It started with an egg and not a kiss.
No red roses and no presents bow-tied.
No Welcome home hugs.
Nothing special.
Yet, it has lasted from December 2007 till today.
The four of us, smitten in love, needing each other every hour of every day.
Miracles do happen indeed!
“I’m here for Christmas,” a familiar voice said in between hiccups.
No one stood up to open the door. The house numbed.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
There was no response except for Mama’s serving spoon which dropped from her hands onto the floor.
One step. Ten hiccups. Another step. Burp. Burp and in entered Uncle Nico.
“Right on time!” He said as he staggered around the table, his wooden bazooka in one arm. The stale smell of cheap beer followed him. During his last visit, Uncle Nico and his alcohol had turned everything upside down, left, right and centre. This time, his heavy hiccups and burping said it all – he had come loaded with double trouble.
A speechless Mama stirred her famous creamy, eye-catching chicken curry, her eyes averting from Da’s.
“The hanging gardens of Babylon have come to Harare at the wrong time,” I salivated and thought as I surveyed Mama’s Christmas dinner. If only I could hide the bowls of fresh salad, samp and steaks from the unwelcome visitor. Mama had prepared our feast with only three people in mind; I wasn’t ready to share anything with anyone!
While Uncle Nico scrutinized the pending feast, Da tapped his middle finger on the table. As usual, he expected Mama to fill up his plate with ninety percent of the meat. The rules at home stated that for 364 days each year, only adults indulged in the juiciest pieces of meat. Minors fed mostly on soup and remnants of meat. This was however not the case on Christmas day; meat, sweets, love and laughter were all in abundance.
“Christmas in Zimbabwe is a time of giving!” Uncle Nico announced before grabbing the serving spoon from Mama and taking my favourite piece of meat – the breast. He poked the whole bit in his mouth. At the first sight of the chicken breast, I had escaped into Coo Coo land where I delved into the wonders of the female anatomy. This abruptly ended as I watched Uncle Nico’s jaws crushing the eighth wonder of my world like a croc on its last feast. Splatters of chicken landed on his mouth and chin as he burped and recited his favourite lines-
“Never judge a book by its cover! Dynamites come in small packages! Praise God Amen and Hallelujah!”
Siss!
Disgust!
Disgust!
Disgust!
I ran to the loo to puke.
With that Hallelluyah, out flew the peace and laughter. The food quickly vanished from the table. My Coke became history as did Da’s Ginger beer. Uncle Nico scoffed down most of the cake Mama had baked; our only cake.
“Praise God! Amen!” He said, eyes on the hunt, teeth ready to graze whatever remained on the table.
After dinner, the chaos ensued. The sound of war songs echoed in every corner, there were frequent trips to the toilet, and Mama was on full-time toilet cleaning duty.
“I’m off to Cheers. More quiet and sane there,” Da huffed, puffed and stormed out, an old News Of The Day clutched under one arm.
His face had contracted to the size of a tennis ball, the ridges on his forehead like sweet potato beds. Mama passed no remarks but opted to deal with the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink in between tidying up Uncle Nico’s mess in the toilet.
Hail Mary Mother …..
Hail Mother…Oh…Oh…
Oh! Oh! Hail what now?
After several failed attempts to cry out to the Holy Mother Mary, I left Mama with her brother, destination – Shasha street- Christmas day 2007 over.
Boxing Day came, as did 2008. And soon, I was back at school, sweating between Biology and History, in the middle of what Da described as our country’s worst crisis.
“In two months, we will eat lice and cow dung,” Da prophesied.
2008 was the year Da put a sign outside our gate – FRIDGE REPAIRS. He fixed just about every refrigerator in Harare South because his dollars from Capri could no longer feed us. Loaded buses written, JOHANESBURG, passed Beitbridge Road throughout the day.
“They are running away from their own country. Shame!” Mama said.
That same year, after firmly deciding to make the best of our life in Zimbabwe, Mama attended with zeal to her new business -JUST EGGS- hoping to turn round our fortunes. She told everyone who cared to listen that by God’s grace, she would become a millionaire.
“I am a millionaire! I am a Millionaire!” She sang, even though my pocket money made me an instant millionaire.
By April, half a loaf of bread cost more than a million dollars and a bag of rice, many millions. In fact, everyone had become a millionaire. From her dozen eggs, Mama cashed in trillions which could not afford us a kilo of ration beef that was so green and smelly, even dogs would flee from the potential meal.
