XENOPHOBIA

ATE MY BROTHER

By

Duzulayo Victor Chiposa

XENOPHOBIA ATE MY BROTHER

Mine is a chronicle of chance. That of fellow country men however, is not of a

similar nemesis. You asked about the plastered wound on my forehead, how
much pain I feel. None is the answer I have for you. For there is a much
sharper pain surpassing any word of doom in a lexicon. In the name of love I
existed, yet in a spell of hate, they made me and my country men extinct. A
dear fortune lost for being a foreign national in the streets of Dereben.
I caught you surveying my body, only a flesh left on a dragonfly’s torso, I
know. It was no easy task functioning as a person having encountered that
ordeal. I would’ve said it was Hell like many ascribe such situations to only
that you and myself have never been there, so you won’t understand. But what
if I said it was like an amalgamation of the famine that struck our beloved
country in the early 2000’s with the anti-government protests of July 20
2011, that left lives lifeless and a spoonful of the rage felt when the fact that
our dearest president and aides had been nourishing heir pockets with tax-
payers sweat met a lamp? I am certain you would nod your head in a
deductive gesture.
Dereben city. The supposed city of Angels, disguised as men and women
sipping tea while lying in tents disregarding a torn pocket and a wrapper due a
hand’s frequent visits…, wielding machetes, a 9 mm revolver, shovels or
anything capable of rendering a heart useless at fellow breathers; like Demons.
If the first man on the planet sprung from the weeping mounds of Dereben, I
probably would not have had any reasons to throw stones from the confines of
my grass house. But he came not from there! You listen? They had no liberty
at all to curse our births; not to mention molding deaths! But they …they
killed my brother, Derebeners butchered the apple of my mother’s eyes. He
was barely a man capable of making firm resolutions. Perhaps it was wrong all
along to tag him along. He should have stayed here. Home is simply what it
opines-home. Safe is a place where a grasshopper can hop about the eyes of a
predator. Sometimes shielding herself from the merciless sun f an October
afternoon under a lizard’s shade. Home is where tears from innocent eyes
damning birth-canals and sunlight meet their death before crossing the exit of
eyes. Madam Reporter, here is home; where my brother would’ve been
breathing beside my heart.
‘‘Take me south with you brother Victa,’’ Eman told me the day I visited my
village in Kusungu. Time is a bird they claim, it flies to nowhere. Whatever
type of bird time was that time, it was no match for my hard working spirit
pinning down retired but active misery. A dozen months of effectuating back-
breaking jobs had directed me to sweet tidings. Menial blue collar jobs as
Derebeners called them, I took them up without any second thoughts.
Nowhere was better, I could’ve described my own country as being worse had
I not already exemplified it as being home- nothing beats that I dare say.
Eman’s tone had a sense of maturity, a character I fervently prayed to be
portrayed in his life.
‘‘Please brother, take me. I saved money from the tobacco sales of this year.
You can supplement the rest, I can carter for my passport,’’ he said. The nod
from my head was the worst aberration of my existence.
Madam Reporter, please ask not that question, lest my eyes protest. Jot down
only what I gab, ask not how he died. I wish to trade that part of my mind for
anything known or perchance incognito to my mankind. Just not that memory,
it is like an acid rain on a silk cloth. Pain can never have enough letters or
vowels to spell what I feel, what I felt that Saturday afternoon…

March 2015, Dereben.
Startled, I woke up with a spinning head. For a minute, I had no sense with me
left. Like a demented man, I looked everywhere stomping goods and house
valuables searching for something worth the effort until I found it. Then I
made up for the turbulence I caused to my cohorts by playing slow numbers
from my internet enabled Sony Ericson snap 4AT phone. It was yet to be
morning, an hour or another to the loose of dawn. My comrades were probably
awake but nevertheless decided to lie to themselves, hide under covers and
dream of wooing the daughter of King Richard the Second of Scotland and
perchance securing a place on the throne in any way possible both imaginable
and otherwise. Ganizani was a charming beauty, a most likely candidate for
the earlier wish. I feared one thing for him, digging a shallow grave for
himself and his bread-warmers. He had lately taken ascendancy of his
charming looks so well plastered with a great personality to bed any
unsuspecting women. Unsuspecting owing to the fact that only men with oily
hands really made it off with the girls in this part of the planet. My friend
Ganizani had a garment of enchantment that pulled ladies to him like money
to corrupt law up-holders. At times, I was inclined to believe what he almost
always said. Godfrey was a complete adverse of Ganizani. He was a
workaholic, loved to eat and minded not easing himself in view of a woman.
He evaded eyes of seducers, both men and women. Homo and Bi sexuality
was no news in this strange part of the world. It was anchored in ears of
foreigners alone. But even so, other foreign nationals recounted similar deeds
from where they came from. To me and my friends, it was simply disgusting.
The intimate play of do me, I do you; getting on between men without women
and women without bulls, what an unspeakable thought!
I cleared the table of everything but my luck coin. Then I squatted beside the
table and placed my life support on it. I wonder why it had to be a 1 tambala, a
50 would not have hurt. As a matter of fact, it would’ve signaled a much
greater luck; the bigger, the more. But I had no choices in the affairs of the
spirits, Grandfather warned sternly. I took a spoonful of the life support,
created a circle like of ashes then slowly sniffed it, holding a different nostril
in succession. The spinning of my head tripled but I cared less. The more the
spinning, the more the definite pleasure crawling in my aorta. I staggered to
get back to bed only to find it occupied. A bull and a woman arguing about
relativity on my bed- hush wicked intentions, I screamed.
‘‘Filthy Ingrid, shut your vault,’’ Ganizani spoke first. What an idiot!
‘‘Damn you nigga, whatchu duin?’’
‘‘Ha ha, a bunch of porcupines. Ganizani or shall I call you M r Poetry as
wish, from where are you getting such a vocabulary? Even a duck knows you
are a bat, unaware of the size of your head from your tail. Somebody is surely
feeding you trash while gazing at your pocket, I bet. And you M r 50 cent
knucklehead, who the hell are addressing with your fake accent?’’
‘‘I ain’t got no time for ya, nope. You’re sick man, one day yo dope gon
make you drop,’’ Godfrey said and disappeared into his covers, covering his
ears with earphones probably playing Lollipop by Wezzy.
‘‘You better change dear friend, you are losing value,’’ said M r Poetry. I took
their words not seriously. I disturbed them, they retorted in anger, a sense
fairly established. What they said was like the wailing of a blindfolded child
left at a cemetery, harboring bones and dolls. They had proved right one thing
though, they really had’nt been catching some zzz’s but they were just. As
daunted of the impending day. Instead of giving themselves a treat to garner
the much needed strength to pull the bull by the chin, their body’s anatomy
suggested a sound nap to be a worth while resolution. Ganizani was a heavy
drinker but not in the face of emerging doom. He never wanted to stain his
mind when he had no detergent, M r Poetry proudly recited his ground.
