Harare North (12 page)

I wake up in the morning. The air in the house feel funny. People
don't like living under same roof as Green Bomber. I don't feel
like staying inside this house.

The sun have come out of nowhere to chase big fat mama
clouds from the sky – just when spring is beginning. And Sekai
have already spend a decade in Zimbabwe and is still nowhere to
be seen. It is one of them warm days that make them unusual
people crawl out of them Brixton's houses and into the streets in
big numbers.

I go to Ritzy Cinema. Under the big chestnut tree. There is
heap of them laid-back liars, dog thieves in trenchcoats, pigeons,
coarse runaway married men that have develop bad habits like
spitting on pavement every minute, them the crazy ones and them
the ex-pig keepers who have flee they crazy countrymen in hot
climates; all them funny types is gathered there on the grass or
the benches.

With hands in my pockets, I sit on bench. That old man from
Tulse Hill Estate, the one that don't like being known by homeboys,
he is there wearing cap and brown oversized dungarees,
blue long-sleeved shirt and old boots. He have reinvent himself
complete; you will never think he is Zimbabwean if you don't
know him. Now he is busy sucking cigarette, blowing them great
clouds of smoke while everyone sit around him, hanging on every
word he talk.

In foreign place, sometimes you see each each with different
eyes for the first time and who you are and your place in the world
suddenly become as easy to see as any goat's tail. Sometimes people
don't like it if they think you can see how far they have fall. If he
don't want to be known, that's OK with me. Last week I meet
him in Brixton Market and he give that air, you know, that kind
of smell someone throw off when they don't want to talk to you
too much.

Now he have old dartboard beside him. I can already sniff sniff
that this is the kind of homeboy that can visit Germany for one
week and come back to his native country putting on big funny
American accent and spinning clouds of jazz numbers playing out
he don't understand his native language. He have change
completely.

I light my cigarette.

'His name is the MFH – Master of Foxhounds,' Khalid say and
I give him one cigarette. Khalid have just come to sit next to me
without being invite. He is Somali boy and have bleeding nose
because have just been involved in fight but he get mauled.
Someone is still talking about how Khalid start fights but always
lose.

Khalid swig brandy and start to shoot off about how the old
man say he is American with many degrees; one in psychology,
another in science, computers, crime, the climate – just about
everything. I know this kind of style.

Near the MFH, Peter who is Ugandan boy, is claiming to have
desert the Ugandan army in 1991 and can't go back home. He
have his head dangling to one side, dancing and singing. 'When
I'm in Uganda, dancing like this, holding my AK47 like this!' he
sing and leap around with them arms fold to his chest as if he
hold baby. Everyone is quiet and watch. Even Oliver, the junkie
and dog thief who lie on bench with greasy bunch of blond hair
hanging to the ground, he have stop telling everyone that bus
drivers no longer hassle him because his smack dealer, who prefer
dealing on the buses instead of them streets, spit on one of them
drivers' face.

Some tramp with bent cigarette in his mouth and wearing socks
only – one with big hole on heel – stand up from among them
ranks, stagger past me, scratch his head, take his cap off, twist his
face in reckless way and challenge the MFH. 'Today I beat you
at your own game, mate. Five smackers I bet!'

Everyone look. The MFH is taken aback. 'Who are you?' he
ask, eyeing the man from toe to head like he suspect this is setup.
The man say he want the MFH to bet five smackers. 'Are you
scared?' he ask.

On them faces of everyone around there's gleeful looks.
Someone rush and grab dartboard from the MFH and hang it on
the chestnut tree. Peter come and stand between the challenger
with no name and the MFH, ask them to put them fivers each
for him to hold and give to the one who win. The MFH look
like he is not interested because he don't think this is serious challenge.
The man with no name stagger and search his pockets and
only manage to come out with coins that add up to something
like £3. The MFH wave the man away like he have no time for
this. Me I light another cigarette and step off. He have change.

I eat Farayi's baked beans without no permission and Aleck try
to expose me as thief. I have break them house rules, he say. But
I only eat Farayi's beans because I know that I will replace it soon.
Farayi don't complain; he just keep quiet because he is nice man.
But Aleck, me I don't get the score with his problem.

It's two weeks since Shingi disappear now and another margarine
quarrel start between Tsitsi and Aleck. This time Aleck is accusing
Tsitsi of being heavy-handed and spiteful with the way she use the
sugar and milk.

Me I decide maybe I fill my time by fixings things that Shingi
pick from the skips and put in back garden. I can't just watch all
this shouting; I have to do something that involve skill to take
my mind away from this.

I get my screwdriver and start tightening loose screws on them
old computers and whistling to myself thinking how there must
also be lot of loose things inside this house.

