The Cell Phone
By Nigel Jack
The first time he saw her, he had visited his barber for a haircut. From the mirror in front of him he could see her without her recognizing she was being watched. He could see her contours and curves clearly like a farmer watching his wheat plantation from a glider. Her features were loud and her smile exuded a lot of confidence. The even pieces of ivory that decorated her full lipped mouth was her other major source of facial beauty besides her cat eyes that blinked slowly and graciously.
His heart screamed like a baby asking for a change of diaper. He could hear it throb like a sub-woofer. The central part of his physical manhood rose in anger. It was that kind of anger which is natural and unstoppable. He was lucky that he was wearing new pair of boxer shots inside, they were still tight and could not allow any misbehavior, otherwise he was going to leave holding low the broadsheet newspaper that he had just bought from the street vendors.
When he got back to his office Samson tried to concentrate on a pile of papers that were on his desk but he failed. His heart was not in the office. The hairdresser had stolen the day. He took out his cell phone and dialed his barber’s number. He could hear the phone ringing but no response. He was cross- it was not easy to connect; almost everybody in the city had a cell phone and airtime was a thousand times more affordable and available than bread.
For a quarter of an hour his phone was giving him automated text messages like, ‘error in connection’, ‘wrong number’ or he could hear a fast computer voice telling him, ‘the number you have dialed is not reachable at the moment, please try again latter.’ When he was almost giving up he got through. But that was not enough; his barber was supposed to answer. Tension grew hairs on his skin and his front teeth sat heavily on his lower lip as he waited impatiently to hear a live voice.
“Hello boss,” Givemore responded. He called all his male clients by that title.
“Ah, Givy,” Samson was not amused, “why do you take time to answer when you know the network is drunk.”
“Sorry boss, the phone was on charge, away from my corner.”
“Ah…” Samson wanted to continue complaining but Givemore injected.
“How can I help you Boss?”
“Okay listen, this is between you and me.”
“What is it boss you know I’m always at your service? I’m your most humble servant indeed. Say a word and it will be done.”
Givemore’s spontaneous responses and willingness to execute a duty he had not yet learnt of, gave Samson little creeps. But his fears were no greater than his passions. Fears could make him freeze for a moment but passions were capable of making him burst forever. He shut his eyes and paused for a moment.
“Givemore,” Samson enunciated.
Givemore had never before heard his name called with such gravity before. It was too solemn for a man of his disposition.
“Yes Boss,” this time his response was not rushed.
“Who is that girl I saw today wearing a yellow top and jeans.”
“Oh, wait Boss; let me move away a bit, just a minute.”
Samson could hear Givemore’s footsteps. He could not wait to hear what he was going to say. His blood was overflowing. There was one thing he was afraid of hearing. He was afraid of hearing that the girl was a wife, a mother or both. He had been in the dating business for long and he had not been lucky. In most of the cases he had been the one to call it quits because of his picky tendencies. He was always looking for the one and to him the one was Miss Right. Most of his dates would fall short on one or two qualities and he would not take that. He was looking for beauties, the outward and inward, he wanted both and there were no exceptions. And now at 27 the search was tense.
“Yes Boss, sorry the bird was just close to me that’s why I had to move away. I’m outside the shop at the moment. We can talk.”
“Tell me, what’s her name?”
“Diana, don’t tell me you don’t know Diana, she has been working with us here at She and He for almost three months now.”
“Then she blossomed rapidly in the three months, is she married?”
“No, ah no Boss, she is very much single. She has one or two male friends but they are not her boyfriends. I talk to her at times; I think she is not bad. Besides, she has the goods- I think you can see that she is loaded, a fertile potato farm ha.”
“No I’m not looking at that, do you have her number.”
“She has two; I’ll page them to you.”
“Great, please try and do it in the next five minutes,” Samson was happy with the information he had just gathered, “told you this is between you and me ha?”
“It’s between you and me Boss.”
That afternoon Samson commenced his betrothing on the phone. It was not that much of a hustle as he had anticipated nor was it a walk in the park, but somewhere in the range of careful talking. He enjoyed every minute that he was on the phone with her; to him it was pure entertainment. It was intriguing talking to someone for the first time on love, neither theorizing nor abbreviating it, but confessing a desire to practice it. What was difficult was trying to capture the passion in words and on the phone where responses could be very liberal.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
This was not an easy question for Samson. Saying he had never been in love would mean there was something wrong with him and he was not lovable. If he would say he had a girlfriend, then he was automatically confessing infidelity. And if he was to tell of a break-up, then the reasons were supposed to be provided.
“We broke up,” Samson said knowing what was to be the follow-up question.
“Why?”
“I discovered she had been cheating on me so I decided to part with her. I’m afraid of the virus; I think you understand that nowadays you need one partner.”
“Did you use to have sex with her?”
“No,” it sounded foolish but there was no much of an option.
“Why?” she was inquisitive.
“Why, why what?” Samson had never heard such a question from a girl before, “I’m not immoral, I’m not the kind of person who sleeps around.”
“Have you ever had sex before?”
Samson felt like the earth was crushing down on him. He had no immediate answer for this question but it was expected from him so he stammered.
In a space of a week the contents of the humiliating first day cell phone conversation was spiked. Samson was on the driver’s seat, moderating the pace at which the affair was moving. He was beginning to wave off illusions to get the true picture. Diana was no special to any other full bodied girl. Her outward beauty was average only that it was enhanced by artificial attachments. She had a good choice on clothes and her light skin had a way of exaggerating her beauty.
In –fact it was very disappointing fro Samson to discover that Diana was shallow in thought. Apart from clothes and hairdressing she knew virtually little. It appeared she had last read a book at high school and the only writing that she could do was on her cell phone. Samson knew the affair was not going to last but he had to hang in it a bit, at least to hold on to something while searching for something better.
Many times Samson would find himself condescending to her level in order to communicate effectively. Little did he know that an understanding of that nature would bring her closer? One day Diana visited Samson at his office, and she perched herself on the desk. That could have been a problem if Sam was sharing an office with someone. The office was all his. He was a buyer for an uncle’s supermarket in the countryside. The supermarket had credit accounts with three network providers in the country and Samson was responsible for managing them. Thus he automatically got involved in the new street phenomenon called BACOSSI.
BACOSSI (Basic Commodities Supply Side Intervention) had been introduced by the illegitimate and beleaguered government of Zimbabwe as practical propaganda to safeguard its rural support base.
In fact it was reported in one weekly paper that, “Rampant inflation which the Reserve Bank this week said clocked 2,2 million% is set to hasten towards the 100 million% mark by year-end following government's launch of the "BACOSSI to the People" Project. The Reserve Bank has splashed millions of United States dollars in its latest quasi-fiscal undertaking, the National Basic Commodities Supply Enhancement Programme in which rural and urban dwellers will receive groceries at heavily subsidized prices.”
So the story read but no urban dweller received BACOSSI. They were called traitors and deserved to die of hunger. Everything went scarce and supermarkets had nothing to show but empty shelves. One business was thriving and it was selling money. Banks turned into halls of informal deals. People like Sam would receive a bank cheque of say 10 trillion Zimbabwean dollars and use it to purchase cell phone recharge cards that they would sell for a total of say 5 billion cash money. The cash money could buy them hundred United States dollars, which was an amount worth 40 trillion or 50 trillion the following day on the street market. When selling the United States dollars they needed electronic money transfers and it was usually done by big companies who were in desperate need of the foreign currency. The circle would go on and on until such an individual would have a substantive amount to buy a car, and some other basic commodities. Formal employees were getting it hard, they would receive their salaries through the bank and in most cases it was less than a billion Zimbabwe dollars. This means they had less than 10 American dollars for salary the whole month. This forced members of the police force to defect to street deals and there was confusion. The value for money was lost. The idea of selling goods at a ridiculously low price in order to get cash to exchange for hard currency was called BACOSSI by the streets. The term also meant getting whatever you need for free. It became synonymous to confusion.
Diana had learnt of all this, and she knew Samson was one of the key-holders of BACOSSI. She wanted him to go further. She wanted them to explore each other. She pulled up her skirts but Samson pretended not to have seen, he continued packing trillions of Zimbabwean dollars that he wanted to use to buy hard currency.
“So, how long are we going to continue like this?” Diana asked with anger written all over her face.
“Like what Baby?” Samson responded, and when he did not get an answer within the time he expected he turned his head to look straight into Diana’s eyes. They were shining with tears. His heart melted. He rose from the chair and held her tight in his arms.
“What is it?” he muttered into her ears.
“You told me that you love me,” she said and started sobbing.
“Yea, yea I did, is anything wrong with that?” he quickly let off the tight hug and held her on the shoulders looking her in the face, “Is there anything wrong with that baby?”
“No.”
“So?”
“Then why are you avoiding me?” she asked with her eyes fixed on his chest rather than his eyes or at least his face.
“Avoiding you, what do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that,” she raises her voice a bit.
“Okay, okay calm down. I am not avoiding you; I’m just doing my job. You know this is not a bed-room, besides I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Are you not my boy-friend?”
