The Orange Tree by T.O. Giwa

The smell of rotten oranges brings bad tidings.

So when I breathed in the aroma of oranges trampled on the ground, I knew then, what was to come. The hairs on the back of my neck whispered stories of nights filled with carnage. I stood by the window, shivering in the breeze as dusk slithered into the room. I called my sons into the hut. Ismael, the oldest, was teaching Luka how to roll a tire on the back of the slippery hill that surrounded the village. Luka was impatient, muttering under his breath, biting his lips just the way his father did. His brother patiently repeated his instructions softly as the evening wind carried their voice through the mist of the gathering dusk.

Nostalgia came to stand by me, wrapped her warm hands around my neck, and I leaned against this familiar friend. I willed myself to the world of afternoons spent laughing, eating roasted corn, and drinking cool orange nectar. The war that took their father came swiftly, leaving our joy hanging naked and dead in the morning light. Life after him was impossible but here I am, the mother of two growing boys.

The thought of the orange tree brought me to the present, as I remembered the troubles lingering the wind. My lips muttered a prayer to the Gods to hold the inevitable away from us. I prayed for the lives of the villagers, and for the harvests of their fields. I prayed for the cattlemen and their herds, for the mothers and their daughters, may their lives be protected. I prayed for grace and a little more time to enjoy the warm fragrance of the orange tree. I asked for time to teach Luka some patience because he will need it. My lips moved faster, a chill spreading itself through my body, as I asked feverishly for days and months to show Ismael how to make hard choices. The more I prayed the faster the visions came. Corpses filled the streets, stacked on top of each other like firewood left in the rain for far too long, blood dripping and mingling. I saw eyes gouged out of their homes, and flung towards the west, forever judging the world. Limbs bent forcefully in awkward and unnatural poses facing the east in prayer.

I hurried outside and called Luka and Ismael to come home.

“Mama, we are starving,” Luka yelled.

They ran to me with all the exuberance of their youth, surrounding my world with their innocent love, and I was no longer afraid. I knew now why women continue to challenge death to a dance and a duel. Is it not to gobble up these moments of joy?

I drew them to me on the mat as they ate their evening meal.

“Mama, tell us the story,” Ishmael asked.

“Yes, mama, tell is the story of the orange tree,” Luka followed.

The wind shifted as I began the familiar story:

“The orange tree came to our village when the first cattle people arrived. Before they came, we were farmers and artisans. The men went to the farm and the women carved jewels. The strangers came just before dawn right before the cock sang the farmers out of their beds.”

The room was quiet. My voice and the smell of the oranges moved and breathed, casting shadows on the walls.

“The messenger rode in on the greatest cow we had seen around these parts, knocking the ground and rooting out plants on the way, as if the devil was trying to break free under the earth. The horse took his master to the village Chief, as soon as he got to the Chief, word was passed around to all the elders Your great-grandfather was one of them; he went to help the chief break this new riddle into morsels that the town could swallow better.”

“Life is full of riddles, my sons, but the answers are not often given to us. We must be brave enough to find the answers ourselves. That is the way to the truth.” I told them as I held their hands in my lap, cradling their heads.

The elders were divided after they had heard the reason for the stranger’s visit. Your great-grandfather was with the group that spoke for the visitors. They asked for the council to allow the herdsmen to use the outer fields to raise their cattle, provided they agreed to live among us in peace. “We must not allow the gods to make a fool of us; this is the way of Man,” your great grandfather said. “The earth belongs to no one. She is a dangerous lover. She writhes and moans in your arms one moment, and spits in your eye the next. The more we try to keep her captive, the more she seeks other men to defile her. That is the way of woman. That is the way of the earth.”

The messenger gave the tree to him in gratitude. “This tree will bless you,” the messenger said. “It will bring peace to your village and warn you when troubles come. As long as the tree stands, your daughters will bear children, your sons will never be lazy and your elders will always be wise.” The wars came soon after that and the tree did her job, shedding her small moons in warning and we tried to listen.

The night slipped away into dreams but the morning brought the thickening of the rot. The smell grew and grew, demanding answers. I got up and knew that the diamond must fall into the sea.

Trouble came with the full force of my foreboding. A soldier rode into the village on the back of a huge horse several days later. He went straight to the Chief’s compound. The news spread dread through the village like indigo staining a white sheet. He came to warn us of the war. He told of villages pillaged and burnt to the ground. He told us about the brave warriors of Kimpacha, he told us how they wept as the marauders stole the pearls of their mothers and daughters. He spoke of markets razed to the ground, and how once-precious goods floated in the air as ash.

After he was done, I got up to speak. A loud murmur went through the growing crowds. I knew what they thought but I was not afraid.

I heard an elder say “If only her husband was still alive, he would put her in her place.”

“She is always the first to speak,” another one called out. “She never learns with her fake prophecies.”

I was determined to speak and their noise could not stop me. I had learned long ago that only the sacrifice knows the cost of standing alone at the altar. So I sang a song and they all became silent, the dust from horses hoofs floating in the afternoon air.

I sang of flowers blooming in all the gardens of the village, of great big harvests and the naming ceremonies of twins. I spoke of our sons becoming warriors to rival the fierce ones of Kimpacha, of oranges forever blooming like harvests of small suns and of enchanting virgins with the clearest pearls safely guarded in the folds of their thighs. I told them how the Gods had favoured us all these years and I told them that they would continue to do so.

I saw their eyes welling up with tears of grief, unbelieving but yet hopeful. I called to the men, and asked them to get ready, to pack clothes and tidy the yards. I asked the women to pack food for a long journey to safety.

As I watched them leave, I saw the days to come in flashes like the pages of a fast flipped through book. I saw the marauders come into the village from the direction of Kimpacha. I saw some of them on horses and some on foot. I saw myself hiding in the latrine of the chief’s compound and I saw them leave after they had taken all they could, leaving behind open doorways and empty fields. I saw many men travelling, tired, and covered by the red mud of our land, dragging their belongings like a terrible burden. Some packed light but others were weighted down by all of life’s trials. I saw my sons growing into men without my guidance and my heart filled with sorrow.

But one day was hidden from me. The war started and ended with me wrapped in everyday solitude, but this day unravelled the cocoon I had built for myself.

I had gone out to prune the tree because her branches were hanging low, saluting the earth, in time for the harvest. I woke up that morning and walked from the Chief’s compound to my own house. I sang to myself as I swallowed whole the beauty of the rising sun. I set out very early, to give me enough time to finish my work and go back to the Chief’s compound to hide before the marauders made their way into the inner parts of the village.

I saw him too late. He was about a foot from me, sitting under the tree. My legs stopped of their own accord. Fear gripped my hands and limbs. I felt the sweat gather under my lips.

For a moment I thought he was sleeping, mistaking the buzz of the bees nearby for his snore. A second later, I was completely surrounded by a dozen boys, holding knives and machetes that glistened with the reflection of the morning sun. I knew the ways of machetes; I had my own in my sack, the outline of which rubbed against my side; its cold sharpness reassured me. I greeted them in our village language and none of them answered.

