Natasha ran toward the baboon still, mercy wasted in the air. The baboon cried as she lifted the panga in the air, a long shrill sound of a young baby, one last begging for mercy. Natasha was adamant. The panga came down fast and sure on the baboon's neck. The baboon gave another sound: this time a slow growl of a defeated bull.
The blood gushed out. It surprised her, blinding her vision with red smoke. It caught her unaware: the colour and smell of blood arousing the lust long forgotten in her. As she lifted the panga again, her breast tightened, painfully blooming to hard knots.
She brought it down in a trance, her loins tightening between her legs. The baboon jerked and spurted. It laughed and cried. She harked at it, until the life was finally driven out of it.
Chapter 18
It amazed her how they converted the killing into a party. Natasha carried the baboon and hung it from a tree. She skinned it all by herself as VaPfocho watched and ranted besides her. She cut it into small pieces that she spread around the fire.
VaPfocho sat beside the fire, spitting and pulling strands of meat into her mouth. By the evening, they were sitting together beside the fire, drinking and eating the meat.
Beer and the smoke stung their eyes.
VaPfocho looked at the child sitting next to her. No love is greater than that between mother and child. She had tried all her life, not to give her any love. And in most instances, she had been successful. She was set in her ways many times, but she wasn't presented with a lot of choices. Over the years, she had grown in love: you get to be stronger through the lean days. It was confirmed. And if there was anything she had waited for on earth, she knew she had achieved it. As she looked at her daughter and the boundless love she had for her, she knew she had reached her peak. And when you reach this stage, you know you're dying. You can't go any further.
'Natasha, I'm sorry, my child. I kept you here. You were supposed to be somewhere else.'
'Where’s that coming from, Mother?' She avoided her eyes. And that was precisely the problem with her child: at times she thought she was too soft for the world.
'You know precisely what I mean: I shall always be grateful.'
'I love you, Mother.'
'I know you do, my child. I hope things will be different tomorrow.'
'I'm not sure that's what I want. I think I'd like to freeze time here. I learnt a lot from this place. I think I'd have been spoiled only too badly if I had stayed in Jo'burg.'
'You'd have to leave this place and find yourself a job and a husband.'
Natasha laughed.
'And why are you laughing?'
'It's difficult finding a job. Worse finding a husband.'
'It won't be. Go to Bulawayo.'
'Bulawayo, you say.'
'Bulawayo, not Harare or Jo'burg. Go to Bulawayo you’ll find a job.'
They sat together there talking about all the issues that were hot in their lives. Natasha was tired and after midnight she drifted easily to sleep. VaPfocho still sat beside the fire, singing to herself.
Tomorrow will be a fine day for us
The sun shall shine again Tuzuka
After the blood
And all the unclean blood is gone
Lord, help us again
As we walk this road
Worn out by pain
Into the journey unknown
VaPfocho died in her sleep that night. Natasha woke up at dawn to see her, happy as ever and sitting by the fire. She didn't cry herself. There was no need. She knew her mother had to die somehow. She knew whatever she had wished to accomplish, she had waited for it all. She had endured all the pain: with the patience, counter attacks and in her eyes, she knew her mother was victorious. She covered her easily, and went out quietly to tell the rest of the village that VaPfocho was no more.
Chapter 19
Her mother was buried on the second day. She had never received so much love like she received on her grave. Wadzanai was there, and so was Yolanda. They leaped and crawled on the ground for their dear mother. They stole the show, even managing to convert the loss solemnly to be theirs.
‘Poor, Wadzanai,’ people said.
‘She has always been her mother’s favourite.’
And then an after thing, ‘Natasha – the first born who was in Joni,’ said a frowning woman looking suspiciously at Natasha.
‘The ashes shall go to the ashes,’ the priest of the United Church of Christ intoned. ‘The dust shall go to the dust.’ He sprinkled dust on the body. VaPfocho was a tiny piece of material, so poor, in reeds. Few people could afford coffins here; even then there were always rows on who’d pay. Your sons might have to work in South Africa or Harare to achieve that. VaPfocho was an underachiever.