“Yes I am, but I’m not your husband.”
Her phone started ringing. She took it out and answered. The conversation was precise and it was mainly about time.
“Who was that?” Samson asked nonchalantly.
“It’s one of my clients.”
“You told her five o’clock, will you still be in the salon by that time?”
“Sometimes we stay up to seven or eight depending on the hairstyle. Most of our clients go to work so we don’t have an option?”
“How do you go home around that time, I understand in most places the mini-bus operators would have knocked off.”
“My brother picks me up, most of the times”
“And when he doesn’t?”
“I look for my own means.”
“Okay, you said you stay in Borrowdale- I forgot to ask which part of Borrowdale?”
“The Brooke.”
“Wow in those hills, your brother must be filthy rich.”
As usual Samson called her girlfriend soon after supper. This call would last more than two hours. BACOSSI airtime was as affordable as free. What was difficult was to get connected and once connected the conversation about nothing in particular would last.
In the middle of the conversation Samson remembered he had just bought a new line for his other handset. A cell phone line was very expensive and hard to find, so Samson was much exited about it. He wanted to tell his tell his girlfriend then he decided to send her a text message on her other cell phone using it.
“Hi,” was the message.
“Hi, who is this,” she responded.
Samson found the response very funny so he thought of delaying to tell her who he was and decided page a compliment, “I saw you in your salon today and I liked what I saw on you.”
“So what are you doing right now,” Samson asked on the voice conversation.
“I’m preparing my supper,” she responded.
Samson’s phone indicated a received text message and it was from Diana. It read,
“Ah, who is this, who gave you my number?”
Samson smiled and asked on the voice conversation, “Are you watching Television right now.”
“It was written on your mirror,” he responded on the text conversation.
“Hey, please hold on, I need to check my pot,” she said
“Okay, what is it that you saw on me and liked,” read her text on the other phone.
“Your king size hips, your full boobs, brown thighs, healthy hair and your soft hands,” the reply was inviting, just what a girl needed to loosen up.
“My soft hands, who told you they are soft,” the response came shortly.
Samson was starting to get a mixed feeing of anger and excitement. He was angry to discover her girlfriend could still entertain separate and intimate conversations with some other males out there. He was excited to accidentally find himself in a position where he could learn more about her girlfriend without her getting to realize she was being spied on. He had never been in such a position before and he was learning to contain the mood. The opportunity had an effect too subtle to be defined or described by words. It was like ale- when you start drinking it sweetness is distant but one sip leads you to another until the mind gives up the guard of reasoning.
“I saw them.”
“What is it that you saw that told you they are soft?” she was now hooked.
“Hello, hello,” she was back on the voice conversation.
“Yea, I can hear you,” he answered while busy typing something on the other phone.
“I saw them applying a chemical to a client’s hair, it was painful to watch,” is what he wrote and send.
“What was painful about that?”
“I wished that was me, being given those strokes on my back while leaning back on the hot boobs,” he explained without any misgivings, the platform called for that, besides his heart was starting to run out of moral reservations.
“Hey baby, how much I wish you were here with me,” he said on the voice conversation while waiting for a text message from Diana, “I miss you so much during the nights that at times I feel like coming over there, just to hold you and hear you breathe. Do you feel the same?”
“You’re so funny, do you have a girlfriend?” is what he read from the other phone.
“Of-course I do, you know I love you so much,” her voice was shaking so she didn’t have to say much.
“Not a serious one,” Samson responded to the hot question on the text conversation.
“I’m not surprised, so what do you want from me,” was the response.
“What about you. Do you have a boyfriend?” it was time to fire back
“Not a serious one,” what goes around comes around was the inspiration behind the response.
A lot of sweet nothings were being muttered as the couple kept their fingers busy with typing secret questions and answers. Both their voices had lost natural flairs. But that wasn’t that important to them, the other conversation was.
“Perfect- do you go clubbing?”
“Not that much, my boyfriend doesn’t like it. I only go when he is out of town.”
“Who do you go with?”
“Friends.”
“Can I come pick you up today?”
“Not that fast brother”
“Why not, after-all it’s just clubbing, nothing else. Can I come?”
“Hey Sam,” Diana said on the voice conversation, “I can’t continue talking to you right now. I need to sleep, last night I slept late doing my sister’s hair. I’m sorry darling, I’ll call you tomorrow morning or I’ll come to your office. Goodnight.”
“Its okay baby, dream about me. Goodnight.”
On the other phone the conversation was still on.
“That is if it’s okay for you.”
“What’s your address then?”
“Come to Warren Park One shops and call me when you get there. Our house is adjacent to the shops. What time do you think you can be there?”
“In 30 minutes, I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
Samson switched off his new phone and slept.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Thinking Aloud
Nigel Jack
We used to play hop-scotch (pada) in our backyard watching the sun steal away where the earth ends. Our noises would sink into the early evening breeze like the lovely voice of cheese in our little mouths. Girls tugged their size one skirts in their innocent under-wears as they hopped with spread legs on the boxes marked on the ground. Their whole front look was almost as plain as ours just that their pretty faces used to keep us on the edge of our juvenile curiosity and the ribbons on their young hair would radiate our semi-ignorant hearts. We were never love-slaves, just passive artists.
Even when mothers and maids announced, time to bath from the window, parting was usually as painful as the pockets of urine stench that the bottoms of our counterparts puffed into silent air. Parting at first call was unheard of. To us parting was meant to come naturally like the movement of stock birds in summer. There was an indulgent perception boldly endorsed on the canvas of our minds that life was the present. Our prospects were limited to the indicators of what was to us given. Our desires never instigated blueprints but regrettable mischief. Some of them were not even regrettable, just forgettable, like being caught learning to mate while standing under the cover of long linen on the wash line.
We were raised by the best. We grew up feeling we were the first; we recognised but never acknowledged the prowess of the rest. It was always like we were hosts and others were guests. Our parents were everything even though they had nothing. The good thing is that we never realised then that they were the small fry. And how could we have realised when all we needed was a morsel of Sadza served with a substantive amount of relish. That would allow us to play hide and seek under moonlight or positively solve primary school arithmetic lying on cold cement floor. Our homework books were inspected before retiring to bed. We used to take sleep for granted so we could dream dreaming and wake up with swollen eyes covered in wax. In the morning our minds were very expeditious, we could dream thinking or think dreaming, the difference was the same.
Here I am today and It is so amazing that it is in this same life that I was once a pint sized being sitting cross-legged on rural red soil watching with profound awe, Gwenyambira’s dreadlocked grey hair shake rhythmically to the sharp sound from his deze while humming deep tunes of remote yesteryears from the aged walls of his smoke smeared throat. His pauses were only a result of an unquenchable craving for bute, the fine powdered tobacco that smelt of the past and uncompromised nativity. He would pull out his gonan’ombe from somewhere in his ragged outfit and deftly tap it against his left palm like it was a salt-shaker. Wearing a dare-devil face, he would close the small mouth of the portable wooden container with a chicken further and return it to its place before dexterously squeezing the powder with the tips of his fingers. The usual next thing was to use a whirlwind from his dusty nostrils to haul the powder down into his lungs. Sneezing was not an option. He would continue to play sitting under the eaves of my grandmother’s round kitchen while leaning on the rough mud poll wall. Sometimes in the evenings while at the stock pen, tying notorious bulls to corner poles, I used to hear his voice racing with the smoke smelling wind. The metallic chipping of his self-made instrument and the sea-deep humming from his raspy voice used to make my mind spread like the sky into thoughts too way out of range. I would lose myself into a plethora of sharp toothed imaginations. Facts turned into opinions and opinions into discoveries. From the supporting poles where I usually found myself clumsily perched, clad in my extremely and imperatively casual outfit- wild thought would catch with me spontaneously like breathing. I wanted to know what life was all about. The routine was too redundant and absurd for me. Surely it couldn’t be all about waking up to a dish of hot porridge hearing cattle mooing, birds chipping, cooing and hooting, watching dew melt away from green blades of healthy grass while appreciating the scent of a youthful morning as her skirts were being gently pulls up by the sun. I supposed it was not only about the senses; there must have been something more to it, something too hidden to be found in a hurry. I wanted to know if I was immune to death. Just the thought of death brought an immediate and imminent sadness that left me tired and hopeless. I did not want to die much as I did not want to think about the possibility of me dying. The funniest thing I did not possess any such suggestive handsome fortunes nor had I any emotional synergies as can be built by titular cleavage like Mr. or Sir, the mistake that I had for a reason was having started living. I was too addicted to life and I could blame it on the parties that were involved in the irreversible event of making me. Now the forgettable event had turned into a complex process that I could lose sleep upon thinking of losing it. What used to baffle me even now is the uncertainty of returning it. I want a voice from the unseen to assure me of the unseen. I am coward for life.
Now I’m a full man and I realised that in life there are some things that the human mind chooses to ignore at least to attain solace even when it is for just but a while. There also things that the mind chooses to keep in oblivion but each time they reoccur, especially death, there rises a corroding anxiety deep within. News of death is a tip of an iceberg; - it causes the mind to once again reflect on a larger picture called life. The pain of such undesirable but inevitable assimilation in the fabric of the grey cells is indescribable and horrific. Perhaps religion regulates the magnitude of the fear.
