Mixed Blessings

Mixed Blessings
(By Monica Cheru)

John was a policeman whose wife had gone back to her home to deliver their first child. John had left her there months previously and was now going to check on whether he was now a father or widower.

The letter that John’s wife had asked a teacher at the local school to write for her, informing John about their bouncing baby boy, was still en route, caught up somewhere in the laborious Machinery that was the postal service. So poor John traveled in apprehensive ignorance of what awaited him at his destination.

John dropped off the bus in the early evening and set off for the eleven-kilometer walk to his wife’s parents’ home. A short way on, he came across an elderly gentleman. A short conversation revealed that the two were headed in the same direction, so they set off in amiable companionship.

The village was far and the path was mostly through a dark forest which would have to be traversed at night. A traveling companion was heaven-sent and John was not about to examine the mouth of his gift horse.

Soon it was nightfall. They walked through a forest only occasionally broken by fields. There were absolutely no homes on the way and they did not meet a single other soul. Owls hooted, hyenas laughed and a host of other eerie sounds serenaded the travelers on their way. John was glad that he had a companion who did not seem to fear the dark. He told himself that it was because if he had been alone he would have lost his way in the dark.

“It must be very confusing for one who did not grow up in these parts to negotiate this forest during the day, never mind at night like this. I am very lucky to have come across you, father.” John remarked respectfully to his partner.

“Yes my son. Even tomorrow you must thank your ancestors for protecting you. They are very strong and they fight for you.” That was the somewhat ambiguous answer.

John had the disquieting sensation that he was missing a very important point, if only he could figure out what it was. The two walked on talking about famine, education and the fickleness of women.

At one point they saw a pillar of fire right in front of them. John almost turned tail and fled but his companion stopped him and warned: “Do not run away or you will be lost. Just walk on as if there is nothing in your way. Forces of the night feed on fear. Believe me, I know. Walk right behind me.”

They walked into the pillar of fire and John felt deathly cold and clammy. It was as though he had been covered in the skin of a reptile.
The elderly gentleman did not seem affected at all and kept on chatting even in the middle of the chilling fire. When they were safely past, John fumbled in his pocket for some tobacco and a piece of newspaper to roll a smoke. He really needed to calm his nerves.

“Do not light that thing!” thundered the old man. Startled, John hurriedly put back the offensive item into his pocket but was too afraid to ask what taboo he had been about to break.

Eventually, they came to the river, which was just before John’s destination. Even in the dimness of the night it was possible to distinguish the outlines of the huts that made up his father-in-law’s homestead on the other side. So near and yet so far. John could have wept. The river was wide and deep. The canoe used to cross was on the other shore. It seemed too cruel to be forced to sleep hungry on the water’s edge while warmth, food and love waited on the other side. Surely the ancestors could not be so unkind?

Noting John’s woebegone expression, the old man chuckled and said, “Don’t worry my son. Today your ancestors are with you. Good fortune is smiling at you more than you appreciate right now. I will get the canoe and row you across.”

John was perplexed. Surely the old man was not planning to swim across more than thirty meters of crocodile-infested water! John did not want the old man’s death on his conscience. His whole family would be plagued by the man’s avenging spirit. The old man just laughed again when John vocalized his concern. He said there was no way John could ever be held responsible for his death as it was impossible for him to die that night.

While John was still trying to absorb that last statement, the man pulled up a few tufts of grass from the riverbank and rolled them into a coil like the ones used by women to cushion their heads when carrying bundles of firewood. Before John’s disbelieving eyes, the old man placed the coil of grass on the water, sat atop it, legs neatly folded under him as though he was in a hut full of his social superiors, and sailed straight across the darkly gleaming surface.

John rubbed his eyes and blinked several times but the mirage remained. The old man reached the far shore and disembarked from his marvelous sail-craft. He then put the canoe in the water and rowed back. As if in a dream, John got into the canoe and was rowed across. On the other side of the river, the elderly gentleman carefully stowed the canoe and got back onto his grass coil and sailed off into the night. With a wave he called over his shoulder, “Tell your in-laws that Chidume brought you home.”

