Brief Synopsis
Dumaza visits Mulrooney farm under unclear circumstances, and makes discoveries that immediately put him in great danger. He cannot escape the danger that he faces as his car has locked its gear. Meanwhile, Sandy is battling a bothersome past while trapped at Mulrooney. Will the two make it out of the paranoid place alive?
“Homo sum, et nihil humani alienum puto.”
“I am human, and I consider nothing human to be alien.” - Terence
The intruder
A traveler who happens to be visiting Mulrooney for the first time faces a difficult task of having to accept that both the place and its name have anything in common, for there had once existed in the not so distant history of that place a rather careful tendency to give such names as Brambleberry, Marlborough, Bath, any odd sounding English name to those places that were generally well looked after, while those names in the vernacular were usually maintained for the average and poorly backgrounds, according to that general plane. The traveler also faces a discouraging task of ascending a steep rise of land, which gradually loses gradient as it eases itself into a uniform slope before it materializes, finally, into a flat plateau that gives a semblance of rest to this traveler’s now weary knees, should he be approaching the place on foot. Any high hopes that the traveler has concerning the place are dashed down as the chance visitor discerns the prevailing squalor of what was once a fairy- tale of a place. The groaning iron roofs announced high levels of disturbance and abandon, and the chance visitor may vow at once that the little compound has long been deserted, or the population wiped out by a sudden plague, giving the inhabitants barely enough time to clear up or carry away such obstacles as old tires that littered the one and only dusty street of the little, town- like place. Mulrooney was just another average place where women still passed salt to and fro across their hedges, and the men still smoked and spat together in those small, compact groups of theirs, not in answer to a craving, but for the simple need to socialize and keep together, as if afraid that something terrible might happen to their compatriots while they looked away. Sharing on a variety of subjects, too. On the other hand, being this isolated place that she was, Mulrooney was also prone to exhibiting some extraordinary traits that could only be ascribed to her removal from our concept of an average, everyday human society. Perched on the shoulder of an ancient plateau in the direction where the sun sets, the little compound of Mulrooney resembled the last hours of a night of debauchery, the last kicks of a dying civilization. The rude squalor that characterized the small place very easily reminded one of a withering flower- these being some of the frames of reference by which the good reader/ listener shall acquaint himself with the place Mulrooney * * *
A droning sound was heard in the direction of the river, and a pair of lights gradually revealed a small car that coughed and choked up the steep and slightly curving road. It skipped a gear and spurted like a choked child, performed a few more theatrics before shivering itself to a seemingly irrefutable halt.
“Aw! Come on Babes, don’t you play up with me now!” the only man inside the car cursed, groping a familiar hand beneath the steering wheel to try and restart the engine. It gave a feeble whine before fizzling out again. For a few seconds, everything was silent and still, then after a few moments the man got out and walked around the car as if to see whether it was still in one piece. It looked fine. He clasped and unclasped his hands and cracked at his knuckles that were now numb, thanks to the horrible bumpy road upon which he had been driving during the last part of that day. When he got to the car’s bonnet, he yanked it open and bent inside, touched a small pipe or cable in the labyrinth of that old engine before slamming it shut once again.
To a woman called Sandy, crouching in camouflage against the setting darkness, it seemed that the default was of the expected type, basing her judgment on the brevity of the time utilized in addressing the fault, otherwise the man was an exceptionally good mechanic, which was not the case with our man here. A twig snapped nearby, and the man felt a fictitious warm breath caressing the small of his neck. He spun around and almost swore that a stump of wood a few meters into the gathering night was a crouching human being. Sandy was relieved when the man did not come to investigate the snapping twig.
A colony of crows who had their home in a gigantic marula tree nearby got annoyed with the proceedings and raised into the dark sky cawing and flapping their wings wildly, their white chests mingling with the little stars that were taking their positions in the sky like toy soldiers. Crows made him creepy. He lurched into the small car and slammed its door shut. He cranked the engine and, after a few whines and a cloud of smoke that rose against the reflection of the car’s tail lights, he had the engine running again. We are off! He heard himself say as he shifted through the gears in a last bid to get somewhere- which happened to be the crown of the plateau ahead. He did not quite like the way the car’s gear- lever shuddered at number three, but ignored it since that was Babes’ proper gear for tackling such slopes. He narrowed his eyes on the approaching bend and felt grateful for the ease on the gradient of the slope. Although the evening was fine, he felt his raw palms sweating to the jerks of the steering wheel. A sign- post revealed the name of his destination:
SIMBA FARM
WE HERE!
