“What’s bringing them here?” Pedzi murmurs as you squeeze through the press of bodies on your way to buy lunch at the Eastside Arcade since the samoosa man you usually purchase from has not appeared. “Just because of that woman from Botswana down there, who says she’s the queen of Africa?”
At the food stall, you choose coleslaw and a hamburger from a menu that includes smoked sausages, curry with chips or rice, as well as two kinds of sadza accompanied by pigs’ trotters or goulash. Crossing back to the office, you meet the samoosa man for whom you had waited in vain. He lifts an anxious hand, muttering, “Ah, I came and saw it wasn’t a place to come. Aiwa, it’s like that! I’ll see if I can come and serve you, my customers, tomorrow.”
Turning the corner onto Jason Moyo, you jar to a halt, seeing that the crowd has grown thicker. Assessing the situation to be not significantly threatening, you thread your way through the churning bodies that block the entrance. Pedzi’s shoulders bump into yours. A couple of bona fide clients clutch their wallets as they push by. You make it to the lift and jab the button, grateful that your lunch pack is intact.
“Hey! Hey!” a high, timid voice calls.
You turn around. You cannot see who is speaking. Pedzi stands on tiptoe to assess what is going on, although this only adds one or two centimetres to her height as she is already wearing heels.
“Are you listening to me?” The voice rises more shrilly.
“She’s come out of Queen Moetsabi’s. It’s one of the girls,” Pedzi reports to you, chewing a chip and looking down for a brief moment before she turns back to the tumult. Her fingers extract chips from their oily bag and raise them to her mouth automatically.
“Hey, imi!” the voice quivers on. “I’ve been sent to tell you not to block everywhere like that. To let through the people with money.”
“Ha-a-a,” a rough voice answers. “Who are you to tell us where to stand?”
“Yes, that boss of yours should come out if she wants to speak to us, and not send us little children.”
“Tell me, my young sister,” a young man says. “Can it be that you have grown your own testicles?”
In the hilarity that follows, someone else bawls, “We can’t be sure what medicine these foreigners are bringing here, that can cause a sex change in little females.”
The lift does not arrive. You press the button again and stare up at the blinking light that tells you it is stuck on the fourth floor.
“I’m sure I’ve seen that one. The one who began talking about Mai Moetsabi. He’s always in Sister Mai Gamu’s shop,” Pedzi whispers. “The man and woman he’s with, too. The three of them spend the day in there often.”
“If that woman doesn’t want us to see what she’s doing, why did she come here all the way from Botswana in the first place?” yet another voice roars.
“Haa-a, then she should just go back. Because this is Zimbabwe!”
A patter of song comes from the pavement.
“Mbuya Nehanda kufa wachitaura, shuwa,” a sharp tenor leads. “Mbuya Nehanda died with these words on her lips.”
“Kuti tino tora sei mabasa?” singers respond, adapting the old war anthem about how to take back the country to the more current concern of procuring jobs. “Tora gidi uzvitonge. Take a gun and rule yourself.”
There is a small explosion, followed by the sound of glass splintering on concrete.
“Brothers, sisters,” a calm voice calls. It is the queen of Africa. “Relatives, don’t be angry, please.”
The singing grows more ferocious. “Tino tora sei mabasa? How can we take jobs?”
“Up the stairs,” says Pedzi, kicking off her high heels. Living in Mabvuku, she is quick to react at the first signs of any mob violence. Pausing only to gather up her shoes, she shouts at you to follow.
You do not flee immediately, transfixed by the queen of Africa, whose voice grows gentler and firmer.
“It is just this young lady. We are sorry! Please forgive her if she doesn’t know how to talk to you. That is why I have come out now. To talk to you properly. We are very sorry!”
The crowd gradually quiets down. Your foot on the bottom stair, you are astonished at Mai Moetsabi’s bravery.
“Say sorry,” the queen orders.
“Sorry,” the little girl squeaks.
