Talent Madhuku

The Headman


Image: © Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester

July can be unforgivingly cold. Walking outside, the chillness feels like multiple blades cutting the skin. He’s sitting in his bedroom hut, thinking of Mucha. In his mind he’s walking towards her. His heart is pounding.

Ndeipi” he says.

“Where were you yesterday?” Mucha says.

“I got held up. I am sorry.” He says holding her hand. Mucha pouts, her hand is warm and sweaty.

The sound of the organ booms from the nearby light green building. Mucha looks at him dreamily. An old silver sedan approaches. He gently pulls her off the road.

“We are late. The service has already started,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

“Ok then, let’s go,” he says.

But when he comes to he realises Mucha is not with him. He’s all alone. He stares at the glowing embers and the two remaining stubs. The firewood is quickly burning out. He’s unwilling to go out and get more.

Suddenly there’s a ringing sound outside. It’s coming from the gate, sounds of the cold night, something metallic hitting the rocky ground. He ignores it. It’s probably a stray dog which has knocked down the shovel he left near the gate. Stray dogs frequent the yard at night. The barbed wire surrounding the yard is not much of a barrier to them. 

He hears the noise again, followed by a loud clatter at the gate.

“Victor!” his mother calls.

“I’m checking it mom!” he says and rushes out of his hut. The evening cold bites him the moment he steps outside. The clatter is still going on. He rushes to the wood pile, pulls a long stick and heads for the gate. As he nears it he pauses. It’s not a dog he finds, but a man.

Apo,” he says anxiously.

The man grunts and continues to struggle with the gate. 

“Can I help? Are you lost?” The man does not reply. What’s wrong with him? he wonders.

“Victor! Who is it!” His mother calls from her hut.

He switches on his phone’s flashlight and points it at the man. It takes him a couple of moments to make out who it is. “Oh, uncle, it’s you,” he says with relief.

“Victor!” his mother calls again.

“It’s the Headman!” he says.

The Headman is drunk, very drunk. It’s apparent from the cut on the cheek and the soiled clothes that the Headman fell down somewhere along the way.

“It’s cold. I can’t walk on anymore. I’m cold,” the Headman says.

“It’s okay. Let me help,” he says, opening the gate.

The Headman lets go of the gate and picks up his bicycle. The bicycle proves to be too heavy for him, it falls on the ground.

“Let me take it,” he says.

On the way to the bedroom hut the Headman keeps complaining about being cold. It’s distressing. He finds himself experiencing a surge of sympathy for the elderly man.

“Where are you coming from?” he says.

“The bottle store,” the Headman says.

He waits to hear more but the Headman doesn’t say anything else. When they reach the bedroom hut the Headman staggers inside. He tries to lean the Headman’s bicycle on the outside wall but it moves and falls on the ground. He picks the bicycle up and tries to lean it on the wall again. As he is doing this the door to his mother’s hut opens.

“Who is it?” she says.

“It’s the Headman,” he says. “I don’t think he can make it home today. He fell off his bicycle and hurt himself.”

“He fell? How bad are his injuries?”

“You don’t have to worry. It’s only a few bruises,” he says.

“Will you be okay?” his mother says.

“Don’t worry mom. I will be fine,” he says.

There’s a pause. His mother’s door closes.

It takes him a while to make the bicycle steady against the wall. There’s some wrapped stuff on the bicycle’s luggage rack. On close inspection, he realises it’s a two-litre bottle of cooking oil and a bar of soap. 

In the sky the crescent moon shines among the stars, it’s wispy light lending an eerie aspect to the surrounding landscapes. In the north he can hear a dog barking, the chirr of insects fills the cold windy night. He picks firewood from the wood pile and walks into the hut. Inside he finds the Headman sitting near the fire, shivering.

“It’s cold,” the Headman says. 

An unpleasant coldness has indeed taken root in the hut. He adds firewood to the glowing embers and in a few moments there’s a bright flame again. Bathed by the light of the flame, the Headman’s injuries are clearly revealed. It’s the left side which bore the brunt of the fall. There’s dry blood on the Headman’s cheek. The left hand of his brown long-sleeved shirt has ripped, just below the elbow. 

“I should have worn a jersey,” the Headman mumbles.

“Give it time. You will get warm soon,” he says.

They sit in silence. The Headman draws out a cigarette and begins smoking. Within seconds the whole hut is filled with tobacco smoke. The smoke irritates his nose. He sneezes.

“Sorry about the smoke,” the Headman says.

He doesn’t reply.

This is his first time seeing the Headman helpless like this. The Headman is usually fiery and is widely known for engaging in fights at the beer hall, something which always makes his family anxious. The Headman’s wife is the one who suffers the most. She’s the one who has to take care of the ghastly wounds. Considering all the many injuries, it baffles him that the Headman continues to use violence to resolve issues. Is that what it takes for one to be considered a strong man? he wonders. But perhaps he’s being too harsh to the Headman. Things may not be as simple as he perceives.

