16. The road to St Nyoka school is long and winding…(T.Bare)

The road to St Nyoka school is long and winding, 5km, up the mountains, down the valleys repeat. We play a game we were taught by a visiting private school, ‘ Indoona’ or ‘I spy’. It’s Joni’s turn, ‘I spy a thing that’s black with mavhiri, wheels.

‘That’s easy.’ I declare as I crouch down to remove a spiky foreign object from the open mouth of my dusty black shoes.

‘Its that car over there.’

The car I’m talking about is heading towards us. It’s black and shiny and spotlessly clean without a single speck of dust. I look down at my dusty shoes that can’t even be considered shoes anymore. I stare at the car and wonder who’s driving such a shiny car when my mother can’t even afford to buy ARVs for herself costing twenty dollars.

‘Shuwa, life is different .’

I want to see the person inside. He must be the mambo, the king. I want to see the person who surely must be as beautiful as the object they are riding in. He must be important, different from us. He must be blessed by God, not cursed like us.

‘Your turn.’

I don’t speak. I strain my eyes. I stare at the clear window. I don’t breathe. I stare because I know that I’ll regret it if I don’t see his face. I stare because I want to be just like him. I don’t say this aloud as Joni would simply roll on the road with laughter, mocking me.

I see the man in the car. He has smooth shiny skin. It looks drowned in Vaseline. He’s glowing with happiness or maybe it’s cleanliness. I sigh. I look down at my cracked calloused hands that make an unpleasing sound when I rub them. I sigh. I yearn for just a tiny drop of Vaseline to soften the tightness in them.

I look back at the man; he’s slowed down , almost stopped now. His car is purring like a majestic cat. Its music is satisfying to listen to. It’s the music of wealth and success.  The man turns as as though he can feel my eyes on his, he stares back at me with his clean, shiny eyes. We stare at each other. It’s not a staring competition. It’s more of an understanding, as though we’re connected by something. I don’t know what it is.

‘I’m going crazy, ‘I think as the connection is broken and the car drives past us. What could two strangers have in common besides the fact that tese tiri vanhu , we’re both human. ‘I must be going crazy,’ I think again. He’s rich and clean and I’m poor and dirty . I scratch at an irritating ring worm on my elbow. Nothing could ever connect us.

‘Your turn,’ Joni repeats. He doesn’t know what has happened , what I’ve felt. How could he ? Joni was just a simple minded ten-year-old who grew up in a one bedroomed hut stuffed with twelve of his step siblings from the various women that his father bedded. It wasn’t his fault that he had no ambition beyond playing with his wire car. It wasn’t their fault that they had grown up in such circumstances.

‘Ok , I spy,’ I whisper as I glance back at the car. I memorize the smooth shape and the clean black color ,‘I spy , someone wearing blue.’

Joni looks down at his off white shirt , he looks at me, he looks behind us.

‘I see! I see! It’s the man.’

The man has got out of his chariot. He looks strong and healthy, not skinny like a drumstick that has been eaten hungrily and then left with little meat. He looks strange. We watch him with wide open eyes as he kneels down before one tyre. The once plump round tyres have now sunken flat. The man seeing this kicks angrily at the tyre as though his crocodile shoes can refill his it. He stops, realizing the two skeletons gawking at him. He presses something in the car and the boot opens. Our chins drop lower, our eyes bulge. He grabs a diamond shaped metal object along with a new tyre. We stand there, two uneducated boys wondering what this crazy rich man was about to do. We never get to know the answer, for in that moment we spy men, appearing from the long dry grass.

The men grab the man from behind, ripping off his blue suit. He struggles against them, claws, jerks and bites. They’re too many of them, he gives up as he realizes his defeat. They begin to punch him, one by one. I think of his smooth skin. A tear escapes from my eye. Someone yells at the men to stop. I don’t know who. It must have been Joni or me. My heart pounds loudly in my ears as one of the men gives the crumpled man that I no longer recognize one final kick in the stomach. I can barely watch, as more tears roll down my eyes, and the men jump into the beautiful car whose shape I had memorized.

‘We must run away. They might come back.’

‘No we can’t,’ a voice I admire says.

I want to help the man. My heart wants to. But my body won’t let me. I swallow back the bitter taste of last night’s sadza with okra. I realize that voice was me but I feel like I’m going to vomit the little food I had. The man might die; I don’t want his ghost to haunt me.  I grab Joni’s small hand and we, the two skeletal ten year olds, laboriously haul the man who changed our lives forever to St Nyoka.

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