
from now onwards, I and him will manage the
flat through Guest & Turner Realtors, okay?”

“I also have a say,” she had

complained. “I have shares too.”
 “It was a joint venture of three siblings.
You have been receiving the lion’s share on
your own. You spent much time romping with
your male cohorts there than applying the
investment laws properly. We did an audit. I
checked the rentals in Harare. That chic state
of the art flat if rented empty without any
furniture, except the dishwasher, tumble dryer
and fittings can fetch a reasonable amount
every month. It will give us revenue of two
basic teacher’s salaries. By the end of the year
we will have a sizeable investment to share.”

“Okay, go ahead and flush me down

the toilet like everyone else. You are so holy
you didn’t have any list of British Caucasians
living with you one after the other? The last
count I made you had made enough of those
live in boyfriends to create a football team.
Those men of yours would provide a good hit
team against an enemy garrison.”

“Hey sister, I asked you to come here.

You had the qualifications they wanted and
you refused. Who do you want to suffer? Life
isn’t rosy here working 14-hour days and hardly
resting. We need retirement insurance starting
with the proper management of the flat. The
furniture is being stripped bare and sold. You
will get your share with the rest of us. None of
my men had me in Sheol like you did having
your name all over the newspapers. Mother
says they are selling DVDs copies of you having
group sex for a $1 each in every high density
suburb there. Where have you ever seen mine
being sold?”

Her employer had written a polite

notice that she had been relieved of her
duties. It being a privately run popular hospital
meant every patient coming in to be treated in
her department made it known they did not
want to be served by a porn artist. She would
have to take her relief from normal duties to
the labour court. Her case was an
embarrassment to them. Teams of reporters
from the state media, the Herald, the
Chronicle, Kwayedza, Manica Post, H-Metro
and B-Metro had camped at the hospital, in
Kambuzuma and Harare Remand Prison.

On the first available weekend she had

crossed the border to South Africa without
travelling papers. She came to Cape Town to
stay with a friend before finding
accommodation elsewhere.

That drunken spree when she woke up

late and naked had cost her. The first servants
in had gained entry to the video recordings.
The rest was history. It turned out that friends
were best friends when kept at bay not living
together. Besides, there was a lot of
competition when two attractive women who
liked flaunting their sexual apparel lived
together. They resisted each other like two
male lions in the same tribe but of different
parentage. It was war at first sight. She had
moved out in the middle of the night.

She was a waitress four months later

when an Arab man called Abreeq took a
fancy of her. By that time she had dropped
weight from about eighty-eight kilograms to
slightly around seventy-one. The fat had burnt
out to be replaced with muscle as exercise,
walking long distances between work and
living conditions took their toll. The good food
she used to be choosy about wasn’t free
flowing.

“Hey how are the dishes?” he had held

her hand for a minute longer.

“You keep holding my hand and the

security will throw you out,” she had replied.

“I am Abreeq,” he had replied. “What is

your name pretty face?”

“You wouldn’t want to know my name

and its meaning. Research the widow black
spider that is close to my name,” she had
replied.
 “Oh those complicated Xhosa
names?” he had asked.

“Thanks.”

She moved away from his hold to do

her duties. He had pushed something within her
palm. By the end of day, she counted three
crisp R100 notes. This was what made her
happy. This was what she had come here for.

With this she could see about getting

her academic and professional qualification so
she could apply for the necessary permits. She
was as good as a war refugee in a foreign
land. He kept talking to her here and then
when he came to feast in the evenings mostly.
How did he know her duty roster? One day she
was checking in around two in the afternoon
when someone whistled from a car park.

“Hey, Parkers Bar & Grill lady!”

At that she had turned to see him

standing with three other men all wearing gear
which was Arabic. He left the group tapping
one of them on the shoulders. They were
standing near a white VW Golf Citi with mug
wheels. It looked like a splendid vehicle.

“Hi,” he had started.

“Hello and how are you?”

 “How is the weather? In the morning it
was raining and here I am feeling the heat,” he
had suggested.

“Yeah it changes,” she had replied.

She was dressed in trousers and top

which had the logo of the bar and grill. She
had a light sweater and a cape fitted over her
head. Her hair had been made into braids
going backwards. Somewhere at the back, the
cape opening had been fitted. The hair and
the cape stayed in place even when the cape
fell.

He took her hand in his enclosing

whatever was there.

“Thank you.”

He turned back. When she checked, it

was R400-00. She was leaving the restaurant
around ten thirty in the evening when a white
BMW cruised past her and stopped. The driver
indicated.

“Hi,” he said.

“Oh you,” she had replied.

“I am called Abreeq. Can I take you

home seeing this time is not very safe for me or
you on the dark streets?” he had asked.
 He was wearing his Arabic garb
complete with headgear.

“Abreeq, I am not a bitch. Are you

offering money to buy my heart?” she asked.

“I never said you were. Care for a lift?”

he inquired.

“I did rather not,” she had crossed her

hands over her chest. “I will wait for the kombis
rather. “

She heard someone talking and looked

behind. There were two men coming towards
the bus stop. They had hats coming slightly
below their eyes with hands in the pockets of
their jackets. Those hands could as well be
wrapped around bicycle chains or holding
screw drivers. The hand could hit a car window
screen with minimum damage to the owner.
Give them two minutes and the assets lost
would be a laptop, android phone, car audio
and you name it. He started the vehicle. She
started walking away from the bus stop.

She thought of removing her high heels

and running to the nearest public shop open
which was an eatery less than forty metres
away. She became conscious that she had
changed into a white dress which was
translucent at the edges with a short internal
petticoat that ran slightly mid-way from her
upper legs to her bosom leaving the rest for
perusal.

The upper part of her bust was in two

straps that held the dress together. Her skin was
under the direct influence of the wind blowing.
She was wearing high heeled shoes which
made her mini dress more vulnerable. He
stopped a few metres away. She went into the
open cavity of the passenger seat without
further invitation. He gunned the vehicle
towards his residence going through the
outskirts of the city criss crossing from north of
north east to south west.

“Are you sure the characters at the bus

stops were not with you?” she had asked. “You
left them behind.”

“What characters?”

“Two men wearing woollen hats on

their head,”

“I didn’t see them,” he replied.

“Yeah, you didn’t see them,” was all

she muttered under her breath. “And I was
stupid enough like a lamb to the slaughter to
take a ride with you ____.
 At a traffic light his hands reached
over grasping between her legs working their
way up. She was a deaf mute. She kept her
legs closed. She had enough flesh to keep
them closed. His hands were without
description piercing like a parrying knife. He
took her hand underneath his garb. He wanted
her to feel and to stroke the stuffiness there.

“The traffic light has changed,” she

had informed.

His eyes had been looking through the

traffic interchange. He shifted gears moving.
She shifted her legs away. He pulled her by the
neck towards him. He pushed his hands within
her dress again. He drove slowly letting the
automatic gear shift decide.

He reached over grasping her shoulder

strap. In one move he pulled it down. To
prevent her dress from tearing she moved her
hands closer to her body. He yanked out her
bosom on one side letting the feeding
apparatus out.

“We will crash at this rate,” she had

replied.

“Had we been in New York I would

have been finished with you,” he had replied.
 “We are here,” she covered her
bosom. They approached a traffic light.

He garaged the vehicle locking up

while she moved in trying the keys he had
given her. From the carport there was a short
passage which led left and right. To the left
was a spacious lounge. She switched the light
on. They came to life flickering showing they
were energy saving devices. The house was
very impressive.

He found her standing in the lounge

her hands wrapped around her waist. She had
been checking for hidden cameras. He pulled
her towards the bedroom. By the time she got
to the king size bed, the dress had been
trampled on. Thirty minutes later she found
herself on the receiving end in the bathroom.

“My, oh my, you are beautifully made,”

he had reasoned.

“That is sexual desire talking. You don’t

need treat me like dirt. Do you have to pull me
by the hair? Don’t I have the right like a lady to
be invited for sex? What if I just wanted a lift?”

“I thought I was the customer here.”

“Do you take me for a bitch?” she

asked.
 “Sorry but you are still attractive when
very angry. You have a very short temper. That
is very dangerous here especially if you are a
foreigner.”

“With all your papers you might as well

be found under your own bush with your throat
cut especially if I am a foreigner.”

They had another bath. He soaped

and shampooed her to make amends for her
complaints. She sat in the lounge wrapped in a
white bath towel covering from slightly mid-
way of her medium large bosom to her half of
her upper knees. He kept watching her when
she was not looking. He acknowledged that
among the African class, she was a breed
apart. He watched cricket round up. He had
shown her the kitchen. They had already
eaten. There had fruit and ice cream apiece.

“Will you be driving me home?” she

asked.

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“I rent a room.”

“Phone whosoever and tell them you

finished late. You can’t risk coming this hour,”
he had handed her his Nokia Lumia. “Don’t tell
them my name or this place. I can’t risk coming
to your room. The boys in the hood would
remove my wheels and engine.”

She did.

“What does your name Abreeq

mean?”

“Handsome warrior,” he had replied.

“Coming here is by appointment.”

“I never said I would come on my

own,” she had replied.

“Do you have children?”

“No. I don’t but I will in future.”

“Neither do I.”

“I will, sometime much later.”

“Not with me. I don’t like inter-racially

mixed children,” he had replied. “I have had
enough trouble with the works of whites and
blacks mixing in the Cape Flats. They created a
race that can shoot me in the face for not
giving them money for a cigarette.”

“Hoodlums have no race. So you don’t

kiss black girls because you hate Africans?” she
asked. “But I take it you like ebony bodies
though.”
 “Your mouth is meant for other things
whether you are white, coloured or Asian,” he
had replied. “I don’t like kissing.”

“So you think you can buy sex with your

small and miserable rand notes?” she asked.

“No but I think we have a date.”

For the night, she was with Abreeq,

when he started going downhill, he was like a
wild horse escaping its captors. There was no
need to reason with him because he did not
hear. He was out to hurt, hurt, hurt and
discharge. His discharge was for her face
always. What did he call her when he was
through?

Bitch!

____________________________________

Abreeq was kind and affectionate

picking her up every three times a week taking
her to his residence for consultations. He kept
pushing crisp rand notes into her bodice before
and after they met. Over a period of almost six
weeks she slept over almost twice per week
because he released her when it was too late
to risk driving.
 She liked dipping her body into his
marble bath and walking the entire length of
the ensuite facilities within his main bedroom.
There was a small fitted kitchenette, a small
lounge with bay windows looking out at a golf
course, a walk in wardrobe with so many shoes
she wondered at their value. The marble bath,
oh, it was just lovely. He dotted and fed on her.

“There is a group of workers going to

work in Kuwait,” he had stated one time while
she was in her blankets feeling sleepy. She slept
with nothing on. He insisted she do that.

“What sort of jobs?” she had asked.

“You said you are a qualified nurse?”

“Yes.”

“You would have to undergo about a

year’s training,” he had suggested. “Thereafter
things would work well. You will have to abide
by Middle East religious standards which are
very harsh. Casual sex can be punished by
hanging.”

“Stoning,” she had replied. “Do you see

me as being so stupid as to have sex with any
handsome Arab men?”

He appreciated she knew about Sharia

Law. “Well that and you would have to cover
that large bosom and stop having three
quarters of it out when you are walking in the
city. You will look funny with dark glasses and
only the glasses being visible in a burka.”

“That was what drew you to me,” she

had replied. “That is what you like to suck on
remembering your mother. Of all you nude
girlfriends in painting, pin ups and photographs
none has small breasts. None of them have
them covered in the photographs.”

That was being very observant, he

thought. What else had she observed?

“Kuwait?”

“I have no travelling papers, yet”

“That can be arranged,” he had risen

from the bed to smoke by the window. “Do
you fancy going?”

“Yes,” she had replied. ”Abreeq means

glistening sword not handsome warrior.”

“Ah you have no end for intelligence,”

he had said.

On the last night before she boarded

the plane he said to her after he had had seen
her for an hour.
 “You will be called a bayieat hawaa.”

“What does that mean?”

“Desert rose,” he had said. “You are so

beautiful. I cannot stay with you without
breaking every religious law. Besides that I will
select my breeding cows from within my Arabic
community.”

“Did I say I want to have a child,

particularly yours?”

“You know what my people did to

captured blacks who became slaves?” he
asked.

“You were more ruthless than the

Rhodesian regime or the apartheid one. The
American colonists were better. The owners
would pick Negro salves to mate with at will.
They allowed the slaves to maintain families
and increase population, but you,” she had
replied. “You castrated black slaves and
removed their tongues. They would never
entice your daughters or women again. They
would learn the language but if they escaped
they could not teach or speak it.”