If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have done this, sheltering this drunk old man. But the village takes care of its own, the good and the bad. Everyone within it is considered family. This is how it has been for ages. And it’s something everyone in the village abides by. 

After finishing the cigarette the Headman begins coughing. The headman curls painfully with each dry cough, spitting thick phlegm on the fire. He’s aware tobacco smokers sometimes cough, especially the heavy smokers. But the Headman’s coughing is unlike anything he has ever seen. It’s quite unsettling.

“I can put a kettle on the fire. Warm water helps,” he says after the third coughing episode. The Headman grunts and shakes his head.

“You may not want it but I insist. You need to drink warm water. It will calm your chest,” he says and rushes out of the hut.

The water doesn’t take much time to boil. To it he adds a few lemon leaves and pours a cup for the Headman.

“I don’t want water,” the Headman mumbles between coughs.

“Uncle, just take a few sips,” he says.

The Headman relents and drinks the water but nothing changes, the sickening coughing continues. Anxious, he keeps adding wood to the fire. As the night drags on he becomes sleepy, he starts dozing off. Waking up around midnight he notices that the Headman has finally fallen asleep. The elderly man is curled up dangerously close to the dying fire, with saliva dripping from his gaping mouth. He rises and pulls his sleeping guest away from the glowing embers. The Headman grunts in his sleep. He covers him with a blanket.

 

When he wakes up the next morning the Headman is sound asleep, snoring. The cock is crowing in the chicken run. Its strident morning call muffling the sound of the wailing wind outside. He removes ash from the fireplace and walks out of the hut to get firewood. It’s cold outside. The ground is damp. In the clear sky Nyamasase shines brightly. He looks at it as he walks to the wood pile. When the sun sets, gifting the sky to the bright planets, the moon and the stars, he’s going to see it again in the west. Then, its name will have changed to Marinda, the bright celestial body which has inspired a myriad of beliefs and folklores.

A chewing noise emerges from the rubbish pit as he is pulling logs from the wood pile, the sound of bone cracking under the force of a strong jaw.

Pfutseki!” he says sharply. A whitish dog quickly leaps from the pit and slips through the barbed wire. An image of his late lion dog flashes through his mind as he watches it sprint away. He resumes picking the firewood. Something like this wouldn’t have happened if his dog was still alive.

The Headman has just risen when he walks back into the hut. The old man’s eyes look sleepy, a brownish mark stretches across his cheek, where saliva flowed during his sleep.

“Morning,” he says to his guest.

The Headman smiles. It’s quite interesting, seeing an adult embarrassed. The way the Headman is sitting resembles a newly married man who’s sitting among his in-laws. 

“Morning. I didn’t cause you much trouble last night I hope,” the Headman says.

“Oh, not at all,” he says. 

A silence passes between them. The Headman anxiously looks outside.

“Your bicycle is safe. I leaned it against the wall,” he says.

“And the luggage?” the Headman says anxiously.

“It’s there,” he says.

The Headman quickly cheers up after hearing this.

It’s brightening outside. Through the slightly open door he can see the radiant sunlight. He expects the Headman to say his farewells, but the elderly man doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, something he finds annoying.

“Still haven’t found anything to do yet cousin?” the Headman says.

He reclines his head. “I’m still searching uncle. The jobs are hard to come by.”

“But why search for a job? These days youths are expected to create employment for themselves you know,” the Headman says.

He remains silent, but this doesn’t dissuade the Headman. 

The fires of life burn so that, like water, those with wisdom can rise to the heavens. For they are the rain. When the season comes, the rain falls on the land, ending the dryness and sustaining life. There are many opportunities available, but many young people are squandering them due to lack of wisdom. Why isn’t he venturing into farming, poultry or retailing? the Headman says. A memory flashes through his mind, being chastised for failing at school, for not finishing assigned chores and for coming home late. He looks down on the floor. It feels like his adolescent years all over again.

“Victor! What are you still doing in there?” Mother’s voice booms into the hut.

“I’m coming!” he says, going outside. The Headman follows him.

Masibanda,” the Headman says respectably to mother, calling her by her totem.

“Good morning, Headman. I hope Victor treated you well,” mother says.

“Oh, I slept well. I’m really thankful,” the Headman says and begins inspecting his bicycle. Though it suffered many scratches as a result of last night’s fall, the bicycle is fine.

“Cousin, can you hold on to this for me? I need to go back to the bottle store. I left my money there,” the Headman says.

“You are not going home?” he says.

“I need to get my money first. I will come back for these soon,” the Headman says, handing him the cooking oil and the bar of soap.

“I will be back in a few minutes Masibanda,” the Headman says.

“It’s alright Headman,” mother says softly, wearing a wintry smile. 

The Headman takes his bicycle and heads to the gate.

After the Headman has left Victor lets out the goats and begins repairing the fence surrounding his mother’s three hectares of land. The poles have been decimated by termites and much of the fence has fallen on to the ground. He removes the old poles, replacing them with new, thicker ones. As he works his thoughts go to the events of early morning. His conversation with the Headman troubles him. The old man’s words keep coming back to him, like an echo from the mountains. One should create one’s own employment, the Headman said. 

