Rotten Row Page 2

  She saw the kombi as part of her investment strategy for the day she would return home, but there has been no return, either for her, or of her investment. The brother in whose care she left it spends nothing at all on its maintenance. And so it is that the legally mandated fire extinguisher under the seat is nothing but an empty red can with a nozzle and fading lettering. Thick sheets of semi-transparent plastic sheeting have replaced the glass windows. The factory-made sign says ‘12 PASSENGERS ONLY’, but extra wooden benches have been built in to make room for an additional eight. Travelling calls for posterial dexterity, the most comfortable position for any passenger is to sit on one buttock. Passengers are usually so tightly packed that they do not need seatbelts, which is as well because those are as distant a memory as the front indicator lights. By the end of the journey, they will know each other more intimately than is, perhaps, proper for strangers.

  The first thing that Gidza noticed about Prosper when he met him was that the outside of his right arm was much darker in complexion than the rest of his body; no small wonder as it is the arm that is always out in the open so that he can indicate his intention to turn. Prosper’s own seatbelt is no longer adjustable to the size of its wearer. Whenever they approach a police checkpoint, Prosper has to sit on the extra length. The kombi has passed police inspection at every roadblock.

  Spray-painted on the outside, in the vivid colours of the national flag, is the legend ‘100 PER CENT TALIBAN’. This was Gidza’s idea. His real name is Groblar Khumbulani Bhajila. He was born in the weeks after the giddy moment in which a son of this soil had spurred Liverpool to victory over Roma in the European Cup and a nation roared with him. Gidza’s father had been an early fan of Bruce Grobbelaar, The Jungleman, and of his first club, Highlanders, the lauded ‘ama Bosso’. He had followed The Jungleman’s rise from the heat and dust of Bulawayo to light up Anfield. It stood to reason that he would name his first child in honour of his favourite footballer, in the natural hope that his son would follow where The Jungleman had led. An indifferent clerk had registered the name as he thought it should be spelled, and thus Groblar his son became.

  The illogical order of Shona slang names for English and sort-of-English first names means that the minute Groblar moved from Bulawayo to live with his mother’s uncles in Harare, his name became Gidza, just as all Philips become Fidza, all Ryans Ridza, all Davids Divha and all Jonathans Jonso. He has not followed his father’s dream for him. A big-time dream without the talent and the money to go with it can only ever be a wish, and so here he is now, at ten past nine on a Wednesday morning in September, a small-time hwindi in a battered kombi on Enterprise Road, driving to his death.

  The term hwindi is a double pun. Not only do Gidza and his fellow touts hang like limpets from the windows of their vans, they also hang out into the wind. Gidza has mastered the skills of a good hwindi. He, for it is always a he – it is no suitable job for a woman, this – is more than a tout. He is a necessary part of the driving – because he does his job so well, Prosper can concentrate on driving, knowing that Gidza will shout out their destination to attract passengers, collect the right amount of money for fares, and, with the brusque command, ‘Garisanai four four,’ bully the maximum number of people into squashing next to each other in the small interior space.

  ‘Copacabana, Cop’c’bane, Cop’c’bano!’

  It is monotonous to call out the same destination every few metres, so he makes things lively for himself by varying it a little. He chants it – ‘Copacabana’ – sings it – ‘Cop’c’bane’ – gives it a little zip – ‘Cop’c’bano’. Having called out the destination, he manoeuvres himself back into the van, checks his phone and shrieks with laughter. ‘Iyi yakapenga manje iyi M’koma Prosper,’ he says. ‘Ah gosh! Listen to this one. Congratulations, you have been awarded the amount of $0.00 dollars for calls to any destination at any time on this network.’

  Prosper laughs with him. In his laughter, Gidza leans into a smartly dressed male passenger of proportions that would be more comfortable in a more capacious and less occupied kind of vehicle. ‘You are squeezing me, shamwari,’ the passenger says.

  ‘Sorry, Big Dhara,’ Gidza says. ‘For sure, you are extremely squeezable. Sorry, biggest.’

  Just after they pass the Congolese embassy sign just before Arcturus, Gidza leans out of the window again. ‘Copacabana, Cop’c’bano, Cop’c’bane!’

  A frail looking old white man holds out his arm to stop them. He extends a liver-spotted arm to Gidza. ‘Gemu rachinja, M’koma Prosper,’ Gidza says as he pulls him in. ‘Shiri yabata rekeni. This is a reverse land invasion this one.’

