The Field of Bones: Part Ii

By Jeremy Wohlers

Moyo is a man in decline who can no longer ignore his own mortality. He lives in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwes premier tourist resort, and works as a receptionist in its grandest hotel, the Mosi-Oa-Tunya. Ordinarily, Moyo would prefer to keep his head down; however, his circumstances and bad luck conspire against him.
Moyo becomes an accidental conservationist when he can no longer turn a blind eye to the hypocrisy of his employer. He begins to wonder if the general malaise that seems to beset his drought ravaged country is the product of his peoples neglect of traditional customs that have guided local communities through the centuries. Suddenly, seemingly unrelated events assume ominous significance.
Moyos family is thrown into turmoil by the amorous adventures of his eldest son, Bekithemba. While the consequences of Bekithembas misadventures are entirely predictable, the same cannot be said for the capricious repercussions of a notorious crime committed in Moyos neighbourhood. Against his better judgment, and at a time when he is at his most vulnerable, Moyo becomes the unwilling champion of the local pariah, Thembi, who is accused of infanticide.
Moyo reluctantly assumes the role of patron of lost causes. He soon discovers that if he is to avert disaster, he needs to reawaken the very best in his family, his friends, his neighbours and, most critically, himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493135349

Jeremy Wohlers

Author Biography coming up soon

Book preview

1

Moyo had taken the same shortcut for nearly twenty years. It passed through a dense forest. The narrow path snaked back and forth between mighty Mkusu trees of considerable age. Their branches often interlocked, casting deep shadows across the path in many places. The path was over a kilometre long and only opened out once it reached a wasteland of weeds and ash next to the railway yard. The ash piles were nearly as tall as a man and stood beside one of the sidings where the steam engines were cleaned. The burnt coal, which was jagged and brittle, had flowed out from these mounds over many years. It spread across the ground, engulfing anything that was green, creating large, bare patches. Moyo trod carefully, for it was important that his shoes remained shiny because his boss, the front office manager, always insisted on his subordinates being ‘impeccably turned out’.

On this occasion, Moyo was rather fortunate; progress across the railway yard was unimpeded since there were no wagons parked in the sidings. Sometimes, the freight wagons stood in long lines, stretching from the end of the yard right up to the station platform, making it impossible to see whether there was an engine at the head or tail of the queue. Normally, this did not bother Moyo’s colleagues, for they had no reservations about clambering underneath the couplings between wagons, so they could avoid the long walk round. Moyo, on the other hand, did so with great trepidation, fearing that the wheels of the wagons would jerk forward or back without warning. Most of the time, Moyo walked down the lines of wagons even if this involved a minor detour, for they were not always coupled together, and often there were breaks between groups of freight trucks. However, there were occasions when he was not so lucky, forcing him to cross underneath. Whenever he did so, he was ready, in an instant, to fling himself between the rails onto the sleepers if he should hear the metallic thunderclap of a shunting engine, slamming into the first wagon in line. In twenty years, it had never come to that. He had never been beneath a wagon as it lurched forward or back, not even close; however, this did nothing to alleviate his anxiety.

Moyo surveyed the empty railway yard with some satisfaction; there would be no tedious detours or climbing under railway trucks. He stepped over the rails and onto the sleepers. The heat haze shimmered before him. The heat did not merely radiate from the dark-grey ballast of the tracks; it pulsated in withering blasts, shooting into the air in ascending waves. Moyo wiped his hand across his brow. Sweat began to run down his neck, which was not good, not good at all, for he liked to arrive at work fresh or, as the front office manager was fond of saying, ‘looking presentable’.

A track ran between the last railway line and a three-strand wire fence, which cordoned off the land that stretched to the edge of the gorge overlooking the Zambezi River. Thornbushes and long grass dominated the open bushland. In all the years he had worked at the hotel, he had never felt the slightest impulse to explore the bushland beyond the fence, which must have afforded views of the Zambezi, one hundred metres below, just as spectacular as those seen from Mosi-Oa-Tunya Hotel next to it.

Moyo stopped for a few moments; he was only a few hundred metres from the main entrance of the hotel. The grounds of the hotel stood in stark contrast to the parched countryside around it; they were lush and verdant, dominated by lofty trees, which sheltered broad-leaved plants, flowering shrubs, and lawns. The fragrances of the flowers and unnatural dampness of the garden beds combined to produce a sickly, hothouse smell. As Moyo approached, his eyes began to itch. Jets of water, fired from sprinklers, traced huge arches, which swept across the lawns, through flowerbeds, and occasionally sprayed the path that led from the railway platform to the hotel’s main entrance. Moyo was rather careless and mistimed his dash down the narrow path through the gardens. A stream of water, so powerful that it might as well have been shot out of a water cannon, hit the side of this head. It made him scurry towards the car park where it was safe. Moyo took out his handkerchief and wiped his head.

