People of Skies

By Jeremy Wohlers

Hyperinflation, massive unemployment and chronic fuel shortages, which make black market petrol the most valuable commodity in the land, should be enough to kill Zimbabwes government stone dead. However, its redoubtable president, Robert Mugabe, is not so easily daunted, especially since he has the police, the army, and the fearsome Green Bombers, national service men and women, at his disposal.

Ndlovu, a menial worker in a funeral parlour, is an ordinary man with an extraordinary plan who discovers how to make the moribund economy and death work for him. His motley crew of cohorts and hangers-on help him borrow bodies from his work, so they can impersonate bereaved relatives unable to afford the services of undertakers who are transporting their deceased loved ones to remote rural homes. As do-it-yourself undertakers, this entitles them to as much petrol as they need, which they sell on the black market.

Ndlovus scheme never runs smoothly, especially since he enlists the support of mad Archie, resident lunatic and notorious dissident. Inevitably, Ndlovu and his gang fall foul of the state security apparatus, and they are victimised by a particularly powerful member of the Central Intelligence Organisation (CIO) who wants in on their scheme. It is only a matter of time before political turmoil and the absurdity of the everyday life catches up with them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456844004

Jeremy Wohlers

Author Biography coming up soon

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by Jeremy Wohlers.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011901771

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4568-5439-3

             Softcover     978-1-4568-5438-6

             Ebook           978-1-4568-4400-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

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www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter One

I t was an arrant thought, conjured up whole, not requiring refinement or simplification, without precedent, bursting into life fully formed. Ndlovu could not understand why he had not thought of it before. He saw himself reflected in the mirrors mounted behind the windows of Naik’s Emporium. He looked around sheepishly; maybe someone had seen the ludicrous expression that flitted across his face in his moment of triumph. Was it a smirk? A smug smile? His pointed, rat-like features could never approximate a grin; when he bared his teeth, the effect could only be described as a leer. He leered again; he could not help it. As he stood in line waiting for the kombi, the brilliance of his scheme fortified him against all discouragement. In fact, if he had been a man given to easy laughter, he would have laughed out loud right there, right then. But Ndlovu was far too circumspect for that.

The kombi arrived. As had been the case for a while, the normal order broke down, and the front of the queue dissolved. The passengers surged forward; the windi, or the conductor, stepped out of the vehicle as it rolled to a halt, grabbed the plastic shopping bags of the nearest woman, and dragged her into the tshova. This was like pulling the stopper out of a sink; the passengers were sucked into the kombi. The windi deftly slid the door shut after the required number of passengers had squeezed themselves into the vehicle. He hit the door twice with his palm, and the vehicle began to roll away slowly. He walked beside it; once it had moved away from those who remained on the footpath, the windi slid the door open and skipped into the vehicle while it was still on the move. The tshova picked up speed.

All sixteen seats at the back had been taken in an instant; two passengers sat at the front next to the driver. The windi pressed himself against the back of the front seat. He leant over Ndlovu, who sat next to the door, since he was the last person to secure a seat. He sat on one of the folding seats that occupied the aisle running down the left side of the tshova. The window in the sliding door was open so the windi could lean out of the vehicle. At frequent intervals, he bellowed the destination of the tshova, apparently for the benefit of passers-by. As they turned out of Lobengula Street on to Sixth Avenue, he shouted, ‘D-square’, over and over again competing against the whine of the straining engine. Then he waved to someone on the footpath as the vehicle rushed on.

They sped past iron-framed stalls covered in flapping black plastic, a corridor, or so Ndlovu imagined, of sombre, shabby mourners waiting for a hearse to pull away. They sped on, caught the lights near the long distance bus terminus, and did not slow down until the first speed hump. Pedestrians stood on either side of the road; the speed hump was positioned to slow down traffic so that cars would stop at the crossing. The traffic slowed down, but it never stopped, so invariably the pedestrians had to wait. Because of their cramped conditions, the windi was forced to lean so close to Ndlovu that his open shirt frequently flapped in Ndlovu’s face. Ndlovu had to push it aside, like a curtain, so that his view through the window was not obstructed.

The windi asked the passengers to pay as the tshova ascended the bridge over the railway line at Mzilikazi. It was rare for anyone to alight at Mzilikazi; once it had been a very busy first stop on the Luveve Road route. Now most people walked; recent price rises had effectively excised Mzilikazi from the route. The passengers passed banknotes among themselves. Each row of four passengers, three on the fixed bench and one on the fold-down chair, contrived between them to shuffle and swap their notes so that the windi got the exact fare for four passengers, and the passengers gave each other the correct change. The windi collected the money and passed a big wad of notes to the driver, who pressed them into his breast pocket.

Some passengers got off at intervening stops. This meant those on the fold-down chairs also had to temporarily alight to clear the aisle. Once passengers began to alight, the windi sat on one of the vacant seats. There were very few private cars on the road. Ndlovu finally had an unobstructed view of the road ahead, and it was virtually empty. He could see the driver. The wad of notes that he had stuffed in his pocket was folded in half. The fold faced downwards and acted like a spring. Every time the driver turned the wheel, he stretched his tight shirt, pushing the notes upwards. As they approached the D-square bus stop, the windi slid open the door and began to shout ‘town’. The driver swung the vehicle into the bus stop; the money popped out of his breast pocket and unfolded. Momentarily, the notes seemed to hover in a pile then the wind, which rushed in through the open windows at the front, quickly peeled the notes away from the pile. They fluttered into the windscreen like a cloud of ascending butterflies. The driver instinctively raised his hands to shield his face and then he opened them wide as if he wanted to embrace the cloud of errant butterflies and gather them in. The tshova ploughed into a stationary kombi parked at the bus stop. The driver was flung forward, as were the two passengers in front, crushing the butterflies against the windscreen just before it shattered.

The windi flew past the tshova, tossed from his precarious perch in the open doorway. Ndlovu had foreseen this likely turn of events, so he had braced himself for impact by pushing against the front passenger seat with his hands and knees. The seat became detached, and Ndlovu rolled forward on top of the passengers in front, who were stretched across the dashboard.

He attempted to disentangle himself from these passengers. He pushed, shoved, and then heaved his legs free, which had somehow become trapped beneath one of the motionless passengers. He saw youths scurrying around the kombis, butterfly hunting. Ndlovu was finally able to pull himself through the front window; he was the first to emerge from the vehicle. There was a peculiar moment of inaction. The crowd, which had surged forward, stopped, undecided as to what to do next. No one approached Ndlovu. He did not move either. He looked at his hands. The crowd quickly overcame its initial reticence; people converged, seizing Ndlovu. His rescuers led him to a sparse thorn bush and made him sit in the shade despite his protestations that he was unhurt. The rising dust began to choke Ndlovu; his chest was heaving. He strained to catch his breath.