“Hello!” I repeated in English, hoping one of them had been to school. I noticed a flicker of recognition in a couple of their faces and I smiled lightly at that. The language of the strangers was still the only thing that connected us even after all these years.

“What are you doing here, you foolish woman?” one of them asked. His voice sounded thin but he looked sure of his skills with the machete as I was with mine. I turned to him, smiling, hiding my fear deep inside my stomach, and allowed a little motherly care to seep into my face and voice.

The short dark boy to my left started to fidget, distracting the tall thin one. He turned to the fidgeting boy and they exchanged fast words, furiously arguing in a foreign language. The leader gestured angrily to me with his machete and the fear returned with full force, attacking my stomach with bile and terror.

I will die today, I thought to myself. Who will welcome my sons? Who will be their mother? Who will dance the day they take wives? Who will show them the joys of life?

I will die today!

I did not want to die.

“Speak, woman,” the boy yelled out to me. He moved closer to me as I willed my body to stay still. He moved closer, enough for me to see the red little dots in his eyes. I was terrified.

Suddenly, the short one yelled at him. “Kill her!”

I shuddered in horror and waited, feeling my blood rushing to my ears.

I was about to slip my hands behind my back, hoping to get a strike in before he was able to cut me. At that moment, the orange tree shook with the force of a thousand windstorms and she wept her golden orbs all over the ground smashing all that stood in her way. A song leapt from my heart to my tongue as if it was a lion, crouching deep, waiting for the right moment to leap. I sang my sorrow to them. I sang my fear. I sang of my sons and the warriors they would become. I sang of the village chief and his wisdom. I told them of the beauty of his wives. I told them of the antics of the schoolteacher, who had travelled all the way from the city to teach our boys.

The leader stood spellbound as the tip of his machete touched the ground. They all listened to the gentle tones of my voice as the oranges opened to the light of the morning sun. From the corner of my eye, I saw the rest of the boys move closer to me and they all sat on the ground, listening. Finally I sang the history of the village. I took them along with me to afternoons spent sitting in the great shade of the orange tree, laughing at the village barber’s jokes, sipping the nectar of oranges, and eating yams roasted with honey. I told them of evenings spent listening to stories of warriors and jesters, and virgins and their suitors.

And they wept.

The Orange Tree was written by T.O. Giwa.

Copyright © T.O. Giwa 2011.

T.O. Giwa grew up in Nigeria and Minneapolis, the third daughter of Nigerian parents. She has lived and worked in California and Geneva, and now lives in Uganda, working as a Health Economist. She also writes poetry and political commentary.

River Crossing by Clemence Makondo

We arrived at the river in the dead of night, a shimmering length of silver majestically snaking through the African plain. The night was pregnant with fatality and the darkness was only slightly relieved by the solitary moon and stars dotted around the grey sky. The sounds of our foot falls were loud — more like minute dynamite explosions as they connected with the half-baked, crusted soil of the savannah — muting now and again the night sounds which seemed to always re-emerge in a disorderly unison. The reflex motion of pulling one leg before the other to propel our reluctant bodies forward had become monotonous and numbed the feeling in our legs. It had been like a journey into eternity testing our physical endurance to the very apex. Our initial bubble of excitement had long burnt out and we were mentally disorientated. Mere talking took an unbearable amount of energy and our conversation had been limited to barely audible grunts. It was beginning to seem like it would never end but the Limpopo River making the distinctive demarcation between Zimbabwe and South Africa had sprung up before us making us freeze in our tracks. Now the Limpopo, legendary in tragedy, fearful to conjure by imagination, and now in reality a spectacle like some sinister omen from the realms of the darkest imagination stood between us and the Promised Land, posing the last challenge. The battle lines were drawn…


Sheer resolve and a determination of will brought about by a lack of alternatives had made up our minds. We had long regarded the tales of the country called South Africa as make believe, specially crafted to momentarily drift the mind from the reeking poverty of our village life. It was the only life we had ever known and trying to imagine that a decent life could be crafted through other means than tilling the soil seemed so unrealistic and intensely unbelievable. True word had filtered to us of the daring who had downed their ploughs and trekked down South. Those who defied the elements, the story was told, and made it across the Limpopo had traded in the unpredictable surfaces of donkey backs with sleek automobiles and frayed overalls with designer clothing. In hushed tones and in the same breath, the crocodiles lurking in the depths of the Limpopo were also mentioned. Legend had it that the crocodiles claimed more people than crossed the river expanse. The crocodiles’ methods of hunting and execution had been portrayed beyond sensationalism making one shudder to imagine being in the clutches of their razor sharp teeth. Perhaps the fear of comprehending the tragic conquests of the crocodiles made many, including us, dismiss the South African milk and honey idea as mere wishful thinking, and nothing more than a fairy tale.

It was when life in the village took a turn for the worse that we slowly began to entertain the possibility. A perennial drought had wiped away our last source of hope. There had been no meaningful rainfall in three years and temperatures had risen to record highs. The seeds we put in the ground were baked by the sun within minutes of being covered, and you could literally hear the creaking bones of our livestock as they stumbled along reaching out for the last available blade of grass. Our bodies had been battered by the elements to hollow skeletal shells leaving us with little resemblances to humans. The unrewarded toil and sweat in the vast fields had slowly edged us to the brink of desperation. The way to a better life we so dearly craved for was through a meaningful harvest in the fields, but the drought seemed bent on preventing this. Inevitably we began to ponder the possible truths in the stories of fame and fortune down South. Our desperation cultivated, nurtured, and nourished, a new hope in us. This was a kind of hope to lean on, that somewhere out there a better future lay in waiting. The feeling of hope kindled in our hearts came simultaneously with heart wrenching fear at the thought of the Limpopo and its fearsome inhabitants. Thoughts of two of our peers who had left us to search for greener pastures in the cities but were in fact rumoured to have braved the unpredictable journey to South Africa, came to our minds accompanied by cold chills up and down the spine. They had not returned to the village, nor as far as we knew made it to the Promised Land. A strong feeling in the village was that their quest had been brought to an end tragically by the river. Despite the crippling fear we eventually figured that either way lay death and death with a trial would at least be the death of a martyr and beyond martyrdom lay paradise; which according to legend was more than worth dying for. Our choices had indeed run thin and we faced the proverbial question ‘To be or not to be?’

