A voice was heard in
Ramah, lamentation,
Weeping, and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children,
Refusing to be comforted,
Because they were no more.
‘From the information I have gathered, I want to make the punishment of this foreigner an example to all would be offenders. I sentence him to twenty sjambok cuts for crossing the border into our country illegally.’
Juba’s heart pounds like the speaker of a disco machine … A cold trickle of sweat meanders down the contours of his frightened face.
‘I also sentence you to another thirty sjambok cuts for making one of our children pregnant.’ The chief stares at Juba in disgust; his face has the expression of a constipated man. He continues, ‘These people steal our hard-earned property, our cattle; and they bring immorality and incurable diseases into our community.’ Juba looks at his bare, cracked feet with shame, feeling like Lucifer at the highest tribunal on judgment day. ‘As for you, foreigner! Our daughter has refused to be married to you. We shall deal with you ruthlessly and then hand you over to the police.’
At that moment, the chief makes a covert gesture and two strong men, the chief’s bodyguards, grab Juba in a vice-like grip. He is too weak to struggle. They strip him naked, tie his hands and force him to sit on an anthill. They stamp on an army of red ants, the inhabitants of the anthill, and in a natural act of revenge the ants bite at Juba’s bare thighs, buttocks and genitals. Juba screams. He hears the crack of a whip, the villagers swallow in anticipation. Blood splutters into the air. The villagers swallow again. Juba screams. The guard generously beats another stroke and the young man moans … another and another …. His tears roll into the dust.
There is a loud bang and Juba’s head hits the metal walls of the van. He realises he must have fainted. A headache tears at his head like a bolt of lightning. His body is aching, swollen and bloodied. He looks up and sees two Tswana policemen conversing. Their language sounds like gibberish. He tries to smile. One policeman notices what he assumes is a sarcastic grin and kicks Juba’s head like a footballer in a world cup final. Juba’s world goes round and round as he descends into the dreamy world of the unconscious.
Unknown Cell
Block B Prison
Francistown
Botswana
Dear Mama,
This is a letter to your lonely unmarked grave in the heart of Matebeleland. Mama, I still have nightmares about the day you left me. I remember the drones of the helicopters, the sound and smell of the truck tyres, the sound of marching boots … I remember they were looking for father. They said they knew he was a member of the opposition. You told them that he had gone, had already escaped to Botswana. They got angry Mama, and started kicking your belly – you were pregnant. They laughed, scornfully, saying that they would kill the dissident in your womb. One of them took a knife from the kitchen and slit through your stomach. I saw my little sister – Malaika, as I have come to call her – fall on to those savannah sands. I call her Malaika because she is the angel that never had to endure this horrible existence. You fell on your knees holding your stomach, but it was too late … I remember your smile and your last words, ‘Kuzolunga mtanami.’
All that time the other villagers were forced to ululate and sing songs denouncing you, the sell-out. I was later forced to dig a grave for you and my sister and I buried … I … buried you both.
The letter I write you is without ink or paper. A letter without an envelope or stamp. A story written in my heart and sealed with tears. They put me in a filthy cell, a maternity ward for rats and cockroaches, and there were twenty other guys. I felt like a matchstick in a tightly packed box. I cried out but they closed their eyes and ears. I was coughing badly. I think I have TB. At last I bravely knocked at the heavy metal door and the guard angrily opened a small window on the door and asked who had knocked. I told him I needed medication, at least painkillers, and he told me to get them in Zimbabwe and left. I cried, Mama, and he laughed. I thought he was kidding me. But he left and never came back …
For days I longed for a gasp of fresh air. But all I breathed was the humid, stale smell of greasy armpits, groins, dirty mouths, urine and diarrhea in the unflushed pit. We starved. Occasionally, they gave us left-over food from the Tswana prisoner’s refuse bins. On lucky days we are given their sugarless, smelly, sorghum porridge. I refused to eat their shit. Nobody gave a damn and I also did not give a damn anymore. I felt as if I was slipping away to the peaceful lands beyond the River Jordan. I began to wish that I could die and meet you. I refused to bath in their cold water. I refused to smile at them. I refused to be dehumanised.
Mama, today I’m gonna sing to the stars because humanity has a blind cruelty. I’m gonna sing that I need a life, a dignity, and like the elites of this world. I need good food: three-course meals in five-star hotels. I need VIP security – bodyguards in dark glasses. I need a prestigious education at Western universities like the children of the elite. I need to see myself seated in an expensive Mercedes Benz sipping expensive foreign wine surrounded by the most beautiful girls. I’m gonna sing to the stars as they twinkle at me like diamonds on a huge black cloth, above the stuffy prison cells of Botswana.
Your loving son,
Juba
On the fifth day they are released from the detention centre. They are grouped and herded into a lorry like cattle going to the auction grounds. The lorry is locked, once everyone is inside. The Tswana immigration and prison officers chatter amongst themselves. They sign documents and laugh with a brotherly love. Juba and the other prisoners peer through the meshed windows, admiring the Tswanas’ clean, neatly ironed white shirts and navy-blue trousers. One of the officers is munching at a juicy looking grilled chicken. They wonder why the Batswana never speak in English. Is it patriotism? Is it vanity?
The officials shake hands and wave at each other as the gigantic truck roars into life. Back to Zimbabwe, in the truck, the prisoners-turned deportees sit on the floor with dazed expressions on their faces. Juba sees the fading town of Francistown and watches the dry scrubland, wondering how this desert country is ironically very rich. Some say they want to dig jewels in the desert. He heard about the poor desert folk who were relocated into townships – to live the urban life of darkness, prostitution and thievery; everyone is a thief in the city.
He also remembers home. He no longer has a home in Zimbabwe.
About the Author
Farai Mpofu was born in 1980 in Bulawayo where he grew up in the townships and where he still lives. He attended school at Cyrene Mission and later went to the University of Zimbabwe where he graduated with an honours degree in theatre arts. He is currently working as an A-level teacher of English. Farai was published in Writing Now (2005). His short story The Letter was translated into Shona for the anthology Mazambuko (2010).
Post published in: Arts