Nyasha orders chops and wonders how many participants there are so that she can, if necessary, include them.
Cousin-Brother-in-Law says he will walk down and find out before he goes into the kitchen.
The children cluster round her again and Nyasha drops onto a sofa.
“Anesu, say hello to your auntie Tambu. Maiguru Tambudzai,” she instructs. “You, too, Panashe. When we are here, children, we say welcome outside, then we say hello inside the house. We clap the way I showed you. You have to ask how everyone is.”
“Nyama chirombowe, Maiguru.” Leon, who has not yet gone out, begins the ritual. His nicely domed hands produce a soft, warm resonance.
The children copy their father.
“You say nyama shewe, because you are a girl,” Nyasha instructs Anesu, giving you a glance of consternation.
“Why?” Anesu asks, and when she does not receive an answer repeats, “Nyama chirombowe.”
“Why do girls have to say that? Why do girls have to clap different?” persists the child.
Nyasha considers this for a while before she replies, “You know what, there isn’t any sensible answer to that. So the best thing is, you make up your own mind.”
“I did!” Anesu says.
“Then you’ll have to see what happens,” Nyasha says.
“I did,” Anesu says again. “I did and nothing happened.”
“How are you, Banamunini?” you ask, as you are a few months older than Nyasha. You inquire where he is from and compliment him on his Shona accent.
“It is because of Nyasha’s father,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law says.
Reviving, Nyasha nods with satisfaction. “German speakers have this unusual ability to get their tongues around our language’s more challenging consonant constellations.”
“My father-in-law’s the only one who listens to my Shona,” Leon continues in such a way that you cannot tell whether he is angry with everyone else who does not attend to him, or pleased with his father-in-law who does.
“Also when I am at the homestead,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law concludes, “even though my Shona is better than their English, everyone speaks to me in the colonial language.”
“You have been there!” you exclaim. “Babamunini, you were there, all the way down in the village?”
“My father-in-law is a very wise man,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law says. “He insisted that was where he wanted to receive Nyasha’s lobola.”
Your cousin puts an arm around her daughter’s neck. “Do you know how much my dad asked for?” she asks with a careless laugh. “I grant you it’s difficult to know what’s best. And he always said he couldn’t charge any lobola for me in case he had to give it back. So he asked for a symbolic one hundred deutschmarks.”
You swallow a wince at the mention of this lowly sum, while Nyasha says bitterly, “Yes, so you can imagine what they think of me. And then of course they laugh at Leon too, saying he’s murungu asina mari. To them, if you’re white there’s something wrong with you if you’re not wealthy.”
Cousin-Brother-in-Law stretches his arm across the back of his chair. The two hold hands.
“Yes,” says Cousin-Brother-in-Law. “People here think too much about money. But what does it mean to be without money? Nyasha and I are happy.”
“I preferred all or nothing,” says Nyasha, stroking the back of her husband’s hand with her thumb. “Which meant nothing, because going all means reducing everything to a payment.”
Cousin-Brother-in-Law grips Nyasha’s hand more firmly.
“I could not disappoint my father-in-law and I didn’t want to disappoint my new family.” Cousin-Brother-in-Law flashes an imploring look at his wife. “That’s why we agreed on a token. Every culture has them, such tokens. And it was good for us to follow the culture in any way we can. That’s where I learnt the clapping.”
“And some other cultural practices,” says Nyasha drily. “He even had to skin a goat.”
“It was awful. I felt sick every minute. But I wanted to do everything properly for the family,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law smiles. “And in any case, I enjoy the meat. I also wear shoes of leather. So I could see there is not really much difference.”
Cousin-Brother-in-Law believes his ability with the Shona language is not due simply to being the German brand of European. He informs you his good accent is the result of having once spent several months hiking through Kenya where the sounds of the language are similar to Shona.
“As well,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law concludes this new drift, “I had a Kenyan girlfriend also at that time. So my father-in-law’s place was for me not very unusual.”