A huge marula tree occupying a prestigious central point in my village was our traditional meeting point whenever we hit a crisis. We had met under the tree since our school going days when discussions then were on boyish escapades and other less grim issues than the situation at hand. From that time, nearly ten years ago until now, I was the natural leader of our foursome, calling for meetings such as this one and proposing a way forward when we reached a deadlock. We had always been close friends, taking each step in life in close consultation and harbouring the same dreams and interests. At twenty- eight Stanley was the eldest of us, two years my senior, and also my cousin. At his best Stanley had the build of a wrestler, extraordinarily tall and bulky. The bulging muscles on his arms and chest threatened to burst through his frayed clothing. His imposing frame had saved me from bullies who dared not interfere with me lest they incurred my cousin’s wrath. Being of slender built and a bit withdrawn I was rich pickings for bullies who relished the slightest opportunity for dominance. My strength lay in organising and mobilisation of others towards meeting objectives. I had been nicknamed Professor and by rural standards this was quite a feat. This nickname had stuck to me much more than the name Eric, I was christened with by my parents, and I found myself constantly thriving to live to its billing. Jethro and Joram completed the line-up. They were identical twins I had known since I was a toddler. You could only distinguish between them by a mole below Jethro’s eye until you had intuitive knowledge of them. The twins were a year younger than me and of the four of us were more likely to take up risky challenges without a second thought. A common thread of poverty, which had disqualified us from completing our secondary education, bound us to a shared and burning ambition to change our circumstances for the better. Nearly ten years on this objective remained elusive and this dire state of affairs had culminated in the meeting under the marula tree. It was decision time.

For nearly an hour we sat silent under the tree our heads bowed as we sought for some form of divine intervention .We had been brought up on religious principles and our trust on the power of prayer was deeply profound, although this time around we were aware our faith faced a stiff test. We deliberated on whether to go or not to go. We also explored the possibility of going to the big city of Harare to acquire legal travel documents, but we quickly discarded this idea as lengthy and without guarantees. We decided our best option was crossing into South Africa through an unauthorised entry point. This route was quicker and our circumstances would be changed sooner we reasoned. Though it felt like throwing one’s self in front of a moving train and hoping somehow that the wheels miss you. As the time ticked agonisingly away it dawned on me that a unanimous agreement was doubtful. A leader had to emerge to tip the scale and it all seemed perfectly natural when that role fell on me. Although we knew we did not have a choice in the matter instinct told us we needed a sign to tell us the journey was meant to be. When I produced a coin from my pocket and passed it around it seemed symbolic. It marked the birth of a second language amongst four brothers on the verge of braving the unknown. The coin came back to me and after announcing ‘Heads we go, tails we stay’ I had set it loose spinning in the arid dry air. It landed after what seemed an eternity with an unusually loud tinkle at my feet, heads side up. That night when I joined my friends for the trek to South Africa I felt like what Yuri Gagarin probably felt on his maiden voyage into outer space.

The savannah scorched by the insistent drought presented a plethora of harrowing experiences. On the first night of the trek, fresh with excitement and new found hope, we made light banter and I laced our conversation with some humour to ease the tension. We walked single file with Stanley leading, the twins at the centre and I was bringing up the rear. On our backs hung our backpacks with some hastily arranged supply of food and water for a few days. I had an idea on the direction to the border although it proved quite a challenge staying on course during the night. The savannah was infamous for dangerous wildlife and scavengers like hyenas at night. Now and again I lit matches to scare off any that might develop dietary ideas that centred on us being the menu. That first night we travelled nearly eight hours non-stop and just before dawn we decided to camp and catch two hours sleep before hitting the road again.

We found the perfect spot between two boulders, lit a small fire, and slumped down completely spent. We had barely closed our eyes when Jethro’s shrill scream pierced through the night immobilising us with shock. He had leapt up clutching his right arm and his face twisted in agony. My first thought was that he had been bitten by a snake and fearing for the worst I scurried around looking for some matches. While Joram and Stanley inspected the damage on Jethro’s arm I lit some dry grass and searched around for the possible culprit. I found a rather large scorpion trying to squeeze itself in a small hole in an apparent attempt to flee from justice. I squashed it with the sole of my boot and turned my attention to Stanley who was sucking out the venom from Jethro’s swelling arm. He always seemed to have an admirable knowledge of life skills which he put to good use. After this hair raising situation had been brought under control and the pain Jethro was feeling was the only thing left to contend with I decided we should break camp and continue with the journey. Dawn was breaking and a whole new day of travelling lay ahead with unknown perils.

The second day of our daylight journey was not as eventful. I only had one nasty experience when foraging for berries near a bird’s nest, a large bird with a curved beak appeared from nowhere, swooped close to my head, and sent me scurrying for cover. Save for exhaustion, day travel had few challenges, but dusk was fast approaching and with it came the vivid remembrance of the night before. I was nearly paralysed by fear of the unknown. I kept expecting to see the river every time we turned a corner or went down a rise, but the plains rolled on endlessly. My mates now quiet seemed absorbed in deep thought and I wondered what was going on in their minds. I was aware that each step brought us closer and closer to the Limpopo and I struggled not to dwell on the tragic stories I had heard. I had to keep my mental composure in order to convincingly reassure my mates that everything would turn out all right. I realised what a great deal it meant to them when I cracked a wry joke and forced through an occasional casual laugh. Darkness closed in on us bringing with it eerie night sounds. Since everyone was tired and barely making any progress forward I called our tiny procession to a halt and we made camp. We sat around the fire and I tried to make conversation to bolster our spirits up but fatigue overpowered me and I drifted off to sleep.

I was shaken out of my deep slumber by Joram. Immediately my senses went on the alert. I sought to know from him why he had awoken me since it was still pitch black and we couldn’t have rested the three hours we had agreed on. I could not control the tinge of irritation in my voice. Joram was motioning to me to listen and his head was cocked towards the direction we had come from. We had been listening for nearly two minutes and I had just coined a retort for Joram when some distance away a deep bellow drowned the nightly sounds and sent shockwaves rippling through the ground.

I was startled, and Joram was too judging from the way he clutched my arm and refused to let go. Struggling to rein in my fear I told Joram to help me wake up Stanley and Jethro who were still sleeping and snoring softly oblivious to the danger that lurked near. They struggled up and were about to fire a barrage of questions before I made a sign for them to be silent. We hitched up our backpacks and taking care to be quiet resumed our journey again. My strategy although I couldn’t vouch for its soundness myself was to put as much distance between us and the beast and pray at the same time that it didn’t pick up our scent. I could think of no other better plan and I feared engaging the rest of the guys on this debate would only delay our action and the sound of our voices would be transmitted further and faster in the dark. We moved on barely rested and now with the extra shadow of an unknown beast hanging over us. The bellow deep and bold came again and Stanley and Jethro experiencing it for the first time stumbled and had to stop momentarily to regain composure; albeit rudely they had received the answer to any questions they might have had. I recalled from my uncle, a wildlife enthusiast, that we were in buffalo territory and the bellow I guessed was probably emanating from a bull buffalo. Our hearts in our mouths we soldiered hastily forward re-energised by the lurking threat. The bellow did not come again and that night we travelled the longest continuous distance since we embarked on the trip. When the sun broke in the distant eastern horizon we were battered and disillusioned, and for the first time I started having misgivings about the journey. I wondered if our decision to embark on the South African trip had not been rash and ill-advised.

On the third day I felt intensely weak and dehydrated. Stanley had given me the last of his drinking water and going down my throat it felt like a tiny drop barely doing anything for my thirst. My whole body was aching and my arms and legs felt foreign to me. My backpack was practically empty but felt like a ton and at one time I contemplated leaving it behind. The twins were not doing any better. They were slumped under the shade of a cactus tree heads bowed down as if they were monks in deep meditation. Stanley was pacing up and down his lumbering frame gaunt and his face grim. He seemed to be muttering something to himself and I prayed my cousin would not suffer a mental breakdown because we depended so much on his resilience. I was starkly aware of the need for us to regroup and refocus but overwhelmed by tiredness I dropped beside Jethro and dozed off.