I’ve heard and read about the Arabic Jihad and wondered how one can be tutored and seasoned in the doctrines of sheer value to believe one could murder oneself and members of other races through suicidal bombing and still instil in oneself hope for an attainment of blissful full life beyond death. It’s unfortunate such ones never get to realise that those who recruit them stay behind to live full lives and die natural deaths. Its shocking how one is made to spend years and years in tertiary education institutions to master the most challenging of disciplines- for example aviation- so that such a one would graduate by stirring a plane into a building. All the distilled litres of knowledge acquired would at once crush and burn together with hundreds of victims.
But this is not a Jihad.
The truth is that I’m peeping outside my window to see how a dying dog speeds. He is the biggest dog in this yard but that doesn’t count anymore. He ran in front of a speeding car and got his front leg broken. Since then he has never found joy, he receives the best of meals but the appetite is gone. Now he stays under the dark shadow of a big Acacia tree from morning to evening, from dusk to dawn patiently awaiting the touch of death. He can hardly move out of this yard, and even in this yard he seldom moves away from that point, he is a pity but I can’t help it.
It’s giving me a lot of strange pains watching his ribs move up and down in motions too frequent for comfort while he groans from a closed mouth, eyes cold with despair. I can see he misses the good old days much as he wishes this cup to pass. And now I regret being a spectator because that makes me involved. I don’t want the dog to die but I think its best that the dog dies. If he dies there will be no unnecessary investing of emotions and there will be no sounds of death. Just the smell of death will linger for an instant. Eagles with white necks are already celebrating in the sky above the dog as if they are vultures, maybe they are just enjoying the liberty that the dog doesn’t have and will never have.
Ah no. Wait a minute. The dog is now looking at me with eyes red with anguish. His piercing pair is virtually starved of shame. He is slowly raising his head and the younger dogs are once again running away. Terror has risen. He could be an ancestor by now or maybe he is a living ancestor, alive but dead. Ancestors don’t have a heart, they are insensitive to mortal matters and so is the old dog. His barking is now deafening but I see no intruder.
Everything here is confusing, a thousand bleak hours for a moment of bliss that tarries. Most times one has to bear the burden of creating just that moment which is just a negligible fraction of happiness for happiness in its full measure is virtually unattainable and the furthest one can go in pursuing it is to feign it. The problem is when feigned happiness is sin. Most times we pretend we don’t mind the dog stays in the yard but we keep indoors and look for something soft to slowly munch on while waiting to hear the airwaves go sane with silence again. All we want is to forget our woes.
A woman can do the magic. One evening I described her using musical instruments as if she was a piece by an orchestra. She smiled with her eyes fixed on the floor like she was a dub-poet trying to remember a lost line. I told her that her hair was a new violin that I played from a heartbeat, that her lips were a flute that drowned me with a fine sound. I told her that her breast was a piano that I could play the whole night without losing my fingers. Her buttocks were drums that I could bit whenever I got bored or tired of other instruments and her middle was a saxophone that has a noble sound but needed to be played with all carefulness and fulfilling passion. I told her she was a delicacy. She was a mature wine that could only be served to the king on special banquets. I told her she was an addictive drug that I could hardly live without. She lifted her head, silenced my mouth with her point finger, held my cheeks on both palms and reached for a deep, full and lengthy kiss that left both of us trembling and weak. Her irises were looking a bit averted like she had slept the whole night on a bowl of highly intoxicating grapes. Her features had instantly blossomed and the guard of reasoning seemed nullified. I had a feeling my chastity was in danger and my principles had been brought to a test but I would be glad to fail. I had not vowed to practise a life of celibacy but I just wasn’t sure of wearing a completely new feeling. I could see she wasn’t sure too, but a look into each other’s eyes send us ripping off each other’s apparels. We found ourselves working by instinct. Sooner than anticipated we were playing deep tunes without having gone through a rehearsal. We wanted to sing more but the tune was too new; so we quickly retreated to the comfort zone- where notes do not injure the throat. We could still sing some other day and perhaps try high codes.
We were not in a hurry. We were happy. As happy as watching a handsome blind man who is singing about love and the beauty of beauty, amazingly painting the mysterious emotion in colourful colours that he has never seen. His eyes of lesser blink wide open to the world and the world can see the hinges of his heart. After the last elastic note that tears through his humble lips, he smiles to the audience already immersed in tears and they wish he could see how much they appreciate him. They ecstatically scream his name that he gasps; he wishes- more than before, he had eyes. He then clutches his trembling mouth with both hands and contributes a loud cry into the noises. The other contestants in the singing competition are crying too- their hearts have been nabbed by the air. If the competition is to be made to continue nobody will pay attention, everyone is fighting tears and hoping to recover a stolen heart. The mind too is paralysed. After the show people are sleep-walking home.
At home, the wounded dog is hurting. He has gathered all the bones to himself and he is playing it hard on others. He can’t stand watching them gnaw at liberty. Now, they have to struggle to put something in their stomachs. Its not that they are afraid to put up a fight but it’s against their nature to fight and old unrepentant dog that is already knocking on hell’s door, it’s cowardly. Whenever an opportunity presents itself they steal away from the yard to scout for food from neighbors or afar off in the woods fraught of many dangers. For a while they feel good far away from the madding dog but safety is not guaranteed. Those that remain behind see no good times. With the passing of every hour they get leaner and leaner while watching the old dog is waxing fat and growing oily furs. It’s unfair.
When the gate is opened, the old dog is standing right in the middle of the drive-way barking at the on-coming car. He is now the stupidest dog in the yard, it could that old age is playing foul on him. Others are down the drive-way watching the proceedings with eyes weak with hunger. They just don’t care what happens.
“What’s up with this dog?” my cousin is worried.
“What about him?” my uncle who is on the driver’s seat responds with a question.
“He is ailing but he can’t stay away from trouble,” the remark is too general.
“He misses good old days I think- it’s a pity he can’t realize how old he is,” he shakes his head and he adds, “Its not his fault dogs don’t think- they do everything by instinct. Instinct tells them yesterday is today and tomorrow.”Slowly the car is driven in avoiding to run over the stupid old rabid dog. His barking is deafening and irritating. But he never used to be like this when he was young. He was adorable and his mouth was void of vain trumpery. Whenever he barked everyone would pay attention and check the yard. He could get along well with other dogs and could share with others. He was selfless and teachable. But now he is bigheaded and very selfish. Everybody hates him.
Nigel Jack
We used to play hop-scotch (pada) in our backyard watching the sun steal away where the earth ends. Our noises would sink into the early evening breeze like the lovely voice of cheese in our little mouths. Girls tugged their size one skirts in their innocent under-wears as they hopped with spread legs on the boxes marked on the ground. Their whole front look was almost as plain as ours just that their pretty faces used to keep us on the edge of our juvenile curiosity and the ribbons on their young hair would radiate our semi-ignorant hearts. We were never love-slaves, just passive artists.
Even when mothers and maids announced, time to bath from the window, parting was usually as painful as the pockets of urine stench that the bottoms of our counterparts puffed into silent air. Parting at first call was unheard of. To us parting was meant to come naturally like the movement of stock birds in summer. There was an indulgent perception boldly endorsed on the canvas of our minds that life was the present. Our prospects were limited to the indicators of what was to us given. Our desires never instigated blueprints but regrettable mischief. Some of them were not even regrettable, just forgettable, like being caught learning to mate while standing under the cover of long linen on the wash line.
We were raised by the best. We grew up feeling we were the first; we recognised but never acknowledged the prowess of the rest. It was always like we were hosts and others were guests. Our parents were everything even though they had nothing. The good thing is that we never realised then that they were the small fry. And how could we have realised when all we needed was a morsel of Sadza served with a substantive amount of relish. That would allow us to play hide and seek under moonlight or positively solve primary school arithmetic lying on cold cement floor. Our homework books were inspected before retiring to bed. We used to take sleep for granted so we could dream dreaming and wake up with swollen eyes covered in wax. In the morning our minds were very expeditious, we could dream thinking or think dreaming, the difference was the same.
