Maruleng

NOTHING DISTURBED THE ritual. 

Joyce awoke at four AM, the morning sun timidly creeping through the curtains of her little bedroom, gently illuminating her weathered face. She slowly opened her weary eyes and reluctantly welcomed another day of solitude, every wrinkle on her face etched with a memory of these quiet mornings. As she sat up on the edge of her bed, wrapped in the silence that filled her empty home, the weight of her loneliness pressed down on her fragile shoulders.

She bathed with a bucket of cold water, then sat at the edge of the bed facing the mirror of the vanity dressing table her late husband bought her twenty years prior at Pelhams Furniture. No credit or lay-bye. Baba did not do credit, especially on his ‘going away gift’, as he’d called it.

She bobbed the bottle of Lanolin Milk lotion up and down, gently moisturising the stomach skin, slacked from forgetting mealtimes. She would smooth lemon-scented vanishing cream across her face, then go around the lips with Bint el Sudan petroleum jelly. The jar of camphor cream for the skin under her feet—unmedicated, never herbal—would be open. If the eczema behind her knees flared, she would slather it with aqueous cream. It had been a while since that happened. Eczema respected her old age. It revered her aged skin enough to know that after sixty, the scars might not fade.

She’d pull a brassiere on, lift the shrivelled areola, add some lotion around the down-turned nipples that had once nourished her three children, fit the clasp, then turn it around her belly, pulling each strap slowly, carefully, coaxing them over her delicately crepey shoulders. The pain of the right one would go off if she moved too quickly. Then she’d pull on her nylon slip or a petticoat with lace trim and get on her knees. She’d pray for her grandsons, Liam and Lance Jr, then for her daughters. Not that Fiona believed in God, but Maureen did. Sometimes, she acted like God herself. Joyce never prayed for herself, for that would be vain. She’d pray for her younger brother and his family, who’d never come home from the UK. She’d pray for Norbert, her son in Durban, who’d not returned in twenty years. Then, she’d send up a prayer for the country. Finally, she’d whisper to Baba, “Please look out for me.”

Baba was not her father but her late husband. She’d never called him by his name since they married at twenty—only Baba or Shewe. She’d put on her ring and look at their faded sepia wedding photo. She’d pull on a dress or a skirt and blouse. She’d walk to the sitting room in the front of her two-bedroomed core house and pull the faux leather door stopper from the foot of the entrance, go out and open the gate for Mai Muto, the stern cleaning lady that Maureen paid for. Joyce still swept the front yard herself, for she was an African woman and had been taught that she needed to sweep away the footprints of those who walked in the night from her home.

She’d have her tea after while looking at the hills that surrounded Mutare. Oh, how she loved that view. It reminded her of the hills she’d seen in Louis Trichardt as a child on a trip to Maruleng with her grandfather, who’d emigrated to Zimbabwe during apartheid.

Sometimes, she’d turn on the little silver Panasonic TV and the free-to-air Philibao decoder and watch the morning bulletin from across the border. Lately, the news was abuzz with images of looters with arms and vehicles piled high with goods. She was interested in the news from across the border, where her son lived. She prayed for him a lot, but especially now with the riots. She always lit a candle for him, especially knowing how his brash personality enjoyed chaos. He’d called before, after running from a mob chasing foreigners, saying he was done looking for gold in South Africa and was on his way home, but he never returned. He called and texted often, at least every Sunday evening.

---

SHE WOULD CROSS out the date on her calendar—not that there was anything to count down to. If it were a Tuesday, she’d walk to church three blocks away. The women’s guild met to clean the church pews, sweep the floors and practice hymns. It was mostly the older women—the widows like herself who prayed and gardened as the world turned around them.

The routine would not break. It was safe. Until her heel broke.

It was not a high heel but a modest, stable two-inch heel. A nun’s shoe, as Liam called it. Shangu dze ma sister. She wore them for comfort, the orthopaedics. As she trotted back from St Luke’s United Methodist Church, the heel snapped to the side. Disappointment came as a wave. She didn’t understand why it made her so dejected. They were just shoes.