‘Shamwari,’ shouted the doorman, striding towards him from the shade cast by the high, columned awning that protected the main entrance.

‘Hello, Mukombe,’ said Moyo, who was a little flustered, for he had not quite recovered from his dousing.

‘My friend,’ said Mukombe, placing his arm around Moyo’s shoulders, ‘don’t tell me the drought is over.’

‘I wish it were so,’ said Moyo ruefully.

‘Don’t worry, my friend, the ancestors won’t forget us,’ said Mukombe reassuringly.

A taxi drove up to the main entrance; Mukombe strode over to the back passenger’s door on the left side and held it open.

‘Good day, madam,’ he intoned.

‘What’s good about it?’ complained a red-faced, middle-aged, white tourist of decidedly frazzled appearance.

‘And how did we enjoy Victoria Falls?’ asked Mukombe jovially.

‘It’s hot,’ complained the frazzled tourist. ‘How can anyone enjoy anything in this heat?’

‘Very good,’ said Mukombe happily.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said? What is wrong with you? Don’t you know any more English than ‘very good’?’ complained the tourist.

Mukombe did not seem to react; instead, he smiled benignly.

‘I said it’s hot,’ cried the tourist in exasperation, her red, round face trembling slightly.

‘That’s right, very good,’ said Mukombe indulgently.

‘But I said I was hot. It’s too hot!’ cried the tourist.

‘Very good,’ replied Mukombe, remaining implacably affable.

‘You stupid man! The taxi had no air conditioning. Curio sellers bothered and pestered me so much I couldn’t enjoy my trip to the river. They wouldn’t leave me alone! Worst of all, it’s hot, too hot! Look at me. I’m burnt. I’m red raw!’

Mukombe leant forward, or more accurately stooped, for the tourist was short and dumpy, and he was a man of imposing stature. He paused briefly, smiled benignly again, as one might when talking to a child, and said, ‘Very good!’

Moyo watched the tourist’s upper lip quiver and her face contort and turn even redder. He felt sure she was going to explode, but instead she turned on her heels and stomped off angrily. Mukombe rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet.

‘That was most gratifying, my friend, most gratifying,’ said Mukombe contentedly.

‘Shamwari,’ cried Moyo, ‘what if she complains?’

‘Complains?’ asked Mukombe, who looked at Moyo and then began to laugh. ‘Complains? What can she say?’ continued Mukombe, shrugging his shoulders, demonstrating how unconcerned he was. ‘The worst she can say is that I said, ‘very good’, hardly a criminal offence now, is it?’ Mukombe winked. Moyo wished he were able to continue their conversation, but he knew he risked being late for the afternoon shift, so he took his leave and he hurried inside.

Moyo worked at the front desk, which faced the main entrance of the hotel. Mukombe and his crew escorted the guests to the reception where Moyo looked after them; getting their details, checking their bookings, fielding enquiries, taking payments, and, of course, receiving complaints. In fact, the front desk was not a desk at all, for Moyo had to stand just so the clients could see him. It was more like a counter, broad and solid, and made of highly polished wood. Often, Moyo was glad that it was so wide especially since he had to deal with so many complaints. No one could reach across and menace him, which, on many occasions, seemed to be the intention of his more irate customers.

The hotel formed a large rectangle; the reception area, small shops, and hotel offices formed one side; the dining room and kitchen formed another; the lounge, bar, and conference room formed a third side facing the reception; and rooms completed the fourth side. The second floor was almost exclusively rooms although there was another conference room above the reception. This arrangement enclosed a very large courtyard, which contained huge mango trees that kept it cool and pleasant, even on the hottest afternoons. The lawns and garden beds were enclosed by paths that criss-crossed the courtyard. The lavish use of water and the generous shade provided by the mango trees sustained the lush lawns and flowerbeds.