Here I am today and It is so amazing that it is in this same life that I was once a pint sized being sitting cross-legged on rural red soil watching with profound awe, Gwenyambira’s dreadlocked grey hair shake rhythmically to the sharp sound from his deze while humming deep tunes of remote yesteryears from the aged walls of his smoke smeared throat. His pauses were only a result of an unquenchable craving for bute, the fine powdered tobacco that smelt of the past and uncompromised nativity. He would pull out his gonan’ombe from somewhere in his ragged outfit and deftly tap it against his left palm like it was a salt-shaker. Wearing a dare-devil face, he would close the small mouth of the portable wooden container with a chicken further and return it to its place before dexterously squeezing the powder with the tips of his fingers. The usual next thing was to use a whirlwind from his dusty nostrils to haul the powder down into his lungs. Sneezing was not an option. He would continue to play sitting under the eaves of my grandmother’s round kitchen while leaning on the rough mud poll wall. Sometimes in the evenings while at the stock pen, tying notorious bulls to corner poles, I used to hear his voice racing with the smoke smelling wind. The metallic chipping of his self-made instrument and the sea-deep humming from his raspy voice used to make my mind spread like the sky into thoughts too way out of range. I would lose myself into a plethora of sharp toothed imaginations. Facts turned into opinions and opinions into discoveries. From the supporting poles where I usually found myself clumsily perched, clad in my extremely and imperatively casual outfit- wild thought would catch with me spontaneously like breathing. I wanted to know what life was all about. The routine was too redundant and absurd for me. Surely it couldn’t be all about waking up to a dish of hot porridge hearing cattle mooing, birds chipping, cooing and hooting, watching dew melt away from green blades of healthy grass while appreciating the scent of a youthful morning as her skirts were being gently pulls up by the sun. I supposed it was not only about the senses; there must have been something more to it, something too hidden to be found in a hurry. I wanted to know if I was immune to death. Just the thought of death brought an immediate and imminent sadness that left me tired and hopeless. I did not want to die much as I did not want to think about the possibility of me dying. The funniest thing I did not possess any such suggestive handsome fortunes nor had I any emotional synergies as can be built by titular cleavage like Mr. or Sir, the mistake that I had for a reason was having started living. I was too addicted to life and I could blame it on the parties that were involved in the irreversible event of making me. Now the forgettable event had turned into a complex process that I could lose sleep upon thinking of losing it. What used to baffle me even now is the uncertainty of returning it. I want a voice from the unseen to assure me of the unseen. I am coward for life.
Now I’m a full man and I realised that in life there are some things that the human mind chooses to ignore at least to attain solace even when it is for just but a while. There also things that the mind chooses to keep in oblivion but each time they reoccur, especially death, there rises a corroding anxiety deep within. News of death is a tip of an iceberg; - it causes the mind to once again reflect on a larger picture called life. The pain of such undesirable but inevitable assimilation in the fabric of the grey cells is indescribable and horrific. Perhaps religion regulates the magnitude of the fear.
I’ve heard and read about the Arabic Jihad and wondered how one can be tutored and seasoned in the doctrines of sheer value to believe one could murder oneself and members of other races through suicidal bombing and still instil in oneself hope for an attainment of blissful full life beyond death. It’s unfortunate such ones never get to realise that those who recruit them stay behind to live full lives and die natural deaths. Its shocking how one is made to spend years and years in tertiary education institutions to master the most challenging of disciplines- for example aviation- so that such a one would graduate by stirring a plane into a building. All the distilled litres of knowledge acquired would at once crush and burn together with hundreds of victims.
But this is not a Jihad.
The truth is that I’m peeping outside my window to see how a dying dog speeds. He is the biggest dog in this yard but that doesn’t count anymore. He ran in front of a speeding car and got his front leg broken. Since then he has never found joy, he receives the best of meals but the appetite is gone. Now he stays under the dark shadow of a big Acacia tree from morning to evening, from dusk to dawn patiently awaiting the touch of death. He can hardly move out of this yard, and even in this yard he seldom moves away from that point, he is a pity but I can’t help it.
It’s giving me a lot of strange pains watching his ribs move up and down in motions too frequent for comfort while he groans from a closed mouth, eyes cold with despair. I can see he misses the good old days much as he wishes this cup to pass. And now I regret being a spectator because that makes me involved. I don’t want the dog to die but I think its best that the dog dies. If he dies there will be no unnecessary investing of emotions and there will be no sounds of death. Just the smell of death will linger for an instant. Eagles with white necks are already celebrating in the sky above the dog as if they are vultures, maybe they are just enjoying the liberty that the dog doesn’t have and will never have.
Ah no. Wait a minute. The dog is now looking at me with eyes red with anguish. His piercing pair is virtually starved of shame. He is slowly raising his head and the younger dogs are once again running away. Terror has risen. He could be an ancestor by now or maybe he is a living ancestor, alive but dead. Ancestors don’t have a heart, they are insensitive to mortal matters and so is the old dog. His barking is now deafening but I see no intruder.
Everything here is confusing, a thousand bleak hours for a moment of bliss that tarries. Most times one has to bear the burden of creating just that moment which is just a negligible fraction of happiness for happiness in its full measure is virtually unattainable and the furthest one can go in pursuing it is to feign it. The problem is when feigned happiness is sin. Most times we pretend we don’t mind the dog stays in the yard but we keep indoors and look for something soft to slowly munch on while waiting to hear the airwaves go sane with silence again. All we want is to forget our woes.
A woman can do the magic. One evening I described her using musical instruments as if she was a piece by an orchestra. She smiled with her eyes fixed on the floor like she was a dub-poet trying to remember a lost line. I told her that her hair was a new violin that I played from a heartbeat, that her lips were a flute that drowned me with a fine sound. I told her that her breast was a piano that I could play the whole night without losing my fingers. Her buttocks were drums that I could bit whenever I got bored or tired of other instruments and her middle was a saxophone that has a noble sound but needed to be played with all carefulness and fulfilling passion. I told her she was a delicacy. She was a mature wine that could only be served to the king on special banquets. I told her she was an addictive drug that I could hardly live without. She lifted her head, silenced my mouth with her point finger, held my cheeks on both palms and reached for a deep, full and lengthy kiss that left both of us trembling and weak. Her irises were looking a bit averted like she had slept the whole night on a bowl of highly intoxicating grapes. Her features had instantly blossomed and the guard of reasoning seemed nullified. I had a feeling my chastity was in danger and my principles had been brought to a test but I would be glad to fail. I had not vowed to practise a life of celibacy but I just wasn’t sure of wearing a completely new feeling. I could see she wasn’t sure too, but a look into each other’s eyes send us ripping off each other’s apparels. We found ourselves working by instinct. Sooner than anticipated we were playing deep tunes without having gone through a rehearsal. We wanted to sing more but the tune was too new; so we quickly retreated to the comfort zone- where notes do not injure the throat. We could still sing some other day and perhaps try high codes.
We were not in a hurry. We were happy. As happy as watching a handsome blind man who is singing about love and the beauty of beauty, amazingly painting the mysterious emotion in colourful colours that he has never seen. His eyes of lesser blink wide open to the world and the world can see the hinges of his heart. After the last elastic note that tears through his humble lips, he smiles to the audience already immersed in tears and they wish he could see how much they appreciate him. They ecstatically scream his name that he gasps; he wishes- more than before, he had eyes. He then clutches his trembling mouth with both hands and contributes a loud cry into the noises. The other contestants in the singing competition are crying too- their hearts have been nabbed by the air. If the competition is to be made to continue nobody will pay attention, everyone is fighting tears and hoping to recover a stolen heart. The mind too is paralysed. After the show people are sleep-walking home.
At home, the wounded dog is hurting. He has gathered all the bones to himself and he is playing it hard on others. He can’t stand watching them gnaw at liberty. Now, they have to struggle to put something in their stomachs. Its not that they are afraid to put up a fight but it’s against their nature to fight and old unrepentant dog that is already knocking on hell’s door, it’s cowardly. Whenever an opportunity presents itself they steal away from the yard to scout for food from neighbors or afar off in the woods fraught of many dangers. For a while they feel good far away from the madding dog but safety is not guaranteed. Those that remain behind see no good times. With the passing of every hour they get leaner and leaner while watching the old dog is waxing fat and growing oily furs. It’s unfair.
When the gate is opened, the old dog is standing right in the middle of the drive-way barking at the on-coming car. He is now the stupidest dog in the yard, it could that old age is playing foul on him. Others are down the drive-way watching the proceedings with eyes weak with hunger. They just don’t care what happens.
“What’s up with this dog?” my cousin is worried.
“What about him?” my uncle who is on the driver’s seat responds with a question.
“He is ailing but he can’t stay away from trouble,” the remark is too general.
“He misses good old days I think- it’s a pity he can’t realize how old he is,” he shakes his head and he adds, “Its not his fault dogs don’t think- they do everything by instinct. Instinct tells them yesterday is today and tomorrow.”Slowly the car is driven in avoiding to run over the stupid old rabid dog. His barking is deafening and irritating. But he never used to be like this when he was young. He was adorable and his mouth was void of vain trumpery. Whenever he barked everyone would pay attention and check the yard. He could get along well with other dogs and could share with others. He was selfless and teachable. But now he is bigheaded and very selfish. Everybody hates him.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Days of trying times
by Nigel Jack
Life has never stretched a generous hand to me. I live by the meanest means and happiness comes by accident. I‘ve got nothing to propel me to propensities but bitterness. I try more than many people I know but my coffers are always next to dry. Perhaps my levers to affluence are stationed at the penurious end of honesty.
