This Mournable Body

  You lead the tourists through the dazzle of August heat. Their faces open like flowers in the sunlight.

  “And the ice cream is lekker too,” nods Frau Bachmann. “The French … no, it is the Mediterranean Bakery.”

  “Yes, we must go there when we come back from Tambudzai’s village,” her husband promises her.

  So saying, the stout visitor turns to welcome another couple. The two newcomers walk behind the Bachmanns, adjusting their sunglasses.

  “We have brought some friends for you. Ingrid and Karl. We told them about the Ghetto Getaway. And those caterpillars, what are they, the ones that are eaten?”

  “Oorgh,” shivers Ingrid.

  “Mopani worm,” Frau Bachmann says.

  “Yes, ma-dora,” grins her husband, pleased to remember the local word. “And there is the other word with that sound. What is it, Pedzi?”

  “Macimbi,” Pedzi obliges.

  She smiles at the soft d that Herr Bachmann’s tongue struggles to but cannot implode when he says madora.

  “Oh, I could not eat them,” says Claudia. “They smelled like fish but did not look like it. I did not know what it was.”

  You usher the group to the waiting coach.

  The bus fills up quickly with guests from half a dozen operators. For Tracey has shrewdly offered a pickup service to a number of companies, so that you can get to know their clients and eventually poach them. Meticulously you tick each Green Jacaranda guest’s name off your clipboard.

  Pedzi follows Herr Bachmann’s group into the bus, blocking the aisle for the other tourists even though she is in tour uniform and should be behaving more graciously.

  “Vee gait us, dear?” she says.

  “Wie,” Herr Bachmann corrects. “Wie geht es dir.”

  Pedzi laughs, “Fee get us, deer?

  “Excuse me, Pedzi,” you call with great reluctance. You do not want any animosity in the last moments before what is essentially your coronation.

  Pedzi stares at you, a spark of malice flickering. You bow your head contritely. Pedzi changes her mind about a confrontation. On the pretext of storing the Bachmanns’ hand luggage in the overhead compartments, she squeezes herself flat against the seats, so that the queue flows forward. You smile, keeping your head down to make sure your colleague does not think you are triumphant. It is quite the opposite. Now that you have proved to everybody you are the person you said you were, you consider ways of working better with the former receptionist who has become a project manager, when you return from the village.

  Once the register is complete, you issue the official greeting.

  “Welcome to all our guests!” You love talking to your clients. Your voice glows through the intercom.

  “It is my pleasure to introduce you to this fabulously beautiful country, our own Zimbabwe, a world of wonders for you to sample and of course enjoy. For you who are returning, hello again. Welcome! Mauya! Sibuyile!” you repeat in three official languages, for Tracey is concerned not to marginalize anyone and emphasizes that the Green Jacaranda greeting must align with the national language policy.

  “Those of you who are with Green Jacaranda are travelling now to the most luxurious Thomas Hotel. It is round the corner from our offices so there is no danger you will get lost. I will point our offices out to you when we arrive at the Thomas Hotel. You will stay there for two nights, counting tonight. Please all stay together and meet me in the lobby for check-in immediately after we arrive, even if you are familiar with Harare and the Thomas. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, of course,” the excited new arrivals call, but you repeat the information anyway with great precision, and enjoy that rendition as much as the first.

  “All guests of other tour operators, please meet your tour leaders at the same time in the same place,” you go on. “Each tour operator will have staff available bearing signs with the operator’s name and their company logo.”

  When you complete these instructions, you ask whether anyone has any questions. You wait for uncertain hands to rise. They do not. You signal the driver.

  It is important not to overload the clients with information now when they are tired after their long flights. So you and Pedzi walk up and down the aisle, smiling and asking if everyone is all right, murmuring greetings in Shona, “Mauya, makadini? Mafamba zvakanaka here?” to those who have visited before and only commenting on a particular landmark if a new client is especially interested.