As he the old man disappeared into the forest, John thought he saw the man silhouetted in flames. John rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the old man was no longer visible. The darkness had swallowed him totally.

John marched to the homestead still in a dreamy state. There the sight of his new son soon made him forget his queer experience. It was much later that his father-in-law wondered, “How did you get across? We brought the canoe across when we came from Mai Chenje’s beer party late in the evening. No one went across after that.”

When he heard John’s answer, the father-in-law was flabbergasted. “Your traveling mate was none other than Chidume, the evil spirit of the forest. He was a robber who was murdered by some angry villagers. His body was dumped in the forest and no cleansing rituals were ever held for his soul. He usually leads his victims to a lion or to a leopard. But once in a while, he takes pity on a stranger and leads him safely past the forest. Your ancestors must be very strong to make you one of the very few lucky ones. But it’s a mixed blessing. From now on, no ghost or any other supernatural manifestation can ever scare you. The only problem is that when you die, you too will become a wandering soul and there is nothing that you can do to avert that. It is the price for receiving a favor from one of the powers of the dark.”

At that point, John, the lucky fellow, the feared burakwacha (black watchman, as African cops were called then) fainted. He had learnt in the hard way why mothers always tell their children never to talk to strangers.

*** You may contact the author: cherumz@gmail.com

Monica Cheru: could she be our own Marquez or Allende?

*** I first met Monica Cheru at a writers' meeting in Harare. The mistake I made was to ask her: ‘You, what do you write?’ Monica’s stories project the ‘African reality’. She writes right from inside of the African world view. All those who enjoy Gabriel Marquez or Isabel Allende will like Monica’s short stories. In Zimbabwe, the closest to Monica’s art is Wonder Guchu, especially ‘My Children My Home’. The following piece is from Monica’s collection of such short stories called ‘Chivi Sunsets’. Monica comes from Chivi in Southern Zimbabwe. I know that Sarudzai Barnes of Lion Press likes these stories.

‘Power Struggle’ (a story by Monica Cheru)

There are some teachers who are good people and are dedicated to their profession. Such a specimen was Ronald Musafare, Ronnie to his friends and family.

Ronnie was only twenty-three and one of the youngest teachers at his school. The school itself was at a rural service center that boasted of electricity, piped water, a clinic and several shops and bottle stores. So Ronnie was very happy and had no intention of moving to any other school.

He also happened to be the most educated member of staff, being the only one who had five O’ Levels and a Certificate in Education. Other members of staff including the school head were of the older generation, who held colonial qualifications. The rest of the teachers were untrained ‘temporary teachers’.

Being humble, Ronnie had no problems with his peers. As he was dedicated to his profession, the kids were safe and suffered no abuse at his hands. The money he earned was adequate for a bachelor and he had even made a lot of headway in saving to buy his own house in town. It was a happy life for Ronnie.

When trouble came to him, it was not of Ronnie’s making. One day some pen pusher in the ministry looked down at the schools running smoothly under the control of capable, efficient and proven heads with colonial qualifications, and the pen pusher was not pleased. He spoke to some desk jockeys and they all agreed that the situation was intolerable. The future of the galaxy would be in peril if something was not done As Soon As Possible. A decree was passed that stated that all heads had to have five O’ Levels by a certain date or lose their positions. There was a panic. Rusty brains were taken out, dusted and set to work. Attempts were made to comply, but in most cases success proved elusive. After spending years adding nine to six to make fifteen, 2x + y = 13 proved incalculable. By the time the deadline arrived most heads had failed to achieve the target.

The pen pusher and the desk jockeys then came up with a brilliant solution. At all schools were the heads were now unqualified, the teachers who were already there and in possession of the correct requirements would automatically be promoted while the dumb old blokes would be demoted. If no one at the school met the required criteria, then a new face would be imported from another school that had more than one candidate.

When he was told that Ronnie would be the new boss, the old headmaster neglected to pass the good news to Ronnie and decided to solve the problem in his own unique way, African style.

