the car squeals to a halt. He puts on the handbrake and gets out to have a look. The tyres are OK but the wheels won’t turn. He gets back into the car and starts her up, but the great heap of metal won’t move. Two night guards patrolling the centre offer to push and he shakes his head in despair. The problem is not with the battery or the starter motor, but with the wheels and the suspension. He asks the guards what time they knock off and they say six in the morning. He offers them money to keep an eye on his vehicle all night and wait until he returns in the morning.
He locks the car and begins the long trudge home. The shopping centre is deserted. There are no more combis or taxis in the rank. From behind the gates and prefabricated walls dogs bark frantically as he walks past, and the ugly refrain follows on his heels. A full moon gloats over at him.
‘Damn it,’ he thinks, ‘if I only had a cell phone I could call the car break-down company or even haul Wilbert out of bed, but no, I mustn’t give him trouble, not at this time of the night, anyway.’ It’s not always good to trouble your friends.
The lights in the industrial sites swell and glow, shrink and vanish and then re-emerge. They look like the headlights of approaching cars, but there is no traffic in the road. Farai takes off his glasses, wipes them on his T-shirt and peers into the dark vlei ahead of him. A bat with a faulty radar loops out of the sky and skims over his head. He falls to his knees. He sees a person in a white gown approaching him.
‘Good evening.’
In the moonlight, the man’s head shines bald. He is barefooted and holds a staff in one hand and a Bible in the other.
Farai takes a deep gulp of air and grunts indistinctly.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes. Say, is everything all right where you are coming from?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘And you think I’ll get home all right?’
‘I don’t see why not. The road is safe and there’s a full moon. Besides, it’s not too late. Are you going far?’
‘I live straight down the road past the shopping mall, among the houses on the right. My car broke down.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘You’re a man of God, aren’t you? Will you pray for me to get home?’
‘Why, if you want. I started praying for you the moment I met you. I pray all the time.’
‘And can you pray for my wife and children, too?’
‘I’ll do that too. Is something bothering you?’
‘Problems at home.’
‘What makes you think things are going wrong for you? You probably have a wife and children, a good job, a nice house and a car. And you have good health and life. There are many people who would envy you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Tell me, do you drink?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Maybe you should try cutting down. I used to drink myself.’
‘How did you stop?’
‘God called me. Do you go to church?’
‘I used to.’
‘What made you stop?’
‘I just stopped. I believe there is a God – maybe I just lost faith in churches.’
‘Some churches are different. Why don’t you try us? We welcome everybody. We have all night prayer meetings on Wednesday and Saturday nights behind the mall and you are free to join us. You’re a young man and you’ve a long life ahead of you.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course. But I must be on my way. I’ll pray for you. Go well, and good luck with your car.’
The man of God hurries past him without turning back. His words have soothed him and given him the energy to walk faster. But Farai shudders at the thought of himself in a white gown. He does not meet any cars or people on the way. When he arrives home it is after midnight. He clicks on the remote and the electric gate shudders open. The house is in darkness and the security lights are not switched on. He waits for the gate to close, pockets the remote and approaches what feels like his grim prison for the four-thousandth time. From the other side of the fence, his neighbours’ alsations give a couple of puzzled woofs. Their security lights swell, shrink, blink and turn bluish, he irritably squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden glare and then struggles with the padlocks and the lock-blocks. Inside the house all the lights are off and the alarm has not been switched on. He snaps on the lights and approaches the main bedroom. Veronica is not there. The bed is unmade, just as he had left it in the morning. He checks the children’s bedrooms – they are empty too – clothes, shoes and books are strewn all over the carpets. He takes a peek into the maid’s bedroom and switches on the light. She is not there. In the study he checks out the telephone. No dial tone. In the lounge the hi-fi switches itself on and off, and on and off again. He checks all the doors and windows. They are all secure.
There is no supper in the fridge and in the scullery yesterday’s dishes have not been washed.
He goes back to the bedroom and throws the wardrobes open. Half of Veronica’s dresses are missing.
He throws himself on the bed. Sleep, Oh sleep. He squeezes his eyelids together and messages his scalp with his fingers.
Out in the yard a car stops, engine running, and the electric gate rolls open. He hears children’s voices, keys rustling, foot steps in the lounge, muted voices. Laughter. He steps out expectantly to the lounge. The lights in the lounge blink on and off and on again. There is nobody – the keys are in the door where he had left them and the children’s bedrooms are empty. Her peeps through the curtains, out to the yard. The gate is closed and there is no car in the driveway.
He throws himself again on the bed and tries to sleep. He lies like that for hours, on top of the blankets. Each time he begins to fall asleep, something wakes him up.
At six in the morning, when the windows are turning orange with the first fervid licks of dawn, he takes a bath. He fills the tub with hot water and soaks himself deeply before giving his body a good scrub. He shampoos his dreadlocks and then rinses them with a conditioner. Ever since he left for the States, he had decided to keep dreads, after discovering that he had left his ‘afro-comb’ behind. He thinks he looks well with them. Or different, anyway. He rubs himself carefully with body lotion then picks out his favourite clothes – black jeans, black cotton T-shirt, black sneakers and black socks. He even dabs himself with a little black musk.
Then he locks up. Outside the gate a woman sits in a green VW Golf, blocking his exit. It’s Sunday morning, so he assumes it is one of Veronica’s churchy friends but she seems anxious to talk to him.
‘Are you Mr Chari?’ she asks, and he nods his assent. ‘We’ve never met. I’m Mavis Khumalo and I live in your flat.’
‘Which one?’
‘Oh, the one on Fourth Street.’
‘Fourth Street? The two bed-roomed one? I thought there was a young man living there. An accountant.’
‘The accountant left the flat to me and I’ve now been there for three months.’
‘I was never told this. So, you’ve been living in my flat without my permission?’
‘Your wife said it was OK for me to move in. I understood you were away, in the States.’
‘I’ll have to speak to her about it. I’ve only just got back, but I’ll be here for a while.’
‘Is your