“But I am working?”
“Yes, you are working harder than any beast of burden and you are a millionaire, My Chocolate. Our dollar is useless, so you have trillions of worthless money!”
Da tried to explain to Mama that she was better off serving us omelettes several times a day instead of running JUST EGGS at a loss. The more he mentioned the issue, the more determined Mama became. Thrice a day, she collected her eggs and arranged them neatly on her stall. Come dusk, she was the proud owner of a suitcase full of dollars.
“Maybe we can make a little more money for two loaves of bread now that Nico is here.”
When Da heard Mama say this, his response struck like a lightning bolt.
“Or maybe you can save the cash and give your brother some bus fare!”
Months after Christmas, Uncle Nico still camped in my bedroom, his holiday ongoing. By pointing out that Uncle Nico had to find his way out, Da had begun OPERATION GET YOUR LIFE BACK. I jumped at the opportunity because I missed the good old days and couldn’t wait to spend time alone sleeping, dreaming and waking up each morning to do my press-ups.
“Why can’t he go back to his own place, Mama?”
“Why can’t you zip your big mouth?”
“I can’t do my stuff, Mama. I ….”
The answer landed hard on me as Mama bashed my head with her wooden sadza spoon numerous times.
“You are splitting my skull in half Mama!” I screamed.
“Uncle Nico has a little problem and will leave once everything is sorted out,” Mama hissed into my face, louder than any furious Egyptian cobra, the sadza spoon in position, ready to strike again if I opened my mouth.
“You are the grandchild of a priest and should be kind to whoever walks through our door!”
From then on, Mama reminded me of Sekuru, even though he had died years ago.
Do this…you are the grandchild of a priest
Do that….your grandfather was a highly respected Reverend in the Anglican Church.
“Leave that child alone, My Chocolate. Nicodemus is destitute by choice!” Da said one evening after hearing Mama lecture me on the Beatitudes and why I had to listen to some still small voice inside me whenever naughty thoughts filled my brain.
“My husband, you are turning into a heathen. Would you rather burn in hell because of the ill, helpless man sitting outside?”
“My Chocolate, the boy is right. If your brother drank less nipa, he would be a bit more useful around here.”
Da was the son of a dead priest and according to Mama, he behaved worse than Gehena-bound heathens, especially towards Uncle Nico.
“All heathens will be judged and they shall burn in Gehena one day,” Mama quipped one afternoon.
She had thousands of reasons to justify Uncle Nico’s visits to the backyard illicit breweries.
Not one word- the still small voice inside me said.
“Shut up!” A louder voice protested.
I moved next to Mama and did not hesitate to open my mouth and ask, “So, will God judge Da?”
Mama’s fingers talked. For minutes, she pulled the flesh around my ears. I wriggled like a mopani worm.
“That mouth of yours has turned into a public toilet but I will clean it up!”
Mama pressed deep into my flesh.
I yelled out louder.
“Mama I promise to keep quiet! I promiseeeee…”
That day, I cried until I lost my voice. Although my ears had long recovered, something inside my heart hurt. The pinching and scolding were too much. My world is in tatters because of Uncle Nico. To worsen my wounded soul’s condition, Mama did not bother checking if my vocal cords had been permanently ruined but instead said a heart-piercing; “Now, I won’t hear you speak rubbish!”
As the daughter-in-law of a dead priest, Mama attended the Mother’s Union every Thursday, dressed in her neatly ironed blue and black uniform. At home, she pretended not to see Uncle Nico following the sun with his reed mat from midmorning till dusk – no household chores done.
“Even bad blood is thicker than water,” Da mentioned during our usual man-to-man talks.
He hinted that the reason I now got less pocket money was because Mama secretly financed Uncle Nico’s pleasures.
“You mean I am suffering because of…..”
Da blocked my mouth with his palm and said, “I want you to grow up with your head, ears and eyes, my boy. The answer is Yes.”
I did not bite my tongue but lost my mind, behaved like a dummy, confronted Mama right away and asked, “Where does Uncle Nico get money for nipa Mama?”
Mama behaved worse than Satan.
When her wooden sadza spoon reached my skull, I saw the shooting star and screamed, “You’ve scattered my brain Mama. You have hurt me!”
Mama did not retreat.
“That’s what you get for poking your nose in matters that don’t concern you!”