Tsitsi again desert she room upstairs because she is frighten
Aleck will do something to baby. Now things is moving faster
than dog with ten legs, you can tell. That's because out of the
blue Aleck come from work full of them blues and threaten to
beat the poo out of Tsitsi. He say it's because she fail to cook
for him proper when he work so hard and she spend day grazing
the food off them shelves and then running off to tell on
him to MaiMusindo. But there is nothing that I can do if the
quarrel is only about food. Now Tsitsi come to sleep with us
downstairs.

I give up my bed for she and sleep on the floor. I don't touch
she. She can turn into porridge or into your mother in your hands
and then what do you do with that?

Aleck get vex by this move. In the morning he give me long
stupid looks. When he leave for graft, me I hit his sausages and
leave nothing in the fridge.

He come back from work in the evening and lash out at Tsitsi
for wasting them sausages to fatten sheself. When I tell him that
it is me that hit them sausages he chill with big speed. He don't
even apologise to Tsitsi, and maybe now Tsitsi also start to have
the battered-wife kind of thinking because I am left feeling cheap
and stupid when they make up and he apologise and promise to
take she to she aunt next week. She move back upstairs. What
kind of mother is this?

No sooner have Tsitsi move back than Aleck start throwing
them tantrums again. He come back from work looking like he
have not sleep for twelve donkey years. This time he accuse she
of not looking after baby proper because the thing have been
crying all night and Aleck don't get no sleep in his room. Farayi
have not yet come back from work that evening and me I am
the only other person at home when this is happening. There is
nothing that I can do. Even when he push she on the face and
send she tumbling backward down them steps. I walk out of this
house and spend hours wandering through nowhere and everywhere
and with unlit cigarette hanging from my mouth because
I even forget to light it.

Tsitsi and baby move downstairs again. And again in the morning
Aleck give me funny look. When he leave for graft, me I hit all
the bread that he have buy the day before.

He come back from work and scream himself hoarse calling me
dunderhead pig because I don't have no O levels like him. I don't
say one word.

Tsitsi is now crying all the time. Then he try to drag Tsitsi
upstairs. That's when I put my foot down. 'If you as much as
touch she again, you can expect some very sweet tender loving
caress from me. And heaps of forgiveness. You don't do that to
mother,' I warn him.

Shingi is back in the evening. Farayi also don't want to have
anything to do with all this what is going on.

The kind of thing that Aleck have been doing – he should not
complain if Zimbabwean community in Harare North start
throwing funny kind of mouth around, I tell Shingi. I am now
sleeping on the floor because I have offer the bed that we was
sharing to Tsitsi and baby.

Shingi is worryful about what is happening. That night he
sleep on floor with me but he have big stress about Aleck who
have lock himself up in his room and don't want to talk to no
one.

In the morning, Friday, when Aleck and Farayi have leave for
graft, Shingi now spin me some jazz number about how he just
want to take walk. He have been so worryful last night he even
forget to tell me that he have lose his salad graft.

Everyone is away all day, me I give my mouth permission to
hit everything that was buy by Aleck in the kitchen. I tell Tsitsi
that she can share food with us. Shingi is back and he have bit of
money. Me I have to be careful with my savings now.

Aleck arrive from work and do the most dunderhead thing, coming
straight on me with them flying fists and all. I dodge his girlie jab
and, in one styleful and thief-like ninja move, I sock him straight
on the mouth. He tumble on the floorboard, pick himself up and
run upstairs with speed of animal with ten legs, spitting bloodied
tooth. He is now in trouble, Aleck; ancestral spirits is giving him
heap of forgiveness with long stick, MaiMusindo warn him. Me I
am heavyweight spirit, he should know.

Shingi roll back into the house at midnight and everyone have
go to bed. Me I am still awake in the dark room but I don't want
to start talk about what have happen because Shingi maybe start
to get worryful and all that kind of regular civilian people's style.

In the morning we wake up and Aleck is gone. Just like that.
Tsitsi is first to discover that Aleck have leave the squat. London
is breathing into his room through them open window, sending
copies of the
Metro
and many other papers flapping about. We
all take looks into deserted room and quickly go downstairs to
our room. None of us need explanation what this mean. All Aleck
have to do is to stop at nearest phone box, call them police and
tell them about nest of them illegals who is occupy this house.
Then he simply jump into sea of 10 million Londoners.

Without one word, I pack my suitcase and make my way to
the chestnut tree, where I sit and smoke cigarette. Shingi is not
happy, but he come with me having realise that even if he is not
illegal, the police still able to bag him if it turn out something is
unlawful about the squat. I have tell Tsitsi that because she have
baby and she is just likkle girl, she don't come with us but maybe
go to MaiMusindo.