Once again I find myself in Johannesburg South Africa, Mzanzi so the natives call it. I’m here where the word trust has no meaning or maybe the meaning of the word makes no sense. This is the most dangerous human inhabited city in the whole universe and as a place can only be second to hell if it is not hell itself. Humanity is at its lowest measure and people don’t live the life but the day. The natives are known to be uneducated, lazy and dangerous save for majority of whites who live in hide outs of expensive places. But even they too at times live by the mighty barred of the gun.
Guns are sold at street corners by hooligans with blood stained eyes and cigarette smelling breath- and assault knives are accessible as bread. However those who kill for a living prefer home made knives for affordability and efficiency. They stab for as little as a cell-phone, a pair of shoes already on feet, wrist watch and just a blue hundred rand note is a huge sum of money to them. Their conscience is totally dead and they live by instinct. They don’t like anything that challenges the mind, they hate learning, they detest working but they like good living. Their hearts are always green with envy and their hands are quick to put covetousness to practice.
I’ve been here before, I’ve been robbed here before and my mind can not let go. As I walk down this lane from the cheap looking coach rank along Devellis street into Park Station I feel paranoia creeping down my spine. Urine is now full in my bladder because I have never arrived this late. Street lights are hitting hard on me and I feel I’m too exposed to the people I can’t see. I’ve suddenly adopted a boastful and careful gait while talking to the old men walking beside me in a makeshift hoarse voice. I’m trying to look and sound inaccessible to thieves. I’ve got precious powder on me. It’s more than just soil. It’s gold in colour. It’s called gold. I’ve got twenty-five grams of it and it’s packed in two small balls of plastic papers, one placed in the boots that I’m wearing and the other one is in my underwear near my ass-hole. As I walk it keeps on rolling out to the edge of my underwear but I keep on pushing it back. I don’t want to loose it. It has around thirteen grams of gold worth slightly a thousand United States dollars. It’s a lot of money here in South Africa but its not much back home. In Zimbabwe it buys two months groceries for a family of four, but here in South Africa many families live on it the whole year.
At park station the old man and I make a phone call to the buyer. We learn that he was shot dead by robbers at his home in Midrand two weeks ago , for a while we are dumbfounded, just looking at each other with our hands on our mouths. Later we decide to wait for a new day, so we both try to catch a sleep on cold steel benches inside the park station arena, but the police won’t allow us. Every few moments they’re waking up people asking for valid bus tickets. I hear they’re trying to get rid of street-people mostly from my country. We both brave the cold mid-January night to wake–up very early into Tuesday not that we’ve run out of sleep but that it’s worth while given the conditions. I’m home sick already. This is my first time to be here for this cause. I’ve never done gold-deals in this city before, I’m used to Polokwane and I’m here because my buyers are out of the country besides the old man told me gold has more value in Jo’burg than in any other South African city. The old man knows everything about the buyers in this city and I know nothing. I’m waiting for him to come-up with a contingent plan but it surprises me to hear him ask, “What do we do now?” I figure out I don’t have an instant answer to the question. But wait a minute, I know what I want.
“I just want to go back to Zimbabwe.”
“I just want to go back to Zimbabwe,” he carefully repeats the words one by one while looking straight into my eyes. I think he has just made a mistake; he has just opened his eyes and mouth too wide that I can see the contents of his heart. I see betrayal, I see greediness, I see corruption, and I see blood and death. I’ve got nothing to say so I keep on looking into him careful not to give away my findings. But he had something to say, “Ok, ah okay,” he clears the throat and continues, “I’m calling my friend in Bogsburg and he will give me another buyer. Actually, he’s the one who linked me to the late.” I still have nothing to say so he takes out two one rand coins from his pocket and slotted them into the telephone machine while the other hand is holding the receiver. I can hear him muttering something in a native language that’s biblical tongues to me and I can feel my heart throbbing. He puts the receiver down, scratches his head and turns to me with stretched arms, “I told you he can help, he said we can go meet him in Bogsburg so he will take us to the buyer. By the way how many grams did you say you have?” he seems not confident with his question as much as I’m not comfortable with giving him an answer so he adds a bit of justification to it, I mean I have ten and I should know how much we have exactly so I can negotiate the rate knowing the total number of grams we have between us.”
“Five” my answer is quicker than he expects and that kind of startles him besides the figure that for an instant freezes most of his external body motion.
“Oh, ok” he smiles out of bitterness “so we have fifteen in total”.
“Precisely,” I back that up with a nod.
“Right,” he is still unsettled within, “lets go I mean ah, let’s go to Bogsburg and meet him,” he says with a raspy voice.
I thrust my right hand in my pocket and picked out two silver coins.
“Here,” I say to the old man, “take-, call the person and tell him to come and pick us from the new coach rank –tell him the J.R Choeu rank. If he is serious let him come with the buyer there. I can’t go there besides I’ve got no money left on me here to take me there”.
“If he is serious, what do you mean? Of course he is serious,” the old man shouts.
“Then let him bring the buyer,” I answer with my eyes fixed straight to his. As the old man take his not that sure strides back to the phone booth I feel a grip of lividness in my throat, the wind pipe is almost shut with hot phlegm of guile and I can feel it cutting the inner threshold. I try to gasp to clear off my head that is totally intoxicated with anger, and suddenly I can’t see properly so I fall back on the metal bench. From there I can hear the old man’s tongues but I don’t want to concentrate. The next thing I’m walking down Harrison Street to the coach rank and the old man is behind me. I can see dirty boys and men with red eyes, dry mouths, soiled hair, yellow teeth and black lips, clad in cheap fabric and canvas shoes starring and calling after me but I am not listening, I’m not afraid of them either. I feel I can tear them all. I’m even afraid of myself; I can see the fire in my own eyes I feel like I’ve turned into an invincible tall block of iron. I suppose they see it too that’s why they are not daring to step forward with their cheap knives.
J.R Choeu coach rank is situated just after the bridge next to the old parking building that they call taxi rank. They say on this land once stood one off the biggest post-offices in Johannesburg and its remnants can still be seen trying to resist the nemesis of time just next to the rail-line on which passenger and goods trains can be heard honking, churning and grinding at intervals shorter than an hour especially during the morning. The coach rank is a hive of activity for travellers from Zimbabwe. Most of the buses that drop and pick passengers from there also from Zimbabwe namely, Go-liner, Mars Mercy, First class, Ngwenya transport, Passengers express, Tenda buses, Mushandi coaches to mention but the big fry. Other coaches from outside Zimbabwe that do business there are Pangolin Luxliner, Phadziri brothers and J.R Choeu to mention but few.
My first port of call is First Class coach offices where I’m advised there is no coach leaving to Zimbabwe today. First class lost one of my bags on my previous trip from South Africa so they compensated me with eight hundred rands plus a return ticket to South Africa. And now I need them badly because I don’t have a penny in my pocket I had put so much faith in the clandestine deal that I thought I’d go back flying- and grey hound would be the only option if I was to travel on a bus. It’s very ironic that my means can not afford me wings, or the comfort of greyhound but the coach that disappointed me on my way coming. My trip to South Africa was a hustle; the bus broke down on the free-way just after Polokwane more than two hundred kilometres away from Johannesburg and all passengers ended up standing by the side road literally begging on coming coaches to stop for help. My complimentary ticket became invalid and I ended up paying the blue note to a “chicken bus,” that rattled all the way to Johannesburg. The experience has terrible and we sadly arrived at the prime-time for thieves and commercial sex-workers
“So when are you expecting a coach to arrive?” I ask very much afraid to receive an answer that would not guarantee my departure today.
“Maybe tomorrow,” the officer answers nonchalantly
As I drag my feet away from the offices I realise just can’t stop bleeding inside. I enter one coach labelled Ngwenga transport and here I’m throwing my trimmed weight on a very uncomfortable seat. The pain in my abdomen has awakened me to reality. I remember I’ve got a very talented mouth and I must put it to test. In less than five minutes I have negotiated with the bus conductor to pay when we I get to Zimbabwe. Though I’ve won my plea I recon I’m the first passenger therefore I must be in for a fix of time because the bus leaves only when it is at least half-full otherwise a loss will be incurred. The old man is sitting next to me and we haven’t resumed talking. I didn’t hear him negotiate so maybe he has the money to fund his trip.
Its funny how this girl called the day turns old when her admirers can still smell the scent of her youth. Her life-spun is pathetically short that the freshness of her youth is highly regrettable. The radiance of her hopeful features quickly wane and her wrinkles come in a rush. Before she ages to an outright hag one of the First Class coaches arrives. I’m starring at it from where I am sitting thinking what’s so fly about it to be called First Class, maybe the ability to disappoint clients I suppose.
Latter the inspector of the bus that I’ve turned into my sitting room decides to off-load few passengers it had attracted into a different coach so his could leave tomorrow hoping it will be a lucky-day for them. His crew that is half a dozen invites me out for supper and the old man follows. He is now a tick to me, I’m thinking he must have realised by now that his prime time is over “Is he also coming with us?” one of the young men is asking me. The old man quickly raises his head and looks straight into my eyes. I’m looking into his eyes too, for a moment I don’t have anything to say.