‘My hands,’ implored Ndlovu. ‘I must clean my hands.’

The bystanders thought he had injured his hands; as Ndlovu rose, they gripped his arms, fearing he might aggravate his supposed injuries.

‘I’m all right,’ he pleaded, but his benefactors forced him to sit down.

He could feel the blood drying; he imagined that it was seeping into his skin, filtering through his pores. Ndlovu rubbed his hands on the back of his trousers as he sat beneath the thorn bush. At first he wiped them furiously, then he stopped abruptly. His hands were bloodier than before. He looked at his trouser legs; they were soaked in blood. Initially Ndlovu did not react; then he began to shake. The bystanders interpreted his reaction as the first sign of delayed shock. Ndlovu began to pant; light and colour seemed to drain away as shadows obscured his vision. Ndlovu realised that he was about to faint. ‘A curious sensation,’ he thought, especially considering his daily diet of horror. His breathing became more regular; light and colour returned to his world, banishing the encroaching shadows.

Ndlovu could not tell how long he had sat beneath the tree. Most of the passengers in the back of the kombi had clambered out on their own. The passengers in the front and the driver were hauled, pulled, and dragged out of the vehicle. The crowd was largely successful in all its endeavours except it was unable to get a rapid response from the emergency services, despite the numerous phone calls made by members of the crowd on their cell phones.

Ndlovu watched those around him. Their attention was focused on the scene of the accident. Many had drifted away to get a closer look. Those who stood near the thorn bush were relative newcomers and were more interested in hearing about the accident than attending to Ndlovu; they assumed that someone else was doing that already. New arrivals stood at the edge of the crowd before venturing closer to the action; those who had been first on the scene were drifting in the opposite direction, retreating in stages, standing further and further away to chat before wandering off.

Ndlovu rose. No one paid any attention to him; they were all looking towards the crash site. He turned abruptly and weaved his way through the crowd, which thinned as he headed towards a vacant lot. People were still converging on the scene; housewives stood near the hedges of their front yards in order to hear the latest news. Ndlovu’s home was not far from D-square. Most streets in the area were tarred, but these tarred roads were not wide enough to allow two cars to pass each other. There were no gutters or pavements; the edges of the road were very irregular because rainwater had washed away the sand and gravel on either side, causing them to crumble so much that they resembled tiny, jagged coastlines.

Ndlovu slipped on one of these tiny cliff lines; his ankle turned outwards then his leg gave way. He thrust his right arm out to break his fall. He cut his lower arm on the edge of the road, and it began to bleed. He peered intently at the cut; the skinned flesh reddened and then trickled with blood. He almost wiped away the blood with his left hand but froze in mid-action without actually making contact.

Ndlovu sprang to his feet and sprinted home. He had an unbearable itch; he wanted to grasp his wound with his free hand but dared not. Ndlovu swung his right arm stiffly as he ran. There was only one person in the street, an old man in tattered blue overalls. The old man saw Ndlovu fall, jump up, kick off his shoes, and then set off at a lunatic gallop. At first the old man scarcely recognised his neighbour, but once he had, he steeled himself for the inevitable impact, for he fully intended to halt Ndlovu’s progress. Ndlovu saw the old man, recognised him instantly, and tried to sidestep around him; however, as he deviated, the old man swiftly seized Ndlovu’s upper arm. The inertia of Ndlovu’s own body carried his legs forward and the left side of his torso. He should have been able to tear himself free, but the old man held fast, his grip unyielding. Ndlovu was brought to an abrupt halt.

‘Ndlovu, what’s happened?’ asked the old man.

Ndlovu tried to shake himself free; however, the old man would not relent. His bony fingers bit into Ndlovu’s bicep. He squeezed Ndlovu hard in a grip which felt like it was not the product of flesh and bone.

‘Sibanda,’ cried Ndlovu, ‘there’s been an accident.’

Ndlovu tried to relate what had happened as quickly as possible, but Sibanda was not easily placated. He wanted a full explanation, and worst of all, he insisted on examining Ndlovu. It was then that Ndlovu noticed that his clothes had been shredded, that they hung about his body in strips. Ndlovu saw the way Sibanda stared at the remnants of his blood-splattered clothes; he realised that his chances of escape were steadily diminishing. Ndlovu tried to pull away; it felt as though he had been chained to a boulder.

‘It’s not my blood,’ he pleaded, hoping this would win his release while realising how lame and feeble his plea must have sounded.

Sibanda merely looked more perplexed; then with his free right hand, he grasped Ndlovu’s right arm and twisted it slowly so that the gash on his right forearm was plainly visible.

‘That’s all there is?’ cried Ndlovu in exasperation. ‘I was running. I fell, you saw me.’

Sibanda released Ndlovu’s arm, turned quickly and resumed his hold with his right hand. He began to steer him in the direction Ndlovu had intended to take all along. The old man did not hurry. Ndlovu repeatedly shrugged his shoulders in a feeble attempt to shake himself free. Ndlovu’s house was not far away. They soon entered Ndlovu’s yard. Ndlovu pulled hard against the old man. Sibanda relented and allowed himself to be pulled towards the toilet at the end of the yard. The toilet leant slightly; evidently the ground beneath it had shifted. It was made of red brick with a metal door, which was permanently ajar and could be shut only with the utmost effort, requiring the door to be lifted so that the bolt could be rammed home.

Sibanda finally let go of Ndlovu, who sought the safety of the toilet. He tried frantically to shut the door, but every time he slid the bolt across, it was not aligned with the hole, so the door swung open when he released it. In his haste, Ndlovu slammed the door and rammed the bolt, all to no effect—slam and ram, slam and ram. Sibanda grabbed the door, placed his foot in the gap between floor and door, lifted the door with his foot, and effortlessly slid the bolt home. He turned and strode towards Ndlovu’s house in order to summon Ndlovu’s wife. Once he was secure inside the cubicle, Ndlovu turned on the shower, which consisted of a lead pipe curved at the top; the water fell in a single jet next to the toilet bowl. The water flowed down the sloping floor and out of a hole in the wall behind the bowl.

Ndlovu fumbled with his buttons and his zip, which would not unfasten. The remnants of his clothes tore away in his hands; fragments fell to the ground like peeling skin. The water ran red about his feet before flowing away behind the bowl.