Godfrey programmed himself to be an engrossed man. He had other part-time
billets aside from the one with us, whose fate remained as a sand particle in a
bag of grain come that day’s morning. It was just impossible to be like
Godfrey. It was no exaggeration therefore to suggest that his veins may not
have actually contained blood, but liquid upon liquid; well organized than a
political party, chanting slogans like youth cadets…
My mind was a roller coaster swaying from side to side. I tried closing my
eyes and surrender myself to Morpheus but the effort required a sober mind, I
had run out of one some minutes before. When my eyelids showed an interest
of shielding the pupil, a whole world of undesirable traits seemed to let out a
laugh of joy. I saw snakes whispering, an ocean carried in a plastic bag,
someone injuring another. It was clear, an attempt to fight against such a world
could cripple my fighting tools , unleashing a reign of terror- madness, thanks
to me subversion. The slow jams continued weeping…;
I will always say that she is mine
So cute and fascinating
Bright like a rising sun
A little glimpse, you are lost
In a forest of desire and wishes
Distressful journey yet so sweet
Eyes that make one stumble
 Reflects the beauty she owns
Blossoming the passionate intent
Desired yet so far…
Meaningless. Love is for idle minds and promises are held onto by fools.
Money is the unquestionable caliph, good and bad deeds are his beloved
children. No children can be of the same character; one ought to breathe fire,
the other, water. By any sense, the good are unanswerable because of their
purified demeanor and the adverse go for the bad. Could it make a change in
the patterns of human thought if stolen money worked to save a soul, money
from the coffers of earthly branded saints bailed out a murderer believed to be
innocent by an individual? Two forces of life, they determine everything.
Osati chikondi, zankutu [not love, meaningless]. I believed to believe that
love can exist within a supernatural being say a deity; none can come close to
keeping another’s heart like one’s own. Perhaps the power of dope had taken
over me, just perchance.
‘‘Hey, you better wake up, the sun is not changing her schedule for you,’’
Ganizani said, brushing his teeth. Morpheus has a way with his clients, I had
taken a nap unknowingly. Ganizani Haward; as charming as a quiet lady, one
could easily call him well-to-do, deceived by his spotless face. His charm was
nothing short of his father’s choice of a potentially beautiful marriage partner.
And juju. My eyes have never been stained, I envied not my brotherly friend,
Ganizani. He showed me the cat from the bag himself.
‘‘Yo man, ain’t got nothin to be busy with than sleepin o’day slipin?’’
‘‘Mind your own affairs,’’ I fired back in a tone of soberness and a
measurable anger.
‘‘Whoo, oh sorry. We have less than hour to be at the construction site. I might
as well say that we have less than the same time to be assured of normal
breaths or otherwise. No jobs, no money. No money, no my name is… for
even introductory dialogues nowadays require a scent of costly perfume or a
bangle dipped in gold,’’ he concluded his recital of a desert of words and a
forest of sentences. Ganizani Haward; M r Poetry deserved an Oscar in an
excellent act of idiocy supported by savagely. He lacked reasoning to have the
honor of being called a man. If no jobs were available, at least there was still
life and if life was around, then what other business capital surpassed that?
The narrative was cut short by a stripper. A story, beyond measurable
patience of attentive ears; told from the eyes of Nashani, a village girl caught
between worlds. What a talkative pain it was to be under the same roof with an
able-minded individual who had the privilege of having a wife but
nevertheless chose to wed him self. What a pity. The supposed Queen was a
plump woman armed with a pair of watermelons pathetically termed breasts,
her legs of steel like of a soldier in an infantry division. A sure way to heaven
in the eyes of Nashani’s uncle. Inevitably, heaven was there but hell was more
noticeable in eyes without stain, like Nashani’s. She was the type a man would
whisper to only because option B was a miss. Yet someone thought it ideal to
make that monster, a soil to his seedlings. Aunt Chikondi never impressed
Nashani and she hoped such a notion sustained itself through ages and worlds
apart. There was something wrong with people thinking and actually saying
that she was a woman; Nashani’s mind dared not address her in such a manner,
someone with a craving for her nephew’s body deserved not that honor. Think
not that one’s heart had to kiss blisters to touch Nashani’s, she was but a
mortal searching for the right path to this illusion in a borrowed attire adopting
the alias of life. Thankfully, her supposed days of touring shopping malls and
devouring pizza had drunkenly drove into a pit. That meant, home sweet
M’biya village was tenderly calling. Even though the thought of Joji crippled
the mind, her life seemed to manage a breath still!
The bus taking Nashani to Chikwawa district was an old lady in high heels.
Some windows on either side of the lady were crippled, leaving a room to
transparent plastic papers to serve music to passengers, brought about by their
conversations with the wind. Past a place, the paper would be humming a
religious piece and another, it would be auditioning for a Pop Star contest.
Two men in all black sat beside Nashani, a woman breast-feeding a
malnourished child on the last but one row, a teenage girl making a nuisance
of herself mimicking American singers randomly playing through her
earphones on the third from the last row. Much later, the old lady crawled still.
New aboard among many was a charming young woman, worthy of a
necklace of loyalty-she was, in Nashani’s thoughts, a gold ring nipped in mud.
Such beauty had a place anywhere but not a village, it would lack nurturing.
The men in all black had disappeared, the woman breast-feeding her stunted
child had vanished as well and so was everyone it seemed, save for the
teenage girl. One unlucky man was unsuccessfully trying to woo her- listing
and re-listing his capabilities, flashing credit cards and an automobile driving
license, what a duck!
The day Nashani’s brother drowned in Kavula village was the day she really
thought about the existence of a God. Her prayers had been answered.
Though she prayed not death for him, uprooting him from her life would not
have meant anything different on a written document. He was a step-brother,
he forcefully took the pride her womanhood from her; she had no reason to
forgive him. So when Joji was presumed dead, what a relief it was to her. His
body was never recovered, only a night of mourning therefore was allowed by
the village elders. Nashani carried her epileptic brother throughout the time of
mourning. It seemed to everyone Joji was a perfect human being; only if they
had ears to heed Nashani’s call, they would’ve combed Kavule river and
finding his body, they would’ve deformed it in any ways necessary, just to be
sure such a sin repeated itself not again. Or maybe not; they would’ve said
Nashani started it. The stillness of the village conveyed a fear in younger ones,
it was lively any other time; Nashani played a guardian angel to her younger
brother. The sky had parches of rain clouds. Some resembled a clean fist
owned by a bleeding master yet some like of kneeling men before an altar of
sacrifice but still, daring stars laughed about in an unmistaken companionship.
Casting lot, Nashani picked a star and asked to trade her place for the star’s;
reality for oblivion- of course the star jumped at the offer! She started with a
song, a lullaby for her brother. Then she went on to fight the zillion reasons
urging her to cry, to show her femininity. It was okay for a woman to cry, they
were never questioned. That was one ugly picture painted by elite savages
long before the birth of time that consequently continued to overtake feminine
greatness. Nashani chose to be a disappointment, she shed no tear.
Nashani felt sorry for her half-brother, he was as a loving heart; so fragile.
