Akua

Photo: Oliver Cole

Akua was a tall hard man. I say hard because he could have been made of iron. Black as soot, with pearly teeth and bulging white eyes that danced when he tried an isiZulu word and got it right. He spoke fast and loud, seemingly agitated even when he was being nice. His walk bore the same qualities as his speech: the quick thump of his step could be heard from a distance. I am not sure if he was Nigerian, Congolese, or Ghanaian. I could never really tell with them. They were all the same to me, foreigners. As kids, we would tauntingly shout ikwerekwere whenever we saw him,  at first without realising the vulgarity of the word, then with intended malice to the shame of our parents. For what they whispered in private, we aired in public in loud haughty voices; parading in the street, the heart of our people for everyone to see. The elders feeling the need to redeem themselves would call out harshly: “You little brats! What are you calling him that for? Have you no respect? Come here so I can teach you some.”  This of course confused us because we have often heard them utter the very same word, spitting it with bumptious repulsion at the table and cussing it out whenever something about the ever-growing unemployment rate was mentioned in the news. It taught us deceit, and because evil is easier to grasp than good, we grew up not remembering the rebukes, but the hissed cussing reeking with abhorrence and learnt to despise ikwerekwere with all our hearts. If your tongue twirled differently from ours we dehumanised you. You became an object. A thing. A kwerekwere.

We nursed this hatred until we had our own children screaming ikwerekwere. Unlike our parents, we did not reprimand them but hid behind our curtains chuckling since we didn’t recognise them as our people but a lower class, not even a people, some sort of specie, slightly beneath our pets. We hated their filth, their sweaty odour; it didn’t matter none that our own working men came home bearing the same odour. Not that we had many working men; ours spent their days in taverns, nursing brown bottles and battered egos. It frustrated us that a kwerekwere occupied space in our land, that they owned homes while we rented, had jobs when from factory to factory we were being turned away.

“We nursed this hatred until we had our own children screaming ikwerekwere”

Enough was enough, we decided and went on plotting in community meetings, in the privacy of our homes, in tiresome taxi rides. Wherever we went, there was a kwerekwere pitching up a tent, building yet another salon, another spaza. Frustration spoilt into vengeful envy.  “Mabahambe, they should go,” someone said in one of the community meetings.  We didn’t ask who he was referring to; we all knew. It was in our hearts and now buzzing in our ears.

 “’bout time too!” 

“Long overdue I’d say”  

“You’ve said it! We are tired. You don’t see us crowding Zimbabwe; why are they here?”

“But these are our brothers. They helped us in tough times, during the apartheid.” 

“Is there apartheid in Zim? No. We will also help them when there is apartheid.”

“Apartheid in Zim? Brother, don’t make me laugh. Mugabe chased the white man out.”   A roar of laughter increased the spirit of brotherhood.

“It’s time we face these leeches!”  said Bab’ Duma, our ward councillor, and the hall shook in agreement. “Calm down,” said the sensible sensing trouble.  “We have been calm for too long. They must leave,” retorted Bab’ uDuma. 

“Why wait? We should go there now. Kick these dogs out and take back what is ours.”

“Ja, these things think we are weaklings.” 

“Enough is enough. This is our home.” 

We went out singing and excited, spellbound by war songs and strife. Akua, in an unfortunate curve of fate, was the first one we met. That’s one of them! We ran in one accord. Some picked stones. Men ran with clenched fists. Sticks appeared out of nowhere. For a moment he stood there confused then tried to run. He was too late and damn too old. Stones rained on him followed by kicks and punches and insults. Accusations.

Shock distorted reality. I couldn’t tell if I was laughing or crying. It might have been a marriage of both. Bab Duma and the boys were high, deranged into delirium. The air was pregnant with danger. And something else I couldn’t describe, something sick, foul, and unnatural.  “No, Mandla. Stop. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You said we will only scare him a little.”  A woman’s voice spoke my mind and was both supported and reprimanded. Chaos ensued, a struggle of emotions, guilt versus anger.  I wanted to scream at somebody to stop, to quieten the blood perched frenzy, but everything was confusing. Things were happening in a fast-paced slow motion, and I was caught in the frosty numbing disarray. I watched as the fiery wheel adorned the thrashing and kicking Akua who was then tackled to the ground. Someone shouted: “Mayifeinja!”  The smell of gasoline filled my head and weakened it, making me dizzy. I don’t know what sounded louder the strike of the match or my nagging conscience forcing my heart against my ribs. Akua staggered to his knees and cheers roared to mock his helplessness. He suddenly got up twitching and screaming, running about. Laughter applauded his performance. The apprehension of what was happening washed over me like a violent fever. Regret solidified into a raging ball of lava making me weak and dizzy and nauseous. It burnt my heart, clogged my chest so I couldn’t breathe; it seared through my body seeking refuge, untangled my stomach and sat hot on my crotch. I felt like shitting it out for my spirit denied it rest. I met Akua’s eyes searching for empathy in mine and blankness blocked out the terror before me. I turned and stumbled my way out, shoving through the evil throng of my neighbours. My allies. Why? His eyes asked. Why? I sank to the ground and dissolved like water into soil, never again to be gathered.  As he took his last breath, I hurled my burning heart to the ground.

Photo: Louis Smit

Disgusted by the fruit of our alliance, we went home strangers. Even those who walked together, hand in hand, walked alone. Death divided us, dancing like a harlot amid our aroused darkness. We had cheated on humanity for a cheap thrill, made love to the devil and tapped open a hell that now refused to close. Who are we? We inquired, searching each other’s eye for a different truth than the one that resounded with each breath. We were the ugly truth our spirits refused to accept. And so we walked alone. Lost and conflicted.

The police came with their questions, unaware how close their probing came to revealing our truth, how their scribbling on limb notebooks threatened to yank open the blankets cuddled like babies to our breasts and discover the torments within—squealing demons crying for the blood spilt, denied and fed sour milk from the shrunken breasts of pungent souls who soothe them with lulling lies and petty excuses. Only the policemen did not care. They did not want to uncover hades nor heaven. They only wanted to do their questioning and scribbling, chewing tediously on imaginary food in nostalgia or anticipation. The secret remained ours to keep. The beast whose roars scared us rigid remained ours to cuddle. Death thought we were now friends and began to settle comfortably amid us, to our distress. Akua’s eyes, comprehensive yet unbelieving, haunted me. I thought of nothing but those eyes. I did not eat nor hunger. I did not live. The fear of who I had become, a merciless killer, ate at me as scavengers do the dead. I too was dead though I still took in breath.

We built high concrete walls to shield us from those who mirrored our guilt and confirmed our sin. But how on earth does one erase memory? We found no solace in solitude. In isolation, we withered and died. Some were braver and stepped into the light with newly fashioned masks of pain-stricken smiles. Some, I heard, handed themselves over to the police, mad with guilt, screaming: “I did it. I killed the man. I killed him for not being me.” They were rewarded not with peace but the rhythmic melancholia of cold prison cells. Bab’ Duma hung himself; his wife found him hanging from the roof of their bedroom. It didn’t come as a shock; she had known it was coming and had been dreading it for some time. A brave few went to the funeral to confront the fate that remained ours, bottomless maggot-infested graves to put an end to our shame. If we can kill ikwerekwere, we can kill any man, including our brother. In fact, we have killed our brother. Who then is safe?

About the author

Zamo Mbhele, born and raised in Ladysmith, South Africa, is a poet and a writer with a burning love for storytelling.