“Yes, yes he’s coming with us, he is my old man,” I smile to the group and they smile back, off we go to the food vendors within the premises. They buy three plates of sadza and I’m eating to the delight of my empty stomach. The old is eating heart-fully too without contributing a word to the stories that are being told.
One of the young men tells a tale of one Roy Machokoto, a Zimbabwe born young man who commands a gang of seven. His line of business is definitely not a trade but a dirty profession. He enjoys robbing people when they’re gathered at one place- especially in a bus. The young man telling the story gets carried away in the narration that he assumes to be Roy robbing people, “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls my name is Roy Machokoto and I ‘m a dangerous robber. To those who have never heard of me let me tell you that I’m the one who last year robbed the Tenda bus that was travelling to Beit-bridge. I’m not afraid of death and I’m not afraid of causing it so please behave all I want is your cell-phone, money and any other thing on you that you think can give me quick money. Thank you so much for listening, right now let’s get to business.” Everybody laughs to the lines except the old man who can not relent on the meal. My eyes and his meet and maintain the stare for a while, suddenly everybody is quite. One of the young men whispers loud, “Ah! People, the old man has a huge appetite.”
Soon we are back in the bus that has been turned into a bedroom by touts. I am trying to catch a sleep but most of my roommates do not feel the same. They are talking about the sisters of the night and how daring they are. They talk of diplomat beer parlour where strippers baptise young virgin men. They are taking turns to describe their frames and instruments of work. Once again the night is unbearable. Mosquitoes are singing their war-cry loud and they are prepared to die with their mouths dipped in our veins. I suppose they are happy that we don’t have blankets on us. They’re biting the legs, toes, fingers neck they are biting the heard, they are biting every part. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I’m in trouble. Mosquitoes like my blood. I’m scratching and the more I scratch the deeper the pain. My legs are itching. I’m acrophobic. I wish I could run away. I‘m trapped. I’m thinking could I be the only one feeling this trouble, then I hear a voice in the dark shouting, “Ah boys we dead, the mosquitoes are biting more than hornets.”
I’m surprised most of the people in here are awake, they laugh to confirm the mosquitoes are terrible.
“Let them finish you, you work everyday but you don’t want to by a blanket.”
Another voice interjects and a heavy laughter follows.
“Why should I buy a blanket when I know I sleep in a bus?”
“Who asked you to leave home?”
“Mugabe” he is quick to answer “one old man in Zimbabwe called Mugabe hates people who sleep in houses; you’re forgetting he demolished our homes few years ago. What did we call that Tsunami- it was not only in Indonesia, it was also in Zimbabwe.”
Silence follows then a heavy downfall of rain. The sound is deafening and communication is impossible. For a moment I assume to be asleep but I’m awake and the rain has stopped, even the mosquitoes have stopped. It’s time for the cold. Its cutting deeper into my bones and I’m trying to keep my-self warm, first I fold my body into a portable hip, then I put my hands in my armpits, later under my testicles but its not working, now I’ve decided to sit with my hands tugged between my legs. I put my hand in my pocket and I’m checking the time on my cell-phone. It’s just after midnight –I must catch sleep by any means. I’m now up and the day is not is yet, the night is still reigning but slowly paving way for light. I’m waiting to see the sun rise like a big yoke in the eastern horizon, but I can’t see it from this depression, besides the towering building of Jo’burg can not allow such luxuries. Maybe if this station was at the east of the central business district.
The first coach from Zimbabwe enters the station and suddenly there is activity. Bathing is a luxury here. Most of my room mates have jumped out to go help arriving passengers bring down their luggage while their eyes are coated with wax. Those who have decided to bath are doing so behind a mucky wall on the east. They are using small water buckets, laundry soaps and face towels. At least they’re bathing and I can’t. I just can’t bath in these conditions, maybe I should stay longer.
The old man calls me and tells me what we both know, “he didn’t come.”
“Yes he didn’t come, so?” is my answer.
“So what are you planning?”
“I told you I am going back home, what else do want to know from me. See the coach parked there, that first class coach -yah- that’s the bus that’ll take me home. Tomorrow evening I’ll be home talking about Jo’burg, about you, about the gold buyer that never was.” He is looking at me with talking eyes, but I can’t get what he’s saying
“Alright, I am not going to ask you to stay, just want you to know that I’m staying,” he says, “I’ll find a buyer then I’ll follow”
“I hear you old man, but tell me what will you be eating and where will you stay between now and the time you’ll find a buyer for your gold?”
“My brother-in-law is here in Jo’burg. I’ll be staying at his place, eating his food and using his toilet.”
“Funny. You are a funny old man indeed, its okay-I suppose you’ve done that before, I mean you sound confident so go for it. I’ll see you in Harare”
‘I’ll leave when you are leaving, as for now I’ll continue enjoying your act”
“Which act” really I don’t know which act he is referring to.
“See I never knew you’re this tough. You don’t look like you have ever stayed in the ghetto but I’m starting to believe otherwise,” the old man says with a smile on his face.
“What? do you think I have an option?. This is life not an act- I mean it’s not a play. This is it, its life, and life is always what it is when it is,” I’m trying to be philosophical and this is not the time so I prefer a different subject.
“I heard Gono is launching new brand of buses here, this afternoon.”
“Gono, which Gono, you mean our reserve bank governor?”
“Yes, his brother Larry stays here and he is the cover face for his brother. You see these expensive coaches with three stars painted at the back.”
“Yes Go-liner is the name”
“Right, if you check its stomach it’s written Go-liner tours, I heard the ones that are coming will be written Go-liner supreme, and they have five stars painted where the these have three”
“So the guy is rich ha?” the old man sounds naive and I don’t like it.
“Rich, yes he is – he steals from you and me to buy coaches that we don’t have money to board. He is the worst central banker I know. He has put the economy of our country to its knees. He has murdered and he is still murdering our country. I heard he wrote a book called, Zimbabwe’s Casino Economy, in which he is trying to defend himself. But listen, a few years from now Zimbabwe will claim her wealth back and people like him will have cases to answer. Unfortunately not even a person who appointed him will be able to cushion him from the attacks because he too will be in desperate need of refuge too.”
by Nigel Jack
Life has never stretched a generous hand to me. I live by the meanest means and happiness comes by accident. I‘ve got nothing to propel me to propensities but bitterness. I try more than many people I know but my coffers are always next to dry. Perhaps my levers to affluence are stationed at the penurious end of honesty.
Once again I find myself in Johannesburg South Africa, Mzanzi so the natives call it. I’m here where the word trust has no meaning or maybe the meaning of the word makes no sense. This is the most dangerous human inhabited city in the whole universe and as a place can only be second to hell if it is not hell itself. Humanity is at its lowest measure and people don’t live the life but the day. The natives are known to be uneducated, lazy and dangerous save for majority of whites who live in hide outs of expensive places. But even they too at times live by the mighty barred of the gun.
Guns are sold at street corners by hooligans with blood stained eyes and cigarette smelling breath- and assault knives are accessible as bread. However those who kill for a living prefer home made knives for affordability and efficiency. They stab for as little as a cell-phone, a pair of shoes already on feet, wrist watch and just a blue hundred rand note is a huge sum of money to them. Their conscience is totally dead and they live by instinct. They don’t like anything that challenges the mind, they hate learning, they detest working but they like good living. Their hearts are always green with envy and their hands are quick to put covetousness to practice.
I’ve been here before, I’ve been robbed here before and my mind can not let go. As I walk down this lane from the cheap looking coach rank along Devellis street into Park Station I feel paranoia creeping down my spine. Urine is now full in my bladder because I have never arrived this late. Street lights are hitting hard on me and I feel I’m too exposed to the people I can’t see. I’ve suddenly adopted a boastful and careful gait while talking to the old men walking beside me in a makeshift hoarse voice. I’m trying to look and sound inaccessible to thieves. I’ve got precious powder on me. It’s more than just soil. It’s gold in colour. It’s called gold. I’ve got twenty-five grams of it and it’s packed in two small balls of plastic papers, one placed in the boots that I’m wearing and the other one is in my underwear near my ass-hole. As I walk it keeps on rolling out to the edge of my underwear but I keep on pushing it back. I don’t want to loose it. It has around thirteen grams of gold worth slightly a thousand United States dollars. It’s a lot of money here in South Africa but its not much back home. In Zimbabwe it buys two months groceries for a family of four, but here in South Africa many families live on it the whole year.
At park station the old man and I make a phone call to the buyer. We learn that he was shot dead by robbers at his home in Midrand two weeks ago , for a while we are dumbfounded, just looking at each other with our hands on our mouths. Later we decide to wait for a new day, so we both try to catch a sleep on cold steel benches inside the park station arena, but the police won’t allow us. Every few moments they’re waking up people asking for valid bus tickets. I hear they’re trying to get rid of street-people mostly from my country. We both brave the cold mid-January night to wake–up very early into Tuesday not that we’ve run out of sleep but that it’s worth while given the conditions. I’m home sick already. This is my first time to be here for this cause. I’ve never done gold-deals in this city before, I’m used to Polokwane and I’m here because my buyers are out of the country besides the old man told me gold has more value in Jo’burg than in any other South African city. The old man knows everything about the buyers in this city and I know nothing. I’m waiting for him to come-up with a contingent plan but it surprises me to hear him ask, “What do we do now?” I figure out I don’t have an instant answer to the question. But wait a minute, I know what I want.