I awoke to a refreshing drizzle of water falling on my face. Stanley was standing before me pouring water on me from his container. Joram and Jethro were also up and their wet faces told me they had received the same royal treatment. He told us that while we slept he had wandered off aimlessly and had stumbled on a small pond with fresh water. I took the bottle from him and hungrily poured the remaining water inside my dry body. We took advantage of the little energy we regained from the small rest and drink to continue with the trek. In single file the procession set off again.

We walked throughout the day and into the night saying very little to each other. We were coming down a steep rise and expecting to see the usual rolling blanket of thick darkness when without warning the river stood before us.

Nothing could have prepared anyone for this uncanny expanse of water and I had to gasp involuntarily. The Limpopo was flowing swiftly and evenly and its waters were a dull silver colour. No signs of imminent danger could be gleaned but as I gazed down at the river a sixth sense warned me that our journey would climax soon. The river stood uncompromisingly before us. It stood as a possible bridge to untold fantasies and possibilities of a heaven on earth. The hour had come and our true test was at hand. Stories of the river I had passed on as mere sensationalism came back with an uncontrollable rush to my mind. In a moment I would no longer have to wonder. I was going to be a living witness if I survived to tell the tale. Our hands found each other in the darkness and communicated a comradeship which had been further cemented by the tribulations we had recently experienced. Intuition told me that this comradeship was about to be given the litmus test by the Limpopo. When I took a tentative step forward my buddies followed suit and we inched close to the river bank. Our reflections, Goliath-like figures in the water, bobbed up and down in sync with the strong current. Still holding hands we sat down beside each other. Once again we had reached decision time.

Half of an hour of a silence that felt thick enough to lean on had gone by. The only disturbance was the sound of water lapping against the river bank. Deep down I knew the eventual decision to cross the river would lie with me and with a sense of foreboding it dawned on me that I had been given the position of judge and juror. This responsibility lay heavy on my shoulders and I found my hand once again slithering into the back pocket of my jeans to curl around the coin we had used under the marula tree. I had brought it along with me like a talisman and symbol of our covenant. Although I was not a superstitious person I felt again the need of a sign. I brought out the coin and I could feel my mates’ eyes bore into me as I released it into the air. It reflected the dull silver colour of the Limpopo waters as it momentarily transformed the blackness, stayed briefly in the air and hit the ground. I had decided that heads would mean a sign to cross and tails would mean going back to the drawing board. My eyes recoiled away from the coin when it hit the ground, in an attempt to delay the verdict. I looked up, uttered a small prayer, and slowly shifted my eyes to where the coin lay. It was heads.

We embraced on the northern bank and as in the law of our unwritten creed our hands shook and held. Stanley’s hands were damp and slippery. He didn’t scare easy and this was probably an indication of how grave the situation was. After a brief discussion which was more about bolstering each other’s confidence, the question now lay on the system to use in attempting the crossing. Having been raised in an area with abundant river systems we had mastered the art of swimming at an early age and had made the rivers our second home. We were all adept at using unique swimming styles suited for different volumes of water and currents. Although the Limpopo was much bigger, we figured that navigating across would not be a problem once we reined in the strength of the current. Our biggest challenge would be on how to deal with any threat lurking beneath the waters, as our rivers back home where fairly safe save for the occasional water snake. We eventually decided to cross in pairs so that support for one another was available both in the water and inland. This decided I took responsibility and volunteered to be one of the first to cross. This show of courage did by no means portray a lack of fear but a responsibility I felt accompanied my leadership role. Jethro was selected to be my partner and I wondered at that moment what was going on inside him. I could not stop my knees from knocking against each other and my mouth had suddenly gone dry. With a final embrace for Stanley and Joram and a promise of an imminent appointment with them across the river in South Africa, Jethro and I set foot in the cool waters.

We negotiated our way forward gradually allowing the current to push us along. The water was up to our knees close to the river bank and we walked, deciding to save the swim for later when the water got deeper. The surface of the river basin was mostly sand with occasional rock outcroppings. Progress was slow but inside my heart I celebrated every inch we made forward. My senses were numb and an attempt to make conversation with Jethro ended in dismal failure with the words getting stuck at the back of my throat. I was afraid, very afraid. As I struggled with the river current, which was gradually getting stronger, the best I could do at that time was hold Jethro’s hand and let my eyes stray across the river. I wondered if the price we were paying to get there was justified. Were we going to get a just reward for our toil? Were we going to make it across? These questions repeated themselves over and over again in my mind like a scratched record.

We had covered approximately half of the river’s breadth when I turned and waved at Stanley and Joram. I could no longer see them clearly because of the darkness but the light provided by the moon was enough to see their hands waving enthusiastically. I guessed they were praying and getting more confident with our progress. They were both standing close to the river edge their attention fixed intently on us. I wondered at the nature of conversation they were having. It was difficult to decide which was the most difficult; being out here in the heart of the river or watching from their position by the river bank.

I was still absorbed with these thoughts when in a split second as if struck by an unseen force I saw Stanley’s huge frame swaying backwards and forwards before eventually tumbling into the river.

In an effort to comprehend what had just happened my mind went into overdrive. The light provided by the moon was just enough for me to see that a desperate struggle in the water had ensued between Stanley and an unknown foe making the water shoot like a fountain in all directions. The darkness made it difficult to follow exactly was happening and the splashing water had obscured Joram from view. Jethro was frozen beside me as if cast in stone. Only his heavy laboured breath told of how petrified he was.

Fighting to overcome the fear that threatened to overwhelm me, I grabbed Jethro’s sweaty palm and sought to oppose the current to go back and render help to our troubled mate. This was a decision that was made without any second thought. I was prepared to put my life on the line for my mates and I was sure they would do the same for me.
Negotiating back upstream was no mean feat and the water kept threatening to sweep us off our feet. We constantly had to hold onto each other for support to overcome the barrage of water pushing back at us. Meanwhile the struggle of survival between Stanley and the unknown continued unabated. My mind was still struggling to figure out what Stanley was up against when the likely answer hit me like someone snapping out of a coma. I had read whilst at school about the hunting tactics of the crocodiles of the Serengeti plains in Tanzania. The competition for prey in the Serengeti was stiff and animals coming to drink in the river were wary of the danger posed by the crocs and would flee on the slightest suspicion of danger. The crocs had devised a means of hiding in the bushes beside the river bank and using their powerful tails to strike their unsuspecting prey from behind whilst they drank. After falling into the river animals stood little chance against the marauding crocodiles. I was almost convinced this was the scenario that had befallen Stanley. A croc lying in wait for prey or just wandering outside the river must have struck my unsuspecting cousin from behind while his concentration was directed in expecting the predators from inside the river. When the fountain of water subsided briefly my fears were confirmed. The stars and moon reflected on the gleaming backside of what appeared to be a huge croc. I thought I could also see its snout which was slightly open and the figure of Stanley thrashing about in the water. I was not dreaming nor was I hallucinating because I could feel the cool water against my skin. In the battle of wits, wildlife had triumphed in their domain over humans. The Limpopo crocodiles had struck.

