My grandmother sang to a streetlamp, her arms outstretched as if willing its broken light to come into her bosom. Gogo always sang the war songs, the ones she and other comrades sang at Chimoio camp right before the Rhodesian planes dropped their fire and took her left eye. The people in the growing queue checked their watches and stared as she moved away from the lamp to serenade a parked car.
“Nyika yedu yeZimbabwe,” Gogo sang. “Beautiful beautiful Zimbabwe.”
The line for Barclays Bank stretched from its closed doors to the Total petrol station downtown. It snaked past the now-defunct Kingdom Bank and the never-ending rows of street vendors. I kept an eye out for Gogo as I balanced a box of bananas on my head, trying to catch the queuers’ eyes. Bananas sold the quickest these days. I suppressed a groan when Gogo repeated the word “beautiful.” Perhaps she couldn’t see the queues through her one eye.
To test the presence of starch in food, use iodine solution, a dropper, and a white tile.
I repeated to myself the experiment I’d read in Zuva’s study notes as Gogo sang. Some people in the queue wiped away the sleep from their eyes, stretched, and packed up old newspapers or zambiyas into their bags. They’d slept outside the bank for a chance to be in the lucky first three hundred to be allowed to withdraw their money.
I looked over at Gogo to make sure she didn’t stray too far down the road. I tried to compare her to the pictures I’d seen of her before she lost her eye, when she was just beginning as a soldier. Hands steady on a gun. Two seeing eyes leveled at the camera. I couldn’t find the woman in the photograph in the woman in front of me.
To test the presence of starch in food, use iodine solution, a dropper, and a white tile.
“Nyika yemavendor, gogo,” a young man said, fed up with Gogo’s singing.
The young man’s comment about how we were now a country of vendors—everyone selling something, with only a lucky few with the cash to buy—only fueled Gogo’s patriotic fervor.
“Simudza gumbo,” she sang as she mimicked the goose step. “Hai, hai, hai.”
People broke into laughter. Gogo, the daily entertainment. The regulars had come to call her Comrade Gogo Blaze. Blaze was the nom de guerre she took up during the war.
“She thinks we are still kuhondo,” a woman said, flicking her tightly twisted braids. “The war is long over, ambuya.”
The middle-aged man behind her belched out a laugh, not because his belly was full but because one can only laugh when there is nothing to smile about. He seemed to pass the laughter down to the woman behind him until it spread to the rest of the queue like dominos. “Comrade Blaze is doing the simudza gumbo again.”
When Gogo wasn’t singing war songs, she told me war stories.
“War is not easy, mwana wemwana wangu,” she said every night before she lay down on the bonde. The old straw mat did not cushion us from the hard floor. We shared our home, a one-bedroom in Nkulumane, with two other families. “Pray you never see what I’ve seen.”
Even though I’d heard the story before, I still gave her my full attention.
“I was at a mission boarding school when the soldiers came to the girls’ dorms one night. They marched us out in our nightdresses and said we were now freedom fighters,” she began, her voice far away in another time. “We forgot books and learned about the gun. But it wasn’t only the gun we had to learn. We had to learn other things . . .” Her voice trailed off. “We not only fought but we cooked, we washed the soldiers’ uniforms, we . . . we . . . The generals and soldiers needed services only women could provide.” Then she would turn and close her eyes, each night fighting off someone in her sleep. I could not tell if it was a Rhodesian or another freedom fighter.
1. Put a slice of each food being tested on the white tile.
2. Using a dropper, add drops of iodine solution to each food.
3. Wait for a few minutes and observe the color changes on each foodstuff.
The morning traffic picked up. The bananas were already sold. I laid out a newspaper on the pavement, holding it in place against the wind using four granite rocks. I wondered what it was like to be inside a science lab at school, holding a dropper or a beaker and discovering something new. I placed packets of Jiggies and salted maputi on top of the newspapers. A group of schoolchildren passed without glancing at me.