One gained access to the courtyard, and the main walkway that crossed it, through the big doors opposite the main entrance next to the reception. Exotic flowers flanked the main path, which ended at the main entrance on the other side of the courtyard through which one could get to the bar and the terrace beyond. The terrace, where the tourists often took their meals, was the main attraction of the hotel because it faced the iron bridge that spanned the gorge through which the Zambezi flowed. The best way to get to these amenities, so prized by tourists, was via the courtyard, but at the end of every year this entailed some risk. Moyo wondered how long it would be before the complaints flooded in from tourists forced to run the gauntlet when crossing the courtyard. However, he soon forgot about it, for normally an ordinary day provided him with enough to contend with, giving him no time to worry about the future.

Because of the heat at that time of year, Mukombe and his comrades kept the main doors closed. They were very heavy and almost soundproof. Every time they swung open, Moyo could hear the baboons, high up in the mango trees, squabbling among themselves. One of the porters said to Moyo as he was passing, ‘The trees are full today.’

‘Not good, not good at all,’ muttered Moyo to himself since the porter had already gone on his way and was well out of earshot. The big doors swung open again. Moyo could hear the baboons barking, rampaging through the upper reaches of the mango trees, ten metres or more above the ground, before the doors swung shut. The big doors opened again; there was a cacophony of screeching and shrill barking. Moyo was adept at interpreting baboon calls. The next time the doors opened the disturbance had died down; he could hear the sharp ‘yak’ of the young adults. ‘Ah-hah,’ thought Moyo, ‘the young ones are backing off; the older ones rule their domain once more.’

The door opened frequently that afternoon. While he could hear the baboons, their shrill barks did not reach the feverish intensity of earlier on. Eventually, the heat began to subside as the shadows lengthened. Moyo was very busy, serving the guests who had arrived on the afternoon flight from Harare. He had forgotten about the baboons entirely until the door swung open, and he heard, for the first time that season, the deep, loud ‘wahoo’ of a male.

‘Mpofu,’ he said, addressing his colleague who worked with him on the desk. ‘Just stepping out for a minute.’

‘No problem,’ replied Mpofu, not looking up from his papers.

Moyo escaped through the door at the back of the reception into the room behind and then out the side door that opened out on to the stairs that led down into the courtyard. Once he was in the courtyard, he looked up into the trees. He heard the ‘wahoo’ of a big male baboon again. The rest of the troop chattered excitedly; some of the juveniles shook the branches of the trees. The huge male began to shake the branches, which formed the vantage point from where he surveyed the courtyard. Moyo could see some tourists on the opposite side of the courtyard; they looked up into the trees to see what was causing the noise. Moyo could see a middle-aged woman who wore in a skimpy dress point excitedly at the baboons.

‘Look up there!’ she said as if the baboons were obscure objects on a distant horizon.

At that moment, a green missile, an unripe mango, flew through the air and just missed her, smacking into the concrete path with a resounding thump.

‘Hell’s bells, Helena,’ said her husband. ‘If that had hit you, you’d be off to the hospital.’ Helena, her husband, and their two companions sauntered down the path, seemingly unconcerned about the assassins in the trees.

‘Look dear,’ said Helena, making her party stop once more. ‘Look at the little ones.’ Obviously, she found the spectacle quite charming.

‘Go inside,’ shouted Moyo from the other end of the courtyard. Helena and her husband looked at Moyo quizzically as if to say, ‘Are you talking to us?’ The expressions on their faces soon changed; evidently, this ‘intrusion’ annoyed them. They continued down the middle of the courtyard.

‘Hurry,’ said Moyo. The big male baboon’s ‘wahoo’ became more strident. The upper reaches of the mango trees erupted as baboons of all shapes and sizes barked, leapt about, and shook the branches. At last, Helena and her party appreciated their position, for the baboons had become so raucous that the air vibrated with their fury. Helena, her husband, and their friends looked at Moyo, and in that moment he realised that they intended to run towards him.

‘No, go back,’ shouted Moyo in frustration.

