Women Writing Zimbabwe

Death Wish

Death Wish Diana Charsley MASIBANDA’S JAW TIGHTENED as she glared at her granddaughter, ‘Siphiwe you haven’t yet done the floors.’ ‘I’ll do them, Gogo,’ the girl said not raising her eyes as she paged through a magazine. MaSibanda exhaled loudly through her nose, ‘When?’ ‘Now now,’ Siphiwe replied ignoring the old woman’s impatience. MaSibanda rattled the dishes noisily in the washing up bowl, highlighting her own industriousness. I would never have treated my grandmother like that, she thought. The way the children are brought up these days. No respect. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for everything else. If she’d known that she would have to raise her daughters’ children, she would never have married. Now she had six of them, and no help. Every night she went to bed hoping she wouldn’t wake up. Things never got better; every day brought new problems. Like Themba being sent home from school. When she was called to see the teacher she was told that Themba had hit another child and stolen his lunch. Well he could just leave school now. There was no money for next term anyway and since she could only feed the family once a day, there was certainly no lunch box. It wouldn’t be so bad if she had help, MaSibanda told herself. She’d expected Siphiwe to carry some of the burden, but no. Instead of growing up, she’d grown wild, going off to movies with friends and not coming back until morning. MaSibanda had tried to control her but how could she with all the others to look after? The baby started to cry. MaSibanda glanced at Siphiwe. She did not seem to hear her child; she was still gazing at the magazine with its models that looked like flags on a pole. MaSibanda wished she couldn’t hear it either. She’d heard babies crying like that before – like baby cats – and it only meant one thing. 10 ‘Stop reading that rubbish and do something,’ MaSibanda snapped, thrusting her misery upon her granddaughter. Siphiwe gave her a wounded look, laid down the magazine, rose slowly, and with her head tilted back, stalked out of the house like a model on a ramp. Infuriated MaSibanda left the dishes and marched after her, ‘Don’t you walk away like that. Who do you think I am? Your maid?’ MaSibanda slapped her across the face with the sodden dishcloth that was still in her hand. Siphiwe spluttered, then screamed, ‘Leave me alone! I hate you!’ MaSibanda stood stunned. No one had ever made such a claim before. Siphiwe gave her grandmother a tearful look and fled down the street. Neighbours came out of their houses to watch, glad of the distraction, relieved that it was not their problem. ‘Siphiwe!’ MaSibanda called after her, but the girl disappeared round the corner. Her grandmother stared defiantly at her neighbours then ducked inside to escape their open mouths and unspoken advice. Tugging the door behind her she leant against it and rubbed her forehead with the heels of her palms. Too much, too much, she moaned, what have I done to deserve this? When she was Siphiwe’s age she had married Isaac, a young man she’d known all her life. That was after the intricate formalities of lobola to compensate her parents for losing a daughter; and after they were married , she truly became a ‘daughter’ to her in-laws. If there were marital difficulties, his father would chastise Isaac and ask him if he was looking after their daughter properly. Two cattle came with her, red heifers both in calf to give promise of a fruitful marriage. Her father had many cattle in those days when they lived on what was now Middle Estate with tall grass she could not see over and rivers that never ran dry. But that was before they were moved. At that time children in the village did not understand what was happening but they sensed an undercurrent of unrest. Their parents no longer talked in front of them but would send them out to play; they would peep in the houses at men who talked deep into the night. This would be after white men, who came accompanied by the police, had talked to them. The white men would say things and first their fathers would protest, and later beg while the white men would say nothing then get...