She pulled the iron gate back and cursed to herself when she snapped up, knowing Mai Muto was watching. Joyce raised the shoe in Mai Muto’s direction.

“That’s a small issue, mhai. You know Banda?” she asked her frazzled employer.

Joyce shook her head as she walked up the path. Mai Muto shaded her eyes from the late August sun.

“The cobbler? He sometimes sits outside with the gate open. At number six. He’s very cheap. I’ll take them for you on the way home.”

On Friday, Mai Muto sent her daughter with a note saying that she couldn’t come in. Joyce needed her shoes to attend choir practice on Saturday morning, so she put her knitting away and headed to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac to collect them at noon.

The sign obscured by vines read “KGB. Cobbler, Carpenter, Bicycle Repair.” A tall man in a tweed paddy cap crouched near the house’s glass front door and spun the wheel of an overturned bicycle.

“Muriwadi?” She greeted with her soft voice and raised the other undamaged shoe of the pair. He turned to her with a surly look.

“I have $10 for the cream sandal with the broken heel. Mai Muto, who works at number ten, brought them.” His face softened as he waved her in. He quickly pulled off the cap, revealing a grey head of hair.

“Yes, ok, the glue should be dry now. Makadii mai?” He asked for her name as he ruffled through a pile of unpaired shoes.

“Mai Chikukwa. Joyce Chikukwa. Um, you’re Banda?”

“The one and only.”

He pulled out a backless chair for her and placed a newspaper for her to place her stockinged feet.

“No, please, isn’t that today’s paper?”

“Well, the news is only good once. It’s noon now. Once you read it, it’s old. Ma clean stockings angasviba.”

She appreciated him looking out for her stockinged feet.

“Chik—Chikukwa? Wait, Mr. Chikukwa. Was he head at Manica Secondary? He was my son’s headmaster. They were terrified of him!”

She laughed. “Yes, well, he was a disciplinarian.”

“What a beautiful laugh.”

Joyce felt the flush of heat rise in her cheeks until his next sentence brought her back to reality.

“So, Mai Chikukwa. Here is your shoe.”

She tried to hand him the crisp ten-dollar note, but he gestured it away.

“It only needed three stitches and some glue.”

Joyce received the shoe and stood. “Thank you.”

“What about tea? I just took mabura off the stove.”

She could never refuse a cup of tea. Or the sweet potatoes he’d mentioned.

She sat back down, her slender frame and perfect posture perched on the unstable chair. As he hobbled back inside, Joyce noted his work suit had a crisp line from being ironed. It was odd to see such smartness because the yard around told a different tale—it was filled with odds and ends—rubber sole cutouts, bits of twine, pieces of foam rubber and all sizes of bicycle spokes.

He came back out with a small table first, then returned with a tray with two cups, a sugar basin and a small stainless steel teapot, which he laid on the ground. On his next return, he brought out a spread of a basin of roast ox liver, roast peanuts and powdery scones in colourful basins with flowery designs.

“If the scones are dry, I’m sorry. I forgot them for ten minutes in the oven.”

She was not expecting such portions. Or that a gruff sort like him would bake. She clapped her hands in gratitude as he set everything down.

“So Chikukwa. Robert, yes?”

“No, Lance. Robert was the Maths teacher at Manica, but we weren’t related.”

He nodded, setting himself on a piece of cardboard on the ground beside her. She studied his face, barely visible cloudy eyes under bushy brows.

“Yes. I think he trained with Phyllis. Phyllis, my wife. She was a history teacher when we first got married. Then we had the children, and she stayed home.”

Joyce bit into a scone and covered her mouth. It was delightful. She let out a muffled “How many?”

“Four,” he replied, raising his fingers. “Nikita, Nicholas, Josef and Lenin.”

She smiled in recognition of the name theme.

“They called me KGB during the war. Kumbirai Gilbert Banda is the name. Made sense during the war. Then Phyllis taught History, so the Soviet names just came naturally.”

