Diamonds for everyone. Those were the exact words that had drip-dripped like a leaking tap into my father’s ear at breakfast, after school, even late at night when the lights were out and I could hear the Wife’s needling voice through the thin walls: “Why must I suffer here with a man who cannot provide for his family? Should I be poor the rest of my life? I could have had any man in my village and all I got was you. A poor, useless teacher. There is money to be made in Marange, Joseph. People all over the country are traveling to the diamond fields to make their fortunes. And we sit here with no money, no food, and no proper job. James says that in Marange there are diamonds for everyone.”

I had never met Uncle James, but I knew I wouldn’t like him. He was the one who told the Wife, “There is money to be made in Marange and all you have to do is pick it up off the ground. You don’t need to stay a poor teacher’s wife. If your husband were more of a man, he could become a rich Marange diamond miner.”

My father did have a proper job. He was one of the best teachers in Bulawayo and had won the Outstanding Teacher Award at Milton High School for four years running. The Wife claimed it was not a real job because he made no money. That wasn’t true either. He did make money. Suitcases full. Millions and millions of Zimbabwean dollars.

It was not his fault that the money was worthless.

I remembered him coming back from the government office, after being promised three months’ back pay, and placing a large suitcase on the kitchen table. He opened the case and we all stared at the thick elastic-wrapped bricks of Zim dollars stacked in neat rows.

The Wife glared at the contents of the suitcase. “And what are we supposed to do with all this money? Eat it? Do you want me to make soup from this? What do you think this will buy us, Joseph? Nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing,” she shouted, digging her hands into the suitcase and throwing the stacks of money at my father. “This is not worth more than two American dollars. Three months of back pay and they give you this? And you are mad enough to gratefully accept it?”

My father just sat at the table, cleaning his glasses, as Grace built a small house with the bricks of cash. The Wife ranted on about how ashamed she was to beg for food from the neighbors, how she hated wearing two-year-old clothes, how there was hardly enough money for even her cell phone. “I thought that when I married a teacher I would be someone important, but every year we become poorer and poorer and people stare at me and feel sorry for me. I would have done better marrying a beggar.” Then, looking at Grace, she added, “That’s all your back-pay money is good for, Joseph Moyo—child’s play.”

“There will come a day when our economy will recover,” my father replied. “When Mugabe dies, things will be better. We just have to be patient.”

“Patients in a madhouse, you mean,” retorted the Wife. “And how are things going to get better when the old man dies? You’re still going to be a teacher earning no money, and I’m going to be laughed at as the-girl-who-married-a-poor-simple-teacher.”

My father always met every problem with thoughtful composure. He lived in a world of books, and was at peace with the life he had chosen. This inward contentment often infuriated the Wife, who, if she wasn’t afraid of the power of his beloved books, would have thrown every single one of them at him. I watched how he gracefully bore his young wife’s taunting, and how he smiled at his friends who teased him about who wore the pants in his house. And he never, not once in the three years they were married, ever said anything bad about the Wife to Grace or me. But there was one subject that even his pretty wife knew was sacred, and that was his occupation as a teacher.

“Teaching is not a job, son,” he said to me once. “It is a calling. When you are born with a gift, God instructs you to use it carefully. You have been given a gift, too, Patson, and you may not allow it to lie fallow. Even though you don’t know what your gift is yet, when you find it, you must nurture it, let it grow inside you, and let it become your life’s work.”

Sometimes my father sounded like he was reading from the Bible, like it was his way of tuning out his worries and the Wife. He said he loved her but surely no ordinary man could bear the tongue-lashings he endured.

So, without telling any of us, he phoned the inspector of education in the Chiadzwa district outside Marange, and offered his services as a teacher of mathematics and English. Two days later he proudly announced that he had received a fax from Mr. Ngoko, the headmaster of Marange’s rural Junction Gate High School, and that there was an opening. And best of all, that he should come at the beginning of the next term.

“And did he say how many trillions of Zim dollars they would pay you at this Junction Gate High School?” the Wife asked scornfully.

“We will sort that out when we get there,” my father replied, and quietly retreated to the sanctuary of his desk.

“You might have plenty of brains, Joseph, but you’ve got no sense,” she called after him, and rolled her eyes at us. “You see what I have to deal with?”

I hated the way she turned us into her accomplices. We were expected to agree with her and sometimes it was hard not to. I wished my father would do something to make me proud of him. He might be a good teacher but it counted for nothing in Zimbabwe. If only he would stand up against the Wife and tell her not to shout at him. He always told me not to raise my voice, but rather improve my argument, but the problem was that as much as I was loath to admit it, there was a part of me that agreed with the Wife. My father could be very impractical. Junction Gate High School? What kind of name was that for a school?