“I just want to go back to Zimbabwe.”
“I just want to go back to Zimbabwe,” he carefully repeats the words one by one while looking straight into my eyes. I think he has just made a mistake; he has just opened his eyes and mouth too wide that I can see the contents of his heart. I see betrayal, I see greediness, I see corruption, and I see blood and death. I’ve got nothing to say so I keep on looking into him careful not to give away my findings. But he had something to say, “Ok, ah okay,” he clears the throat and continues, “I’m calling my friend in Bogsburg and he will give me another buyer. Actually, he’s the one who linked me to the late.” I still have nothing to say so he takes out two one rand coins from his pocket and slotted them into the telephone machine while the other hand is holding the receiver. I can hear him muttering something in a native language that’s biblical tongues to me and I can feel my heart throbbing. He puts the receiver down, scratches his head and turns to me with stretched arms, “I told you he can help, he said we can go meet him in Bogsburg so he will take us to the buyer. By the way how many grams did you say you have?” he seems not confident with his question as much as I’m not comfortable with giving him an answer so he adds a bit of justification to it, I mean I have ten and I should know how much we have exactly so I can negotiate the rate knowing the total number of grams we have between us.”
“Five” my answer is quicker than he expects and that kind of startles him besides the figure that for an instant freezes most of his external body motion.
“Oh, ok” he smiles out of bitterness “so we have fifteen in total”.
“Precisely,” I back that up with a nod.
“Right,” he is still unsettled within, “lets go I mean ah, let’s go to Bogsburg and meet him,” he says with a raspy voice.
I thrust my right hand in my pocket and picked out two silver coins.
“Here,” I say to the old man, “take-, call the person and tell him to come and pick us from the new coach rank –tell him the J.R Choeu rank. If he is serious let him come with the buyer there. I can’t go there besides I’ve got no money left on me here to take me there”.
“If he is serious, what do you mean? Of course he is serious,” the old man shouts.
“Then let him bring the buyer,” I answer with my eyes fixed straight to his. As the old man take his not that sure strides back to the phone booth I feel a grip of lividness in my throat, the wind pipe is almost shut with hot phlegm of guile and I can feel it cutting the inner threshold. I try to gasp to clear off my head that is totally intoxicated with anger, and suddenly I can’t see properly so I fall back on the metal bench. From there I can hear the old man’s tongues but I don’t want to concentrate. The next thing I’m walking down Harrison Street to the coach rank and the old man is behind me. I can see dirty boys and men with red eyes, dry mouths, soiled hair, yellow teeth and black lips, clad in cheap fabric and canvas shoes starring and calling after me but I am not listening, I’m not afraid of them either. I feel I can tear them all. I’m even afraid of myself; I can see the fire in my own eyes I feel like I’ve turned into an invincible tall block of iron. I suppose they see it too that’s why they are not daring to step forward with their cheap knives.
J.R Choeu coach rank is situated just after the bridge next to the old parking building that they call taxi rank. They say on this land once stood one off the biggest post-offices in Johannesburg and its remnants can still be seen trying to resist the nemesis of time just next to the rail-line on which passenger and goods trains can be heard honking, churning and grinding at intervals shorter than an hour especially during the morning. The coach rank is a hive of activity for travellers from Zimbabwe. Most of the buses that drop and pick passengers from there also from Zimbabwe namely, Go-liner, Mars Mercy, First class, Ngwenya transport, Passengers express, Tenda buses, Mushandi coaches to mention but the big fry. Other coaches from outside Zimbabwe that do business there are Pangolin Luxliner, Phadziri brothers and J.R Choeu to mention but few.
My first port of call is First Class coach offices where I’m advised there is no coach leaving to Zimbabwe today. First class lost one of my bags on my previous trip from South Africa so they compensated me with eight hundred rands plus a return ticket to South Africa. And now I need them badly because I don’t have a penny in my pocket I had put so much faith in the clandestine deal that I thought I’d go back flying- and grey hound would be the only option if I was to travel on a bus. It’s very ironic that my means can not afford me wings, or the comfort of greyhound but the coach that disappointed me on my way coming. My trip to South Africa was a hustle; the bus broke down on the free-way just after Polokwane more than two hundred kilometres away from Johannesburg and all passengers ended up standing by the side road literally begging on coming coaches to stop for help. My complimentary ticket became invalid and I ended up paying the blue note to a “chicken bus,” that rattled all the way to Johannesburg. The experience has terrible and we sadly arrived at the prime-time for thieves and commercial sex-workers
“So when are you expecting a coach to arrive?” I ask very much afraid to receive an answer that would not guarantee my departure today.
“Maybe tomorrow,” the officer answers nonchalantly
As I drag my feet away from the offices I realise just can’t stop bleeding inside. I enter one coach labelled Ngwenga transport and here I’m throwing my trimmed weight on a very uncomfortable seat. The pain in my abdomen has awakened me to reality. I remember I’ve got a very talented mouth and I must put it to test. In less than five minutes I have negotiated with the bus conductor to pay when we I get to Zimbabwe. Though I’ve won my plea I recon I’m the first passenger therefore I must be in for a fix of time because the bus leaves only when it is at least half-full otherwise a loss will be incurred. The old man is sitting next to me and we haven’t resumed talking. I didn’t hear him negotiate so maybe he has the money to fund his trip.
Its funny how this girl called the day turns old when her admirers can still smell the scent of her youth. Her life-spun is pathetically short that the freshness of her youth is highly regrettable. The radiance of her hopeful features quickly wane and her wrinkles come in a rush. Before she ages to an outright hag one of the First Class coaches arrives. I’m starring at it from where I am sitting thinking what’s so fly about it to be called First Class, maybe the ability to disappoint clients I suppose.
Latter the inspector of the bus that I’ve turned into my sitting room decides to off-load few passengers it had attracted into a different coach so his could leave tomorrow hoping it will be a lucky-day for them. His crew that is half a dozen invites me out for supper and the old man follows. He is now a tick to me, I’m thinking he must have realised by now that his prime time is over “Is he also coming with us?” one of the young men is asking me. The old man quickly raises his head and looks straight into my eyes. I’m looking into his eyes too, for a moment I don’t have anything to say.
“Yes, yes he’s coming with us, he is my old man,” I smile to the group and they smile back, off we go to the food vendors within the premises. They buy three plates of sadza and I’m eating to the delight of my empty stomach. The old is eating heart-fully too without contributing a word to the stories that are being told.
One of the young men tells a tale of one Roy Machokoto, a Zimbabwe born young man who commands a gang of seven. His line of business is definitely not a trade but a dirty profession. He enjoys robbing people when they’re gathered at one place- especially in a bus. The young man telling the story gets carried away in the narration that he assumes to be Roy robbing people, “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls my name is Roy Machokoto and I ‘m a dangerous robber. To those who have never heard of me let me tell you that I’m the one who last year robbed the Tenda bus that was travelling to Beit-bridge. I’m not afraid of death and I’m not afraid of causing it so please behave all I want is your cell-phone, money and any other thing on you that you think can give me quick money. Thank you so much for listening, right now let’s get to business.” Everybody laughs to the lines except the old man who can not relent on the meal. My eyes and his meet and maintain the stare for a while, suddenly everybody is quite. One of the young men whispers loud, “Ah! People, the old man has a huge appetite.”
Soon we are back in the bus that has been turned into a bedroom by touts. I am trying to catch a sleep but most of my roommates do not feel the same. They are talking about the sisters of the night and how daring they are. They talk of diplomat beer parlour where strippers baptise young virgin men. They are taking turns to describe their frames and instruments of work. Once again the night is unbearable. Mosquitoes are singing their war-cry loud and they are prepared to die with their mouths dipped in our veins. I suppose they are happy that we don’t have blankets on us. They’re biting the legs, toes, fingers neck they are biting the heard, they are biting every part. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I’m in trouble. Mosquitoes like my blood. I’m scratching and the more I scratch the deeper the pain. My legs are itching. I’m acrophobic. I wish I could run away. I‘m trapped. I’m thinking could I be the only one feeling this trouble, then I hear a voice in the dark shouting, “Ah boys we dead, the mosquitoes are biting more than hornets.”
I’m surprised most of the people in here are awake, they laugh to confirm the mosquitoes are terrible.
“Let them finish you, you work everyday but you don’t want to by a blanket.”
Another voice interjects and a heavy laughter follows.
“Why should I buy a blanket when I know I sleep in a bus?”
“Who asked you to leave home?”
“Mugabe” he is quick to answer “one old man in Zimbabwe called Mugabe hates people who sleep in houses; you’re forgetting he demolished our homes few years ago. What did we call that Tsunami- it was not only in Indonesia, it was also in Zimbabwe.”
