The White Shadow Page 3

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About who we have seen.’

  ‘What do they want to find out?’

  ‘It does not matter, Tinashe. Because we will not tell them. Be a good boy and stay quiet, OK?’

  ‘Yes, Amai.’

  ‘Iwe!’ One of the white men called to us again.

  ‘Keep walking,’ said Amai.

  ‘Iwe!’ You!’

  Amai stopped.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘We are going to the river, sir.’

  ‘So you are not going to the rebels, then?’ said the white man. He stood a little too close. I could smell his breath even from where I stood, and I wondered what Amai thought of it.

  ‘The rebels, sir?’

  ‘Don’t play stupid with me.’ The colour of the air changed. ‘Are you going to the rebels?’

  ‘No, sir. I do not know where they are.’

  ‘You are not taking them supplies? Medicine?’

  ‘We are going to the river, sir. For water.’

  I felt the white man’s eyes flick to Hazvinei. She was squinting her eyes against the brightness. He fingered his belt, letting his yellow nails stray towards his gun, and stroked it with one finger. It seemed to comfort him. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll be keeping an eye on you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This your boy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The white man moved to touch my head. I shrank back, and he patted empty air. The white men laughed, a harsh sound.

  ‘He is scared of you, Henrik,’ said one of the other men.

  I could retreat no further, and did not escape the pat on the head this time.

  ‘Good to learn the lesson early, eh? Eh?’

  They laughed again.

  ‘Hokay,’ said the man called Henrik. ‘Voertsek.’

  Amai took my hand. I could feel anger in the curve of her fingernails and the heat of her palm. We walked together, away from the white men, until we could no longer hear their laughter.

  They were ghosts, these white people who passed through our town – thin and bitter as woodsmoke; pale like the palms of our hands or the soles of our feet; half-people; not-people. I turned to wave at the ghosts, and one of them lifted his hand without thinking. I could see right through it. I turned away from them to dip my bucket into the river – flat and sleeping in the sun today, like a snake with a full belly. It butted and nuzzled my hand. Friendly and harmless – until it was not. I would teach Hazvinei to swim in our river, when she was older. For now, I helped Amai to carry her buckets up the hill, skipping beside her because I was too excited to walk slowly.

  ‘Careful, Tinashe. Do not spill any.’

  At home, the relatives began to arrive. Aunties like fat, cackling hens; uncles with beards and deep voices; cousins like brown ants, scurrying everywhere and getting in the way. The women began the cooking while the men sat around the fire, talking and stroking their chins. I did not have to help with the cooking, because I would be a man and a hunter of leopards one day, but I knew that Amai would kill a chicken for the occasion and I wanted to watch. She did it with such speed: clever fingers catching the bird under one arm; firm hands bringing the badza down upon its neck. The blood ran sweet and red, and my saliva ran freely too as I thought of the meal to come. We did not have meat very often; not meat with rice and gravy as we would have tonight. Amai dunked the chicken in boiling water to loosen its feathers and then sat with her sisters and sisters-in-law, laughing and plucking.

  I had to get dressed. ‘Must I wear a shirt, Amai?’ My white church shirt, with the stiff collar.

  ‘Yes, Tinashe.’

  I pulled on my grey trousers and felt the sweat start on my legs as soon as the wool touched my skin. I pulled on my thick socks and my smart black shoes that I had polished all by myself to a fine mirror-like shine, and I presented myself to Amai for inspection.

  ‘Very good, Tinashe,’ she said. ‘Now keep yourself clean, yes? Otherwise you will get a clap. Wait for Babamukuru and tell us when he is coming.’

  I waited outside on a rock, sitting very carefully so that my trousers and shirt stayed clean. When I saw the dusty silver car winding up the kopje, I ran inside. ‘Amai! Babamukuru is here!’

  ‘I hope you have not been running in the dust.’

  ‘No, Amai! Babamukuru is here!’

  ‘I heard you. Settle down.’

  Babamukuru’s big silver car was red along the bottom from the dust and mud. When he had bought it, many years ago now, he had driven it up the kopje to show Baba. This had become a famous story on the kopje, told many times around the fire with laughter and shaking of heads, because the car had stalled halfway up the hill. When it had finally reached our house, it was pushed by twenty of the kopje boys and followed by a trail of small children, dogs and chickens. Handprints and dust had spoiled its sheen by then, but Babamukuru was still fat with pride.