It was a welcome relief that I now came here late at night or in the early morning to set up as people trickled in to line up for the bank. Losing sleep was better than hearing Gogo’s nightmares. Anyway, coming here early had become very profitable. The queuers were hungry, tired, and frustrated. Frustrated people made the best customers.
Tired of standing in line, a man in blue overalls bought some Jiggies with his last dollar and went to sit by the curb.
“I have been here the whole week and I still can’t withdraw any money,” he said. He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. People in the line grumbled in sympathy. Zuva, a friend I’d gone to primary school with, smiled and waved at me from her spot in the line. Her mother beside her regarded me with a disapproving eye.
“Look at it, dead and empty,” the man in overalls said. He pointed at a line of rusting ATMs outside the bank. They hadn’t been used in a year.
“All we can do is leave it up to Jesu,” a woman said. She was wearing the black and red Methodist Church uniform. “Only God knows.”
I had become a street vendor five years ago when the school accountant rounded up everyone in grade seven who had not paid their school fees and sent them home. Gogo marched us, in the cap she wore when she was a freedom fighter, to the War Veterans Association and demanded to see whoever was in charge.
“I am a war vet,” she said to the pretty secretary who looked no older than twenty. “My grandchild shouldn’t have to suffer.”
“I’m sorry, the chairman is not taking any appointments this week,” the secretary said, not looking up from the computer. “The Association doesn’t handle payment of school fees.”
“The chwemen, the chwemen,” Gogo said mimicking the secretary’s twang. “That mafikizolo isn’t even a war vet. I fought for this country. The reason you can sit your fat buttocks on that chair today is because I—”
Gogo was interrupted by the security guard’s rough hands and we were yanked out of the offices. Gogo’s cap fell to the ground during the scuffle. She never retrieved it.
With no money for fees, I started standing outside my school every day, hands curled against the fence. I watched students walking in the corridors, playing on the playground, and eating lunch. Zuva would sneak outside the school through a hole in the fence during break time to see me.
“We’ve started preparing for the high school entrance exams,” Zuva said, handing me a pile of her exercise books. I grabbed them and ravenously scanned the pages, taking in everything I saw, asking her what each assignment meant.
“Can I have your math textbook this weekend?” I asked, leafing through it, yearning for the problem sets, yearning for the luxury of detesting math like Zuva.
“Sure, I wasn’t going to study anyway,” Zuva said. My education over the years consisted of reading Zuva’s notes and books, asking her to explain concepts I didn’t quite grasp.
Zuva pulled out a lunchbox from her bag. I averted my eyes. “Have you eaten today?” she asked. I shook my head.
Zuva had three sandwiches. She broke one in half and ate it.
“I don’t like polony but my mom keeps packing it,” she said, pushing the lunchbox with the rest of her sandwiches into my hands. “You can have the rest.”
I refused her food even though my stomach complained. Being pitied was worse than hunger.
Observation: iodine turns blue-black when it comes in contact with starch.
Barclays Bank was located opposite Bulawayo Center, the two-story mall in Bulawayo’s central business district that no one frequented. Barclays was supposed to open its doors at 8 a.m. At 9 a.m. the young man who had made remarks earlier about Gogo’s singing let out a sonorous nxa, sucking in his teeth to sum up his anger. The gleaming glass doors remained closed.
“We will wait here until we get into our graves,” the young man said, punctuating his words with another nxa and removing his bucket hat to reveal short locks that coiled like bean sprouts. “Watch. Even after waiting in line for so long, we will only be allowed to withdraw fifty dollars.”
“Right now I am missing work to line up here to get last month’s pay,” the man in overalls responded. “But what else can I do?” No one had an answer for him.
A woman, her thin body weighed down by a heavy pregnancy, was dropped off in front of the bank by a kombi that nearly ran over those sitting by the curb as it reversed back into the street. Some men in the line mumbled insults under their breath. Pregnant women, the handicapped, and elderly people automatically went to the front of the line.
