she’s looking for me. I can’t wait to tell her about my conversation with Mawere. He gives me his direct phone line, which I write on the back of one of the Rixi driver’s cards. The last four digits are 1859, the year Darwin wrote The Origin of Species and John Brown died at Harper’s Ferry. I suppress the onrush of dates as the Bubba Smith look-alike steps forward.
‘This is Comrade Tito,’ says Mawere. ‘He’s keeping an eye on the party for us.’
I wait for the knuckle crunch, but his hand is soft, his grip as gentle as a grandmother’s.
‘One more thing, Ben,’ Mawere says. ‘Be careful with Florence. She’s a very clever girl, but not quite normal.’
‘That’s right,’ Comrade Tito adds. ‘We call her Comrade Chokie, short for Chokwadi, meaning ‘truth’. She’s a problem.’
I nod but don’t reply. Why call a troublesome person ‘Truth’?
When a Shona song ends, Mawere taps a spoon against an empty glass to quiet everyone. As people huddle together to listen, a slight breeze slips in, cooling the hot dance hall. Mawere speaks in Shona, joking with the crowd. He switches to English and talks about the ‘historian in our midst whose work is so important, who wants to tell the story of Zimbabwe’s freedom to the rest of the world’. His baritone is booming. Most of the party is looking at me.
‘You may not think, kuti, a murungu can write such a history. But I have spoken to him. I’m confident he can do the job.’
Florence whispers something to a woman standing next to her. They both look at me and shake their heads.
‘So I ask kuti, everyone, support him one hundred percent if he comes to you with questions.’
A few people applaud, then everyone. I try to pull in my stomach and smile. I want to remind them all that I’m just a graduate student, but there’s no time. Sounds of approval fade as Mawere puts on a Bob Marley record.
He’s singing about Zimbabwe and the dancers know all the lyrics. I try to join in. At least my off-key efforts relieve my embarrassment. Divine sanction can be painful.
Florence’s elbows are swinging high. She holds a bottle of Castle in one hand, waiting for the tune to slow to take a sip. All the other women have taken off their shoes. Dozens of carefully manicured toes that grew up treading rural paths slap against the fading triangle where white shuffleboard players used to score 8s, 9s and 10s.
As the deejay cranks up the volume one more notch, Florence leans over to say something in my ear. I can’t hear. She tries again. I shrug my shoulders. She lips an ‘I’ll tell you later.’ We keep dancing. I’m trying to pump my knees like Marley. If only he were still alive.
When the song ends, Florence leads the dancers in a chorus of ‘encore, encore’. The deejay plays the song four more times. I collapse into a plastic chair.
‘This one is for lovers,’ Mawere shouts. A voice even deeper than his blossoms. Barry White. Florence is tugging at my hand, then her arm slips around my waist. The smooth, moist cloth of her dress clings to her back. She’s taller than I am, but only a little. I try to dance so our chests don’t touch. Keeping a professional distance is important. I still have to interview her.
‘Comrade Chokie, ndiwe, ndiwe! Mai wee! It’s you!’ shrieks a woman behind me.
Florence pulls away in a rush and almost knocks the woman over with a charging hug. The two of them walk inside the house. They have a lot to tell each other. I flop down on a chaise longue near the almost empty tubs of beer.
Suddenly Florence is shaking my knee. So annoying.
‘Come on, my American friend. Time to go.’
Chapter 6
It’s almost light outside. Only half a dozen people are still around. I take a swig of the beer I set by my feet a few hours earlier and stand up.
‘Will this party make it into your history book?’ asks Mawere.
‘I don’t know yet,’ I reply, ‘the editor might cut some parts.’
I ride in the backseat of Mawere’s Peugeot 504 with Florence and two other women. Comrade Tito sits in front with Mawere. Florence’s arm rests behind my neck. Each time the car turns left, the weight of all three women shifts onto me. Florence’s dress smells of sweetened sweat and wood smoke. She’s finishing off her last Castle as we drive.
‘Chef, you never expected me to arrive with a historian from America, handiti?’ says Florence as Mawere pulls to a stop at a traffic light. ‘He’ll be a genuine Zimbabwean once I give him a few dancing lessons,’ she adds, enjoying my blushing grin.
A red Volkswagen bug with three white teenagers inside draws up beside us. Florence mimics a dance to the Fleetwood Mac song on their stereo. The three try to copy her moves.
‘Help, chef,’ shouts Florence, ‘we’re drowning back here.’
She’s spilled her beer down her front and onto my pants. As the light turns green Mawere hands her a tea towel to dry us off. The vw pulls out onto the main road. A tan Mercedes coming at high speed doesn’t even brake. It catches the right rear fender of the vw sending it fifty yards down the road in a flurry of broken glass. Florence is pushing me out the door before I realise what’s happened. She hurries toward the vw in an uneven lope, the bottle of beer in one hand, tea towel in the other.
The impact has left a web of broken glass in the passenger side window. The shirtless driver staggers out of the car, blood spurting from his forehead.
‘Chef, go to one of these houses and call an ambulance,’ Florence instructs Mawere. ‘Ben, check on the passenger.’
I see Mawere walk toward a brick house where the driveway gate is ajar.
‘Lie on your back,’ Florence orders the driver. She helps him get down, then tells him to hold the tea towel against his wound.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks.
‘Geoff Gilbert.’
‘Where are we now?’
‘Somewhere in Harare, Cranborne I think. What is this, twenty questions?’
‘I just want to make sure your head is all right,’ replies Florence. ‘Look at my finger and follow it with your eyes.’
By now, people are emerging from the Mercedes. Two teenage girls in yellow dresses stand next to the car, flanked by a tall, grey-haired man in a blue shirt and yellow tie. The girls reach into the back seat and each pulls out a bright blue canvas backpack. They start running up the road.
The tall man walks over to the driver’s side of the vw. I look in on the male passenger in the front seat. He’s bent over, head in his hands. I tap him on the back.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘I think so,’ he replies. He has a thin beard and a pimply forehead.
‘My father will kill me,’ screeches a young dark-haired woman from the back seat of the vw. She’s crying although she has no visible wounds.