Behind him, the crows drew a few ineffective patterns in the sky before coming back in ones and twos to resume their positions of sleep. Back on the surface the man’s prayers, or his oaths, rather, were being answered and slowly, very slowly, both car and man made their ascent and nosed into a merciful slope, finally on the flat top of the plateau and at the same height with the compound of Mulrooney or Simba. Even in that darkness, the place promised this funny and undignified look about it that could only belong to a farm- a farm as opposed to other real places that have the magic of being able to look old and beautiful at the same time. It was common knowledge that Simba, or Mulrooney Farm as we shall know it, was a young place.
She could have been a temporary affair, as everything else about her seemed to suggest: from the rude structures which were randomly lined up on both sides of the dusty road, all the way down to a stray cat and a couple of old tires, ephemeral. Time was definitely not an issue in such a place, and it could as well be tomorrow or the following year, and that’s what our traveler needed, a place away from time.
He sighed deeply, for the remaining course was of a merciful gradient, if at all. Since the tiny dusty road led nowhere else he allowed his car to coast down into an open space, all the way until he pulled up in front of a wreck of a place that had some attributes of brick and light about it. He cut the engine, and maneuvered to disengage the gear into the neutral point.
The gear was stuck.
Tuesday 16 August 2011
Saturday 5 March 2011
THE LOST EARRING
MY FATHER is scared of water. This is a scientific truth. He says bathing washes away his sweetness. When he cannot help it, my father always makes sure to perform a couple of theatrics as if trying to approach the bath from an obtuse/reflex angle x where x is negative. On such mornings Nkumbudzi wakes up, gives a police rap to my door and announces loudly that he will take some exercise before diving into the sweet cold water. In the midst of our partially furnished lounge, there hangs a box of matches in the manner of a punch bag, attached to a chance appendage on the ceiling by a white shoe- lace. My father and I take turns to jab, hook, uppercut and punch at this unfortunate box. You should try it too. It does not belong to the do not attempt at home category. For exactly seven minutes, Nkumbudzi will engage himself boxing the box of matches, bouncing up and down. He says it’s good for blood circulation. I think he is right. I try it now and then, but fitness is not my major preoccupation. Definitely not now; not when I have this ring that glitters at me like the evil eye.
So I listen to Nkumbudzi bounding on his aerobics, boxing the match. Hit it Nkumbudzi. I try to picture myself after the sale, in possession of good money. A black Range Rover in my garage, an eye- rolling beautiful girl dangling from the crook of my elbow like a shopping basket. But what will I do for my father? This threatens to be a sticky issue. I will let my father run his shop, for I shall not be associated with linen anymore. I shall try to do something different. Maybe get into the car- selling business. I am told there is big money there. But I should also be able to buy Nkumbudzi a stronger truck. Maybe a Land Cruiser. The one we use is reporting. Bhotsotso is our jalopy. We whip her like a donkey every day. Where should I live? Should I continue living in Harare, or go back and try something else in Bulawayo- once I have the money. Going to Bulawayo might make sense, but does not the saying go that all roads lead to Rome. Harare is Zimbabwe’s Rome. All resources a stockpiled in this city. If you really need your passport, Harare; if you need a birth certificate, Harare; if you need an education, Harare. Once the folk in Binga and Tsholotsho, or, to name my very own, Plumtree, vote for MPs, the wretches find their way to Harare, and will only come back to their electorate when it’s time to solicit for votes in the next election. Harare stands out above all other cities as the Virgilian cypress soars above the drooping undergrowth.
Seven minutes elapse, and my father huffs and puffs his way to the bathroom where he further emboldens himself with a Mahlathini voiced song, a guttural deep below that requires you to suspend breathing until the next caesura. The South African music of the 60s. Followed by some Peter Tosh. The two songs, though so separate, talk about broken relationship. They sort of translate one another.