  ‘Hey?’ he had said. ‘Pretty good, hey?’

  Baba and Amai had exchanged glances. ‘Very nice,’ Baba had said.

  The car was still big, but no longer shiny. The relatives went out onto the road to watch it arrive, and when it stopped, and the door opened, the ululating began. The women clapped their cupped hands together and sang the praises of this big, wealthy man from town who had made our family the most successful family on the kopje. The men looked stern and important. The children scuffled together in the dust, releasing their excitement by pushing and slapping one another, until their mothers told them to calm down and be silent for Babamukuru’s arrival.

  Babamukuru filled the whole doorway of the car. He unfolded himself, and we saw the full magnificence of his grey suit and smart, striped tie.

  ‘It is his school tie,’ whispered someone, and a murmur of approval went around the group.

  ‘Masikati,’ said Babamukuru. He greeted each member of the family in order. There was a complicated hierarchy, and it would have been easy to offend someone, but any mistakes he might have made were forgiven at once because he was Babamukuru and the head of the family.

  ‘Little Tinashe,’ he said when he came to me, and lifted me up. His sweat smelled different from any other sweat: onions and cigarette smoke and eucalyptus from the throat lozenges he liked to suck. When he bent down to kiss me his breath was hot and minty in my nose, with just a memory of stale beer, and his cheek scratched mine. He released me and I stood, dazed and overpowered by my magnificent uncle.

  Baba shook Babamukuru’s hand. I had thought Baba was the biggest man in the world, but Babamukuru’s hand swallowed up Baba’s as a crocodile swallows a buck. They stood with clasped hands for a moment, as if they were about to start a tug-of-war. They did not smile.

  ‘It is good to see you,’ said Baba.

  ‘It is good to be back,’ said Babamukuru.

  Behind him, aunties, uncles and cousins emptied the car boot of its heavy load of food. My stomach made a rude noise. I could taste the gravy already.

  ‘Tinashe.’

  ‘Abel!’ In the excitement, I had not seen him get out of the car.

  ‘Standing there, dreaming like an old elephant.’

  My older cousin was taller and bigger than me, with straight white teeth and a dark, handsome face. He wore smart town clothes: blue canvas trousers with buttons and stitching on the pockets, and a shirt with a collar. My smartest church clothes looked drab and grey next to his. He even had lace-up takkies with a stripe on the side, like a real football player’s. When he rubbed my head with his fist, however, I forgot to be in awe of him, and we pushed and pulled each other happily in the dust.

  ‘Boys! Do not get dirty.’

  Too late. We joined the other children to run in the red dirt, holding our hands out to catch sparks from the cooking fire.

  The party was long, full of eating and dancing and singing. There was no meat left once the adults had eaten, but I did not mind; the dark, sweet gravy was luxury enough. Abel, however, was anno
yed that there was no chicken left for him.

  ‘We have chicken every night at home,’ he said.

  ‘You lie.’

  ‘It is true. And we have potatoes and vegetables and gravy, as much as we want.’

  How I wanted to visit Babamukuru’s smart house in town! We had never been there, and it would be rude to ask for an invitation. I looked into the orange and black of the cooking fire and wished for Babamukuru to ask us to come. Perhaps the spirits in the fire would hear me. Perhaps he would ask tonight.

  ‘The gravy is good,’ I said.

  Abel shrugged. ‘It is all right.’ Clearly he had better gravy in town. To punish him, I bumped his elbow so that some of the food on his plate slopped onto the ground.

  When Babamukuru had eaten, his stomach strained through the gaps between his shirt buttons.

  ‘Tinashe, let me have a look at you.’ He lifted me onto his lap. This close, his glasses winked and shone and hid his eyes. He laughed a hot, chicken-flavoured laugh. ‘He is skinny, this one. With big ears.’

  It was true that my ears stuck out.

  ‘He will grow into them,’ said Amai.

  ‘Of course he will,’ said Babamukuru. ‘He is a handsome boy.’

  I heard Abel snigger. I ignored him. Babamukuru’s face, shining with sweat and good food, beamed on me like the sun.