“Louder!” a male voice calls from the crowd.
“Sorry!” the young woman shrieks.
A murmur of amusement ripples through the throng.
“No, it’s not about treating each other badly,” says Mai Moetsabi in even tones that carry not a hint of indignation. “I only wanted her to thank you for your interest and to ask anyone who wants to buy anything or see anything more to come into the shop. I will show you everything, but let us make a way to walk,” says the queen.
The trio of two men and a young woman gives a victory laugh and detaches itself from the crowd.
The rumours start up the very same week that the near-riot happens.
“With all that fat, it’s a pity she got there so quickly to sort the boys out. As if she’s even black. She’s only yellow, like all those BaTswana,” says a woman who runs a spa on the second floor.
“She says she keeps going back to build some classrooms and a hall at the school she went to in that little dry country of theirs,” the hairdresser, who runs the second spa on that floor, rasps. “Ha! That’s what they say. Don’t we know people like that only travel to get muti for their business? Parts of twins and albinos.”
There is some talk of how the medicine must be working well because politicians have been seen amongst Mai Moetsabi’s clients. Further whispers link the unruly afternoon mob to Sister Mai Gamu, arguing that the politician’s wife wants the Queen of Africa Boutique for herself because she thinks the medicine charm will still be potent.
The rumours escalate into discontent.
“Ask me if she will last to the end of the year.”
“Don’t worry. She can’t. No one can do anything if that wife of someone is against you.”
The atmosphere in the building worsens.
The women’s expressions grow satisfied as Mai Moetsabi appears to be losing the battle that her fine performance precipitated. Prior to the upheaval, there had been on occasion, particularly on May 25, Africa Day, photographs in the Clarion and other newspapers of some of the country’s dignitaries wearing African attire, said to be purchased from the Queen of Africa. You and Pedzi occasionally played a game called “spot the Queen of Africa garment on the national leader.” In the weeks after the disturbance in front of Mai Moetsabi’s the photographs undergo a transformation as the leaders and their wives replace kente and ankara with Chanel, Pierre Cardin, and Gucci. Whether due to this new preference amongst the elite, or because of other causes, Queen Moetsabi’s business soon falls into decline. There is snickering in the lift and corridors over this development. For your part, you are alarmed to see Mai Moetsabi, whom you so respected, descend too into a state you recognize with foreboding: one in which success is impossible.
However, the queen surprises you and everybody else by rallying. She adds nail polish, lipstick, and manicure sets to her displays. Slowly she phases out the West African fabrics. She contracts a young woman with qualifications from the polytechnic to sit with cuticle cutters, nail buffs, and razor blades at a folding table set in a corner of the shop.
At this enterprise, which you find so thrilling, the spa women’s complexions grow duller. Life seeps out of their eyes. In the end they are replaced by two inspired young women who encroach on Sister Mai Gamu’s territory with a couple of computers discarded by a local businessman. Observing the Queen of Africa, where business is different but as brisk as usual, with resentful admiration, the seamstresses on the ground floor predict that the new typists will not last until Easter. The comments are particularly sarcastic concerning Ms. Ngwenya, who comes from Bulawayo.
These events raise your anxiety levels once again. The question of who can and who cannot
, who does and who does not succeed, returns to echo ominously, bringing bitterness back into your soul. You doubt that, were you put to such a test, you would find the inner resources to triumph as Mai Moetsabi has. You are discouraged by thoughts that it is only a matter of time until your work tosses further trials your way, even though your energy is still depleted by the events that took you to Nyasha’s. Once more, you hear the hyena laughing as you drift off to sleep. In a final effort to remain focused on your ambitions, undistracted by your own misgivings or the society around you, you set out to emulate Queen Moetsabi. You take to braving combi queues half a kilometre long early in the morning in order to arrive at work by seven o’clock. Your tensions are exacerbated by unexpected hikes in fares after you have calculated your monthly budget. Gritting your teeth, you add a frightening 10 percent to your transport allocation. Practically your only encouragement comes from submitting your reports ahead of schedule, despite increasingly frequent random power outages.
