LAKE OF MY HEART – CHAPTER 14
LAKE OF MY HEART – CHAPTER 14
Trevor had been debating on putting his eldest child to boarding school. He had talked about the issue with Naomi.
“What type of school?” she had asked. “There is church, government and private boarding?”
They sat so close he could feel the heat of her body. At times like these, they were better than kissing cousins.
“Church and government.”
“Some government school boarding facilities need to be overhauled. They have been there since before we were born.”
“Church then. Some of these churches are worse than beer gardens we drink in when it comes to maintaining their facilities and giving the children a culture.”
“Parents are supposed to be church wise taking their children to church from where they learn a lot not waiting for the children who are Roman Catholic to go to as Seventh Day Adventist Church school,” Naomi pointed out to him. “Which church do you belong to?”
“The last time I checked my church, the government was taxing its liquid products.”
“Let’s choose.”
“Let’s consult first, the elders have more experience and wisdom that us”, he had replied. Naomi had taken it to Glen Norah for consultation.
“My father said NO,” Naomi had said sheepishly. “I thought he would like the idea of the brain box being interned at boarding school. He said the child will be a polarised adult we have to wait until she is twelve and going for form 1. He suggested for the sake of our daughter, boarding should start when she enters the first form.”
“Just like that?” he asked.
“Didn’t you say I should ask for advice?” she asked. “He said what was on his mind and what is on yours?”
“I did say you should ask. Was I drunk?”
“Mother said boarding is all right provided it is weekly boarding. Out on Sunday evening and back home on Friday night”, she looked at him. “There are some surrounding schools that offer that.”
“I will check with the head of the school the children are attending to see if they offer weekly boarding facilities. I will ask my parents for their view in Bindura,” he remembered.
When he had returned, he did not say anything. She broached the subject a week or two later.
“Last time we went to Bindura, you did talk about boarding didn’t you?” she asked.
“Did you?”
“No it was your prerogative to ask your parents for their advice, I had asked mine and they gave theirs,” she folded her hands looking at him.
He had intended passing through the kitchen. He had mown the lawn for the better part of the afternoon. With less than thirty minutes worth of work, tired as he was looking for a breather too, the power utility had chosen then to load shed them. The lawnmower was a 2500-watt electric machine which seized the moment power was cut winding down its blade.
“Dad was drunk, he didn’t say anything,” he had replied. “He had red rimmed eyes looking at me as if he didn’t know who I was.”
“Trevor, my father in law never gets that drunk neither do you. Come,” she said.
“I want to run a shower, I am smelling of lawn and grass.”
He thought by the time he had changed, she would have forgotten. She called him out the moment he had showered and changed.
“The question on boarding persists,” she replied.
“I honestly forgot to ask,” he replied.
She held out a mug of steaming coffee for herself and for him, his favourite, black tea and lemon slices. He took his tea and added sugar. She watched. It meant he had to put in four standard spoons before adding lemon. He stirred the tea. There were scones and ginger biscuits. He chose scones. She rose leaving her mug. He added two teaspoons and stirred.
Naomi came back with their Code Division Multiple Access telephone set that could be carried anywhere within Harare. All it required was a socket for charging its battery and a place to put its antenna. She looked at him.
“The CDMA is working fine?” he asked taking his tea.
“I am calling grandfather in Bindura to find out his mind,” she replied. “Intelligent as he is, even if he was drunk, he remembers a conversation.”
“He will think I am a liar.”
She started dialling.
“I think they communicated over that game,” he replied. “He said the same, NO except it is all right for weekly boarding.”
“Oh,” Naomi said. “I forgot to recharge the CDMA battery, it is flat and the line is not working anyway.”
__________________________________________
The first thing he did was snap up a glass of cold water from the fridge letting it cascade down his throat. The cold water ran down changing the volume of his throat from large to small and back again. He should have drained a litre of water before he belched. He looked around. Naomi could boil for belching without holding his mouth and muffling the sound. Beer, wine and good food had percolated into his stomach such that he had had no need for supper yesterday. However, he had been up early with a huge thirst and hang over. His head was aching from side to side. Was hangover a sickness that was terminal, he asked himself? Was hangover hereditary?
He groaned moving into the shower and bathroom combination. She was having a bath. She was almost immersed with bubbles covering her naked torso. Only the head could be seen. She was holding on with her hands to the tub rails. She flicked her toes at him shaking her head to stop his intrusion. He wasn’t welcome.
“Hey can I bathe?”
“The tub is not for two,” she replied. “It’s so small besides I want to lie back.”
“When we had just moved in, you used to share my bath,” he complained. “It was you coming in uninvited.”
“I was afraid you would drown in your hangover state.”
“You are now afraid of ending up bottom down looking at the ceiling expelling gas on the floor.”
“Trevor! Now I know I should have let it be otherwise,” she had replied.
“You won’t end up with a baby _____. I promise that.”
“Use the shower,” she replied. “You think to be a man you have to make a woman pregnant? Even a street kid without a dollar can do that worse still a blind man.”
“Why don’t you try using a street kid or a blind man?”
“Did I say I wanted a child?”
“I wasn’t shouting.”
“I was just defending my territory.”
“Yeah your territory indeed. You are sinking worse than an elephant wallowing in mud in the Mana Pools game park.”
“What has elephants got to do with me?” she asked.