Everything about Uncle Nico did concern me. The guy slept and passed out vile gas in my bed every night. He never bothered to make the bed, let alone clean the room.
But in 2008, I had become a big zero. Uncle Nico became everything! Mama even sat me down to discuss new house rules.
A list worse than the Ten Commandments was read out to me.
“Fight me, I fight you. Disobey and you will only have a sore head. You might have to take a needle and thread and sew your lips, my child.”
She repeated that I was expected to keep my mouth shut whenever Da insulted Uncle Nico.
“You wash Uncle Nico’s clothes and polish his shoes. You make the bed every morning and clean your room before going to school.”
This.
That.
This.
That.
Had that script ended up at Childline, Mama would have spent time in jail.
With her blessing, Uncle Nico stayed in my bedroom passing out smelly fumes from his behind.
“The result of taking too much illicit brew,”Da explained to me.
Mama stood on guard, ready to pounce on me for whatever I said.
Her blue-eyed boy woke up, ate her bota and like a gecko, lay on the stoep, yesterday’s hangover evident on his bushy face. After school each day, I had an extra task; spending time with Uncle Nico and listening to whatever he said.
“I fought in Mozambique to make Zimbabwe free,” Uncle Nico boasted.
This was followed by his usual tales about his victories in Chimoi and Nyadzonya. He explained every detail as if the war had happened a few days back. To him, Africa was still a colony that needed to be freed and Cecil John Rhodes was alive and taking up more of Africa.
Mama remained on standby and so I smiled and faked giggles. It was all part of my daily duties.
“You are his carer for now until someone qualified comes along,” Mama said seriously.
“I’m waiting for my demobilisation money for the work I did in Moza. Once I get it, I am out of your father’s sight,” Uncle Nico said one day.
Da had told me about the demobilisation money. That it had been drunk and urinated. That Uncle Nico was flat broke. Because he had not bothered to learn a skill, he moved around taking other people for a ride.
“And this cruel world expects hard workers to fund his joy ride!” Da grumbled.
Mama insisted that the government had robbed Uncle Nico of his youth and money.
Uncle Nico’s story changed daily depending on the gallons of nipa he had swallowed into his system.
“This government owes me a lot of money for all the Rhodesian Front soldiers I killed,” he said.
In between nipa sips, he talked of bazookas and helicopters set ablaze, and people burnt alive in Gorongoza. In his life, people were flies and life was just a game called Insanity.
“Blood was shed for you, little one. Others are fighting for The United States of Africa to be free and yet you just eat and go to the toilet!” Uncle Nico shouted before snatching one of Mama’s eggs one morning.
This marked the beginning of Uncle Nico’s egg-grabbing incidents and happened weeks after Capri had closed down. Despite toiling for twenty years, Da had no job and no pension. Worse still, his fridge repairs business had ended because no one bothered to repair their fridges due to the power blackouts. Mama saved every dollar she earned so she could pay for my school textbooks. With more experiments and drawings, I also needed twenty exercise books worth several million dollars.
While Mama sweated to get me money for my books, Uncle Nico did the reverse. Stealing eggs became his trade.
“Only my sister’s eggs can cure my hangover,” he bragged.
“But they are for sale, Uncle Nico.”
“I don’t care! No one stops me from eating my sister’s eggs!”
After several egg-pinching incidents, Da warned Uncle Nico about interfering with the operations at JUST EGGS. I was tasked with guarding the run and taking out whatever was in there.
“Son, we can’t continue feeding a balding man with two hands and legs!” Da fumed.
I couldn’t be left out.
“That is correct Da.”
My heart made light dances when Da walked straight up to Uncle Nico and said in his face, “DO IT AGAIN AND YOU LEAVE.”
This time, Uncle Nico did not backchat anyone and neither did he defy the order. It was clear that his fate was in the egg.
As expected, Mama took Uncle Nico’s side and caused tension in the house.
“All this is caused by trauma.”
“No! Your brother is useless and mad.”
“He saw too much at a tender age.”
“We all saw too much but we are getting on with our lives.”
“Poor Nico”
“Poor who? Nicodemus needs no help and no sympathy! Nicodemus is a lazy selfish sloth!”
“Please give him time!”
“I SAID HE SHOULD LEAVE FULL STOP.”
Mama persisted.
“My baby brother needs spiritual help,” she said after Da had shouted that Uncle Nico was mad.
