‘City Insomnia’

I had a strange dream. I was floating. Flying away. Mother was crying. Father stood still, looking sad, his head hung down, one arm tightly hugging mother’s shaking body. My young siblings looked on. Poor Tapiwa and Tatenda. I flew higher and higher. I could see them, a small fading blur. Just as I was about to disappear like Captain Planet, the alarm clock. Damn! The noise buzzed inside my head like a rusty chain-saw. I reached out to stop it, ready to crush and destroy the annoying instrument with my bare hands. Instead, I hit ‘snooze’. Good enough. The noise stops.

The dream lay still in my mind. I didn’t understand it. I took a quick shower. The thick cold rope of water whips my sleepy body into life.

My teeth rattle in shivers, so I start singing a church hymn in some kind of discord. Rhythmic discord. Water blobs and splashes on the floor of the tiny bathroom. The once white walls are discoloured with generations of slimy dirt. Goose pimples sprout all over my body. Job’s leprosy. Quickly, I smear Vaseline over them. This act makes me think of bread and margarine. Saliva drools on my naked lap. 6:30 a.m. I become panicky. I should be on my way out. My specs, my watch, mygrey socks. I can’t seem to get things right this morning. Apoem clicks in my mind. Where did I read it?

Tell the world to wait,

I am not ready yet –

I can’t find my shoes,

My shirt’s not ironed.

Tell the world to slow down,

The phone’s ringing –

I can’t find my shoes,

My socks are drying in the oven.

Tell the world to wait,

I’m not ready yet –

I can’t find my shoes,

My shadow’s still in the bath.

I must hurry if I don’t want to miss Baba Shupi’s white combi. I don’t pay. He always does me this neighbourly favour. Baba Shupi lives three houses from mine. I always take my time, as I fork out the fare from my pocket, waiting for Baba Shupi to stop me. He always smiles at my effort. ‘No, don’t worry mukoma. Mozotengawo drink palunch.’ I smile back and look away in fake embarrassment.

I start work at 8:30. But I get to town early. I like the early morning walk feeling the pulse of Harare. An indescribable city, huge, roaring, dirty, noisy, raw, stark, brutal. Harare. A city of restlessness. My heart thumps with excitement at the sound of whispering, marching feet. I walk aimlessly, secretly enjoying the game of disappearing – melting into the rushing crowds. I hate window-shopping, admiring things I will not buy now or tomorrow. My trousers pockets have holes. I hardly have money to spare for the week. Live for the day. Tomorrow is its own challenge.

There is a spot I have identified in Mbuya Nehanda Street. A Coffee Shop. Quiet and concealed. I hardly ever see people go in or out. Maybe it’s one of those uptown classy spots for the rich and favoured. Maybe I’m wrong. People in Harare have no money to waste. They are busy just surviving, finding money, and getting on. I am one of them. But, have I given up? Am I the dejected hunter who wanders aimlessly in the bush? The fisherman who toils all night long to catch frogs?

The Coffee Shop. I walk past it. I don’t have the guts to walk in, to feel its environment. It looks like the ones photographed in Fair Lady. Nicely laid tables with shining silverware, friendly waiters, a smiling till operator. Mellow music. It’s embarrassing to go into a place and look foolish. Intrusive. Conversations stop, eyes bore through you questioning your identity. I will come when I have money. Sit and order a cup of steamy coffee and two big slices of chocolate cake. Sit silently.

Read my newspaper, look through the window and think, or watch Harare move.

Life in Harare has no stop-overs; it’s a long highway, it keeps going. Harare is a straight line. Aline like Zeno’s arrow, it does not end. People hardly ever reach their destinations. Destinations are dreams. Dreamsof far-away. Harare. It’s just a dream. Nothing. My dreams never make it to reality. I give up easily. I always give up.

From Mbuya Nehanda, I turn into Nelson Mandela Avenue. I have no destination. I move from one street pavement to another. I see all kinds of people – some in overalls, others in suits, still others in tight jeans and hipsters. The entangling maze of Harare. I can’t find the exit. I am trapped. On both sides of me are people, cars and buildings. I do not have any idea where I’m going. I’m just walking. Harare the terrifying, unhinged blur. I cannot ascertain whether it’s me or Harare that has come off its axis.