Death is also a time for reflection.
‘Incurable!’ spoken with necks tilted. And then came the spitting!
Natasha stumbled into that too. She had ventured into an unwelcome place. Behind the huts, in the bushes the women were there helping themselves. She had to hide until they were through and gone. She couldn’t come face to face with them.
People dispersed in the afternoon after lunch.
Natasha found time to talk to Wadzanai. Wadzanai had been crying the loudest. Her eyes were swollen. She was also recovering quickly, too. Natasha wondered how people managed that, actually.
‘What’re you going to do now, Natasha?’
Wadzanai was looking at her, her chin upturned. The child hung limply in her arms groping for more milk.
‘Do what?’
‘About everything, since now Mother is...’ She fumbled for words. She couldn’t think of a word to replace ‘dead’.
‘I will leave,’ she told the truth.
‘Leave?’
‘I can’t stay here the whole of my life. You know that. I’ve got to find a job.’ She liked the effect these words were having on her sister. Everybody was assuming that Natasha was here to stay.
But Wadzanai had her own plans as well.
‘It’s because…’ she ran out of words again. ‘I want to come back home.’
It was Natasha’s turn to exclaim. ‘Why?’
‘I can’t stay with my husband anymore.’
‘But surely, you can’t leave when you’ve got three children already.’
The child was getting bored with the never-ending conversation. She tugged at her mother’s nose to attract her attention. Wadzanai held the little hand in her palm. She thrust out her breast at her. The child sucked lustily at it.
‘If you can’t live with him, I guess you will have to come back home,’ she finally said. ‘There is no reason you should live with him unless you just want to do so to keep up appearances.’
‘No, that’s not the point. I actually wanted a place of my own.’
‘What’s the problem with your husband really?’
‘He’s beating me up. He’s claiming I’ve got an affair. I’ve got none. No, that’s not the problem either; some woman wants to take my place.’ Having known Wadzanai for all this time, the husband was probably correct in alleging she had an affair.
‘So you’re giving in?’
‘Can I move into your house when you leave? The boys don’t seem to want me back home. My husband and they are at loggerheads of late.’
‘When I leave, of course you can come in. I don’t know when I will leave though. I need money. There are some debts that mother and I kept piling. I also need money for the fare.’
‘How much do you think you need?’
‘A lot of it… two hundred dollars at least.’
‘I can give you that.’ She appeared impatient. That wasn’t surprising. There was a good hut and the garden that Natasha had put up. If she decides to make a good head and sell later, her turnover would be three times more.
‘Then it’s fine with me.’
‘I will bring the money today, in the evening.’
It was dusk now. Natasha surprised herself by rushing home and taking her few belonging
s down to the river for washing. In two hours, she was through and hanging her yellow floral dress and a pair of cotton shoes on the line. She was looking forward to see her sister again. Wadzanai came in the evening with her luggage: a single bag, and three children.
They slept in the same hut that day. In the morning, Natasha woke early to catch the bus. She waited for three hours. At three o’clock in the morning, she made her journey to Bulawayo.
Chapter 20
She would spend her life going round in circles. That wasn’t impossible. The bus pulled up tiredly at the City Hall in Bulawayo. It was still the same conductor and the same driver who had driven her some five years gone. She found that comforting and appreciated the remote companionship.
The last time she had been here she was a wild dreamy girl. Now, she was a desperate, searching woman. She was less ambitious now. She had grown up and had tempered some of her ambition with some pragmatism.
She strapped her bag on her shoulder. She took exactly the same route she had taken before. It was almost dark. She had to find a place to sleep immediately. She bought a newspaper, the Truth, as she waited for the red robot to change.
She opened the classified adverts. Vacancies? There was nothing on accounting. But there was something on women guards. Minimum qualification was advanced level. No chancers. Vacancies weren’t easy to find in Bulawayo, either.