I could also see Joram now who was now in the water and beating at the crocodile with something desperately trying to break its grip on Stanley. The strength of the current had broken our hold of each other and I was pushing on ahead slightly ahead of Jethro. I wondered how long my cousin would endure until his strength ebbed way. I had once read that crocs won over their prey by tiring them out, drowning them, and finally dragging them to their lairs to feast on. Stanley was resilient and had the stubborn strength of a mule, but would that count against the seemingly determined reptile I wondered.

It was difficult to gauge our way forward because at times the current would overcome us and drag us backwards. I was helping Jethro and gently pulling him along when he let out an ear splitting scream pointing in the easterly direction to where what looked like a log swiftly approaching us. Two shining yellow eyes reflected on by the moon sticking just above the water betrayed the identity of the creature. We were up against another Limpopo crocodile.

Back at school my English teacher had at one time asked us to write an essay on ‘When You Were Afraid’. I had scratched my head then and came up with something unconvincing. I wished now that I survived this incident and the years were reversed. I would probably earn an award for the essay I would write. This was mere hallucination of course because the approaching croc had other ulterior motives and had its sights keenly on us. At this moment I had an insight to what went on in army commanders heads when their armies were besieged by enemy fire. Despite their state of mind they still had to think, strategise, and direct operations. There was no room for finicking. I needed a modus operandi and I needed one fast. I remembered what wild dogs did when under pursuit from a predator where it was obvious they could not all emerge unscathed. A sacrificial wild dog would be selected to delay the predator and obviously be killed in the process while the rest of the pack got a chance to escape. I had to aim for one of us to at least survive the croc attack because its strength in the water meant we had little chance and trying to fend off the attack together could get us killed. Feeling a sudden burst of courage perhaps because of the realisation I had no more options I pushed Jethro downstream and told him to swim for his life towards the South African river bank. He wanted to argue but he let go when he realised my mind was firmly made up. I thought I saw tears streaming down his cheeks when amidst the terror he found time to briefly squeeze my hand and swim away. I stared at him briefly my heart heavy before I turned my attention to the approaching crocodile. My hands came together on my chest in prayer. I decided then that I would not go down without a fight.

I had brought along two weapons, a small but reliable okapi knife stashed away in my back pocket and a large flat screwdriver I was now holding in my left hand. I remained still to make sure the croc remained focused on me and did not follow Jethro and then eased the backpack off my shoulder and threw it in the direction of the approaching reptile. I started swimming towards Stanley and Joram and judging by the splashing around them the fight was still on.

With renewed energy I propelled my body forward and swam for dear life. I cut through the current which had seemed strong a moment ago like a knife through butter. I had suddenly developed a will to survive, a determination that our struggles would not be written off just as a mere statistic. After a frantic several minutes swim I paused to glance over my shoulder and to my horror I discovered the huge reptile was gaining on me. Fighting off panic I started to swim in zigzag fashion splashing a lot of water around in a desperate effort to confuse the crocodile. The crocodile was now making frightening gurgling sounds. I wondered if this signalled annoyance or irritation. Every second was vital now and I could not dare to pause and check the crocodile’s location. It was now a game of doing my best and hoping my best was good enough. I was getting a gasp of life saving air when my left flailing leg was clutched in a vice like grip sending an excruciating bolt of pain shooting throughout my entire body. I knew then that my best had not been good enough.

Struggling to retain my composure I decided the crocodile wanted me to kick out till I was spent so instead I spun my body around in an attempt to stab the reptile. The screwdriver now transferred to my right hand descended on the crocodile and bounced off the thick scaly skin. The crocodile probably more knowledgeable on this type of warfare remained still, the grip on my leg not loosening. My whole leg was numbed by pain and I realized if I didn’t do something fast I would pass out due to loss of blood, the warmth of which I could feel as it gushed out deep lacerations.

An idea hit me then and whilst my other hand continued the barely harmful onslaught on the croc I negotiated my other hand into my back pocket and brought out the okapi knife. I held it firmly in my hand and waited and prayed for an opportune moment. It was going to be a last ditch effort and my only real chance for survival I reckoned and had to give it my all. The crocodile’s long snout stuffed with nearly half my leg was submerged in the water only bobbing up briefly probably in pain when I struck a fragile spot with the screwdriver. I waited for the next bobbing up, my face now contorted in pain mixed with devilish rage. I was angry with the crocodiles, at the unfairness of life and at all the elements that sought to defy us. When the crocodile’s snout moved slightly up and I could clearly make out the yellow eyes sitting snugly in their huge sockets I decided to stab it in the right eye. When my hand with the knife moved, an unidentifiable blur under the moonlit sky to connect with the crocodile’s eye all the rage I felt inside was behind the thrust. The razor sharp okapi knife sank in the eye almost to its hilt and I let it stay there. The croc let out a grunt of pain and relaxed its grip. I wrenched my leg free from its jaws and blindly swam away towards Zimbabwe.

The desperate swim across seemed to last an eternity. When I finally hoisted myself onto dry ground I was gasping for air and my racing heart was threatening to tear through my chest. Struggling to support myself on my one undamaged leg I looked back at the blood soaked trail. It had been a narrow and lucky escape. I was about to look up and say a thankful prayer when I became aware of the unnerving silence. My whole body became cold. The splashing and kicking of just moments ago had stopped and there was no sign of Stanley and Joram. In the waters where I had last seen them was a fast fading red stain. I felt broken and wept uncontrollably. It was difficult to accept that they had lost the fight. I no longer felt any relief at my escape wishing instead to have succumbed to the jaws of the crocodile. The flood of tears rolled freely down my cheeks and had a salty taste inside my mouth.

A determined man’s endurance is long, very long, but like everything else has a limit, one of my educators used to say. I felt now that I had reached the summit of my endurance. I looked up across the river at the forlorn figure of Jethro now in South Africa. He had successfully swum across but his was bitter victory. He was bent and seemed to be sobbing uncontrollably aware of the fate which had befallen his twin and my cousin across the river. Dawn was breaking when I dropped to my knees to say a silent prayer and pay tribute for my fallen mates. Jethro on the other side did the same. This moment tore me with emotion and my body shook visibly. I begged Jethro through signs to complete the journey for us into The Promised Land assuring him I would follow soon. He was adamant, threatening to get in the river and swim back towards me. Convincing him that completing the journey into South Africa was the best option was quite a huge task but finally he turned his back on me and staggered forward, a bent forlorn figure.

The wound on my leg was now caked with mud and the throbbing pain felt like nothing compared to what I felt on the loss of Stanley and Joram. I shredded my shirt into strips and bound it tightly to prevent any further blood loss. I struggled to my feet and cast one final glance at the waters of the Limpopo — the waters of death — and prepared to begin the trek back home. The journey to the river was daunting on two legs and would certainly be near impossible on one leg but someone had to tell the tale; someone had to say it had not all been in vain. One of our very own had made it.