“It could have been a real scare for you to agree. You hate me these days,” he had replied. He headed for the shower allowing the cold water to shock him out of the beer system. “I will have to find myself a sweet nineteen with hot pants.”
“Reform.”
“What?”
“Drink less and think more.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
He groaned. Then he realized that he had his shorts and briefs on. The cold water hit him hard. The mind started clearing. What was it with water? He had watched many a game where water was just used on a soccer player and they revived. Why didn’t they use it in the hospitals more often to revive patients?
The electricity should have been live because water was gushing meaning either it was municipal or the tank booster pump was churning. On rear occasions did Letombo Reservoir have enough water for their use. When municipal water was available, usually the pressure was so bad it couldn’t fill cisterns. Then everyone would be busy doing water based washing or cleaning. The demand on the reservoir from the high density suburbs of Mabvuku, Tafara, Mutare Road adjacent residential and industrial area and Ruwa was greater than supply capacity. The hot water which his wife was partaking of may have been from a steamy shower drained to the tub or the roof geysers which had a 200-litre capacity.
“Hey,” he said kicking off his night shorts soaking himself in cold water. “Can you make me a cup of black coffee when you are through?”
“Am I your maid?” she asked from the bubbles going up in the bathroom. He could hear water splashing.
“Are you drowning?”
“What?”
“I married you.”
“I hate you too.”
“I said I married you.”
“Pi—off or j--- off.”
“Can I get a cup of coffee or black tea, please?” he shouted. “I don’t need jerk off. I have valuable places for releasing pressure.”
“Whatever,” she replied.
“Why do you bother going to church when you are so evil tempered?”
“Have I ever read you the riot act at any of your bottle stores or pubs that you frequent?”
“Whatever, you heard me.”
“You can switch on the stove, put a pot of water and tune the dial to 6. You then wait until it boils,” she replied. “Then add granules of Ricofee®, Frisco® , Tanganda® or Inyanga® teas or teabags. All the four plates are working fine.”
“Thank you for your co-operation,” he replied. “Don’t drown, there is a shortage of fuel for the burial.”
“Swine! You can have Simba® beer for lunch.”
“It’s as good as being married to my blood sister,” he mumbled. “But then your funeral would afford me a crateful of lager.”
After shower he dressed for work. He went into the kitchen. He boiled his own water. He made black tea. He added a slice of lemon. Hey, it tasted so bad! He shut his eyes, frowning. He dosed himself with the full 250-ml of hot lemon tainted Tanganda® tea. He drank it all. He remembered to telephone Jimmy the short one who operated about 300-m from a service station selling contraband diesel fuel.
The queue for fuel at service station could take vehicles 24-hours at times to tank up. The contraband fuel cost about twice the government gazetted price. It wasn’t Jimmy only making money out of the shortage of almost all commodities. When commodities were in short supply, the middle men and the traders made more profit that the companies that employed a larger percentage of workers and those that did research and development.
Every sale he made or a rental he clinched, even if it ate his commission to buy contraband fuel lessened his worries. Less worry distressed his mind. He heard her drive out. He was locking up when he saw her behind him sheepishly looking at him. She was holding a brown hand bag by the crook of her arm with high heeled colourless shoes on her feet.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“The Mazda 323 stopped in the middle of the road. I had to use double hazards and pay some fellows to help me park it in a side street two kilometres from here,” she said.
“Had you made coffee or black tea, you would still be here,” he replied.
He continued to secure the garage doors. His Nissan Frontier 4.0 litre 4 x 4 crew cab 5 speed manual was outside. The years with the Nissan trucks in different models and designs were more than his marital life. Why hadn’t he married the Nissan logo and name instead of a human being?
“Do I telephone the mechanic?” she asked. He sauntered towards the Japanese vehicle.
“If you can afford his charges,” he replied. “I hardly have any beer money. I can’t afford a mechanic. There is the food bill to which I haven’t been contributing. A chauvinist pig as you rightfully reminded me. That reminds me that the number of shop managers that I know who have availed the products on the shortage list shows I am not appreciated here only.”
“Trevor at times you are impossible,” she said.
He reversed his company issue Nissan Frontier pick up. He did so without craning his head to look back. He was watching the rear view mirror guiding the wheel. Half of his sight was watching. She followed on high heels that went clip, clop, clip, clop on the interlocking paving bricks. He exited the property.
“Or better still”, he suggested. “Why not sell the vehicle? Judging by your salary I am footing the bill more than you are. You could do well in the commuter omnibuses. Since we may divorce, what a way of getting seen by an eligible somebody. Who knows you may meet some younger man or an elder one with more charm and charisma than me in case it rains. Moline is waiting for me by the corner of Paisley Road. Would you bend down and pick up that dried flower and throw it out of the driveway?”
“I think it’s high time we talked about our marriage,” she suggested.
“That coming from you? Statistics show that it’s more of women in terms of filing for divorce than men. I relish my freedom woman. I relish the day I will be free to fly past Chambati Road without checking your area.”
“Seriously we have to talk this out.”
Judging by the dress, mixing and matching of colours, today’s ladies were conscious of fashion. They were professional dressed. The dressing did not show whether someone was literate or not. It was a woman who knew how to dress.
“You are welcome to find a divorce lawyer.”
“Bastard!”
“As for not buying groceries, look at the conveniences, a house, a garden, a play centre, utensils including computers and a diesel generator that you let run without oil,” he replied. “Did you hear anyone say mustard or custard? Was there anything that can be made using milk?”
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