LAKE OF MY HEART – CHAPTER 9

LAKE OF MY HEART – CHAPTER 9

“Someone left a message for you,” the switchboard operator said.

Eastlea had been a light density residential area close to town. It was within walking distance almost if someone had business near Third, Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Streets. The streets were in order of which was furthest from the nearest street in Eastlea. Further, it required some muscle’s to walk. Then the city rentals had continued to sprout upwards leading many businesses to convert dwellings into their offices. Here he was in the midst of what had been a residential area which had been converted to a business.

Their offices had had the house extended with cottages not missing out on the alteration boom. Now it was an impressive office block with toilets, offices, board rooms, carports, kitchens, flora and fauna gardens and the likes. One could almost expect a wedding party having photographs taken at their offices. Bare ground had been covered in lawns, shrubs, flora, fauna or interlocking pavers. Storm water drainage systems were hidden to take away excess rain. Somehow, the company had managed to sink a 60-m borehole on the a thousand three hundred and eighty-five square metre property.

“You are becoming more popular than the actor of the local television series ‘My Nephew Moses’.”

“Me? Message on the reception desk?” he asked.

He had parked his company Mazda B2200 diesel pick up vehicle. The clay clinging to the mud guards could be used by forensics detectives to determine that he had been in and around Kuwadzana and Dzivaresekwa. Before that he had spent half an hour with his parents in Bindura having lunch before coming back through one of the real estate houses on sale there.

His father had used his pension lump sum to construct a house in tandem with the aid of his children in Bindura while his mother now had a flea market stall in town. They were now in Chipadze in the last outer reaches. Hence he had met both in the town over lunch before coming back. His mother would have left someone minding her flea market while his father had walked in to keep himself strong.

“Yes you Trevor.”

“Thanks Maureen”, he took the slip of paper walking to his office. Someone called Naomi had said meet at Rainbow Cinema on a Sunday at 1400hrs. He tore the paper throwing it into a dust bin. It was funny now that he was accorded a vehicle to move around doing company business. The government had attempted to address the dire shortage of public transport by introducing staggered working hours. Some shops now opened at nine instead of eight in the morning the end result being to address the acute transport blues. For a moment, a few months, this had worked well. It had like all brilliantly planned events had folded. Why did these brilliant plans work on paper and not in reality?

There had been an attempt to beat the shortage of foreign currency required for buying buses. Train buses that could carry about +100 passengers had been introduced on trial. These ten wheel monstrosities had been deployed mainly in Harare. How very convenient when he was now staying in a flat block from where he could walk to his company offices even though it was some odd two kilometres? The main problem was talking commuter vehicles required him being ferried further than his office before he would connect the same way. He however turned up against his better judgement sitting in his vehicle a few metres away waiting for the appointed time.

He was looking at brochures his office had created. The houses in complete sets in five designs looked attractive. Building them was a bigger challenge than selling them. The economy was making quantity surveying and costing a risky business. One could charge for a fully built house when costs could spiral to an extent that before the roof was on, the cash resources were over. Woe betides such a land developer. He would be whisked to court and challenged from all corners when all the issues were down to pen and paper. There was a criminal called inflation which the law courts were not incarcerating.

City councils had failed to provide adequate housing. The populace had reacted with housing co-operatives. Some of these had folded while others were doing well facing the economic situation head on. Agents had gone to jail for failing to provide what they had sold. That was fraud. It was so easy to cross the line towards fraud. He shuddered to think about failure. There was a rap on his driver’s door.

He unwound the window. The cotton leg pants were black with patterns that looked like flowers in red. The mini dress on top was olive green in colour. Her hair was tied back in bundles at her back brownish in colour. It was a mixture of tall natural kinky African hair mixed with artificial hair be it from horses or Asian women, one never knew.

She had a black handbag, a mini-handbag at that. She was stunning to view from a driver’s point looking out through the glass. His head was bent backwards. His knees were near the gear shift lever. His seat was adjusted backwards so his knees were almost touching the steering wheel. Dark glasses were preventing the glare of the sun interfering with his vision.

He unwound the window.

“Hi Trevor, long time no see. You were ignoring me”, she started.

She moved her head into his vehicle. Her head was in the vehicle appearing like a machine monster in ‘War of the Worlds.’

“I was ignoring you?” that was a question. “Me?”

“Yes,” she replied. He sat up and started the vehicle.

“If I was ignoring you, see you then.”

“Hey,” she complained. She removed her head from within the driver’s cab. “My apologies. Hey stop it!”

