Edward saw it first. Thomas saw it second. I saw it last. Even though I was the last, I got the lion’s share. Edward came first, but he got ...
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Edward saw it first. Thomas saw it second. I saw it last. Even though I was the last, I got the lion’s share. Edward came first, but he got nothing, and nearly lost his finger.
Until this day, nearly four decades on, much of the episode has since evaporated from my memory. I only recall the most scandalous parts, because I was the biggest beneficiary. We were 8 years old then, young and naïve.
Earlier that day in school, at twelve noon, as usual, we formed our standard single file, girls in front, then boys. Excited to go home, we chanted in accord with the dismissal prayer: “Thank you Lord for the day, bless us as we depart for our homes, amen!”
The last part, the amen, was more intense, vocal, for emphasis. Our teacher, a stern, ageing lady, dutifully waved her rubber whip, named Mr. Silence.
“Left, right, left, right, “she cried. In matched rhythmic motion, we replicated her commands. “Forward, march,” the teacher dismissed us. For the first few steps, under her watchful gaze, everyone was in line.
Towards the exit, out of the teacher’s sight, we abandoned the procession. Threats to report to the teacher, the next day, were interjected with a caution: “I will fix you outside the gate, if you report me.”
Towards the exit, out of the teacher’s sight, we abandoned the procession. Threats to report to the teacher, the next day, were interjected with a caution: “I will fix you outside the gate, if you report me.”
Our boys only clique was the first to exit, and peeled away from the rest. We had grudges to settle, snitches to silence. Away from the school rules, we congregated to watch some grudge matches. For us, who craved for a black eye, a bloody nose, humiliation, we promptly made two mounds of sand, each representing their mothers’ breasts.
“Whoever, breaks these two is the winner, the other one is a coward.” If both dared to demolish the heaps, we were in for a boxing treat. “You can’t let someone defile your mother’s breast, do something about it,” we shouted, forming a body barrier, fencing the duo in the middle.
Nobody, even weaklings accepted their mothers to be publicly defiled by a stranger. Our mothers, although far away, possessed a special place in our hearts, we protected them at all cost, even if it meant fighting.
Nobody, even weaklings accepted their mothers to be publicly defiled by a stranger. Our mothers, although far away, possessed a special place in our hearts, we protected them at all cost, even if it meant fighting.
The umpire-cum-cheerleaders urged the warring parties to get on with it, there were more matches lined up. Usually, during the fight, with more jeers, an adult appeared to interject. We scattered all over.
Our group of three took a regular dirt path, separating strips of maize fields, granite boulders, which camouflaged lovebirds. Towards the path intersection, Edward began galloping, ahead of us. Instantly, Thomas followed suit, running even faster, in a bid to outpace him.
Our group of three took a regular dirt path, separating strips of maize fields, granite boulders, which camouflaged lovebirds. Towards the path intersection, Edward began galloping, ahead of us. Instantly, Thomas followed suit, running even faster, in a bid to outpace him.
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| Sandringham High, 1995. From Left to Right: Blessing Maronga, Victor Gwaze, Edwin Tsvangirai, Raymond Nyambiya, Tanaka Dzingwa, Derick Matsengarwodzi, Julius Mpamba (late), Vengai Muchina, and Edwin Musariri. Kneeling from Left to Right: Bighton Vazhure (late), Brian Matemachani, Ian Gwanzura (late) and Daniel Gambiza. |
From my disadvantaged position, I saw a pile of shiny, brown one cent copper coins, neatly piled together. Now I knew their destination, but I was too slow. Edward was the first to swoop the jackpot.
Thomas took the remainder. By the time I reacted, the two had scooped their share of the coins in my absence. Edward cupped four cents, Thomas had five, I had none. The two were rejoicing.
Outpaced, outclassed, with nothing, yet eager to make amends, I took a hasty, riskier decision. Otherwise I was going to lose it all. Instead, I went for Edward’s index finger, bit him hard, he yelled in pain. My plan worked. He let go of the coins. I claimed them. Thomas saw me coming for him.
Outpaced, outclassed, with nothing, yet eager to make amends, I took a hasty, riskier decision. Otherwise I was going to lose it all. Instead, I went for Edward’s index finger, bit him hard, he yelled in pain. My plan worked. He let go of the coins. I claimed them. Thomas saw me coming for him.
He saw what happened to Edward. He was wiser, dropped three coins, and ran away. I didn’t pursue him, I now had seven cents in all. With my loot, I left Edward flinching in pain, and bought some sweets.
