For the sake of what burns
Photo: Zach Vessels
Since Zuka and I found my twin sister lying in a pool of blood, I knew a trauma that has not left the doorstep of my mind. There is nothing easy about getting over the brutal death of someone who completed you. Without words, I kept running away from mourning my twin or embracing the change in reality—that she was no more. Tired and depressed, whenever I could, I shut my doors and tightened the bolts of my windows. 2 a.m. became my daytime, and my brother Zuka, who at least believed I was not possessed by an angry twin sister, became my solace.
“You should go out, Zira, and get some air,” he scolded. “What could go wrong?” It’s been weeks since I last stepped out of my one-bed apartment in the centre of town.
I laughed and gave him a thousand reasons why “going out” was not a good idea before hanging up. But when my tummy rumbled for the third time that day, I knew I could no longer pretend that I wasn’t hungry. Grabbing my purse, I rushed towards the nearest fast food shop. The smell of the Kota bun, made from fresh bread, with cheese melting on the hot greasy fries made it difficult to consider somewhere else, even though the servers here were stingy with garlic sauce. The aroma quickened my pace, and in seconds, I was hungrily grabbing the door to feed the craving hacking at my tongue. I ordered a Kota bun and a sweetened thick vanilla shake. And because this Kota bun was best eaten hot, I settled in a neat corner in the shop and began to greedily gulp everything at once.
As I pushed past the barrier of my deep hunger and settled to savouring the meal, I was drawn to the scenery outside. The dark orange skies. Cars here and there. People appearing and disappearing with yellow Shoprite bags. Everyone was in a rush. And no one seemed to notice the murky orange sunset rays blinding them. How lucky they must be to have someone waiting for them or something to look forward to. Folding my hands to take in a couple of breaths, I closed my eyes and imagined a certain peace with no anxiety. I don’t know how long I was like this, but the swing of the door brought me back to the present.
“It was a running joke in my family—started by my grandmother years before she died—that I was blessed and could sense danger.”
A tall, thin man with black greasy locs and a bulging tummy walked in, went straight to the counter, and collected his order. As he walked out, he turned to me, his smile revealing yellow bronze teeth that made his bloodshot eyes look small. He waved at me as if saying hello and goodbye at the same time. I politely grinned back. I mean, the last thing I needed was someone coming over to my table to reprimand me for ignoring a kind gesture—stranger things have happened in this country. My eyes desperately followed his disappearing shadow into what was becoming a cool grey evening—almost some sort of reminder that it was getting late and that I had to go home too. These days, it’s dangerous being a young woman in this part of town. Hiring a taxi was not even safe. Women were vanishing like mist in the morning; some raped right there on the street.
That October evening was almost intolerably beautiful: it had this warmness about it that made me want to live in it. I took my time, savouring my walk home like I’d a tub of ice cream—slowly and in small scoops. Minutes later, I was dusting my shoes on the welcome mat of my front door and could feel the evening changing, cloudy sky and all. So much for a warm evening. But there was this cold chill that was familiar: something about the atmosphere seemed different and dangerous—reminded me of the day I found my twin dead, except this time the air was thicker and suffocating. I could feel goosebumps forming on my arms. In the back of my mind, I scolded myself for being paranoid and for being a scared young black woman. But then again, there was the real possibility I could end up dead for being that, a young black woman.
I grabbed my brown cardigan that lay on the armrest of the coach. To distract myself from my crazy crazy thoughts, I video-called Zuka who teased me for being too paranoid. My hands felt numb and tingly, as if something was wrong. It was a running joke in my family—started by my grandmother years before she died—that I was blessed and could sense danger. I don’t think they actually believed me when I told them that I had known, felt, that something memorable would happen—usually after something bad had happened. Or maybe deep down they believed and made jest to cloak their wonder . . . and fear? But I knew that I knew, and this felt like one of those moments. Tripping on the corner of the mat that lay at the foot of my bed, I yelped and accidentally tossed my phone. As I leaned to pick up my phone, a faint stench of tobacco and stale chicken noodle soup hit me; I didn’t give it a second thought. But then, Zuka’s face on my screen turned pale as if someone had cut off his oxygen. “I am alright, Zika. It was just a trip.” And I continued yammering about the strange man from the shop. One text notification later, it was as if someone had cut off my oxygen supply. There is a man under your bed. My face must have looked like death.
