“Where
were you last night?” asked Mukoma.
“In
a drum. Mai Ranga hid me,” I replied shivering already.
“You
are lucky she did,” Mukoma said, then dashed forward and
poised his hand.
In
an attempt to duck the blow, a back hander, I stumbled and fell,
and Mukoma laughed. That’s when I knew he was not angry
anymore, so I stood up and started laughing too, just as he had
taught me to—to laugh whenever he laughed.
“You
know I can kill you if I want, right?”
“Yes.
And I will always do what you tell me to do.”
“Good
boy. Now go let the goats out,” he said. I left
immediately, and felt lucky brother had forgiven me. But the
thought of Shami in a village far away tugged at my heart, and I
too had forgiven brother, but telling him that could invite a
sound beating.
My
brother. He was the most accomplished village fighter, one of the
few able-bodied men remaining in the village. Most had left for
the war, but brother said he had been lucky because when village
men his age started joining the liberation struggle, he was in
South Africa . Now it was much harder for anyone to force him to
join the war since he said he knew how to argue. He once told me
that one did not have to join the comrades to be part of the
struggle. He was already fighting a great war raising a young boy
and also keeping healthy livestock, which the comrades demanded
for food each time they held a base in our village. Since brother
was not at war, Mai, his mother, whom I also called mother since
birth mother had died immediately after I was born, always said
that he was bored being one of the few men remaining in the
village, so then he entertained himself with fights. But I liked
to watch him fight; I really did. I only hated when he used those
massive fists on me, saying I needed to know how real men’s
fists felt. When he was serious about beating me, though, he
would send me to get a strong Mopane whip for myself.
The
day I ended in Mai Ranga’s empty grain barrel, I had done a
bad job fetching a whip. Brother was working on his baboon
stools, carving them with a sharp adze. He was an expert in
making baboon stools, which were regular wood stools with a
baboon carved into the middle of the two flat ends people sat on.
Once, when he was drunk, I asked him why he liked making baboon
stools and he said that he hated the animals, great corn thieves
which not only stole, but also defecated in the field.
“And
you know their dirt just looks like human mounds,” he said,
reminding me never to tell mother he had told me this dirt thing.
I never told Mai about baboon dirt, but on the day I ended up in
Mai Ranga’s drum I swear I could have told mother about
what he had told me. Not only about the baboon but also the
secret about how he might consider joining the soldiers, whom
everyone considered the enemy of the revolution. The soldiers
fought for the whites, the comrades fought for the independence
of the country. This we had been told at that one meeting of the
comrades and the children; we had been asked to pledge that we
would always remember the comrades were on the side of the people
while the soldiers, in their ugly green uniforms, were on the
side of the enemy.
The
trouble on this day began with me getting another adze, thinking
I could try to make my own animal stool, but I wasn’t going
to make a baboon one. I had a hare in mind. That became problem
number one, which Mukoma addressed immediately.
“You
can’t just decide to waste my tree trying to make a hare.
Hares are weak, smart yes, but very weak. Make a baboon,”
he said, returning to his stool.
I
started making a baboon. Right when the head was appearing,
problem number two occurred. The adze missed the wood and sliced
some skin off my foot, which sent blood squirting to freedom.
Then I howled. Brother turned, looked at me, and when he
saw the wound on my foot and the adze lying on the ground, his
face contorted into a cloud of anger. I stopped screaming,
remembering the most important rule about working with him. And I
knew what I was supposed to do. So I wiped my tears, limped away,
but upon feeling his eyes looking particularly at my limping, I
straightened up and walked like I was just fine.
“Make
sure you don’t waste that trip!” I heard him
clearly, but this time I decided to do things differently.
Instead
of fetching a Mopane whip, I went to a Mubondo tree. I thought
Mubondo whips were more painful—they looked so—than
the Mopane. But boy was I wrong when I returned to Mukoma with
the fairly long and fat whip, which I knew was ready to greet my
bottom. Mukoma didn’t have to say anything in response. One
look on his face told me to go back to the usual Mopane. Mopane
whips were just killers, so painful you often wondered whether
they had just been created to be weapons of pain. And indeed,
Chari, whose father, another man who had not joined the war but
told everyone he was a comrade, beat him often as well, had
confirmed that Mopane was just for the purpose of straightening
bad boys like me. He told me he was not bad; his father whipped
him to put Mopane trees to use. But I did not agree with him. We
also used Mopani for other things, especially firewood. I liked
Mopane wood fire, but hated the burn of the whip on my bottom.
I
returned, whip in hand, approaching Mukoma slowly. He was
waiting, smoking some tobacco wrapped in a piece of newspaper.