Some of his friends have skipped the border. Some have turned to illegal mining and foreign currency trading. The far-off bright lights they used to see are turning out to be an illusion.

He sighs.

He knows excessive thinking is not good for him. The anxiety that comes with it feels like being immersed in a thick stinging cloud of smoke, making it hard for one to breathe. His thoughts go to his late father. But why did his father have to be absent in a time like this? he wonders. He’s struggling, he needs him badly. There’s much he could still have learned from his father. In the modern world, the life of a young man is becoming increasingly harder. Every son needs his father to guide and prepare him for the rigours of manhood. 

He’s tying the barbed wire to the new poles when his phone suddenly rings. He draws it from his pocket and presses the power button. The screen instantly comes to life. He smiles. It’s a text from Mucha. She wants to know if he’s going to the rendezvous tree today.

They meet an hour later, in a forest south of her home. It’s five days since they last met.

“No one saw you?” he asks when she arrives.

“I was careful. Let’s hurry.” Mucha says. She’s anxious to go back before her absence is noticed.

He relaxes and sits beside her. She smells nice. In the light green dress she’s wearing, her well rounded body looks flawless. He looks around and listens attentively to make sure they are alone. In the vicinity he hears the buzzing of bees. A stray cow grazes harmlessly nearby.

“I need some airtime.” Mucha says later when she’s about to leave.

“The airtime you recharged last week is already finished?” he says.

“Uhuh,” she says.

The stray cow is still grazing nearby.

“What will you do without me?” he says, teasingly.

She smiles and reclines her head.

“When do I see you again?” 

“I will call,” she says. 

He stays behind after she has left. A dove perches on a tree a few metres away from him. A few moments later another one joins it. The birds perk at their greyish feathers. Sometimes they pause and look at him. The first dove soon flies away, and the other one follows it. The sun shines brightly in the clear blue sky. Beneath him, brown decaying leaves crunch with every slight move. They completely cover the ground around him, spreading to the dry grass and the nearby trees.

 

“He hasn’t come back yet?” he says when he walks into the kitchen later that afternoon. The Headman’s things are still on the kitchen bench where he left them, he pushes them further to free up sitting space.

“He went to the bottle store. What did you expect?” his mother says, stirring her stewing relish.

“What do you mean by that?” he says, puzzled.

His mother looks at him. “Victor, grow up. You know how he drinks. Don’t tell me you actually believed what he said.”

“I did,” he says.

“Oh well,” his mother says shrugging. “Don’t mind him. He will come back eventually.”

He removes his phone from his back pocket and sits on the bench.

“He needs to take his things and go home. He’s nosy. He was asking me things that do not concern him.”

His mother frowns. “What did he do?”

“He asked why I’m not at work.”

“What!”

“He did.”

His mother pauses stirring the pot. “My dear son, I know you are trying. None of the organisations you have applied to have responded yet?”

“Not even one mom. I’m getting frustrated,” he says.

“Have a little patience. I know it’s frustrating but sometimes life is like a footpath lying before you. One that winds on until it disappears into the trees. All you have to do is to follow it, you have to keep walking,” his mother says.

He remains silent. He doesn’t have a clue what she’s saying. 

The heavy afternoon meal makes him feel sleepy. He goes into his bedroom hut, switches on his mobile data and goes on the internet. After browsing through a job vacancy site he sees an advertisement of a job he’s qualified for. An entry level position. He rises from the bed and draws out a pen and a new sheet of paper from his satchel. Job applications, he has lost count of how many he has sent out in the past two months. Each time he begins to compose one though he feels a surge of excitement, like one who has discovered the elixir of life. He can’t help himself. He’s hopeful again.

 

It’s dark. A wind blows outside. He’s preparing to go to bed when he hears the noise. He sighs and checks the time on his phone. Outside, the gate continues to rattle. He stares at the fire.

“Victor!” his mother calls.

“I heard it mom!” he says, leaving his hut.

He goes to the kitchen where he takes the cooking oil and the bar of soap. At the gate, he finds the Headman drunk again, but not as drunk as last night.

“Cousin,” the Headman says when he reaches the gate.

“Your things uncle,” he says, handing the Headman the cooking oil and the bar of soap. 

“You are not letting me in?” the Headman says.

“Go home uncle,” he says.

“Please cousin, I will die out here. I’m cold. Let me in,” the Headman says.

“Not today uncle, not today. They are waiting for you. Go home.”

There’s a pause.

“Cousin, you can’t do this to me. And how dare you talk to me like that? Do you know who I am?” the Headman says, angrily.

“Go home uncle,” he says, his voice firm.

The Headman mumbles something indistinct and leaves the gate. Victor looks on as the old man walks away. It’s a chilly night. The sound of the Headman’s footsteps slowly die down in the wind.

 

____

Talent Madhuku is a writer from Zimbabwe. His work has been published in Kalahari Review, Brittle paper, Impspired, The African Writer Magazine and Idle Ink.

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