Dali Hamb’zobuya, Dali Hamb’zobuya
Sono sami sinye, sono sami sinye
Ngakushiya lengane, Ngakushiya langane,
Go Darling, Go Darling,
Here comes the storm, there goes the sun
And Its all right, still alright
Bathing. I always feel sad for my father, when he sings like this, but there isn’t much I can do about it, for all my nineteen years. After which Nkumbudzi will emerge out of the bath, pronouncing bathing as the most refreshing discovery by mankind, saying the man who discovered the art should either be knighted or canonized. Sir Bath, Saint Bath.
“You should take a bath too, Nkumbudzi. You must.”
I got up, brushed my teeth, bathed and joined Nkumbudzi at table. There was scrambled egg and two thick slices of bread in each plate. The slabs of bread in one of the plates were plain- that was my plate. I have been having all my meals from that plate for as long as I can remember. The precursor to the present plate was broken by its owner in a pathological fit of temper that attacks the young when they see food. I remember the amount of belt lashes I received from daddy- oh that day. I have been very careful when handling my plate since that day. The result is a white china plate whose lips are decorated with thin flowers like some of the linen we sell at our shop. The plate’s bottom has changed from white into a cobalt green because of sitting various types and temperatures of food. In daddy’s plate the same number of bread slices sat besides scrambled eggs as if daring the eggs to a contest. Dad’s bread was smeared thick with peanut butter, on top of which he had generously spread a thick and winding trickle of honey. No wonder why his head is balding at this rate. Come five years, and daddy boy will have no hair to show off to his girl friend.
“I see we are dressed to kill today, Nkumbudzi,” he said, pushing his chair back just this little bit. Dad was not going to stand up this time. The ritual of standing up was always punctuated by a loud grating sound to the floor. A minor scrape was just an indication of an elated mood and a ferocious appetite. I wondered what Nkumbudzi was driving at by saying I was well dressed. Just a plain blue messenger’s shirt and navy blue trousers to match. You could easily mistake me for a security guard who has misplaced his hat and baton stick. The diamond earring was nestling safely in my hip pocket. It would take all the sensors in the world to guess that I was worth a million dollars. Should I be telling dad about it? I wondered.
“Not really,” I said, pulling a chair.
“You don’t have to chase Indira right away, Nkumbudzi,” he said. “A man needs to take his time when it comes to women.” I wanted to tell dad that he was not an authority on women and marriage, using his separation from mother as a case study. Plus, I did not quite fancy Indira. She was this girl whose Indian blood had been tainted by some cunning negro during the colonial era. That was not the problem, I see beyond colour and creed. The problem was that Indira was ugly. She was raised behind the counter and severely lacked exercise. We called her hippo at Belvedere Junior where she was a year ahead of me. I have just mentioned another setback. Indira was older than me.
I regarded the meal with a disinterested eye. I was not going to eat that meal. Who can eat when they have a million in their pocket? My father grumped and opened his mouth rather too wide. He tossed a fraction of bread into his mouth that would have choked the biggest dog in the neighbourhood. What with the peanut butter and all? For a moment, I thought dad had lost the plot of his joke, especially when his eyes bulged and protruded as if to jump out of their sockets.
“Shall I offer you some water?” I offered with a smile. He who swallows marula seeds needs must have a wide arse. It’s old Nkumbudzi who once told me that adage.
One day my father was lecturing me on the importance of table manners. “A certain man went to a funeral and worked like an antbear digging the grave. When it was time to eat, the man was given a huge and meaty bone as a reward for his painstaking work. The man regarded his neighbours’ miserly pieces and decided he was not going to share his bone with anyone. So he threw the meaty bone into his mouth and choked. He would have died had not a prudent do- gooder given him a nice thump between the shoulder blades. The greedy man disgorged the bone and, when it landed on the ground, a sly dog picked it and fled away to host a party with his friends. You must not chew more than you can swallow, Nkumbudzi.” My dad had said and aimed a beautiful blow between my shoulder blades. I disgorged like the man in the tale. There was no dog to pick the mango seed that I had accidentally swallowed. We also have a mango tree at home.