“Good, you are so intelligent.”

“Yeah I was a professional back in my

country. I made one error after another. Here I
am working as a waitress with all sorts of men
groping my behind when I move,” she had
summed up.

“I didn’t grope. You like it when they

grope?”

“Would I complain if I did?”

____________________________________

She was at work running her chores

when she thought of something. She
approached a Zulu who was the security
manager.

“Zulu?”

“Yap.”

“There is a customer who comes here

who looks like an Arab,” she had replied.

“The one that talks to you a lot?” he

had asked.

That was why they had made him a

security manager.

“Yes that one. Do you have any CCTv

coverage of him?”
 “Why?”

“I just want a copy Zulu,” she had put a

R20 note into his hands. He had considered
before making her a copy. The man came
again sitting with his mates over a meal. Zulu
whispered an instruction to one waiter. She
served them. When she was clearing the
dishes, Zulu made a sign. He remained with the
dishes while she ran an errand he had
presented for her. Zulu picked up for wine
glasses carefully stashing them in a small
container.

On the morrow, Zulu visited his favourite

police constabulary with the box.

“Ephraim what is this?” one of the

police officers had asked.

“There is a man throwing cash to the

girls at work. Just check out his fingerprints and
see what you get,” Ephraim had replied.

“Yeah there are terrorism security alerts

all over Europe. Who knows these people may
plan what they did in Kenyan here,” the police
detail had replied.

Abreeq had taken her after an all-night

session to where some men were making travel
documents. He had paid for everything. She
had a new name and new looks complete
with a burka. She would have the last laugh on
the rough circumstances she had been riding
through.

____________________________________

They were tired. Every joint in their body

was aching. They were hungry and thirsty from
waiting in a dusty arena with no windows and
no air conditioning. That was the problem with
being illegal immigrants. By having non-status
at times they were treated like wild animals. On
arrival there was a grey haired Arabic man she
took to be about fifty-eight who tried holding
her by the waist. He kept figuring his crotch
scratching it. The tight grey pyjamas had a
bulge on them. The other seven ladies
complained about his behaviour.

“He is what do you call it?” the driver

had tried for an English word. “He has lost his
marbles.”

“Why did you bring him here?”

someone had asked.

“He saved the life of my boss so my

boss is indebted,” the driver had replied. “The
vehicle will have to travel with windows
blacked out. You are illegal, you understand,
yes?”

“Okay,” they had said.

The old man had tried touching her.

She had shoved him away. By the time the
vehicle ferrying them had criss-crossed the city,
he was sitting ogling her and another African
woman. They moved from near Sharjah
International Airport heading away from The
Palm Delta with the Camel Race Course to
their right.

There was security presence at their

arrival. They had been shown to their
dormitories. The rules had been read.

“You are here, all fifteen of you from

three different flights as sex slaves. You do as
told or we kill,” one of the guards had said.
“Secondly you will note this is not Kuwait or
Saudi Arabia.”

A cold chill went through her spine.

Those bad dreams were manifesting now. She
swore that she would hunt Abreeq if she came
out alive. She swore she would have him killed
whatever it took. If only she hadn’t been so
concerned with the rand notes he had been
dishing out. If it took a gang to make love to
her so be it as long as his head was on the
platter.

“I will not be a sex slave,” one woman

had started running away. “I came here to
work as a domestic servant.”

They had watched her running where

she didn’t know. They had come through
mazes of rooms and stairs up and down she
didn’t know is she was in the third floor or the
basement. Wherever there was a cul de sac
with the top fenced off. Either ends had
guards. The outside perimeter had guards with
what she hated the most, brutal dogs that
bayed for blood.

“Haris get hold of that bayieat hawaa,”

the leader of the pack had said.

“She isn’t getting anywhere,” one of

the guards had replied.

One movement of the foot and the

woman sprawled down. The guard walloped
her with a long wooden pole he had once
then again. He took her by her Indian hair
pulling her up and behind him.

“Watch what happens if you try to

escape,” the man had said. “I am called
Nawaf. Remember my name. I will come into
your room for service that is a blessing. I am
short tempered. You delay. I will use the
revolver.”

Another guard took the woman

pushing her flowing dress up over her waist
exposing her slenderness stripping her bare
downstairs. She was about five foot and a half
with a weight displacement of about fifty-two
kilograms. He yanked her by her Asian flowing
hair. He dug into his garments coming to sit
astride her while she looked down. She closed
her eyes. There was a fiery slap that spun her.

“Nawaf said watch. All of you get your

eyes open! I see you closing your eyes you will
join her as a demonstration.”

For a man who had ‘lost’ his marbles

the old character was strong and sane now.
He came behind her pushing his hands against
her face so she could watch what was
happening. He pulled her back hard against
his midriff pulling her hands hard. She felt her
backbone snapping. She sagged. He raised
her up.

“You don’t watch I will break all your

backbones,” he had threatened. “I will be
behind you.”
 She and her mates were forced to
watch. A spectacle was played. She could
hear the other women sobbing. The guard was
on top of the woman for about three minutes
rising and falling like a man riding the waves.

“Need I make myself clear?” Nawaf

asked. “Who wants to be next to get that
treatment?”

There was silence.

“Who is the next one? Who wants to

volunteer herself to me while the rest watch?”

No one responded to the old insane’s

question. The first victim was picked up and
frog marched to their quarters. One by one
they were locked up. The fact that some of the
guards were being locked with the victims
within the rooms showed her what was first to
come.

The guards were talking their fancy. By

early morning all of their batteries would be
flat. She had the old ‘insane’ who was followed
by a guard with a pole. It was either of the two,
maybe both. He had used the pole once on a
slow woman. She didn’t know what had hit her
twice. She increased speed.
 The ‘insane’ pushed her into a room
and grinned. She heard the door lock set. The
old man was already pulling off his clothes. He
was bony, lean and strong though in his
birthday suit. She worried if he had a woman at
home. If he did, then the women were in deep
trouble because he was enlarged, huge and
thickening.

“Undress!” he had commanded.

She remained standing looking at him.

Her arms were crossed over her midriff. The
insane one jumped once. She spun from the
kick to the face landing on the bed. So
surprised was she that she hadn’t seen the
karate or kung-fu style coming. She slid to the
floor seeing stars. She tried to get up but she
was dizzy.

He stood over her.

“Are you going to undress or ____,” he

had not finished when she heard the sound of
a scream. There was the sound that
connected between the flesh and bone. Was it
a kick or a slap that resounded in the passage?
The sobbing of the woman next door was
silenced. In its place it was replaced by a
guard grunting. He was working his way while
another was threatening to squash the
woman’s head with his bare boots. “Or would
you like that so you can be welcomed by two
at the same time all the night because of
being stubborn?”

There was the sound of a voice on a

speaker within the room saying something in
Arabic. When she came to, she was undressed.
He was pulling her onto the bed muttering
something like a leopard or cheetah pulling its
prey up into a tree habitat away from the lions
and especially the hyenas that could break its
head in one bite. In between consciousness,
she felt her legs lifted to his shoulders. He sang
in her ears in Arabic. He stood on the bed while
she lay down at sixty degree angle to the
mattress her butt in the air.

He had done all he had wanted with

her.

Afterwards he pulled her to the bath

pushing her into the tub. Standing over her he
had urinated on her face. This was
degradation to the worst level. He was not yet
through. He forced her to bath while he
watched. He only bathed his under carriage.
For an old man,’ insane too’, he had a lot of
stamina when it came to women. He would
slap her across the face or hit her in the tummy
because she continued to resist. He reminded
her of someone. She was too dazed and hurt
to finger out whom.
 Whenever he needed pass out water
he pulled her to the tab and watered her face
and hair. He seemed to have a problem with
his bowels because she kept being drugged
into the toilet for the same procedure
throughout the night.

“Bayieat hawaa means prostitute,” he

had said.

He left early in the morning after he

had passed water all over her hair and face.
He sat near her face in the middle of the room
making her give him a blow job while he
shouted in Arabic at the watching people. This
was the worst humiliation she had ever sunk to.

He saluted her before leaving the

room. She lay there for an hour before she
pulled herself into the bath to wash. She didn’t
know when she had last prayed yet she did in
the bathroom. Her prayers were felt. Her body
shook ads tears ran down her cheeks. She had
a feeling there were two cameras in the main
room and one in the bathroom. She needed to
figure out where exactly they were. The next
time he would come for her and another
woman would be after almost a year.

That was how she ended up in Dubai in

a building with a razor wire fence, guards with
dogs, and burglar screens on windows with a
room that had a few facilities but into which
different men came in and went out. When
they were on their way out, they stood in the
middle of the room and waved their hands at
a spot upon which the guard came to open
the door. Every activity was watched as long
as the light was on.

The guards had massive crotches

watching. However, the women were free for
all. The guards liked the new arrivals. After
paying customers had started trickling in their
guards looked at the women and called them
infidels. They stopped at spitting at them. The
management at least had a conscience. Here
employees did not get fired, they could talk.
They got dumped in war torn Arab countries
with bodies riddled with bullets.

They took their pick. The profits

belonged to the syndicate. They were sexual
slaves of different races and nationalities. She
understood now how Abreeq made his money
after dumping each and every girl whose
naked torso was on display in his house. She
wondered where he had put hers. What did
these men using her body for their fulfilment
call her?

Bitch!
 ____________________________________

Then she had someone called Aamir. He

was slim, short and looked nineteen. He was
jumpy with eyes that looked around as if
expecting to see Genghis Khan waiting for him.
He stood by the wall after having been shown
into her room. She looked at him once before
she continued reading a book. She lay on the
bed dressed in western clothes.

“What is your name?”

“April,” she had replied.

“I am Aamir,” he had replied.

“Good,” she had replied.

A minute later he was still standing there.

Then he walked to her.

“You stand up,” he had said though his

English was broken. She mended it and
understood what it meant. She had been
treated for facial injuries recently after
someone had stamped their foot on her jaw.
The guards had broken through. The customer
had been removed and blacklisted.
 She stood up. He walked around her
holding his hands behind him.

“Good,” he had said. “African?”

“Yes,” she had replied.

“Infidel?” She didn’t reply.

“Get into the blankets.”

She had done that. He came in from the

other side undressing from his customary garb.
He came into the sheets putting his arms
around her. He was so small considering her
frame. She undressed. He was very kind. He
sucked her tits throughout whatever he was
doing. If not her tits, he was kissing her mouth
pushing his tongue hard against her.

“Stroke it!”

He seemed to have a problem in getting

excited but once excited, he did not let her
mouth or tits go. She felt her body betraying
her throughout the night. In the morning he
bade her farewell before leaving.

As was usual he was driven out of the

compound in a closed vehicle with no
windows to disorient him. He was dropped at
Sharjah International Airport. He unlocked the
tent covering of the vehicle which he used.
Since he had started using it, no sane police
officer had ever stopped him. He checked his
Rolls Royce which he chauffeured waiting for
his master’s flight. He cleaned it until it was as
clean as can be.

Very soon he was driving the limousine

with his master and his visitors down the road to
their headquarters first. After an hour and a half
the master called him to his office. He entered
going past the majestic desk to press a button.
Behind it was a room. He entered the room
stripping off his uniform. His master came in.

“Long time Aamir, What did you do

when I was away?” he asked rubbing Aamir‘s
undercarriage. Aamir sucked stock until it was
hard and ready.

“There was nothing much, sir.”

“You didn’t request the medium vehicle

Jaguar XJL Portfolio 3.0L Supercharged, the
Mercedes Benz E220-D or the Range Rover.
Didn’t you go into the desert to see your tribe?”
was a question.

“No,” Aamir replied. He knew the boss

was well informed and had industrial
intelligence information relayed daily. “I was
having a sauna and a spar at a local joint
overnight.”
 “If you took a fancy of the women I will
cut off your balls.”

“I know master. Neither did I fancy the

men with their turbans too.”

“Good.”

The master rolled up his garb and sat on

the smaller frame of the other man. They talked
of the horse and camel races while the bigger
man rose and fell against the smaller
chauffeur. Four minutes later the master had
concluded by a shout. He had now finished
with the use of the little man’s anus.

“If you saw other man in my absence

you are dead. If I get gonorrhoea, anal warts
or Chlamydia because of your use of that
peeping hole with other men I will castrate you.
I should have had you castrated.”

“No master, I am not a slave. Your wives

won’t ever get those sicknesses.”

__________________________________________
gumi nemasere (18)
 ___________________________________

“Sydney,” she had said.

“Yes Anushka,” Sydney had replied.