They spoke easily about their children, how they met their spouses, and their past lives as working members of society. He told her about working at the Bata Shoe Factory for thirty years, and she shared how she’d been a mortgage clerk at Beverly Building Society. She noticed the teeth on both ends of his mouth that rode on others, how they were still bright—a boyish smile on an old man. She found him funny.

He explained how his wonky small finger got that way when her gaze lingered at the copper elephant hair bangle on his slim wrist. Banda explained how his cobbler’s needle hooked into him, and he had to smear betadine on it for months. 

When the teapot was empty, he got up and brewed another. No one had ever made her tea. At least, none this good. Her daughters, begrudgingly. Baba was to be served always. She’d never bother the domestic helper with such a fickle request. She must have poured four cups of the sugary beverage as they spoke.

“What do you think of Gutu? The local MP. People think he can make changes, but he can’t even pay for shoe repair. Do you think he’s worth a vote?”

Joyce had never been asked about politics.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure he’s a nice man,” she replied, taking another sip of delicious tea.

He was amused.

“Well, likely, there’s a lot of red tape that an independent candidate is up against. He needs to meet with the community and then raise funds. Or drop flyers in our letter-boxes so we at least know what he stands for.”

 He shifted his hat at her insightful answer.

“One wonders if the post still works! I haven’t received bills in months. I might just send a letter to see.”

“I’m sure it does.”

Joyce glanced at her watch, aware that she’d been chatting with the stranger for over an hour. He noticed but pressed on.

“You said you had sons and daughters?”

“Yes. Norbert in S.A., and Martin. I had Martin. He drove himself drunk into a tree a week after getting his licence.”

Joyce’s slender fingers curled tightly on the speckled cup. 

“That’s very sad. I’m sorry, nematambudziko. I think he played soccer with my Josef in high school.”

He steered the conversation, so they touched on sport. “It’s been nice to talk to someone about real things. To not be arguing over soccer betting. I always lose anyway.”

“I never followed football much. I mostly watch gospel shows, and I spend most of my time with the widows’ group and the burial society. We cook and sing.”

“Are they your friends?” he asked.

“I would say so.”

But she didn’t think so. The guild were women whom one couldn’t trust with actual information. The one time she’d tried to raise the topic of physical needs after Baba died, they’d prayed for her demons and suggested she go for counselling with a stoic Catholic nun, Sr. Something or other, who told her to splash her face with cold water, chew on ice and pray. A life of service and exercise was the remedy to any hormonal stirring. That was that.

“Well, we fellowship together. When ill, we visit one another.”

“Sounds nice enough. The church group my wife was in said she didn’t pray enough when she got ill, so I stopped going altogether.” 

“We do what we need to do to find comfort. It’s so strange to say these things out loud, especially to strangers.”

“Are we not friends yet?”

She felt a flutter in her belly. Three hours was certainly a long time to chat so intimately with a stranger.

“Well, no—but, well, I don’t mean to offend you, Va Banda, but—”

“It’s okay, Mai Chikukwa. Let me get a plastic bag for your shoe.” He stood and brushed his hands on his trousers and took in the tray with the empty crockery.

When he came back, he was stoic.

“I just watched a woman in Durban throw her baby out of a window of a burning building. The rioters set the shop they were looting alight.”

“Oh, no!”

“The crowd caught him and rescued her, I think, but still. I don’t understand it. How does destroying property make your candidate look good? At least my son came home. Home is best.”

Joyce chewed the last morsels in her mouth slowly. She was alarmed—still thinking about the baby thrown out of a window.

He shifted again.

“Your son in SA. How is he living there? They don’t want us. I can only imagine what it’s like. Is he safe?”

She stirred. “I hope so.”

The mood shifted. Joyce rose. She felt unsure of herself as he walked her back up the cul-de-sac to her house at the corner. They mutually wished each other a good day.

---

THREE DAYS LATER, Mai Muto trudged into the house, back in full health.