Then, I was not worried about losing friends, that’s how we lived – blameless. Few days later, we were friends again, every iniquity forgiven, ready to take on the actual rivals. We had pure hearts then, now it’s totally the opposite.
If we had the privilege to choose our families, mothers, and social standing, many would have opted to belong to the next family. At birth, I inherited the majority of my grandfather’s DNA, not limited to notoriety, but storytelling abilities. If I could, I would have vetoed the corrupt habits.
***
In my childhood, I clearly exhibited most of his rebel genes. Amongst my peers, sometimes outside, I boxed like a lion. When trapped, or sensed I was losing the battle, I darted like a cheetah. In short, I was his mirror image. And each time grandfather came home, I would pester him to tell us about his stint in Johannesburg, as a boxer in the 50s.
“I was one of the top boxers during my day, and I earned a lot of fame and women for that,” that’s how he usually began his story. “That time, I won a lot of friends and enemies in and outside the boxing ring,” that’s how he normally ended, in his distinct stammer, while flinging some tame jabs.
“I was one of the top boxers during my day, and I earned a lot of fame and women for that,” that’s how he usually began his story. “That time, I won a lot of friends and enemies in and outside the boxing ring,” that’s how he normally ended, in his distinct stammer, while flinging some tame jabs.
Despite the incoherence in time and location, I always listened to his tales with a keen, open-minded interest. Many adults, including close relatives showed subdued interest, after hearing the story countless times.
Sometimes I asked, “Grandpa, can you show us your muscles?” Like an animated amateur bodybuilder, he excitedly tensed his aging biceps, and triceps, much to our delight.
One Sunday afternoon after our weekly Catholic Mass service, my elder brother and I sneaked from home, taking our younger brother as security for our unsanctioned escapade. He promised not to tell. None least expected us to roam that far. Cautiously, we scaled to the peak of a granite outcrop to get a clear aerial view of our environs.
One Sunday afternoon after our weekly Catholic Mass service, my elder brother and I sneaked from home, taking our younger brother as security for our unsanctioned escapade. He promised not to tell. None least expected us to roam that far. Cautiously, we scaled to the peak of a granite outcrop to get a clear aerial view of our environs.
During the course, my young brother lost his footing and fell, head first. Instantly, a stream of blood gushed out of the open forehead wound. We tried in vain to stop the bleeding. With this mishap, our secret was no longer secret.
No guessing, some lashes awaited to welcome us. For some reason our parents believed our alibi. “He slipped from a banana peel, and got injured,” my elder brother lied.
Two years after starting school, we had to move. Our landlady lost her polygamous husband, and she decided to sell it. At his funeral, I encountered death for the first time. We sneaked out, superseding my parents’ warning not to. From afar, I saw four stern-faced men shouldering a huge, black coffin, very shiny, reflecting death all over.
***
Two years after starting school, we had to move. Our landlady lost her polygamous husband, and she decided to sell it. At his funeral, I encountered death for the first time. We sneaked out, superseding my parents’ warning not to. From afar, I saw four stern-faced men shouldering a huge, black coffin, very shiny, reflecting death all over.
The song’s lyrics echoed of death, unhurried, with solemn lyrics that deliberately evoked emotions. I heard the same song again, and again. A red cloth on the gate fluttered, signaling the melancholy episode. The coffin lay in state, mourners conveniently packed into the living room, thumping the drum until morning.
“He was our hero,” they sang, although many didn’t know him. But in my culture, every dead person becomes a saint, a hero – a representative in the spiritual realm. Their dancing styles were energetic, often reckless.
For days after the funeral, I regretted the silly adventure. Each time I shut my eyes, for many days, I saw a coffin. The deathlike song played inside my head. After the burial, the widow came to see my parents.
For days after the funeral, I regretted the silly adventure. Each time I shut my eyes, for many days, I saw a coffin. The deathlike song played inside my head. After the burial, the widow came to see my parents.
“I would like to tell you that the house is now for sale and you have the first chance to purchase it. If you can’t afford it, I will offer it to someone else.”
Days, weeks went by, still, my parents failed to raise the required $1,200 on time. They only managed half, a loan from father’s workplace. “We will give you half the payment now, and finish off the rest later.”
She totally denied it. Instead, another family bought the house. We packed our belongings. The night before our departure, my elder brother and I sneaked into the garden, uprooted every plant, against our mother’s advice.
Somehow, even though I lost my friends, I was glad I relocated far away from the dead man’s house, and the ghost that trailed me.
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