He was inside a tuck-shop while Anushka

was outside. Anushka had a bony face of an
Ethiopian or of a Somalian. Sydney’s tuck-shop
was well stocked with goods in an orderly
manner.

“I have been offered a job by this Arab

man,” she had said.

“Oh really?” he had asked. “You have

grown tired of running domestic chores for
these lazy buggers?”

“I am having misgivings,” she had

replied.

“So where is the problem?” the other

asked. “We ran away from the war and here
we are. We have to run away from marauding
youths who start throwing stones when they run
out of their mother’s child support payments.”

“I want you to check him out,” she had

replied.
 “Why me Anushka?” he had asked.
“Since when have I become a detective?”

“You are a man besides which, you have

an instinct ever since we crossed together from
the ravages of Mogadishu. With that SKS rifle,
you decided whether or not our group of
women lived or bore you sons/daughters. You
selected that we must all live and select our
own husbands later,” she had replied. That
didn’t make her an Egyptian then. “You are
the only one besides my brother, his wife and
my step-sister whom I can confide in. We speak
a language separate from these _______
others.”

“Okay when does he come here?” he

had asked. “I am not promising any miracles
my sister.”

“No we are meeting in town,” she had

replied. “He saw me at a fund raiser when I was
working as a waitress. He has been onto me
ever since.”

“Tell me more. Maybe you will be the

wife of an Arab. I bet you he has other wives
stashed all over the country like rats stocking
winter fodder.”

“He took me in a vehicle and drove to

the sea in the evening. He picks me up
whenever I am off duty for different dates in
different places. I think we have gone out
about twelve times. My valuation is that it’s not
about marriage.”

“You think he doesn’t want to marry?”

he had asked.

“Absolutely not. I told him I have three

kids to look after. I told him my husband died in
a refugee camp in Kenya,” she had replied.
“He is not the marrying type. I also told him I am
not the loose type of woman looking for a
boyfriend.”

“So?”

“There on the seas shore he wanted sex. I

told him, nada, I am not a prostitute,” she had
said.

“And?”

“He has been giving me crisp R100 notes

every week for no service,” she had replied.
Sydney nodded his head. “I just think he is after
my body.”

“Next time he comes you phone me. I

will see what I can do.”

“Okay fellow country man,” she had left.

 For a woman who had had three
children within seven years to which she had
lost her husband four years later she was still
looking youthful and girlish. Anushka was not
very attractive. Sydney wondered what a man
would see in her. He realized that manly
preferences for wives depended on their own
individual needs otherwise they varied. One
man’s meat was another’s poison. A woman
who was so talkative she hardly stopped
talking had been the one he had married.
Others preferred women who were quiet or
reserved like Anushka.

Yet she had married. Anushka had had

three children. She had lost her husband in a
terrible civil war pitting one warlord against
another with civilians becoming RPG and
machine gun fodder. They shared a sad and
terrifying past when they had grown together
as neighbours in a country ravaged by civil
war. The bonus of deposing one dictator by
force of arms had been internal strife as
different warlords fought to control Mogadishu
and ultimately Somalia. Sydney went through
his motor cycle when he was free oiling and
making sure it was okay. Around nine in the
evening she telephoned. He picked up his cell
and there was no response.
 Sydney fitted earphones to the cell and
rode off on his bike listening to the
conversation.

“So, “the Arab had said. “Last time I tried

touching your breasts you freaked out.”

“You were improper,” she had replied.

“Are you not abiding by the faith like me?”

“Yeah I am. They say when in Rome do

as the Romans do,” he had replied.

“I don’t know if you are still practising the

faith.”

“Can we find somewhere where we can

talk at this hour without getting robbed?” he
had asked.

“Not your house. I am not a prostitute.

Back home they stoned women for being
raped and not the rapists.”

“How many children do you have?” he

had asked.

“Three,” she had replied. “I have since

stopped counting the children I will ever have.”

“What if I want you to have a fourth

one?” he asked. “Am I not good enough a
Muslim to give you three more children?”
 “No ways,” she had replied. “I am not
going to be a concubine like Hagar bearing
children for others to enjoy.”

“I told you there is a passenger ship

coming to Dar es Salaam. It requires female
waitresses. You illegal immigrants have the
advantage in demanding less pay, getting
more hours and you don’t strike,” he had
explained.

She gave him an address which was

open that evening. As they had supper she
heard a motor bike stopping and starting. He
wore jeans and t-shirts while she had a long
flower covered dress with matching head
gear.

“Tell me more about Tanzania,” she had

replied.

“To get there you have to come

between my sheets first,” he had said. “I have
to have you spread eagled before me. I will
help you with the other logistics afterwards.”

“Maybe I will stay here in Cape Town,”

she had replied. “That way I can prevent
carrying an unwanted child in Mombasa.”

“You can come and live with me for a

week like a housemaid. Only that I will be your
husband for the short time,” he had
encouraged.

“Maybe I will remain a waitress,” she had

replied. “The tips are great though the pay is
low and the working hours border on
dangerous.”

“How old are you?”

She was taken aback. She counted the

years. “I am thirty-six.”

“How many men of my race and age will

look at an African woman of that age?” he
had asked her. He spiced his language. “And
how many of them would want to create seed
with you at your age?”

“I wouldn’t know ______,” she had

replied. “I never thought in those terms. What is
it about me that you like?”

“You remind me of Anita, a girl who

ditched me when I was still in Lebanon,” he
had replied.

“I will consider. Why do you want to find

work for me?”

“I will be moving to Mombasa soon. You

will bear my child when you have worked on
the ship awaiting my transfer.”
 “I have children here.”

“That is much the better. You will support

them well,” he had replied.

He talked about the passenger industry

and the problems associated with labour and
running low on profits.

“The finer details after you heed my

request,” he had said.

“I will think about both,” she had replied.

He dropped her home. By that time

Sydney had no cell connection because her
airtime had run out. He saw the red taillights of
his vehicle. He stopped chatting to Anushka.
He studied the vehicle from where he was.

The man put his hands on her legs talking

finer points. He raised the hand to her chin. He
turned her face by her cheeks. He kissed her on
the mouth. She did not resist.

“Do you live alone?” his breathing was

hoarse.

“No with an extended family.”

“I will telephone.”
 “I wait to hear from you,” she had exited
the vehicle.

He drove into the city selecting an area

he knew well. He slowed down. Three girls
came to the window. He reached out with his
hands feeling their cups. The one he thought
was best, he asked her in. They were intelligent
hookers, they took his vehicle registration. Not
only that but a photo of the vehicle from the
back. That wouldn’t please the faith
community, he thought wryly.

He released her early in the morning

while it was still dark. He drove her into the city
thirty minutes before sun up. He had taken the
precaution to switch off all outside lights so she
couldn’t notice too much.

___________________________________

Anushka came to the tuck-shop. “What

do you think Sydney?”

“I don’t know my sister. I took

photographs of him, his vehicle and you too,
just in case.”

“Tanzania?” she thought.

 “One of our countrymen is working in a
ship that docks in Cape Town almost every
month,” Sydney had replied. “It’s your choice.”

“I am afraid of going to his place then

you will have to hear my body was picked up
in the Tugela River,” she had replied.

“I have his details,” he had replied.

“I will keep you posted,” she had replied.

“If you make it to Tanzania and things

are okay you give me a line. Running a tuck-
shop that is trashed every time there are race
riots is not rosy,” he had replied.

“Had you known when you fought

against the US Rangers in Mogadishu you
wouldn’t have risked your life against those
that wanted you to live,” she had replied.

“I defended a warlord who had us under

court martial. Had the lorry not overtaken we
would have been shot by the firing squad,” he
had replied. “Don’t tell that story. That is why I
changed my first name.”

“I won’t.”

“So what have you decided?”

 “He will phone. He wants what one gang
of three South African blacks took for free one
night when they raided our homes,” she had
replied. “Don’t look at me like that. You are like
a brother to me. You should never cheat your
hardworking wife. Those domestic jobs are
damaging her shoulders and back. Do you
know that one of my team was set upon by the
husband of the woman she was working for?
She couldn’t even approach the police.

“What do you do when you don’t have

travelling papers or an identity of the country
of origin and you are stuck in a foreign
country? I am as good as a Palestinian refugee
fleeing fire-fights between the PLO and Israelis
on one hand, the PLO and Black September
whatever on the other and you are in Beirut
where the Christians and religious extremists are
lobbying shells at each other. What do you
do?”

“I guess you have to come out of your

hiding place when there is a lull in the fighting.“

“Exactly, that is why I am afraid. What if

the lull is like a trap?”

“I am just concerned Anushka.”

“If he telephones same procedure,” she

had replied.
 He had called her. He gave her an
address where he would pick her up. He took
her for dinner at Green Point overlooking Table
Bay Harbour watching the lights of ships,
frigates, tug boats, leisure craft and the odd
container ship coming in. They had tenderloin
beef with potatoes and mixed salad. He had
asked her to have clothes for three nights out
with him. When he left the restaurant he found
time to put his arms around her from the back
showing her the lights of Ruben Island. She was
much taller than him.

Sydney rode his motorcycle watching

details. The vehicle headed towards
Constantia. Once within the perimeter she had
shut off her phone. He didn’t hear his harsh
breathing. He took her against the wall kissing
her ravenously. He consummated their love still
standing on that wall. After a bath he took her
into the lounge to watch television and chat.
That was why he was popular with the ladies.
He was fully charged soon.

She inspected the array of various ladies

in various forms of nudity which adorned his
wall.

“Of these which is Anita?” she had

asked.
 He pointed at a photograph of a fellow
African like her on the beach with her mini
white dress around her waist only. The legs
were fair. She was very attractive. She
probably weighed one and half times her fifty-
three kilograms. She had a much bigger bust
that was sagging. Her brown eyes were
brilliant. She looked half into the camera with
her head twisted to one side like a stork
checking for frogs.

“Here it’s written Desert Rose? I hope

there will be no photograph of mine in the
nude. That is breaking every rule in the faith
indeed.”

“That is what I called her.”

“I didn’t know there were Africans in

Beirut,” she had observed.

“She was studying medicine,” he had

replied.

____________________________________

Anushka came to the tuck-shop. “So?”

“He says by next week I should be in

Mombasa,” she had replied.
 “I saw where he took you. At a huge
residence with a swimming pool stuck in a hill?”

“I was kept locked in,” she had replied. “I

could hear the waves at one point as we
drove.”

She went to Tanzania.

__________________________________

The aeroplane took a long time in the air.

To make matters worse they were stashed in
crates. When they finally made daylight, they
were weak, hungry and thirsty. They were
bundled into a vehicle, all seven of them criss-
crossing streets they didn’t know. The interior
was hot and stuffy smelling of dry clean
detergent. They sweated from every gland and
orifice.

Then there was the welcome party.

Armed guards with dogs read them the act.

“You will be fed in your rooms. We will

allow you to start work tomorrow. Any
insubordination and you will be like
______________,” the guard had said.

He opened a blanket near where they

were.
 “She was from East Timor. What a shame
and a waste.”

“You are nothing but whores. You will

receive your ration of men who want you. Your
rooms have microphones. You tell those men
how you came here and you will end up in a
body bag for the Arab desert. Mind when you
hear the air raid sirens because the Israeli army
is nearby. They don’t like blacks or Asians which
is your mixture. You are in Palestine. To the west
is Egypt.”

All the women looked aside away from

the ashen face before them. The blanket was
replaced. An old man of almost fifty-eight
years roughly pushed her towards her room
while the guards followed allocating rooms to
each of them. The old man entered with her.
She heard the key shoot home.

“My name is Afridi. I will teach you how

to behave if you misbehave. Huh? You want to
look good in a body bag headed for the
scotching desert sands?”

“Oh my goodness,” was all she said.

Her clothes were striped from her to her

birthday suit by the old man. She was made to
turn around for his perusal. He had her bent
almost double with her head near his ankles
while his fingers were running in her innards all
the while saying something in Arabic. He
snorted.

He didn’t bother with preliminaries

neither did he say much to her. He showed her
what was to come. He showed her his own
nudity. He grinned. She didn’t say a sound. The
old man was after nothing but her backsides
which held her anal cavity that her prized
throughout the night. In between, on the bed,
he pushed her to the far edge while he slept
legs thrown akimbo snoring like an express
train. When the snores stopped, her anal cavity
hurt. She just lay limp accepting the
punishment.

There was one way of escaping the war,

becoming a foreign prisoner without her rights.
She started praying again like she had done in
Mogadishu when Sydney had appeared with
his armed gang to shepherd them to safety in
between the street battles won today and lost
tomorrow.

