Ben

Three short stories by Ben Semwayo

The woman who killed an udder by biting

 

The rural village of Ndawana lies in Sanyati, in the north-western part of Zimbabwe. Although it is commonly referred to as a village it is not really one, being too small to qualify even as a hamlet. It consists of a long line of small houses and thatched huts of varying descriptions, about a mile long, with a narrow dirt road passing in front of the dwellings, which are fenced with either barbed wire in dire need of repair, or termite-eaten thorn branches that have long lost their dry leaves, hewn from the expansive forest that lies on the side of the road opposite the dwellings. Behind the line of huts and houses lie the fields where their subsistent occupants grow crops such as cotton, maize, groundnuts, paprika, rapoko, sorghum, millet and round nuts.

 

The area being arid and there being no river anywhere nearby, water is fetched from a borehole situated right next to the headman’s home. The water is drawn through the laborious process of pumping it from underground, done by pulling down the end of a metal pole attached to the pump that is fixed to pipes that are fitted into the one-hundred-metre-deep hole drilled into the earth, letting it go up by itself and then pulling it down again. This process is repeated over and over until the water comes out, and then the pumping must continue because once you stop the water also stops coming out. In the driest time of the year, when the water table is at its lowest, it can take up to thirty minutes of pumping before the first drop of water appears. This is the only source of water for the whole village for all the uses to which water is put, including drinking, bathing, washing clothes and utensils, building, watering livestock consisting of cattle, sheep, goats and chickens, and spraying crops with pesticides. In the event of the borehole breaking down the entire village is forced to travel with its animals a few miles to the next village to share the water from its borehole, where tempers often flare up in disputes over who draws the water first, and nasty situations can be encountered.

 

Mai Kumbi’s homestead was situated in the middle of the village. It was made up of four round thatched huts, the smallest one, which was situated behind the other three that stood in a row, being raised from the ground, perched on sturdy Mopani poles. It was her granary. Her husband had left her because she had given birth to four girls and had failed to produce a boy. One of the three bigger huts was her kitchen, which contained most of the family’s foodstuffs and utensils. The other two were the bedrooms, one for Mai Kumbi herself and two-year-old Chido, her youngest daughter, and the other one for her three other daughters: Agnes, four; Marjorie, six; and Kumbirai, nine.

 

‘Kumbi’ is the short form of Kumbirai, and ‘Mai Kumbi’ means ‘mother of Kumbi.’ In this part of the world it is considered disrespectful to call adults by their first names, which are a closely guarded secret that most people, especially children, are not meant to know, and if found out it is most certainly as a result of some accident. Instead they are called by their children’s names, usually the first child, a practice that, where women are concerned, is meant to signal to any strange men contemplating making advances on the woman that she is a married woman, stopping them dead in their tracks. Similarly, men are called by their children’s names to signal to any interested women that that is a no-go territory. This also stands in the way of spouses who may want to cheat on their other halves, who find themselves in very awkward positions when presented with a situation where there is mutual attraction between them and a clearly willing member of the opposite sex.

 

The twenty-first of November 1998 was a day that was to be remembered as the darkest day in the life of this family that was already reeling under the severity of life as a single-parent family in a country where there were no state benefits to be had. On this fateful day Mai Kumbi had had a long and tiresome day as usual. She had woken up at sunrise to go to the fields to weed her groundnuts, which were facing stiff competition from the weeds as it was the rainy season. She had spent the day there with her daughters, carrying out the back-breaking task of cultivating the groundnuts, which involved bending for long periods of time and occasionally straightening up to alleviate the searing pain caused by the muscle fatigue of the back muscles.

 

Exhausted after the day’s work, the family slouched home, where more chores awaited them. They had to fetch water from the borehole, cook supper, shoo the chickens into the chicken run and wash the dished before retiring to bed. These tasks were divided among them all and they switched tasks every day to ensure they all had a fair allocation of duties. On this particular day they finished all their chores early and went to bed.

 

Mai Kumbi and Agnes slept together on the floor of their bedroom, their bedding consisting of a reed mat on which was thrown a blanket that they slept on, and a blanket or two, depending on the weather, that they covered themselves with, to keep warm. It did not take them long to drift into dreamland on account of the energy-sapping work they had been doing all day.

 

The still night was disturbed by the shrill whining of Agnes, who was kicking about and lashing her arms. Her mother was brusquely jettisoned from the blissful land of nod by the hullabaloo in her bedroom and, calling Agnes’ name again and again in an attempt to get her quiet and to say what the matter was, she scrambled to light her improvised paraffin lamp. After a few flickers the lamp was on and she could see what was happening. To her utter horror a puff udder clung to Agnes’ wrist and in her terror she was lashing incessantly. Maternal love kicked in and, acting fast, Mai Kumbi snatched the dish towel that she had hung on the rail before going to bed and tore a strip from it, then proceeded to wrap it round the head of the reptile, after which she put the bulge in her mouth and bit it hard several times with her incisors. The reptile, convulsed by the crushing of its skull and the mashing of its brain, reacted by thrashing about intimidatingly and coiling itself round Mai Kumbi’s neck, but that did little to deter the infuriated, vengeful woman: she continued to bite until she felt the head of the snake almost reduced to a pulp in her mouth.