“No,” my father said, straining his neck like a chicken trying to swallow an outsized maize seed. His eyes narrowed as they slowly went back to their place, and I could see the food straining down his oesophagus in one huge, slow chunk. He craned his neck to force the lump of bread down and, when the size of his neck had shrunk considerably, said, “No, Nkumbudzi. No water this time.” He lifted his cup and sipped at the black tea with a peremptory slurp. I smiled at his narrow escape. I replayed a picture of myself landing a neat blow between dad’s shoulder- blades- and the piece of bread squirming like a new birth on the floor. However I shuddered at the thought of pushing a shoe up his butt to make him clean up his mess as he had done me the day he had helped me disgorge the mango seed. Convention forbids us to think wicked thoughts about our parents. Is there anyone does not know the verse “Honour your father and mother so that your days will be many in this world”?
“Eh, Nkumbudzi,” I said, straightening my collar with one hand and poking a fork at my breakfast with the other, clearly not interested in food.
“Yes,” said dad.
“I need to go and see about the linen order you placed yesterday-I mean Mrs. Gupta is expecting us, isn’t she?”
“I thought it was me going to see The Hag.” Dad said while rummaging his mouth with his tongue so as to dispatch with any traces of peanut butter and honey. “Leave her to me. She is a sly one.” I kicked myself on the shin because that meant dad was not going to lend me Bhotsotso. Bhotsotso is the name of our car. Whose car it is usually depends on dad’s moods. If he is feeling good it is our car, and if not it is his- a product of his own sweat and tribulation. That meant I would have to take a kombi and get to town in a crumpled mess. Don’t worry dad, I reminisced. I will be buying me my own car very soon. I was brow- beaten. I imitated Nkumbudzi’s standing up procedure as a way of getting back at him. Face down, chair back, and up like an arrow that has been shot into the sky.
“You have not touched your food since yesterday,” Nkumbudzi observed as soon as I was up.
I nodded and mumbled something about lack of appetite.
“You better get it back soon. I don’t want people calling me to say you swooned for lack of nutrition.”
“They shan’t,” said I.
“Eh, Nkumbudzi?”
“Yes dad.”
“Life is too short to be spent hungry, yes?”
“Yes Nkumbudzi.”
“Look, I am a poor father, but do you know how many people are hungry right now? Hungry not because they have no appetite, but hungry because there is nothing to eat. They go hungry because people like me buy food for people like you who will not eat, Mfan’ami.”
Seeing my dad change colour, I folded myself into a good boy and regarded the food with a contrived interest. Maybe I should eat my breakfast after all.
“Sorry dad.”
“Eat your breakfast, Nkumbudzi. I saw it on TV that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Look at me. Why do you think I almost choked right now? Eh, Nkumbudzi? I almost choked because I did not feel like any food. You just have to force it down.”
My brain started to function normally. There are a lot of potholes on the roads of Harare. Each time a kombi hits a bump, the arrangement of affairs changes in the stomach, and you are as hungry as a stray dog by the time you get to the city. Once you are hungry, then comes the necessity to buy food. The price begins at one dollar- unless you want to buy dollar for two biscuits. This is bad for business in terms of cost- benefit analysis. The food that me and dad prepare at home is more fulfilling than the greasy left- overs that most restaurants sell. Most of them are closed at 9am, anyway. I was chewing the last morsel of bread by the time I was done with my slogans. After that, I picked the fork and shoveled the scrambled egg without even caring what it smelt like. The tea was getting cold, so it was not a big deal for me to swallow it in three or four gulps. After which I banged the table and proclaimed, “Whoever wants to fight may come now.”
My father smiled and waved me away, promising to wash my plate as well as his. After five minutes I was sitting in a kombi, driving recklessly into the city.
So I listen to Nkumbudzi bounding on his aerobics, boxing the match. Hit it Nkumbudzi. I try to picture myself after the sale, in possession of good money. A black Range Rover in my garage, an eye- rolling beautiful girl dangling from the crook of my elbow like a shopping basket. But what will I do for my father? This threatens to be a sticky issue. I will let my father run his shop, for I shall not be associated with linen anymore. I shall try to do something different. Maybe get into the car- selling business. I am told there is big money there. But I should also be able to buy Nkumbudzi a stronger truck. Maybe a Land Cruiser. The one we use is reporting. Bhotsotso is our jalopy. We whip her like a donkey every day. Where should I live? Should I continue living in Harare, or go back and try something else in Bulawayo- once I have the money. Going to Bulawayo might make sense, but does not the saying go that all roads lead to Rome. Harare is Zimbabwe’s Rome. All resources a stockpiled in this city. If you really need your passport, Harare; if you need a birth certificate, Harare; if you need an education, Harare. Once the folk in Binga and Tsholotsho, or, to name my very own, Plumtree, vote for MPs, the wretches find their way to Harare, and will only come back to their electorate when it’s time to solicit for votes in the next election. Harare stands out above all other cities as the Virgilian cypress soars above the drooping undergrowth.