For the next six months the old man

never bothered her.

____________________________________
 Sydney never heard from her. He
enquired of her relatives.

“She said Tanzania but she has been

gone six months not even a word. Now we
have to look after her three children,” they had
replied.

“There is a guy who takes ladies to

Tanzania whom I would like to see,” Sydney
had replied. “Let me first visit a police
detachment which saved my tuck-shop one
time.”

He reported to the police. “We receive

a lot of missing persons’ reports.”

“Do you receive any aligned to ones

that had dated Asian men?” Sydney had
asked,

“Not at this station,” the policeman had

said. “Do you have her particulars?”

“A photograph is what I remembered to

carry,” he had produced one. “There on the
beach, the tall one. The Asian is the one she
was last seen with.”

“Um,” the man had filled in forms before

typing information into his computer. He
placed the photograph in a scanner. With a
minute he had returned the photograph. The
picture was now in a computer screen. “Bring
me her other particulars to complete the
report.”

__________________________________

The problem with twins is that at times

they communicate without speech or
telephone. How, that is something researches
should find out maybe the internet may be
replaced by telepathy through advanced
twins who can communicate. Born in India, two
women Bahumathi and Bahuputri had been
separated when they grew older. The
demands of family life came along.

Each one had married with Bahumathi’s

husband dying within five years leaving her
and two daughters to scrounge. Bahuputri
worked in a steamy factory while Bahumathi
had chanced on a job placement to Saudi
Arabia. Before that they had had telepathic
contact. Without a letter being written they
would find themselves visiting each other when
one was sick of injured.

Bahuputri had last seen her sister when

they took her to the airport three years ago.
Bahumathi had promised to work tirelessly for
her twin sister’s airfare so they could escape
the poverty like some of their village mates
who were in Europe. It was unlike Bahumathi
not to communicate or support their aging
parents and her growing daughters.

Bahuputri had been searching for

Bahumathi’s male friend who had placed her
in Saudi Arabia all the time without success.
She reported the issue to the police who had
shown disinterest.

“She could be in human trafficking

hands,” she had replied.

Then she had seen the man friend of her

sister. She did not rush to introduce herself. She
followed discreetly until she saw where he was
operating from. She had reported the issue to
the police where bored officers had looked at
her. She narrated the same ordeal she had
narrated before. She got her receipt for
reporting. When she was gone one bored
officer took the report to an office where
another sleepy officer punched it into a
machine to advice their consulates in the
Middle East.

Another one took the details and went

searching until he saw the quarry. He set up a
network of beggars who could watch the
going in and out of their quarry. There was a
fire at a place near their quarry to which the
fire services had reacted well. While their
quarry watched the firemen, his telephone was
tapped, and closed circuit televisions were
mounted.

Within three weeks the police had leads

on some missing women. Their quarry was
finding women suspicions jobs in the Middle
East.

____________________________________

Kailashchandra had a master’s degree

in international trade and finance. He worked
at the Indian embassy in Dubai. He specialized
in making sure he represented commercial
entities from India that were doing business in
Dubai for his attachment period. His wife had
gone home to India to attend a funeral. That
had been five weeks ago. Maybe she would
be coming back next week. Kailashchandra
had read the report concerning Bahumathi
and other Indian women who had
disappeared in the Arabic peninsula as
alleged. He had read some of them while
joking on the dreams of the twin sister with
other men.

He had been in the city when he

thought he wanted to discharge what was in
his crotch. Knowing the religious rules, he made
inquiries. He had been shepherded to a secure
complex. Within an hour he was talking to an
Indian girl. He had a gift of knowing directions
even when he drove into or out of a place in
the dark. He was not into the intelligence
services but it was a geographical feature he
had. He never got lost coming back to a place
he had visited even after a year.

He was civil. He entered the room

removing his business suit. The lady looked at
him until he was in his birthday suit. He came
onto the bed and entered the sheets.

“What will it be?” the woman had asked.

“What is comfortable to you?” he had

asked in Hindi.

“You are the customer.”

“If I had known you were Indian, I would

have preferred an Arab girl,” he had replied.

“There are no Arab girls. We meet in the

courtyard downstairs. All of us are foreign sex
slaves,” she had whispered.

“Missionary,” he had replied.

He had played preliminaries, kissing and

touching encouraging her to touch him.
 “What is your name?” he asked in Hindi.

“If they hear you ask that they will throw

you out,” she had whispered within the sheets.

“What is your name?” he had asked.

He was still doing the preliminaries which

had allowed him space. He made them drawn
out so that time could evolve. He was now in
no hurry. He also knew in this type of situation,
the police would report on a dead consulate
official picked in a dirty street. He would have
had an overdose of drugs. He had never used
them in his life.

“Bahumathi.”

“You have a twin sister works in a factory

back in Arunachai Pradesh?” he asked. “Get
to look like you are sucking me within the
blankets. Your ramp should be near my ear like
I am licking. She works in Sanskirt.”

“Yes!”

“Shhh!”

While she talked, he kissed and did other

things.

“Imagine if it was your sister being used

for free,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t you do
something? They are pocketing whatever they
charge us. Who knows how we leave this place
if not in a hearse?”

“I will do something if you shut up and

don’t act stupid. We could both die!”

He did what he had paid to do.

“You are my brother, remember me,”

she whispered.

“Have any of you ever escaped?”

“Not that I have heard of. There is a

group that followed after us that included a
Timorese woman. One guard took a fancy of
her. He would return time after time when there
were no customers to orally rape her.”

“And?”

“She died.”

“Just like that?”

“He filled her mouth up. She pressed her

teeth hard one night. She locked her jaws. No
amount of beating would make her release her
jaws. He screamed. He beat her but she kept
the jaws locked. The guards opened the door
after a while. He had no manhood but she was
dead. He was in a pool of blood. “
 “And did he live?”

“I don’t think so. If you are slow I might

not live too. I have no reason too. I have been
shamed enough. One of these days I will do
something to the men coming here. One of
them is going to the grave with me.“

“Remain alive for two more weeks.”

“I have received shame. I don’t need to

live,” she had replied.

They lay side by side because he still had

an hour to go. She didn’t speak to him again
choosing to cover her face and weep. She
pulled her blankets to her chin because she
knew the camera was reporting on sound and
vision. He had left the complex. They had
searched his cell phone just in case. He was
taken out. On the morrow he had had
breakfast with three reporters he had heard
were at times deported for their news
reporting. After it they drove through the city
until they stopped by a building.

“You think this is it?” asked one of them.

“We are probably being seen on CCTV,”

he had replied.

“Great,” the other had driven off. The

three set up their elaborate system that
included using sewers mains. “If you ever return
here we will report your death.”

“I will now stay as close to the embassy

as possible.”

He reported to his bosses that he

suspected there were Indian women who had
been trafficked. His boss told him if he
considered his life, he should remain silent while
whosoever he was working with had the issue
out.

____________________________________

The reporters when they had their beef

tipped the national police several weeks later.

The building’s occupants were removed

at night but infra-red imaging devices followed
them. They were placed elsewhere but a team
of reporters in disguise broadcast the removal
live on many networks while the police chief
showed reporters an empty building. He
accused the western world of being haters of
their religion. He was still addressing reporters
when one of the camera crew showed him live
feeds on his own national television.

He rushed to his police headquarters. On

the way on the road he watched news on a
building with a display screen showing the
women who were being moved to another
building. By the time he reached his office half
his police force was rescuing sex slaves from
three buildings. The commissioner was calling
for his head on the platter. His juniors said they
heard one shot gun blast. The syndicate was
busted. By the time every sex slave in three
localities had been identified and they had
gone through procedures, it was a huge haul.

The police also said they had recovered the

body of a fifty-five year old man who had stab
wounds in his private parts from a wooden plank
which had come off a base bed and had been
sharpened on a wall. The man should have bled to
death when the women were removed. He
seemed to have had his own shirt stuffed in his
mouth while his hands were bound by pantyhose.
His shoes were tied by his laces around his neck.
The national police also believe that about seven
of these sex slaves were killed and buried within the
country.

The gang has been charged with

trafficking in humans, drugs, illicit sexual
activity, murder, rape and crimes against
religion. Most are likely to face the death
penalty for their crimes.

____________________________________
 “Brother?” the woman who said so was
wearing full regalia of the faith from head to
toe. Her eyes were within dark shades.

“My sister, how are you?” he had asked

from within his shop.

“I heard you now sale motor vehicle

spare parts,” she had replied.

“Yes, every conceivable type of small

parts.”

“For a man who once shot against the

US rangers, you have done well,” she had
replied. “Your memory seemed to have
slipped.”

“Anushka!”

“Sydney my little brother? I remember

running with you in Mogadishu when Siad Barre
was still alive,” she had hugged him.

“I thought _________,” he had replied.

“I didn’t die. I suffered the worst

humiliation a widow can suffer,” she had
replied.

“I read somewhere in the papers that

there had been a drug and human trafficking
syndicate centred here in Cape Town,” he had
replied. “Before those who were overseas were
released the police here had rescued some
intended victims. One of the recruiters was
involved with a woman who was estranged.
She tipped her husband when he started
sexual advances. The police reported ten days
ago that there was a Pakistani national who
had died in a fire in a white VW Golf Citi near
Muizenberg overlooking False Bay.”

“Yes,” she had replied. “I ended up in a

desert city, sold for sex, not to one man. It was
horrendous.”

“Please sit down.”

“I heard that the Arab man responsible in

Cape Town was shot by two men on a
motorcycle. His three friends escaped the
house straight into the fire power of the police.
Their gang was routed.”

“Yes, two of his friends, the third one died

in a horrendous VW Gold fire somewhere on
the Cape Flats” he had replied. “I no longer
ride a motor cycle. If you are alive I am
happy.”

“Dubai national police reported that the

man who died in Dubai, was strangled and hit
in the groin by two sex slaves he had tried to
ride while others were being moved. That man,
that horrible old man has been identified as the
father of the Cape Town ring leader shot by a
motor cycle gang. Was the motor cycle
anyway near the VW Golf Citi when it burst into
flames?”

“I wouldn’t know but the intended sex

slave was tipped about these disappearances.
She wasn’t in fortunately. Added to which the
intended victim did not want casual sex in
order to get an outside job. She and her
estranged husband might have been more
concerned with getting to the source of the
money being thrown around than her sleeping
with the Pakistani national.”

“And where this vehicle went alight a

motor cycle could ride through the bushes for
home if the riders knew the area well?”

“How does a woman who has suffered

such violence return to normal life and expect
to date and marry yet again?”

____________________________________

The Cape Town papers reported that a

head of a crime syndicate had been shot and
killed by two men on a motorbike moments
before the police had pounced on the
network. The motorbike had delivered seven
shots at close range when it entered the
residence giving Abreeq no chance. His two
mates had dived into the swimming pool but
apparently the killers were after him and him
alone. All the shots were located in the groin.
Their relief at surviving had been short lived
when sirens had sounded as police pounced
on their illicit operations.

The cycle made off through bushes and

rocks and disappeared from the scene.

Police units had been trailing them for

about seven weeks. The police said the gang
were involved in human trafficking. The report
also said seven women destined for a Far East
country had been whisked off a plane by the
police and border agents while several
handlers had been arrested in the Middle East.
The police had arrested seven men in
connection with human trafficking in Africa
alone and almost thirty in the Middle East. The
police had reported the death of X!@#$%^^.

Dubai police confirmed that they had

identified the man burnt beyond recognition in
VW Golf Citi almost six days ago as one of the
gang. The man shot and killed in a rented
home in Cape Town was enjoying the
privileges of illicit money by renting a furnished
house every three months changing location
throughout Cape Town alongside his
compatriots. The arrested individuals revealed
to the police that their network was going to
move to Harare for six months before moving
to Luanda.

Dubai police have confirmed that the

man found dead in a former sex-slave
compound and the man shot dead in Cape
Town are a father and son team. One of the
Indian crime syndicate handlers had been
found dead in a police cell. Apparently Indian
police would like to question an old widow that
brought him tea an hour before he had died.
The police are eager to know why only he
drank the tea and no other prisoner. The dead
prisoner was not an Indian national.

Was it that the others had been warned

in Hindi? The local prisoners refused to
cooperate besides saying tea had been
brought by a widow aged around sixty-one
years old. One of the African women rescued
after a year of sex servitude had reported.

“I know I did wrong against God. He

brought his judgement against me. I suffered
degradation and humiliation at its worst.
Though they sent us through counselling and
forgiveness seminars I still have nightmares
about what happened.
 “The case against me for which I jumped
bail was Heaven considering what I faced
there in my attempt to get a better job. I had a
score to settle with an Arab man based in
Cape Town but I read he was shot seven times.
He deserved what he got because he took us
for animals.

