little bit of everything. They are going to make a film of me.’
‘Film, hey. How nice. So what brings you here? Why are you guzzling yourself mad at nine on a Monday morning, son?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
‘Come on, boy. Out with it. Why are you so uptight?’
‘I don’t know where my wife is with the children and my car is at the garage.’
‘Had a boxing match with your wife?’
‘Came home late a couple of times.’
‘You ignored her. You don’t ignore a woman, boy, even if you have a small house. She probably ran off to her mother. They always run off to their mothers. You must have paid a lot of mombes, sheep and goats when you married her. Why don’t you call your mother-in-law and ask her?’
‘There’s no phone here.’
‘Here, use my cell-phone. Just don’t be too long about it because my battery is nearly flat.’
Farai dials up and holds the phone to his ear. Veronica’s mother answers and he says ‘Makadii Mhamha?’ She answers with a buttery voice. They go through the only pleasantries possible between in-laws and, to be honest, he has never been really close to Veronica’s mother. A church deacon’s wife, she keeps a tight rein on her children, especially the daughters, whether they are married or unmarried, and is one of the new breed of sturdy dames trained by the harsh economic times to survive by travelling to neighbouring counties to buy and sell. She is hardworking and shrewd like many women married to lowly paid, unassuming church men. He suspects she mistakes his reserve for pride or filial disrespect and that she has been fed a regular diet of untruths about his character by her daughter. Perhaps the least salient fact of the matter is that Farai has never forgiven Veronica the privilege of having a living, seventy-year-old mother when his own died at the tender age of fifty-three.
‘Is Veronica there, Mhamha?’ he cautiously asks.
‘I can’t say, Mwanangu.’
‘Is she there or is she not, Mhamha?’
‘That I can’t say, Mwanangu. I can’t say she is here or not here.’
‘If she calls you or comes over, will you tell her I called?’
‘All right, Mwanangu.’
‘Any luck?’ the white man asks, when he finishes talking.
‘My mother-in-law won’t say.’
‘Probably knows but won’t say. Mothers-in-law always know, you know!’
‘Can I make another call?’
‘Go ahead.’
He calls Mainini Goto, his mother’s cousin. ‘I’m on a borrowed cell-phone,’ he tells her, ‘So I’ll be quick. How are you this morning, Mainini? Veronica still hasn’t come back with the children. I phoned her mother who said she doesn’t know where her daugher is. Do you think you know where she might be, Mainini?’
‘I’ve no idea. Did you try her sisters, or your sister Tindo? Where are you now?’
‘I’m in a pub, talking to a friend.’
‘In a pub, already? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, Mainini?’
‘Did you sleep?’
‘A little.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘A little.’
‘Look, Farai, you’ll have to forget about Veronica for a little while and concentrate on looking after yourself. It’s time you learnt to respect and value yourself. The children are safe. Take that from me. That’s all I can say. I think you and I need to talk. I wasn’t happy to hear you have been harassing people who come to your house.’
‘What people?’
‘That woman, for instance, who came to pay rent for one of your flats. Weren’t you violent? She reported the matter to the police.’
‘Harassing people! Violent! Police! Who’s been talking to you about this, Mainini?’
‘Never mind. Why don’t you come to my house this evening? You and I need to talk.’
‘I have no car. I don’t know if it will be ready then.’
‘No car? What happened?’
‘I forgot to tell you I had a little accident. Nothing serious. The car’s being fixed.’
‘Oh, Farai, do be careful.’
‘And even if I get the car I might be busy with the shooting. They are making a film of my life.’
‘A film. How wonderful!’
‘Don’t worry, Mainini. I’m very happy and I’m all right. I’m very, very happy and I feel great! I’ve never felt happier in all my life. And who knows, Mainini, I might get you a part in the film.’
‘Any luck this time?’ the white man asks him when he hands over the cell-phone.
Farai shakes his head. Suddenly his eyes gleam and he throws his hands in the air and laughs. ‘Never mind. My aunt said my children are safe and I believe her. She’s a good, good aunt and I love her. I love her and I love my wife and my children and my sisters and my brothers and my friends and anybody who wants to be loved by me. I love you, old man. Are you good at acting? Because if you are I’ll give you a part in my film. Oh yes I will. Barman, can you give us another round, please?’
‘You can’t have it today,’ the mechanic straightens from under the car and wipes his brow. The morning promises to be hot. Farai pleads, ‘I need it today. Isn’t there somebody I can talk to?’
‘The manager will tell you exactly what I have told you. You can go and talk to him if you like.’
Farai worms his way through the graveyard of mangled cars to the manager’s office. Some cars are being panel-beaten, others painted and still others having their engines fixed. It is a small, crowded yard. Every possible space is taken up and the road outside is jammed with a long line of ailing vehicles. Farai nods at the two or three other mechanics at work.
In the office he cheerily greets the secretary and explains his problem to the Indian manager, who has his hand clamped around a cash box and is poring over some quotations.
‘What did my mechanic say?’
‘He said perhaps tomorrow, but I need it today. It’s very urgent. Please …’
‘It depends if we can get the parts, and there is a long queue of other cars. Monday mornings are always bad, Sir, with everybody bringing in the cars they’ve bashed up over the weekend. People are driving like crazy these days, you know, and some of them are drunk or going around with fake licences.’
‘But my car was towed in yesterday.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s very urgent. I need that car on the road and don’t care what it costs.’
‘We’ll see what we can do. Come back at three o’clock.’
‘Thank you , Sir,’ Farai says with slight sarcasm, emphasising the ‘sir’. Damn it, he thinks, in the days of Ian Douglas Smith these Indians used to squeeze us of our pennies in their wholesale shops, supermarkets and take-aways, but now with ESAP and this newfangled liberalisation creeping in they are digging up those billions stashed away in ceilings and walls and investing in garages, real estate and even banks.
Damn it. How can