“That’s good you chose Zimbabwe from all that way, Mwaramu!” you encourage your new relative. “It means you like us better than you like those Kenyans, those Kikuyus and Masais.”
Nyasha stares at you for a few seconds. “Gikuyus,” she says finally. Then she jumps up to crane her head around sun-filter drapes that hang over the large window. Broad ladders run up and down the fabric. Mai Taka has attempted to stitch them, for they are torn in many places. Nyasha appears oblivious to this as she stares into the garden.
Beyond the window, about a dozen young women pore over papers and folders. Two huge ancient computers stand on the wooden trestle table they surround. As she stands there, viewing her work, your cousin inhales, exhales, and relaxes. She turns back to announce she is returning to her workshop. The children skip away after their mother.
When you are left alone, Leon ventures into small talk, telling you of the work he is doing at the National Archives, concerning the representation of groups of people in main news bulletins, especially their deaths, across different demographic categories, and how this evolves over time. He asks your opinion on this. You smile, as you do not have an opinion on the topic. Next he outlines briefly how the purpose of Nyasha’s workshop is to give not only a voice, but an analytical one, to the youth, and he offers to introduce you to some of your cousin’s young women.
CHAPTER 11
You have entered a new realm of impossibility, worse even than the discovery that your cousin had been placed on the slide to impoverishment, in spite of her degrees, in Europe. You had not believed there was such a thing on this earth as a European without means or money. Now, in her reckless manner, Nyasha has married one. She has made him your relative. Starting out on your road to permanent recovery, this is something you will first have to live down and then deal with. How your cousin, who identified herself when she first came to visit at the hospital by the affectionate radiance that you remember her for, could show such poor judgement is perfectly baffling. You want one or the other, a powerful radiance or obvious failure, not this liminal complexity. In the old days at the mission when you shared a room, you perceived that Nyasha was always ahead of you, seeing things by a different light than that which illuminated your senses, hearing in a different register sounds that fell on both your ears. Her worldview told you there were different ways of being human and yours had nothing to do with hers, leaving you with the distinct belief that hers was the preferable manner. You feel she has let you down immensely without herself being disappointed. A battalion of ants creeps round the back of your neck as you sit in Nyasha’s living room. You pretend to yawn and turn an involuntary gesture to brush them off into a polite pat of your mouth.
Deliberately, you turn your mind from the impasse your cousin represents, grateful to the elders who say too much thought wears a mind down like the grating of one grindstone against another. You comfort yourself with the idea that although your relative’s residence is in as dismal a state of repair as the Manyangas’, Cousin-Brother-in-Law’s poverty is less ruinous than your own, for he has at least provided Nyasha with a home. There must therefore be more to Leon than is at first apparent, which means that the house’s decline can only be due to your cousin’s housewifely negligence. Your in-law must himself be a victim of Nyasha’s incorrigible temperament.
When Nyasha does not return, i
n his too-familiar-for-comfort European way, Cousin-Brother-in-Law Leon shows you to your room. He runs up and down the stairs several times, bringing up your bags. You grip the balustrade for steadiness as you follow, since you still feel a degree of weakness after almost three months in hospital, particularly now, in response to the anxieties your cousin’s home has called forth. The railing shudders and shakes at your grasp. Cousin-Brother-in-Law places a hand on your shoulder. “Careful,” he warns as you sway.
The walls are splashed with little handprints in chocolate, mud, paint, and tomato sauce. Piles of ancient computers loom like a row of mountains on the landing. Behind them are cartons of outgrown children’s clothes and garbage bags full of old curtain material. This confirms what you had supposed: your cousin has given in to chaos, is wildly wasting her entire upbringing and her immeasurable advantages. The disorder emphasizes to you that well-being demands choices more astute than Nyasha’s.
“My wife wanted to show you this herself,” Leon says, throwing open the door to a north-facing room. “She calls it the beauty spot. Her philosophy is that every woman must have one. At a minimum.”