 

Once she was satisfied that the snake posed no further threat she unwrapped the cloth and slowly pulled snake’s shattered head away from her daughter’s wrist, carefully withdrawing the fangs that had become embedded in her daughter’s flesh. She threw it to one end of the room where it continued to writhe as life slowly ebbed out of it. Tearing the remaining piece of the dish towel and tying two ends of it together, she quickly made a tourniquet that she wound round her daughter’s forearm to prevent the poison from spreading to the rest of her body, as was common practice in the area, then she immediately woke up Kumbi and Marjorie and told them the disaster that had befallen them. She told the girls that she was going to ask Mr Muzondiwa, one of the only two people in the village who had a car, to rush Kumbi to Sanyati Baptist Hospital ten miles away, because there was no time to waste. Steeling herself against her fear of the dangers of the night, she stepped into the darkness with Agnes strapped to her back and hurried to her neighbour’s homestead.

 

The night air was filled with the sounds of nocturnal animals. There was the cacophonous sound of crickets that seemed to be competing to see which one screeched loudest, and there was the hooting of owls. In the distance there was the barking of several dogs and nearby she could hear the scampering of mice in the grass. A hare made her heart skip a beat when it was startled out of its hiding place and quickly darted away. A pair of orange eyes, obviously belonging to a bush baby, seemed to be trained on her as they reflected the moon’s light. The distant cry of an ant bear was heard. Scores of fireflies could be seen dotted about the dark landscape. Fully aware that dangers that might lurk under the cover of the night, she continued along the straight sandy road, frightened, until she reached Mr Muzondiwa’s home.

 

As she approached the home Mr Muzondiwa’s dogs sprang into action as they began barking ferociously, charging towards the gate. She had to shout her identity so that the dogs could be restrained. Mr Muzondiwa’s booming voice was heard as he ordered his dogs to stop barking, which they promptly did. One window was lit up by a lamp, and the light was filtered through some floral yellow curtains. After a minute or two the door creaked open, making a harsh rasping sound as its base rubbed against the threshold. Mr Muzondiwa’s tall dark form emerged and he made his way towards the gate where Mai Kimbi stood, having resolved not to venture beyond the gate for fear of being savaged by the vicious canines.

 

‘Is everything okay Mai Kumbi - it’s two o’clock?’ Mr Muzondiwa enquired, still a distance away, as he walked towards the gate, followed by his four Alsatian crosses, which seemed eager to show him that they considered it irresponsible to let him face the intruder on his own.

 

‘No,’ Mai Kumbi replied, tears welling in her eyes and her voice breaking. ‘Agnes has been bitten on the hand by a puff udder.’

 

‘Puff udder?’ Mr Muzondiwa asked incredulously. ‘How did it get into your bedroom?’

 

‘It must have slithered in unnoticed in the dark.’

 

‘Have you tied her hand firmly?’

 

‘Yes. That is the first thing I did after killing the snake.’

 

Mr Muzondiwa reached the gate and opened it for Mai Kumbi. The dogs, as if they had to be seen to be doing something, sniffed around Mai Kumbi, making some low growling noises, which made Mai Kumbi tense and fear that Mr Muzondiwa would not be able to fully control them.

 

‘Bhonzo! Away!’ Mr Muzondiwa bellowed at the dogs sternly and they turned and slunk away sheepishly, their tails, which a moment before were wagging excitedly, having suddenly disappeared between their legs. Making no further sound, the tailless beasts melted into the surrounding darkness. 

 

‘We have to get to hospital as quickly as we can,’ Mr Muzondiwa said considerately. ‘I’ll get my car keys and we’ll leave immediately. Come in and wait for me as I get some money for petrol. My tank is low and it probably won’t be able to get me back.’

 

‘I should be paying for the petrol but I don’t have a penny in my house at the moment. I shall pay you when I sell some groundnuts.’

 

‘Do not worry about that. We have to get the child to hospital and you can always pay for the petrol later,’ the man said compassionately.

 

‘I cannot thank you enough,’ Mai Kumbi said, feeling profoundly grateful to her magnanimous neighbour.

 

Mr Muzondiwa disappeared into his bedroom and reappeared almost immediately with his wife in tow.

 

‘I am very sorry about this tragic accident,’ Mrs Muzondiwa commiserated. ‘I pray God will intervene.’

 

‘Thank you,’ Mai Kumbi responded. ‘I don’t know what I could do without your help.’    