“We are going to Marange. You got what you wanted,” said my father, opening a book and closing the conversation with the Wife, who merely glared at him and stormed out of the house, slamming the front door.

“Shall I ask her if she wants some tea?” Grace said in the silence that followed the Wife’s departure.

“That’s a good idea, Grace,” said my father, cupping her cheek. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

Grace and I exchanged glances as she left: Even when the Wife got her way she still wasn’t happy.

“But can there really be enough for everyone?” I asked once I was alone with my father. He looked up from his book, puzzled. “People are going to Marange for the diamonds, Baba. At school, everyone knows someone who has packed up and left for the diamond fields. I read in the paper how the government is inviting people to come. How can there be enough for everyone? It just doesn’t seem possible.”

Though my father was a slight man with the hands of a piano player, his long straight neck gave the impression of him being taller than he really was. This was useful in the classroom, where he towered over his pupils, particularly those who, in the way of students, thought they could get the better of him. He was the owner of a formidable voice, capable of every nuance required from a teacher. He could bellow instructions across a soccer pitch, but also gently console a disheartened eighth grader.

“Patson, we are not going for the diamonds, son. We are going to start a new life. We are going to be part of Sylvia’s family.”

“So we’re leaving because she doesn’t like our family here in Bulawayo? Why do we have to listen to that—”

“Patson, I won’t have you speaking badly of Sylvia. Remember, you must always keep your words soft and sweet…”

“Just in case you have to eat them,” I said, finishing the old Shona proverb he was fond of quoting. “I know, Baba, but sometimes, well, she irritates me,” I said, and immediately regretted how petulant I sounded.

“When your mother died, Patson, I knew I had to find another wife. I had hoped that you would like Sylvia, that she would be a friend to you and a good mother to Grace. But what you have to understand is when you marry your partner, you are also marrying a whole new family. We have to think of the Bandas as our new family, Patson. They will look after us and help us to settle into our new lives in Marange. You will meet your cousin Jamu. He’s your own age, and you’ll probably be classmates at school. And despite what Sylvia says, I’m not going to Marange to become a diamond miner. I am a teacher. I will always be a teacher, only now at a different school. The change will be good for us all.”

I hated the faraway look in my father’s eyes when he struggled to explain why we were so poor. This was not the future he had planned for himself when he was a young graduate fresh out of the University of Zimbabwe at Harare, and he was puzzled at how the mundane practicalities of food, money, and rent seemed so unattainable. It was one of those rare moments when my father gave me his complete attention. It was also the perfect opportunity to ask him why, of all the women he could have chosen, why he chose her. Did he truly love her? Didn’t he see how she made him less of a man than what I knew him to be? But I let the moment pass.

For a while, there was peace in the house as we packed up our things, selling what would not fit in the trunk of the car Uncle James organized for us. Then, at the end of the term, we said our good-byes to our neighbors, and drove east for fourteen hours toward our new lives.

We sped past a donkey-cart clattering along the side of the road, a sign that read MARANGE 20 KILOMETRES, a burned-out shop advertising Coca-Cola, and an old woman selling pecan nuts from under a grass hut. On the road ahead, soldiers in olive-green fatigues jogged in formation, bearing down on us until the driver had no choice but to pull off the road to avoid plowing through them. They were singing a Chimurenga war song and the beating rhythm from the throats and feet of fifty men filled our car—until it faded away when we returned to the road heading toward the hump I had named Elephant Skull.

I reached for my mobile. There were two messages from Sheena:

How far are u? Running this afternoon. Wish u were here. I hate to do Uggy’s Hill alone.

And:

Back from my run. What’s up?? How many bars u got!? Wanna Mxit!!

I was disappointed, and a bit relieved that she didn’t mention what had happened between us in her bedroom a few days before I left Bulawayo. If she wasn’t going to talk about it, then neither would I. I had kissed my best friend, and although a part of me wished I hadn’t, another part wanted to kiss her again. I had known Sheena since primary school, and she was my running partner on the Milton High cross-country team. After we kissed, though, it suddenly felt as if we were strangers, embarrassed to be alone with each other. I knew if we could go for a good, long run up Uggy’s Hill, we would sort out the huge question mark that hung between us. During the last few days of term Sheena and I had circled each other, making sure that we were never alone and always in the comfort of a crowd. And then term ended and I left without really sorting anything out. My thumbs flew over the keypad but the reception was patchy and the message didn’t go through. I groaned. If connectivity in Marange was bad, I would be stranded in off-line oblivion. Sheena would not be happy; she had to know everything.

Around the next bend the driver swore at the sight of a police checkpoint in the middle of the highway.

“Nobody say anything.” He slowed down as a policeman stepped out onto the road and stopped us.

“I have my letter of appointment,” my father reassured the driver, reaching inside his jacket pocket.