  You are starting the new location with a few tourists, the Bachmanns and Ingrid and Karl, plus a pair of Danes, some Swedish women, and one Belgian. On the next day’s plan is a day trip to Chinhoyi Caves to acclimate the party, after which, the following morning, everyone heads off for your village in the Eastern Highlands. The new faces turn out to belong to pleasant people, and good Mr. Bachmann always makes a situation jolly.

  The trip to Chinhoyi Caves works out well. All through that day there are many kind and interested questions about your home so that you are further reassured that everything will run marvellously.

  The morning of your departure for the village, everyone’s spirits are bubbling. Yours, of course, are frothing. You showed up early, leaving plenty of time to gorge on the Thomas breakfast of French croissants, Danish pastries, Portuguese tarts, cold meats, and full English, with eggs done in three ways, sprinkled with parsley, and kidneys, kippers, and liver, beside bangers, bacon, and bubble and squeak. Satisfied and expectant, you are enormously proud of everything: the Thomas Hotel, Green Jacaranda Safaris, Tracey Stevenson, yourself, your village, and even Pedzi.

  A few minutes later you are seeing Green Jacaranda guests out of the dining room and encouraging them not to put pressure on themselves but to remember nevertheless that the coach is leaving in forty-five minutes. A puzzled Belgian belonging to another tour approaches, for his operator has not yet arrived.

  “Can you tell me where is the other breakfast?” he inquires.

  “Have you had a problem?” you respond, eager to help.

  The man shakes his head. “There is no table,” he says, “where I can find the other food.”

  “The other food?” you repeat.

  The man stares at you blankly.

  “This is the food,” you say. You wave at the buffet. “If you require anything else, you can ask the waiter.”

  “How can I ask the waiter,” the man says, “if I do not know what I shall ask for? If I see it then I can ask him, and then I can taste it and see if the taste is good. This breakfast I can have anywhere.”

  The visitor glances at the buffet tables like a child whose balloon has popped. Some equally disappointed Swedish women nudge each other and nod.

  “Even last night, it was this kind of meal,” agrees a Swede. “Have you seen the food that is local?”

  You gladly explain that in your country everyone takes pride in being as good as anywhere at anything.

  “Well, I think some like it like that,” the Swedish woman shrugs. After this gesture she concludes, “So I think this is why there is this option for everyone to go to the village.”

  Concluding their remarks about the breakfast, the tourists introduce themselves to each other and soon discover that the Swedes can speak Dutch, which the Belgian also speaks. They launch into a rapid conversation and you can no longer understand them.

  Half an hour later you all congregate under the flame trees whose brilliant canopy spreads scarlet blossoms over the car park.

  “Po-po-o-oh,” The driver in the Coaster blares his first warning.

  Herr Bachmann takes a last photograph of the scarlet blossoms. Putting his camera carefully away in the bag around his neck, he removes his luggage from the porter’s hand and stows it neatly in the hold. Then he climbs into the bus, calling loudly, “Is everyone sure everyone has his … or her … luggage?”

  “Yes,” everyone sings.

  You press the last tick onto the paper, put away your clipboard, and swing the minicoach door closed. You signal the drive
r. The coach eases out from under the trees and into Robert Mugabe Avenue.

  You make good progress, travelling in the morning. The government is aware of your country as a tourist destination. There are more roadblocks because of disturbances on the farms and angry farmers, but the police officers are courteous, and pleased that you have all your papers.

  The homestead is already packed by the time you arrive, with neighbours and relatives, including many distant ones.

  Babamukuru and Maiguru are there from the mission, having been driven over by Chido, who managed to take a vacation—to coincide with the opening—from the university in the United States where he lectures in tropical agriculture, and he brought a folding, battery-powered wheelchair for Babamukuru. Babamukuru sits in it now, proudly lengthening his spine and broadening his shoulders and finding every occasion to mention the wheelchair from America in conversation with village elders.

  Mainini Lucia and Kiri teamed up with Nyasha to drive down in Gloria, although Cousin-Brother-in-Law decided to remain at home with the children. Now that the event is taking place, everyone is for it, and is either wishing everyone the best or waiting to see what happens.