At the office you speak regularly with hotel owners in Harare and airline chief executives to ensure the best service for Green Jacaranda customers. You administer evaluation questionnaires to the company’s clients on their last night in the country. Tracey entrusts the statistical analysis to you from the beginning. After some time you take on the task of developing the company’s shorter questionnaires for the different sites that the tourists stay at, although Tracey continues to generate the main one that assesses the overall tour.
During this interval, Pedzi becomes secretive. Your colleague takes to arriving at work earlier than either you or the queen of Africa. She spends less time in banter and chatter with you and the other women in the building. She sits in thrall in front of her computer at lunchtime. When the office is not busy, she makes surreptitious phone calls.
One day, after a month of her solitary pursuits, Pedzi arrives at the usual time carrying two files she has just photocopied at Ms. Ngwenya’s. The receptionist hands the documents to Tracey. Her eyes sparkle with anticipation as she requests the boss to read them at once, and launches into a two-minute pitch concerning low-budget excursions into high-density suburbs. Tracey raises her eyebrows in interest and explains how she enjoys having ideas suggested to her by her employees provided it leads to progress. She promises to examine Pedzi’s proposal after she has completed her morning round of phone calls and emails.
True to her word, Tracey calls Pedzi into her office after midmorning tea. The door closes. They do not emerge until the man who sells samoosas comes by to ask if they want any. You knock on the door. They are sitting on the mukwa and leather chairs, opposite each other, bent over the small table between them on which Pedzi’s files lie open. Tracey’s short spiky hair mixes with Pedzi’s purple weave. You are asked to deliver the usual order of coleslaw (large) and two samoosas each. As you depart, Tracey calls you back and asks you to make them some tea.
You do as requested, feeling like a kettle that takes too long to boil: people might well lose interest in tea and go on to something stronger. You ponder, as you serve the receptionist and boss lunch, how young Pedzi, for all her belly piercing and fake fingernails, has shown herself more proficient than you where it matters—in giving birth to ideas. You realize Pedzi’s new ability is far superior to your copywriting expertise, which you displayed so skilfully while she, Tracey, and you worked at the advertising agency. There you were fed figures, positioning statements, and articles from trade magazines. Here Pedzi, as astonishingly as Mai Moetsabi, has created a fine potential out of nothing. As everything was created once already, in her act of presenting her documents, Pedzi has fashioned herself ahead of you into a co- or at the very least into a quasi creator. Your stomach tightens bitterly as you close the door on the intently concentrating pair. They do not even take the time to say thank you. As your fear deepens, you focus it and nourish it on Pedzi.
A few days later, you are called into the boss’s office along with Pedzi for the decision. Tracey’s verdict is that your colleague’s programme is not original. Tracey has downloaded several files from the Internet that show there is competition from several countries in the area of high-density suburb tourism. One file outlines plans to do the same in some New York ghettos and send the money raised over to your region. Another shows how a concern in South Africa has removed all the risk by constructing the ghetto in an upmarket area. Your hopes rise at these revelations, only to be dashed when, after a ten-minute presentation, Tracey concludes that the receptionist’s proposal is nevertheless sound and marketable. Since it is a novelty in the country, she and Pedzi will prepare it for pitching to potential investors and Pedzi herself shall occupy the position of project manager. Tracey starts a brainstorming session to find a suitable title for the new initiative. You find yourself unable to contribute. Pedzi drops phrases like “Coolest Cruisings” and “There. Where? Mabvuku!” chanting the name of her high-density township to a hip-hop beat. Tracey says that while it sounds good, it will not work on paper. The debate goes on for the best part of an hour. Disbelief stuns you when the two women agree on “Postmodern Neo-Urban High-Density Networking in Climatically Vulnerable Digitally Disadvantaged Sectors.” You place mental bets on the possibility of Pedzi being successful, at the same time entertaining horrible visions of the erstwhile receptionist becoming a codirector with Tracey and firing you.