Joyce was having her tea and watching the stolen news channel streaming on her little television. She was both numb and fascinated by the images of people blocking roads, jumping on trucks and running off with goods, in awe of the masked stick-wielding protesters marching and dancing and singing, all for their former leader. She couldn’t understand it. She’d never felt strongly enough about a politician to risk her life. Norbert said he was fine, but how long could he escape the violence? With every flashing image, she prayed she wouldn’t catch her son’s face, detained by police or, worse, disfigured by protestors.

Joyce welcomed the distraction of the loud housekeeper and switched off the TV.

“Tsamba, mhai,” Mai Muto said and handed Joyce the blue airmail par avion envelope that she’d retrieved from the mailbox at the gate.

Joyce put down her teacup, cracked out the single folded lined sheet, and felt immediate warmth seeing the shaky cursive in black ink.

‘Dear Joyce. 

If you get this, then Zimpost works. The stamp was so cheap it felt like it wouldn’t be delivered. They said local takes two days. Thank you for your warmth and for listening to me. I enjoyed our talk. I’m sorry if I worried you talking about that baby in the Zuma riots. I saw you on Sunday. You look very smart in your church uniform. Which Methodist is it? I think the church split reminds me of Manchester United (the ones who wear red) versus Man City (blue and white uniforms). You’ll let me know which yours is. That’s our first soccer lesson. I would formally like to ask for your friendship. If you need anything, I’m here. 

Yours. KGB.’

Her grandfather’s words rang through her head as she put the newsprint sheath down, “Joyi, A man knows immediately, and he will tell you and make plans to have you with him. That’s not a decision we think about. It’s either a yes or a no.”

Baba Maureen told her his intentions on their first meeting on a train ride. And here was this man asking for her friendship after one conversation. Butterflies fluttered in her belly, and an excited hope stirred in her dormant heart.

Mai Muto stood for a while behind Joyce’s seat, spied the initials, and then let out a gasp.

Joyce hurriedly folded the paper.

“Mhai?” Mai Muto asked as she pulled out a seat and sat down.

“Yes?” Joyce’s stomach coiled, waiting to be admonished.

“I’m sorry for having big eyes, but if he’s writing you letters, that’s exciting. Banda is a good man. He’s lonely, like you. It’s good to have friends, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Mai Muto, wait, I—”

Mai Muto put her pudgy hand over her boss’ fair hand. 

“Mhai, I’ll keep your secret if you keep it to yourself. I work here, and I don’t want to be involved in any scandal. So, here—”

Mai Muto pushed out of her seat, went into the main bedroom, and brought out a single-heeled shoe in a plastic bag, “At least look the part if you go back.”

Joyce smiled as Mai Muto instructed, “Write a response, and I’ll take it to number six when I’m done today.”

She winked, then went outside to water the mustard greens in the garden.

Reinvigorated, Joyce went into her room and pulled out her notebook. She wrote her request and an invitation and put it in the same envelope she’d received Banda’s letter. She felt crazy—fearful but excited as she left the missive on the table next to Mai Muto’s daily payment. She went back into her room and locked the door.

---

MONDAY CAME AROUND. Joyce did her morning ritual, but instead of her usual body creams, she dug around in the toiletry bag of cosmetics from Boots that she’d never used. Serums, face masks, body oils—fancy UK toiletries that Maureen sent. Inspired, she picked a pretty white summer dress with a red flame lily pattern Fiona had sent from Australia. It was sleeveless and hung to her mid-calf, which she felt was a little revealing. But it fit so well, and she loved that when she twirled, it flared. Plus, it had pockets.

Joyce set the table, first putting the mats opposite each other. She looked for a moment, then switched his plate to the head of the table where Shewe had sat many years before. She froze for a moment, remembering his slow descent into illness two decades prior.

How lucky she’d been to meet the confident, stocky Lancelot Chikukwa at the train station in Plumtree. Set in his ways but an excellent father, he was stoic when the prostate cancer struck. How many men his age heard the same diagnosis and shrugged it off? 

“If it’s there, then what can we do about it? God says you go, then you go.”

She’d remembered the last time he’d held her. They were alone in their house on the sofa as the rain drummed on the asbestos roof. She remembered because her son had told her he was going to S.A. because he couldn’t watch his old man die.

