Short Writings from Bulawayo

Shadows

1 Shadows Godfrey M. Sibanda A cock crowed in the old woman’s dreams. It was a long, dry sound that petered out to three sharp knocks on the door of her hut. Instinctively, her eyes opened and she rasped out a question. “Who is it?” “It’s me, Luba.” For a moment she remained motionless, her brain tugging at the winding, fragile threads of her memory. Luba. Her granddaughter, Lubalenkosi. Then it came to her in full force: Luba was leaving home. The old woman got up from her bed and lit a paraffin lamp before going to the door to admit Luba. The girl came in and unslung a black canvas bag from her shoulder. She went and sat on a reed mat near the bed. Her face, arms and legs were covered with a shining veneer of Vaseline. After closing the door, the old woman came and sat on the bed. “Are you ready to go, Luba?” “Yebo, gogo.” “You have the fare for the bus?” “I have everything, gogo.” “And the bible I gave you yesterday, you have it as well?” “It is in my bag, gogo.” “Read it everyday, do you hear? Every time before you go to sleep.” “I will try to, gogo.” “And tell your uncle to send us some mealie meal.” “I will tell him, gogo.” “A fifty kilo bag, do you hear? What can ten kilos do for eleven stomachs?” “It’s now ten stomachs, gogo.” “Oh, how I forget my arithmetic. Eleven minus one Luba equals ten, heh-heh-heh!” Lubalenkosi joined in the laughter. Afterwards the old woman continued with the instructions. 2 “If your uncle cannot send you to school, get a job and go to night school. Education is life, child of my child. Do not rush to get married, do you hear? Men are no good to anyone. They were no good to me, they were useless to your mother, they are not even good to themselves. Education, child of my child, and your Bible – that is all you need.” She saw Luba smile and thought, the girl is not even listening; she will soon learn what I mean. Outside in the darkness, the old woman heard some cocks crowing. The chickens were all that was left after three years of drought. The chickens, the hunger, and the dust. The dust raised by the young ones rushing to the cities to escape the poverty and the hopelessness. Already, six of her grandsons had joined others on the trek to Jo’burg, to Perdition. Some would never come back. Others would return in coffins, or as ailing, desiccated victims of this new disease. Now it was the girls’ turn to go. But Luba was only going as far as the city of Bulawayo, four hundred kilometres away. The old woman stared through misty eyes at the flickering shadows on the wall behind the girl. She tried to reach out into their world and ask them: Are you good shadows or bad shadows? Will you take care of my Luba and accompany her back home, or will you desert her once you see the electric lights of the city? She is an intelligent child; please push her in the right direction. But the shadows remained locked up in their world, dancing to their mysterious tune and keeping all the answers to themselves. The old woman felt the shards of pain scratching at her eyes. It gave bad luck to cry when someone went to war: she struggled to contain her tears. “Go well then, child of my child.” “Stay well, gogo.” “Is anyone accompanying you to the bus stop?” “Yes, gogo. Thandi and George will take me as far as the bus stop.” “Don’t forget to write.” “I will write, gogo.” Lubalenkosi rose to her feet and hugged her grandmother goodbye. Without another word, the girl walked out into the darkness, 3 taking all her shadows with her. Afterwards, when the old woman had sniffed all her pain into an old hankie, she blew out the paraffin lamp and returned to the solace of her blankets. Alone in her bed, the old woman fingered the rough beads of her rosary as the light of day slowly emerged from the darkness. ...