What does in fact transpire is that Pedzi continues with co- or quasi creating her project. You observe her elevating herself, finding yourself incapable of devising any action that will give you your own advantage, or of blocking the former receptionist who, since you are also a project manager, has raised herself to become formally your equal.
Bearing in mind that the boss will not move Green Jacaranda Safaris to new premises and needing an office in which she can attend to her creation, Pedzi grasps her aspiration in both hands and goes off to speak to Sister Mai Gamu. When the women in the building find out, the rumours boil over. Everyone predicts your colleague will have to leave within six months since Mai Gamu cannot stomach anyone but herself aspiring to anything, as was quite clearly shown during the drama with the queen of Africa. Contrary to everyone’s forecasts, however, within a few weeks of Pedzi’s presentation to Tracey, the politician allocates Green Jacaranda an additional cubbyhole of office space. The area is narrow and dark, lit only by a small window high in the wall that opens onto the dim sanitary lane at the back of the block. The three-plate stove and small fridge have to be manoeuvred into new positions to access the door to the extra office. With Tracey and Pedzi, you spend the best part of a morning doing this.
A small desk and chair arrive, as well as a couple of shelves, all in your offices’ post-colonial Zimbo-chic. Realizing there is no alternative, you hug Pedzi, tell her how pleased you are for her, and offer her any help she might need. Considering a comment about swinging a cat, possibly by its tail, you think better of it.
The women in the other storeys, though, have much to say about the latest developments at Green Jacaranda. After you have congratulated Pedzi, you take to going down at the end of the day to join the irate gossip. The main object of discussion is how the allocation of Green Jacaranda’s extra office has nothing at all to do with Pedzi, how Tracey had in fact had a secret meeting with Mai Gamu, at which she, Tracey, shouted a whole lot of ruling party slogans, which only went to show that you truly could never trust white people. During one gossip session, one or two of the women start toyi-toying and raising clenched fists. There is some brandy in someone’s handbag. Sipping and dancing, the women end up threatening to take the lift to Green Jacaranda to show your European boss she will never be able to chant party slogans better than they can, not even if she lives for a thousand years. To prevent chaos, two women stand up to restrain the war dancers, and after this you realize you must have nothing more to do with these people.
CHAPTER 17
Your niece and nephew visit you in your new home perhaps twice a month. They enjoy your pool. Ba’Tabitha show
s Leon how to work the pump against the time when he and Nyasha will have their own. You treat your cousin and her family to sumptuous braais when they agree to stay for a meal. This is not often. On the occasions they do, Ba’Tabitha gets the fire going and Ma’Tabitha marinates the beef, chicken, pork and kudu, buffalo, or ostrich with chilli and coriander from the garden. Cousin-Brother-in-Law indulges in the game meat that you order from a wholesaler at a massive discount, courtesy of working at Green Jacaranda. Your in-law says he loves his shift at the grill and keeps turning the meat cuts, so they take longer than envisaged to brown. Nyasha says she uses the time to gather herself. You leave her “gathering herself” beside the pool or in the white leather chairs in the living room as you huddle with Ma’Tabitha over sauces and salads. You smile down and pat heads when your niece and nephew run into the kitchen demanding ice cream. Anesu remembers fondly the time that you took them to the ice cream man when their mother was cooking.
Inwardly, however, your dread looms in shuffling shadows. The malevolent voices of the women in your building crescendo above you in your sleep. A horrible atmosphere of repressed violence descends over the Green Jacaranda building. It settles round you as though it is your aura. You discern its presence engulfing you distinctly. You grow increasingly petrified that others too must perceive it. You labour under a sense that something unspeakable is about to occur, or that you will execute this abominable happening. Many times you come to believe you are the unutterable occurrence.