  Concept and Freedom look on proudly at their mother, the war veteran who is your sister Netsai, who has travelled back from the cooperative she works on further to the north. Your sister is hopping around, going hopla hopla on her one leg, saying she doesn’t care who hears her and talking loudly about the fight she is engaged in with ruling party officials to obtain a place on the party list that will result in a dark-brown leg being imported for her from Mozambique.

  “As if I never went to war,” your sister proclaims indignantly, to whoever listens. “Did I pull this leg off myself? This leg was blasted off because I was fighting. I was fighting for what is mine. My leg is mine, and now I want to have it.”

  Babamunini Thomas has come down with his family from the northeast. Distant cousin Takesure has materialized from a nearby village with a new family. A good many of the relatives who gathered those decades ago to welcome Babamukuru have gathered again, to see what his daughter, the daughter of the village who has been away so long, has brought, and to see the old man himself, remembering what a fine figure he cut before his accident.

  In addition to the multitudes of relatives, all the villagers who helped with clearing veld or cutting logs or mixing mud or in any other manner at all are gathered for the welcoming feast. Those who have no claim to the homestead find vantage points on rocks and branches on the mountainside. And at magrosa Mambo Mutasa positions his bagpipers on the road in their kilts, so that you are forced to stop and be serenaded.

  Tracey, who came down with Pedzi the day before in her red Pajero, welcomes the guests again. There has been a compromise to enable the project to proceed, so that two of the envisioned new buildings have been built across the gully, at Mai Samhungu’s.

  Everything is meticulously organized. Each round house has a number daubed on the wall in red clay above colourful Ndebele patterns. Soon the check-in is complete. Freedom, giggling, heads a band of young women who show the new arrivals to their quarters, while a group of young men transports the luggage. Concept, however, stays close to her mother.

  “Do you know,” Tracey says to the Bachmanns as the guests are escorted back to reed mats and low wooden stools under the mango tree to be offered sweet fizzy drinks, rich tii hobvu, a gourd of mahewu, or a glass of chilled sparkling wine.

  “That woman over there,” Tracey gestures up at the old house. Your mother stands on its steps, in last-minute conversation with Mai Samhungu. “That’s Tambudzai’s mother on the steps,” Tracey continues. “Her family has been wonderful. Even her poor uncle, the man over there with the small woman beside him. He’s paralysed, injured at Independence, but people still respect him. I’m sure Tambudzai will introduce you. I’ll make sure you meet her mother.”

  The Bachmanns smile at your mother.

  “Quarter of an hour? Then we have to begin,” Tracey urges you anxiously under her breath.

  You assure her the grand opening is running precisely to schedule. You walk over to the old house.

  Your mother and Mai Samhungu have wandered inside. You call the two women. You have decided to explain the development concerning the costumes to them and let them address the rest of the group. However, they do not hear, and when you put your head round the door to signal, everyone waves and you are obliged to enter.

  Java print skirts and wraps, leg rattles, as well as hand rattles and drums are strewn about the front room. Aunts and cousins, sister-cousins-in-law and age-mates you ran to primary school with so many years ago are tying straps, adjusting headpieces, and arranging Zambia cloths. They practise songs softly under their breath as they walk in and out from the side and back rooms for more intimate changes.

  You put one hand in your pocket. In the other, you carry a bag of five-dollar notes, direct from the cashier at the bank, to slip from hand to hand. You open your mouth.

  It seems to you that with every movement, the women are dressing more slowly in protest. You cannot look at anyone anymore. You close your mouth.

  There is a suitcase on the table. It contains extra lengths of beads and chains made from monkey bread and jacaranda fruit. They are large shells. Artfully placed they conceal much.

  Far from comforting you, the suitcase and money make you feel bilious. You move away. You will leave everything to fate or chance, whatever it is when you do not have a hand in it. If Tracey wants the women bare-breasted she will have to come up here herself.

