you like nyama or chicken?’ she asks. Since I don’t know what nyama is, I opt for chicken.
‘And to drink, sir?’ she asks. Her smile grows with each question.
‘A Coke, please.’
I start to hand her the money but the Indian man reaches over and takes it. She brings me a Coke in a much recycled bottle, the kind we used to get when I was a Cub Scout. Part of the glass looks frosted. I like the feel of the cold, sweating bottle in my hand.
A couple of minutes later, the woman hands me a green metal bowl. I’m almost too nervous to eat. There’s lots of chatter in Shona. War wounds could be close to the surface and I’m an easy scapegoat, especially after jumping the line. I remember the white driver’s warning about the ‘munts’.
The bowl holds four pieces of chicken, including a foot. The cook has poured gravy over the chicken but the little white mountain of sadza remains dry.
All five of the white plastic tables are occupied. I stutterstep as I walk away from the counter, trying to figure out where to sit. I want to avoid the man who objected to the Indian serving me first.
An old man eating alone pulls out a chair. ‘You can sit here, sir,’ he says, patting the seat of the chair.
‘I’m Nyatsanza from Mutare,’ he informs me as I get closer.
He holds out a limp wrist. I grab the top of his forearm and pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. Two young boys at the next table press the backs of their hands to their mouths to conceal a snicker. A pair of women behind them give each other a smacking high five.
‘I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.’
As I look at his face, he turns away. One of his eyes has no iris. His overalls have a faint smell of engine oil. He must be on his lunch break.
‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you,’ I say.
‘No, sir. Not at all. We are all Zimbabweans now,’ he replies.
My eating utensil is a silver tablespoon with chips in the plating. I don’t know where to start.
‘Sir, you can wash your hands,’ Mr Nyatsanza tells me. He nods toward a wooden stand near the wall which supports a green metal bowl much larger than mine. A white hand towel with a few dirty finger marks hangs on a hook next to the stand.
I walk over to the bowl. Tiny food particles peek out at me through the cloudy water. My hands go into the cold liquid, slosh around a little bit, and then dry themselves on the towel. Ready to eat.
I’m not quite sure how to handle a chicken foot. I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to eat it. Maybe it’s like a ham bone, there to add flavour. A man at one of the other tables holds his chicken foot in both hands while he nibbles at the skin. I do the same and no one laughs. The chicken foot doesn’t have much to sink my teeth into and the sadza has no real flavour. When I spoon the gravy on top I can pretend it’s mashed potatoes.
As I scoop up the last piece of sadza, Mr Nyatsanza nods toward the handwashing bowl. ‘It’s warm now, sir,’ he says.
Back I go, this time finding clear water and a slightly cleaner towel. I thank Nyatsanza for his hospitality and am leaving when I hear a banging on the window.
‘Sir, someone wants to speak to you,’ Nyatsanza says. He points to a face pressed against the front window of the shop. The watch repairman. Before my anger has a chance to boil over, he holds up my watch and motions for me to come outside. I tell him to come in. I don’t want another sidewalk convention of onlookers.
‘Sir, you dropped your watch,’ he tells me as he comes through the door. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He hands me the watch. He’s added a new leather band.
‘It’s still running,’ he boasts with that gap-toothed smile.
I offer him a reward but the most he will accept is a cold Coke, not enough to drown the shame of my mistrust.
At exactly 2.31 p.m. I head back to the hotel. A few clouds have rolled in. I wind my way through various gauntlets of polite but persistent street sellers. I’ve stopped worrying about my wallet.
Suddenly the skies pour forth like a summer storm in the Midwest. People run everywhere. I tuck myself next to a few damp bodies in the doorway of another café. After a few minutes, the rain stops and everyone returns to their normal activities.
With a clammy shirt and dripping hair, I re-enter the commercial fray. By the time I lie down on my bed again, I’m the owner of a soapstone rhino and a four-foot-tall giraffe whittled from a soft, light-coloured wood. Hilary might like it. Along the way I have also acquired a small bag of boom-boom for three dollars, in case I ever need to perform like an African chief.
Everything seems in order, though the giraffe doesn’t stand quite straight on the floor. As I drift off to sleep I think I see it fall over.
Chapter 4
My first foray through Harare leaves me in shock. I expected liberation to hit me in the face. I’m disappointed at how quickly I become fear-ridden and suspicious. I take refuge in the hotel, reading through my notes and books. I make a master list of all 1527 cards, giving each one a number and title. The exercise reassures me. I am still in control.
After two days of seclusion, I visit the hotel bar, the Princess Lounge. I’m not settled enough to contact the people on my list.
The Princess is neither royal nor feminine. The lounge has the same dark panelling as the hotel lobby; the same picture of Mugabe hangs above the door. A pay-to-play snooker table is the centrepiece. Four black college students compete for a coin they have set on the wooden rim of the table.
Behind them, two white men sit at the end of the bar, talking as if in perpetual dialogue. One wears a pair of veldskoens, the local desert boot, with khaki shorts and no socks. The other has on leather sandals. They pay as little attention to the pool table as they have to their grooming.
I sit at a brown plastic-topped table for two. The waiter arrives. His name tag says ‘Obert’. He has a neatly trimmed moustache with a touch of grey and a white towel is draped over his arm. He lists the available beers for me: Castle, Lion and Black Label.
‘What’s cold on tap?’ I ask.
‘Tap beer is finished, sir. Most of the Europeans enjoy a Lion.’
‘Is it cold?’ I ask, remembering that Zimbabwe is a former British colony. I’ve heard rumours that the English drink warm beer. I don’t believe it, but I don’t want to take any chances.
‘Yes, sir. The Lion is cold,’ Obert replies.
‘I’ll have a Lion and a Castle.’
‘Two beers, sir. Are you expecting someone?’
‘No, I’ll drink two. Save you the trouble of coming back.’
‘I’m coming now-now with the beer.’
Obert brings me two brown bottles and two frosted glasses. The beer tastes bitter at first but the flavour lingers nicely. After four sips I’m becoming a convert.
As