Shingi – I can tell from the look on his face that he blame me
for everything. He is quiet and it's like I am big headache for
him. We sit for long time without exchange of word.

Them chestnut-tree people have not yet arrive. As Brixton
people get out of they beds inside they warm houses we sit silent.

Tsitsi is still gathering she things inside the house. Me I am
worried that them police will find she, but soon we see she
shuffling down Acre Lane and cross Brixton Road to go to the
hair salon with baby on she back. We watch she crossing the road
at the traffic lights outside McDonald's and then go down
Coldharbour Lane.

Then them homeless people start to trickle to the tree with
they dogs, ready to start to put out the burning truths of they
lives with buckets of brew and all.

We spend the morning sitting under the tree, but by about afternoon
Shingi maybe relax or feel pity for me.

He wave olive branch and start talking about where we is going
to spend the night. I have been whipping them pounds out of
Sekai and she have now decide to take few more weeks off in
Zimbabwe. I don't want to go sleep at they house and spend time
with Paul.

Shingi don't want to go to his relatives and leave me alone in
them streets.

If I t . . . take you to m . . . my relatives they is not going to
be happy, he say. Maybe I s . . . stay with you for the night and
then we s . . . see.'

I have also help him in the past when he don't have graft and
his family have him on the ropes about money issues while he try
to spin jazz number of having graft.

You are kind man, I say to him. We is back on talking terms.
He don't want to take me to his relatives because they already
propaganda against me, I know.

'Where are you from?' It's this man that have Karl Marx's beard.
He sit cross-legged and hunch over his left arm while the other
hand stroke his beard. He have siphon part of his beard into his
mouth and is chewing. Our eyes clash and me I look away.

Under the tree, sitting opposite me is three faces. Three faces
and they two dogs. They sit silent on low brick wall that border
the lawn area, each wait for his turn to take swig from bokkle that
is doing the rounds. Some few steps to they right is three dreadlocked
Rasta faces, one of them try to cheer them up, hobbling
around and singing and shaking them mangled dreads. Karl Marx
at the corner of wall to the left of them three faces and they dogs.
I don't want to answer questions from no one right now. He get
the score without me saying one word.

Shingi come back to the tree with flyers for free concert called
'African Guitar Virtuosos' or something at Southbank. I tell him
we should just start heading to Southbank because me I don't
want staying here with this Karl Marx guy. But before we step
away I go and check in military style if any police is already crawling
all over our house. The house look deserted. It look at me with
them sad eyes, this Shingi's head. No sign of police yet but me I
am not stepping inside that head. Not today. I go back to the
chestnut tree and we step off to Southbank.

Bada nepakati
, Shingi instruct me. With both hands me I hold
the loaf that he buy from supermarket. I pull and it tear in half.
Shingi grin in nervous way and he look at them people around
us. The bus is full and everyone on the bus point they eyes at us.

I apply myself on the bread. This feeling that I have not have
in years now come over me; my senses get more fire. I clutch the
half loaf between them arm and ribs, and rip into it with them
fingernails. The warmth of bread against my body, together with
it the happiness of discover the freedom to tear down loaf of bread
on London bus, send message of goodwill to my bones. I feel
free.

Then out of the blue sky we get ourselves some fan: one small
plump boy sitting with his mother leap to his feet with big eyes.
He wear T-shirt written 'Made Of Money'. Shingi have good
talent at reading them people so he see quick that likkle boy Made
Of Money is in grip of big hunger. He break small piece from his
bread and stretch out in that good-old-uncle kind of way, and
hand it to the likkle man. The look of horror on the likkle boy's
mother's face can kill a hippo. She look on but she is helpless. I
can see that she want to stop she son from taking the bread but
hold sheself back because she is frightened of the racialism thing.
She remain on she seat, and only watch with sickly smile as she
son hit the bread with more fire.

Southbank is crawling with them Africans in they colourful ethnic
clothes it make you feel like you is not African enough. Many of
them is also them lapsed Africans because they have live in London
from the time when it was OK to kill kings, queens and pigs. You
can tell because they carry smiles like they have take over the palaces
at last. We is only one wearing jeans. But this is make up for by
the fact that after the concert we have good cheerful smiles because
of the one person who have had the sense not to lumber himself
with them ethnic things. That's the original native from Kinshasa.

The guitar men step onto the stage. Three of them. All of them
is dressed in flashy African clothes except for him the Kinshasa
boy. The other two guitarists is just lapsed Africans, but they is
busy spinning clouds of jazz numbers that they is Tanzanian and
Cameroonian and whatever they can think of. But the worst is
him the one that want to be Cameroonian; he change his costume
three times during the show. Three times, I count it. Even girls
don't do that.