The cigarette packs he had brought from South Africa were gone by
now, and he had taken to smoking this tobacco that made him twist
his body with each pull, then bulged his lips excessively. I
walked, slower, but determined to hand him the whip; soon
this—the beating itself—would be over, and I would
put salted water on my wound and then go to collect the goats and
enclose them in their pen. But something in me told me not to
keep walking, so I stopped.
Mukoma
threw the burnt-out tobacco stub on the ground, looked at me with
red eyes, then at the whip, and I knew I had done something
really wrong. The whip didn’t satisfy him, but he was not
telling me to go try again. My eyes naturally lowered and stopped
at his hands, which were swelling into fists. I heard no voice, I
saw no light of revelation, but I immediately took off, and heard
the mess of wood and half-carved heaps toppling over as brother
got on his feet to chase after me. “I’m gonna kill
you, you bloody fool!” I heard him say as the wind got hold
of my arms and turned them into wings.
I
surely wasn’t flying because when I glanced back brother
was closely behind me, his whole massive body transformed to what
might have qualified to be a fast-moving wheel. But I increased
speed, meandered, jumped over something, turned to the left,
sharply to the right, and heard a heavy sound on the ground
behind, glanced back, and what I saw was not just a miracle, but
a spectacular wonder: Mukoma was rolling on the ground, holding a
leg, but soon he was up again, cursing and pointing, and I sped.
I kept running and running without glancing back, not knowing
where I was going at all, but just flying and flying. Mukoma was
nicely standing by a tree in front in front, extending his arms
in a welcome pose, smiling even, and saying, “Hello Tari.”
For
a moment, I felt the urge to just run into those arms, enjoy the
embrace while it lasted, but start to beg and beg so he would
just give a warning this time. But what I had thought was a smile
was something I could not name. I felt my head spin the way it
did sometimes when I was in great fear, this slight dizziness
that clouded the reality of everything else around me, but my
body surprised me when it managed a sharp reversal and a turn I
had never known myself to be capable of. This time I was running
towards somewhere.
There
was this rule in our village that if an adult was disciplining a
child and that child just ran away and took refuge in someone’s
house, then the adult was supposed to stop the pursuit. In fact,
the adult was supposed to forgive the child immediately and join
the family for dinner or whatever they were having. So I ran
towards Mhere’s home, Mhere a respected village man who
sometimes worked in the towns. At that point I could not remember
if he was one of the few men of the village who had not joined
the war. But I knew that running to his home and entering one of
his huts would be a safe refuge.
Mhere’s
wife, whom everyone called Mai Kundai, was cooking when I stormed
into the hut. She sprung up, gathering her skirt tightly
around her legs, but letting it go when she saw it was me. “Go
play outside! This is not a cave for hide-and-seek. Sva!
Go! Do you--?” At that point I saw a shadow emerging from
the door and my heart started racing, speeding up when I saw the
expression on Mai Kundai’s face. She just stood there
open-mouthed. I turned to look at the door. Mukoma had just
stepped in, angrier than I had ever seen him. He was advancing,
fists already poised. Then Mai Kundai jumped to action, planning
herself between us.
“Don’t
get involved in this Mai Kundai,” said Mukoma, in a low,
shaking voice. He sounded like something was choking him, a sign
that things were not good for me anymore. My stomach growled and
cramped in the middle.
“But
you are in my house!” shouted Mai Kundai , who was known
for tolerating no nonsense from anyone.
“Your
house has my prey!”
“Are
you not ashamed, such a grown man, storming in after a child who
has sought refugee? What happened to your values?”
“Woman,
I don’t care who you are. I’m not your husband, and
stop talking to me like you want something from me. I’m not
your husband to the war, you hear me?”
“What
did you say?” sputtered Mai Kundai. “Let me remind
you, mukuwasha,
this is my house, and you see that boiling sadza
on the fire, I can empty the whole pot on you, as long as you are
in my house, my yard, my property.”
That
was the wrong thing to say because something possessed Mukoma,
who pushed her aside, and reached out to grab me from behind her.
When she moved, I moved, remaining behind her all the while. And
Mukoma jumped in an attempt to catch me. His eyes were red, his
anger making him shake. The woman, who was also shaking with
anger, screamed, bringing Mukoma to a standstill, but then the
scream, too dry to be real, was short lived. Mukoma advanced, but
Mai Kundai managed to turn her back to the door, giving me the
advantage of remaining behind her on the exit side. Before Mukoma
realized what was happening, I shot out of the hut, and took off
toward Chigorira hill.
I
was breathing heavily, but my legs were telling me stopping would
not be good. I ran and ran and ran, turned and noticed Mukoma
standing outside the hut, still talking to Mhere’s wife. I
knew he was not done with me, that I had just done something I
would regret the rest of my life, and with these thoughts I found
myself entering Mai Ranga’s compound, noticing as I did so
a group of men sitting around a fire, drinking beer.
