Writing Lives

Trespassers

53 Chembe lies on his bed, floating between wakefulness and sleep. It is May. The chill of an approaching winter stirs him awake. He slides under the blankets and stretches out an arm to put out a candle, crushing the burning wick between thumb and forefinger. A smell of candle fumes lingers. He fluffs up a pillow, positions it, but before he lays his head down, there is a confident rap at the door. It is nine o’clock in the evening. Outside a full moon rises. ‘Who is it?’ ‘It’s me.’ It is Jailos. Chembe can tell from the timbre of the voice. Jailos assists with security duties on Chapisa Farm. He’s on duty tonight. Chembe waits to hear what the matter is. ‘Two men want to talk to you. They want to see only foreman.’ Chembe reaches for his overalls that hang on a chair beside the bed. He wears his boots, pulls a woollen hat over his head and picks up a baton and torch from a corner. The two men stride along a path one behind the other. Jailos leads the way at a fast pace. Chembe thinks the young man is either afraid or excited. ‘Who are these people?’ Trespassers Chiedza Musengezi 54 Writing Lives ‘Don’t know. They won’t speak to me.’ It is a clear night with a star-studded sky. Definitive shapes of farm buildings are visible; the farm school, tobacco barns, empty horse stables, garage and tool sheds. The torch beam sometimes falls on the thatch of a cooking hut or on the asbestos sheet of a farmhand’s main house as they go past the farm compound. They head towards a locked gate. Two figures stand near the stile as if ready to climb over the fence. One is tall, the other of medium height. The rosette of light turns this way and that before Chembe focuses on the two strangers. A woollen scarf with brown stripes is wound round the neck of the taller one. The short man wears a beret at an angle on his head. Both have their hands in their jacket pockets. ‘Hey, switch off that thing. We’re not thieves.’ The taller one speaks. Chembe tries to take the sting out of the stranger’s words. ‘Good evening, my brothers.’ He directs the torch light to the ground. ‘How can I help you?’ ‘You the foreman?’’ Chembe nods his head. ‘Just the man we’re looking for. Eh, we want to come and address the workers some time. You arrange that for us, old man.’ It is more a command than a question. ‘Old man’, Chembe heard the slight sneer of disrespect in these two English words. The old would not be part of this new order. Were not expected to either understand or appreciate it. Still, he politely informs them that he cannot allow strangers onto the farm. They have to seek permission from Mr Winterson, the farm owner. The young men have no interest in what he says. The short one has the last word before they melt into the bushes. ‘These vaenzi will be back chop chop.’ Chembe realises perhaps he should not have used the word strangers, but that was the rule – no strangers without appointment – and the young men’s attitude had not encouraged him to think they were men of good will. Nonetheless, Jailos still complains, ‘Mudhara Chembe, hini nda- 55 Trespassers by Chiedza Musengezi va? You talk like you’re born out of the same womb. They could be thieves, troublemakers, vandalisers. We should have…’ Jailos completes the sentence with a crossing of hands at the wrists mimicking a handcuffed person. Both Jailos and Chembe were issued with handcuffs after training with a security guard company in Harare. ‘I know, but not so fast. They’ve not stolen or caused trouble. Better wait. See what they’re up to first?’ ‘Up to no good,’ insists Jailos. Chembe thinks it’s unwise to annoy strangers especially at night. They follow the fireguard that runs along the perimeter fence for about two hundred metres checking for loose strands where the barbed wire may have been cut. All is well. Jailos remains behind sitting by a fire in the small wooden shelter near the stile. Chembe returns to his house. He decides to pass by the farmhouse for a quick check. He strides...