Over the years, she had learned to love him as much as she would love anyone
without a disability. Epilepsy, a pure medical condition but associated with
superstition in M’biya village. Apparently, it was an infamous notion that
anyone slaved by the disease had contacts with the departed but the
communication was ill, still the dead tried to convey their so-called messages
to the living from time to time, causing the convulsions and sometimes the
fainting of the being. That belief had it’s toll on everyone, Nashani inclusive.
Consequently, he was taken to spiritualists, witchdoctors; still none was able
to relieve him of the curse. It wasn’t until when an English medical student
belonging to an international health body visited M’biya village and
enlightened villagers on various defects including epilepsy that they gradually
accepted him for what he was.
It was hard not to heed the call of elders. Theirs was a voice of paramount
significance. The elders were second to no one in command. They doubled as
clan leaders chosen by eligible clan members often due to castigation and
propaganda. Eligibility spelt a male adult in possession of a plot of land. The
elders warned of severe punishment to anyone caught in the act of aiding
‘outcasts-’ as such people with deformities were called. Children were never
allowed to mingle with the able-minded ones, adults had subscription to
limited freedom. They were kept indoors, never sent on errands and many
cases bloomed of parents denying their children the free primary education. As
for the adults, great misfortune followed each step taken. The greatest of them
all was probably a parents’ right to veto a child’s wish of finding a better-half.
The story was told of an epileptic man who went against his father’s wishes
and found a woman to marry only to later discover that…
The narrative was rudely intercepted by a stripper, Ganizani stripped me of
my freedom to enjoy dreams. Knucklehead. I had little time to take a bath,
prepare something to eat, do my portion of the household chores, get to work.
Ganizani and Godfrey looked at me rather impulsively as I struggled to get on
my feet and feel the feat. Godfrey had something to say obviously, judging by
the movement of his lips. It was probably about my usage of cocaine, M r
Therapist who could eat a whole pig on a single meal. My eyes evaded his, a
clear message that I needed no lecture on the affairs of my life. I dared him
often times to show me a person with no shortfalls. It was no news of course
that anyone was clean of guilt, I only gave him a chance to change things. I
had valid reasons for doing all that I did, they just chose to cast a deaf ear on
me. Was I supposed to care about that?
We boarded a min bus to Dereben city from Sezulu township where me and
my brothers resided. We lived a life of clandestine, always careful before
revealing an identity. In Dereben, anyone could be a lawman. We were to them
like outlaws, they thought not twice about deportation. We stayed careful, kept
our ears alert. Godfrey and myself had each a set of Mp3 players, we drowned
our wants in music playing through earphones or pretended to do so when a
need arose. M r Poetry immersed himself in books, portable ones. He loved
reading anything no people agreed upon an idea. The earlier words lashed on
him were nothing short of a comic relief, he was more educated in his sense
than me and Godfrey. Zithole junction was the first stop, an elderly
gentleman in dread-rocks stepped out, creating a room for one more. The min
bus conductor and driver engaged in a conversation that tickled almost every
passenger. They laughed their lungs out, a case of misfortune for me and my
brothers. Such was an excellent example of the contrast between people of
different roots sharing a habitat. It could’ve been clear that time if a question
arose, that some of us that laughed not were not of the roots of Dereben,
judging by our inability to decipher their tongue. The min bus officials had jus
cracked a joke about the man in dread-rocks, I had to understand that from the
way the conductor used his hands to elaborate more on the joke amid hearty
commentary murmuring. The laughter died down slowly. Still some added
more wood to the fire but to our merriment, it became lifeless nevertheless.
The bus came to a halt for the second time to pick up a damsel. I looked at
Godfrey, he looked at me and we both turned our gaze to the pre-occupied
Ganizani. One could’ve easily said he minded not other people’s business, he
never took his eyes off the novel he was reading; an excellent gesture on his
part in the face of pretence. The previous gentleman shared boundaries with
Ganizani, the same went for the lady therefore. I saw Ganizani skip a page to
steal a satisfactory glance. She wasn’t like Helen of ancient Greece but
categorizing her into a duckling could as well have been an unpardonable sin.
She was an average beauty in a purple min skirt ending an inch away from a
pair of inviting ebony thighs. A tucked in sleeveless blouse revealed a flat
stomach overshadowed by a pair of well-cultivated tangerines. The scent of
her perfume kept our nostrils captive. Ganizani was more affected. He
drunkenly closed his eyes as his hand moved from the novel to his jaw, slowly
caressing the countable beards. He looked at her as a Lion looks at an Impala,
only with a little patience. That lady had everything to suggest that she was a
formidable force not to be deceived into impure acts so easily. Godfrey looked
outside the panes, pretended to be concentrating on something else while I
placed my right hand over my mouth to avoid bursting into a sudden laughter,
a move that could’ve awaken the sleeping predators aboard that Bongo Master
automobile. I caught M r Poetry stealing yet another glance at the lady’s
cleavage. Of course, who would not have noticed the V-shape overtaken by
the edges of a brown bra shielding the tangerines from greedy eyes. Ganizani
was above the ninth cloud seriously composing a life as coincidentally
suggested by the title of the novel he had unjustly choked by Mary Catherine
Bateson. It was our turn to disembark, my brother showed reluctance to let her
out of his mind. So he was no Casanova after all , he left without a word, a
handshake at most!
‘‘M r Poetry, what do you call that?’’ I set the ball rolling. He said, only
looked at me. His prolonged stare quickly warned me of whatever thoughts of
doom his mind might have been preparing. An adage went, ‘caring for one’s
teeth does not solely mean brushing but avoiding fists as well.’ Ganizani was a
well-built man, snapping my neck could not have caused him a feeling like
breaking a heart. I added an extra meter distance from him, just to be on the
safe side. Godfrey looked on, laughing. Unlike me, Godfrey knew to swing an
arm and swing it at the target. Ganizani himself had had a first person account
of Ganizani in a brawl, he was a match for Boyka of the movies.
‘‘You know something Victa,’’ Ganizani said, ‘‘I think I have just had a taste
of love at first sight.’’
‘‘Whatchu sayin dude?’’ Godfrey could not keep to himself any longer.
‘‘It may exist indeed, that girl. I have fallen for that girl whoever she may
be,’’ he said. Of course Godfrey and myself were no fools to fall for that
plank. With a certainty, he really deserved an Oscar.
‘‘Man, nobody gon believe whatchi sayin no matter how dead serious yo ‘re.
Damn, this is you, the player; a one night stand buddy, come off it man, quit
acting.’’
 ‘‘How I wish it was all an act, I would but say it sprung from a script written
by a wanting soul. You are saying this because you are armed with a reference
to my past. But this today gentlemen, this is the present, an opportunity to be
what you have never been and to try new ideas like this of love at a first
instant.’’ We kept on walking without paying anymore attention to his
gibberish speech. No other conviction was worthwhile, somebody was
smoking something.