Author’s note

This story although wholly fictional has been inspired by the crocodile killings in the Limpopo River which borders Zimbabwe and South Africa. Many Zimbabweans who cross illegally into South Africa have lost life and limb to crocodiles that lurk in the depths of the Limpopo.

Transitions was written by Clemence Makondo.

Copyright © Clemence Makondo 2011.

Clemence Makondo was born in 1974 and stays in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe where he is the branch manager for Net One Cellular. He has been writing short stories since high school some of which were published in local weekly newspapers and he hopes to eventually settle down and pen a novel.

Transitions by Barbara Mhangami-Ruwende

Portia was seven years old in 1979, the year her family made the move from Luveve to Killarney. The country was poised to transition from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe. This was symbolised in the move her family was about to make from the all black township of Luveve in Bulawayo to what was then an all white suburb called Killarney. She listened with heightened curiosity as her father told their neighbour Bhudi Don of their impending move.

“Varungu are selling houses like loaves of fresh, hot Lobel’s bread, and moving out of the country!” He spoke with passion and an unrestrained joy which she had rarely seen. Her father was not given to extravagant shows of emotion. Exuberance was usually a sign of foolishness as far as he was concerned. “Yes!” He continued, undeterred by Budhi Don’s non committal silence. “Independence is on the horizon!” He practically shouted, a Kingsgate cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Plumes of white smoke unfurled into the air.

Portia could smell the burning tobacco. This was the smell she associated with her father. It heralded his approach, or that he had just departed from a place. It was a good warning signal to cease all mischievous pursuits and avoid the stern look and shame-inducing tongue lashings.

“Ah ah, Mukoma Matthew! Don’t you know that these white people are just playing games? They will never let go of this country! Do you honestly believe that after all the years of toiling and building all this infrastructure they would just pack up and leave? OK, what about all the minerals of the Great Dyke and those huge farms in around Gatooma and Sinoia? They will never leave this land! You forget their favourite mantra: Rhodesians never die!” Bhudi Don uttered, and sucked his teeth, eliciting a protracted hissing sound of impotent anger. He continued to polish his lemon yellow Peugeot 404 vigorously, punishing it for the Rhodesians’ refusal to die.

Portia’s father pushed his hands deep into his safari shorts and looked at his slippered feet for a moment. “Listen Donald, right now as we speak, Muzorewa, the boys from ZANU and ZAPU and that one eyed goat Smith are all in Britain for a conference which will give us back our country! Besides I have already put a down payment for a house from one murungu man called Moody, who is leaving for South Africa in November. Yes, by December I am moving my family to the suburbs mfana’m.” His cigarette danced up and down to the oscillations of his voice.

Portia looked on at Budhi Don’s astonishment at her father’s pronouncement and felt a wave of excitement rippling through her body as she surreptitiously hovered behind the Peugeot from where she was eavesdropping.


Sure enough in early December, the Swift moving truck parked outside Portia’s gate one bright morning. It was the December school holidays and she was at home, assisting her mother and Sisi Emmah, their house helper, to pack boxes with kitchen utensils, pots and pans. The anticipation was palpable. Grace, Portia’s mother, was moving around with two year-old Nancy on her hip with an uncharacteristic alacrity, while Portia’s five year-old brother Daniel chanted “Shingirirayi, gadzirirayi, Zimbabwe ndeyedu! Baba murambe makashinga, Zimbabwe ndeyedu.” Portia wiggled her hips to the refrain of the popular freedom song which blasted out of their radio every evening from Radio Maputo in Mozambique — one of the countries from which the Zimbabwe war of independence was waged. She thought about the brave men in the song who were strong and preparing for the arrival of Zimbabwe and urging everyone else to prepare. Her family was preparing.

Portia stepped outside, carrying a cardboard box with plates and cups, into the blindingly bright sun. It was only ten o’clock and already the heat was suffocating. She squinted in the dazzling sunlight and noticed that all their neighbours were outside watching, as strong burly men hoisted sofas and beds into the truck. The houses were so close together that neighbours six houses on either side could observe all the activities and yell their best wishes across to them. The air was heavy with the smells of wood fires and paraffin mixed with roast maize, goat meat, and fried green vegetables. The aromas and odours intermingled to create a thick familiar blanket comforting only to those who lived in Luveve. Soon the vendors would do the rounds, selling roasted maize and meat from enamel dishes carried on their heads. “Umumbu lapha!” the call would ring out in the smoke filled air, and people would amble to their gates to purchase warm cobs of honey-coloured maize.

Suddenly Portia felt sad and apprehensive. She thought of her friends, Makanaka, Brian, maPretty, Tsitsi, Nyaradzo, Nyasha, and Rufaro. She felt as though she was moving to another world and that she would never see them again. The distance between Luveve and Killarney was monumental from her perspective. Here in Luveve her friends were a mere shout across the fence away in all four directions. She could go to the back fence and call Rufaro, to the fence on the right, yell for Tsitsi. Brian was to the fence on the left, and Maka’ lived across the road.

Indeed Killarney and Luveve were worlds apart, but not in terms of the physical distance that she had imagined. Killarney was a far cry from Luveve in many varied ways. Their house was three times the size of the one they had left in Luveve, and their yard was spacious enough to build six Luveve-sized houses. Her mother was seemed to be eternally happy as she planted flowers, built a beautiful rockery in the front yard, and planted neat rows of spinach, covo, carrots, onions, and tomatoes, in the back garden. She worked tirelessly with their gardener. Portia observed her looking at her white house with red trimming with a smile on her face and contentment diffusing out of every pore.

Portia and her brother spent hours exploring the bush surrounding their yard and looking for wild fruit, as they did when they visited their grandparents in the village. They marvelled at the number of different multi-coloured birds which came to perch on the trees in their yard or peck the earth for worms. They even came across a snake once and chameleons doing their one step- forward-swing-back-step-forward dance along the numerous bush paths. Daniel loved the blue headed lizards that scrambled up and down the gnarled tree trunks, bobbing their heads up and down as though in agreement with some ethereal truth. The only animals Portia had ever seen in Luveve were the mangy mgodoyi — mongrels which roamed the streets overturning dust bins in search of scraps of food — the wild sewer cats which wailed eerily like babies at night, and the rabbit-sized rats which bared their sharp teeth if she happened upon them on the compost heap in the far corner of the back yard.

It was a full week before Portia started to wonder where all the children were. The only sounds of children playing were the echoes of her and her brother’s screaming and laughing, which bounced off the walls of the two-car garage. Killarney was very quiet save for the whistling of the gardeners as they went about their daily business of weeding and watering neat flower beds, cleaning swimming pools, and sculpting shrubs into perfect ovoid shapes. This was in stark contrast to Luveve, where radios blasting the music of the Soul Brothers, children playing on the streets, and vendors hawking Ice Mints, Bazooka bubble gum, and matches, were a normal part of the auditory landscape. One could hear one’s neighbours talking loudly in their homes at night, or be woken up by one’s other neighbour’s newborn baby crying. Occasionally a fight would break out on the street and a crowd would gather round like a swarm of ants around a morsel of bread, for some free entertainment as the opponents hurled fists and colourful insults at each other.

