The Bed Book of Short Stories

Fool’s Gold

215 Fool’s Gold Tinashe Chidyausiku Somewhere, in a dilapidated wooden shack in the town of Mbare, a young man in his mid-twenties slowly came to wake in the semidarkness of the early hours of morning. He enjoyed the chirping of birds as part of his luxurious dream until the thud of a heavy object, the noise coming from somewhere outside, disturbed him from his last moments of laziness. His eyes flew wide open, his heart was beating. Logic kicked in, he quickly realized he remained in the seclusion of his small space, that it was time to rise, and he groaned. His leaden limbs and clouded mind demanded more sleep, his eyes were still heavy with fatigue, but the imaginary chirping was the sign that it was time to get going. His threadbare sheets and tattered blankets had kept him warm throughout the night. He was reluctant to get up and face the harsh world outside his door. His single spring-mattress bed provided him with a place to escape the reality that life was no easy flow, and despite how worn his bedding was, his bed was the only safe place he knew, to lay down his head, to drift to sleep. It beat sleeping outside in the naked space. Sighing deeply, he made a decision to get up. Throwing his blankets aside, he shifted, sat upright. As his cracked feet touched the cold surface of the icy concrete floor, a chill gripped him. Goosebumps rose and spread, the man’s skin looked like chicken flesh. H e shivered, his yellow teeth chattered violently. Rubbing his hands together to generate warmth he rose to his feet. His eyes darted in the small space of his shack, becoming accustomed to the darkness. He moved forward and bumped into a stool he kept by his bedside. He yelped in pain. The man kept a candle on this same stool which toppled over when he stumbled into it. He went down on his knees and fumbled on the ground until he found it. All that remained of the candle was a stump now but it would 216 serve the purpose none the less. A box of matches had also fallen to the floor and he retrieved it, struck a match and held it to the wick. The small space was bathed in light. In one corner was an old metal dish propped on a wooden box. Right beside it stood a five litre plastic bottle filled with water. The man poured water into the dish. It made a soft splash on the metal. He wished that he could heat up the icy water but he neither owned a stove nor had the time to build a fire outside. Time was precious. Outside the air was cold, but fresh, and the man inhaled deeply. Filling his lungs, he exhaled slowly, strangely exhilarated. It was still dark out, but no longer pitch black. The sun was rising. The man was dressed only in a tattered grey T-shirt and faded brown shorts. His heels were badly cracked but he never went anywhere barefoot, he wore his old rubber slippers. Whenever they tore, he had always managed to piece the fragile rubber back together. Something wet ran down the man’s chin. Mucus ran freely from his nose. He blocked one nostril and blew to the ground, then wiped his face with his hand and wiped his hand across his shirt. The pushcart lying against the shack wall was well concealed by thorn branches. As the man moved the branches, he pricked his thumb and blood seeped through the piercing. He sucked his dirty finger. He never could escape unscathed when each morning he removed the thorn branches, but that did not stop him from piling them on top of his pushcart. He believed that they deterred anyone who would want to steal from him. An old woman who had come to the township from a homestead up north had told him the previous day that she had work for him and that he was to come early in the morning. It was in the direction of her place that the man started out. He moved with haste for it was getting lighter and soon the summer sun would be scorching hot. Mbare was coming alive with every step he was taking. Pots clanked, water was poured, there were sounds of children waking, mothers scolding, somewhere a radio was booming. A sewerage pipe...