“Mai Maureen. This really hurts,” Baba had said, all hope abandoning his frail body. Then they’d wept. And she’d rubbed his bald dome, and that was the last coherent conversation they’d had. 

And yet here was a man who called her by her name with as much tenderness, and yet the only person she wanted to tell was her husband. Maybe just like the citizens she saw fighting and screaming for their former leader recently on the news, she couldn’t let go.

The tang of a stone rapping on the metal gate pulled her back from her sad thoughts. She hadn’t looked forward to a conversation in a very long time.

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered again wildly as she went to the gate. He was dressed in a blue formal shirt and blue jeans with tan farmer shoes.

They shook hands. A part of her wished they’d at least give each other a church hug angled to the side. She held that hope to herself.

He carried the boiled chicken wrapped in newspaper and a bottle of Amarula Cream Liqueur, as she’d requested. Joyce had the cream liqueur at her ten-year marriage anniversary. The fruit of the marriage tree made an amazing, sweet drink, and the intoxicating memory had never left her.

“Fresh from the market,” he said, handing her the oily meat package.

She thanked him and ushered him inside.

He entered, guarded. She could sense his discomfort until she directed him to the mountains of food on the table. He clapped his hands before cupping them above a plastic dish. She poured warm, soapy water for him to wash his hands.

“I’m not used to all this. I just usually boil and fry things twice a week and survive on that.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t remarry so you could enjoy this cooking all the time,” she said, placing the dish down.

Banda shrugged. “You and my brothers. I guess it’s expected.”

“Well,” she said, “only widows mourn. Widowers replace.”

“Unlike others, I couldn’t replace her. A few tried. I don’t know if you can strike gold twice, but who knows.”

Their eyes met for a moment. He pointed at the picture of Baba above the clock. The disapproving stare in the graduation photo made him shift gear.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to the old man?”

She told him. He listened intently, warm, cloudy eyes not moving from her face as she spoke. He was more matter-of-fact when he shared his own story.

“Cancer. What an enemy to fight. Ours was ovarian. Or uterine. Something deep inside. Does it matter in the end? We used herbs. They said she had one year, but we had three. And at that time, treatment prices changed every day.”

Joyce had only had six months with Baba from diagnosis, which passed in a blur. They spoke about the big economic changes that had upended their lives.

“Where were you in 2008?” Joyce asked.

“In South Africa with my youngest. With the Zuma riots, Lenin is back now, but he has his own home. You?”

“UK with my eldest. She’s the one that’s here, running my life. Sorry, that was rude.” She looked down, embarrassed.

“Not really. When you have kids, they run your life. Did you like it? The UK?”

She enjoyed how he didn’t shame her for her candour but carried on, grabbing another slice of the chimodho corn bread she’d baked.

“Not at all. She took me on a tour at a care home where she worked, but that’s not for me.”

“I get you. I worked for my house. I’ll die in it if I must.”

How easy it was for them to talk about death. 

They continued and spoke about how they both still loved radio, Classic FM, to be specific. He offered to fix her cassette player. She stood and turned the old stereo on, sitting on the arm of her sofa just in time to catch the news headline in a showery wave of static:

“…And now, from beyond our borders, the N3 highway linking Gauteng and KwaZulu-Natal has been blocked, with delivery trucks set alight…”

Va Banda saw her body tense up and cut the reader’s nasal announcement short with a suggestion.

“We don’t have to listen, dear. Turn it off. I can look at the antenna and reception, too. I much prefer vinyl albums to the news, you know?”

He placed a rugged hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. Her unease melted away almost immediately.

Joyce lifted her doe eyes towards his milky pair. She was about to ask for his favourite old record when Maureen burst through the door with an authoritative swish.

“Mummy.”

Joyce bolted up. Banda turned.

“We were just having tea, and—” Maureen didn’t give her a chance to respond.

“Sir, please go.”

“He’s still having his tea—”

Maureen didn’t acknowledge her mother’s quivering voice but instead moved out of the doorway and pointed to the door.

