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The Hand of Darkness
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22 The Hand of Darkness Christopher Mlalazi Tsano Khaya cursed silently to himself under his breath at the sweltering Bulawayo summer weather as he wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. Goddamit, if only it could rain, maybe the rain would cool this blasted heat. And the pavement hordes didn’t help any. He hated them. They depressed him. They made movement along the pavement a mammoth task for him. Tsano was built like an elephant. His stomach was huge, it rolled when he walked and his hanging jowls wobbled. To make matters worse, for a man endowed with such an enormous girth, his legs were amazingly stork-like, as if he walked on stilts, like one of those fearsome standaris that dance in township beerhalls every Sunday afternoon. He loathed the way people always stared, not at his face, but at his obese body, their various expressions ranging from amusement, surprise, to utter disgust. And he had a chronic fear of finely bodied young men – he despised their sneers. Some pavement denizens even had the nerve to openly point fingers at him and discuss him in loud voices. It hurt. One plastic bag vendor had remarked to a fellow vendor in a loud voice as Tsano rolled by; “Jesus H. Christ! He must be the bogey man who blocks the township sewers!” The remark had been followed by hysterical mbanje laughter. Poor scum. Didn’t they know he was a millionaire; that he could employ all of them to do whatever he wanted. Tsano walked into Hillside Department Store. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief as the air-conditioned interior of the cavernous shop hit him, as a weary desert traveller comes to an oasis. Pity there was no bar inside here where he could quench his mammoth thirst. He laboriously manoeuvred his way past the rows of clothing towards the cosmetics counter, amused shoppers parting to let him pass, lest he roll over them. A beautiful young woman, with a petite body, dressed in the latest 23 fashions, stood behind the cosmetics counter. She raised pencil thin eyebrows at Tsano. Tsano placed a magazine he was carrying on to the glass counter. He pointed a stubby finger at a small bottle of aftershave on a shelf behind the young woman. Around his wrist was a gold watch that matched the gold chain around his thick neck. He was dressed in a gaudy print shirt, loose khaki linen trousers and leather sandals. “How much is Dracho?” his rubbery face was expressionless. “Ten thousand dollars, sir.” The young woman did not even bother to turn around and look at the bottle. She was about the same age as Tsano’s only daughter, who was at a finishing school in France. “Ten thousand dollars for a bottle of smelly water!” Tsano snorted, then abruptly walked away from the cosmetics counter, cleaving his way through the throngs of shoppers like a battle tank. He headed for the exit, his eyes steeling for the harsh glare of the sun outside. He sneered at the security guard who stood at the exit eyeing his obese body, his eyes glinting with amusement below the peak of his service cap. “Mantshingelani,” Tsano mocked him in a low voice from the corner of his mouth as he passed him. “Sidudla!” the security guard instantly replied. Zizi, the cosmetics assistant, surreptitiously glanced around the shop from under her fake eyelashes. Nobody was looking in her direction. She picked up the magazine Tsano had left on the counter and rolled it in her hand. Leaving her counter, she headed for the Ladies. Inside, she opened the magazine. Between the pages was an envelope containing a stack of five hundred dollar bills. $15,000. Excellent. There was a note inside the envelope. She quickly read it. “Hi Zizi, my beautiful tipoti. Missing you like sugar in tea. Please come to big daddy tonight and scratch my big tummy. Will be anxiously awaiting you with my romantic red light on. Lots and lots of smooches! ME.” Good. She tucked the money into her bra and walked out, smirking at her reflection in the mirror. [3.91.19.28] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 10:17 GMT) 24 In the Hillside Shopping Centre car park, Tsano manoeuvred his bulky frame between the parked cars to his white ‘C’ class Benz. A ragged street kid, with raw red lips and a dazed look in his bloodshot weary eyes, hovered...