  Before Prosper can respond, two policemen, one fat and the other thin, wave them down. They eject the passengers in the front seat so that they sit next to Prosper. The two ejected passengers look sullen, but say nothing as they squeeze their way into the back. ‘Ko, vana vaMambo,’ says Gidza with insouciant cheer. ‘Matitsika vakuruvakuru. How about doing something unusual today?’

  The larger of the two turns to him, frowns and says, ‘What are you talking?’

  ‘How about paying your fare today?’ says Gidza.

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ says the smaller one.

  ‘Okay, okay, you have worn me down,’ says Gidza. ‘I will give you a discount. Only one of you will pay.’

  They both ignore him and speak to each other in low voices. Unable to get a rise out of them, Gidza leans out of the window again. ‘Copacabana, Cop’c’bane, Cop’c’bano!’

  The van slows down as a woman runs up.

  ‘Are you going to Fourth Street?’

  ‘If we are going to Fourth Street,’ says Gidza, ‘I will say we are going to Fourth Street. Have you heard me say we are going to Fourth Street? Copacabana!’

  As Prosper drives off, a woman dressed in the long white garment and veil of the Apostolic Faith church runs up. She has a baby on her back, is leading a child in one hand and holds a suitcase in the other. Her white garment billows behind her as she runs. Prosper does not stop completely, but maintains a slow crawl while beeping the horn. She pants with effort as she runs alongside them. As she clambers in, she hands the suitcase to Gidza, and takes the baby off her back.

  Gidza helps the little boy in and slides the door closed. ‘If he sits on a normal seat,’ Gidza tells the woman, indicating the child, ‘then you have to pay for him.’

  The woman tries to balance both children and her suitcase on her knee. The boy slips off. ‘Chigara paKadoma, biggest,’ Gidza says to the boy and directs him to a seat on the metal casing above the engine.

  ‘Mhamha, it’s too hot, it’s too hot, mhamha,’ the child says as he shifts one leg after another.

  ‘Wotojaira zvako m’fanami,’ Gidza says with callous cheerfulness. ‘That’s what happens when your mother cannot afford to pay for a seat for you.’

  Under her white veil, the Apostolic woman scowls. ‘What kind of talk is that?’ she says. ‘What do you know about what I can or cannot afford?’

  ‘Where did I lie?’ says Gidza. ‘Copacabana!’

  ‘Mhamha, it’s hot,’ the child says again.

  The woman fishes into her suitcase and hands a half-full plastic bottle of Cascade juice to her son, which consoles him. He finishes it in four large gulps. He burps and hands the empty container to his mother. ‘You had better not be thinking of leaving that bottle in here,’ Gidza warns.

  She sends it flying out of the window where it almost hits a sleek, latest model Mercedes with diplomatic plates that is moving in the opposite direction on the Enterprise Bypass. The Cascade bottle falls on the side of the road under a Forestry Commission sign that says, ‘Nine Million Trees Planted This Season! Thank You Zimbabwe!’

  ‘Hesi baby, hesi nhanha,’ Gidza says as he pokes the baby’s cheek. The baby rewards him with a stony stare. Gidza smiles and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The baby glares back.

  At the sculpture market on the Enterprise Bypass, the old white ma
n and the two policemen get off. Gidza’s attention is diverted from the baby by a seemingly endless row of headless, armless and legless sculptures with disproportionately large breasts and buttocks.

  ‘M’koma Prosper,’ he says as he points to the sculptures, ‘mari inenge yawanda sei kuti mutenge zvidhori izvi? Your money will be truly burning a hole in your pocket if you are going to be spending it on this stuff. Just look at that. These are monstrous horrors these are, M’koma Prosper! Munenge mazvitengera horror! Copacabana!’

  At the traffic lights at the Newlands shops, they stop to let a blind man pass. He wears torn blue overalls while the boy leading him wears a shirt and a pair of shorts belonging to two different school uniforms. ‘Bofu rafamba iri, M’koma Prosper,’ Gidza says. ‘Ndariona nhasi makuseni chaiwo elokhuzeni, kuKuwadzana.’ To the street kid he says, ‘M’fanami, why aren’t you in school like others your age? Here’s a dollar. If I see you again today, don’t ask for more. Copacabana!’