Van Krook Val, must have been a happy man short of a soul. He must have
been laughing at our misfortune when our hearts on the other side drowned in
an ocean of tears. We talked less the rest of the day. I had an excellent excuse
to use drugs and drink heavily only that Ganizani and Godfrey ventured along
my pattern of problem solving that particular time. A new fire of anti-migrant
presence sparked across the city. Securing another living was sure to be no
child’s play. No bed of roses, thorns in a skinny flesh. I sniffed dope,
unleashing a satisfying wave of shockwaves throughout my body. I held my
head in my arms. The architect of my survival, I had to think fast and make
affairs bright as new. Men ought not to cry in the face of destruction, without
that instruction, I would have gone against Grandfather’s wishes. All the toil
he had to endure, all of it yielded nothing, zero. Grandfather said the spirits of
my late father and of those that passed on before him were on the look out for
me. He assured me of success with every drop of sweat from my forehead. It
could not have been a simple assurance from a sage supposing to shed light on
a seeming dark path, aided by the knowledge of corners of life.
‘‘Use the red feather to scribble the child’s name on the sheath,’’ ordered the
Juju man. Grandfather did as he was asked. He wrote my name and placed the
sheath in a weaved basked containing boiling water…Whatever illusion the
Juju man played, was a masterpiece. Water in a bamboo weaved basket and
boiling…Such an act had a place but not anywhere among the living. The
journey to the Juju man had been a distressful one. Only foot- paths existed,
joining and intercepting, all heading towards a thick forest. He led the way, the
master. With him, I needed not be afraid. He was a good man. Good men are
feared by jealousy one’s none else, he said that himself. I had no reason to be
jealousy of a seventy-something old man. I chose to simply obey every word
coming out of his mouth.
‘‘Take your shirt off and kneel there,’’ said the Juju man pointing at an animal
skin. I did as I was told though with a little reluctance but with Grandfather
beside me, I feared not a thing. The Juju man made rounds of incantations,
creating circular movements around my body. Then the disgusting part came.
‘‘Bring me the sacrificial item,’’ demanded the Juju man. Grandfather picked
up the fowl we had brought along and handed it over. The medicine man killed
it and let its warm blood drip on my topless body while Grandfather looked on
and nodded his head in satisfaction. The fortification was done with, what
remained was the journey back home.
I placed another spoonful of the coke on the table but sniffed it not. I thought
more about the old man, he had been lying to me all along. He sounded really
convincing the day he took me to the medicine man and the next day he gave
me the luck coin before I boarded the train going down South-a free spirit left
to wander around the land of opportunities, the rainbow city of Dereben.
Ganizani sipped more of the intoxication, browsing through an encyclopedia
as he did so. Godfrey had had enough, he rose and went outside. Food. He
went to look for something to stretch his intestines, a tendency of his when
under panic. Ganizani talked to himself, pointed at something invisible then let
out a giggle. It was understandable, our life supply had met an unjust end
because of some…savage patriots.
‘‘Hey take it easy brother, where there is still life; there is hope,’’ I urged him
on. He ignored me and carried on his business. He would occasionally startle
me. From a whisper to a soft voice to a scream to a shriek, ‘‘They hate us!’’
All that, to keep himself from crying. Society placed a burden on men. It
was not fair to say that a man should never cry, show the fragile side of his
heart. Tears to me were like a detergent, cleaning the eyes for a better view. So
if it was believed that a man ought not to show visible remorse, it also should
have been believed that violence from a man with a broken life was no news.
For unwashed eyes kept dirt; dirt stain a pure spirit, children of an impure
spirit are many… among them, fists. I dare thought we all deserve a wail, no
tears for females alone.
Grandfather assured me that life would be happy to have me as a son. He
never said my boss would kick my butt from work and use security personnel
on me if I tried to scale the wall of his patience by showing up to seek a
second chance. As a well learned man in the affairs of the spirits and men, I
expected his predictions to be accurate.
‘‘Tell me Grandfather, what really happened there?’’
‘‘A correct question. What happened there was your fortification. You are
now a man, a fortress, no bodily harm or otherwise shall befall you,’’ he said
assuredly.
‘‘If you may elaborate more, why were the maize cob sheath, boiled water
and fowl used to perform the rituals?’’
‘‘That my child, is another excellent question. I see you will never bring
shame to my eyes. It works to believers, none else. A single seed of maize is
planted but it goes on to become; first a stem then an offspring blooms, a great
number indeed. That is to say, a single chance is all you need to succeed. The
boiled water symbolizes a weapon that will terminate any ill-will fashioned
against you either by your foes or allies.’’
‘‘The killed fowl is much significant than the rest. Like anything that has a
beginning has an end, your luck may run out. When that happens, your name
will be but dust, blown away by the raging wind of mishap. So in place of the
death of your luck, the fowl comes in. It has taken the cost to itself,’’ he
concluded.
I nodded my oversized head. Whether in agreement or confusion I knew not,
it was not easy to lay out the differences between the two. The day I travelled
was the day he handed to me, the silver coin. A coin, really. I was told it was
to act as a symbol of the pact I had a part in. He then said his last words and
departed, never to look back at me once. Searching my mind of any guilt or
shortfall, he directed a gaze into my light on earth, my eyes.
‘‘All that we have done will bring sweet fruits. But that will depend on your
belief to carry that coin with you always and most importantly, that you will
always stay an upright man.’’
Godfrey returned with some biscuits and soft drinks, doughnuts, beef
sausages and a fried chicken.
‘‘Guys, let’s eat wha we can,’’ he said.
‘‘I am not hungry, I will eat later,’’ M r Poetry said. We did not let that
happen. We persuaded him, he gave up and joined us. Godfrey did not need a
bell to know that he was up to the task of being a bread-winner of the
brotherhood. Weeks later, bills took turns to slave us, Godfrey especially. He
settled them without showing signs of discontentment. He overnight became a
father and a son, but not a mother; that was simply out of the inquiry for him.
He worked like a horse, departing at dawn and showing his face again at dusk.
We in turn coked his meals, did anything necessary to make him feel like an
appreciated man.
‘‘By any chance, I may start tutoring a dozen Dereben University students on
a part-time basis,’’ Ganizani announced one evening after dinner.
‘‘Wow, the best of wishes brother. I always thought you did not eat ink for
nothing,’’ I replied.
‘‘Dats great buddy, really massive. Whatchu gon be teachin?’’
‘‘Well, I will essentially be helping them with Literature; poetry to be exact.’’
 ‘‘So ya well not doin yo self a crime after all, big up buddy.’’
‘‘When are you starting,’’ I asked.
‘‘Surprise, surprise,’’ he replied.
‘‘You know I am not good with that, say it please,’’ I said.
‘‘Come on guys, what do you think, hey Godfrey?,’’
‘‘Nah, you said you gon start workin’ soon. Now ya all over our heads makin’
us guess abut yo stunt. No time soon ain’t no surprise, so just tell us the deal
or piss off and say somethin’ else,’’ Godfrey retorted in anger. Sometimes his
tongue could suggest trouble but it really did not often create any. His tongue
must have been tired of continually weaving the American accent, it might
have wanted a divorce but being bound in an eternal affection of life
pleasantries like soda and yoghurt, she had no mind driven by herself. Such a
lash of emotion was but a sugary example of the tongue’s petitions rendering
Godfrey’s hypothalamus useless. He could sweat on a morning of June and put
on an extra cover on a cloudless day.