‘You know where to find cheap accommodation here?’
The boy who was selling newspapers looked quizzically at her. He had been asked many questions that had nothing to do with newspapers recently. And he didn’t like it.
‘You can try the Railways,’ he said impatiently.
The Railways, she had been there before. She took her way uptown. She walked along Tongogara St. When she came to the 13th Ave, she saw RIM Martial Arts centre.
‘RIM Martial Arts?’ she said aloud to herself. She wondered where the hell she had heard that name before. It had to do with that guy Sipeyiye. She also recalled Bulawayo was Sipeyiye’s first home. She wondered idly if he was in there entertaining a woman.
She passed on and approached the 15th Ave. The boarding house she was shown was broken down and crowded. That didn’t bother her. She had been in worse situations before. A place to sleep that was cheap, that would suffice. The last time she had had comfort was two years ago, and she was going to pretend she minded a small bed and a pillow.
She shared the room with five others. The good thing was they each had a bed. The others disappeared just before midnight. They came back in the dawn, reeking of alcohol and men. Natasha understood them very well: jobs were scarce in Bulawayo.
Natasha woke up early. She was the first to use the clotted water out of the pipe. She went out. She came back with a newspaper. It was very much like it was yesterday, only that on Saturdays they seemed to put in less adverts.
At dawn, she went into town.
She spent the whole day moving about Bulawayo. At one time she went to the park. She saw an elderly man who was reading a newspaper. It wasn’t the Truth that she was reading. She borrowed the Herald that had its base in Harare. They weren’t in need of accountants, either there.
She continued loitering the streets. She returned to the Railways in the afternoon. She kept her bag on her. She wasn’t sure what the girls in the hostels might do to it whilst she was away.
She came again to the 13th Ave. This time she actually peered in the lobby when she passed by RIM. There was no one except a coloured girl on the desk. People who are alone are easier to talk to… She turned and passed the lobby again. Of course, she was alone. She entered.
‘Can I help you?’
Natasha realized she wasn’t supposed to be here. The place was too posy. The girl wrinkled her face. Natasha was just coming from Tuzuka.
Natasha responded in an extremely nasal voice. ‘Sure, can I find Sipeyiye here?’
‘Sipeyiye?’
‘That’s what I said.’
She didn’t offer her a seat. She dialled on a red phone.
Natasha’s heart raced.
‘Ok, never mind,’ she resigned.
The girl watched her suspiciously as she left.
When Sipeyiye came along, dripping sweat, the coloured girl actually left her desk to point at a curious girl in a yellow cheap dress that was looking for him. Natasha had now crossed the street and was making her progress uptown.
She didn’t notice the man she had met two years ago at the Sheraton stalking at her.
Chapter 21
She moved with the bag strapped on her shoulders. Sipeyiye crossed the road impatiently against a solid row of cars. He followed his prey. He walked a few metres behind her. He wasn’t going to risk losing her by staying on the other side of the road.
She moved with a swift gait in her tight cotton shoes. She had on a thin yellow dress, easily swept into the air. She held it unconsciously against the light breeze. From this position, Sipeyiye could see the thick imprint of her knickers against her cocky buttocks.
Natasha…
He was confused. The Natasha he knew, sleek as a snake and lifting legs gracefully on thick piles of carpet, checking into another lavish hotel. The Natasha he had last seen did not totter about on foot around town, but on four wheels. Flashy wheels, for all that he knew. She didn’t put on cotton: silk would do better.
She stopped. Sipeyiye also stopped. She looked behind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bending to strap herself off her bag. The dress rode up her legs. Nice legs, Sipeyiye noted.
She waited, looking uncertainly in all directions. Sipeyiye also looked behind him. He looked at his watch. He pretended he was a care-not guy. Natasha didn’t recognize him. He had put her lover behind the bars. He was probably the cause of all this – cheap gear and all. He wouldn’t come in the open and declare himself until he was sure what was going on.