  They have left the Bypass and are almost at the end of Enterprise Road. The rains of the night before have dropped petals from the Jacaranda trees at the edge of the road. The kombi moves over a carpet of crushed purple blooms. The city centre buildings in the near distance are Gidza’s cue to start collecting the fares of those who are still to pay. He shouts, ‘Ngatibatanidzei tione vabereki nevaberekesi.’ As he cannot move around himself, the passengers pass him their money in a relay.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he says. ‘Who has given me ten rand?’

  The passengers look sullen. No one says a word.

  ‘I said who paid ten rand?’ he says again.

  ‘Just give the money back and each will take what they had,’ Prosper says.

  A woman in a blue woollen hat looks up from her phone.

  ‘Ten rand?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, mothers,’ Gidza says. ‘I have seventeen dollars here, I should have eighteen, but someone has paid using ten rand instead of a dollar.’

  ‘But ten rand is one dollar,’ she says.

  ‘Imi mothers,’ he says, his voice laced with impatience. ‘How many times do we have to say we no longer take Zuma’s tumbling zuda money? It’s Obama all the way. If I am to change this, I will only get seventy cents or sixty, and that’s if I’m lucky. I don’t get a full dollar, okay? So just pay me your dollar and stop wasting my time.’

  ‘But it is ten rand from Avondale,’ the woman argues.

  ‘Are we coming from Avondale? Do we look like we are coming from Avondale? When you look out of the window, are you seeing Avondale? And do you not see that sign?’

  The blue-hatted woman looks at the signs above the driver’s head. In addition to the one specifying the optimum number of passengers, there is another that says JESUS IS MY DRIVER and another that says NO RANDS ACCEPTED BY ORDER MANAGEMENT. She mumbles angrily as she reaches into her blouse to produce a dirty dollar bill from her bra. She hands it to the man sitting in front of her, who passes it on to Gidza.

  ‘Pacorner,’ says a voice.

  Gidza bangs the roof to stop the van.

  ‘Copacabana, Cop’c’bane, Co’p’c’bano!’

  Two passengers jump out to be replaced by three more. The kombi moves off again in a cloud of petrol and exhaust fumes. Among the new passengers is a young woman in a bright red top and leopard print skirt. She wears a perfume of such pungency that it almost defeats the exhaust fumes that fill the van.

  As she gets in, Gidza clutches his heart in mock shock. ‘Ah, ah, hi hi hi!’ he says as he pushes against the man in the front seat next to him to let her pass. It is the same passenger with whom he has already collided. He stumbles and collapses into the man.

  ‘Sorry zvakare Big Dhara, nhasi ndinemi,’ he says as he brushes past the man’s jacket pocket. He turns back to the woman and says. ‘Ko sisi vakapfeka mbada kunge dindingwe, as smart as you are, where are you off to today? Handeka kupungwe kusvika kwati ngwe!’

  The woman ignores him and takes out her mobile phone as it rings.

  ‘Alcohol you letter,’ she says. ‘I am going to Boledale.’

  ‘M’koma Prosper, did you hear this leopardess of ours?’ shouts Gidza. ‘Sisi vembada vanoza wena!’

  ‘What did she say?’ says Prosper.

  ‘Boledale. Do you mean Borrowdale? She is going to Boledale. This is what we mean when we say someone is talking like they are chewing water. Boledale, she says. Too embarassed to be associated with us! Maybe one day, if you are very lucky, sister, you will have a shiny car to match your accent then you won’t have to use kombis like you are one of us povo. Boledale. Hela. But I bet that if I stepped on your right foot right now, or even your left one, you would say maiwe-e, like M’koma Prosper, or umama wami like me, not oh my mummy. Boledale! Hela!’

  His body out of the window once again, he shouts ‘Copacabana!’

  As he settles back in, he says, ‘Eish, but you smell so nice. She smells so nice, M’koma Prosper, regai zvavo vativhairire sister vembadilo.’

  ‘I can smell her from here,’ Prosper says.

  Gidza sings, ‘Ndirege ndifare usandikanganisa! Chinamira! Tarira mhandara dzinoshereketa! Kunge kutsombora tsombo, kana kutakura dombo!’

  In the second row, an old man lets out a sneeze that startles the stony-faced baby into crying. ‘Maiwe-e sister,’ Gidza says in mock horror, ‘look what you have done now. This poor old man is sneezing and that baby crying and it’s all from your perfume. Maybe it is the ancestral spirits that do not like modern times. Svikai zvenyu bho kulez.’