Ndlovu could hear voices; nearly all were female. Some were arguing; many were shrill and insistent. Ndlovu could also hear Sibanda complaining, in fact protesting that he knew ‘very little’. Sibanda steadfastly maintained the position that the priority must be to collect clothes for Ndlovu. However, the women persisted in pestering him; they wanted to know about the accident. From Ndlovu’s vantage point in the toilet, it seemed no one was taking the old man seriously. Ndlovu sighed. He wondered when he would get his clothes.

The toilet door swung open; whether it was opened intentionally or by some mad unconscious impulse, no one ever knew. The assembled crowd became strangely quiet; even Sibanda stopped trying to ‘make people see sense’, as he put it. Ndlovu stood before them—his wife, her sister, his sister’s grown-up daughter, the woman from next door, her two grown-up daughters, the woman from across the street, her mother, Ndlovu’s sister who lived at A-square, her best friend, two passers-by who were total strangers, and a whole host of women that Ndlovu was certain he had never seen before in his entire life. It seemed as though they were holding their breaths. No one uttered a sound; only the sound of distant traffic on the main road and the far-off yells of children playing relieved the silence.

‘My god,’ said Sibanda, ‘there’s hardly a scratch on him.’

And indeed there was not, except for the scratch on his arm. In the time it took the women to complain, contend, and finally completely confuse each other, Ndlovu had washed himself clean. He stood before them in his underwear. Sibanda slammed the toilet door shut, or tried to; however, it bounced open. He slammed it shut again; a resounding retort of metal against metal frame echoed across the backyards. He fumbled with the bolt then stood back; the hinges began to creak, and the door slowly opened. He tried again; it would not shut. The bolt would not slide into the bolt hole, and it seemed that no matter how much effort was expended in lifting and tugging the door into position, the bolt and the bolt hole could not be properly aligned. Ndlovu grasped the door handle, slipped his foot into the gap between the floor and the door, raised the door slightly, and slipped the bolt into place. Sibanda immediately retired, no longer the object of attention, and as he retreated he was engulfed by the uproar that ensued once the diversion had concluded.

In fact, as the door was secured, a localised explosion occurred around the person of Mrs Ndlovu, which sent shock waves across the yard and set off reactions of concern, and regrettably mirth, in some quarters. Mrs Ndlovu twirled about in confusion, flinging her arms up and appearing to teeter and sway, before her companions seized her and prevented her from hurling herself face downwards. As she was a woman of considerable proportions, her companions attempted to avoid this eventuality at all costs, since the effort required to lift her once she was down was far greater than the effort required to prevent her from falling. They struggled to keep her sagging bulk from subsiding to the ground. At first, they seemed undecided as to which course of action was best; they pulled her this way and that before electing to steer her towards the house. They wheeled around and managed to advance a few steps before Mrs Ndlovu shook herself free, turned, and ran towards the toilet pursued by her friends and helpers. They caught up with her and only managed to restrain her with the utmost exertion. However, this provided a momentary respite only. Mrs Ndlovu twisted and turned, deftly sidestepping her attendants, fleeing in unpredictable directions, arms flung wide as if berating the entire universe for its audacity. Mrs Ndlovu’s friends caught up with her again and seized her, only to be baffled and confounded, eventually relinquishing their grip.

Meanwhile, Ndlovu remained inside the toilet. He peeped through the gap between the door frame and the wall. He could see nearly all those assembled in his yard from his vantage point. Most were deep in discussion; the occasional look of incredulity lit up various corners of the crowd. Often listeners assumed rigid postures; then after the speaker had finished, they would slowly shake their heads or clap their hands together once before shaking their hands vigorously. Or else some outrageous fact would become apparent, starting in one corner, then sweeping across those assembled in the yard like an undulating wave provoking exclamations of surprise and sympathy; admittedly in many quarters, such expressions were mocking rather than genuine.

Ndlovu sat on the toilet bowl. Though he was not able to see as well as when he pressed his eye against the crack between the wall and the door frame, he was still able to see a large cross section of the crowd. There seemed little prospect of anyone bringing him his clothes. Finally he saw Sibanda approach; apparently he had taken it upon himself to get them. He passed a bundle to Ndlovu through the gap between the door and the toilet roof.

Ndlovu dressed hurriedly but did not vacate the toilet; he found it comforting to sit, wait, and watch. He began to feel quite detached from the commotion outside, even though he was the immediate cause. In fact, he did more than merely observe. He began to play a game, a guessing game. Who would be next to shake their head in disbelief or throw up their hands in despair or cast snide glances left and right before suppressing their laughter or giggle behind their raised hands?

Sibanda opened the door slightly.

‘Ndlovu, what are you doing?’ asked Sibanda.

Ndlovu was unable to answer immediately, since he did not know himself.

‘Come out, man,’ said Sibanda sharply.

But Ndlovu did not respond. Sibanda leant in, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him out. Ndlovu blinked, dazzled by the bright sunlight. Sibanda led the way; the crowd parted briefly, then enveloped them. They were jostled and buffeted by a barrage of questions about the accident and the state of Ndlovu’s health. Once surrounded by the women, they floundered, being unable to advance or retreat. Unable to pass, Ndlovu and Sibanda were waylaid by expressions of sympathy and concern. They were immobilised by their own politeness. Mrs Ndlovu shoved her way towards her husband, then she flung herself upon him; he was knocked backwards, but he did not fall because of the solidity of the crowd behind him. He stood with his arms pinned to his sides by his wife’s embrace, bemused by her sudden display of affection. Some of Mrs Ndlovu’s friends grasped her arms and broke her hold, probably afraid that she would smother him; her ample figure contrasted sharply with Ndlovu’s small frame. However, Mrs Ndlovu’s companions were no match for Mrs Ndlovu, whose guile and dexterity, combined with her considerable size, meant that once in motion her shifting and jinking confounded even the most determined tackler.

Mrs Ndlovu seized her husband again, then she released him just as suddenly. The cynical section of the crowd had pushed forward, hoping for more histrionics, but Mrs Ndlovu’s demeanour changed. Possibly she had become aware that some of her neighbours were laughing at her. Instead of embracing her husband, she heaved one massive sigh like a huge engine coming to rest and kept her arms by her side. This gave Sibanda enough time to steer Ndlovu towards the house. Mrs Ndlovu followed, but she remained outside by the door once her husband and his friend had entered, effectively barring entry to anyone else. Thus the whole sorrow spectacle came to an end, but while it had lasted, the well-wishers, the curious, the malicious, the barely known, and those who were total strangers had been so richly entertained that no one complained that the show had ended prematurely.