“Though we will receive compensation, it

will not erase the treatment we received. I
have never in my life sunk so low in
degradation of the human body by another
human being. They treated us far below slaves
because we had no life, use or purpose for
them besides increasing their bank balances
from which compensation will be deducted as
well.”

Asked if she would ever marry after what

happened she replied that marriage is an
institution that would have prevented what
had happened. ‘I definitely know it’s not too
late to be a mother of two or three. I prayed
when I was in sexual slavery. I will not repeat
the mistakes I did. Maybe after giving myself a
year or two to forgive, I will look up the dating
trees’.”

____________________________________
gumi nepfumbamwe (19)
 __________________________________________

Shifting allegiances was like a breeze.

One time her company had gone under,
defaulting on its obligations including workers’
salaries, allowances, pensions and medical aid
contributions. Then she had smelt the fire like
an elephant in a thicket of dry trees and grass.
She had behaved like a champion swimmer
swimming under water to appear far away
from her entry point. She had behaved like a
Cuban on a merchant ship jumping overboard
and swimming to Miami for freedom.

She found teaching to be relaxing and

invigorating. It was different from when she had
had criminal procedures to worry about or
case upon case. Now she was lecturing on the
same law topics she knew using the syllabi
available in the host country. She had baulked
at coming here. Somehow the arrest of her
bosses on misuse of guardian funds and the
subsequent events that had unfolded had left
her no option but to eject from her comfort
zone. If penguins could withstand the Polar
Regions what would prevent her from starting
afresh?

Her family doctor had warned her on

several fronts. He had asked her to take more
exercises, less fat, worry less and change her
frame of mind otherwise she was going to be a
patient of several illnesses including blood
pressure and sugar diabetes. She had decided
to take an invitation she had been considering
for some while ever since their company had
started pulling the rugs from underneath them.

“Ma’am,” one of her charges had said

when she was leaving the last class for the day.

“Yes ___.”

“Pauline is the name.”

“I mistake your name with that for

Sheandra.”

“Okay. I and my friends, about four of us

are going on a river cruise on the Hudson to
Bear Mountain. There is a lot to see in a relaxing
environment with other tourists usually of
different nationalities.”

“I am very busy Pauline.”

“Ma’am it’s time to relax for a few hours.

It’s due in two weeks’ time. I will keep advising
you,” Pauline had said.

“Okay,” Ndanatsiwa had replied.

She had to attend to her duties at a

local House of Representatives office where
she had been squeezed in to help with
research and writing legal documents that
ended on the desk of the attorney who was
forming the bulk of the representative’s legal
advice team. Now she marked her assignment
forgetting about what Pauline had talked
about.

Why did Pauline and her friends like their

lecturer so much given that they were different
shades of colour and different cultures? Why
did people from Puerto Rico feel they were
different from the mainstream? Both girls spoke
English without an accent though they were
well versed in Spanish.

After her duties at the office of the

member of the House of Representatives she
started for home. On the rails as the train
moved she remembered Sheandra and her
friends.

“Sir,” she asked an old man next to her.

“Yes?”

“What's the attraction at Bear

Mountain?”

"It’s normally going up the Hudson River

which is appealing. These tours normally finish
at Bear Mountain State Park. It’s quite nice to
visit the mountain. There is the usual mountain
scenery available in a park, lakes, flora, fauna,
birds and the occasional deer.”

“Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine mademoiselle.”

__________________________________

"Girls," her male cousin on her maternal

side had said. "There is a brand marketing
dinner at a chic restaurant so you are free to
tag along with me."

"Thanks Oswald. Let me stay at home

and mind the kids if they are not going."

“Ndanatsiwa is coming with us." Oswald’s

wife was not hearing her excuses. "It is good to
relax, have food drinks and just chill out. There
is no better way to learn the traditions, culture
and customs of a new people better than
attending events.”

“Ndanatsiwa, you heard Maria’s saying.

My wife has spoken. When she speaks there
are no, no butts. When she said Oswald you
are going to marry me ______ I had no option.
Hey stop these potato peelings from flying will
you? I think someone has been reading The
Wishing Chair and Other Stories."
 ”Thanks for the invite Oswald. We will
manage the brood."

”Tamari, Moline and Charles will have

their hands full. I want to dump them at a
children’s funfair so we can have supper in
peace.”

"At the orphanage?” asked Maria.

“Maria don’t insult me,” Oswald

complained.

“They will need an adult escort Oswald."

“There is someone who owes me a

favour who is taking their twins there also. A
pack of three children aged between fifteen
and eight won’t be a bother. My Tamari and
Moline can check on her twins," Oswald said.

“A she?” asked Maria. “I think I will

cancel dinner. I don’t need competition that
produces twins at a time.”

__________________________________

Dinner was great and wonderful. The

comedian was good. She did not find his
sexual innuendos funny. She did not mix sex
and comedy especially in an atmosphere
where some people had families. She was
finishing her meal when someone tapped her
on the shoulder. She looked up.

There was a tall, slightly stout man of

about sixty to seventy kilograms whose height
was in the metre eighty ranges. It was a shock
to her to notice his features including his bony
nose and the eyes that looked like they were
jumping up and down when he was excited.
The beard was trimmed and cropped right
around with no side beard visible.

"Hi."

"You!"

"Me. Can I sit for a moment?"

“You are free to,” she had said.

She put her palm under her chin looking

at him. She could see from around the upper
waist up because the table was blocking the
rest from view. He was in a business suit
complete with a coat that he had over his arm
for the weather was likely to change. Besides
the streets outside were not as air conditioned
as this restaurant was. She had been sitting by
her own opting to leave the couple free.
Marriages were under attack from several
fronts. When couples found time alone, she
respected.

”Of all the people why do I meet you

here?” she had asked.

"I came here on business," he had

replied. "I was having dinner with clients on the
other level of this restaurant when I spied you
on my way out. The clients make or break an
artiste. It is like a real estate developer and a
team of financiers. The relationship is to be
maintained as cordial as possible."

"I am here with a cousin and his wife. So

what happened to the skilled carpenter class 1
that was in you?" She had asked. “I don’t think
there are any hinges in this restaurant that
need fixing.”

"I didn’t know you had joined the Great

Trek out of the country. By the time we were
making surprise announcements for mom and
dad you had taken off. I searched the whole
property I didn’t find you.”

"The other lady had made sure I knew

you two were having a sexual relationship. I
was an imposter,” she had replied.
 “I told you Ndanatsiwa you were letting
jealous get the better of you. Mildred
insinuated that I was sleeping with her and her
friend. Is that probable in the old country
considering our customs? I had more than four
broken relationship with Mildred. She was just
acting up and being very silly. You women take
offense where there is none so quickly. What
are you doing here?”

“Here I am teaching and doing odd

jobs,” she had replied. “Our company went
into receivership. The main partners, three of
them were blacklisted. I didn’t wait to look
around for a less lucrative job than I did. I
jumped out of the river into the overseas lake
and here I am. I am currently teaching law.
Practising is rather very complicated for me to
follow the procedures.”

"My business associates are on the move.

I will see you Ndanatsiwa. I wouldn’t be having
free supper with a limousine to take me home
had I remained a skilled class one apprentice
trained carpenter fixing door hinges. The
projects manager would have taken the
honours of meeting the clients.”

“The Crown Restaurant, 89th Street East,

1800hrs Wednesday evening don’t short
change me.”
 “Got it.”

He disappeared into the evening traffic.

The last she saw were two Caucasians in suits
patting him on the shoulder before a
transparent glass and chrome steel alloy cage
door closed taking him down to the street
below.

Why?

____________________________________

She left her last post taking the train

home. Since she had an assignment to do for
her class she clambered up the stairs towards
the escalator. On reaching the street level,
something made her look at a building with
billboards. There was a section within that
showed it was an art gallery and its works were
on display.

That is how artistes beat the rest of the

forty hour a week workers. Not all of the artistes
but those that had made the grade. Those that
worked while the sun was still up. Those that
worked and sweated well enough. Those that
toiled and did not give up counted themselves
lucky when their creations were auctioned to
major art lovers.
 It provided her with raw memories. She
crossed the street watching for traffic against
the three open lanes until she reached the
traffic island in between. She rested from her
labour awaiting the pedestrian traffic lights to
change. When the lights were green, she
crossed. A volume of pedestrians were crossing
the pedestrian lane. She paid an admission
and started moving from places to place
observing the paintings, sculptures and
carvings.

The admission came with a card that

was folded which showed which exhibits were
in which section of the four storeys being used.
There were the names of the artistes but she
did not bother reading the card. She was
mesmerised by the displays for the next hour
and a half. She was reading names making
sure she did not fail to notice any from Africa.

Most of those showcased from Africa

where from West Africa. Just some wrought iron
pieces thrown away had created a pray
mantis and her two babies which had grown
men taking photographs or using it as a
background while the creator was standing by
to explain how he welded sculptures and not
steel.

"Ha."
 ”Pardon, “someone close by said.

“Sorry I was thinking to myself,” she

replied.

She was looking at the fish eagle with a

fish in its talons which had been created out of
a single block of a dry Mopani tree. She
remembered a fire side chat in the rural areas
using Mopani wood. The wood would remain
smouldering even after twenty-four hours. The
tree’s middle portion was as hard as steel. How
had a man created this fish eagle and its prey
including the base with such hardwood?

It was massive yet breath-taking. It stood

taller than her even though she was almost six
feet tall. Oh, she realised, the fish eagle was
cheating. It had a base of about a feet and a
half of solid wood otherwise they should have
been the same height. The creator should
have been on a step ladder as they moved
around.

“Fish eagles are a common sight in

African rivers, large ones," someone said
behind her. “Here we find bald eagles or the
California Condors which are other predator
birds to match the fish eagle in size. African Fish
eagles have a body mass much smaller than
the California Condors. However they have
very good hunting skills. They see their prey
while riding thermals three kilometres in space.
They swoop down and never miss. If the fish is
too big, they waddle to shore and feed before
trying to take off with their prize catch.”

She had on a full dress reaching to her

knees with button up detail. Over it she had a
sweater. She held her cloak in her hand. She
had brown knee length heeled winter boots.

“These birds normally poach chickens

from rural villages. I remember the mother hens
and cocks giving the alarms before rushing to
hide underneath granaries that were built on
stilts or large rocks with spaces underneath.
They pick off hares in the bush if there is no tree
cover.”

“Those are normal African eagles not fish

eagles. Did you grow up in Africa?”

“I know a pathetic looking skilled

carpenter class 1 cum wood carver who grew
up in a rural enclave filled with huge trees. He
grew up observing barn owls hunting in the
shades of the trees, getting rid of rodents. He
did his apprentice training in the coldest and
hilliest part of the country where there are giant
foreign trees that grow quickly. It is the same
someone that stood me up at the Crown
Seafood Restaurant.”
 "Oh gosh, you again,” he replied. “Are
you stalking me?”

"I looked stupid and forlorn. I ordered fish

and chips instead of a rare meal that I
wanted.”

"I was tied up too many loose ends,” he

had replied. “Besides which in this environment,
if you want fish and chips, you can buy the
chips freshly packed and vacuum sealed. You
buy the fish, whole bone removed and ready.
All you need is fry or bake or grill whatever.”

"You could have telephoned. If you

need a girl in New York you just look up the
horny adverts so there was no need for dinner I
guess.”

"I never got even a calling card."

"In some countries, they will shoot you for

standing up a lady," she had replied. “Besides
which I never lost my contacts on Facebook®,
Twitter®, Yahoomail®, Instagram® or
Photobucket® to name but a few way of
contacting me.”

“From that time when we met I was in

Tennessee on a working farm casting a carving
using a big yellowwood tree. The customer
made sure I was housed there for two days
while I worked. Whatever equipment I needed
was hauled in by road. There was a couple
which came to see me working. The woman
had been in the United States for six years. She
and her husband are all Russians. She spoke
English with a heavy accent on home, house,
and husband almost as if dragging them. She
was good, she gave me an order.”

“So you fell in love with Lubyanka?”

“Didn’t I say they are a Russian couple?”

“It doesn’t matter that she is married to

Dimitri. Kling David did it with Bathsheba and
gave us Solomon.”

“They didn’t have names like Dimitri and

Lubyanka. It was Tanya and Antonov, lady!”

“It doesn’t stop you from merely saying I

won’t be around.”

He was stuck for words. He could as

easily have been the childhood character of a
king who had a snake in his throat. He needed
a frog to entice the creature out. Maybe he
was Pussy in Boots, the cat that went to see the
Queen of England and frightened a rat that
came underneath the crown chair.