  The sneezing man scowls and shouts, ‘Munataura zwamunoziva mhani mazwinzwa.’ He sneezes again. The words are spoken in the sing-song voice associated with Malawian farm labourers and domestic workers. It is the cause of much laughter for Prosper and Gidza, who says, ‘You had better watch out. Hona manje watsamwisa ava Sekuru MuChawa. You have made him angry. Now you won’t hear the end of it. You will probably find a little Malawian tokoloshi waiting for you at home.’

  ‘Amalume,’ Gidza says to the old man. ‘This is how the city women smell, achimwene, you had better get used to it, this is not the reserves.’

  ‘Who said I have come from the reserves?’ the old man says. ‘And who said anything about Malawi? You should know what you are talking about before you just start to talk talk for nothing. You hwindi, that is all you know how to do, you just talk talk for nothing.’

  Gidza’s mind has moved on from the leopard-skirted, perfumed woman and the Jah Prayzah song that he was singing. He now entertains Prosper with a story of a n’anga from Mufakose, a man of Malawian origin who specialises in restoring lost property and removing the male organs from adulterous men who sleep with women that are not theirs.

  ‘Havaiti kani,’ Gidza says. ‘This other man in, elokhuzeni, in Chitungwiza was with this other man’s woman, M’koma Prosper, but what he did not know is that the man had fixed her good and proper with Sekuru MuChawa’s help. Central locking proper proper, it was proper central locking, M’koma Prosper, he had locked her all tight so that any man who was with her would suffer, maona manje. So this man is with this woman, and afterwards he feels this strong urge to urinate, so he goes to the toilet and there is nothing there, can you imagine? Nothing at all. He was smooth as ilokhuzeni, as a doll down there, M’koma Prosper, just smooth, like a m’postan’a’s head.’

  The woman whose perfume has triggered this conversation raises her voice to speak up. ‘Holeday Urn,’ she says.

  But Gidza is concentrating on describing just how the smooth-as-a-doll man with the missing appendage reacted to his missing appendage and his newly minted smooth-as-a-dollness, and he does not hear.

  ‘Ah sad Holeday Urn,’ the woman says just at the moment the van drives past the Holiday Inn.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me before?’ Gidza says. ‘You know we can’t stop here now.’

  ‘She did ask you, but you were not listening,’ the large man over whom he has twice fallen says.

  ‘And who made you the invigilator of this ex
amination?’ Gidza retorts. ‘What are you, the kombi prefect?’

  Gidza does not fully take in the look of pure loathing that the man directs his way. The kombi stops just before the traffic lights. The leopard-skirted woman gets off, leaving behind the smell of her perfume. As she crosses Samora Machel Avenue she shouts, ‘You are as ugly as your mother’s cunt.’

  Gidza makes as though to go after her, but the light changes and the kombi moves. He contents himself with shouting after her, ‘S’febe! Mazigaro! Kuda kutamba nemadhaka pasina vhat’! Ndinokushagada ukashisha semashakada! You think you are so special, but your funeral will not even be open casket. Ugly bitch.’

  Gidza now abandons the story of the man with the missing genitalia to describe in graphic detail just what he was going to do to the departed woman if he got the chance. ‘A woman like that’, he concludes, ‘just needs a good seeing to, that’s all she needs, M’koma Prosper. Copacabana!’

  As the kombi passes Second Street, Gidza spots a face he knows behind the steering wheel of a kombi that has stopped on the other side of Samora Machel Avenue.

  ‘Mwapona!’ he shouts to the driver.

  To Prosper he says, ‘Wait a minute, M’koma Prosper,’ he says. ‘There is that mufesi I have to see.’

  He jumps out and weaves his way through the traffic, a fleet-footed blur in his Liverpool shirt. He stops at the driver’s window. The passengers cannot see him; his back is to them as he talks to the driver. They wait, two, then five, then seven minutes while Gidza talks to his friend. In the eighth minute, he is back, running through the traffic.

  ‘Kahwani!’ he says to Prosper and bangs twice on the roof. He seems even more cheerful than before.

  To the passenger he fell over he says, ‘Why so glum, Big Dhara? Are you still sore because I fell on you? Sorry zvenyu m’dhara, inotambika.’ He laughs without knowing that this will be his last real laugh. He will laugh again in the seventeen minutes that he has left to live, but it will be the nervous laughter of a man close to his death. He picks up the song he was singing earlier, ‘Pungwe, kusvika kwati ngwe. Pungwe, kusvika kwati ngwe!’