He laughs shortly and disappears to bring up more luggage.
Left alone, you sit on the large four-poster bed to test it for comfort. A door leads off to the left. Opening it, you discover a yellow and amber bathroom. You run water, throwing in your cousin’s bath salts and oils.
Cousin-Brother-in-Law has gathered your belongings on the landing. He kicks and drags them in. Ignoring the running bath, he stalks over to the French window, opens the red amber curtains, and steps out onto a narrow balcony.
“She says you can do things with space,” Leon says. “That here she has enough room to make a difference. Her philosophy is that space promotes co-operation, lack of it, fighting.”
“How big is this plot?” you ask.
“Two and a half acres,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law replies. A distressed smile slips over his face.
“How far are you with your doctorate?”
You continue to make conversation, wondering again how to excavate the submerged portion of Cousin-Brother-in-Law.
“Well, it’s happening,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law responds to your inquiry with indifference. “Look, your bath’s full,” he changes the subject. “I’ll turn it off for you.”
The water stops and Cousin-Brother-in-Law comes out humming a seventies Nigerian Afrobeat hit about women who try to turn themselves into ladies by invariably seizing the biggest piece of meat at every opportunity. He mouths the words softly as he walks back onto the balcony.
“I know that one,” you say. “‘Lady.’ Fela Kuti.”
“She says she wants to build a place where women can study women’s issues with modern technology. I ask her who she thinks is interested in women’s issues. And I try to tell her nobody here is interested in any of these things that she thinks are important, not even the women. I explain to her, least of all the women.”
You are inclined to agree. You cannot think of anyone who is interested in women’s issues, apart from the woman who has issues, but you are concerned that Cousin-Brother-in-Law will repeat this to Nyasha, which will result in trouble. All the same, you are glad that you and Cousin-Brother-in-Law both understand the prerequisites of self-preservation.
“I’m thinking of changing my thesis to something else,” Leon says.
“Can you help me get a place at your university?” you ask.
“I have changed my mind about some things that I thought about your country,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law goes on. “It is true, there is too much that is wrong. At the same time too many are too happy to keep saying what is wrong. Not enough see what is right also. I am thinking I will look at the imagery in Zimbabwean stone sculpture instead of images of death. Do you know that five of the top ten stone sculptors in the world are Zimbabwean?”
“Where is it?” you ask.
“Haven’t you seen any of it?” says Leon. His forehead wrinkles in incomprehension. “You must have. It’s all everywhere! Really. All over the world.”
“Your university,” you say. “Where do you study? In which city?”
“Berlin,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law answers. “We met when we were both flying there. From Nairobi. I saw her at the airport. She didn’t speak German then and immigration in Frankfurt was giving her a hard time. So I said we were travelling together.”
“How long does it take to learn German?”
“It is a difficult language,” says Cousin-Brother-in-Law. As though he does not like having to contemplate his mother tongue and its difficulties, he leaves the verandah.
At the door he asks whether he can bring you a sundowner.
You decline. When he has gone, you walk over to the French window.
Down on the lawn, Nyasha and the domestic help carry trays heaped with food and drinks. Arriving at the worktable, they set the refreshments down. Nyasha pulls a garden chair over and seats herself amidst the workshop participants. The pale gold of midafternoon shimmers through the open space, carrying the warm blossom-sweetened scent of early November. Excited laughter peals. Nyasha leans forward, her elbows on the wooden table. She talks intently and nobody reaches for scones or biscuits. The participants gaze at your cousin, they take notes. And then they are all laughing again. They are jumping up, shuffling their papers into heaps, and pushing them into rucksacks. They fling their arms here and there, and around each other, and Nyasha is lost in the heart of it.