Mrs Ndlovu watched her friends and neighbours file out of the gate. Once her yard was cleared, she went into the house. Mrs Ndlovu went straight to the kitchen. Sibanda eyed her suspiciously, fearing that she might smother Ndlovu again. Ndlovu, on the other hand, seemed blissfully unconcerned, taking no notice of his wife at all.

Mrs Ndlovu entered with the tea tray and set cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, a jug of warm milk, and a plate of sliced bread spread with margarine on the coffee table in front of the men. She left and then returned quickly with a dish of lukewarm water and a tea towel so the men could wash and dry their hands before eating. As soon as they had finished washing, she retired to the kitchen.

Sibanda poured himself a cup of tea. Ndlovu did not move. After a brief interval, Sibanda poured a cup of tea for Ndlovu. Sibanda poured milk in both cups; he thought of asking Ndlovu how much sugar he wanted, but he then decided not to bother and ladled three heaped spoonfuls into each cup. They sat in silence, or near silence; the incessant ticking of the wall clock seemed unnaturally loud. Sibanda wanted to speak or at least provoke a response from Ndlovu. However, try as he might, he was incapable of formulating the right question or thinking of the appropriate subject. So Sibanda had to content himself with remaining silent and sipping tea. Although he hoped most fervently that Ndlovu would, of his own accord, discuss the accident, after one cup of tea, Sibanda realised that this was indeed a forlorn hope. Ndlovu scarcely touched his tea; he was barely aware of Sibanda’s presence, his expression glassy and blank. Sibanda assumed that his friend was in shock. He called Mrs Ndlovu; she glanced at her husband, and then retired to the kitchen. Surprised by her reaction, Sibanda called her again. Mrs Ndlovu seemed to be uncharacteristically calm, or was it detached? Either she did not recognise the enormity of the problem or she did not care or so Sibanda assumed.

Sibanda found her behaviour very aggravating; her stolid refusal to desist from washing the dishes, infuriated him immensely. The more Sibanda reasoned with her, the more she resorted to unreasonable silence. Finally Sibanda decided to take his leave, promising to call in on his friend in an hour or two. Mrs Ndlovu did not thank him for his assistance or concern; in fact, she did not even acknowledge that she had heard him. Sibanda tried to keep his eye on Mrs Ndlovu, expecting some sort of response; as a consequence, he nearly walked into Ndlovu’s son, who stood in the doorway. Once Sibanda had gone, Ndlovu’s son closed the door. Mrs Ndlovu left the kitchen and joined her husband.

Initially Mrs Ndlovu said nothing; in fact, they remained almost motionless. Eventually Mrs Ndlovu turned to her husband.

‘SekaNobuhle, what is it now?’ she enquired.

Ndlovu barely spoke; all he said was ‘ma’.

‘SekaNobuhle, you heard,’ said Mrs Ndlovu emphatically.

And of course he had; however, he had no intention of replying. He wanted to enjoy a few more moments of that pleasurable feeling he had first experienced outside Naik’s.

‘SekaNobuhle, I can see it in your face. I know what has happened,’ declared Mrs Ndlovu.

Ndlovu merely smiled, the same vacant smile that had alarmed Sibanda and was now annoying his wife.

‘When did this begin?’ demanded Mrs Ndlovu, without expecting a satisfactory response.

Ndlovu’s expression changed for the first time since he had entered the house; a scowl flitted across his face, baring his yellow fangs. As Mrs Ndlovu had expected, Ndlovu’s mood changed completely. Mrs Ndlovu sat bolt upright, stiff with worry, for this followed an all-too-familiar pattern. She knew her husband well; he had a money-making scheme in mind. She was sure of it. Mrs Ndlovu often confided in her neighbour, especially when Ndlovu was devising one of his schemes; on these occasions, she would say to her, her voice trembling with anxiety, ‘naFiso, naFiso, Ndlovu’s been thinking again!’

‘Not again, sekaNobuhle, please not again,’ pleaded Mrs Ndlovu.

‘Be quiet, woman,’ said Ndlovu crossly. ‘We’ll be rich.’

‘But, sekaNobuhle,’ implored Mrs Ndlovu, ‘all your grand ideas begin the same way, with some calamity.’

‘Mere coincidence,’ said Ndlovu, immediately dismissive.

‘But it’s true,’ countered Mrs Ndlovu, who remembered previous disasters all too well. ‘Like the time we were supposed to go to Esigodini, and you had that same silly, dreamy look on your face until the bus burst a tyre and ran off the road.’

Ndlovu began to fidget, irritated by his wife’s objections; however, she seemed to be emboldened by the power of her arguments and seemingly oblivious to her husband’s rising ire. Finally, Ndlovu could bear it no longer,

‘Woman, enough.’

At first she did not seem to hear him; she had other examples, many more in fact.

‘Woman, I said that’s enough,’ bellowed Ndlovu, rising from his chair.

Mrs Ndlovu stopped abruptly, her lower lip quivering; she was on the verge of tears. She resumed hesitantly, ‘It’s happened so many times before. Your ideas, this idea, three people dead, this has never happened before.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ shouted Ndlovu. ‘It was a car accident. The driver smashed into another tshova.’

Mrs Ndlovu shook her head. Ndlovu felt compelled to continue despite the fact that the more he remonstrated, the less convincing he sounded.

‘Maybe the brakes failed or the driver wasn’t concentrating. Anything could have happened.’

Mrs Ndlovu would not comment, forcing Ndlovu to proffer more explanations that became increasingly feeble.

‘Most of these tshovas are not roadworthy anyway,’ claimed Ndlovu. ‘The one I was in was falling to pieces.’

Mrs Ndlovu shook her head again as if to say, ‘a most unlikely story’. Ndlovu was not incensed by the fact that his wife doubted his judgement; it was the contempt he believed was implied whenever a woman openly contradicted her husband that infuriated him. Accordingly he felt compelled to defend his dignity by confounding his wife’s criticisms and her belief in bad omens.

‘I bet the tyres were bald. The owners hardly ever change them unless they’re so badly punctured that they can’t be repaired. These days bald tyres are recycled by cutting new treads in them.’

As soon as he said it, he realised what he had done. Mrs Ndlovu replied promptly, ‘You should know, sekaNobuhle. It was, after all, one of your more modest schemes.’