  ‘What do you want to do when you grow up, Tinashe?’

  I might have answered differently before dinner, but now, fat and hot with good food and a warm fire and snugly installed on Babamukuru’s knee, I knew what I wanted.

  ‘I want to be like you, Babamukuru,’ I said. This pleased the adults; the aunties clapped their hands and laughed, and the men stroked their chins and smiled.

  ‘You want to go to high school? You want to go to university?’

  ‘Yes, Babamukuru.’ I had not thought about this before, but yes, I did want to go to high school and to university if it meant I would have a nice car and a striped tie like my uncle’s.

  ‘Good boy.’ He smiled. His smile smelled like beer, and I could see a piece of gristle between his front teeth. ‘I will make sure that you do.’

  ‘Thank you, Babamukuru.’

  This announcement was more important than I had thought. I heard a ripple of approving sound among the adults, and then a chorus of praise.

  Amai knelt and clapped her cupped hands together. ‘Thank you, Babamukuru. You are too good to us,’ she said.

  I heard Baba’s voice among the chorus of thanks, but he was quiet and sounded strange – not like Baba at all.

  Babamukuru waved a generous hand. The heavy gold ring on one finger winked in the light. ‘You are a clever boy, Tinashe. You will do well. Here.’ He reached into a pocket and pulled out a sweet wrapped in plastic. It was furry with pocket lint, and smelled like medicine. It felt so good to be praised! I took the sweet, and Babamukuru patted my back and pushed me off his lap.

  ‘Let us see this girl, then,’ he said, without much enthusiasm.

  Amai held Hazvinei where he could see her. He did not touch her, but examined her through his little glasses as if she were a new and interesting type of animal. ‘She is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Makorokoto.’

  ‘Mazvita tatenda. Thank you,’ said Amai and Baba. I thanked him too. Everyone relaxed. Now that Babamukuru had seen Hazvinei and approved, we could all sit back in our chairs and laugh and talk. Hazvinei clenched her fists and gurgled as Amai put her down. Little Tendai was right; she did look like a little brown monkey.

  ‘Can I have some of your chicken, Baba?’ said Abel, reaching for his father’s plate.

  Babamukuru slapped his hand away. ‘Do not be rude, Abel. Eat your dinner that your auntie has made for you.’ He turned to Baba. ‘This one, he thinks he is a king.’

  ‘It is living in town that does it,’ said Baba. ‘Where there are no chores to do. His life is too easy.’ He smiled at Abel to show that he was joking.

  ‘You are right,’ said Babamukuru. ‘He needs to learn that not everyone is as lucky as he is. Hey?’

  Abel scowled.

  I waited until after our meal; until the time when Baba leaned back in his chair and blurred at the edges, and became more inclined to grant requests and play games.

  ‘Baba, can I take Hazvinei to show to my friends?’

  ‘You will have to be very careful, Tinashe.’

  ‘I will be very careful, Baba. I promise.’

  Baba lifted Hazvinei from the floor. She had slept an angry, red-faced sleep on the mat, her tiny fists clenched and her teeth bared. Now she woke, and stared with bright eyes.

  ‘Do not go further than the stoep,’ said Baba, and gave her to me. I felt her familiar weight, the pudge of her bare feet against my skin. She was hot and restless.

  ‘Mazvita tatenda, Baba.’

  I took Hazvinei outside, walking as carefully as if I were carrying an egg. Abel followed, bored by the firelight and the games of our cousins. Little Tendai and Chipo were waiting outside for the promised sighting, freed from their after-dinner chores for this special occasion.

  ‘Is that your Babamukuru’s?’ asked Little Tendai, staring wide-eyed at the silver car.

  ‘Yes.’ I knew that Little Tendai had never seen such a nice car, and I felt proud of my uncle.

  ‘I will drive it one day,’ said Abel.

  ‘I like red cars better,’ said Little Tendai.

  ‘Red cars show the dust,’ said Abel with authority. Little Tendai was silenced. Chipo reached her fingers towards my sister’s face.

  ‘Careful. She bites.’

  ‘She is very pale,’ said Little Tendai. ‘She is like a white. Has your mother given her too much milk?’

