Talent Madhuku is a writer from Zimbabwe. His work has been published by Mwanaka Media and Publishing, Kalahari review and Brittle paper (forthcoming)

Standing on the doorway

“Mom, where’s baba?”

“He’s far away darling, very far away.”

“When is he coming back home?”

“Soon darling. One day you are going to open that door and there he will be, waiting for you to welcome him home.”

It’s happening again. She’s been feeling this way for days. The dizziness is episodic, the spells lasts only for a few minutes. They have already set December as the month for settling the issue of roora. They haven’t raised much, just a small amount to show appreciation. It’s something they are anxious to be done with.   They want to go on with their lives. All things considered, she’s happy. This has been a fruitful year for her.

She lives in St Mary’s, in Chitungwiza, the capital’s satellite town. This is her hometown, where she was born. At the moment things in her home town are at a low point. There’s usually no electricity during the day and tap water comes only once in a week. In an urban settlement like Chitungwiza, it’s quite a difficult situation to put up with, and yet, she’s used to it. This is her beloved ghetto, her home. All her friends live here. Ruth lives just a few houses away, and Chipo lives in Zengeza. Like fish in water, here she’s in her element. She knows every street, every interesting spot and every weird corner.

“Town two dollars! Twooo dollars wakagara kutown!” The whindis shout loudly.

The sun has just come up, she feels sleepy. A loud cacophony of sounds enfolds her. A couple of stereos are playing very loud music, the horn of a commuter omnibus is blaring, a baby cries nearby, the engine of a diesel lorry revs.  The sounds hit her like a jet of cold water, freeing her from the shackles of drowsiness. She draws her small mirror from her handbag and checks her face. A young boy holding a pair of exercise books hurries past her as she is doing this. Just after passing her one slips from his hand and flaps on the ground. He pauses, picks it up and then hurries on.

 “Are you going to town vahanzvadzi?” One of the whindis says to her. She glares at him and remains silent. She’s aware of the game, everyday it happens, always. The normal bus fare to the capital is fifty cents, however, during peak hours, when people are desperate to go to work, the bus fare is ramped up to two dollars. Charging unreasonably high fares betting on the public’s desperation, she’s disgusted by the contact of the transport operators but she’s utterly helpless to do anything about it. An old minibus charging a dollar pulls into the terminus. The minibus is still charging double the standard fee, but like other commuters around her she quickly files in. She’s desperate to go to work. In situations like these one has to use common sense. A dollar might be still steep but it is at least a lot more reasonable than the two dollars the whindis are raucously chanting.

The speed of the minibus is very slow, many kombis drive past it. She dejectedly stares outside, at this speed it’s going to take a while to reach the capital. Beside the road, informal market traders are already standing behind their small stores made of wood and plastics, hoping to make a few coins to feed their families. The innocent young ones are skipping happily, playing with each other on their way to school. As they are about to reach the main road to the capital, she has to quickly close her window in order to prevent letting in the foul stench which is coming from the burst sewage pipe they are about to pass. An unwanted spring in the middle of a bustling neighbourhood, spitting out liquid human excrement, used rubber contraceptives, and other repulsing dirt. It’s not a scene one wants to see. She wonders how a couple of elderly ladies who are sitting beside the road selling tomatoes, or the occupants of the nearby houses, are able to bear up such an unbearable sight, how they manage to live with something as ghastly as this in their back yard. As they pass the spot, she cannot help herself but sigh. Many people who live in this neighbourhood seem to have accepted the existing state of affairs, as bad as they may be. After all what options do they have? It’s either they leave the vicinity and go live somewhere else, or endure the present circumstances, bad as they are. Trapped, with nowhere else to go, many seem to have chosen the latter. It seems they have decided to stick around and hope for the best.   

A few details to take note while in the hood: affordable gas is found at old Makoko’s shop, meat at the small butchery in front of the bus terminus. One should be wary of the money changers near the flea market, some of them are highly deceptive. If you want your hair done, big Sue is the best hairdresser in the hood.

This is her eighth month on her new job. She’s an accounts clerk at a filling station.  The filling station is at the edge of the capital. Consequently, from her small office she has a good view of many things outside: the mercurial sky, the busy traffic, the beautiful jacarandas and the fragrant bauhinias on the other side of the highway. She likes her job. She’s very good at it. The pay isn’t much to go by but she’s not bitter. Her work place setting is comfortable. There’s no one hovering over her shoulders while she’s doing her work.