“What use will that be? Let him do the talking, Joseph,” the Wife snapped. “He knows what he’s doing. Remember what my brother said about the security around Marange? We will be fine if we do what the driver says.”

The Wife took out a mirror from her handbag and refreshed her hibiscus-red lipstick. She grinned at herself, dabbed a tissue in the corner of her mouth, and polished her teeth with her finger. The policeman peered into the car, taking in my father in the front seat, Grace sitting in the middle of the backseat, me, and the Wife, who straightened her back, fluttered her eyelashes, and gave him her most radiant smile. The policeman stared longer than needed at the curvy outline of the Wife’s breasts, before turning away.

Our driver spoke politely; the policeman officially. My father started cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief—a sure sign that he was worried. The policeman ordered the driver to open the trunk. He turned off the engine and together they walked around to the back of the car.

On the other side of the road, policemen were searching three women whose arms were lifted above their heads while the men ran their hands over their breasts, down their backs, and between their legs. One of the women caught me staring as an officer half her age snapped her bra strap and made a crude joke about where else she might be hiding her jewels. I quickly looked away, embarrassed by her humiliation. All around the checkpoint were the stains of police at work: cigarette butts, empty whisky bottles, bullet casings, and the scorched earth from cooking fires.

The trunk was slammed shut. The policeman walked slowly around the car, to peer one more time at the Wife’s breasts.

Then he turned to the driver. “Kill yourself,” he said, “before I kill you.”

The driver nodded up and down. “Okay, okay. No problem,” he said, climbing back into the car. “This is not good, not good at all. We must pay him.”

“He’s going to kill us?” I asked my father, bewildered at how calmly he had reacted to the policeman’s statement.

“It’s a code, Patson,” he reassured me. “He wants to be bribed but cannot say it out loud. Instead he is asking the driver to make him an offer to let us continue to Marange.”

My father’s dollars quickly went from his hand to the driver’s and disappeared into the policeman’s pocket.

Once again we were speeding down the highway. “The police have begun Operation End to Illegal Panning,” the driver explained. “There are too many people going to Marange to look for diamonds. They are trying to stop them from coming to this area. We were lucky to find one who could be bribed.” He angrily punched a number into his phone, and then spoke so rapidly I couldn’t understand anything of what he said.

“This is not good,” he muttered again, stuffing the phone into his shirt pocket. “You will have to walk. I can’t take you all the way. It’s too dangerous.”

Suddenly we were off the highway, bumping and jostling along a dirt track heading deep into the bush. The Wife shouted at him to slow down, while my father attempted to find out what the policeman had told him and who he had phoned. Grace squeezed my hand tightly.

“I think there’s a problem, and no one wants to talk about it,” she said.

“We’ll be okay, Grace,” I whispered. “I’m sure we’re almost there.”

Twenty minutes later we stopped beneath an enormous baobab tree, its rootlike branches reaching toward the sky. When I was a child my father told me a story about Father Baobab, the Goddess Mai, and how the moon found its way into the sky, but I couldn’t remember the details. Under the enormous baobab’s outstretched limbs a group of men sat on their haunches upon mats laid out on the ground.

“Who are those people?” asked my father.

“They are diamond dealers. This is the Baobab Diamond Exchange,” the driver replied, stopping the car and shouting a greeting to the men through his open window. Two of the dealers hurriedly rolled up their mats and trotted off into the forest. “Diamond dealers are always nervous of strangers. Wait here.” He got out of the car and walked quickly over to the rest of them, talking rapidly and pointing back to us. Whatever he said had no effect, as all but one of them rolled up their mats and disappeared into the forest.

“Joseph, do something,” demanded the Wife as she got out of the car.

“The driver knows what he is doing,” my father soothed.

“Don’t just sit there!”

By now the driver had returned, opened the trunk, and was dumping our bags onto the ground.

“Now, wait just a moment.” My father got out of the car and watched helplessly as the driver emptied the trunk.

“The highway is too dangerous. There are too many roadblocks. It’s safer for you to go through the bush.”

“You can’t just leave us here! We’re in the middle of nowhere! James paid you to take us to Marange. I’m going to phone him immediately—”

“That man knows the way,” the driver interrupted the Wife. “You can trust him.” He slammed the trunk shut.

“Now, listen to me,” said my father firmly, as if addressing a naughty schoolboy who was paying him no attention at all. “The arrangement was that you would take us all the way to Marange.”

The driver shook his head and opened my door. “Out, out! Quickly,” he instructed Grace and me. We tumbled out as my father continued upbraiding the driver, who got back into the car and slammed his door.

“It is not far from here.” The driver cut off my father’s protests. “You’ll go east, toward that mountain, and the diamond fields are just on the other side. Maybe half an hour’s walk. You will be there well before dark.”

The engine roared to life and he drove away, leaving us in a cloud of dust.