"That is a fish eagle normally found in the

Zambezi or Limpopo Rivers or any of our inland
and broad waters like the upper Manyame.
That is within our country otherwise the same
bird and different species of it are found in the
Chobe, meandering Zambezi in Botswana,
Namibia, Angola even in Kenya and Tanzania
as long as there are large rivers."

"Impressive. I didn’t know you had an art

exhibition running."

“My promoters fitted me in. It pays to

cast your net wide because you never know
what type of fish you may hook in. One day
you will pull in a disused tyre, the next a metal
bin and yet another day a few salmon. I was a
bit apprehensive about coming here. However
the business is great. It keeps me on my toes
working long hours.”

"Why was I one of the last people to

know that you were here?" she asked.

"How could I make the announcement

when I had been thrown out?" he
remembered. “How do you get to know when
you never ask?”

“Sorry about that,” she was sheepish.

"Look around I have buyers to take care

of," he had gracefully left her.
 He wore grey work suits over some
trousers and shirt within. The jacket was zipped
up. Carpentry like tools where hanging from a
belt. She looked around checking for his
signature on all the displays.

She looked for him an hour later. He was

in negotiations with some three people
including a lady. She found a piece of paper
and wrote her name, contacts telephone
numbers and the name of a restaurant, date
and time. She excused herself before putting
her paper in his breast pocket.

She sashayed on her way out.

____________________________________

"Sheandra,” Ndanatsiwa greeted her

student.

"Ma’ am."

“Are you still going up the Hudson to

Great Bear Mountain this weekend?”

“No, we have church commitments.

There is Tasha Cobbs singing at this venue
_________. Would you be interested in praising
God through song and dance? There is a
preacher who normally appears on The Ramp
if you are interested?”

"Don’t worry another time maybe.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She found time to drop at Chelsea Piers

as the brochure had said. She did her checks
and paid her booking. She retreated to take
time out in New York state park before
completing her assignments. Who would miss a
single woman on a river cruise?

The cruise started on a Saturday morning

when she was free. She had her hair in braids
which were curled up. She had been doing the
cosmetics industry a great service by using
anti-dandruff shampoo. She felt free. The wind
was blowing into her face. The weather was
unpredictable but sunny.

Soon the boat started off. Over the

melee of the tourist one could not discern the
chug of the huge diesel engines moving the
boat upstream going against the current
forcing them out to sea. They not only had to
push it across the water but they produced
enough electricity to light a few houses. Their
speed had to be more than the current
pushing the water down to the sea.
 The guides were picking off famous
landmarks to the left and to the right. They
began with buildings that fronted the river or
could be seen through.

“The Hudson miracle, where did it

happen?” she had asked.

“That is a very good question but that

was much below our pier. It was in winter also
otherwise many people would have drowned.”

“Oh when that plane landed with its

passengers on an iced river?” someone had
remembered.

“Yes that is it ________.”

“Hi,” out of the blue someone had

picked her up when she had raised her hand
for the question.

"You are bad news to me,” she replied.

“Are you stalking me?”

She was holding the rails as if she had

received a shock and needed therapy lest she
dropped into the murky waters below her.

“Sorry , here we are the only people able

to speak in a language no other person can
understand.”
 “So?”

"I had a hard time with my agent and

buyers.”

"In a nut shell you stood me up the

second time.”

“Let’s talk of my business. I have had a

lot of interest and a lot of orders such that I
have been working in my studio thirteen hours
a week Monday to Saturday. I haven’t found
time for anything but junk food.”

"Oh. In other words you like chunk food."

Breakfast was served. He preferred tea

to her choice of coffee with milk. He tainted his
cups with slices of lemon. Occasionally he
squinted his eyes and released, ahs, as the spirit
went through his stomach. They enjoyed
themselves. The boat proceeded further
upstream. They left New York City proper and
its unending skyline of concrete, brick, wood
and glass.

They had much to see including the

Palisades Park land. These are one of New
York's awesome geological features. They lay
on the west side of the river as they cruised.
 “Why don’t you sculpt rock instead of
wood?” she had asked training her Zeus
camera slowly across the views before them,

"I was taught both but I started on wood

without any training at the age of three or four.
Mother says I used to fashion wooden dolls for
my innumerable cousins. Stone is sculpting but
wood is carving.”

"Mother?”

“Mother is the woman who adopted

me and raised me.”

"I remember you saying there was a

male cousin of your adopted father who made
it known you were adopted,” she
remembered.

"We called him Uncle Thomas. He was

the son of grandfather’s sibling. As long as he
didn’t have any beer he just stopped at telling
us what to do and cursing.”

“Oh?”

“A lot happened after our fire fight,” he

replied. “For one I didn’t see your chum or
comrade in arms Lydia Shashe though I invited
her too.”
 "Like we both came to the same city
when we had both not shown any prowess at
emigrating,” she had replied. “I was stupid
enough to be jealous of a younger lady who
had no proven connection with you. I did learn
later that she appeared on the national news
covering presidential and parliamentary
affairs.”

"Like there was a party. Siblings had

bought a residential stand in a posh suburb.
We laboured over four years constructing it. I
did all the carpentry work and planning with
the help of a civil engineer who is good at
wooden structural work. It is a suburban place
better than our Highfield one when there was
the entire hullabaloo. You and Mildred were
not drawing attention. Uncle Thomas created
a scene then he became the scene.”

"I am listening. By that time I had left

within two minutes of me and Mildred talking.
She remained?"

”My dad’s male 'cousin' had had too

many of Zimbabwe’s Bollinger’s lagers. He
started broadcasting about inheritance with
reference to me. Dad made it out to him that
his children had surprised him with a house
therefore they were not even in his will as they
had more than enough.”
 “So?”

“There was a drinking buddy who knew

the male cousin from when they were boys. He
spelt out his sexual prowess at fathering eight
children including four illegitimate ones. I am
the third of the four illegitimate ones.”

“What?”

He explained.

“Oh?”

“Yap as it turned out. “

They watched the great and majestic

George Washington and Tappan Zee Bridge
coming before them. The boat chugged on
with lots of laughter from different quarters.
Different languages were being spoken with
English being superimposed over all. He
thought that New York was an expensive city
yet its huge population was what drew in many
to make their millions. It also had so many
visitors from other states or overseas.

Riverside towns were being called off

within a few kilometres of each other
sometimes separated by roads or bridges.
Some looked like you could expect Abraham
Lincoln to come out. Others looked like
someone had tried practising moon landings
on them.

They spied the Hudson River Valley,

Haverstraw Bay and Sing Sing Maximum
Security Prison. One wondered what sort of a
mind was used to break out of prison with such
security.

"At least you know your father now.”

“Do you know yours?"

"I suspected about six men. I relied on

features that I suspected but these turned me
wrong.”

“My grandfather or my real

grandfather’s blood brother was a famous
wood carver in Marondera before moving to
Rusape after a chieftainship dispute. We have
similarities I didn’t know until after the
hullabaloo. My father told me he thought it was
a talent spirit that was on me which made me
behave like his father. I remain the progeny of
my adopted parents. I have no dealing with a
biological father who is a nuisance at most
times.”

“I have known a biological father I

didn’t know and an adoptive father on both
our sides. Which is it for you?” she asked.
 “I trust calling the man I know as father
the same. The biological father and me are not
really in good books,” he had replied. “Yes
church has taught me to forgive and forget.
My pastors when they counselled me told me
there were likely to be spirits that follow
dumped babies like me in order for me to do
the same thing my father did, dump my own
litter of babies. The worst case scenario is
becoming a modern day Mamhepo
brandishing my talents while breeding
numerous children with numerous unfortunate
women blinded by lust under the guise of
love.”

“Why do we have that in common

except that I knew my mother? She looked
after me after birth and so on,” she had
replied. “My step-father is the one who
defended me most when it mattered including
going against my adoptive grandparents who
didn’t want me in his household. Before they
passed away they made me know I was not
their son’s seed.“

They reached Bear Mountain State Park

where they took time to enjoy nature. He took
her paddling on a lake. She sat upfront looking
at him while he and she both paddled. She
showed she had been exercising her big body.
It was just the two of them in a two man kayak.
They went hiking up marked trails. He kept
taking her hand pulling her up stiff trails or
sitting with her as they rested their aching knee
joints. They cycled up and down. He was taller
than her by a fraction. She had more weight
than him. His shoulders were broad exuding
power which he used to guide them as they
canoed.

In the wee of the evening the boat

readied to go back.

"Your cruise is leaving," she advised.

"I am booked for the evening at The Bear

Mountain Inn. I need climb up into the forests
to look at trees there. I don’t know why I do it
but I just like getting lost in a maze of trees
before making my next range of carvings."

"Oh? What a coincidence?” she asked.

“You are staying overnight?”

“In the same inn,” she had replied. “My

feet and my legs are killing me. There was too
much activity.”

He took her for a walk watching the

general splendour of nature within the New
York State Park. He took her hand in his. At most
times they walked arm in arm. Periodically they
stood in close proximity arguing or talking or just
holding hands or in a bear hug. She consulted
him on his preferences. She carried a tray with
their plates to the a la carte section. They had
roast beef and potato salad by the fire before
retiring to their different rooms.

It was late when they turned in from all

the evening activities including especially the
four course dinner by candle light. The last time
he had had supper by candle light, the
national grid had hiccupped. He woke up
early running through a shower. He heard a
door bell before he was through. He wrapped
a towel going to open the door,

“Who is it?”

“This is room service, sir.”

"I didn’t order any room service.”

“Hey open up. This is business. I am doing

a customer services survey.” He did.

There were about two or three

newspapers delivered early by the door. He
glanced through them going through one
headline and two sports sections while she set
up what she wanted. They were in their gowns.

She had tea and cake to start the day.

She sat there in her morning gown one leg
thrown carelessly over the other engaging him
in conversation. Underneath she had a two
piece pyjama set.

“Are you still on face book?” he had

asked.

"I am still on face book, twitter,

Instagram, pinterest etc.,” she had replied.

“When I am out of the woods in two days

I will contact you.”

“You never do, don’t even promise.”

He put his arm underneath her armpits

forcing her hands up. His hands encircled her
waist. She was a big woman. He could feel the
warmth and closeness of her embrace. He
squeezed her in a tight hug.

“I will contact you. That is an order.”

She didn’t reply.

“Let me go and change before we

check out,” she had said then she was gone.

They both checked out of the inn. She

was dressed in a white dress with red crescents.
It fitted her from top to bottom. Her hair was
made in a bun and tied at the back
whereupon a cape had been fitted through
the cape’s back opening to leave her hair tails
out. He took her to where he hired a mountain
bike. He rode a bicycle seeing her as far as her
bus stop.

“Richmond how much do you know

about my shady past?” she had asked.

“Like that you once got a Tom-boy?”

“No,” she shrieked. “What happened

was I like any unmarried senior fell in love with
this smart and sweet looking man, younger
than me.”

“And?”

“Didn’t Lydia Shashe tell you

everything?” she asked. “My former best friend
went morally and virtue bankrupt.”

“No, Lydia is not here to defend herself. I

suspected the information was from Lydia but
the lady said her name, not Lydia though,” he
had said. “Where did your friend live?”

“Westwood is very close to Kambuzuma.

There is a section of low density looking houses
between Rugare to the east, Kambuzuma to
the south and Warren Park to the west if you
remember.”

“I thought she had a flat close to North

Avenue looking over at Harare Sports Club in
Alexandria Park. I think it’s North Avenue corner
Fairbridge.”

“She and I had similarities like I have with

you. We both extended our family homes with
the help of siblings. We both added bedroom
attachments to the family homes for us
spinsters. She stayed in Kambuzuma not in
North Avenue as far as I know.”

“What happened to her since your

split?”

“The last I heard she was in Cape Town.

Things had fallen backwards for her. It wasn’t
the type of life she fashioned after,” she had
replied. “Someone who saw her said she was a
waitress in a beer and steak joint. It fitted her
well because short skirts/pants/shorts and big
cleavage t-shirts/blouses and push up
brassieres did well for her. She liked the
attention of men. However that may prove to
be very costly as in the leaked video footage
of her cavorting with three men and another
lady. Had I known her character veered
towards prostitution I would not have
continued my friendship with her. Unfortunately
I never finished the Nyamakwere joke with her.”

Richmond did not argue. There was a flat

block which he knew which was well furnished
and presentable where he had refused to take
a lady to a date. Lydia had tried many times to
have him on dinner dates yet Richmond’s
programs did not permit and he insisted on
Ndanatsiwa being there. She had called him
names but he had gone all the same. Did he
look like a pastor’s son? Was he a preacher
boy?