Turning back into the room, amber, orange, yellow, ochre flow into each other, as though in the first movement of swirling on and away. The room is three times as big as your old place at Mai Manyanga’s, rekindling in you a tenacious conviction that for all your misgivings, your cousin is your crossing place, your stepping-stone to becoming the remarkable, well-to-do person you wish to be. Fortified by this notion, you drag clothes out of bags. The naturally stained saligna wardrobe gleams with such a sophisticated lustre that you are almost afraid to touch it. Refusing to be bullied by the furniture, you grasp the cool brass handles. Your composure regained, you revel in the metal’s smooth, cold beauty. Yes, you insist to yourself as you fold your clothes and lay them away, these are the things that you were made for.
There is a desk by the window. It is the desk your uncle, Nyasha’s father, used in his study at his mission home. He stopped doing so at the time your extended family resolved to send your brother from the village to live with the head of the clan, since, when this decision was implemented, your cousin Chido moved from the bedroom he shared with Nyasha into the study with your brother. You arrange your magazines from the agency and other papers on your uncle’s desk with an air of ownership. Babamukuru only started using the room and the desk again when Chido went to America to university. Second born, to an older brother, Nyasha has nevertheless managed to coax the fine piece of furniture from her father. Stacking letters and periodicals, you struggle to fathom why Nyasha’s peculiarities do not prevent her from achieving, whereas yours, although you are a second-born girl like she is, ensure your ruin. An ant scurries along the grain of the wood. You regard it, suspicious that it has crawled out of your imagination. Its antennae wave. You close your eyes. When you open them it is still there, on urgent business, perhaps rushing toward a prize such as a hidden sugar crystal. You will be like the ant, you decide. You do not yet know how, but come what may, you will focus on the prize until you possess it. As you enjoy your cousin’s bath, you construct a fabulous vision of your relatives visiting you in your own spectacularly superior dwelling.
The little family is milling here and there, around the little table that stands in the middle of the good-sized dining room and in and out of the spacious kitchen, when you go down to dinner. The meal cannot progress until a particular serving scoop required for the sauce is found. There is also a sizeable list of other items that Mai Taka has not attended to in the whirlwind of busyness resulting from Nyasha’s workshop. Your niece and nephew scuttle with wh
oops and wails from their bedrooms, and through the hall to search in various drawers for favourite forks and spoons that should have, but have not since the last meal, been either washed up or—as the help confirms—seen. Everyone is touching everyone else and speaking all at once as they investigate the spaces behind cupboard doors and consult each other with varying degrees of restraint.
“Where’s my knife, Mama?” wails Panashe in despair. Your nephew follows this more hopefully with, “I haven’t got my knife! Mama, can I have red sauce?”
“Thank goodness there’s no one here from the workshop,” says Nyasha. “It’s potatoes. No spaghetti, no red sauce,” she says, pulling her son against her stomach. “That would have been just too much.”
“Dum-di-du-u-um. Dum-di-dum, la la la-la-la,” Cousin-Brother-in-Law hums Fela Kuti’s hit at Nyasha’s mention of the workshop participants. “That means the big pieces of meat are safe,” he cannot resist adding. “Maybe I can have one.”
“Tomato sauce,” Anesu tells her brother.
“Tomato sauce,” agrees Panashe. “Tomato sauce. Red sauce.”
When they finally subside, you see chops steaming on a silver serving platter and a dish of pommes frites crisp with flavour on the table. Leon excuses the fact that there is not any rosemary and white wine sauce since he did not attend to it himself but asked Mai Taka to do so after he had spent time getting to know you.
“I was clear,” he says rather sheepishly. “I explained the ingredients. And showed them to her. It’s the language problem.”
Your cousin nods.
“She said yes all the time,” observes Cousin-Brother-in-Law with an expression of complete incomprehension.
Nyasha nods more calmly.
Cousin-Brother-in-Law leaps up, saying he will now attend to the matter as it was his responsibility.
“I don’t understand. She was very emphatic.” He shakes his head as he pushes aside his chair. “About managing everything. But as you can see, she understood very little.”