Seven minutes elapse, and my father huffs and puffs his way to the bathroom where he further emboldens himself with a Mahlathini voiced song, a guttural deep below that requires you to suspend breathing until the next caesura. The South African music of the 60s. Followed by some Peter Tosh. The two songs, though so separate, talk about broken relationship. They sort of translate one another.
Dali Hamb’zobuya, Dali Hamb’zobuya
Sono sami sinye, sono sami sinye
Ngakushiya lengane, Ngakushiya langane,
Go Darling, Go Darling,
Here comes the storm, there goes the sun
And Its all right, still alright
Bathing. I always feel sad for my father, when he sings like this, but there isn’t much I can do about it, for all my nineteen years. After which Nkumbudzi will emerge out of the bath, pronouncing bathing as the most refreshing discovery by mankind, saying the man who discovered the art should either be knighted or canonized. Sir Bath, Saint Bath.
“You should take a bath too, Nkumbudzi. You must.”
I got up, brushed my teeth, bathed and joined Nkumbudzi at table. There was scrambled egg and two thick slices of bread in each plate. The slabs of bread in one of the plates were plain- that was my plate. I have been having all my meals from that plate for as long as I can remember. The precursor to the present plate was broken by its owner in a pathological fit of temper that attacks the young when they see food. I remember the amount of belt lashes I received from daddy- oh that day. I have been very careful when handling my plate since that day. The result is a white china plate whose lips are decorated with thin flowers like some of the linen we sell at our shop. The plate’s bottom has changed from white into a cobalt green because of sitting various types and temperatures of food. In daddy’s plate the same number of bread slices sat besides scrambled eggs as if daring the eggs to a contest. Dad’s bread was smeared thick with peanut butter, on top of which he had generously spread a thick and winding trickle of honey. No wonder why his head is balding at this rate. Come five years, and daddy boy will have no hair to show off to his girl friend.
“I see we are dressed to kill today, Nkumbudzi,” he said, pushing his chair back just this little bit. Dad was not going to stand up this time. The ritual of standing up was always punctuated by a loud grating sound to the floor. A minor scrape was just an indication of an elated mood and a ferocious appetite. I wondered what Nkumbudzi was driving at by saying I was well dressed. Just a plain blue messenger’s shirt and navy blue trousers to match. You could easily mistake me for a security guard who has misplaced his hat and baton stick. The diamond earring was nestling safely in my hip pocket. It would take all the sensors in the world to guess that I was worth a million dollars. Should I be telling dad about it? I wondered.
“Not really,” I said, pulling a chair.
“You don’t have to chase Indira right away, Nkumbudzi,” he said. “A man needs to take his time when it comes to women.” I wanted to tell dad that he was not an authority on women and marriage, using his separation from mother as a case study. Plus, I did not quite fancy Indira. She was this girl whose Indian blood had been tainted by some cunning negro during the colonial era. That was not the problem, I see beyond colour and creed. The problem was that Indira was ugly. She was raised behind the counter and severely lacked exercise. We called her hippo at Belvedere Junior where she was a year ahead of me. I have just mentioned another setback. Indira was older than me.
I regarded the meal with a disinterested eye. I was not going to eat that meal. Who can eat when they have a million in their pocket? My father grumped and opened his mouth rather too wide. He tossed a fraction of bread into his mouth that would have choked the biggest dog in the neighbourhood. What with the peanut butter and all? For a moment, I thought dad had lost the plot of his joke, especially when his eyes bulged and protruded as if to jump out of their sockets.
“Shall I offer you some water?” I offered with a smile. He who swallows marula seeds needs must have a wide arse. It’s old Nkumbudzi who once told me that adage.