This job wasn’t the only one available to her. During her job search she got a job offer at a local authority but knowing the working environment from her days there as an intern: the numerous shady deals, the low and unreliable pay, she turned it down.

“Someone is coming to see your uncle this weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“Yes. This coming Saturday, I thought I should give you a heads up.”

It’s midday. When he’s unoccupied, John comes to see her at work. He has brought lunch: fresh chips and steak. From across the table, she looks on as he gobbles his up, licking his fingers and grunting softly. He’s not yet even thirty and already he’s letting himself go. He has started to develop a paunch. She wishes he would make an effort to control his weight, that, and his incessant grunting. When they are together, it drives her to despair when he stirs himself up to a passion and makes weird noises like a wounded animal. God knows what the other tenants say when she’s not around. Gossip spreads like wildfire in her neighbourhood. She wishes he would make an effort to get a hold of himself.

“You are not hungry?” He says. He has stopped eating.

“I have no appetite at the moment. I will eat mine later.” She says.

“Are you alright?” He says.

“I am fine. I have been feeling dizzy now and then. I think it’s the heat. I think it will pass.”

“Maybe you should visit a doctor.” He says with concern.

She smiles sheepishly. “It’s not that serious but if it worsens I will.” She says.

Outside, she hears a truck pulling into the filling station; the weekly delivery of petrol. She closes her box of chips and steak and puts it in her desk drawer. A wave of dizziness suddenly hits her again.  Anxiously, she looks at John but he’s visibly oblivious of her present plight. He has resumed eating his lunch, grunting softly as usual. He looks calm and contented. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead.

There isn’t much to do after the midday break. She relaxes in her office chair and listens to music on her laptop. On her desk a woman in a framed photo stares at her. The woman is smiling brightly. In the afternoon light, the photo radiates a feeling of unplumbed warmth. She picks the photo up, considers it for a moment and then gently rubs it with her palm. A memory flashes back into her mind: an ailing woman lying on a hospital bed, barely breathing, with a tube stuck down her throat. She puts the photo back on the desk. It’s one of the few things she has left of her.

“Mother, I really miss you.” She says softly.

The day has mellowed. A gentle breeze has begun to blow. It blows through her window, bringing a refreshing nip into her small office. There’s excited chatter outside. The partly drawn curtains undulate lightly.

It’s Sunday afternoon. A thin film of dust covers the small coffee table. Flies buzz everywhere. The television is on, screening a documentary about poaching in Africa. It’s very hot. The air in the room is suffocating. She rises from her seat and opens all the living room windows. Outside, a crow is perched on the adjacent power line. It is perking its feathers, pausing now and again to deliver its loud and abrasive call. Until four months ago, this used to be her home.

“So how is Fatso doing?” Her cousin Itai says with an amused grin. He’s referring to John.

“I’m going to tell him you said that.” She says.

Itai laughs. “Tell him. What will he do anyway? That guy is such a bore. Seriously, you could have done better cuz.” He says.

She picks the cushion beside her and hurls it at him. Laughing, Itai dodges it and quickly flees the room. The more things change the more they stay the same. This is how it was when she used to stay here. She rises and picks up the cushion which is now lying on the floor.  She briefly considers chasing after him but she finally decides not to. The front door opens, her uncle walks into the living room carrying two loaves of bread which he hands over to her aunt.

“Hallo mwana.’ He says smiling.

She rises from her seat and greets him. It’s evident he’s very happy to see her. He’s her mother’s older brother, and her guardian. When cancer took her mother, the responsibility of her care passed on to him. He’s more like a father to her.

“How’s the new job going?” He says.

“It’s fine. They treat me well. I have settled in comfortably.” She says.

“That’s good.” Her uncle says sitting on a sofa beside hers. Although he’s putting up a bright face, she can see that there’s a lot on his mind. A few minutes later her aunt serves them tea and peanut butter sandwiches. She barely eats a quarter of what she’s served. She’s not hungry and she doesn’t like tea, especially when it is served on a hot afternoon.

“I had a visitor yesterday.” Her uncle says towards the end of repast. Her aunt immediately rises and leaves the room.

“Few young people make an effort to follow tradition these days. I’m really proud of you my child.”

She remains silent, anxious to hear what he will say next. She’s not comfortable with these kind of talks. She wishes the whole thing to be over soon. Her uncle regards the small table in front of him for a while. He seems to be struggling with what he should say next. He sighs and gently places the cup he is holding on the table. It’s been a while since she has seen him look as thoughtful as he does.

