Ranga Lovemore Mataire The Reader
Located at corner Sam Nujoma Street and George Silundinka Avenue is a very unusual place called Treasure Trove.

It’s such an odd place with one side displaying some books of all manner and the other side some ornamental antiquities in a museum-like permanent state. It stands out in a rather outlandish manner resisting all forms of replenishment.

Treasure Trove is its name. Not sure whether most passers-by care a hoot about this queer place seemingly holding some hidden valuables from unknown owners.

Not aesthetically gifted, most passersby seem to have accepted the place’s unchanging stubbornness. Yet some obscure characters intermittently enter and exit the place as if paying homage or performing some kind of ritual.

Not so long ago, there was an elderly white lady who used to be so hospitable to the point of treating everyone like a long lost close relative. The old white lady sounded like a real socialite who could effortlessly slip into a conversation and always left an impression.

She seemed to know her regulars. I guess I was one of her regular chit-chatters for she was always at hand to assist. It was during my usual ritual visit to Treasure Trove that I bravely asked the white old lady what I have always wanted to ask.

“Excuse me ma’am; why do you call this place Treasure Trove?”

“Young man,” the white old lady animatedly answered.

“Can’t you see that you are in the midst of treasure? Go anywhere in this town and I bet you will never find the sort of collection that is in this place. I always feel some kind of indescribable pain each time an antiquity of book is taken away,” said the old white lady.

I regretted ever querying the identity or rather sincerity of having such an odd place in the middle of a buzzing CBD. She directed me to one corner where some very old dusty small antiquities were on display and later marshalled me to another shelf where books on Rhodesia wildlife, history, architecture were prominently displayed facing the entrance.

Fast forward to 2016 and the old white lady is gone. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months and it’s now almost a year and still no sign of the old affable white lady. The lively spirit of Treasure Trove is gone and in its place is a repulsive cold atmosphere -only the brave dare tread.

The four men of varying ages that now man the Treasure Trove rarely socially engage with anyone save occasional visitor talking glances simply to check on the regular book lovers. They all the time seem engrossed in some very important detail, sorting out things and only raise their heads when one enquires about the price of a particular book or holding a dollar to purchase a book from the dollar a book section.

I barely pass the dollar a book section, which is conveniently close to the entrance. It was during one of the not so friendly visits to this section that I stumbled on “A-la-Carte by Jeffrey Archer and 15 Other Stories by Famous Authors” published way back in 1995. What caught my attention was the name Doris Lessing. She is the only one that I knew of the 15 other famous authors who include Deborah Moggach, Richard Adams, Bill James, Anna Reynolds, Antonio Fraser, H. R. F Keating, Ruth Rendell, Hillary Norman, Julian Simons, Isabel Colegate, Angela Keys and G.Mackacy Brown.

I bravely advanced to a not so old guy seated at the right corner of the shop with a dollar on my left hand and the small book on the other. He took the dollar, barely acknowledging my presence. There was no receipt and no thank you. I stood transfixed, wanting to burst but decided to fake calmness.

“My brother, where is that elderly lady who used to work in this shop,” I managed to ask with a creased face.

The question seemed to have caught him by surprise but he managed to suppress any emotion. Rather coldly, the guy said the old lady was now a casual worker to the shop.

I wrestled the opportunity to blurt out months of anxiety.

 

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“You know what mukoma. I wish that lady would come back. I am sure I am not the only one who misses her. She was such a hospitable person and always at hand to share some tidbits with customers. Things have really changed mukoma. This place has become strange,” I said feigning some innocence.

He looked at me long and hard and shockingly told me what I long suspected.

“The problem mudhara is that I have no time to read and I don’t even know one single author in this shop. That old lady was an avid reader. As you can see we don’t just sell books. If you were to ask me about furniture I would readily assist you because that’s my area,” he said without a shred of remorse.

I profusely thanked him for his honesty and exited. The desire to read the small book, particularly Lessing’s story “Romance 1988”, was overwhelming. I read Lessing’s story and couldn’t help but muse at the casual manner in which the two sisters Sybil and Joan talked about love, relationships and marriage. By the time I finished all the short stories, I figured out a common thread. All the short stories somehow in a rather indirect way were all about the HIV/Aids pandemic. I felt cheated, it was a sponsored project. How I hate sponsored projects disguised as creative works of art.

But something struck me. My mind swirled back to that guy in Treasure Trove. Slippery-like hair, pinkish lower lip and silver shiny black skin. Maybe my mind is just imagining things. How I wish he had taken time to peruse all the treasure at his disposal 365 days a year. How I wish he was a READER.

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