It was another beautiful day in Harare. Ada Schmidt was going for a run. She jogged from her door down the driveway and made a right onto the street. Maybe it was the pull of magnetic north but she always went this way.
Ada Schmidt was German, with a slender, athletic body that was used to running several times a week. She had a face that was perfect for a soap commercial: radiant, slightly rose-tinted skin, with even, white teeth and a smile that could persuade you to buy anything. As a single mother with two children and a demanding job, she ran in order to stay sane. When she saw the men coming toward her, she stopped. Like a movie preview, various scenes ran through her head:
• Ada Schmidt is dragged into the bushes by a horde of hungry-eyed men.
• Ada Schmidt is surrounded by a mob, then marched to Harare Central Police Station for questioning.
The line of men continued to move toward her, like a battering ram, their voices rising in unison, singing three-part harmony in rhythm with their pace. Feet clapping on the pavement, whistles piercing the air. She imagined her Missing Persons poster. It would have her picture and read: ‘German female, 32 years of age, out for a morning run with black spandex pants and a white T-shirt sporting the slogan, “Live/Love/Laugh”.’ She stood paralysed as the men split into two columns around her. Some wore sweatshirts in olive green with white lettering stating ‘ARMY’. Most of the men gave her a quick glance – some smiled, some greeted her, and some remained silent. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Good morning,’ they replied, smiling as they passed.
II
His face no one ever seemed to remember, except for the tic that starred in its own conga line dance above his left eyebrow. The muscle below the skin would pulsate up and down and occasionally give a kick. He wore a white shirt, with only the collar button undone despite the warm weather, and dress pants with black shoes polished to a high shine. He possessed the body of a wrestler and twice had been high school state champion. Over time, most of his body had turned to fat but his shoulders and arms remained as rolled bands of muscle. With his broad frame and height of almost two metres, he had worked as a loan collector and, briefly, as a movie actor in Asia. Now he starred in another occupation – flying across oceans, and then waiting. Waiting for a phone call. Waiting for a seemingly casual meal in a hotel restaurant with someone he would meet only once. His business card stated that he worked for a shipping company. He travelled a lot: Russia, China, Pakistan, and Nigeria. When people asked him what he did he said he was a ‘Righter’. He considered this his purpose in life – to assist good causes.
At reception, he gave an address where he had never lived and a name that his mother would never know – Michael Stone. With its carpeted hallways, and heavy wooden doors, the Meikles Hotel provided a reassuring feeling of security. After unpacking, he went down to ‘The Lounge’, a spacious nook in the centre of the hotel lobby, where they served light snacks. Sitting down at a table with a view of the reception area, he took out his pad and began to write. He had written two detective novels that had achieved minor success and his publisher was asking for his third effort.
This book was entitled Too Many Ways to Kill. He wanted a sandwich. A waiter was at the far end of the room. He raised his hand and waved. It was a busy lunch hour. Hoping to attract someone’s attention, he snapped his fingers and looked around the room. He received some sympathetic smiles but nothing more.
Then from behind his right shoulder, he heard, ‘Can I help you sir?’ Michael Stone startled, his body torquing in the direction of the voice, his arms reflexively coming up into fighting position. He smiled at the young, thin man in front of him who wore a white shirt, black vest and black bow tie.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I would like a cheese sandwich, toasted, a small salad, and some tea.’ The waiter nodded. ‘What dressing would you like, sir?’ ‘Russian will do,’ Stone replied.
‘Yes sir,’ the waiter said and moved away. Michael Stone returned to his writing, thinking about how the international diamond dealer had just died in the shower after using the bath soap that the Russian maid had stealthily injected with poison the night before. The poison? Quick acting and rapidly metabolised in the body, leaving no trace.
III
His arms and legs were aching. He wanted a massage badly. Running from the police was not his sport. It was supposed to have been an evening of academic discussion – Egypt, Tunisia – and what this might foretell for the future of Zimbabwe.
He was an academic, black, smooth-faced, stomach falling over his belt, a bit overstuffed with too many conference lunches, hair short with sprouts of gray, and Armani glasses, a gift from his daughter, that matched his suit. Why he had worn a suit to the gathering he still couldn’t figure out. Did he want to look like a Minister? Who did he want to impress? He had hoped that some donor organisations would be there, and that perhaps this year he could work with more than a subsistence budget.
Luckily, Professor Bernard Pochaya was in the toilet when it all happened. The police had charged into the church hall where an audience of a hundred sat watching videos of the events in Egypt. ‘Forty-six People Arrested!’ the newspapers reported. He had spoken to his colleagues on the phone for hours last night about who had escaped. They were all confused, unsure of who was hiding and who had been imprisoned.
This morning he took a hot shower, but midway through the water became a dribble, then a slow drip, and then ceased to flow entirely. He dried himself, put on his bathrobe, a reminder of his stay at a swank hotel in Nairobi, and walked out of the door and up to the green plastic water tank perched on the hill behind his house. It was empty. He opened up the taps in his house – not a drop trickled out. He called his neighbour on the phone and was informed that this water stoppage was going to be a bad one – a pipe had burst a kilometre away. Under these circumstances he would visit the boreholes of his many friends, but these days either their boreholes were running dry, mixing generous amounts of mud with the water, or the constant power surges had blown their pumps, so there was no water to be had.
He ate breakfast, changed into respectable clothing, and went to the storage room, removing three plastic 20-litre water barrels, and putting them in the back of his truck. As he drove out of his gate, women were already heading in the direction of the burst water pipe, various shaped chigubus balanced on their heads, or tied to their bicycle handles or loaded into the back of their cars. It was like a village scene. Narrowly missing a pothole, he heard a sound like a drum being struck, but did not think much of it and kept driving. In his rear-view mirror he saw a car suddenly swerve as three green water barrels bounced into the centre of the road. He pulled over and climbed out of his vehicle.
The tailgate of his truck had opened and all the containers had rolled out. He swore under his breath and ran back to the truck, jumping into the driver’s seat, jerking the ignition on sharply and making a U-turn. He scanned the street and high grass bordering the sidewalks for his containers.
He looked for groups of people fighting over his water barrels, which they probably thought had fallen from the sky like manna from heaven. There were no clues. He was cursing now. Where was everyone who’d run off with his water containers? He passed two apostolic men, tall, thin, and bearded in white robes waiting patiently by the side of the road, holding a green water container. As soon as he approached them, they knew his purpose. They handed him the container with a smile. He thanked them. He returned to his truck and continued driving along the street, scanning the area intently. His chigubus had disappeared.
He followed the lines of people walking, like ants on a pheromone trail, to the source of the water. When he arrived, there was a big crowd of people patiently waiting their turn. Three people at a time dipped their pots into the large brown puddle being fed by a slow outpouring of water from the broken pipe. He pulled his one water barrel out of the truck and joined the others. He felt angry and humiliated. Here he was, a full professor, head of his department, winner of international awards and he was waiting in this long line like an earthquake victim, holding a dented, green plastic container.
About the Author
Jonathan Brakarsh is a health professional and writer who moved to Zimbabwe in 1993. He began his career working in the off-broadway theatre district in New York City as a playwright and stage manager. Zimbabwe is a continuous source of inspiration for his stories as each day presents challenges which Zimbabweans face with grace, resilience and ingenuity.
Post published in: Arts