“Someone
catch that rabbit!” shouted the man who saw me first. I
stopped in the middle of the yard, already thinking of turning
and running in another direction, but then Mai Ranga saw me and
said, “Chii young boy? Come tell mbuya what’s going
on?”
“I
said catch that rabbit!” shouted the man, who tried to get
up, but fell right back on his baboon stool.
Mai
Ranga, her hand wiping tears off my face, turned and looked at
the man, “Tukano! You say one more word about a rabbit and
this is the last time you will set your foot here.”
“You
know when these little ones--.”
“Shut
your tin!” said VaDzoro, the old man who had seven wives,
who sat opposite Tukano, on a leopard stool.
“You
shut yours, old man!” retorted the man, at the same time
Mai Ranga pulled me across the yard to the fire, and while she
parked me by her side, she pushed the man, saying, “I don’t
think I care much about the little coins you give me in exchange
for my beer. Leave now!”
Then
another man, oh, Mirosi, Mukoma’s friend, said, “I
will apologize on behalf of Tukano.” And he started
clapping his hands in apology; a few of the men followed suit.
Mirosi, addressing Mai Ranga, then said, “You better do
something with that boy; otherwise his brother will be here soon,
and you know when he takes his stuff what he does.”
“He
is always like that,” said VaDzoro. “Something sure
got in him in Joni.”
“Leave
South Africa alone. It’s the war. The spirits of the dead
soldiers are possessing everyone nowadays,” a man I had
never seen before said.
“Irrelevant!”
shouted Tukano eyes torching the man. He turned to look at Mai
Ranga. “I suggest that you do something with that boy soon
though.” I was surprised he did not call me a rabbit this
time, but instead looked in the direction I had emerged as if he
expected to see my brother.
“He
is right,” agreed VaDzoro. “But what can you do
though? You know he will be here soon. And you know that one, he
will find the boy even if you hide him in your skirts!” A
few men collapsed laughing.
“Nothing
is funny!” shouted Mai Ranga.
“Hide
him well, and I don’t mean just hiding him. Think of
something, hide him like a comrade,” said someone. I stood
by Mai Ranga’s side, but my mind was not here. My head kept
turning in the direction of Chigorira hill, and of our home. Then
I saw someone, or something, and heard a man say, “Better
hurry up. The crazy one will be here soon.”
Several
arms pulled me towards Mai Ranga’s storage hut. My head
kept turning; I didn’t want it to, but it could not stop. A
door opened and a man said, “Let me lift him, you hold the
door.”
“No,
you hold the door. Hurry up.”
Mai
Ranga called from within, “Ehe! Perfect place. Here! Bring
him here!”
We
were now in the dark hut. The man said, “There? Are sure?
Is that going to work?”
“This
is the best. His brother would never even suspect, even if we let
him search in this hut.”
I
was lifted, and then placed in a huge container, a metal barrel.
“Are
we closing it?”
“Let’s
close it.” I started to struggle, wanting to escape
and continue running.
“Hey!
Hey! Sit in there. You want to stay alive, then sit there.”
My
heart was knocking hard against my chest. I was deep in the
container, where the darkness held its fists high.
“Close
it. He is going to be fine; there are two holes so he can
breathe.” I heard Mai Ranga say, as the drum’s
lid was put in place. Then there was a knock on one the top of
the drum. “Hey in there! Make sure you keep your nose by
this hole here, or this one here. Do you see them, Tari?”
“Ye-es”,
I said, suppressing the urge to sneeze.
They
talked for a few moments longer, then left. I heard the door
close. As I was about to shift in order to sit more comfortably
against the metal of the drum, I heard the door banging open and
Mukoma saying, “You said you didn’t see him at all?”
“No,
why would I have seen him?” Mai Ranga’s voice was
low, almost a whisper.
“I
am just asking.” Pause. ‘And you are serious that he
is not in here somewhere?”
“Why
would he be there? Is he my child?” asked Mai Ranga,
impatiently.
“Because
if he is, there will be trouble here.”
“Says
who?”
“So
you want to play games with me now? You do? You do?”
“Don’t
even dare get closer to me. I want you away from my hut too. Yes,
I am talking to you. I’m not one of your girlfriends.
Move.”
“Listen,
lady.”
“What?
Since when am I your lady? We send you overseas and you come back
calling us ladies! What is wrong with our young men these days?
Is it the spirit of the war?”
“Mbuya,
you will make me lose it!” shouted Mukoma. “ South
Africa is not overseas, and who gave you the idea that you sent
me there?”
Then
I heard the stamping of feet on the ground; then another male
voice said, “Jefi, I know you have a right to beat the boy,
wherever he is, but you are crossing the line here. You can’t
talk like that to Mai Ranga, who in many ways is your aunt.”
“Back
off, man!” shouted Mukoma.