In the second week Portia had grown tired of bush walking, and the company of her brother. She had read all the books she had borrowed from the library and was bored. She started to miss her old neighbourhood and what she considered a normal life. Surely there were people living in all the houses around them? Yet she had not seen anyone but the gardeners in overalls and housemaids in uniforms.

One day Portia was digging around in the back garden when she heard the voice of a child: “Nomsa buya lapha wena!” It was a murungu child speaking a funny kind of Ndebele she had never heard. She peered through the hedgerow of coniferous trees that separated their properties. There he was, a chubby blond haired boy in a red T-shirt, blue shorts, bare feet, and a catapult worn like a necklace, shouting at Nomsa the maid — Budhi Thomas had mentioned to Emmah that there was a fine lady who worked next door called Nomsa — who was hanging up some clothes on the line. The grin on his face as he relayed this information was priceless.

“Ah wena Theo! Uyahlupa man! Ngiyabuya! I am coming OK?” Nomsa sounded harassed as she responded to the child’s command to stop what she was doing immediately and attend to his needs.

Politely, Portia greeted sisi Nomsa, in Ndebele, who asked if they were the new people who had recently moved into that house. Portia said yes and asked her if the little boy wanted to come over and play. Theo had already seen Portia and had made his way with a quick clumsy trot, from the kitchen door to the fence.

“Basopa lo inja!” he yelled looking at Portia with clear blue eyes framed by blond eye lashes. Portia was a little confused and stood mute, staring back at him. For a moment she wondered whether he was a little crazy. “Gijima pikinin!” He stamped his foot shaking his fist in what was supposed to be a menacing gesture.

Portia was startled by Nomsa’s raucous laughter. She laughed so hard she had tears rolling down her plump cheeks. “Oh dear!” She sputtered, gasping for breath. “Theo, this likkle gal is no pikinin! She lives inside the big house with her family.

“Amanga! She lives in the boys’ khaya!” He yelled hysterically.

Suddenly Portia got it. The only African kids Theo was accustomed to seeing were the children of the maids and gardeners. European people, as the varungu preferred to be called, referred to them as pikinin in Chilapalapa, a Southern African pidgin. Basopa Lo Inja was supposed to frighten her into taking to her heels, terrified of being mauled by the dogs. Later she would come to understand why the dogs in Killarney were to be feared by blacks in particular.

“Hallo Theo, my name is Portia”. She greeted him in her newly acquired Queen’s English accent from the Dominican Convent School. He was shocked and he mumbled a greeting in response.

Nomsa burst out laughing again. A rich, rumbling, pride-infused laughter originating in the pit of her belly. “Who would have thought that one day we would also live in these big houses and speak English through our nostrils? Ha! IZimbabwe isibuyile sibili — Zimbabwe is truly here! Go and play Theo. I will call you to do bath time before Mummy and Daddy come home. Portia, as soon as I call just send him over chop chop or else his parents will fire me!” Nomsa said and returned to the laundry.

Thus began the clandestine relationship with Theo. He would jump over the back fence to come and play as soon as his parents left the house for work. They would spend all day climbing the rocks in the front yard rockery and hunting for grasshoppers in the bushes in front of Portia’s house. Theo would eat sadza and Lacto — curdled milk — for lunch with them and drink Mazoe orange crush with custard cream biscuits for snack. He told them that his daddy was a brave soldier in the Rhodesian army fighting the terrs’ in the bush. Portia and Daniel regaled him with stories of the comrades who shot down Smith’s helicopters from the mountain tops in Chivi. He told them that his mummy was a secretary in a big office in Bulawayo city. They boasted that their mummy could dance the waltz and knew all of Dolly Parton’s songs off by heart. They were an odd sight, that December of 1979 in Killarney, as they made their way up and down Murchison Road looking for adventure and birds to shoot at with Theo’s catapult. Two black kids with a white kid sandwiched between them was cause for many a car stopping and concerned white men and women asking: “Are you alright sonny? Do your parents know where you are? What are you doing alone out here? It can be very dangerous for you hey!”

Theo’s response was always given in a matter of fact tone. “I am not alone. I am playing with my friends, Portia and Daniel.”

The cars would drive away but not without a cold hard stare and a look of warning thrown towards Portia and her brother. This was Portia’s first encounter with adult hatred. As a seven year-old, being the focus of such visceral loathing was very frightening. She felt vulnerable and did not quite know how to react. At times she felt tempted to stick her tongue out at the adults in their cars, but she quickly remembered that one never showed disrespect to one’s elders. How she wished that these adults were her own age. She would have expeditiously delivered some black eyes and bloody noses for looking at her as if she stank. The dislike seemed so intense and totally unprovoked, that Portia soon realised that she and her brother were hated because they were, black. It dawned on her too that they were the only black people living in the main house in Killarney. The other blacks were the gardeners and the maids. Portia felt powerless and angry at her parents for moving them here, to a place where they did not belong and where they were not welcome. She could do nothing about the fact that she was black and that her parents had moved into an area where the inhabitants felt they had no place. The pride she had in her father and the sense of accomplishment she felt was her family’s were replaced by resentment and being made to feel like an impostor. She was riddled with guilt for feeling this way. She no longer liked or appreciated their new, elevated station in life, which brought with it isolation, loneliness and an uncomfortable suspicion that there was something not quite alright with them. She began to look at her skin, her hair and her nose and wonder with dissatisfaction why they weren’t more like varungu’s. Without the powers of articulation that come with age, she could not tell her parents what she was experiencing and so they seemed totally unaware of it all. Besides, they had bigger problems of their own. The move to Killarney was changing them and they no longer seemed as excited about their new home as they had been in the first few weeks.

For example one day, her mother came from town to find that sisi Emmah had put a dish towel out to dry on a bougainvillea bush in front of the kitchen. “Emmah, what is this?” she demanded, one hand on her hip and another dangling the towel in front of sisi Emmah’s bewildered face. Emmah knew better than to respond to a rhetorical question so she just stared at the cloth as though searching for a minute speck on it. “Do you want these people to think we are filthy pigs? Are you so lazy that you cannot walk to the washing line to hang this thing up? Don’t you ever decorate my bushes with a bloody wash cloth again!”

At this my mother stormed off into the house, leaving Emmah sullenly muttering under her breath. “I have always hung my dish cloths on the bushes to dry. I did it in Luveve. Why waste energy walking all the way to the clothes line when I have a perfectly good bush close by?” Emmah marched into the house after my mother, still grumbling menacingly like a distant thunderstorm.

One night she heard, for the first time, her parents arguing in their bedroom. She woke up to hear her father tell her mother in an angry tone: “If you think for a minute that I will allow these people to intimidate me out of a home that I paid for with my hard earned money, then think again. We are not going back to Luveve and that is final.” Portia heard her mother’s quiet voice responding, but could not understand what she was saying.