“What?“ He asked.

A crowd was now watching them. He had reversed less than a metre. He let the vehicle return to the kerb.

“You are embarrassing me. Don’t worry we are in the glare of the public,” she replied. “Can I come in through the other door?”

“You are welcome.”

He wound up the window. Pick pockets had a habit of operating in broad day light stealing when the driver’s attention was elsewhere. The best defence was locking either or both doors. He opened the left side vehicle door. She came in closing the door. The mini dress went up. He re-started the engine edging out.

“Is that a skirt?”

“There is a set of trousers underneath. This is fashion,” she replied.

“I would rather live off the fashion zone if that is in fashion,” he replied. “When I grew up I knew that when I wore shorts and a set of trousers, the shorts went inside the trousers and not out like you and your male youth counterparts are doing.”

“Would you reduce the volume?” she asked.

“What?” he was astonished.

“The music is not my favourite and it’s too loud. You can even hear it at low volume,” she complained.

That was however true. What was music if it was not blaring? She was impressive giving him commandments that he hated. He had no choice however. He obeyed her like a toy soldier obeying its child master. It was like a private being tossed around by a sergeant or other senior military officer.

There was a reggae cassette playing. He wound down the volume. Maybe she was not a fan of reggae. She did not like Gregory Isaacs. There was something about the reggae artist’s songs that did not appeal to her. Love songs were appealing to the youth. Most reggae songs sang about social ills that covered what young people were observing and suffering from.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Are you through with your soap operas of professional examinations?” she asked. “The last time I saw you, you were either going to college or writing twice a year.”

“I did my examinations sitting every May-June and every October-November,” he replied. “I dreamt of examination rooms and stoned faced invigilators. I dreamt of questions whose topics I had missed out in lectures. Girl, did I dream about the results that didn’t come true as I had thought?”

“So did I.”

“Where to again?” he asked coming into Tower service station near Kaguvi Street.

He tanked up with 20-litres of diesel fuel. The fuel situation had somewhat improved. The reason was a marked increase in pump prices saw the fuel readily available within a day. It took more than two weeks to order it from the Middle East. That was economics at its best. Products vanished from shelves. They incredibly found their way back when the retail price had been agreed to between the manufacturers baying for a cushioning increase and the government trying to win an election. The middlemen went bankrupt when the prices went up and the products flooded the market.

“Wherever pleases you sir,” she said. “I thought since I was near a cinema you would want a film show.”

“Films are not my favourite,” he replied. “Not exactly, I hardly find time to relax and watch an hour and a half of a feature film. By the end of it I will be asleep if I find the time to see that. I realised that I sleep half way through the Astra® Paints Thursday Night Movies program, especially if I am alone. I normally like Monday night mini-series that last two to three viewings though”

“Wherever you fancy,” she replied. He switched off his cell phones before the service station attendant had given him back his keys and change. “I always watch on ZBC-TV, the Thursday night movie series. It’s sponsored and hence has feature films that can be highly rated. Then I watch local dramas but I like the comedies mostly. I enjoy Aaron Chiwundura Moyo’s acting antics as a comedian.”

“What will you have?” he asked.

“Let’s check.”

She accompanied him when he had driven the vehicle to a corner to the kiosk. She picked up hot dogs and fruit juice. At times a man did not need take his work with him even into the toilet. There were times when against one’s better judgement, a man needed rest, relax and cool down without the inconvenience of modern technology. They had their snacks while he was driving.

He drove towards Norton turning east at Turnpike Service Station towards Lake Chivero north bank. He stopped the vehicle studying a huge board that acted as a map showing where and what was in the Lake Chivero north bank. Groups of anglers were moving from within the park towards the main road they had just vacated carrying fish in different carrier systems.

“Don’t take me to a drinking hole”, she forewarned.

“We call them watering holes,” he replied.

“Whatever, it is the same.”

“Why do you hate beer?” he asked.

“I don’t hate beer or those who get inebriated with it. How does it look with me in a group of drinkers? A person seeing me would assume I am of shallow morals,” she replied. “They would even mistake me for a young and vibrant prostitute. Believe you me, go to the most notorious watering holes as you call them at night and find sixteen year old prostitutes.”

“You always associate beer with loose morals”, he accused.

“I am yet to see women of the streets parading their wares near a church, supermarket, school, kiosk, service station, garage or banking hall for municipal services or electricity or the bank proper. But at any drinking hall you have local sluts”, she replied. “And their male escorts.”