“Now tell me everything about what you

did from an early age. Please tell it from your
own lips.”

“Well, we went out on dates. I was

considering the issue of him moving with me
and me supporting his university studies. On the
other hand I was considering the backlash of
such a move. It smacked of desperation.
Somehow, the same best friend I confided in
should have told him about another scandal
which frightened the little boy away.”

“Sex?”

“It never came to that. I had my mistakes

but I had my decency and upbringing too,”
she had replied. “The best he ever did, the
young Tom-boy as you call him was when I
touched him. He got so excited he erupted
with both of us fully dressed inside my vehicle.
He was so embarrassed that was the last I ever
had him one on one.”
 “And the abortion?” he asked.

“I had a best friend whom I trusted yet

she is the cause why I could not marry because
all my serious dates were supplied with
incriminating information. To cut a long story
short. What caused me to fall pregnant was
having her and her friends for close associates.
I had rubbed shoulders with the wrong lot. I
didn’t know that at fourteen they were already
on the pill, especially Lydia.

“The African male when prowling to

breed requires that the lady he takes home
should be holy and clean with sexual standards
matching a nun while his own escapades with
other women, prostitutes included are forgiven.
The fact that married men are creating
bastards elsewhere does not bother the same
men when they want their wives to be straight
and charming. A young man stands in a
hedge with a neighbourhood girl but he wants
a virgin on the platter. That is why those
charming girls lie their way to marriage.”

“Am I included in that?”

“I was just saying that. Maybe I will

consider a date offer I had when I came here. I
was approached by two male Caucasians
more like Latino hunks who offered me
something if I could go and have a romp with
both. Maybe men see me in those terms as a
big woman with a big behind and voluminous
bosoms only for their joy then forget about me
as soon as they are satiated.

“I knew later that had Lydia wanted she

would have been married some time ago but
she liked guys mooning over her. It was she
who was into slightly younger men than her
age yet she turned the tables on me each time
I wanted to seriously date by releasing
information including this Tomboy call him
whatever. I also didn’t know she was the leak.”

“It’s you and me not them.”

“I was fourteen and a half years old.

Because of my height and volume, I looked
eighteen or nineteen. I went out with a boy of
nineteen who should have known better as an
adult than to make me pregnant. Had I been
above eighteen, I would have been presented
to him as a pregnant bride but I was too
young. Worse of which, my mother was also
pregnant. I raised both her blood sugar and
her blood pressure. My step-father solved the
problem by reporting the issue to the police.
Armed with the police report and me, he had
me at Harare Hospital undergoing a legal
abortion.”
 “Some people say you took after your
mother.”

“I don’t know but my mother was not a

harlot. She married a man who dumped her in
the rural areas for a year and half by which
time she had a miscarriage within five months.
Then she had me by her secret lover and that
caused a furore. She married another man
later whose is my adoptive father though I was
given my biological father’s surname from
before mother had married my adoptive
father.”

“My mother was a street hooker. I traced

her roots before the hullabaloo at the surprise
party for my parents. It ended on her grave in
Nhema near Shurugwi. She did not give a hoot
about the children she created and dumped
with their fathers. I was the only one dumped in
a rubbish pit. The rest were left with their male
creators before they were six months old and
she went underground.”

“Out of bad things are brewed very

good things,” she suggested. “Seed has to rot
in the ground to bring out new shoots. A
candle consumes itself to give light. Grapes
have to be pressed, foreign objects added,
fermented in vats to give us our wine. My
lineage is not holy either.”
 “Where you by any chance a poet?”

”Never but I read, understood and

loved languages.”

“I had forgotten you are a trained lawyer

with a master’s degree in corporate law,” he
had replied. “That is a legal justification but
otherwise you are just a sly crook.”

“Richmond!”

“The Thirteenth amendment I guess?”

“You tell me more and let’s see where

we exchange notes,” she replied. “You should
not ditch your parents because of the past. A
married woman who takes a lover has a very
bad name in the old country. That name has
been pasted to my mother several times in the
past. Had Lydia Shashe known that my father is
a famous school teacher whoops, she would
have released her tongue.”

“My mother passed away in Nhema,

near Shurugwi, her rural home from
complications arising from drinking
contaminated alcohol which had been home
brewed. My biological father, I knew his family.
It’s odd that when Kangira moved from
Marandellas leaving his brothers and sisters
there, their children related and kept visiting.
The third generation we include Mamhepo
and the late chief’s grandsons or great
grandsons in family activities. Kangira was one
in a hundred. He outlived his half-brother who
usurped him to the chieftainship by more than
forty-five years. The chief didn’t last fifteen
years neither did his predecessor outlast
Kangira too.”

“Have you ever checked if you have

other half-brothers or sisters?”

”On both sides there are there but I keep

in touch with the parents that raised me not
the biological father that sired me. I used to the
brood in Highfield or from Highfield.”

“It’s called life and at most it’s unfair.”

She gave him a bear hug. For a moment

he held her close.

“Ndanatsiwa, you are still the most

beautiful, elegant and captivating woman to
me. You believed a haughty lady predisposed
to come back into my life anytime she wanted.
It cost us a lot. Had we not chanced on
meeting who knows what wouldn’t have
happened?"

She looked at him increasing her pupil

size. She didn’t reply.
 “Sorry that was I gate crashing your
happiness, my former friend.”

“They said you dated a customs guy?”

“We had a dating arrangement.

Cinderella hoped Clifton would be a charming
prince. He turned out to be someone that my
friend blew the whistle on. He turned his back
on me like I was rabid when he was told I had
had an abortion at fourteen years of age. Like I
said you African men or men in general want
holy wives when you are single fathers looking
to marry.”

“No more issues with former dates and

current dates. I am not holy as you once said. I
almost married Mildred but she didn’t want to
settle down. She was making it big within her
family circle and in the country growing a work
reputation. Maybe one day she will realize love
will have left her.”

She disappeared into the labyrinth of

seats within the bus. The glasses were tinted.
She could see 60% well from her seat but he
could not do the opposite.

He had a date first with some trees in the

mountain sides then he had one with a mature
bold and beautiful big woman. He was going
through a learning curve. The trees were
equally as large as back home. They were
different. Their grains and interiors were
different.

He was learning to work with Pine

Northern white pine, Basswood, cottonwood,
butternut, walnut, Sugar pine and others. Some
were hardwoods while others were soft. He
could also buy import blocks of mahogany and
other hardwoods from far and wide depending
on customer specifications. He tried to
remember her parting words to him.

“I love you Richmond Kangira! Yes, I think

I do.”

____________________________________

He took his bicycle riding with his helmet

on turning and twisting with the road. As he
negotiated a corner, there was a huge Mack
truck bearing down on the road. He knew the
slipstream of the truck mixed with diesel smoke
was not good. He turned into a footpath and
continued riding.

He emerged to look at a helipad with

two helicopters. He stood there on his bike
looking at both.
 “Hey,”

“Yap.”

“Can I help or give you a guided tour of

our company. Business is down these days
otherwise these two birds would have been in
the air. Both are however scheduled to lift off in
an hour.”

“Yeah, I want to hijack one. Let’s talk in

your office time is not on my side,” Richmond
had said. He had never seen a sales
representative trotting behind him. “Do you
have a map?”

“I wouldn’t be in business if I didn’t have

a map.”

Richmond stood surveying a large wall

map that included New York. He fumbled in his
pocket and found his bank card.

“There is a woman I want to intercept so

you can fly me to here and drop me there. The
rest I will make on my own,” he had replied.

“We will use the Eurocopter AS350B-3

that can sit up to six passengers that is the one
on the left,” the pilot had emerged upon being
requested by the sales representative. Its
Turbomeca Arriel 2B engines soon roared to
life. The rotors started turning like a machine
whipping cream or mixing fruit churning and
churning.

____________________________________

The Van Hool double deck TD925 coach

was on the motorway moving its engines
thrusting it forward. It was on the Palisades
Expressway as it approached A-74 before
swinging across the Hudson Rover heading into
Upper Manhattan. A few minutes ago the
passengers had been observing fleeting
glimpse of the Hudson River, its flora and fauna
where buildings had not been permitted or
farmlands remained and the impressive
Hudson Drive.

The river continued to mesmerise her. It

was magnificent, well-kept and without the
stench of industrial waste otherwise she would
not have seen the plethora of tourist leisure
craft criss-crossing the river. It stopped as
scheduled after the George Washington
Bridge. Some passengers disembarked with
their luggage if any as they reached their
various stops while a few disembarked to
loosen their bodies before re-boarding.
Ndanatsiwa continued to look at the artistry
used to build the sprawling mess of steel and
concrete that had bridged the Hudson far
above without disturbing the traffic below.

A man in a cycle helmet talked to the

driver on the right side of the coach. No one
took notice why a man should be wearing a
cycle helmet at a bus stop because nothing
was unusual. The driver seriously considered the
offer.

“Can I see identification please?”

He studied the documentation before

reaching for the microphone.

“There is a lady of African-American

extraction. There is a sales package coming to
the door feel free to disembark and catch up
with your surprise,” the driver’s voice had
boomed twice.

The cyclist came around and climbed to

the top into the coach. Ndanatsiwa was
standing talking to another passenger. The
fellow passenger was being impressive with the
amount of legal knowledge.

“Are you a lawyer?” asked the elderly

women.

“I am a law lecturer,” Ndanatsiwa had

replied,
 “Attention please, look here there is
grand pops Romeo looking for Grandmother
Juliet,” the driver had said in the intercom.

“Richmond there are no trees in this

coach. There are no carvings either.”

“Hey girl,” Richmond said breaking into a

smile. “You are the best type of wood block
that a man can ever want to relish for life.
Come here. I want to give you my heart to sail
upon. That finger should have my ring. Don’t
swing, I am the only suitor here.”

The whole bus fell silent.

“Which girl is it?” someone asked.

“Ndanatsiwa Katokwe, please come

down the ramp with me. I love you woman, will
you please?” Richmond asked. “I lost you once
I will never lose you again.“

There were handclaps, whistles and

cheers. He stood by a pillar awaiting
Ndanatsiwa to bring her luggage. She just had
one hand held bag with her hand bag
strapped around her shoulder. One of the
gentlemen was good enough to help her
down the steps.
 “Please allow me,” she reached over to
remove the cycle helmet. “How the heck did
you get here ahead of me?”

“One of those,” he pointed to a hovering

helicopter showing tourists the Hudson River.
“Unfortunately I may have to replace the hired
bicycle that I left elsewhere.”

The coach blew its horn. Richmond and

Ndanatsiwa waved.

“If you allow me,” Richmond picked up

her luggage going to a vehicle rental counter.
His bank card was in demand. She stood by a
pillar looking around her. He led her out of the
complex.

There was BMW 750i executive lounge

twin-turbo charger 4, 4-litre V8 in Magellan
Grey metallic colour in a parking bay.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “You

do not need to mesmerize me Richmond. I am
not an angel. I am neither a saint. I messed up
on my life big time. I messed up with you too.”

“Who cares,” he asked opening the door

for her. “I lost you once I will not lose you
again.”

“We can go wherever there are giant

trees that you need get inspiration from. I can
 cancel all the odd jobs until my teaching
assignments resumes in two days’ time. Never
ever, ever, carve me!”