Photo: Alina Grubnyak
I shut my eyes because it seemed like the only logical thing to do. When Zuka screamed, “Zira, he is behind you,” it felt like my imagination, a dream almost. A hand touched my neck, a gentle thuggish touch. No one had ever touched me like that.
“Don’t even try anything stupid,” he said, caressing my back and turning my numb body slowly. I recognised him instantly. It was the man from the shop. His peculiar smile pierced through my fear. He was so close that I could even suck the tobacco in his breath. “You look pale and cold my dear,” he said, carelessly grabbing the small blanket on my bed and wrapping it around me. He walked around the room slowly as if inspecting for booby traps before pushing me to the bed. I let out a shriek and arched my body in a corner of the bed.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you; I will be gentle.” He walked to the full body mirror on the wall, revealed his teeth, and started massaging his teeth with his index finger. When he finished, he sucked in some air.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember me, Zira.” He pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat on it. “I used to watch you go to school, and I have to say you have become a fine, fine woman.” He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together as if I was grilled turkey.
“What do you want?” I hardly heard myself.
“I want you to remember. I need you to remember. For the sake of what burns within me for you.”
Burns. Silence masked my confusion as I tried to remember him. He sat still, watching me steal furtive glances, trying to remember him. I don’t know how long he sat there and I peeked at him. I just remember that he looked like a man in no hurry, like he owned time. I also remembered him. He was the crazy man—that’s what everyone called him—who walked behind Zuka and me as we trekked to school every morning, centuries ago. I didn’t know what became of him: he just stopped showing up and, shortly after, there was a rumour that he was wanted in connection with missing school children.
“You were always mine. But I had to wait. I hope you understand why I hid in the shadows of the night watching you grow.” He moved close enough to touch my face and fondle my covered thigh. “My wife. Mine!”
Again there was silence. But this time I heard it. My throat was dry and crusty. The room grew smaller each minute, and I retreated to that part of myself that I hated the most: my mind. I knew I couldn’t panic now and fall unconscious. Scanning for something, anything, that might calm me, I squinted and tried to focus on the quiet evening sounds seeping through the windows. Wiping sweaty palms, I was tempted to scream or tip an object that would likely crash with a loud sound. But no one would come. Even the police won’t come if I called them. And if they did, it’d be hours after I had died. Where are you, Zuka, when I need you the most? I couldn’t even remember what I did with my phone. Didn’t know if Zika was still listening. But I knew the police won’t come even if he called them. If he cried and screamed and told them in his most supplicating voice that his sister was about to be killed by a maniac, they might ask him to send petrol money.
My watery eyes were engorged and goosebumps swelled on my frigid sweaty skin when I realised how alone I was. I tried to scream, but my throat was so dry that only a croak came out of my mouth. Trapped, it hit me hard that I was living my nightmare. The one that I had tailored for so long that it became my deepest fear.
“No, I was never yours,” I heard myself say.
He let out an indignant roar pulling his locs, threw his head back, and let out a long loud screechy humourless laugh. The blanket wrapped around my body provided neither comfort nor warmth. I stared at the wall, praying and listening to his breath and curses. Every part of me was frozen and paralysed with fear. I couldn’t register his constant bangs on the study table near the window. I tried several times to move but felt pinned down. I wanted to cry. I wanted this man to leave. I wanted to go home. But this was home. This strange man was in my home. And the reality sank deeper: no one was coming for me. And even if they did it would be too late. As I watched him take off his coat, I cried and screamed, aware of what he was about to do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rutendo S Maturure, born and raised in Zimbabwe, is a poet and a writer who loves and explores her grapple with imagination and identity while attempting to find her purpose of ambivalence in society, religion, culture, and heritage. She explores various themes of diversity throughout her writing. You can check her work on her blog: https://thismyvoiceexpress.wordpress.com/