Laughing Now: New Stories from Zimbabwe

Ashes

43 Ashes John Eppel THEY COULDN’T FIND A SUITABLE URN so they used a two-litre Lyon’s Maid ‘Cornish’ ice-cream container. Bukhosi would have appreciated it. That guy had a sense of humour. All his NGO friends and a smattering of locals were there. Icrisi hugged the plastic box to her swagging chest, Mesafi held the poem she had composed for the occasion, Dedi carried the one-legged pigeon Bukhosi had accidentally injured on his way down, head first, from the sixth floor balcony of his uncle’s apartment in downtown Bulawayo. She was going to release it during the reading of the poem and the scattering of the ashes. ‘King’ George carried the red wine and the crisps, and ‘Jairos’ Jiri carried the meat – don’t forget salt and pepper – and the bread rolls. Their plan was that after the farewell ceremony at Ififi they would have a wake, once the Parks Attendants had gone, at World’s View. They would build the fire on the mortal remains of Leander Starr Jameson, store the food and drinks on the mortal remains of Charles Coghlan, and consume them on the mortal remains of Cecil John Rhodes. Bukhosi would have appreciated it. I tell you that guy had a sense of humour, second to none. Early on Sunday morning the chums piled into Dedi’s white Toyota 4 x 4 double cab, and Mesafi’s electric blue Pajero, and they gunned their engines for the Matopos. What a delightful squash it was: with a frou-frou here, a frou-frou there; here a frou, there a frou, everywhere a frou-frou. Old MacDonald (I wonder if his farm’s been designated?) would have been amazed. Past the Churchill Arms Hotel. Past Retreat shopping centre, past the first police road block, and – hooray – we’re on the open road. Not being Rhodies, they weren’t interested in the greenish hornblende and chlorite schists, which weather into a fairly fertile red clay beloved of the Acacia karroo ; nor the yellow-billed kite on the lookout for road carnage; nor that patch of late flowering Rhynchelytrum repens glowing pink in the late autumn light. Honestly, the way these people appropriate the land! The European girls in the group weren’t sure, over which one of them, finally, Bukhosi had killed himself. NGOs, in the spirit of actualising social democracy, believe that if you’ve got something good you should share it, and they’d all, at one time or another, taken a bite out of Bukhosi. They found his dreadlocks irresistible. But these sentimental local boys, falling in love at the drop of a G-string; what’s with them? That’s why Icrisi was going to hang on to the ice-cream carton after Bukhosi’s ashes had been scattered. You never know who might be next. Her current lover, Themba, was starting to look decidedly glum, just because of that fling with Kudakwashe. Christ, it’s only a fucky-wucky! Anyway, let’s not get morbid now. Bukhosi wouldn’t have wanted that. Let’s do this thing. And they did it. It was beautiful to behold – except for the blasted pigeon, which refused to metamorphose into any of its symbolic components, whatever they may be. It refused even to spread its wings and soar towards heaven. Not surprising when you consider that it had been smothered in the generalised frou-frou (inclining frequently to frottage) of the journey out. The poem, with its refrain of ‘super’ (pronounced zoopah), was magnificently declaimed by Mesafi, tears streaming from her eyes, and snot streaming from her nose, and spit streaming from her mouth. Women are such liquid creatures, thought ‘King’ George, as he felt another erection stirring. The poem went something like this (I can’t remember it exactly because … well … you see … I wasn’t actually there), something like: Bukhosi, ah, Bukhosi For want of a wife You taking (sic) your life, And we are sad, so sad Super Bhukosi. Bhukosi, ah, Bhukosi We giving (sic) you our ‘parts’ 44 John Eppel 45 Ashes But you wanted our hearts, And we are sad, so sad Super Bhukosi Bukhosi, ah, Bhukosi Good bye, dear friend We missing (sic) you and your ‘end’, So sad we are, so sad Super, super, super, Bukhosi. The scattering of the ashes from the summit of Ififi, not far from the trigonometrical beacon (ugly...