9:25 a.m. I’m late for work. And surprised to find myself lying on the trimmed yellow grass in Harare Gardens, just behind the grandeur of Monomatapa Crowne Plaza Hotel. I look around. Green, concrete benches yawning for people to sit on them and fart. A young couple kissing. Near the entrance is a woman wearing a faded Lyons Maid uniform selling dairy delights: ice-cream, yoghurt, fun & fresh. A cameraman passes by. A hangman’s noose dangling from his throat. I meant to ask him, ‘Did you escape from Chikurubi Prison?’ I am sick.

Mad. Ants crawling in my black T-shirt awaken me to reality. 9:44 a.m. The fading white lettering on my T-shirt says, THERE’S NO HURRY IN AFRICA. But the irony is that I’m late for work. I hurriedly stand up. Not far from where I was lying is a water tap. I don’t even think, just walk up to it and put a hand on the rusty handle. It yields with a reluctant creak. Cold water begins to stream out. I push my face into the artificial current. The weeds around my feet are scraggly, a sickly, faded yellow-green. I suddenly know how tired my feet feel.

The picture of my boss makes me rush. I can see her scrawny face. Angry. I walk, jog and run towards the combi rank between Cameron and Chinhoyi streets. The place is overcrowded. People, people, people everywhere, all rushing about, obsessed with time. Time is money, they say. At one point they descend to the earth, at another, they’re spewed up. Harare’s vomit, all panting, rushing, hurrying. The combis are lined up in rows. The rows remind me of our primary school garden. Everything was arranged in rows. I find my way through the confusion.

I climb into a combi. Gonzo, we call them. It’s a small omnibus, with a funny rat shape. My legs hardly fit. I sit at the back in the right corner. I like to sit where there’s a window. The stale air makes me sick.

‘Garisanai four-four vabereki.’ I am squashed. If I were a rat I would squeak, if I were a dog, I would bark. The combi starts up with a push from two ragged hwindis. It develops epileptic seizures, metals clonk and the black smoke that belches out slowly filters into the Harare air.

10:15 a.m. I am very late. What will I tell my boss? The voice of the dirty conductor breaks into my thoughts. ‘One ariega. One asara vabereki.’We’re off to Msasa, the industrial hub of the city. The guy sitting beside me yawns, a long gasp releasing a streak of bad breath. Disgusted, I turn away and begin to watch trees and buildings speed past. I see a chain of cyclists threading their way down the unwinding road.

I disembark at the bus stop opposite Econet Park. Msasa Park. Munda wemari. The place is noisy. I can hear the grinding roar of spinning money. Every sound is a coin dropping in the owner’s sack. A signboard on my left beckons me.

HAMMERSMITH PRIVATE LTD.

SPECIALISTS IN BEARINGS.

WE MAKE, YOU PAY.

The sight of the black steel gate makes my heart beat in a flurry. A glance at my watch makes my stomach grumble. I nod to the gate man. A cheery old man with a toothless smile. Mudhara Zuze. He reminds me of my grandfather, Sekuru Timoti. Just as I am about to sneak to the work-shed without being detected, I bump into Mrs Thatcher. She looks at me shaking her head and tapping her glasses against her chin like a doctor studying post-operative conditions. I mumble something about transport blues in Mufakose where I stay. She points at me without uttering a word. The finger says a lot. Watch out, or else. A brief look at her gold wristwatch and I’m dismissed. 11.00 sharp. My dry lips crack into a smile. I punch the air in victory.

About the author

Tinashe Mushakavanhu is a ‘bornfree’ Zimbabwean. His childhood was a series of movements in the ‘locations’ of Harare until his parents found a home in Gweru. He is a former Crossing Borders Creative Writing fellow, an initiative that was supported by the British Council and Lancaster University. He a Ph.D. in English friom the University of Kent at Canterbury in England. He writes across genres and has appeared in the Short Writings from Bulawayo anthologies, Writing Now (2005) and Jungfrau and Other Stories: A Caine Prize Anthology as well as in several literary publications in America, Britain, Kenya, South Africa and Zimbabwe. He has co-edited with David Nettleingham the anthology, State of the Nation: Contemporary Zimbabwean Poetry.