‘‘You’re making us impatient Ganizani, let the cat out,’’ I came to his rescue.
He could see that any further delay could have an inflammatory cost on
Godfrey. He apologized and stated that he had actually started working
already. By anytime soon, he meant a sweet for his sweat. Fruits for his toil,
not the sense we had ignorantly established.
Ganizani made an example of the one thing I hated most in Literature. I had
a particular dislike for poets though I was still good at putting to heart words
that made such a great sense or no sense at all. It was to act as an arsenal of
reference in the face of an ensuing literal battle. I did not want to be caught off
guard by my foes. Poetry was like a pain killer tablet while I remained as a
child feeling a headache. The inevitability meant I take the tablet of enjoy the
rumblings. I dived for the former. Poets. Lazy and greedy. Poets try to convey
a meaning in a sentence, they are bullies. Short story writers, playwrights and
novelists could’ve been saved from my axe-wielding thoughts had it not
been for their enticing acts of debauchery. Good sinners and saints alike exists
in a single work leading a reader to a cross road. If I had an audience with
them, I would’ve knocked each off their masks of insanity. If they wanted to
portray a man as a serial killer injuring others for fun, they should’ve driven
him to do as willed without making him feel a sudden grip of remorse and
starting to use his tools for a Horticulture business. Same for the acclaimed
good, why not let them borrow and give without seeking anything in return till
an author’s mind run out of any other deeds straight in the eyes of men to put
to paper. Hell no. No novel could ever be written of a member of parliament
who gave out half of his salary only to later ask villagers to sew wings for him
or of a life taker who closed the window of his heart firmly in his known
profession. I disliked words put to paper and read in the dark. If the writers
were unsure of writing about one thing, how was I supposed to be sure of
emulating a character in a dress code drawn by them?
Godfrey said nothing else but disappeared under covers. Ganizani had
nothing to cry over, Godfrey showed the face of a forgiver before labeling a
slumber to be a fool. Godfrey overworked himself to ensure we had a
continued supply of a bread a day, Ganizani was on the way to adding butter; I
hated being on the receiving end.
‘‘Escort me to work tomorrow, I have something for your eyes. You shall be
so startled that I doubt if you will be able to get on your feet and look at
surprise in the eye,’’ Ganizani said. I had a surprise the following day... But I
quickly coiled back to myself, Ganizani was no man to trust with my curiosity.
I probably had more surprises than his and Godfrey’s combined. Still out of
respect, I agreed to follow him to his work place. If bowing of the head saluted
his fists or his mind, it made not a difference. Both seemed to be
proportionally vast. Body and mind, like physical and abstract. Ganizani
Haward; a Chanco University degree holder, an ex employee of a construction
company enjoying the position of a wheel barrow pusher, thousands of miles
away from home. I looked at him, prolonged it till I a got a response.
‘‘I hope that I am not intimately gaining favor in your eyes. If it be so, say it
quickly, let me smash your head before you do me in my sleep.’’ I laughed
wildly at that weird observation. Such thoughts had no place in my mind. I
saw no human condition that could alter a person’s thoughts to make them
want to lie with others of a similar species. The spirits of my fathers, I dared
them to take my life in the most bizarre of ways if I thought along such lines
even for a blink of the eye. Back home, a marriage of such kind could invoke
a wrath- oh so unimaginable. How about children, the treasure of our people,
where would any crawl from? Elders and all villagers alike could feed my
corpse to weeping vultures, they could uproot any roots of my name to make
me extinct from their memory. Same marriage to me and my brothers was
simply a no, no. I asked Ganizani about something personal. He sit still, said
nothing and left the conversation for minutes without measure. I interrupted
him not. I was at that instant hammering the softest and indeed the most
vulnerable part of his heart.
‘‘I did not know my father, I hope he knew me. I majored in poetry, drama
and a little of philosophy at Chanco University. Missionaries, I am to thank
them for the education opportunity. My step-father was my life, still is. My
surname belongs to him.’’ He said in the most quiet manner possible. A youth
of our Facebook generation taking a name from a step-father... He must have
been a man worthy of an emulation. What happened to his biological paternal
god, was a path I was asked not to tread. Still I had one more question.
‘‘My mother, she is no more, I killed her.’’ He answered my question before I
asked, and added a new mystery. Poets, he was at it again.
Godfrey bid us farewell and left at day break. The wind gave birth to a child
called ice, a cold morning ensued. We stayed in bed for hours, not sleeping at
all. M r Poetry was eating a diary, I was doping. He then came towards my
bed and snatched the life support from me and hid it in his Saka bag. Moral of
the act, I was not to behave as a pig in front of then surprise. That gave me
another hint; the surprise was a person. My common sense shared another
secret; the surprise had all the probability of being a woman. Males act manly
even when they lack the authentic qualities before females. And yes, the
suits… Perplexed still. Ganizani had introduced me to a trillion women before,
none had a share of his mind at all, one night stand bed-warmers. Who, what,
was the surprise?
The lecture room was not so spacious but it was manageable still. Acquiring
a class room I was told, was no task of the teacher but the students themselves-
an unmissed side of devotion. In-front was a well-plastered black board, the
well from whose aid, students of life with a thirst for knowledge would drink.
M r Poetry, my brother, was the tin to draw the know how’s with. He acted so
confident, anyone mistaking him for Homer the godfather in today’s sense
would’ve been forgiven, their eyes cancelled from a check up doctor’s
appointment list. All the while dressed in a naked smile, his lights combing the
room for perfection. There was a table with some chairs, probably for cross-
examination into a group’s work. The floor sang praises to tinted tiles, the
same could’ve been said of the roof as itself failed to believe the blessing of a
neatly arranged sets of plywood ceiling boards. Twenty people, at most, could
have boasted of an enticing accommodation. The lecture room was suffering a
choke hold already, two more and it could have filed a complaint against us.
So far, so better. It was safe to think that that the surprise was nowhere within
the lecture room, reading a page on Ganizani’s face. He then hinted on me
having a special package to offer. What was he saying?
‘‘My brotherly friend here will at the right moment introduce the bonus
points question. Rules remain unchanged. I believe Keziah is among us…’ M r
Poetry asked, the concerned lady was around. I was taken back a bit, there had
been no agreement whatsoever between us of me playing an aide. My part was
to gaze at a beauty or a squirrel not to teach poetry! But the water had retained
no other arsenal before kissing the ground.
‘‘I now hand it over to M r Victa Chisapo for today’s bonus points question.’’