The first time that Ronnie woke up and found himself lying on the floor instead of on his comfortable double bed, he put it down to sleepwalking. The fourth time that it occurred; he thought there might be some other reason.

He told his story to colleague. Ronnie moved from his room and went to share the colleague’s room. It happened no more but a strange black cat took to shadowing Ronnie whenever he stepped outside after dark. None of the other teachers was ever bothered by the cat. An owl came into Ronnie’s classroom and sat on his desk one afternoon. He did not have the guts to kill the bird and asked some pupils to chase it away.

More and more eerie events seemed to single Ronnie out. He lost weight. Ronnie told the head that he felt like the victim of some malignant spirit. The head was sympathetic but could offer no practical assistance. Ronnie went home to his parents. The family consulted various n’angas and self-styled prophets. Was there some long-dead ancestor who had come back to claim his pound of flesh for some forgotten slight? No satisfactory explanation could be found. A cleansing ceremony was held and Ronnie went back to work. A prophet claimed that Ronnie was the victim of some malicious devil spirits and tried to ‘hook’ the demons out of Ronnie with song, dance and ‘tongues’. After several exhausting days of much noise, the prophet gave up and returned to his own home to recharge his spiritual batteries and assist those who were ‘helpable’. Poor Ronnie had no choice but to return to work without having his problem solved.

On the first morning after his return, Ronnie’s shoes walked out on him! His best pair of shoes clumped out of his bedroom right before his very eyes. He had just come in from his morning ablutions and was about to get dressed.

Ronnie ran out of the room, stark naked and made for the head’s house. The wife of another teacher, who was sweeping her yard, saw Ronnie running towards her in his birthday suit and assumed that he meant her no good. She ran away calling on the world to come and save her from the mad rapist. She went for the nearest house, which was the head’s. Her husband, hearing her screams, left the Blair toilet in which he was bathing with soapsuds as his only claim to modesty. He joined the sprint to the head’s house as he chased after Ronnie. Other teachers and their families were attracted by the woman’s screams and also joined the circus.

The teacher’s wife barged into the head’s house and threw herself on the sofa. Before she could regain her breath and explain herself, Ronnie stormed into the room, grabbed the head and started dragging him to the door. The soapy husband then also came onto the main stage and made straight for Ronnie, making known his intention to teach that young man lessons that had so obviously been skipped in his pathetic upbringing. Three other teachers who had entered the room right behind the indignant fellow restrained him and calmed everyone down. The head’s wife brought her cloth wrappers and the naked pair covered themselves up. Those who could not squeeze into the room vied for front-row seats at the doorway and at the windows.

“The man must be totally mad to go after the ugliest woman in the district,” declared one spectator, who happened to be the young brother of the Shona teacher.

“Are you saying her husband was blind when he fell in love with her?” queried someone else.

“Oh, him! He is equally ugly so they suit each other very well. But look, Mr. Musafare is not even looking at that woman. I don’t think he was following her at all.” Another spectator added his two cents’ worth commentary to the drama.

Eventually, Ronnie explained himself and the head asked everyone else to leave. Teacher number two was satisfied that his wife’s virtue was safe and conceded that he too would have gone insane at the sight of his shoes walking independently without the benefit of his own horsepower.

The head sat Ronnie down and offered him some advice. “My son, at times like this, it is good to look at a situation and think deeply. You are being warned. Someone is trying to avoid actually hurting you. Maybe you should move to a new school before you die. People can be very dangerous.”

Ronnie was humble but not stupid. He left the school immediately and spent several weeks at home while waiting for the processing of his transfer.

At the new school, Ronnie suffered no further mishaps. When he heard that his former head was dead, he expressed shock and grief. It was when he was alone that he allowed himself a small smile and congratulated himself on using his compassionate leave days wisely. Ronnie remarked to himself that it is always a bad tactic to start a war when you do not know the strength of the weapons that the rival force is able to deploy. Ronnie returned to the old school as the headmaster.

*Talk to Monica Cheru: cherumz@gmail.com