  You stand at the front door. You gaze down the steps. Down, down, down, and further down. The descent to the bottom is endless. You see yourself stepping down each stair, reaching the ragged patch of grass at the bottom, descending further and further, up to your shins, up to your chest until the earth closes over you.

  When you have made it to the bottom of the steps, however, you turn around, clap your hands, and shout, “Vanamai, Vasikana, excuse me!”

  Women hurry out of the rooms tying on belts and headbands and leg-rattle ropes, rubbing blush obtained from red rocks into cheeks, and painting white triangles on their faces and limbs.

  “Are you sure we’re going to get paid?” the secretary of the Women’s Club asks anxiously.

  Using your head and shoulders, you give a vigorous nod.

  “We trust you, Tambudzai. Don’t let us down. Don’t you too go and start lying.”

  You push your hand into the bag you hold and bring out a fistful of the five-dollar notes.

  There is a cheer. “Giving birth is a good thing,” the older women chant.

  “Tambudzai would not lie,” Nyari calls. She was your classmate at the village school from first grade. She is proud of being associated with you.

  “Is everybody ready?” you say. “Is everything moving? Are we finished?”

  Having seen the money, being reassured, now nobody pays any attention.

  Your tongue dries out, but you have been made the queen of the village. You open your mouth once again and deliver the message concerning the women’s torsos. There is an angry outcry. Your mother tells everyone to be quiet and ushers the dancers back up the stairs. You depart quickly.

  The marimba youth are setting up under the trees. A male voice choir is harmonizing like a group of large cats purring.

  The choir finishes, to roars and applause.

  Ta-tah-tata, Ta-tah-tata the marimbas begin.

  Out of the house and down the steps comes your mother. She is leading two dozen women. They congregate in a semicircle in front of the house. They swing their arms and pad their bare feet in the sand in time to the music. Young and old, all your sisters and aunts and cousins wear lengths of Zambia cloth beneath colourful blouses.

  Herr Bachmann undoes the zip on his camera bag. Mai pauses and throws a beady-eyed glance at the apparatus.

  “I will take one of your mother,” Herr Bachmann booms in his cheerful voice. “I will call it ??
?The Mother of the Journey.” Everybody will love to see it.”

  Frau Bachmann taps her husband’s shoulder to caution him from using too much film.

  Your mother stamps her foot. Dust puffs up. She raises and lowers her elbows with the rhythm of the marimba. This way and that way Mai turns her head, first to one and then to the other shoulder.

  Tracey nods to the music, looking relieved that the women have rebelled.

  You do not enjoy anything, although dancing had always been your forte from the time you were little. Shame fills you. You want only to close your eyes and not open them until it is payday. It does not matter now whether the women rebel or not. Your treachery has been committed.

  The singing grows louder. Marimba batons cut high into the air as players outdo themselves. Hands above drums fly faster. The young singing women open their mouths wider and wider.

  The dancing women move forward. Your mother raises her hands to her chest. Her fingers hover before her heart. Then with one movement she shrugs off her blouse and dashes it into the dust. This is the sign. All the women undress.

  A horrified gasp goes up from the relatives. Revellers who are not kin press forward ten deep to marvel at the naked mothers and sisters.

  Pa-pa! That is the Belgian applauding doubtfully. The Swedish guest pats her fingers together.

  The song ends. The village women huddle close together, instinctively hunching their shoulders over so that their neck beads and shells cover their chests.

  “Thank you!” You step toward the dancers. “Thank you. Let us thank them. By giving them a big pam-pam. A good clap,” you urge everyone. “Let’s thank them for that one. So that they can go and have a rest.”

  You spread your fingers to slap your palms together in front of your nose, in the flamboyant way of a master of ceremonies.

  You clap once. The women do not move. The crowd holds its breath and watches in silence.

  You clap again.

  The only sound is of your skin meeting skin. Lucia starts forward looking furious.

  “U-u-u! U-u-u!” The sound swells. Your cousin’s tongue pokes in and out of her mouth as she ululates, breaking the deepening tension.