Short Writings from Bulawayo

On a Day Like This

95 On a Day Like This Bhekilizwe Dube On a day like this, it will be a full house at home. She is saying. This lady I hardly know. Skha, this lady I just met. My friend Sthwa, he introduced us. He conveniently sneaked away leaving us two together. Gone to meet Skha’s friend who is driving him to his knees and tummy, prostrate. May the blessings of the Goddess forever keep him young and loving. Leaving us two. We are right in the middle of the pavement, two boulders in a raging river, stubborn, daring, standing out, the flow all around - in the middle of the pavement, talking, stealing looks, glances, staring, still – on a day like this. Strange, on a bad tempered cold day like this, talking to this lady, mindless of the torrent, in the middle of the stream – we are happy. I’m warm, and light, and shy. Scared. Still, it don’t matter. Nothing does. Her voice, flows. Her talk – the stream. She sounds intelligent, this beautiful lady with full lips – I can’t quit hoping. Crazy. Her pleading eyes, they hold mine, giving me this look, this strange look which keeps hope burning. She jerks her head, checking dreadlocks. Her lashes, face, nose, beautiful. I can’t tear my eyes from those lips. Her eyes seek mine, fleetingly. They meet mine. I blush, look away. Blue jeans, green jacket, black, reaching out shoes, dreadlocked. 96 This lady I just met. A full house. She is saying. Her deep black eyes are wistful, longing. I smile. A full house. On a day like this. Mother, grumbling, with an indulgent glint in her eyes, about a tiring day at pre-school, knocking some education and sense into the kids’ heads. Her smile is wry, she has a look which suggests that she ought to know better than to devote her time to so dubious a task. Mama, her talk-drizzle, gentle, constant. Frowning, scolding, smiling, exasperated, angry, resigned, laughing. Mama, roasting groundnuts, salting them, the pan steaming as she adds a bit of water. This to make the salt melt and stick fast to the nuts, giving them a dusty, salty look. My mouth waters, I love groundnuts. Father is reading a newspaper, occasionally grunting, chuckling, frowning, snorting. A host of sounds. His newspaper sounds. They never vary. Toothpick in mouth, one hand holding the newspaper at the centre, he is lost. His knees protrude from the warmth of the sofa, supporting the newspaper. His head is slightly inclined, he looks like one straining to catch a distant sound. The toothpick dips, probes, worries offensive meaty remains. Thahalo, my sister’s son, suckles, all gurgle and balled fists, tiny balled fists. His delicate forehead sweats, the beads of sweat like dew on a young melon, tiny sweet melon growing in the fields, beady fresh. He is all tug and tremble, a desperate calf after the milking, tugging for every drop of milk the nasty humans want for themselves. My sister coos softly, her warm eyes affectionate. Gently, she kneads 97 his toes. Her eyes have a self-satisfied maternal look. A young, proud mother of one. He is a peaceful child, I am glad. Kids can keep people awake when they fuss, especially the bad tempered wailers, who spurt out of their tiny bodies piercing wails, which make everyone edgy and foul tempered. We all adore him. He may grow to be a temperate, placid sage. I hope he does. He already looks wise and pleasant. I love to kiss his soft baby skin, when father is not around. He disapproves of sentimentality in a man. Some parents never cease to see a grown person as a child to be corrected and censured. My father is one of these. Buhle has a halo about her, an air of happy motherhood. Her eyes fairly glow. I have seen these same eyes flare and spark. I remember once, when we were young, in a fit of naughtiness, I took a big fat millipede, shiny black-glowing, jet in fact, all curled up in defiant protest, and put it into her plate of sadza and beef stew. Her lunch. She passionately loves beef stew. Mama affectionately called her, when we were young, her wild savage who ate flesh raw. She loved to be referred to in such bold and wild terms. She had no beef that...