“We came here to queue at three a.m. and you just come now and go to the front,” one man shouted at the woman. “Lying on your back pays off.”
“Can’t you see she is pregnant?” the Methodist woman chided.
A bearded old man standing behind a woman carrying a baby on her back was making smiley faces at the baby, who laughed and cooed in response. The old man stuck his tongue out, scratched his beard, and rolled his eyes like they were about to pop out of their sockets. Some schoolboys in their uniforms walked past. I thought about Zuva. She was taking her ZIMSEC O-Level exams in two weeks. I still needed some more biology notes from her.
“Have you heard the rumors?” said a smartly dressed young woman. “They are bringing back Zim dollar.”
I left the chips and sweets laid out on the pavement and walked down the queue peddling my cooler box full of Cascade juices and freeze-its. My grandmother didn’t know I had a jar of money stashed away. From each sale, I kept 40 cents. If I kept it up, I could have enough to register for the O-Level exams. I hadn’t been in school since I was twelve, yet I wanted to take the most important national exams.
“No,” the queue said in unison. For the first time that morning, a hush fell on the queue.
“My cousin has a friend whose brother works at the Reserve Bank in Harare, and he said there is a new currency coming,” she insisted. “That’s why there are all these withdrawal limits. They are stealing our US dollars and swapping them for this new currency!”
“I’ve heard these rumors, too,” another person said. “I heard they are going to be called bond notes.”
“It will be 2008 all over again. It’s already started with the return of these queues. My grandson who works at the Passport Office says they don’t even have paper to print out new passports. Passports have been backlogged since last year.”
“I have a master’s degree. This shouldn’t be my life,” someone said.
“Who doesn’t have a degree in this line?” the young man with locs said. “Yet I’m a malaicha.”
Malaichas were cross-border drivers who were known to smuggle all sorts of things, like groceries and people.
“With these passport backlogs, might as well get a malaicha to help me border-jump eBeitbridge like everyone else,” someone else said.
Since 2008, talking about the best way to border-jump was just as commonplace as asking for restaurant recommendations.
“You will be eaten by crocodiles!” Gogo exclaimed.
The border between Zimbabwe and South Africa at Beitbridge stretches along the crocodile-infested Limpopo River. In 2008, when the price of bread rose from ZIM$5 billion to ZIM$15 billion, and then to a trillion, many young men and women decided that swimming with crocodiles was better than living on dry land.
“What’s the difference, masalu?” said the malaicha. “Why should I care about the crocodiles in the Limpopo when there is a crocodile in the State House?”
“All you young people today, all you know how to do is run away,” Gogo said, spitting on the ground near the young man’s shoes and pointing a dirty fingernail at everyone in the line. “In my day, we didn’t run away from our problems. We took up pfuti and fought for our freedom. Zimbabwe will never be a colony again!”
“Matakadya kare hanyaradzi mwana,” he said. “Your war songs are not going to feed us. What has your hondo done for you, really? You lost your eye just to sell tomatoes in the streets!”
My grandmother raised her walking stick as she shuffled towards the young man. The imminent fight was defused by the bank’s doors slowly squeaking open.
Cohesion is the force whereby individual molecules stick together.
Adhesion is the force whereby water molecules stick to other surfaces.
A security guard dressed in a freshly ironed Safeguard uniform walked out with a stack of forms, the forms people needed to withdraw their money. The guard walked at his leisure with his chest pushed out like a cockerel. He made a show of counting the forms. There were fifty of them, as always. A hush fell over the queue as they watched the white pieces of paper being shuffled in the guard’s hands. They were like newborns waiting for the nipple.
“Salibonani abantu abahle,” he greeted us without cheer. He put a finger on his tongue to collect some spit to help him pick the papers apart. He looked up and scanned the crowd like he was Jesus about to distribute loaves and fishes. The crowd gaped back eagerly at him, hoping to catch his eye.
“Come on, we don’t have all day,” a man exclaimed. He was so thin, his shirt looked like it was a dress.