One day my father was lecturing me on the importance of table manners. “A certain man went to a funeral and worked like an antbear digging the grave. When it was time to eat, the man was given a huge and meaty bone as a reward for his painstaking work. The man regarded his neighbours’ miserly pieces and decided he was not going to share his bone with anyone. So he threw the meaty bone into his mouth and choked. He would have died had not a prudent do- gooder given him a nice thump between the shoulder blades. The greedy man disgorged the bone and, when it landed on the ground, a sly dog picked it and fled away to host a party with his friends. You must not chew more than you can swallow, Nkumbudzi.” My dad had said and aimed a beautiful blow between my shoulder blades. I disgorged like the man in the tale. There was no dog to pick the mango seed that I had accidentally swallowed. We also have a mango tree at home.
“No,” my father said, straining his neck like a chicken trying to swallow an outsized maize seed. His eyes narrowed as they slowly went back to their place, and I could see the food straining down his oesophagus in one huge, slow chunk. He craned his neck to force the lump of bread down and, when the size of his neck had shrunk considerably, said, “No, Nkumbudzi. No water this time.” He lifted his cup and sipped at the black tea with a peremptory slurp. I smiled at his narrow escape. I replayed a picture of myself landing a neat blow between dad’s shoulder- blades- and the piece of bread squirming like a new birth on the floor. However I shuddered at the thought of pushing a shoe up his butt to make him clean up his mess as he had done me the day he had helped me disgorge the mango seed. Convention forbids us to think wicked thoughts about our parents. Is there anyone does not know the verse “Honour your father and mother so that your days will be many in this world”?
“Eh, Nkumbudzi,” I said, straightening my collar with one hand and poking a fork at my breakfast with the other, clearly not interested in food.
“Yes,” said dad.
“I need to go and see about the linen order you placed yesterday-I mean Mrs. Gupta is expecting us, isn’t she?”
“I thought it was me going to see The Hag.” Dad said while rummaging his mouth with his tongue so as to dispatch with any traces of peanut butter and honey. “Leave her to me. She is a sly one.” I kicked myself on the shin because that meant dad was not going to lend me Bhotsotso. Bhotsotso is the name of our car. Whose car it is usually depends on dad’s moods. If he is feeling good it is our car, and if not it is his- a product of his own sweat and tribulation. That meant I would have to take a kombi and get to town in a crumpled mess. Don’t worry dad, I reminisced. I will be buying me my own car very soon. I was brow- beaten. I imitated Nkumbudzi’s standing up procedure as a way of getting back at him. Face down, chair back, and up like an arrow that has been shot into the sky.
“You have not touched your food since yesterday,” Nkumbudzi observed as soon as I was up.
I nodded and mumbled something about lack of appetite.
“You better get it back soon. I don’t want people calling me to say you swooned for lack of nutrition.”
“They shan’t,” said I.
“Eh, Nkumbudzi?”
“Yes dad.”
“Life is too short to be spent hungry, yes?”
“Yes Nkumbudzi.”
“Look, I am a poor father, but do you know how many people are hungry right now? Hungry not because they have no appetite, but hungry because there is nothing to eat. They go hungry because people like me buy food for people like you who will not eat, Mfan’ami.”
Seeing my dad change colour, I folded myself into a good boy and regarded the food with a contrived interest. Maybe I should eat my breakfast after all.
“Sorry dad.”
“Eat your breakfast, Nkumbudzi. I saw it on TV that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Look at me. Why do you think I almost choked right now? Eh, Nkumbudzi? I almost choked because I did not feel like any food. You just have to force it down.”
My brain started to function normally. There are a lot of potholes on the roads of Harare. Each time a kombi hits a bump, the arrangement of affairs changes in the stomach, and you are as hungry as a stray dog by the time you get to the city. Once you are hungry, then comes the necessity to buy food. The price begins at one dollar- unless you want to buy dollar for two biscuits. This is bad for business in terms of cost- benefit analysis. The food that me and dad prepare at home is more fulfilling than the greasy left- overs that most restaurants sell. Most of them are closed at 9am, anyway. I was chewing the last morsel of bread by the time I was done with my slogans. After that, I picked the fork and shoveled the scrambled egg without even caring what it smelt like. The tea was getting cold, so it was not a big deal for me to swallow it in three or four gulps. After which I banged the table and proclaimed, “Whoever wants to fight may come now.”
My father smiled and waved me away, promising to wash my plate as well as his. After five minutes I was sitting in a kombi, driving recklessly into the city.
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