Ndlovu was incapable of uttering another word, so furious was he with his wife. He desperately wanted to explain himself; cutting new treads into bald tyres had been one of his most promising schemes. He was convinced that she had no right to belittle his idea. They sat in silence. Mrs Ndlovu felt compelled to speak.

‘SekaNobuhle,’ said Mrs Ndlovu, ‘your idea must be awful.’

For a moment, Ndlovu could not respond, ‘awful’ was such a curious word to use. Mrs Ndlovu, for some unaccountable reason, had slipped in an English word. Ndlovu could only surmise that she did so for the purpose of concealing her meaning. Consequently, he whacked her across the chops, a blow she was too late to parry, even though she had expected it. Ndlovu stormed out of the lounge room. He sat on the edge of the bed; he gained no satisfaction from slapping his wife because he was not certain of the meaning of ‘awful’. Therefore, he was deprived of the feeling of total vindication.

Ndlovu glanced at the small pile of textbooks in the corner, which constituted his children’s meagre library. He pulled out a battered dictionary from the bottom. The front cover was missing as well as most of the A section; ‘aw’ was far enough back to have survived, although the way the top pages exfoliated indicated that the A section would soon be totally obliterated. Ndlovu became perplexed; the entry only referred to awe, which he had originally associated with ‘awful’. But that was not what Mrs Ndlovu meant, of that he was certain. Ndlovu emerged from the bedroom, stood over his wife, who had not got up from the sofa, and shook his fists at her.

‘Woman,’ bellowed Ndlovu, ‘do you think you can mock me?’

Even Ndlovu was struck by the theatricality of his outburst. Mrs Ndlovu cowered, but only for appearance’s sake. Ndlovu bellowed because of frustration. She could see that he had failed to divine the meaning of ‘awful’, and until he did, he would not strike her. Ndlovu wanted to yell again, but he did not know what to say. The dictionary had said ‘worthy of respect’, ‘impressive’. He could not hit her for that, could he?

‘What did you mean by using that word?’ demanded Ndlovu.

‘Which word?’ retorted Mrs Ndlovu.

‘You know very well,’ cried Ndlovu. ‘Awe, full of it.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Ndlovu firmly. ‘I said ‘awful’’.

Ndlovu spun round and marched out of the room. He sat on the edge of his bed again. He heard the front door open. He sprung to his feet and nimbly raced to the door, dodging the furniture that ordinarily impeded rapid movement. He caught Mrs Ndlovu just as she was about to leave. He realised that her obfuscation was merely a ruse to facilitate her escape, so he gave her another terrific whack across the face for good measure. She staggered a little; he let go of her arm, and she fell backwards on to her rump.

Ndlovu felt well satisfied. He feared that if she had indeed maligned him, she might go unpunished. Clearly he subscribed to the notion that the guilty should never escape punishment, even if occasionally the innocent suffered. However, in the process of dispensing justice, Ndlovu did think of another way of getting to the truth. He looked for his children’s Ndebele/English dictionary. He looked up the English section with the Ndebele meanings; however, the volume was so slender that he was not inspired with confidence. The entries went from awe to axe; he threw it away in disgust.

Then Ndlovu remembered his eldest child, Nobuhle, had a Zulu/English dictionary that had fallen into their possession during her chequered scholastic career. He located ‘awful’ close to the B section. Predictably, the first synonym was ‘-mangalisayo’; however, the subsequent synonyms were far more enlightening: ‘-esabekayo’, frightening, was definitely closer to the mark, and the last definition which was ‘-bi’, evil or bad, made his spirits soar. Ndlovu did not regret being unable to whack his wife again. He no longer felt angry; instead, his frustration had been supplanted by a warm, happy feeling for he had, in his own estimation at least, been totally vindicated.

Chapter Two

N dlovu woke early the next morning. Mrs Ndlovu guessed that he would. Consequently, she rose even earlier to boil water for her husband’s bath. Ndlovu lifted the big black pot from the hot plate and poured the hot water into a chipped and dented enamel dish. He added cold water and then dropped his face towel and soap into the dish before carrying it to the toilet, which also served as the bathroom, where he placed the dish on top of the toilet bowl, which also functioned as a washstand.

Ndlovu washed hurriedly, and then dressed quickly. He found his breakfast on the kitchen table. He gulped down his lukewarm tea but did not touch his cold porridge. Mrs Ndlovu listened and waited outside. She heard the front door open, then shut, but she did not peer round the corner of the house, instead, she waited a moment before sweeping the yard.

In fact, many of Ndlovu’s neighbours, those who still had jobs, rose early so they could walk to work. Normally when Ndlovu did walk the seven kilometres to Ghould’s Funeral Parlour, his place of work, he did so, at least some of the way, with some of his neighbours. However, on this occasion, he preferred his own company. Therefore, he hunched his shoulders and marched steadily ahead without looking to either side, in case he caught the eye of one of his walking companions, who might happen to be leaving home at the same time. As long as he maintained the fiction that he had not seen anyone, he could walk alone without appearing to be rude. He was determined to avoid any unwanted distractions. Once he turned on to Luveve Road he relaxed. He knew he could take various devious shortcuts and rarely used byways, thus diminishing the possibility of meeting any of his acquaintances.

Ndlovu began to plan and scheme in earnest. In fact, his inner symphony was so intoxicating that he began to bound along with his arms pumping, barely conscious of how quickly he passed landmarks or how ridiculous his mad rush might appear to others. Therefore he was quite amazed when he arrived twenty minutes early for work. Usually the physical strain of walking so far before work left Ndlovu drained of energy. The after-effects of the accident should have compounded this even if, as he claimed, he had escaped completely unscathed; instead he felt invigorated.

Ndlovu knew his boss was inside and that he could gain admittance if he so desired, but he preferred to loiter on the doorstep. The morning air no longer felt so fresh; it was still relatively cool in the shadows, but the sun was beginning to glower. The morning traffic, though thin, had managed to stir up the dust and pump out enough exhaust fumes to make the air in the centre of town hazy.

Mr Ghould noticed that his most faithful employee had arrived early and hurried to open the big glass doors of the entrance hall. Apparently grateful for such devotion, Mr Ghould greeted Ndlovu warmly, or as warmly as he was able.

‘Morning, Toby,’ he said.

‘Morning, sah,’ replied Ndlovu, disappointed that his boss had seen him.

‘Did you hear about the accident on Luveve Road? Near your place?’ enquired Mr Ghould for the sake of small talk rather than out of any genuine interest in the affairs of the township.

‘I didn’t hear about it,’ announced Ndlovu triumphantly. ‘I was in it.’

‘In it?’ repeated Mr Ghould in amazement. ‘It can’t be, surely not.’