The clocked cheated on me. I rose from my seat like a gentleman, surveyed
student’s faces then arrested the lady in court. I borrowed the mind of an
overseer amid those terrifying minutes. Thoughts upon wishes, questions
sharing boundaries with answers flooded my mind, advocating for their
release if my eyes were to not bathe involuntarily. I asked her to stand, she did
just that without any fault. She directed her eyes at me, in me. As if sensing
my shock, her lips made a pact with her mouth and they bullied me. A literal
battle ensued, one without flags or decrees but with tongues and referees.
‘‘In any sense applicable to you Keziah, define life.’’ Sigh. It was her turn to
put on dancing shoes and face the rhythm. She took her time, so did everyone.
She copied her answer from somewhere, a torn yesterday most likely. When
she finally spoke, she said thus…
‘‘Someone travelling on a road lacking signs
Cruising, unaware of dangers ahead
Like an actor, busy controlling emotions
But, to a sleeping audience.
The sun of hope smiling at dancing clouds
Yet still gazing at a fainted star,
Failing to fall for another.
Water from innocent eyes
Emptiness of a well-richness
A lady that loves a dreamer
A gentleman that cross oceans
Climb mountains, pass in thorny paths
Hate his father and sister
Only to read of his lover,
Happy in the arms of someone else.
A widow who offers the best
To her beloved seed
At the expense of her own breaths
But to be branded a witch,
When her child becomes a big shot…’’
It was no bad answer to a question I would’ve failed, had I been in Keziah’s
sandals. When I was asked to mark her words, I gave her over half of
whatever number of bonus points available. She sat on a smile, a broad one.
One scholar termed the narrative unsatisfactory though, he had a question for
Keziah. Being in-charge, I called on him to empty his mind.
‘‘My name is Tembudzbane Mokoloena,’’ he started with an introduction.
Whoever helped him see the light of day must’ve passed a comedy class with
a distinction. Anali ndi dzina lotha ndalama mu lamya [he had a name that
could claim more airtime] than a greeting between sages over a phone.
‘‘I would like to know why Keziah’s definition is chiefly resting on tears.’’ M
r Long-name could boast of a set of tricks up his sleeve. I put the question
forward to Keziah but Ganizani waved his hand to dismissed the act. It was his
office, he knew any B’s from Z’s. He handled matters so well, stating that he
took charge a class only once in my absence could certainly have passed for a
hearsay.
‘‘As much as everyone would have loved to know that, myself in particular,
I am afraid it will be a no visitors’ zone. Today’s assignment is closely related
to the same topic,’’ he said. Tembudzbane Mokoloena leveled his ground
without a grunt. M r Poetry assigned to his students yet another dull task. He
directed them to write a full A 4 paper explanation as to why people cry. A
university presence, bathing in what idiocy can be ashamed of. Tears, why
people cry. Millions offered to institutions of higher learning, to learn just that.
How Ganizani managed to convince varsity students in the first place to gain
knowledge from was not out of the question, it was impossible. But there he
was, my brotherly friend, perfecting the act…
‘‘My brother, she was not here. The lady from the min bus, on our way to
work,’’ Ganizani said somberly. Tebogo Mtshabane, was my apple known to
Ganizani as well?
‘‘I fell in-love with her the day my mind feasted on her beauty. You and 50
cent laughed at my ‘feeble resolution’ of finding a woman attractive at a first
instant. You pointed out lust at first sight, not love. Well, I have news for you
dear friend. I talked to her soul yesterday, she too likes the color of my heart.
That was my intended surprise brother, we are lovers!’’ I held my breath. My
ears never heard of a sad tale than the one about to flap its wings in my face.
No chances left to doubt, Ganizani’s elaboration needed no further
explanation. Ganizani and myself, plucked one tangerine. I should have told
him, what ill luck once again. Ganizani, oh brother, I had tasted the fruit
already over chances…
‘‘I met her a week ago when I was going about my errands. She happens to
be a Dereben university student and my part-time student as well. The nature
of days will cease not to play tricks on humanity. You are quiet brother, no
word. Are you that shocked?’’
‘‘Not exactly,’’ I cleared the question, a move of guilt. To try and distance
myself from the narrative. He looked so contented as a child learning that a
fire should not inflict pain alone but should mould warmth as well. Ganizani
was so alive, having found the missing art of his existence. I feared smashing
his heart somehow, I should have bitten his ear, he should have known of my
fishy acts. Mine was no pain but regret.
Just before Zithole junction, we saw a crowd consisting mostly of youths,
carrying placards or anything bearing resemblance to a Rosetta stone written
in a language alien to me and my brother. But not the same could be said of
other passengers who showed signs of positive disbelief as if to thank
someone for making something unbelievable, a reality. I conversed with
Ganizani in a most excellent English accent as none before, loud enough to be
heard and easily fool Derebeners as being important foreign nationals. The
suits added romance to the style. We froze not in giving directions of where
we would disembark. Reaching our house without ditches everyday was a
dream, though it carried a little color on that particular day. We found
Godfrey already in, himself a student to the new lesson on uncertainty.
Godfrey switched his radio on. As if directed by a destined time, the news of
the town was on. A BBC ‘s radio reporter switched from reporting at intervals
to a live broadcast. Apparently, Dereben city mayor was holding a rally and in
the words of the reporter, ‘he was trying to drive a vehicle that could clash into
the South’s flag; tearing apart the Rainbow Nation. Speaking through an
interpreter, Mayor Sesotho sold new ideas to locals at no costly price at all. He
then said the dreaded words. My heart evaded a beat, Ganizani raked his head,
Godfrey placed his hands over his face as if…in a prayer.
Dereben was for Derebeners, the same went for the South in general, he
said. Mayor Sesotho preached such trash and worse, the congregation planted
his words in their hearts. What would happen to us…
‘Brother Eman,’ I said it in almost a whisper but they heard me still.
‘Damn it Vic, call him right now…’ Godfrey was close to shouting at me. A
face of shame covered me as I tried to explain to him how I lost Eman’s
mobile phone number. I asked if he still had it.
‘‘Ain’t no lie changin’ my mind on you over dis. You’re a damned fool to
have kicked yo brother out like dat. I got no number for ya, will halla him
myself.’’ I did what was noble, maybe I was wrong. He phoned Eman but his
number was out reach, he left a message instead.
 ‘‘This is on guys, any survival tips?’’ Ganizani inquired. Godfrey supplied a
reply but it did not save the day for Ganizani. We argued over and again till I
could offer my views no longer, they carried on. The day, a Thursday, 7th of
April 2015 had played a bitter game on me. My tables were turned upside
down. Most shocking was the game of secrets. Ganizani was actually a
married man with a kid, his mother dying of a heart attack upon learning of
Ganizani’s impregnation of a cousin. Then Tebogo. Then the impending
doom. To grasp all that, was perplexing. I quickly dozed off to eventually
wake up on a bed, well-made. Someone played a guardian. Sweet. A night
without cocaine, a blessed night. Fatique doubled as an intoxicator,
substituting drugs. One text message, my brother Eman. All fine, without
hiccups, in Dereben like me, would make time to see me. So, I was forgiven. I
shouldn’t have. I let him off with strangers, with a kindred I knew not of. His
crime… I desired not a lecture on the affairs of my life, worse when it came
from my junior. Godfrey and Ganizani warned me against throwing my
brother out of the brotherhood but I gave no ear to their call. His behavior out-
smarted mine, a no visitor’s area of mine. Eman had something to start
building someone in himself, I gave him liberty to follow his instincts in the
wind. But there, was a circumstance aiding in re-building our torn relationship.