________________________________________

THE END
 GLOSSARY

1. A’mbuya mother of one’s wife

a man’s sister and the wife of one’s
brother-in-law
2. Amai mother/woman
3. Baas Afrikaans for boss
4. Baba father/sir
5. Bwana chief
6. Domboshava red rocks
7. Gogo grandmother
8. Imba Matombo a house is a rock
9. Kangira fry in
10. Lalapansi lie down
11. Lapalapa literally means here, here
12. Mahewu drink made from fermentation of
maize meal porridge
13. Mainini mother’s sister/daughter of
maternal uncle/ one’s wife’s younger
sister/younger sister to a woman
14. Mamhepo spirits or wind
15. Mapeto edge
16. Marweyi why did you fight
17. Masvosva one who incites
18. Mbuya grandmother/maternal aunt
19. Mhanduwe a term given to people from
Mutoko, means something like friend/fellow
country person
20. Mukoma elder brother
21. Munin’ina younger brother
22. Mvemve waste
23. Ngomakurira beating of drums
24. Nyau a Malawian dancer
25. Sadza thick paste made from
maize meal
26. Sahwira a friend within a family
27. Sekuru grandfather/maternal
uncle or his sons
28. Uhuru independence
For All Have Sinned

Imagine growing up in a house with a toilet located near a side

street, on a corner of the yard. Imagine going to the toilet at
night with muggers, thieves and unknown quantities moving at
night. One has to sprint or dash to the toilet, relief themselves
and hope no uninvited quantity has come near the house or
entered their rooms. Imagine doing this in the middle of the
night with rain pouring down on you. Imagine the toilet being a
bucket system emptied into a tractor pulling a tank and nature
calls slightly before the bucket is unceremoniously removed?
Imagine six children growing up in a house with one bedroom, a
lounge and

a kitchen plus a small veranda. Then imagine three of the male

siblings turning out as athletes of repute, a long distance runner,
a sprinter and a boxer. Imagine the Rhodesian bush war raging.
What effect will the bush war have on the children as they grow
up? What does society say in an era where siding with the
Caucasians is taken as being sell-outs? What effects will teenage
experiments with sex, drugs, beer, cigarettes have on their
future in a society where bareness is blamed on the woman?
What will sexually transmitted diseases and HIV/AIDS have on
them? If the ladies are eyes spotting, the gents’ maybe beasts
but the male siblings create flashbulb explosions, printed names
and photos on newspapers. Read it in fiction. Hurry while stocks
last, they are diminishing.

________________________________________________
If Women Can Weep

Patricia Daniel meets Michael Du Plessis when he nearly ran her

over with a vehicle because he had been careless. She blows hot
over him but his attitude was to accept and absorb all the harsh
words she threw at him. He returns her cheeky words with great
senses of humour and Christian morality. Michael is an n
electronics engineer, who did his trade in West Germany. He
grew up in both Cape Town and Mutare. Being of Boer stock he
is a charming, handsome and intelligent person full of charisma.
He has his own heartbeat that beats slowly and is saturated by
church love and prayer. Michael was serving with the Rhodesian
Air Force during the civil war from 1974-1979.Patricia does what
her mind did not think was possible when she marries Michael
Du Plessis. Differences arise. Michael is a carefree person whose
parents are of Boer origin. His brother was doing well as a civil
engineer in Australia married to a woman who refused to live
her native Australia for the then Rhodesia. Patricia is the type of
girl who really throws her heart to one person at a time. What
will the future hold for her? Will it be bliss or the normal
heartbreak when two people marry and fail to click? But instead,
she faces the heartbreak of having her husband die in a tragic
road accident. Who will stand by a widow in her time of trial and
morning? Who will befriend her years later when the pain has
receded to the back of the mind and only memories remain?

_____________________________________________
Lake Of My Heart

Naomi is slightly shorter than Trevor with a broad smile and

dimples when the mood is upon her. Trevor on his part is taller
and broader with a good sense of humour. He used to like her
laughter especially when she threw her head up exposing her
tender neck. She loved his dance, his jokes and his behaviour
when he was walking drunk. Give and take their differences,
they are only human beings living in a melting pot of an
economy. Their differences seem to be growing now in their
marriage. What is wrong with marriage, Trevor constantly asks
himself? Is it worth it to call a spade a spade and divorce? Then
he checks in his mirror to look at the walking mistakes of broken
homes. How will his little children fare without him or their
mother? Since both of them are young, they will certainly
remarry. One only needs to read the daily newspaper Monday
to Friday to find court cases of step parents who have abused
their charges. Can they work out their marriage? Trevor starts
from the back looking at the days he had dated Naomi to seek
and destroy that which causes them to separate. How is he
going to deal with her moods, her temper tantrums and his own
need to hold the green bottle? With three children, a mortgaged
house, both parents having degrees and the economy in free
fall, times are tough mentally for both Naomi and Trevor. Can
they hold on until the end as the Zimbabwean political circus
and national elections collide?

________________________________________________
Tigers Hunt At Night

Charles Saungweme seems to have it all. At eighteen he fails to

qualify for university even though he had a brilliant brain and
was an ‘A’ Ordinary level student. His parents pressurise him
over his academic and professional education. Deborah Burgher
is the daughter of Doctor Karl and Mrs. Katherine Hanns in
Zimbabwe on a missionary expedition for four years. Karl is a
medical specialist attached to a non-governmental organisation
that is financing the operations of restoring eyes. Deborah
meets Charles within three weeks of her arrival in Zimbabwe.
Charles rubs his African charm onto Deborah. In the long run,
she starts to thaw to the hard working Charles whom she
continues to run into. Occasionally Charles hurries back to his
African roots where his parents talk him out of a white girl for a
daughter in law. His parents disagree with his fraternising with a
white woman and a Germany at that! They differ in political
circles too. He is anti-government while his parents are pro-
ruling party. At times he listens to them and goes into a trance
of moods. Dr Karl and Mrs. Katherine Burgher return to
Germany at the end of their tenure. A crisis erupts as Deborah
Charles to follow her to Germany if he really cared for her. She is
further sick and tired of uncovering Charles’s trail of girlfriends
in the African class. He nurses his injuries and drowns them in
his love for the green bottle. Will he nurse his pride and follow
the woman he once loved over hills, mountains, seas and oceans
to Germany?
Let Close On Me

Imagine that you are a male Caucasian growing up in war torn

Rhodesia. You wonder if your father will survive each army
posting as both you and him now count the dead amongst
friends, relatives and neighbours. You see the defeated look in
your father’s eyes as he comes back in his Rhodesian army
uniform of a regular and professional military officer grade. Two
years after the war ended your father dies of his war wounds.
Imagine that you later become a journalist, when part of a
former guerrilla army starts riding shotgun against the state,
how would you react now that you can read, write and speak
two of the major languages? You are there as a professional
journalists harbouring no bias as you report. The state grows to
hate you. Your star rises and rises, you ride well and truly on the
North Star. You use and discard beer, cigarettes and women.
Then in a drunken spree, you fall from grace. The newspaper
which was your bread roll machine chunks you down the flood
water gutters and out into the world. Even your friends and
girlfriends abandon you. You raise again like the Phoenix. Will
you ever return to the lime lights or the pedestal? When you
turn your heart to love, what has a country crazy lady farm
manager got to do with the future?

________________________________________________
Off The Eagle’s Claws

The story of one white man’s fight against the odds from the
days of Rhodesia to independence in an African ruled
dimension. All he knew was that he loved the land and the
freedom as a running infantry man. He is not educated like his
fellow Caucasian soldier. He fought and survived the Rhodesian
bush war from the losing end as a Caucasian soldier. He fought a
rear guard action gaining accolades as a professional soldier in a
civil war where the masses were against their masters. The
guerrillas keep filtering in from three fronts. They disappear into
their kinfolk like salt mixing with sugar. His friend and confidante
is an aircraft pilot dodging the anti-aircraft bullets and rockets
launched by the nationalist guerrillas fighting a war against the
might of Rhodesia. The nationalist gain a foothold and ground
against the dwindling ranks of the Rhodesian professional
soldier. No amount of offensive and incursion action by the
Rhodesian elite forces can stop the war. The Rhodesian forces
say their politicians negotiated peace and sold out, pulling the
carpet from under their soldiers. After the war, Mark Rainger
takes to the bush for solace retreating from the media spotlight
ferrying truckloads of tourists and walking them into lion
territory. That is until he meets a woman by the name of
Rosemary, unfortunately she is married. His attempt at love fails
as he ends up being blackmailed for his affairs in the war and
with Rosemary. How does a bachelor in his late 30’s survive in
the new black ruled country where every upstart politician takes
a swipe at the ex-Rhodesians?
Splash In The Loch

Hubert McPherson is a mechanical engineer of repute. With

his close aide, Walter, he is the crème de la crème of their
engineering company. Hubert seems to forget the very basic
things that make Muriel’s day tick, her dates and time. Once
in a while he stands her up forgetting their arrangement as
he has last minute work to be done. Hubert forgets a
Christmas engagement to which he follows after Muriel
leaves in a huff. He loses his way somewhere and ends up
with his Mercedes Benz Brabus on the bottom of a lake. He is
knocked out of the water by a beautiful and lonely spinster
called Roxanne. She and her family provide him with the
charm, charisma and family warmth he needs for Christmas
Eve and the day itself. Muriel is a professional and attractive
woman who stands out in the crowd on a dating night.
Though she is sophisticated and educated, Roxanne is the
opposite. Roxanne is cool and temperate without the eyes
spotting beauty of her competitor neither does she cause
eyebrows to be raised when she comes in. She is secluded
but charming when the time is right. Behind the wheel of a
vehicle, she is like a champion race driver. She mesmerises
Hubert when moving on the motorway cutting down their
time. She knows the sites and the streets. Muriel when she
gets to know about her opposition Roxanne likes to play
Hubert against Roxanne.
Butterscotch [meet me in Alberta]

How does a man balance the love of his dotting wife and the
affair he is about to cook with his ex-girlfriend who is married
too? What does the fact that his wife is tall and huge have to
do with the fact that his mistress is medium and petite
looking have to do with love? Why does he land lucrative
contracts then in between he has to struggle for survival?

Enter Virginia:-

Years ago in the prime of his youth Raphael had met and
befriended Virginia. Then he was post apprenticeship
qualification doing an odd job as a relief lecturer at a state
run polytechnic while she was concluding her training as a
nurse. Youth and exuberance where the order of the day.
They ran hot bending and breaking love rules. He finds his
trade job which makes him feel like a man. It is only that he
has to cross 280-kilomtres to work leaving her alone. Added
to it he works mainly in the bush or near a mine out of
telephone contact. Postal mail works before the adage of the
cell phone but the hearts yearn. A few months down the line
she qualifies and is posted to one rural hamlet clinic where
for a few times, they are still close. She closes the door on
him suddenly, flashing him like waste paper. The last time he
is up for an interview is when they somehow meet with her
pregnancy almost close to term, about a year after her
heartbreak on him.

Raphael buries his wounds smarting from her rebuff and

enter

Dorothy:-
She is a Mathematics and Science teacher of repute at the
main school at a small mining town in her home turf where
she grew up except for the years she spent at boarding
school and teacher training college. She is into her late
twenties having no takers when Raphael bursts into the
scene. She has had her boys to men dates which fizzled. She
has accepted in her mind that marriage is not kosher. She has
planned to be a childless upright spinster when Raphael
drops by like a bomb from Hiroshima. She weaves a web
around him enchanting him after one chance meeting leads
to another until they are running between towns to visit and
keep their attention alive. Later they marry. Is it bliss?

The dilemma:-

Raphael is in between jobs ten odd years plus later when he

meets and starts having coffee breaks with Virginia. They
create a scheme where he has found an overseas job, she
should come along. In the end who will follow Raphael to
Alberta between Virginia the hot stepper and Dorothy the
calm, cool and collected? In between where do twin
heritages come from when both a man and a woman have no
such history in their lives?

_____________________________________________
Pata – Pata [soft footsteps]

It all goes wrong from the moment Sandra decides to assist

her mentor and fellow former co-worker Stephanie who is
catering for a Couples Fellowship. They met in teacher’s
college, graduated in separate years but formed a strong
bond. They all taught Home Economics at high school.
Stephanie has to sell her business at all costs with Sandra’s
assistance. She trusts Sandra a lot. The fellowship rules are
whatever business is sold it’s done by couples. Absolutely no
singles or married but spouse not available. No unattached
male or female. Sandra finds herself unable to ditch her
friend and partner. To observe the rules of the fellowship, a
solution comes in handy. Martin is on his own after his girl
Tinashe can’t make it to the event. Tinashe decides instead to
attend a bridal shower for a girl getting married the following
week. Martin has a project to sell at short notice. Stephanie
and her husband Jerome team up with Martin’s uncle Oswald
and his wife Bridget to ‘marry’ Sandra and Martin for the
event. Unfortunately, it is required by the fellowship laws
that couples snuggle and exchange French kisses several
times in the course of the day. To make it worse, Martin and
Sandra win an award for passionate kisses. Martin‘s girl
Tinashe is not amused by the events and photographic
evidence of his philandering. She contacts Sandra and there is
a shouting match, an exchange of words. Sandra’s set of
sisters Clara and Harriet are not amused as well so is
MacDonald, Harriet’s roving unstable husband who finds it
amusing and a rich cache of information to use against his
wife. How will the issue end? To add confusion to the race to
win Martin’s heart is the fact that Martin almost married a
girl, Cleopatra who flew off to the UK in a huff. In her turn,
Sandra had an eight month live-in relation full of such abuse
she is averse to men in general. She is the worst off being the
only single mother of the three. Of these women Sandra,
Cleopatra and Tinashe, who will finally win the prize? Is it a
prize to suffer for?

_____________________________________________