The atmosphere in their home changed. Her parents spoke to each other in terse monosyllables. Sisi Emmah no longer sang liberation songs while going about her chores and now she had to wear a uniform, like all the maids in their neighbourhood. Her mother constantly fussed over their state of cleanliness as though they were going to a party every day. She yelled at Daniel when he came home from preschool with ripped shorts or paint on his shirts, something that had never really bothered her before. She scolded Portia for not brushing her hair enough or for not putting enough lotion on her ashy legs.

Portia worried about the adults in the home and wished they could go back to Luveve, back to the way things had been, when they had all laughed, sang and did not care about what ‘those people’ thought or felt about anything.


One day in February, Theo and his family moved away. Portia and Daniel had never met his parents, who were intent on pretending they did not exist. Theo pretended they did not exist too, when his parents were at home. They had caught glimpses of his father in his army uniform and had often heard him barking commands to Nomsa, the gardener, and sometimes to his wife, whose name was Ashley. One day, their sadza-chomping friend was just gone.

With Theo no longer there, the desire to make friends in the neighbourhood resurfaced even stronger than before. Portia would walk along the fence peering curiously into the neighbouring yard for signs of any potential play mates. The stillness of Killarney made her want to shatter the silence with loud, piercing screams. Sometimes she felt the urge to greet the people who emerged from their houses, just to hear what their voices sounded like. All one heard were the sounds of car doors closing and the sound of engines as they drove in and out.

When one is in a state of high expectancy, one is alert to, and hears, even the most imperceptible of sounds. This was Portia’s constant state as she walked up and down their driveway after school, bored out of her mind and wishing Killarney would come to life. So when a sound came from the house on her right, she was instantly intrigued. It was a muted sound, a sort of grunting but also a lot like someone clearing their throat. Then, there was the sound of pots and pans falling onto the floor and the grunting became intense. It sounded like someone who was gagged trying to scream! Portia ran round the house to the back and called Daniel and Budhi Thomas, their gardener. The three of them stood behind the huge Syringa tree near the garage and from this vantage point they could see into the neighbouring house through its windows. Hidden from sight by the huge tree trunk, they watched as drama unfolded. They saw a woman with pale skin, and unkempt, shoulder length jet black hair flailing a frying pan at a black man they had seen outside the gate, but who never responded to their greetings. He was cowering and trying to slip past her to get to the door for a quick escape.

“That is Josphat”, hissed bhudi Thomas amazed. “He is the cook!”

Portia’s focus was not on Josphat but on the lady brandishing the frying pan. She seemed to have totally lost control of her senses. She grunted, screamed, gesticulated, and stomped. On another occasion, such as watching TV, Portia and Daniel might have rolled on the ground and laughed ‘till their sides ached. However this was real life and without the glass screen of the television to shield them from possible attack from the maniacal madam, they stood still and held their breaths behind the tree. Suddenly Josphat yelped as the frying pan found its mark on his head. At this juncture Portia and Daniel ran towards their house and collapsed on the living room floor, panting.

“Josphat is dead! I just know it. There is no way he can still be alive after that knock to the head.” Portia uttered with total conviction.

“Well, what shall we do?” Asked Daniel, clearly perplexed.

“Nothing.” Portia hissed dramatically. “She will probably drag his body to the back garden tonight and bury him and plant cabbages on top of the grave. Then the police will come and look for witnesses and we will have to tell them what happened.”

Daniel looked terrified. “Police? How do they know we saw anything?”

Portia snorted derisively. “The police know everything. They ask a lot of questions and they will know we saw something even before they come to ask us.”

Such was the melodrama conjured up by the mind of a seven year-old at the slightest stimulation.

This was the first of many theatrical episodes from their neighbours, a deaf and dumb white couple and their long suffering cook Josphat. Their yard was as wild and untidy as the couple, who always looked as though they had just woken from sleep. All Portia ever heard was grunting and screaming but never a decipherable word. Portia and Daniel named the couple Mai naBaba Kazdande, Mr. and Mrs. Kadzande; a name that was used as they improvised and added language to the puppet-like gesticulations, grunting, and sudden piercing screams, which sent shock waves of laughter through their bodies. They spent countless hours behind the Syringa tree, watching the pantomime and adding their own script:

“You, Baba Kazdande you make me very angry! You have not combed your hair for days! Your mouth is smelly like a toilet and you need a bath!”

Ah! Shut up Mai Kadzande, you talk too much!

“No! How can you insult me when you know very well I cannot talk?’

“Oh! Neither can I! Ha ha ha!”

At this, Portia and Daniel would both emit hyena like cackles, rocking back and forth on the ground to ease the aching in their ribs.

And so they passed their first few months in Killarney, the suburb with the huge houses, muted sounds and the vicious dogs that were trained to see little black children as chew toys. Portia learned from the gardeners who worked in the houses around theirs that many of the dogs were trained to attack black people. Duchess was one such dog. She was a huge, vicious black Doberman, who at the sight of Portia and her brother, would scale the gate to her owner’s property and come bounding down the road bearing down on them. Their only salvation was the speed in their legs as they cycled through the air to deposit them safely in their own yard. Duchess was fast but she tired very quickly, and unlike the wild dogs on the savannah, she knew she would not starve if she did not keep up the chase. She would stop in her tracks, as though suddenly remembering this fact, and amble back to her yard without a backward glance.

One by one Portia and her family watched the whites leave Killarney, a mass exodus, which began in December 1979 with the signing of the Lancaster House Agreement, swelled in April 1980 with the inception of the Republic of Zimbabwe and climaxed in the early 1990’s as she finished high school. She left the country to study in America and in the interim years, the neighbourhood transformed from a quiet sleepy suburb with bland white houses into a busy bustling place with yellow, green, pink and blue houses, concrete walls, emergency taxies, and commuter buses. With each visit home for holidays, Portia found that the landscape had evolved and transformed as new homes were constructed on vacant lots, the bush in which she and her brother had once foraged for wild fruit, gone. It was peppered with trash, plastic bags and old newspapers as the city council garbage pick-up trucks started coming once every two weeks, then once a month, then not at all. With each subsequent visit home, she witnessed the erosion of the tarred roads starting with dents, whose edges were nibbled away by the elements to form potholes, which turned into manholes as time went on. With each visit, Portia felt less and less at home and her unease with the transition grew gnawing away at her security like a drug resistant fungus. Each visit became shorter than the last one and eventually, there were no more visits.

Transitions was written by Barbara Mhangami–Ruwende.

Copyright © Barbara Mhangami–Ruwende 2011.

Barbara Mhangami–Ruwende was born and raised in Zimbabwe. She left home at the age of eighteen and worked in Germany before embarking on her undergraduate studies at the University Of Glasgow, Scotland. Barbara moved to the United States in 1997, where she attended the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health and Walden University. She resides with her husband and 4 daughters. She is passionate about raising her daughters, reading good literature, writing, travelling and running marathons. She is currently working on a short story collection and a novel.