Cameroonian man twang away while his Tanzanian friend is
busy ripping away them lines off his guitar. But the original native
– he is dressed in jacket and tie and is sitting onstage like lost
schoolboy. Even when he was introduce at the start of the show
he look like he have heaps of confusion on his face, you know
like what it's like when the native have just hit Harare North.

Kinshasa boy wear black oversize jacket and them baggy grey
trousers; you can tell these is clothes that he is suppose to have
taken to dry-cleaner but maybe somewhere in the township the
original native decide that this is something that he can handle with
box of Surf powder and bucket of water; now they is puckered
and getting all out of shape in that way that make them more
African than them thousand cotton garments with blue lizards,
green fish and ethnic patterns. This cheer our face.

Shingi, he have big grin ripping through his face right up to
them back teeth. The music crackle away like rhythm of them
hoofs of herd of donkeys at full-speed gallop. Shingi's attention
is fix on Kinshasa boy, who is looking at them the other guitar
men with mix of shyness and absent-minded style that often hide
native impatience. He tag along nowhere near his limit while them
other two is at full gallop.

Suddenly something snap inside his head and Kinshasa boy get
off his stool. From the way the hairs on my back stand on they
ends, you know that now something is in the air. He throw left
leg forward in that playful way like he say, catch it if you can. But
this is that style that is awkward by purpose, you know them those
crazy 'I don't care' ape-style
ndombolo
moves. He step and sway.
He peep. At you. Sometimes.

Kinshasa boy. He do sharp feint. He sway and step. Bobbing
head. Phantom step; he almost shake. One jink, and he send the
whole audience swaying the wrong way. Then it come one deadly
sideways leap of the eyebrow that kill all the xenophobia, hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia
and yugoslavia that exist in
London.

His trousers, they flap mad. Like some flag in middle of big
storm. Now he cling to his guitar with more fire and hit the
crowd with heap of notes that come out faster than light machine
gun.

'My friend, you, civilian person like you, if you is not careful
you will drop small poo in your pants because of this pleasure,'
me I tell the man sitting next to me with high-wattage grin on
his face.

Even them, the other guitarists, is now just onlookers like us.
And when Kinshasa native start to get down to stepping on the
rhythm with some mental
ndombolo
footwork, whipping his own
back with them hot riffs, too many truths that cannot be named
crawl out of they holes and start crawling everywhere. Me I nearly
throw £50 onto the stage but Shingi hold me back.

When the show end, the whole concert hall is crawling with
termites you don't even know where to put your foot.

After Southbank we hang out at Trafalgar Square for the night.
We wake up late morning and decide that maybe we check what
happening in our house. If it come to the worst, at least the police
is not like Zimbabwe police; here they call you 'sir' instead of
'thief' before they start touch touching you.

Some ghetto bird start hovering and chopping the air in the
sky above when we jump out of bus in Brixton.

'Is this another case of police chasing prisoner that have escape
from Brixton Prison or what?'

Shingi say nothing. He is staring at this teenage boy leaning
against scaffold on his bike outside Woolworths. The skunk smile
on his face is like he is laughing at us carrying our things.

We go and stand at the corner outside KFC. You can see things
better here – down Coldharbour Lane, up Acre Lane, down Brixton
Road, up Effra Road and up in the sky. But Brixton is funny place
this afternoon. You can just see it when you look around. Them,
the street vendors, skunk dealers, the incense vendors, Tube ticket
touts, homeless people and thiefs. I don't trust no one here.

'Repent! Repent! Humble yourself because the Second Coming
of the Lord is as sure as the First!' one man cry. He is speaking
to us.

'. . . He says he doesn't like his brother, but he loves the Lord
Jesus?' He raise his Bible up in the air as if he expect someone
from the crowd to respond. Then he slam it into his left hand to
emphasise, 'Do not be deceived. Do not let the Devil deceive you,
my brothers and sisters!'

Before we know it two police is upon us; fat man and thin
wire-like woman.

Relax, think like e . . . e . . . everything is normal; p . . . put the
suitcase down and relax.

We is outside KFC where it's full of teenagers that loiter in
they hoodies, bling-bling and wanting heap of respect. Them officers
is a few steps away and walking towards us.

'You behaving yourself, Jay?' the policewoman ask with likkle
smile as they walk past them teenagers.

'Yes, officer, I am good these days,' the boy answer in proper
English now.

'It was just ghetto behaviour, it's tribal,' someone laugh.

Them officers walk past. They don't say nothing to us.

You never know if the police have play people's mouths and get
information about you. The whole afternoon we run around to
corners and don't want to talk to no one. When the sun go splash
down dead, we put on bold face and step easy easy to our road.
It's quiet and there's no sign of funny thing. The house with its
nose and them big eyes look at us. We forget to switch off the
lights when we run away; they is now shouting out bright.