“Joseph, how could you let him drive away? What sort of man are you? There’s no reception out here. I can’t get hold of James. What are we going to do with all these bags? You are useless! A useless man!” shouted the Wife, her voice becoming harsher at each unanswered question.

My father arranged the pile of luggage in neat rows, dismissing her words as if they were no more than flies buzzing around his head. Grace looked up at me and sighed. We both knew that there were too many bags for us to carry any distance at all.

“Walking won’t be so bad,” said Grace. “We’ve been in the car for hours. I think we should go and ask that man to help us.”

Grace held out her hand to me, and together we walked over to the man standing at the foot of a massive baobab tree. As the dust settled, the orange glow slipped behind the faraway hills, leaving us with maybe two hours before dark. The baobab towered over the forest, its limbs glowing in the dying light of day, and the man watched our approach with as much interest as a buffalo showed a pair of tiny ox-peckers.

“He looks a bit scary.”

“Keep smiling, Grace, and let me do the talking.”

The man was tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His head was bald and he had black eyes, a little hooded. His face seemed chiseled out of hardwood by someone with little talent, and his nose was bent completely out of shape. He wore a sleeveless maroon T-shirt and a white tie around his neck, neatly knotted and patterned with squiggly black lines. He was chewing slowly. The corners of his mouth were stained with the telltale flecks of red beetle-nut juice. He spat out a long stream of bloodred saliva and put another nut into his mouth. The closer we got to him, the smaller and more insignificant I felt. He was the ugliest man I had ever seen.

“I’m smiling, Patson, but it doesn’t seem to be helping,” Grace whispered, gripping my hand tightly.

In the face of his blank, hooded eyes, I tried to make my voice as strong as possible. “My name is Patson Moyo. We need to go to Marange.”

The man considered me silently, his bloodshot eyes never leaving my own. Both of his cheeks carried scars, ridged and glossy, like two frozen tear lines. I had heard of the initiation rites where the cheeks of fourteen-year-old boys were branded with a heated needle after they’d proven themselves as warriors. He dismissed me and shifted his gaze to Grace.

“Please could you show us the way?” Her voice trembled.

My father joined us; the Wife followed, still swearing loudly.

“Why you want to visit the eye?” the man asked my father, in a deep, foreign-sounding voice, looking down at us as if we were prey not worth eating.

“I’m Joseph Moyo.” My father offered his hand. “My family needs to get to Marange before dark.”

The man spat another stream of red saliva at my father’s feet and ignored his outstretched hand. “I can’t help you. If you love your family, Joseph Moyo, follow that track to the highway and go back to where you came from. The eye is not for you. Once you go in, you will never come out,” he said, and walked away.

My father did nothing to stop him. I knew that if this man left us, we would be alone in the bush and would have to walk back to the main road. I had noticed that he had glanced curiously at Grace, and I was sure I had seen a spark of compassion.

“James Banda will pay you lots of money if you take us to him,” I said.

The man stopped at my words. He turned around and his black eyes bored through me. “James Banda? You know Banda?”

“James Banda is my brother,” said the Wife, producing her most luscious smile. “The boy is right, my brother will pay you.”

He glanced at the Wife, at our pile of luggage, and then back at Grace and me. I could see his brain ticking over, weighing up his options. If he left us and we managed to get to Marange and told James Banda that he had abandoned us in the bush, it could be very bad for him.

“Take only what you can carry,” he said finally, clearly irritated with the decision he had made. “Hurry. You have a long walk ahead of you.”

The Wife protested immediately, but for once in his life my father spoke firmly to her. “We have no choice, Sylvia. Do as he says.”

Quickly we sorted through our luggage, repacking it into the smaller bags. The Wife fussed about what shoes she should take, while my father sorted through his books and teaching materials. Grace selected one of her soft toys and packed the others away. “I will come pick you up soon,” I overheard her whispering to those she was leaving behind.

I surveyed all that I owned dispassionately. Spread out on the ground against the vastness of the bush, my belongings seemed insignificant: jeans, T-shirts, a couple of underpants, and socks. The first things that went into my backpack were my pens, my phone, my diary, and my best pair of running shoes.

Finally, we were ready. The Wife and my father had stopped their arguing. He would carry one of her suitcases. The other three, mostly packed with her clothes, were tossed into a hollow space inside the baobab tree.

“Tomorrow, when you have a car, well, I cannot say, but they might still be there,” said the man, shrugging, and speaking in a lyrical way, which I ultimately recognized as a French accent. “Now we start to walk.”

“What is your name?” asked Grace.

“Boubacar,” he answered.

“And how far is it to Marange?” asked the Wife.

“There’s no need to worry about that,” said Boubacar. “If we are caught, they will shoot us and bury us until the wild animals carry our bones elsewhere. If you want to worry, worry about getting to Marange alive.”