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Isdore Guvamombe

Saturday Lounge Reflections

It was late and getting dark, she exclaimed, busying herself with the cooking pot and humming softly to herself. It was not very difficult to look for grandpa. Men normally gathered for drinking binges at three of four homesteads as the sun set timidly over the untidy mix of corrugated and thatched roofs of the older huts. We went past homestead after homestead as the smell of cooking fires drifted in, accompanied by that of oil lamps

BACK in the village, in the proverbial land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve the sun somehow set swiftly, sending the village into a brief rush, as villagers went to and fro, locking away chicken, goats, cattle and precious little else.

It was winter and the time livestock frolicked and roamed wild and free only to be locked up at sunset as mainly an accounting process. 

Hens clucked drowsily the last, bidding farewell to the silhouette horizon before being locked in for the night, with chicks in tow.

We stayed with grandmother and like any village woman she suddenly busied herself with her indoor and outdoor cooking fires. The indoor fire was mainly for the evening meal while the outdoor was for us and grandfather.

We normally sat around the outside fire as grandpa churned out one story after another and indeed we felt macho. 

We felt we were man, for, we were taught to detest the kitchen as a place for women. We condemned the kitchen and yet we loved the food that came from there. 

But the outside fireplace was also a bad place on a day when you had crossed grandpa’s line either by losing cattle or by some mischief. Being young, pristine and experimental, mischief was our game.

At times we got away with it. At times we got flogged big time. On rare occasions we escaped with mere reprisals. 

Granny also at times disappeared and went beer drinking with friends. We cherished his drunken moments, for, that is when he was frank, outspoken and vulgar.  

When drunk he also composed new songs which came in various lyrics from the illicit to the up-straight. We enjoyed moments he waxed lyrically religious in his drunken state, more often than not, bastardising popular church songs.

On this particular evening, granny told us to look for grandpa, for the night was getting old in his absence. 

It was late and getting dark, she exclaimed, busying herself with the cooking pot and humming softly to herself.

It was not very difficult to look for grandpa. Men normally gathered for drinking binges at three of four homesteads as the sun set timidly over the untidy mix of corrugated and thatched roofs of the older huts.

We went past homestead after homestead as the smell of cooking fires drifted in, accompanied by that of oil lamps.

In this violent twilight bats flitted over our heads as we moved in between compounds.

We found grandpa drinking with other village elders. We first identified him by his thunderous oratorical voice before we even got to where he was. His voice was outstanding! We picked the discussion that had to do with aphrodisiacs.

A newly-married man was being urged to drink the dregs from the bottom of the clay pot. It made his back stronger, grandpa insisted and coined the advice, with a deep groggy laughter.

When we got there the gourd of beer was doing the rounds and it was grandpa’s turn to drink. The huge fire made him more visible in his goatee beard. He held the gourd high in both hands tilting his head back, drinking deeply, savouring each swallow. 

He sighed with contentment and lowered the gourd to the ground, wiping his lips and chin with the back of his hand. Adam’s apple, moved up and downs if to say, this is great brew.

Grandpa wanted to say something before he had really finished swallowing. A spasm hit him and he coughed, spitting on to the ground and using his cultured right leg to cover the sputum with loose sand.

He stuck a grubby fist onto his mouth to stifle the sound, but it was too much for him. He coughed and his eyes seemed to want to jump out of their sockets.

The next to drink was Karitundundu, the village oracle, respected by all and sundry. There he was, outstanding in his black regalia and dreadlocks. Steady, calm, composed and resplendent.

Karitundundu saw us first and gave a hush sign, as if to say “mind your language, children around.”

We approached grandpa with caution. He felt his ego bruised after we told him he was wanted home. He asked if there were any special visitors home, to which we said, “No!” 

He then turned angry and sent us to tell grandma that by the time he will arrive home, she should have packed and gone.

“You little idiots and your grandma, you think I don’t know my way home. Go and tell your grandma to pack all her belongings and go or else she should hang herself by her private parts!

“Get away from here!”

We were used to grandpa’s abuse when drunk. We walked back home, but told granny half the message we could not repackage the message on the hanging part. Granny seemed unmoved by the message.

That night he did not come home. We always slept on the floor while grandma and grandpa slept on the old bed. That night granny turned and twisted in bed, the old springs reporting the frustration. By midnight grandpa had not turned up.

Finally, as dawn gave way to sunlight, and chicken and birds started reporting the dawn of a new day, somebody came running home. 

Grandpa was found murdered in a nearby bush. He had been robbed of the cash sent to him by one of his sons to buy cattle.

It turned out that he had been flashing the money at the beer drink and someone had stalked him on his way home.

The village was plunged into mourning. Theories and counter theories set in. Some suspected poisoning. Some murder.

Police came at mid-morning and that time, no policeman went to a scene and went back without an accused. No, never.

Soon the three policemen sniffed around the village, gathered everyone who was by the drinking binge. 

In the process they also discovered that the village also had an elicit Kachasu beer, collected the brewing gadgetry and arrested three women.

The village was turned upside down. Part of the investigation included intimidation, assault and divide and rule, then isolation.

A white man, who seemed to be the senior of the officers, remained seated in the car. But he had a questioning eye and looked awkward with his moustache.

On many occasions, he looked over his spectacles, and we wondered why he wore them in the first place.  We could not question, for, the white man was a scary beast to everyone.

Jimmy, the village rant was the last man to arrive at the scene, but had been sleeping all morning. As he passed by the police Land Rover, the white man signalled for him to get to the car.

He looked at him from toe to head and clapped him hard, while alighting from the car with sudden, but fast sluggishness.

The clap, sounded like lighting and everyone turned their heads. The white man trampled on Jimmy, with ferocity. “Who killed madhara? Who killed madhara, tell me?’’ 

Everyone moved towards the car for free drama.

When we all thought, Jimmy had been set free, he was jabbed and he fell to the ground. He stood up, the white man gave him another languid jab and uppercut. Jimmy fell again.

“Why do you have blood stains on your collar? You, idiot, I said why?” 

Jimmy confessed. Within moments he was handcuffed. And he led everyone to the scene and explained how he waylaid grandpa.