“Love at a price”, he let his breath out. “Your statements hit far below the belt. I am yet to pick a prostitute in a bakery section of OK Bazaars Zimbabwe.”

“What?” she asked.

“It costs money to be in love,” he replied.

“Real love is for free,” she replied.

“Tell that to dating couples”, he said.

“No real love is for free. Your mother and father are an example. They never put a mortgage on you which you should pay back with interest to them for having you,” she replied.

“That’s economic sense but it costs a lot to go out dating. You are talking of parental love. I was talking of erros love not agape love.”

“You choose to go dating. We could have met at the park in Glen Norah near the river. Oh I forgot, you have long since left the ghetto to its proper citizens,” she had replied.

“I had forgotten about the Glen Norah park and being stood up by a student nurse,” he remembered looking like a fool an hour after their meeting time had passed.

He was still a clerk then. He had shown up at Harare Hospital nurses home and asked for her sending three emissaries. Two hours later he had walked away feeling hot, sweaty and dusty without his prize.

He had met the nurse in a Harare United AVM DAF 76-seat bus bound for Glen Norah via Machipisa which passed near Harare Hospital. She was with other females of her size. When she saw him, she had the audacity to wave. He had returned the wave. If she thought he was going to ask her about why she had stood him up twice, she was mistaken. She resided somewhere in Glen Norah near St. Peter’s Kubatana.

He found himself clenching his teeth. He felt the impact of the bad road and its grooves testing his shock absorbers to the limit. There was a jarring impact of wheels dancing up and down on even grooves within the dirt road.

“I will pay our bus fare today.” He said in reference to their first meeting.

“You still remember that? That was years ago.”

He took her towards a hang out on Lake Chivero. He turned to the east after the service station driving into the national park with dust roads that were bone shaking. He stopped somewhere and removed his seat belt. He switched off the engine.

“Why did we stop?” she asked.

“Zebras crossing, they have a habit of hitting the windscreen.”

“Now, now”, she started. “This is where babies start coming from. I want to be a nun, would that help you? Zebras are my totem so don’t hit hard on them.”

“Did I say I wanted to sleep with you?”

“Just a warning,” she replied. “I am a zebra by totem. I can kick when push comes to shove.”

He was undaunted taking two minutes to thoroughly kiss her. His hands went deep underneath her blouse squeezing against her better judgement. She stopped fighting his hands. Even an approaching vehicle did not stop him. He did not even see the truck though he heard by the engine note that it was a Nissan Cabstar. After all he was parked by the side of the road.

“I missed that”, he came out for air. Her knees were close to the dashboard with her head almost on the seat.

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

He dived in again. His hands went through an opening in the mini skirt coming up to flesh within. He kissed her again while his hands were moving across her tits.

“No,” she stated when his hands had started pulling her tights down. She came out of her hiding place. “No, not before marriage. I will never agree to sex before marriage. I have never agreed to that. It’s like getting too familiar with a parcel for your surprise.”

“Sorry, it was the huge bulge talking”, he replied sitting back in the driving seat.

“To avoid penalties, could we please move on?” she asked. “We don’t want park rangers finding us in a compromising situation. Those boys would really love to parade any couples they finding in nature trying to behave as adults.”

“Park rangers check for permits and fish.”

“They find you having a go at each other they will parade and ogle,” she replied.

“Did they ever parade you?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I am not that type but at the peripheries of Glen Norah a few couples are caught in daylight and paraded by exuberant youths on their way to the police posts.”

“Are these youths park rangers?” he asked.

“Trevor?”

“You said park rangers.”

“All right vigilantes then.”

“If you have no permit and no fish, it’s not a crime. If you have fish and no permit, that will be interesting. It is like having a ZBC licence inspector coming into your house while you are busy watching television without a licence.”

“All the same, let’s move. It is a crime to indulge in sexual activities without a bedroom licence,” she changed tact. “Besides which any distance away from a settlement even in broad day light you can fall victim to thieves, muggers, car jackers and worst of all, rapists. I don’t want to rue this day forty years from now.”

“Licence?”

“Customary marriage, white wedding, mini-wedding or a mere chapter 37 marriage certificate at any magistrate’s court,” she replied.

“How do you know all these things?” he asked.

“I researched.”

“It is always customary marriage first with us people of dark colour.”

He mused going through bone shaking roads that had been hard hit by a deluge of the rains. Somebody had forgotten to put a budget for dust road maintenance.

A white Nissan sedan was coming facing them, fishing rods protruded from the back seat. He turned to the far left, stopping. He switched off the engine.

© Copyright tmagorimbo 2014