‘But it’s true,’ said Ndlovu, happy to be the centre of attention, probably for the first time since he started working for Mr Ghould eighteen years ago.

‘But I thought there were people killed in that accident,’ said Mr Ghould sceptically.

‘There were,’ confirmed Ndlovu.

Mr Ghould called his son Leonard. He then addressed Ndlovu, ‘Make a pot of tea. Bring three cups, sugar, and milk to my office and tell us all about it.’

Ndlovu had worked for Mr Ghould for many years, and in all that time, he had never been invited to his boss’s office to drink tea with him. He took great pleasure in the summons. When he had finished making the tea, Ndlovu took the fully laden tea tray to Mr Ghould’s office without delay. Mr Ghould and his son were waiting. Ndlovu set the tray down on the oak desk, which he polished twice a week. Ndlovu began to pour the tea.

‘Pull up a chair,’ said Mr Ghould.

Ndlovu hesitated. He had never been invited to sit in one of the chairs in the big office before; he only dusted and polished them. Whenever Ndlovu had a request, whenever he sought assistance or permission from Mr Ghould, he stood before the oak desk. Mr Ghould’s office was very cold; it was his boss’s habit to turn on the air conditioner as soon as he arrived, which was very early. Ndlovu doubted that the mortuary was any colder. Ndlovu sat down gingerly, so unaccustomed was he to the sensation of sitting in the big office. The chair felt hard-edged and unyielding. Father and son focused their attention on Ndlovu, who was reticent; the setting was unsuitable for yarn spinning, the room forbidding, and the audience harshly inquisitorial. Ndlovu found it difficult to speak.

‘Come on, Toby. Don’t hold out on us,’ said Mr Ghould, trying to be encouraging.

‘So what happened?’ asked his son impatiently.

Ndlovu was compelled to speak. He began hesitantly, ‘I was travelling home in a kombi, which was full. The driver was weaving in and out of traffic, crossing lanes without indicating.

Lenny Ghould shook his head and then exclaimed, ‘Typical,’ as if all his prejudices had been confirmed yet again. He added for good measure, ‘Most of those guys buy their licences. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Half the drivers on the road either can’t drive or their vehicles should be impounded.’

Lenny expressed his opinion so vehemently that he reddened slightly; his cheeks and double chin quivered, and his collar seemed to cut into his fat neck even more than usual. Ndlovu resumed his story, ‘We had passed Mpopoma High, and we were about to come to D-square bus stop. The driver was trying to overtake the kombi in front…’

‘I knew it,’ thundered Lenny. Even though he never specified what he knew. Mr Ghould surmised that his son was just about to inform them, so he interjected quickly, ‘Go on, Toby.’

‘The driver had been racing other kombis.’

Lenny shook his head. Ndlovu knew his story was making him more popular with his employers, well, the junior half of the partnership at least, so he pandered to Lenny’s prejudices.

‘The windi was riding in the open doorway on the passengers’ side, taunting the other driver as we overtook him.’

‘Unbelievable,’ exclaimed Lenny, unable to contain himself.

‘The driver was looking over his shoulder,’ continued Ndlovu. ‘He was laughing, making fun of the other driver. The people in the front started screaming. The driver was too late. By the time he turned around to face the front, he didn’t have enough time to brake. We hit the kombi in front. It was like…’

Ndlovu hesitated again as if at a loss for words, but he knew exactly what he was going to say next. He was only undecided about how long he should pause, what length of time would have the greatest effect without being too long and spoiling the dramatic moment.

‘Go on,’ prompted Mr Ghould gently.

Should he wait even longer, for another interjection perhaps? Lenny’s brow began to wrinkle; he muttered inaudibly. Ndlovu surreptitiously observed Lenny. He reddened quite noticeably. His cheeks were puffed out as if his normally tight collar was strangling him this time. Ndlovu wanted to laugh out loud, but since he did not laugh much anyway, he found it easy to suppress the feeling. ‘Let Lenny inflate some more,’ thought Ndlovu, hoping that Lenny would explode like a huge, red balloon. Ndlovu glanced at the senior Ghould, who rarely blinked at the best of times; however, on this occasion his fish-eyed gaze seemed to indicate more than his usual detached curiosity. Ndlovu was discomforted and then disconcerted by his boss’s dismal impassivity. Had Mr Ghould seen through his fabrications? Did he know when Ndlovu concocted details? Above all, did he know that Ndlovu did so to suit his own paltry ends? Ndlovu did not dare look at Mr Ghould again; instead, he examined his dusty shoes. Ndlovu felt it best to cut his losses and revert to the unembellished truth.

‘It was like, when we hit I mean, a big, very big bang, then it was like the inside of the kombi was turned upside down.’

‘Yesus,’ exclaimed Lenny.

‘Goodness,’ said Mr Ghould sympathetically.

‘Well, I think the driver and passengers in the front were killed immediately,’ said Ndlovu.

‘Shame,!’ said Lenny. ‘And what happened to you?’

Ndlovu would have been quite happy to end his story there, and indeed he had not taken into account his audience’s interest in his own welfare, but now he realised such interest could have repercussions. He needed to deflect their attention away from himself.

‘I don’t remember much,’ said Ndlovu, who immediately realised how feeble and trite that excuse for withholding information must have sounded. Ndlovu dared not look at Mr Ghould. In an effort to rectify the situation, Ndlovu actually ended up contradicting himself.

‘I was thrown on to the front seat. The windi flew out of the kombi.’

Ndlovu paused. Neither Mr Ghould nor his son said a word. Lenny’s breathing was inaudible; normally he snorted and wheezed like an expiring steam engine. Ndlovu became aware of the impact of the truth, and from that moment onwards, he resolved to exploit it.

‘My legs were pinned under one of the women in the front. I don’t know how it happened.’

Ndlovu, despite his best intentions, paused again for effect.

‘At first I couldn’t get free. I suppose she was already dead. She was so heavy. I even tried to kick, but I didn’t seem to be able to move. I pulled as hard as I could, and bit by bit my legs were freed. It seemed to take a long time, but it couldn’t have been because those who saw the accident had not yet reached the kombi to assist those inside.’

No one spoke. Ndlovu eased his body to the back of his chair from the uncomfortable perch on its edge he had assumed when he first sat down. Ndlovu did not speak; as far as he was concerned, he was finished.

‘Well,’ said Mr Ghould in exasperation, ‘then what happened?’

‘Sah?’ replied Ndlovu, sitting bolt upright again and on the edge of his chair.