Silence follows then a heavy downfall of rain. The sound is deafening and communication is impossible. For a moment I assume to be asleep but I’m awake and the rain has stopped, even the mosquitoes have stopped. It’s time for the cold. Its cutting deeper into my bones and I’m trying to keep my-self warm, first I fold my body into a portable hip, then I put my hands in my armpits, later under my testicles but its not working, now I’ve decided to sit with my hands tugged between my legs. I put my hand in my pocket and I’m checking the time on my cell-phone. It’s just after midnight –I must catch sleep by any means. I’m now up and the day is not is yet, the night is still reigning but slowly paving way for light. I’m waiting to see the sun rise like a big yoke in the eastern horizon, but I can’t see it from this depression, besides the towering building of Jo’burg can not allow such luxuries. Maybe if this station was at the east of the central business district.
The first coach from Zimbabwe enters the station and suddenly there is activity. Bathing is a luxury here. Most of my room mates have jumped out to go help arriving passengers bring down their luggage while their eyes are coated with wax. Those who have decided to bath are doing so behind a mucky wall on the east. They are using small water buckets, laundry soaps and face towels. At least they’re bathing and I can’t. I just can’t bath in these conditions, maybe I should stay longer.
The old man calls me and tells me what we both know, “he didn’t come.”
“Yes he didn’t come, so?” is my answer.
“So what are you planning?”
“I told you I am going back home, what else do want to know from me. See the coach parked there, that first class coach -yah- that’s the bus that’ll take me home. Tomorrow evening I’ll be home talking about Jo’burg, about you, about the gold buyer that never was.” He is looking at me with talking eyes, but I can’t get what he’s saying
“Alright, I am not going to ask you to stay, just want you to know that I’m staying,” he says, “I’ll find a buyer then I’ll follow”
“I hear you old man, but tell me what will you be eating and where will you stay between now and the time you’ll find a buyer for your gold?”
“My brother-in-law is here in Jo’burg. I’ll be staying at his place, eating his food and using his toilet.”
“Funny. You are a funny old man indeed, its okay-I suppose you’ve done that before, I mean you sound confident so go for it. I’ll see you in Harare”
‘I’ll leave when you are leaving, as for now I’ll continue enjoying your act”
“Which act” really I don’t know which act he is referring to.
“See I never knew you’re this tough. You don’t look like you have ever stayed in the ghetto but I’m starting to believe otherwise,” the old man says with a smile on his face.
“What? do you think I have an option?. This is life not an act- I mean it’s not a play. This is it, its life, and life is always what it is when it is,” I’m trying to be philosophical and this is not the time so I prefer a different subject.
“I heard Gono is launching new brand of buses here, this afternoon.”
“Gono, which Gono, you mean our reserve bank governor?”
“Yes, his brother Larry stays here and he is the cover face for his brother. You see these expensive coaches with three stars painted at the back.”
“Yes Go-liner is the name”
“Right, if you check its stomach it’s written Go-liner tours, I heard the ones that are coming will be written Go-liner supreme, and they have five stars painted where the these have three”
“So the guy is rich ha?” the old man sounds naive and I don’t like it.
“Rich, yes he is – he steals from you and me to buy coaches that we don’t have money to board. He is the worst central banker I know. He has put the economy of our country to its knees. He has murdered and he is still murdering our country. I heard he wrote a book called, Zimbabwe’s Casino Economy, in which he is trying to defend himself. But listen, a few years from now Zimbabwe will claim her wealth back and people like him will have cases to answer. Unfortunately not even a person who appointed him will be able to cushion him from the attacks because he too will be in desperate need of refuge too.”
I’m - a budding yet prolific poet among my peers - a novelist and journalist who is now best known for my vivid portrayal of the contemporary ‘third world’ Zimbabwe in my debut novel, Naked.
My passionate, imaginative, seemingly simple yet intellectually complex art is reminiscent of the unadulterated African lifestyle of the Shona people in Zimbabwe. I use coyness and mock modesty to address anomalies within the complexity of the race – my race – of which I’m so proud ‘and that which I love I chastise.’
Born in Mt Darwin on 16 November 1979, I began my primary education in 1986 at Dandamera Primary School in Concession. I attended four more primary schools, before reaching high school, during which time I experienced more than I comprehended.
I attended forms 1 to 6 at Oriel Boys’ High School where my mind and experiences fell prey to an indisputably well read English Literature teacher who had an unquenchable desire for intellectual supremacy. I Nigel, his ‘guinea pig’, innocently went through the process of intellectual revolution without conceiving any suspicion of its irreversibility.
My parents held my penmanship in sufficiently high esteem to send me to the Christian College of Southern Africa (CCOSA) from which I emerged, in 2001, with a diploma in communication and journalism. During the two years I spent in college I developed the hobby of writing and reading poems to my classmates.
I later decided to gather all the poems together - and came up with a manuscript that I entitled; ‘yet you love them’ and other poems.’ I lost this, my one and only manuscript, to a prominent writer whom I had asked to peruse the document pending its despatch to a publishing house.
In frustration I gave up poetry and seasoned my mind to concentrating on my journalism profession and, in January 2002, joined a Bulawayo based newspaper, The Chronicle, where I worked as a junior court reporter. In 2003 I joined the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation, where I was employed as a scriptwriter and researcher.
While I was at ZBC I experienced deep pangs of poetic nostalgia but frustration would supersede the intransigent passion that had, some time ago, earned me nothing but repentance. However, art is not a job it is a calling - I eventually gave in to the passion but this time I would try prose.
Within a fortnight I completed a novel that I entitled ‘An apology for the life of Sean Quincy.’ I thought about my work and found it an incomplete history so I started writing another novel that I entitled ‘Trapped.’ Later I joined the two books and the work became ‘Naked.’
My first book, naked, was tailored for the reader to discover the common intent of meaning. This I deliberately fashioned without expressions of personal purpose and I’m at liberty with my conscience to dearly pardon oneself and apologize to others if such is therein occasioned. However a common secret I wish to divulge that one's life is bedrock upon which all expressions and impressions are derived. Single or several of them may be disapproved, disaccorded or even discarded by the reader but the fact remains that art is a journey in self discovery and discovery of the world. Today, the stories that I write are pieces of historical fiction that I suppose most part of people will delight to read rather for assortment of matter, and for profit of profile than precision of figures and meticulousness of dates and numbers. They are sincere compositions and substances of my responsibility to myself, and the reading society, above all they are mirror images of my unalloyed commitment to art.
My passionate, imaginative, seemingly simple yet intellectually complex art is reminiscent of the unadulterated African lifestyle of the Shona people in Zimbabwe. I use coyness and mock modesty to address anomalies within the complexity of the race – my race – of which I’m so proud ‘and that which I love I chastise.’
Born in Mt Darwin on 16 November 1979, I began my primary education in 1986 at Dandamera Primary School in Concession. I attended four more primary schools, before reaching high school, during which time I experienced more than I comprehended.
I attended forms 1 to 6 at Oriel Boys’ High School where my mind and experiences fell prey to an indisputably well read English Literature teacher who had an unquenchable desire for intellectual supremacy. I Nigel, his ‘guinea pig’, innocently went through the process of intellectual revolution without conceiving any suspicion of its irreversibility.
My parents held my penmanship in sufficiently high esteem to send me to the Christian College of Southern Africa (CCOSA) from which I emerged, in 2001, with a diploma in communication and journalism. During the two years I spent in college I developed the hobby of writing and reading poems to my classmates.
I later decided to gather all the poems together - and came up with a manuscript that I entitled; ‘yet you love them’ and other poems.’ I lost this, my one and only manuscript, to a prominent writer whom I had asked to peruse the document pending its despatch to a publishing house.
In frustration I gave up poetry and seasoned my mind to concentrating on my journalism profession and, in January 2002, joined a Bulawayo based newspaper, The Chronicle, where I worked as a junior court reporter. In 2003 I joined the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation, where I was employed as a scriptwriter and researcher.
While I was at ZBC I experienced deep pangs of poetic nostalgia but frustration would supersede the intransigent passion that had, some time ago, earned me nothing but repentance. However, art is not a job it is a calling - I eventually gave in to the passion but this time I would try prose.
Within a fortnight I completed a novel that I entitled ‘An apology for the life of Sean Quincy.’ I thought about my work and found it an incomplete history so I started writing another novel that I entitled ‘Trapped.’ Later I joined the two books and the work became ‘Naked.’
My first book, naked, was tailored for the reader to discover the common intent of meaning. This I deliberately fashioned without expressions of personal purpose and I’m at liberty with my conscience to dearly pardon oneself and apologize to others if such is therein occasioned. However a common secret I wish to divulge that one's life is bedrock upon which all expressions and impressions are derived. Single or several of them may be disapproved, disaccorded or even discarded by the reader but the fact remains that art is a journey in self discovery and discovery of the world. Today, the stories that I write are pieces of historical fiction that I suppose most part of people will delight to read rather for assortment of matter, and for profit of profile than precision of figures and meticulousness of dates and numbers. They are sincere compositions and substances of my responsibility to myself, and the reading society, above all they are mirror images of my unalloyed commitment to art.
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