“Life, I really thought I still had time.” He mumbles softly.

“Uncle? What’s wrong?” She says.

“What did your mother tell you about your father?” Her uncle says.

“My father?”

There’s a lengthy pause. Her uncle sighs again.

“He’s alive.” Her uncle says. “I wanted to tell you sooner but… You went through so much with your mother. I didn’t want to upset you.”

She stares at the floor for a while. The walls seem to be revolving around her. She’s stunned.

“Where’s he? Is he aware that mother…” She trails off.

“I don’t think he knows. We never communicated. The last I heard of him he had remarried and settled in Masvingo. I always thought he would be man enough to come and get you. I guess I was wrong. I know this is hard for you but as your father he is the one who is entitled to receive your roora. That’s our way, our culture. That’s how the process should be done.” He says.

She looks at him with a face full of astonishment. “But uncle, how can that be? He abandoned us and he never paid a cent for my upbringing. He never even came when mother… How can he be entitled to anything?”

Her uncle scratches his head. “I do concede that there are issues he and I will have to settle. However, no matter how dishonourable he acted, he’s still your father. Something like that can never be washed away with soap like common dirt my dear child.”

She remains silent for a while, thinking deeply about what her uncle has just said. It’s culture? Made by who? Decision making was men’s prerogative after all. Surely only men could have come up with something so granitic and absurd. Tears start to seep out of her eyes. “This can’t be, lord this can’t be.” She mumbles to herself.

Her uncle rises and sits beside her. He embraces her gently. “It’s going to be okay my child. You will get through this. It’s going to be okay.” He says softly.

“Mom.”

“Yes darling.”

“When is baba coming back?”

“He’s coming back darling, soon.”

“You always say that mom. Why isn’t he coming back? Maybe he doesn’t care about me.”

“Don’t say that. He loves you and I do too. You are the only reason I wake up early in the morning child. I will do anything for you my dear.”

There’s finally closure with regards to the incessant episodes of dizziness. After all for everything in the world there’s always sufficient reason. When the GP tells her what’s causing the incessant episodes of dizziness, she’s left in a state of disbelief. John who has accompanied her gently squeezes her hand. He’s grinning broadly. She has a clear picture of what’s going on inside his head. She doubts she has ever seen him this happy. Considering how careful she has been, she wonders how this could have happened. She places her hand on her belly. She didn’t want this, not now, she’s just not ready. It’s only John’s warm and sweaty hand that finally calms her, as it does again months later when she’s in labour. Love is something unfathomable, and so is life. When they hand him to her for the first time what she feels is indescribable. He’s crying loudly. She holds him with deep tenderness and rocks him gently in her arms. Standing beside her, John smiles broadly. There are tears in his eyes.

Children are playing with bottle-caps on the street. A vendor passes her, shouting at the top of his lungs. She’s now just a few metres from the place. On her back, her son is sound asleep. It’s taken her a year, a whole year, to do what she’s about to do. John has stayed behind. He wanted to come with her but she insisted on coming alone. Ahead, the house finally comes into view. It’s a very old house. Its walls are full of patched cracks. A dead peach tree stands drably in the front. Most of the fence that used to surround the house is missing. In the front, all that’s left of it are a few old rusted poles. When she reaches the front door she hesitates for a moment. Is there really any wisdom in doing what she’s about to do? She wonders. She gently knocks on the door and waits. There’s a rush of footsteps and the door is opened. She finds herself looking at a young girl, probably around five. She’s taken aback by the bright young person in front of her. There’s something of her she sees in the young girl. Before she can say anything the young girl dashes back inside. A few moments later, she hears a tapping sound. It takes a while for the person coming to reach the door. When the door is opened again, a man with a long face is now standing before her.  He’s holding crutches, his right leg is in a cast. He freezes when he sees her. It’s clear that he has somehow recognised her.

“My god, you are so much like your…” He can’t bring himself to say it.  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He says, almost at a point of crying. The young girl who opened the door earlier reappears and stands beside him. So this is it? The first contact after so many years? She’s at a complete loss. What it is she expected to see, she doesn’t know. And yet, this isn’t what she expected to find. A memory flashes into her mind. A small girl standing alone on the doorway, staring at the street. Her mother tells her to get back inside. There is no need to be anxious. Father is coming back home soon.