Helena and her friends were only able to take a few steps before a green fusillade of rock-hard, unripe mangoes knocked one of them to the ground. The women screamed in terror as they shielded their heads with their arms. Moyo rushed forward, helped pick up the gent who had taken a battering to the head, and shepherded the injured man and his friends to the relative safety of the far end of the courtyard. The baboons let fly again with another volley. Fortunately, Moyo and his charges were out of range although some of the mangoes skidded and bounced across the concrete path, striking some of them on the legs. Helena and her female companion squealed in alarm; the men cursed. The front office manager came out to see what had caused so much commotion. He hurried across the courtyard, disregarding the antics of the miscreants above. The baboons allowed him to pass. The tops of the mango trees shuddered, and unripe mangoes rained down, shaken loose by the baboons’ wild celebration. Other hotel workers emerged. Some of them collected a few mangoes and hurled them back from whence they came. Mangoes struck the boughs of the trees and then returned to earth. The baboons barked and screeched in defiance. More men emerged and yelled at their adversaries. ‘Phuma! Suka lapha!’ they shouted. Then, somewhat self-consciously, they shouted in English. ‘Out! Get away from here!’ Undoubtedly, they did this for the benefit of the tourists since it was unlikely that the hotel workers believed that English would be more effective in scaring away the baboons. The front office manager, a man of rather ample proportions, ran towards the victims of this outrage. He helped Moyo usher the beleaguered guests into the bar.

‘Moyo, what happened?’ he asked breathlessly in Shona.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ was what Moyo should have said, but he, quite sensibly, did not. ‘Baboons again, Chitema,’ said Moyo tersely.

By this time, Helena’s husband had recovered enough to make a fuss.

‘Where’s the manager?’ he shouted.

‘I’m the front office manager,’ volunteered Chitema.

‘What kind of place are you running here?’ he fumed.

What was Chitema supposed to say? It was a question without an answer, yet he had to answer it.

‘We’re very sorry, sometimes these animals get out of control,’ he offered.

‘Out of control? Is that what you call it?’ cried Helena’s husband. ‘We were almost killed!’

The man who had been struck on the head weighed in. ‘I’ll sue, that’s what I’ll do!’

Chitema looked around nervously. Tourists had come to see what had happened. It was becoming a public spectacle.

‘I think it would be best if we retired to my office,’ said Chitema nervously.

‘Why?’ asked Helena shrilly. ‘So you can sweep it under the carpet?’

The wife of the injured man added, ‘This is criminal negligence. That’s what it is.’

Fortunately for Chitema, the food and beverage manager, Mlambo, arrived, attracted, like everyone else, by the commotion. Much to his co-workers’ relief, he distracted the attention of the irate guests by introducing himself.

‘Not another useless manager,’ said Helena in disgust. ‘What are you going to do about those baboons?’

‘Someone has to get killed first before they do anything,’ said the injured man’s wife bitterly.

‘Maybe we should discuss this somewhere else?’ offered Mlambo.

However, Helena’s party knew that while they paraded their grievances in public, they held the advantage. Chitema, in particular, seemed to be very nervous. Helena appealed to the gallery, which had become quite sizable. ‘You don’t care,’ cried Helena accusingly, pointing at the hotel workers.

Mlambo protested, ‘No madam, the safety of our guests is our top priority.’ Mlambo sighed, for there seemed to be no prospect of getting Helena and her friends out of the bar as long as they believed that they had the sympathy of the other guests. However, Mlambo knew that the gallery was curious rather than sympathetic. The baboons had not assaulted the spectators; those who had gathered had not even seen the attack on Helena’s party. Consequently, their attitude was far more benign; they seemed to think that the whole incident was amusing rather than dangerous. Mlambo knew how to exploit this situation. ‘Madam, we’re very sorry, and while we spare no effort to make sure you’re safe, there’s a limit to what we can do.’

‘There, what did I tell you? They don’t care,’ she said vehemently, a little too vehemently in fact, for the gallery began to feel that she was making too much out of the incident.

Helena’s husband looked around and for the first time realised that they were making a public spectacle of themselves. ‘Maybe, dear, it might be best if we go with the man,’ he said cautiously.

Unfortunately, Helena could not be placated and continued to bluster, merely repeating herself. ‘No, it’s not right; they’re trying to avoid responsibility.’

‘No, we’ll never do that. We’ll always make sure that your stay is a happy one,’ said Mlambo. ‘No, come to the office, and we’ll sort something out.’

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ insisted Helena hysterically.

Chitema added, ‘The hotel regrets what has just happened. I’m sure it’s better to discuss this matter in private.’

‘Yes, dear,’ added Helena’s husband, who was now embarrassed.

‘What’s wrong with you? They just want to keep it quiet,’ complained Helena.

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,’ said the man with the battered head. ‘They’re just animals, Helena.’

‘Just animals?’ cried Helena. ‘You wanted to sue the hotel a few minutes ago! Now you’re letting them get away with it!’

‘Madam,’ said Mlambo calmly, ‘we regret what has happened, really we do.’