He felt a twang of happiness at the thought that she had been looking for him. But what’s that which had made her change her mind and leave before he saw her? Nothing less than that he was a guy and she was a woman.
His heart leapt at this prospect.
She picked up her bag. She crossed the road. Sipeyiye crossed the road. It seemed he was going to cross a lot of them too. No big deal. He would cross mountains, deserts, oceans…He might even try it through the open space to the moon if the need arises.
They were now close to 15th. She stopped, looking up a dilapidated flat uncertainly. She stepped in.
Sipeyiye stopped in front of the building. About it were signposts, all bearing strange names. People here provided a variety of services from knitting, typing, phone shops, hairdressing…
Sipeyiye entered the flat, every second expecting to bump into her. He came to a dull passage. He scampered up some creaky stairs. He saw her in a tiny room, sitting around the door but in his line of vision as he walked along the corridor. The sign above the door read ‘Typing Services’.
He waited outside. She came out later with sheets of paper, passing him in the dark without a second glance. Sipeyiye followed her out and back to the street. Now, they circled the building and came to Railway Courts. This time she entered the flats without a second thought.
Sipeyiye pursued her. He was stopped at the door.
‘What do you want here?’ a man shouted at him. ‘These are women’s hostels.’
‘Women’s hostels?’ Sipeyiye looked uncertain. ‘But you’re a man.’
‘Get out of here!’ the man screamed.
Sipeyiye walked out in a hurry. His quarry was probably renting here. He would take a break. They would be together again first thing in the morning.
Meanwhile, he returned to the Typing Services. He found the Typist on her way out. She would do him the service still, the girl told him. She had an old computer that filled most of the space. On pushing a couple of buttons, it rebooted. Very slowly.
‘Good,’ Sipeyiye said. ‘There is a girl who
was here just now. Do you happen to remember what she wanted?’
‘About fifteen minutes ago?’
‘That’s it.’
‘She was preparing a CV’
‘Have you saved it?’
‘I always save everything I work on.’
‘You will have me a copy?’
‘It’s the same charge,’ She crinkled her face into a bargaining scowl. ‘You see, it’s the printing that’s expensive. It doesn’t cost me a thing to type.’
‘You will get the money you want, all right.’
The dot-matrix printer hearing this went do-do-dat beside the monitor.
‘Five dollars,’ she said, handing him the papers. He squared her. He was immediately engrossed in the CV. Outside, in the setting sun, he looked at it more carefully.
Surname: Chuma
Name: Natasha
Date of Birth: 14 April 1973
Place of birth: Chipinge
Address: 14 Railways, Bulawayo
He went further. Of interest was experience. She had worked as an Accountant at the a Bank in South Africa. The time of service and the year weren’t there. Even the time she left. But one thing was for sure: she was no longer at the bank.
He checked his time. 5:37. About the time the editor was supposed to be in the office, doing the last touches before the paper could be printed at eight. He rushed back to the car and left for the Truth.
The deputy editor was there. Sipeyiye asked him to take his duties, giving no particular reason why he was busy today. The deputy editor didn’t question him.
Now, Sipeyiye sat behind his desk and retrieved the minister’s information from his computer. Words rushed at his monitor. He read them as he had never done before, so engrossed. This was the file he had worked on two years ago.
Was a blessed guy, this one, he mused to himself looking at the former minister in an immaculate suit walking beside the president at State House. But then, Dr. Dumka was now behind bars. Might be there for three years for the misuse of funds.
Sipeyiye was jealous of the guy. In fact, in his own definition, no man was allowed to do better than him. He was mad at men who drove long, shiny and expensive black cars. He didn’t like men who could afford international trips. He didn’t tolerate men who took all the beautiful women either.
This has been the driving force all his life. Jealousy… And in it, the opportunity for other men to be jealous. He had spearheaded the attack on government officials, until the board was convinced he was the man to lead the paper in its new mission to be the best-selling paper in Zimbabwe.