“Mad, mad, mad from drinking too much illegal stuff, no pill will ever cure him.”
“They want Zimbabwe again. They want our diamonds and gold and you too!” Uncle Nico said to me after Da had left for Cheers. Word had reached my ears that he had drunk two litres of nipa. Two litres of hundred percent alcohol and he still breathed?
Mama loitered nearby so I gave Uncle Nico my undivided attention as per orders.
“Why Zimbabwe and why do they want me, Uncle Nico?”
“Because we have good brains. This country has the best brains in the world.”
That day, Uncle Nico argued until he fell asleep on the stoep, too drunk to get himself to the bedroom. Thank God.
The best brains were certainly not in my family. I soon realised this when my maths teacher suddenly took up a job in London and left. My O-Level exams were just around the corner. Most teachers left in search of better pay found in lands thousands of miles away.
“I will help you tomorrow,” Da said whenever I approached him with my heap of books.
“I’m not good at the school thing,” Mama confessed.
One available teacher lived two streets away. When I paid her a visit, she spelt out her rules.
“No American dollars, no lessons! If you can pay me in Pound Sterling that’s even better, ‘cause I’ll be off to Glasgow next term.”
A week after taking my schoolwork home, I had not completed one exercise despite cracking my head for answers. Mama still had no US dollars. And the loss of that job at Capri stressed Da. He walked around ablaze with rage ready to pick up a fight.
“YOUR USELESS BROTHER HAS TO LEAVE NOW!”
That morning, Da’s voice penetrated every wall. Uncle Nico sat on the stoep obviously hearing everything happening in our lounge.
“I want him out, today! My son is failing to learn because of him! HE BETTER LEAVE. HE IS NOT MY SON.”
“Give him a chance. Please give him time. He actually went to school….”
Da stopped Mama right away.
“Enough! I said I have had enough of this sloth!”
When Da went for the kitchen drawer, Mama ran there to stop him from opening it.
“STOP!”
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
A wrestling match began.
“If he doesn’t leave, I will teach him a lesson….”
“Please, my husband….”
“If he doesn’t find the door right now, I will show him who has fought brutal wars!”
The weapon of war, Mama’s wooden sadza spoon soon hit the kitchen window and smashed it into pieces. Mama sobbed as Da barked non-stop.
World War Three had broken out in our house!
I saw it all. Blood on the floor. Mama unconscious. Da in tears, saying to the cops, “It was all a mistake, Officer.”
Blood. Tears. Death. The moving images in my head sucked the strength from me until all the food and water in my system shot out through my mouth and onto the floor. I landed, weak and helpless.
“Shock. The boy is in shock. This is crazy!”
“He will be fine”
I had drifted away but could hear Mama and Da talking and the tension easing as they now fanned me with an old magazine.
“Sorry, My Chocolate. Sorry!”
“It’s, Ok my dear. We will all be fine.”
After I arose from my near-death experience, I took my books and headed out in search of what remained of my sanity, convinced that Uncle Nico had to leave before the madness at home turned into bloodshed.
“Come here, Kid,” Uncle Nico said, his voice weak and tired as if tears secretly trickled down his throat.
“Come Kid.”
I intended to say, “Leave me alone you useless fool,” but managed a, “Keep away from JUST EGGS.”
Uncle Nico did not argue. He gave me one long look and spoke, the drunkenness gone.
“Come here and don’t look so sad. Come with that.”
Uncle Nico’s eyes were on my arms and not the chicken run. One step towards him, he leaned forward, took my books and sat up. Without uttering a word about Moza or war, he began; my pencil, compass and protractor dancing on my book, Uncle Nico’s hands in full control.
This way. That way. Round and round.
This way. That way. Round and round.
Nicodemus Twala attacked Questions Two and Three, his hands gliding on my textbook with ease as if he had been born in a Maths lab.
Question Four.
Questions Five, Six and more.
Haaaa. The man was on fire. No retreat! No surrender!
“Can you see, Kid?”
“Yes, Uncle Nico, I was blind now I can see!”
One minute, I am thanking Uncle Nico. The next, I am in his arms squeezing him tight, my feet up and down, something magical happening!
Without pinching my nose, my heart doing the hop, skip jump, love all around, I whispered in Uncle Nico’s ear,
“From now on until the second coming of Christ, I’ll get you an egg every day.”