‘Space’

Her legs were sore from standing; dry beans took a long time to cook. If the beans had been soaked overnight, they would have cooked in a quarter of the time, so also saving their precious firewood, Naomi thought. But there was no room for common sense in prison; here, she had to do as she was told.

Two new vats gleamed against the white kitchen walls, now stained brown with splattered beans and crusts of dried sadza porridge. Flames leapt inside the wood stove. Both prisoners and officials were proud to have a well-equipped kitchen at last. Fearful of an outbreak of diarrhoea, the chief warden had written innumerable letters in support of yet another set of those press-hard-you’re-writing-on-three government requisition forms. Business English was not her forte, so the tone of her letters was uncomfortably direct, bordering on rude. Five O-Level passes including English language and maths had not been a requirement in the early seventies when she was recruited from the street. Then a strong body was the passport to prison service, so the chief warden at five feet nine inches with a big-boned frame had been quickly accepted into the service. Her military bearing was an advantage in someone meant to inspire terror. Should this fail her, then a prison guard was expected to physically subdue prisoners with a violent streak, or to run and catch those who tried to escape. Women prisoners rarely escaped anyway; on the odd occasion when they did, the state had to look no further than their homes, where they would be found with their youngest child on their lap wiping away the snot from its nose.

• * *

The kitchen had needed renovations to cater for the swelling number of inmates: young mothers who had sold mbanje, shoplifted, assaulted or killed in anger; not-so-young single mothers, accomplices to organized crime who had picked up gold, emeralds or some such precious stones from the small mines dotted throughout the country to deliver to Mr X in the city; young girls, hardly beyond their teens, abandoned by lovers when they fell pregnant and risked their lives scouring their wombs to escape the wrath of their parents and the shame of single motherhood; housemaids who had stolen a blanket or something similar from their madams; and a handful of educated women who had fiddled the accounts to make quick money. Cooped up in the battered green prison truck with wire mesh over their tiny windows they sat in silence, carrying their crime like a hard-boiled egg stuck in the throat. When the old truck drew to a halt inside Churu prison complex they sat erect, fearful of the life ahead.

Though isolated, Churu was not far from the capital city – an hour’s drive east, leaving the main tarred road at Cement Circle and turning left onto dusty corrugations at the barracks. One bumped down this road, over a small stream, up a hill and finally over one last traffic boom outside the prison complex. Here a group of teenage-seeming prison guards sat outside a wooden hut, ancient rifles on their laps. Women prisoners arrived from the length and breadth of the country: Bindura, Mandikisi, Chiredzi, Mutimurefu, Marondera, Mutare, Harare and any-where else where the magistrate and high courts were located.

Inmates took turns to cook. Naomi had received a lighter duty than other members of her cooking team, and she chewed a few beans to see if they were cooked. Maria, Chipo and Sarah stood at the sadza vat, their faces glistening with sweat, occasionally stepping outside the kitchen to escape the heat. Their arms ached from lifting the huge cooking sticks as they folded more maize-meal into the pot and squeezed out the lumps until the sadza was a smooth thick porridge that held onto the cooking stick. It was a hot day. The sun was nearly halfway across the blue sky. Inmates would soon make their way in single file for lunch. Only one table had to be set: plastic plates stacked in piles, along with a large tin can of drinking water to which an enamel cup was chained.

Naomi threw a handful of salt onto the beans. She could also have added cooking oil, but she had lost the bottle to Mbuyagadhi, who was watching over them. The latter had got up from the table to ease the stiffness in her legs giving Naomi an opportunity to peep into her bag that was placed underneath the table. It contained cooking oil, sugar and tea-leaves. Mbuyagadhi turned and looked back at her with eyes satirical and condemning. No words were spoken but her reproach was understood: if you dare to report me you’ll make life impossible for yourself. Naomi cowered under her gaze. And in an effort to please, she started to clear the table, putting the chipped teacup on the tray first, then the teapot and lastly the bowl of white sugar, stained brown from careless dipping with a wet spoon.

‘Thank you Naomi.’ Naomi was relieved. She was safe. The danger of a trumped-up charge that could lengthen her stay in prison had been temporarily removed.

• * *

Naomi was kneeling at the doorway of the chief warden’s office with a plate of food. Her escort, Mbuyagadhi, stepped into the office and stood to attention, her hands balled into fists and her arms stiff and straight against her body. The chief warden was on the telephone, her voice ringing with authority.

‘You want to bring what? … Prison rules do not allow that. No.’

Naomi let her eyes wander on the walls of the office where a huge framed photograph hung. She had difficulty recognising the president. It was an outdated picture from the early days of his rule. Next to it was another, a man in army uniform, the left breast of his jacket decked with medallions befitting high rank. The commissioner of prisons; Naomi remembered him from his tour of duty. Flanked by other high-ranking prison officials, he inspected the building cell by cell and ended with an address to the inmates assembled under the dining shade. He was a personable man, with friendly and easy manner. His face smiling and reassuring, he encouraged inmates to voice complaints about their living conditions. Right there, before the prison guards. The women flicked surreptitious glances at each other, collectively assessing the risk involved. Their distrust – or was it fear – of him was unanimous? He urged them to feel free to speak up but nobody dared test his sincerity. They suspected another persona, a dark one, would come out if the man of power were slighted – he did not get the medals for nothing. When he concluded the speech with, so everybody is happy, there’re no complaints, the inmates smiled ingratiatingly. The chief warden was still on the phone.

‘No, we do not allow Lux soap.

‘No, Geisha soap is prohibited too, scented soaps. Luxuries are not allowed.

‘No. Prison rules do not allow you to bring sanitary pads.

‘No.’ She replied again to another question, her voice high and triumphant.

‘No, no, no. Please, don’t waste my time. You can buy her all the luxuries you want when she comes home.

‘This is prison. Not a hotel. I cannot change rules. Ask those who make them,’ she said tilting her face towards the photographs on the wall.

She had begun to talk continuously, hardly drawing a breath. The person on the other end of the line hadn’t a chance. She stopped the conversation, replaced the ancient black receiver on the hook. In fairness, the warden knew no luxuries herself. The fabric of her green uniform was faded with wear and the collar of her blouse was frayed. Her office was bare: a wooden desk big enough to spread her files and a hard wooden chair were in the centre; and cheap cotton curtains hung over the small single window. The cement floor revealed the excesses of free prison labour; it was so highly polished you could see yourself reflected in it.

About the Author

Chiedza Musengezi has co-edited compilations of women’s voices with: Women of Resilence (Zimbabwe Women Writers, Harare, 2000), Women Writing Africa, The Southern Region (Feminist Press, New York, 2003) and A Tragedy of Lives: women in prison in Zimbabwe (Weaver Press, Harare, 2003). Her short stories and poetry have been anthologised locally and internationally. She taught in Ireland and she currently works Legal resources Foundation in Harare. Chiedza was published in Writing Still (2003), Writing Now (2005) and Women Writing Zimbabwe (2008).