hairy as hell. And the curry muncher is standing there, grinning like a fricking monkey, ‘yes, yes, the lady
is quite right, quite right.’ So I buy the thing and head out of the shop, and can you believe she is standing by the door
asking if I want a drink. Jeez, man. No chance I’m saying no to free booze. Heh, what’s the matter with you? Anyways, over
at her place she starts telling me that there’s hobo shit going on at Matopos. She’s Swedish and working with one of these
NGOs, development something or the other, one of those fundies running around. And the waterworks start flowing when she starts
on about how the Fifth Brigade is busy tshaying people left, right, and center. Speciality: broken ankles, wrists. Man, even
talk of bodies dumped in Antelope mine.”
We’re at Mzilikazi Arts and Crafts Centre. We’re sitting on a bench under a jacaranda. He’s chewing a biltong.
“Jeez, luck, and she lays it on thick how nice it is to meet a white Zimbabwean who isn’t—what was the word she used again?—‘prejudiced,’
that’s it, prejudiced. What a bunch of dunderheads these, ‘I’ve come to save Africa’ whities. So I go on about how I’m a farmer
trying to contribute to the new Zimbabwe, and boy, does she lap it up hook, line, and sinker. For fundies man, they can be
dwaas.”
He takes out a strip of biltong from the packet. “Here, do you want some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Fricking good, impala.”
“A boy tried to kiss me at the youth group.”
“Did he manage or did you tshaya him good?”
“Where’s Mphiri?”
“Mphiri? What’s that to you?”
“I… I just haven’t seen him around lately. Is he all right?”
“Yah well, I took him to Renkini some days ago. I told the mudala I was hightailing it out of here and he had to go back to
makhaya. Talking about waterworks. The fossil starts crying and saying why am I chasing him away, has he done something bad.
I say, ‘Look, Mphiri, I am leaving, you must leave, too.’ He says that he will take care of the place. So I try to get through
to him that the place is for sale, that there will be a new baas, I felt like a real wally, you don’t know what that man has
done… anyways I put him on the bus, with a letter in case he gets stopped at a roadblock.”
“Are you selling the house?”
“Not that anyone’s queuing to buy the dump. Hey, maybe your old man could take it, expand his business. I’ll give him a damn
good offer. Super discount. I should have a word with him before I take off. You know the history of the two places, don’t
you?”
“Which two places?”
“For an educated chick you’re slow. The two houses, what else? They used to be one lot. Oupa, Grandpa McKenzie, thought it
was fricking genius to have the two houses facing each other. He stashed Grandma McKenzie over at your end and carried on
like a fricking bachelor at the other end. You check the goffles hanging around the bottle store, all McKenzies I reckon.”
He makes a noise like something is stuck in his throat.
“But then my old man must have needed cash and he sold the place. I reckon it was the bitch who got him to. Shame, I used
to have a lekker time at your place, used to hide out there when the old man got hobo drunk or when the bitch….”
“You mean your father sold it to my father?”
“You’re slow, but at least you’re catching on.”
I try to remember the big day when I came with Daddy to the house. I try to remember the white man who stood by the gate giving
Daddy the keys and papers. Was that Mr. McKenzie Senior? But all I remember is Daddy sitting in the car crying. We didn’t
even go straight into the new house that day. Our new house.
“Hey, I think I caught sight of your war vet down by Queens Bottle Store. He looked as mad as hell. Ten or so of them shouting,
clenched fists, kicking dust. He should watch out. He’ll end up where the sun don’t shine.”
On our way back
is quite right, quite right.’ So I buy the thing and head out of the shop, and can you believe she is standing by the door
asking if I want a drink. Jeez, man. No chance I’m saying no to free booze. Heh, what’s the matter with you? Anyways, over
at her place she starts telling me that there’s hobo shit going on at Matopos. She’s Swedish and working with one of these
NGOs, development something or the other, one of those fundies running around. And the waterworks start flowing when she starts
on about how the Fifth Brigade is busy tshaying people left, right, and center. Speciality: broken ankles, wrists. Man, even
talk of bodies dumped in Antelope mine.”
We’re at Mzilikazi Arts and Crafts Centre. We’re sitting on a bench under a jacaranda. He’s chewing a biltong.
“Jeez, luck, and she lays it on thick how nice it is to meet a white Zimbabwean who isn’t—what was the word she used again?—‘prejudiced,’
that’s it, prejudiced. What a bunch of dunderheads these, ‘I’ve come to save Africa’ whities. So I go on about how I’m a farmer
trying to contribute to the new Zimbabwe, and boy, does she lap it up hook, line, and sinker. For fundies man, they can be
dwaas.”
He takes out a strip of biltong from the packet. “Here, do you want some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Fricking good, impala.”
“A boy tried to kiss me at the youth group.”
“Did he manage or did you tshaya him good?”
“Where’s Mphiri?”
“Mphiri? What’s that to you?”
“I… I just haven’t seen him around lately. Is he all right?”
“Yah well, I took him to Renkini some days ago. I told the mudala I was hightailing it out of here and he had to go back to
makhaya. Talking about waterworks. The fossil starts crying and saying why am I chasing him away, has he done something bad.
I say, ‘Look, Mphiri, I am leaving, you must leave, too.’ He says that he will take care of the place. So I try to get through
to him that the place is for sale, that there will be a new baas, I felt like a real wally, you don’t know what that man has
done… anyways I put him on the bus, with a letter in case he gets stopped at a roadblock.”
“Are you selling the house?”
“Not that anyone’s queuing to buy the dump. Hey, maybe your old man could take it, expand his business. I’ll give him a damn
good offer. Super discount. I should have a word with him before I take off. You know the history of the two places, don’t
you?”
“Which two places?”
“For an educated chick you’re slow. The two houses, what else? They used to be one lot. Oupa, Grandpa McKenzie, thought it
was fricking genius to have the two houses facing each other. He stashed Grandma McKenzie over at your end and carried on
like a fricking bachelor at the other end. You check the goffles hanging around the bottle store, all McKenzies I reckon.”
He makes a noise like something is stuck in his throat.
“But then my old man must have needed cash and he sold the place. I reckon it was the bitch who got him to. Shame, I used
to have a lekker time at your place, used to hide out there when the old man got hobo drunk or when the bitch….”
“You mean your father sold it to my father?”
“You’re slow, but at least you’re catching on.”
I try to remember the big day when I came with Daddy to the house. I try to remember the white man who stood by the gate giving
Daddy the keys and papers. Was that Mr. McKenzie Senior? But all I remember is Daddy sitting in the car crying. We didn’t
even go straight into the new house that day. Our new house.
“Hey, I think I caught sight of your war vet down by Queens Bottle Store. He looked as mad as hell. Ten or so of them shouting,
clenched fists, kicking dust. He should watch out. He’ll end up where the sun don’t shine.”
On our way back
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