Eman, oh brother.
Godfrey left a note behind when leaving for work. It mostly contained
directions on money usage as well as some stupid jokes. He left, on a lighter
note. Dziko Fm played my favorite song by Lucky Dube, other radio stations
went about their deeds. What gripped my attention was the report on BBC
Radio World Service…
‘ Hello and welcome, this is Sherily Jones reporting from Sezulu township in
the heart of Dereben city. There has been a wave of shocking attitudes by local
residents here and I am told in other parts of the country as well towards
foreign nationals. Eye witness accounts are told of the brutal beating of a
Nigerian man by what can be best described as a ring of mobsters-his shop
ransacked. Luck was on his side though as law enforcers arrived at the scene
quick enough to save him. This is the first report of violence against foreigners
receiving authorities’ and media’s attention since the words of Mayor Sesotho
have come to take their rightful place in the stone-cold hearts of some of
South’s citizens. . .’ Boom, doom.
I went over to Ganizani’s bed to wake him, he was up already, digesting
each word spoken by the reporter. We stayed quiet throughout the day. Did
chores, I bathed; all in act of dismay, without a word. We stayed indoors. No
evidence was needed to claim that our silent mouths reflected not our minds. I
could not say of Ganizani but mine was much busier than a train station.
Ganizani would not have been that perplexd. I was certain he had similar
situations a countless times in the novels, short stories and plays he read.
‘‘Did you speak with your brother, how is he?’’ he inquired. I replied of
Eman’s reply of a well and fit life. Then the physical serenity crept in again.
He grabbed a towel and went outside to take a bath. He returned shortly after,
without having bathed.
‘‘I can only think of one place that can shield us now, our country’s embassy.
Let us wait for Godfrey’s return. We will leave tomorrow before dawn,’’ so
Ganizani said. His was a mind armed with resolutions. He went out again.
Two minutes later approximately, there was a knock on the door. I asked
whoever the knocker was to come in but she refused, saying she needed
directions to Ganizani Haward’s place. I assured her it was the right place
and explained where Ganizani was. My mind was too weak to urge me up and
see who the knocker was. ‘‘Probably one of the fools he drilled,’’ I thought to
myself. She was a little hesitant to open the door but nevertheless, she did
that.
‘‘Tebogo Mtshabane, you?’’ I asked in yet another ripple of disbelief. She
stood still, looking at me as if at a beast.
‘‘Rapist, what the hell are you doing here?’’
‘‘No, I am not a rapist. You gave me consent, remember?’’
‘‘In a drunken state, I lacked will to enforce my rules. You tricked me, you
raped me idiot!’’ Tebogo’s voice gained a charged amplitude with each
sentence spoken. I was helpless, anybody could’ve fallen for her act. But it
was no rape at all. Her eyes were open, before her legs. Inviting, ebony legs.
‘‘Bastard, I now have to carry your damned seed that is refusing to die in me.
You should have asked me, you took away my pride. I remained chaste all my
life to offer the gift of my virginity to the man who would call me his beloved.
But no, I have to lie with him to cover this shame of yours!’’ She screamed.
Bad news. The devil in me had been busted by an angel I acknowledged not.
Worse, Ganizani stepped in carrying with him a scent intoxicated in disbelief.
He stood staring at me, then her. It was obvious, we needed no further
explanations. He heard the last part o f Tebogo’s speech, the most important
part at that. So lethal than a lioness robbed of her cubs. I feared for my
breaths. He had every reason on paper or on an oral charge to snap my neck
that instant. I knew not the truth in Ganizani’s eyes when I went viral on the
internet searching for her name stolen from the visible documents of a
stranger-Tebogo. Ganizani talked less of her since the min bus incident, a
surefire encouragement for me to go on with the hideous plans my body
devised for her. She nodded her head to my request, only to give me a chance
to psychologically ruin myself. I arranged to take her out, give her a treat then
later under a sheet, disguise myself to instantly acquire a new identity- a cheat.
The experience was indeed worth a child, an excellent memory of pleasure
between mortals.
‘‘Hello, this is BBC Radio news briefs with me Andrew Scotfield. Violent
protests in the cities of Dereben and Kwaisuzulu have intensified over the last
hour, now adding to its shame the almost beating to death of a man in Safari
shirt bearing the flag of Lusaka nation but turned out to be a local fellow. He
was questioned by a mob of protesters in Sezulu township as to why he
showed love for an alien nation aiming at devouring what rightfully belongs to
them. He was reportedly asked if that show meant subversion. To some
people’s dismay, he stated that it was a simple act of ignorance. ‘Cha
angigondi, ngiyaxolisa,’ he said, roughly translating into an apology.’’
‘‘My brother, you have cheated me.’’
‘‘It was an act of arrogance,’’ I answered Ganizani quickly enough to claim a
credit, had the words not been stolen from Andrew’s anchoring. On any other
day, such a response would’ve triggered an uncontrollable laughter in M r
Poetry. I was about to lose the trust of a friend, the same mistake I did with my
brother Eman.
‘‘My brother, you have cheated me,’’ he repeated himself. I stayed still,
uttered not a word. The bone of contention looked, her perfume that once
captured my nose worked against itself as it choked me to a regret. Ganizani
went about the room, put on some clothes and opened a cheap liquor bottle,
wetting his throat, giggling throughout. He looked at me, at the pregnant lady,
then another giggle.
‘‘You know something Victa, I will not do as you are thinking,’’ he point
blank stated my thoughts. I expected a fist to knock some sense into me and
corrupt his spirit as well. I was to get none, he evaded the trick. He packed his
belongings and eventually turned to leave before taking Tebogo by the hands.
‘‘I am not a saint, I will not pretend to be one. I have a wife back home, with
a kid. I will let life sort out itself. If you are willing Tebogo, to love me and
my flaws, please be my wife,’’ M r Poetry must have momentarily misplaced
his senses to make such a request…
‘‘Yes, you should wonder indeed Victa. That is what love can do. Tebogo,
what do you have to say?’’
‘‘Okay beloved, I will be your wife. I am sorry for what I did, I should have
been careful to not be led into impure acts that easily.’’ The madness
concluded.
 ‘‘Well then Victa, I will be sure to look after your child like my own and
worry not, he/she will be a Chisapo, I won’t force my borrowed name on
him/her. As for Godfrey, I will call him and let him know of what has
transpired today. I can not stay with you any longer, Adios Amigos.’’ He said,
and they left, really. I laughed out loudly, trying to take in the drama that
unfolded right past my eyes. What else could a man lose? I was not the saddest
man on the planet like Judas right after he had betrayed Jesus, but it hurt to be
a damn loser…
I tried Godfrey’s number several times but it went unanswered. Alone, I took
the life support. Heavily, heavily I mean. Into a snoring slumber I was led to
be interrupted at an interval by a noise. Noises. People’s voices chanting
gibberish abracadabra. What alerted me was a realization, that the chanting
was no robot’s song at all but isuzulu, a native language of Dereben.
