1960s singer Lesley Gore. The main thoroughfare is First Street Mall, a vast walkway of freshly laid bricks.
I go into Barbours, one of the city’s most exclusive shops. Nearly all of the sales staff are white women in those Lesley Gore hairdos. In the perfume section, a tall black woman in a pink suit sprays something on her left wrist, and then tries a second spray on the right. ‘That one’s lovely,’ I hear her telling a smiling saleswoman. This is a revolution of sorts. Before 1980, stores on First Street didn’t allow blacks inside. They had to shop via kiosk windows at the side of the store or in a back alley.
I look for coloured t-shirts and, instead, run into racks of safari suits – blue, tan, brown, even a crisp white, presumably for weddings. A clerk tells me to try Greatermans for t-shirts.
Back on the street, a newspaper vendor sells the daily for twelve Zimbabwean cents. Headlines speak of the impending wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana, and of dissidents in Matabeleland. Nothing of consequence.
After a few more blocks, the comfortable distance between shoppers narrows. The broad landscape of First Street Mall shrinks to sidewalks no wider than my reach. Now I’m touching elbows, shoulders, backs and fronts. Children in tow scrape against my knees. A few people do a double take when they see me. Several gaze at my blue-striped Adidas running shoes. Though I’m the only white person in sight, I’m not frightened. I read curiosity, not hostility.
Foot traffic congests behind a white-bearded man who plods along with the aid of an intricately carved cane. As I overtake him, he stops and raises his hand to the brim of his porkpie hat.
‘Good morning, master,’ he says.
‘Good morning, sir,’ I reply and increase my pace.
Many shops profile their presence with three-foot-high speakers set on either side of the entrance. Distorted versions of local hits bounce off the passing crowds. The music complements the smell of chicken, fish and potatoes frying in near-rancid cooking oil. Diesel buses add their pungent billows of black smoke to the mixture.
I stop to examine the wares of a young watch repairman. He’s proudly mounted his 1976 certificate from the ‘Westchester School of Watch Repair’ in a well-worn plastic cover. I pick up a silver Elgin with an analogue dial from another era.
‘That one is self-winding,’ he boasts. ‘You never have to worry. Twenty dollars for you, my friend.’
He stands up and selects three or four other watches from his stock. ‘I also have these,’ he says, laying them across his thick wrist.
‘I’ll give you five dollars for the Elgin,’ I say.
‘I can’t take less than fifteen for such a masterpiece. A man offered me fourteen yesterday and I refused.’
‘I guess I don’t need it,’ I reply.
I’m not sure why I’m haggling with this man. It’s a way of making contact, I guess.
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I’ll take that fourteen dollars today. Special reconciliation price.’
‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ I promise and walk away. He calls me back.
‘Sir, it will be gone by then. Take it for twelve.’ He smiles sheepishly, revealing the huge gap between his front teeth. I pull out a Zimbabwean ten-dollar bill plus two one-dollar coins and drop them in his hand. He straps the band around my wrist.
As I look at the watch, a flock of salespeople surrounds me. They offer combs, candy, doormats, baskets. A young man holding a piece of cardboard dotted with watch batteries begins to quarrel with an even younger girl hawking heart-shaped gold lockets with an ‘I love you’ inscription. I’m not sure where all this is heading or if I’ll have to buy what they’re offering to escape unscathed.
Just as I’m about to run for it, the watch salesman intervenes. He puts an arm around me and waves the olive branch of his right hand. The cacophony of the sales pitches evaporates, as if the pontiff has spoken. ‘Give the gentleman a space to walk,’ he says.
The vendors separate. The crowd of pedestrians who have gathered to assess the disturbance returns to business as usual. Half a block away, I realise my watch is gone. Was the entire group in on the act or did an opportunistic thief merely take advantage of the situation? I don’t know and I’m definitely not going back to ask.
I dart along the pedestrian path, dodging tiny piles of tomatoes, onions and bananas. Three for a dollar, four for a dollar, five for a dollar. Amidst this sidewalk commerce, unselfconscious mothers sit on kerbs nursing their babies. I’m not worrying about them though, or the street-corner shoe repairmen who beaver their way through stacks of pumps, wingtips and loafers in need of rejuvenation. My mind is on my wallet, my passport and any other target for a thief. I wonder if someone might try for my shoes.
As I reach the periphery of the shopping area, a young man in a navy blue sports jacket approaches. A silver cross hangs from a chain around his neck. He pulls a white handkerchief from his front pocket and dabs his forehead. The air is getting heavier, clouds are moving in.
‘Sir, don’t you want to last longer?’ he asks me.
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I reply, unsure of where he’s going with this.
‘I have just the thing for you, mupfuwhira love potion plus my boom-boom.’ He shows me some brown powder in a baby food jar.
‘The perfect recipe for perfect love,’ he assures me. ‘With my boom-boom you can last the whole night. Even African women will love you, handiti?’
‘I guess so,’ I reply. He puts two little packets into the palm of my hand.
‘Just five dollars for the two,’ he says. ‘Guaranteed. The madam is going to love you tonight.’
‘I don’t need them right now,’ I reply. I drop the packets into his jacket pocket.
‘Don’t you want to last, sir? You can be as powerful as an African chief.’
‘I guess not,’ I reply, stepping back and patting my back pocket to make sure my wallet is still there. I leave him behind and set out in search of something to eat. I duck into a small café called Tafara Take-Aways. The minute I enter everyone goes quiet for a few seconds as they scrutinise the newcomer. I’m trying to read the menu on the wall while I hide my concerns about pickpockets and armed robbers.
An Indian man at the cash register looks over the heads of the six people in front of me in the line. ‘Sir, can I help you?’ he asks.
‘Yes, but I’ll wait my turn.’
‘We can serve you now. No one will mind.’
I keep scanning the menu board. Two black men in front of me mumble to each other in Shona. ‘We were here,’ one of them says to the Indian man, who ignores them and keeps looking at me.
‘What would you like, sir?’ asks a plumpish black woman standing next to the Indian. She’s wearing a blue apron. Someone in the line speaks to her in Shona. She spits back a reply. I should wait my turn, but I’m hungry and don’t know how to handle the situation.
‘Sadza,’ I answer. She giggles at my reply. Sadza is a thick sort of porridge, something like grits. At least