“Who
are you calling man? Me who is like a brother to your mother, me
who saw you growing up, me who helps your mother with her field
work. Man, that’s all you know to call me?” That was
VaNgeya speaking, the old man who always visited hour home.
There
was another sound signaling the arrival of someone. Mai Ranga
coughed. Then I heard a third male voice saying, “We know
you are a grown up man, the more reason you shouldn’t waste
your time chasing kids around.”
Mukoma
growled, “Listen, Tukano, you have no right to meddle in my
business.”
“Since
when do you have a business, and am I the middle man?”
There
was laughter from—I think—the fire. Even Mai Ranga
coughed out a brief laugh. Then she said, “You men, there
is beer to be drunk, and money to exchange hands. Let’s get
moving. You too Jefi, give us that South Africa money! Hurry up.
Ah, where are you going? Is your head well? Who are you to think
you may try to sneak in an old woman’s private hut and
think you can get away with it?”
“Because
if you are lying to me there will be trouble here. I want to
search on my own,” he said.
“I
don’t see that happening!”
“Just
watch.” Then the door was opened again, but someone tried
to close it, then it banged against the wall inside as it opened.
There was now some light in the drum.
“Don’t
get in there, or you will have a naked old woman standing in
front of you.”
“No,
there will be no naked woman…. Ah, hey what do you think
you are doing?”
“I
told you what is going to happen if you try to get in there.
How would you feel if I came and tried to force my way into your
tsapi?”
Several
voices shouted from the fire, mostly inaudible things, but the
loudest one said, “Jefi, you are playing with fire now.”
Mukoma
remained silent. I waited for Mai Ranga’s voice. It did not
come, but the man at the fire said, “Certain things just
let go! You know the comrades get time to play, even when they
know the soldiers are nearby.”
“Your
point?” shouted Mukoma.
“You
can’t live like this, young man.”
“And
why are you so angry? What did they do to you there in South
Africa ?”
Mukoma
did not answer. No one spoke for a moment. Then I heard the door
close, then footsteps fading away. Some more silence, then a big
sigh from Mai Ranga.
“Mirosi,
your friend didn’t answer VaDzoro’s question. You saw
how there was a cloud on his face and he just walked away?”
“It’s
the war spirit. He should have joined the comrades. These young
men who remained just need do something, to go and fight,”
said VaDzoro.
“But
that doesn’t make sense. He carves stools; helps his
mother.”
“But
remember the war brought many evils. Look at the evil filling up
the bellies of our daughters in this village.”
“But
is that what’s making him beat the poor boy
everyday?
“Maybe. Don’t they say Shami ran away with a
comrade?”
“They
do. So what does that mean?”
“Ah,
where have you been, Mai Ranga? Aren’t you this village’s
radio?”
“But
I don’t know what Shami has to do with anything.”
“Well,
she was already pregnant when she slept with that comrade.”
“So
you are saying--. Did she use to play with Jefi?”
“Play?
Ha! Ha! Ha! You must mean play.”
“Hezvo,
nhai vedu!
This war is evil.”
“He
refused to marry her, so she found a comrade. The comrade sent
her to his village. Even comrades are stupid too.”
“That’s
a story,” said Mai Ranga. “But I don’t want him
to continue beating this orphan though. Poor boy.”
“That
will end. Like he said, let him do his job of raising the boy.”
“Since
when does ganja
raise a person?”
“Ganja?
What are you talking about now?”
“Come
on, you saw his eyes.”
“But
still--.”
“Yeah,
he should leave the poor boy alone.”
I
sat in the drum, tears streaming down my face. I was not thinking
about Mukoma anymore, not afraid even. I was thinking about the
war. I was thinking about growing up one day to join the war and
kill that comrade. I was thinking about Shami, who had always
been nice to me, taking me to the stores, buying me things,
sometimes cooking for me when she came to visit brother, back
when he laughed a lot.
I
wasn’t thinking anymore. I was just sitting in the drum.
Then
I heard Mai Ranga say, “Let’s finish up. I have to go
to the field tomorrow.”
“We
thank you our keeper,” said a man’s voice.
Other
voices expressed gratitude in like manner, and then they faded
away in the distance. But one more male voice, VaDzoro’s,
said, “You don’t need company tonight?”
“There
is a boy here. Don’t you have any sense?”
“Will
you let the boy go?”
“Sure.
I’ll take him there myself.”
“So
what’s the problem?”
“He’ll
sleep here. I want to punish the brother, crazy man. People who
don’t grow.”
“Some
of us are grown.”
“No,
you are not. Find your way home.” There was a pause, and
then Mai Ranga added, “Wives are waiting.”
“Did
you have to go there?”
“I
just did.”
Then,
coughing, VaDzoro left.
Suddenly,
there was silence, then the sounds of Mai Ranga putting away
things. The sounds faded and I curled in the barrel settle into
sleep, but the wound on my foot started to hurt.
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