“Budai, Va Banda”

He did as he was told, thanked Joyce with a nod, and slunk out with his cap curled in his hand. 

Maureen slammed the door as soon as he left. “In my father’s chair, mummy! In my father’s house?”

Joyce tried to pick up the plates, but Maureen pushed her aside lightly.

“I’ll take care of this before the boys come. Go and lie down, mummy. I think you’re not well.”

Maureen had inherited the mole above her left eyelid, her curious light brown eyes, and her small top lip. Despite those dainty features, she’d taken her father’s build. She was frightening when angry, which had been her capital trait since birth four decades before. She would have been fine in the Zuma riots, not her sweet Norbert. Maureen had always been a bully. Joyce pulled all her strength to shout her daughter’s name to ward her off.

“Maureen, stop!”

“Mbuya wa Lance! Behave!”

The well-thought-out label landed as insultingly as intended. Lance’s grandmother was silenced and heartbroken.

The message came through loud and clear. She was Lance’s grandmother. Just Gogo, who baked scones and babysat. Only Gogo, whose nonenal made her grandson say she ‘smelled stale’. A sixty-something-year-old relic that bothered no one but everyone was bothered by. The recipient of annoyed pity, not of affection. She was now her daughter’s child, who was told when she was cold and when to wear cardigans. She had to report when she’d go out to visit friends without supervision. She was not Joyce, who spritzed Boots perfume in sleeveless short dresses, sipping Amarula with a man she looked forward to seeing. It was insane to have this much hope for a friendship—more than a friendship—to bloom. There was to be no more romance. There was to be no more love.

Joyce ran defeated into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She threw herself onto the bed and cried silently into the pillow.

---

AN HOUR LATER, Maureen knocked on the open window. She poked her head through the window. Maureen spoke softly, unable to hide the quiver in her voice.

“Mummy, please, just listen. It’s not that I don’t want you to have friends or acquaintances, but if people see some man coming here who’s not Ba Lance, how will it look? It’s not that I don’t want you to be happy, but mummy, you can find happiness in, I don’t know, baking? Or your knitting. You haven’t made anything for me in years. Where do you think this will end, mummy? You have your grandkids here, and we haven’t been home in so long that—Well, mummy, we’re here, and we’re family, and we can do things together. You know, respectable family fun.”

Joyce hardly stirred and held back a sniff. Maureen continued.

“How will the boys—Mummy, they are so impressionable. It’s already hard enough that they see the news with violence where their uncle is. They can’t deal with this. You will not see him! Not in my father’s house!”

Joyce sat up and faced her firstborn squarely. She was determined not to let her happiness dim.

“He’s my friend! KGB is not a bad man. He’s—” Joyce stopped short, unsure how to continue with her daughter’s accusatory gaze bearing down on her.

“KGB. KGB? Mum, that’s Baba Banda. Va Banda, who was married to a lady from our church! Mummy, please. Think about it. If you die, God forbid, who will you be with in heaven? Why spoil your chances at eternal happiness?”

Joyce turned away. There was no winning.

“Just put on a jacket, and let’s eat. I made the scallion potatoes you like. Please, don’t, mummy, don’t be moody. Let’s not disturb the boys with things they will question. They will be here with their father soon. Please get up. Put on something warm. And shut the windows; mosquitoes will get in.”

Maureen left in a huff.

Despite the surrounding stillness, Joyce’s mind buzzed with the echoes of her late husband’s laughter and the warmth of his touch. God. How long had it been? Twenty-two years since he’d passed and fifteen since the widow’s fire had burned itself out.

Now, here was this man whose arm veins made her wonder a little. She was hopeful. She couldn’t help herself. For shame. Sixty years old, and thinking about that—Wondering what it would feel like to be held again. For a fleeting moment, she assumed that she might find the joy of being desired and admired again.

Since those coupled nights, the only times she’d had company in her bed were the episodes of being kicked by her grandsons when they were younger and sharing with her daughters, who hogged the blankets and had acrylic nails on cold feet that scratched her relentlessly. Joyce got up, caught her puffy face briefly in the vanity mirror, and shut the windows as she was told.