‘But what did you do next?’ asked Mr Ghould, exasperated by Ndlovu’s reticence to complete his story.

‘I went home,’ said Ndlovu simply as if that was so obvious it did not require comment and should not have needed to be mentioned in the first place.

‘But why didn’t you wait for the ambulance?’ asked Mr Ghould.

‘Ambulance?’ repeated Ndlovu as if the very idea of assistance from that quarter was quite incredible. ‘They take hours. Anyway, the injured were taken to hospital by passing motorists. The dead, they were covered by bystanders, and I suppose the police collected them later.’

Mr Ghould said no more on the subject. Lenny asked, rather speculatively, ‘So you went to a doctor afterwards, didn’t you?’

‘What doctor?’ asked Ndlovu in turn, more baffled now than ever before.

‘Surely, man,’ said Lenny, ‘you saw a doctor.’

‘No,’ replied Ndlovu.

‘But you’ve been in an accident,’ said Lenny.

‘I wasn’t hurt,’ reiterated Ndlovu. He even got to his feet, turned in a circle, offered his physical presence as proof of his contention, and then sat down as if he had irrefutably proved his point. ‘See, I’m fine. I even walked to work this morning.’

‘From the township?’ asked Lenny, who was vague about which township in question. However, as he rarely ventured into the western section of Bulawayo, all the townships seemed impossibly remote to him.

‘Yes, no problem,’ said Ndlovu, smiling amiably, even patronisingly as it all seemed so obvious to him.

‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Mr Ghould. Then more forcefully he added, ‘Toby, you shouldn’t be at work. I appreciate the effort you have made to come here. God knows, I don’t think we deserve—or for that matter any business deserves—such devotion. You should be at home resting.’

‘Sah?’ replied Ndlovu, who did not appear to understand Mr Ghould, or rather that is how his employers chose to interpret it. In fact, Ndlovu understood all too well. He was going to be unable to implement his grand scheme immediately; he had been cheated by an act of malicious kindness. He felt aggrieved, then very, very angry. Ndlovu rose suddenly. He found it too difficult to contain himself; however, once he got up he felt dizzy. Mr Ghould, because of the nature of his long career, recognised instantly the signs and symptoms of fainting fits, so he quickly said to Ndlovu, ‘Sit down, man.’

In fact, he had spoken to Ndlovu more sharply than he intended, but it had the desired effect. He continued in a more sympathetic tone, ‘You’ll make yourself ill. You must rest, and even if you are unhurt, you must see a doctor.’

‘Gawd, what an ou!’ exclaimed Lenny in genuine admiration. ‘I can’t believe it. He gets smashed up in a car wreck, doesn’t even bother to see a doctor, then walks to work the next day. It’s incredible.’

Ndlovu looked around in amazement. He noticed that Lenny’s eyes were moist; Lenny, who had maintained the façade of unrepentant Rhodesian for twenty years, gripped the arms of his chair, raised his quite considerable bulk, pounded across the carpet, and shook Ndlovu’s hand warmly.

‘Sit down, Lenny,’ commanded Mr Ghould. ‘Let’s get this thing sorted.’

Lenny did as he was told, as was always the case.

‘Lenny,’ said Mr Ghould, addressing his son as if there was no one else in the room, ‘take Toby to old Doc Potgieter and have him checked out. Wait for him there, then take him home.’

Lenny was just about to protest; however, Mr Ghould silenced his complaint before it could be uttered by raising his hand, which also dismissed Lenny and Ndlovu from his presence. Lenny acquiesced swiftly. Ndlovu remained seated, unaccustomed to the way father and son communicated with each other in private. Ndlovu got to his feet slowly. Mr Ghould swivelled his chair around to face the window, presenting the back of the chair to Ndlovu as he retreated from the office.

Lenny took Ndlovu to the doctor in his new four-wheel drive, of which he was inordinately proud and which was probably worth ten times more than Ndlovu’s house. Dr Potgieter’s surgery was not far from their workplace. It was a pleasant, suitably modified terrace house. In fact, Potgieter had practised medicine in the same premises, more or less, for over forty years. The waiting room was tastefully furnished, or would have been if it had still been the mid-Seventies. On the curtains were zebras in columns, facing alternate directions against a bright orange background; the sofas and chairs were also orange, and the carpet was deep blue with large grey squares. The most curious feature of all was a painting of military helicopters with a title plate specifying the relevant unit of the Rhodesian Air Force. There was another painting of the same subject in the doctor’s consultation room.

The receptionist recognised Lenny as soon as he arrived. However, he did not have time for the usual pleasantries. He came straight to the point as loudly as possible so that the patients in the waiting room, despite their decrepitude, were bound to hear him.

‘This oke’, said Lenny, becoming quite sentimental, ‘was involved in an accident, the fatal accident on Luveve Road yesterday. He was tossed from the back of the kombi to the front, got trapped beneath some dead passengers, managed to free himself, rendered assistance to the injured, walked home. Didn’t even seek assistance for himself, and you know what he did today?’

Lenny paused, using the same tawdry device Ndlovu had used when telling his story in the office. Four people sat in the waiting room—two elderly women and an elderly couple. The scattered audience was motionless, waiting for Lenny to answer his rhetorical question. Just for good measure he repeated it, then continued, ‘You know what this oke does? He gets up way before dawn, walks twelve ks to work, just to make sure he won’t be late.’

‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed the old gent in the waiting room.

Ndlovu could hear distinctly everything that was said by the old couple, the elderly ladies, and the staff behind the reception desk. No one seemed to talk directly to anyone else. Utterances were tossed into the air to be seized upon by anyone wishing to take part in the discussion.

‘You don’t see devotion to duty like that any more. I’ve never heard of such devotion, ever,’ said the old gent.

‘I blame Mugabe,’ said one of the old ladies. Initially everyone nodded in agreement; however, she did not offer any further explanation. It was merely a disembodied sentiment that stopped the conversation. The old gent tried to cover up for the old lady’s contribution by politely pursuing the anti-Mugabe topic.

‘We had to take our garden boy to Mpilo Hospital the other day. It’s certainly not what it used to be. Once that place was spotless. Now it stinks.’

‘How long did you have to wait to see a doctor?’ asked the other elderly lady, who appeared to be more coherent than her cousin.

‘Doctor?’ replied the old gent. ‘Do we still have doctors in this country?’

No one considered asking the old gent, who he thought he had come to consult.

‘We never saw a doctor. Best we could manage was a nurse,’ concluded the old gent.

‘This country has gone to the dogs,’ chimed in the receptionist.