Derebeners were on the streets, doing what?
As the voices fainted, I realized one did not. As a matter-of-fact, it steadily
travelled towards the direction of my house. I prepared myself, discreetly
cleared my throat, gathering any alien words and phrases I collected within
months of staying in Dereben. I stood up and waited for the unknown: a fist or
a feast. He knocked on the door so strongly that I immediately cursed him but
under my breath. Wherefore he intruded, he made known:
‘‘Brother inside, kukhona inkosi ya insizwa and all ncane mpofu, lendelayo
ilithuba for us. Ukufanele ukufika fast, come out, let’s join them,’’ thank
heavens he knew some patterns of English language…He gave me an idea as
to what to say.
‘‘Ukuxolela wena mkulu, angigondi anything before, ngiyaxolisa. Go, I will
join you soon.’’ I said without wasting a second. A sigh of freedom. That was
close, more than death itself. Andrew’s report on BBC radio worked in my
favor again. My response was more than powerful to lure the unsuspecting
predator away.
I dialed Godfrey’s number again several times but still, no response. The sun
was still youthful, shadows played games with trees. I assured myself that he
was probably entangled in work. I started preparing lies to feed him, to extract
a meal out of him for the following days. I planned to lie about my self, not
about M r Poetry. Enough, my sins against him were enough. I vowed to say
only the truth with reference to him. It was not a wise idea to tread upon the
emotions of a man who was trying to desperately trade his lust for love. The
best part in him, the one responsible for a camouflage met a revolution going
to a crusade. He changed.
A phone call, it was Godfrey.
 ‘‘ Hey buddy, there ain’t a thang right here. Yo, it’s not lookin’ good,’’
Godfrey said. I asked him what the problem was, he failed to answer me. He
let out a sob. Godfrey, crying. He was no longer a man, circumstance made
sure of that.
‘‘Man, these bastards are sick. They’re killin’ us for nothin’ yo listen… They
don’t see us as equals man, they’re torturing our courage. You gotta getouta
there right now, I got some cash in my case, grab it and go, take nothin’. My
phone is dyin’ but I am safe with a brother from another mother. Tell G-man,
you gotta leave.’’ G-man, Mr Poetry.
‘He is not here, we had some issues and he left-’’
‘‘Whatchu mean he is not there? Listen, we gotta stick toge- tu tu tu,’’ the
connection died. Another call, a nature’s call. I visited the men’s room outside,
slamming shut the door of my house. My mind walked about as I eased
myself. Godfrey would not be coming that day for fear of being caught in the
web. ‘Tomorrow morning, I am leaving’’, I thought to myself loudly, causing a
noise. No, it wasn’t mine. It was of someone else. Of many. In isizulu.
And someone crying! Not exactly; shouting, calling out. My name, Victa
Chisapo. Aided by the shortfall of an imbecile builder, my eyes witnessed the
horror. Over half a football field’s distance between me and the mob and I felt
the intensified heat of their demeanor. The songs, thumping of the ground, the
person shouting. I kept my identity discreet, as a written note about a coup. A
Derebener calling out my name…
‘‘Victa, my friend!’’ Ganizani! It was him, being dragged by the wizards. I
saw it clearly, my friend; my brotherly friend, swimming in liquid: for saying
it was blood might fuel my grief. Let me say, it only borrowed the danger-
color. Stinging tears in my eyes. One leg, taken by a hyena. The other, by a
vulture. Arms swaying side by side; pulling my friend across the terrain
deliberately, severing the back of his head. That part of his body, rich in
technicalities, worth a fortune. They scattered the knowledge over the
roadside, liquid oozing out. My friend, oh I wronged him. He could not have
lived, even if I became superman over chances and rescued him. It could only
have been worse. He could’ve died in my care, short of a scalp. The wizards
looked around, they saw the terrified me. Only in their minds, not eyes.
‘‘She is okay my friend, she is fine…’’ His last words. Tebogo. He welcomed
his very last breath, thinking about her. He took her name with him, to eternity.
He said she was fine, she was fine. I had to think of my own safety. What
safety? I cursed the selfish thought, what damned safety? Then a gun shot.
And another. I sobbed hard, beating my chest. And another. Derebeners shot
my friend as if…
 ***
Madam Reporter, are you crying? Do not deny it, what is that tear doing on
your cheek? You have a heart of gold to immerse yourself in my story. But
there is more to come, the worst part. Can you please, turn off the recorder?
***
Police came, not in time. Ganizani, got a new name. The late. What
happened to my sister-in-law, I could not say. My baby. A selfish though
again, I wept loudly. Then slowly, as Grandfather taught me, I begged for
Ganizani’s forgiveness. His was a distraught spirit, sent on a voyage, like of a
maiden one. He had so many souls to nourish before passing on, before I
helped suffer. A husband and a father back home, a friend, a tutor, a sage. I led
him into a furnace, but he still kept not a grudge, longed to see me safe even
with a last spasm; the guardian. He died because of me, a coward.
Saturday afternoon, Malawa’s country embassy took in and out, a breath of
restlessness. Faces told tales. Of uneasiness, about flight, of fright, about light,
of bitterness; like mine. We conversed in our mother tongue Chichewa,
waiting for transport arranged by our dearest president, to take us back home.
It was better to live on sugarless porridge than get a shot to the head whilst
chopping a beef sausage. Talking of a shot, I triggered one. I felt nothing, he
started it by doing harm to the name of M r Poetry. In a cover of darkness, I
lay in wait for an ambush on any victim applicable to my misery. It made no
difference who murdered Ganizani or not, Derebeners; they all had a single
root. Uprooting one, could affect any other. That’s what I did. At a distance, I
shot the bastard in the head once then emptied the rounds on my revolver on
him, shooting anywhere. He made a grunt, a bit similar to that of someone
known to my heart. Silly soul, kill the Derebener!
That was my concealed act, none knew of it. Not even the saint in me. A
television beaming live the orchestrated violence had Breaking News. My
fellow country men and women alike, turned on their ears.
‘‘Another victim of xenophobic attacks has been identified,’’ said the anchor.
Faces greeted a paralysis. ‘‘Police believe the young man was murdered in the
early hours of today. He was shot a countless times with a revolver dumped at
the murder scene, disfiguring his face.’’ Then the graphic images took turns to
enjoy the show. Surely, he was my man. I saw a scar on the dead man’s hand,
quite familiar.
‘‘Probably another stunt played by my heart to uncover the guilt in me,’’ I said
to myself. I was wrong, it wasn’t a stunt. Oh my heart! Friends gathered
around me. The pain, the regret, would haunt me for eternity…
 ‘‘The victim has been identified as Eman Chisapo of Malawa nation…’’
Xenophobia, you made me kill my brother.

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