---

TUESDAY CAME AROUND, and the family walked quietly from the church after doing cleaning duties together. Lance and Liam walked ahead of the two women, annoyed that they’d had to help. The Manica Post newspaper headline holder at the tuckshop screamed, “300 Dead In SA Riot Death Toll!” Three men stood at the tuckshop, hunched over a single newspaper. Joyce spotted him carrying a rubber bicycle tyre. Her heart jumped. He caught her eye, too. Maureen shifted and moved ahead, her full height casting a shadow on her much shorter mother. 

His excited smile faded to a curt nod of knowing as they walked past. Joyce’s stomach dropped.

She looked at the back of Maureen’s head—she had her father’s head. Maureen was the apple of everyone’s eye. Did she know what it felt like to crave conversation or to ache for a hug? Not the big boisterous hugs from the grandsons, but to feel the warmth of clasped hands in a genuine embrace. She missed even the mundane conversations about school fees and house repairs. She looked back for a moment, hoping she could at least wave or mouth a date to meet, but he was gone.

They got home, and Joyce headed straight to the kitchen for water to quench her parched throat.

“Mummy?” 

Joyce dropped the glass she held.

“Mom, you’re shaking. Are you cold? Liam, get Gogo’s jumper, please.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, mummy. We’re seeing Dr Badza tomorrow. I hope it’s not Parkinson’s. That might be hereditary, so maybe the boys need to get checked.”

Maureen was like her father. Oblivious, always chatting away to themselves after making decisions for everyone around them.

Joyce sat as her daughter rambled on, and Liam jumped right next to her. He’d never known how to read anyone’s desire for space. Bless him.

Joyce stared at the local soap opera flickering on the TV screen and zoned out as her grandson rambled about a video game or some internet thing. She didn’t follow. She didn’t have the desire to mentally translate.

“Liam. Let’s speak in Shona. If we can do that, I’ll bake for you!”

“Um, gogo, can you also give me ten dollars?”

“Liam!”

“I’m only joking, gogo!” He wasn’t and winked conspiratorially at his grandma. Joyce didn’t mind. She seldom used all the pounds sent to her. What did money mean anyway? What was it all worth?

Mbuya wa Lance dutifully went through the rest of the evening, coddling her grandsons and staying out of her daughter’s path. She was secretly elated when Maureen took her family to her husband’s family home on the other side of Mutare. 

When she retired to bed, Joyce let the television play softly in the background, numb to the images of bandaged men screaming about jobs and crime in the neighbouring country. She closed her eyes and cried, for unlike them, her wounds couldn’t be seen, and no bandage could contain the misery of her broken heart.

---

JOYCE WOKE UP to the usual glint of sunlight slicing through the gap in the curtains. With a sigh, she sat up in her bed and surveyed her grey world. She was back to her lonely mornings and eternal mourning. She braced herself, the quiet click of her kneecaps shifting into place as she stooped behind at first, then straightened up slowly. She got up with a low groan on the second attempt. 

She shuffled towards the window, her steps slow and deliberate. Looking out at the world outside, she wondered how to accept that the world had forgotten her heart’s existence. She would have to forget the genuine connection. She could never have that feeling again. It had to be possible! She spied the dejected bottle of Amarula leaning against the wall next to the black trash bag. She would not sweep the yard for once. Let the witches have their way. She turned back and sat on her marital bed, fingered her wedding photo and longed for the hills of Maruleng before she knew what love ever was.

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Emelda Nyaradzai Gwitimah is from Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, and currently resides in Canada. She holds an MFA in Writing and Publishing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A finalist for the African Writers Awards for Poetry, her work has been published in Aké Review, The Michigan Quarterly Review, Bambazonke, The Willowherb Review, The Post Online Journal, Ipikai Poetry Journal, the Our Stories Redefined African Poetry Anthology, and twice in the Intwasa Festival Short Story Anthology. You can follow her on X @bellaemelda.