“Get out of the line,” the guard said sternly. “Go on, go home! You are not ready to have your money today.” The guard shooed the man away like a stray dog.
“Anyone else with anything to say?” he challenged the crowd. Some shook their heads, some looked down. Others continued to smile to catch the guard’s eye. The guard counted off fifty people from the line. The elderly, disabled, and pregnant women were usually the ones most likely to be picked. Then strong-looking men, pretty light-skinned women, and people that knew the guard personally.
“Sorry, but the rest of you have to go home. We don’t have enough forms,” the guard said, clearing his throat after he had given away the last form. “Those of you with forms, please count off in groups of ten. Only ten people can go inside at a time.”
The unchosen groaned and began to move away, among them the man in blue overalls. A few rushed up to the guard, cracking a joke with him and asking him about his family. They hoped that the guard would remember them next time. Some stayed and formed a new line for tomorrow.
“Would you ever border-jump?” I asked Zuva. She was in her high school’s uniform. Her mother shuffled towards the bank, leaving her behind.
“I can’t even swim, mgane,” she responded, as the guard called out one last instruction. I doubted that the restless malaicha with the bean-sprout locs could swim, either.
“At least my mother managed to get in today, so we can finally pay my exam fees,” Zuva said. “I think wearing my school uniform made the guard pick us.”
“Please be considerate of others. No pushing, no shoving, please!” the guard shouted over the rush of feet. “No mawalas, or I will send you home!”
“I hope things work out for you, mgane,” Zuva said. She waited until her mother had disappeared inside before reaching into her pocket. “Here.”
“I think you should save the money for a rainy day,” I said, shaking my head.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, placing some dollars in my hands. “Hope to see you again at school one day, mgane.” Zuva squeezed my hand and went to wait by the door of the bank.
“Hey, wena. I want to buy a frozeni,” said the restless malaicha who had gotten into an argument with my grandmother. He approached me. He was among the chosen.
It always amazed me how one thing could go by so many names. Some called the ice pops I sold freeze-its, others frozens, and others supercools. It was said that only rich people who went to private schools with white people called them supercools.
“What color do you want?” I asked, inching the cooler box closer to his face.
“Red,” he said as he dug into his back pocket for some money. “The color of love.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d learned long ago to let the men flirt. The longer they talked, the more they bought and the fuller my jar got.
“Also the color of blood,” I said, keeping an eye on Gogo, who was standing at attention, reciting the names of all the soldiers who lost their lives at Chimoio.
“What’s your name, s’thandwa?” he asked. The word “m’love” rolled off his tongue. He said it the way all men say it, with their eyes peeling my skin apart like fruit.
“Hondo,” I said, handing him a frozen packet and pocketing the money.
The young man stared at me for a count of ten. I could tell he wasn’t sure whether I was serious or not. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.
“Your name is Hondo? War?” he finally said. “You are not serious?”
“Are you going to buy anything else?” I asked. “Some Jiggies would go well with that.”
“I’m Sibusiso,” he said, handing me more money. “Who named you?”
“My grandmother,” I said, looking in her direction.
The young man gave me a knowing nod of condolence. It didn’t need to be said; he could tell instantly what had taken my parents.
“I guess your gogo loved the war so much that she wanted to be reminded of it each time she called your name,” he said, opening his freeze-it with his teeth, the red juice trickling down his lips. “Some people just won’t stop living in the past.”
He sucked on the freeze-it until it lost its color.
“Listen, if you ever get tired of selling Jiggies,” he said, and handed me his phone number. “A fine girl like you belongs in South Africa. I can make it happen.”
Gogo was running down the pavement, holding her walking stick up like a gun. She made the sound of gunfire and explosions. I still had a lot more to save up until I made enough money to pay for the O-Level exams. I considered the malaicha’s proposal as he moved forward along with his group of ten, making a beeline for the bank’s open doors. Looking at the streetlamps around me, I wondered who would fix the broken lights.