‘It’s the blacks who suffer,’ interjected the incoherent, elderly lady.

‘Surely, dear, we also suffer,’ said her seemingly more coherent cousin, ‘and the farmers and those in business.’

Her cousin responded in her own inimitable way. ‘It’s the blacks and whites that suffer.’

‘It’s a crime, a tragedy,’ lamented the old gent.

‘Anyway,’ said Lenny trying to restore order, ‘there was not much use waiting around for an ambulance. After all, it would have taken Toby to Mpilo.’

‘More like Kufa Hospital,’ said the old gent.

No one responded. Ndlovu was forced to explain the joke to Lenny.

‘Umpilo means life,’ he said. ‘Ukufa means death.’

Everyone laughed, especially the old gent proud of his own sagacity. He snorted and spluttered louder and longer than anyone else. At last someone recognised Ndlovu’s presence.

‘Poor man,’ said the nurse. ‘Take a seat. It must have been dreadful.’

Ndlovu had not sat down. It was often difficult to know how older whites would react, so he had waited for an invitation, but they seemed to be favourably disposed towards him, a consequence of Lenny’s story no doubt. The less coherent elderly lady asked his name.

‘Ndlovu, madam,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I had a housegirl called Nshovu,’ said the less coherent elderly lady using the common European mispronunciation of Ndlovu’s name. ‘Her name was Bettina. Do you know her?’

‘No, madam,’ said Ndlovu politely, not bothering to explain that Ndlovu is, in fact, a totem shared by thousands of others.

The conversation drifted along, more about the state of the world and nostalgia for pre-independence days than about Ndlovu. Ndlovu did not pay too much attention to what was said; he watched the fish in the fish tank instead. He had not been waiting long, when it was the turn of one of the elderly ladies. After consulting with her cousin and the elderly couple, the ‘not so coherent’ elderly lady gave up her place to Ndlovu. The receptionist gave Ndlovu’s new card to Lenny. Lenny winked at Ndlovu.

‘Bless their dear hearts,’ he said ironically.

Ndlovu was surprised. He did not know that his boss could be so devious; however, he was very grateful that they had been able to jump the queue. Lenny accompanied Ndlovu into Dr Potgieter’s consultation room.

‘And who is the patient?’ asked the doctor caustically.

‘Toby is,’ replied Lenny equably.

‘Then why are you here?’ enquired Dr Potgieter forthrightly.

‘I thought it best,’ replied Lenny, somewhat put out. After a slight pause, he regained his composure bouncing back resolutely, or so Lenny thought. ‘Anyway, I’m paying.’

‘But you’re not the patient, and Mr Ndlovu is a grown man,’ replied the doctor. ‘He can speak for himself.’

Dr Potgieter took Lenny’s arm and ushered him out of the room. He left reluctantly.

Dr Potgieter shone lights in Ndlovu’s eyes and ears and pushed and pulled his limbs. Ndlovu suffered it all meekly. He asked Ndlovu to raise his right arm. He could barely raise it above the level of his shoulder; it felt surprisingly stiff. Flexing his right knee was also painful; in fact, his right side ached. Ndlovu had not noticed the pain before. Dr Potgieter told him to lie on the bed behind the screen. Ndlovu hesitated. He assumed he would have to take his shoes off. His socks had large holes in the heels and the toes; he did not wish to embarrass himself. Ndlovu leant forward to remove his shoes. His intention was to hook his thumbs in the top of his socks so he could remove his shoes and offending socks in one movement. However, Ndlovu had not counted on the pain he felt as he leant forward; his body seemed so rigid that he could barely reach below mid-calf.

‘Don’t worry about taking off your shoes. I have no wish to see your socks,’ said the doctor.

Ndlovu complied quickly with the command. Eventually Dr Potgieter allowed Ndlovu to rise. The doctor sat at his rolltop desk and wrote out a prescription for painkillers and sleeping tablets. Then he wrote a letter to Ndlovu’s employer, giving Ndlovu seven days off. At first Ndlovu thought, or rather hoped, he could negotiate with Dr Potgieter, despite the evidence of the consultation up to that point, and avoid taking his sick leave. However, on medical matters, the good doctor was implacable. Dr Potgieter rose abruptly from his chair and showed Ndlovu to the door. Ndlovu barely had time to mutter ‘thank you’ before he was propelled from the office. In the moments before he reached the waiting room, Ndlovu toyed with the idea of concealing and then destroying the letter addressed to Mr Ghould. But he feared that Mr Ghould and the doctor might be more than doctor and patient. They could even be friends, though Ndlovu found it hard to imagine anyone wanting to befriend Dr Potgieter. But the more he thought about it, the more he realised that friendship between Mr Ghould and Dr Potgieter was not only likely but also entirely natural.

Ndlovu said as little as possible while they went to the chemist before going back to Njube, which suited Lenny, who preferred his own conversation anyway. In fact, Ndlovu was morose, and he did not try to hide his feelings, since he knew Lenny would never notice anyway. It would be at least a week before Ndlovu could implement his grand scheme. His injuries, which had been non-existent a few hours ago, now ached and throbbed intensely. He could not turn his head to the right. His knee was stiff forcing him to limp; his ribs were so sore on his right side that he found it painful to breathe. An excruciating pain flickered behind Ndlovu’s eyes, digging into his brain and almost blinding him.

‘You know it’s a funny thing,’ said Lenny, ‘but a bloke sometimes doesn’t know he’s injured until someone tells him, then the pain hits him all at once. You didn’t look so bad this morning. Now you look a wreck’

Ndlovu closed his eyes. If only it was as easy to close one’s ears as well. Ndlovu knew that Lenny was warming up. Soon he would preface a story with ‘that reminds me…’ then launch into one of his war stories. Lenny and his helicopters, suddenly Ndlovu saw the connection—Dr Potgieter and his paintings.

‘Did you know Dr Potgieter during the war?’ asked Ndlovu, who knew that Lenny would be glad to be given the opportunity to start a story.

‘Sure,’ said Lenny.

Lenny proceeded to tell one of his tedious war stories, which he did not finish until they reached Mpopoma High. They stopped at the traffic lights, where Lenny asked Ndlovu for directions to his house. Ndlovu directed him to Dlamini’s house, which was the largest house in Ndlovu’s street. It had recently been extended and painted; it would not have looked out of place in a wealthier suburb.

‘It looks like a pretty flash place you have,’ said Lenny.

‘Wouldn’t you like to come in?’ asked Ndlovu rather recklessly as he got out of the