  It was rude to talk about my mother, but I did not say anything. Little Tendai had a way of pinching and twisting the skin of my underarm that was very painful, and I did not want to yelp in front of my city cousin.

  ‘Can I hold her?’ asked Chipo.

  ‘I am not sure if Baba would like that.’

  ‘Your Baba would not mind.’ She held out her arms.

  Hazvinei put out her hand, fingers splayed and reaching, and touched Chipo’s face. She made a sound like a laugh.

  ‘She likes you,’ I said.

  Chipo held her for a moment before giving her back to me. ‘Makorokoto,’ she said. ‘Your sister is growing big. She is beautiful.’

  Abel waved his hand in front of Hazvinei’s face, then yelped and jumped back. ‘Maiwe!’ He sucked his finger.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She bit me!’

  Chipo laughed.

  ‘I am serious!’ said Abel. ‘Look, there is blood!’

  ‘I need to take her back inside.’ The stoep was dew-wet with evening.

  ‘She is a little demon.’ Abel waved his hand in front of her face, watching her dark, sharp eyes move back and forth. How tall and authoritative Abel looked to me then! He had an air of always knowing adult secrets. I held Hazvinei with her face to my chest, and moved away from him.

  ‘Iwe!’ Little Tendai called after me. ‘Make sure to watch her tonight. The tokoloshes might want to steal her back.’

  ‘Nyarara!’

  ‘Maybe she is a chipunha,’ said Abel. ‘Maybe she is a ghost.’

  ‘Ghosts do not bite.’

  ‘Well, there is something wrong with her.’ He shook out his injured hand. ‘Take her back inside, and let’s go and feed the chicken bones to the dogs.’

  Abel always had good ideas. We climbed the steps to the stoep, towards the laughter and the smell of good gravy, while Chipo and Tendai melted into the soupy night air.

  Chapter Four

  BABAMUKURU AND ABEL stayed with us that night. As an honoured guest, Babamukuru was given a room of his own; Abel, however, had to sleep with me and the male cousins, listening to the chorus of sleepy farts and breathing in the grubby-toothed breaths of a dozen exhausted boys.

  ‘I have my own room at home,’ said Abel when we sluiced our skin with wa
ter in the morning. Naked, he was softer and paler than I had expected, with no hard pads to his feet and hands. I sneaked a glance at his mboro and saw that it was bigger than mine.

  ‘I sleep on my own here,’ I said, ‘when no one is visiting.’

  This was another sign of our high standing in the kopje, thanks to Babamukuru – a house where both Hazvinei and I would have our own bedrooms as we grew.

  Abel shrugged, unimpressed.

  The adults gathered around the radio as usual to listen to the previous day’s events, and the kids played football in the dusty yard. I was aware of Babamukuru’s gaze on us and played better than I had ever played, scoring two goals between the sticks stuck upright in the dirt. I saw many of the other cousins glancing towards him as well. Everyone admired Babamukuru. When our football, a plastic bag stuffed with newspaper, exploded into shreds, we played with stones instead, kicking them through the dirt and bruising our toes. Before long, Abel became tired from the night’s festivities and left us to lie in the shade and eat figs from the tree.

  ‘Vana!’ Amai appeared in the doorway. The cousins scattered like chickens. ‘Breakfast.’

  We sat down together to eat. Amai poured us tea in enamel cups and stirred in spoonfuls of sugar. When we had finished, Babamukuru clasped his hands on the table and leaned forward. An announcement was coming.

  ‘Abel will stay here until school starts.’

  ‘Pamusoroi?’ said Baba, spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Baba?’ Abel looked up from his breakfast.

  ‘I have decided that you need to learn to be more like Tinashe,’ said Babamukuru. ‘Do some chores. Learn to take care of yourself. Learn to be a man.’

  Abel swallowed. I sat up straighter in my chair, as a man would.

  ‘If that is all right with you, brother,’ Babamukuru said to Baba. ‘I do not want to inconvenience you.’

  Mere politeness; of course we would do as Babamukuru asked.

  ‘If I remember, brother,’ said Baba, ‘When we were younger you believed that the only place for a man was in the city – in school.’

  ‘I want Abel to have the best of both, as I did,’ said Babamukuru.

  A short silence.