‘I don’t need your sympathy,’ interrupted Helena rudely.

‘But you have it all the same,’ said Mlambo, continuing unperturbed. ‘No, the management will do all it can to make up for this incident, but, as I said, there is a limit to what we can do. After all, this hotel is near game parks. I’m sure your stay would not be nearly as good if we kept all the animals out.’

Chitema added for good measure, ‘Yes, I’m sure you’ve enjoyed the company of the monkeys on the terrace.’

Mlambo smiled as Chitema mentioned this point, for he knew that the monkeys were very popular with the tourists, who invariably found their antics ‘cute’. Moyo, on the other hand, bit his lip anxiously, for he often received complaints from irate guests about the ‘rabid little beasts’ that pestered them at meal times, or while they enjoyed the view, stealing sugar or knocking over plates, cups, and glasses. Moyo held his breath; fortunately, it seemed that no one in the gallery had had a serious altercation with the monkeys.

‘Madam,’ said Mlambo, ‘we could keep the baboons out with electric fences and barbed wire, but would you really prefer that? After all, this place belongs to the animals. That is what people come to see.’

The gallery began to break up; many believed that Helena had been ridiculously melodramatic. The guests drifted back to the terrace to commune with nature in that opulent setting. Meanwhile, the baboons temporarily disappeared from the courtyard. Groundsmen and other hotel workers had managed to threaten and intimidate the baboons, forcing them to retire to the hotel roof or the surrounding grounds. Anyway, it was time for them to move on; it was late afternoon and it would soon be dusk. Moyo hurried back to the reception, while Chitema and Mlambo escorted Helena and her party to a quiet office. The conversation on the terrace, for a few moments at least, revolved around the ‘baboon people’, who were roundly condemned. The nobler souls, ensconced in their comfortable chairs, were far more forgiving of the loutish behaviour of the monkeys. In fact, many disregarded the prominent signs all over the hotel, which warned against feeding the animals.

Moyo returned to his station.

‘Did you see Chitema? He was looking for you,’ said Mpofu.

‘Ye, ye, Mpofu’ said Moyo. ‘I’m sorry, it couldn’t have been helped. The baboons were at it again.’

‘Oh, so that’s what all the noise was about. What did the old man say?’ asked Mpofu.

‘What could he say? He was in hot soup,’ replied Moyo. ‘Mlambo helped him out.’

‘I wondered when something like this would happen,’ commented Mpofu.

‘You know how it is,’ observed Moyo. ‘Once it starts, there’s no end to the complaints.’

Of course, Moyo and Mpofu had enough experience to know that November and December were notorious for such disturbances. No one was sure why, granted there was plenty of ammunition, but that did not explain what set the baboons off in the first place. Besides, the monkeys were equally obstreperous in their own way. It seemed that the baboons strategically placed themselves high in the trees during mango season. It was from these vantage points that they hurled mangoes, sometimes with devastating effect, at certain unfortunate individuals.

When they had a quiet moment, Moyo asked Mpofu, ‘Why do you think the baboons pick on some tourists and not others?’

They had had this conversation many times before, but since it helped to pass the time, they did not get tired of it. ‘It’s their appearance,’ claimed Mpofu.

‘What about their appearance?’ asked one of the porters who happened to be close by and unoccupied at the time.

‘It’s the colour of their clothes,’ said Mpofu unconvincingly.

‘What colour?’ asked the porter insistently.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mpofu. ‘Red, I think.’

‘Come on, man,’ scoffed the porter. ‘It’s bulls that hate red.’

‘And rhinos,’ added Moyo helpfully.

‘No, I think its perfume,’ insisted the porter.

‘But it was a man who got hit,’ countered Moyo.

‘Ye, ye, ye,’ said the porter, dismissing Moyo’s objection. ‘The women set ’em off. He just got hit in the cross-fire.’

‘Not always,’ said Mpofu. ‘We often get men complaining about the baboons, and they aren’t with any women.’

‘Well,’ said the porter thoughtfully, clearly confounded, ‘maybe it’s just an accident. You know, wrong place, wrong time.’

‘No,’ said Moyo, shaking his head doubtfully. ‘There’s a pattern.’

‘Maybe it’s their gait and appearance,’ said Mpofu mischievously. ‘Maybe some of the clients look too much like a rival troop.’

‘Of course,’ said the porter joyfully. ‘Maybe the baboons are only protecting their trees, their territory.’

Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. The porter had to hurry off in case there was luggage to carry. Moyo and Mpofu waited for the new arrivals, dropping their most recent topic of conversation. However, it was a subject to which they would return frequently during the next few weeks. It was not always mango throwing that caused the trouble. The baboons were especially forthright, and they were not averse to making it clear when they were displeased. Of course, they were very intimidating, and they were adept at obtaining the compliance of guests at fang-point, whether that required immediate flight, or the surrender of some item that had taken the baboons’ fancy. Even so, the guests still insisted on feeding the monkeys. Interestingly enough, in all the time Moyo had worked at the hotel, there had never been anyone who had been bitten; hit by flying objects, yes; but actually bitten, no.

2

The locals—well, the white ones in particular—call October the ‘suicide season’. Mid-October is the beginning of the rainy season; the sun rides steadily higher in the sky while the earth swelters in unbearable heat. If not for the rains, which cool the ground, and the clouds, which mask the sun and protect the land below, late October and November would drive the benighted population of the Zambezi Valley to distraction and, quite possibly, beyond. After all, the sun is directly overhead by mid-November, sliding southwards thereafter until the twenty-first of December, only to reverse its retreat and mount another assault, culminating in a glorious return to its zenith by the end of January. Without the rain at midday, and in the late afternoon—or at least sparse cloud bringing some relief—the world would go mad.

The rains were not merely late that year; they were non-existent. Moyo and his friends lamented, ‘What have we done to deserve this?’ This question exercised the minds of all the inhabitants of Victoria Falls. The heat also brought out the worst in the baboons and monkeys. They seemed bent on taking out their frustrations on those directly responsible for the state of the world; consequently, the clients besieged Moyo, Mpofu, and their colleagues with complaints. In fact, it got to the point that Moyo dreaded going to work. ‘What do they want?’ he whined when the complaints from the guests about the baboons threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Am I the king of the baboons?’ Mpofu found this highly amusing.

By mid-November, even the early mornings were hot. Moyo no longer bothered to heat his bath water since the water that came out of the standpipe next to the outdoor toilet was warm enough; besides, hot water only made one sweat profusely once one had finished. It was Moyo’s week to work the early shift; he could not decide whether it was a blessing or a curse. Of course, the walk to work was better since he did not have to leave during the hottest time of the day; however, returning home was taxing. The afternoon heat in Chinotimba Township was excruciating, especially after working all morning in the air-conditioned comfort of the reception. He decided that the only appropriate reaction was to enjoy what was best about each shift. The walk home at the end of the afternoon shift was tolerable; the walk to work in the morning was, one might say, pleasant.

When Moyo set out for work, there was already a lot of activity in the township. Chinotimba Township sat uneasily on a sandy ridge. The houses slid down the northern slope to the ‘old’ Falls Road, which no one used anymore. Chinotimba was untidy and ramshackle, and the slope on which it lay seemed unable to defy gravity. Sand and debris found its way, especially when it rained, onto the ‘old’ Falls Road, temporarily covering the old strip road. The railway line to Bulawayo lay beyond, separated from the road by an expanse of bushland dominated by thornbushes and Mkusu trees. Early in the morning, Chinotimba always looked worse for wear as though it had been out on the town and needed a good lie in. The walls of the small houses were uniformly drab. Over the years, during the dry seasons, dust flung against them by the wind and the odd dust devil had stained and marked them. The corners of these homes, the door frames, and most surfaces where people passed nearby had lost their paint, and what paint was left had turned into an indeterminate colour. Due to a chronic housing shortage, many householders rented out patches of ground in their yards to those who did not have their own accommodation. These tenants erected makeshift dwellings made of wooden frames, which were clad in various materials. Some utilised wooden planks while others used rusty sheets of tin or corrugated fibro-cement sheets. However, these materials were scarce, buying them new was out of the question, so most resorted to the use of large sheets of heavy, black plastic, and these dwellings were called, rather imaginatively, ‘maplastics’. In some instances, such structures surrounded the original homes. To Moyo, Chinotimba looked permanently tired and haggard.

He always took the shortest route out of Chinotimba down to the ‘old’ Falls Road. As always, he took his shortcut through the bush to the railway line. On this occasion, the railway yard was full of wagons, spoiling an otherwise pleasant morning. He tried to walk round the first line of wagons; however, there seemed to be no end to it, forcing him to clamber underneath them. He must have brushed against something in the process because a light grey, powdery substance covered his right trouser leg below the knee. He brushed himself down as