 

Mr, Muzondiwa and Mai Kumbi, with Agnes in her arms, got into the car, while Mrs Muzondiwa went to open the gate. The engine cranked and after a few coughs and splutters, it roared into life. Mr Muzondiwa revved it a few times before turning on the headlights. Two powerful beams of light cut through the darkness and were projected into the forest ahead, which became light, and some movement was seen in the verdant branches – probably made by some confused monkeys. The car, an estate Peugeot 404, rolled towards the gate, went through it and turned right in the dirt road to wait for Mrs Muzondiwa, who was busy shutting the gate. Once the lady had taken her place beside her husband the car proceeded along the road, occasionally meandering to avoid furrows and rock outcrops caused by the rain.

 

Agnes was still crying despite her mother’s efforts to console her. Mai Kumbi asked for a torch to see what her hand was like, and to her horror she saw that it had swollen and was beginning to bleed from where she had been bitten. ‘It has swollen, and it’s bleeding,’ she said, her voice choking. ‘Oh…my child…will this all end well?’ she sobbed.

 

‘She’ll be fine,’ Mrs Muzondiwa consoled her. It’s not too far to the hospital and once we are there everything will be under control.’

 

‘The doctors at that hospital are very good,’ Mr Muzondiwa agreed. ‘It is said when Cuthbert was bitten by a black mamba he was unconscious by the time he got to the hospital, but isn’t he the one who is now the local councillor? No-one thought he would survive.’

 

‘This is just a small problem for the doctors.’

 

Mai Kumbi listened quietly as her neighbours did their best to assure here of a happy ending to the whole mishap. The car continued to meander along the dirt road, passed the sleeping village of Lozane, then swung left, heading for Hozheri school. Passing the school, it reached the small shopping centre near the school, from which point the road was better maintained and consequently wider. This brought much relief to the travellers because from there they could travel much faster, increasing the chances of the girl being attended to before serious harm had been done to her hand.

 

‘It’ll be only twenty minutes from here,’ Mr. Muzondiwa announced gladly. ‘From here the road is straight and smooth up to Chivanga village, where we will get on the tarmac to the hospital, so cheer up, Mai Kumbi. They will treat her, give her some pain-killers, and soon she will be giggling again.’ 

 

Mr Muzondiwa increased the speed of the car, and its engine could clearly be heard as it purred along on this quiet, dark night. They had not gone far when the car was brought to a sudden stop: a huge tree had fallen across the road. ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Mr Muzondiwa. ‘What idiot could have done this?’

 

‘This is unbelievable,’ put in Mrs Muzondiwa. ‘Just when we thought the journey was going to be plain sailing for a change! Then this!’

 

‘I knew this was going to happen,’ moaned Mai Kumbi. ‘My heart was beating abnormally all morning and I interpreted it as a premonition that something untoward was afoot. This is it.’

 

‘Don’t say that, Mai Kumbi,’ protested Mrs Muzondiwa. ‘It is not uncommon for trees to fall across the road in this part of the world. Don’t you remember two years ago when the bus had to turn back because a massive Mopani tree had fallen across the road when some shameless, unscrupulous men had lit chopped it down so that they could access a bee hive that was out of their reach?’

 

‘Last year baobab tree fell across the road at Kasirisiri during a storm and there was a long line of stranded cars in both directions,’ Mr Muzondiwa said. ‘The DDF (District Development Fund) people were called but their response was exasperatingly slow. They only turned up at the end of the day after the local villagers had teamed up to attack the offending tree with their own axes. Those men worked very hard, with the women providing traditional beer and food. You know how wide a baobab tree is.’

 

‘I wish it was as easy as you are making it out to be,’ Mai Kumbi sighed. ‘My heart just slumped when I saw this evil tree lying there. Will there ever be an end to my misfortunes? My daughter…will she make it to the hospital?’

 

‘She will make it,’ Mr Muzondiwa reassured her promptly. ‘We’ll work out a way. There’s got to be a way. Let’s see.’ He scanned the fallen tree from one end to the other, and then back again, then he repeated that action. He looked beyond the tree at the part of the forest next to it, then he cast his eyes at the opposite side of the fallen giant. His hand moved to the ignition, turned the key, and the engine died, but the headlamps were still on. With the confidence of one who had had a brainwave, he grabbed his torch, opened his door and walked over to the right hand side of the road with the light from the torch illuminating the ground in front of him, then he proceeded onto the forest part by the side of the road. He went round the top of the prostrate tree, scrutinising the ground and testing its firmness with his feet as he went, the light beam from the torch darting back and forth across his path and forwards and backwards. He disappeared behind some bushes then reappeared on the road on the other side of the tree. He stood in the middle of the road, looked back at Mai Kumbi and Mrs Muzondiwa, and smiled. Retracing his steps, he came back to the car and took his place in the driver’s seat.

 

‘We should be able to drive round the top of the tree,’ he announced with an almost indiscernible hint of doubt in his voice. ‘We should be able to,’ he reiterated, the hint of doubt still lingering in his voice. It was as if he was trying to convince himself of the impossible. ‘We’ll give it a go,’ he said decisively.

 

The car roared into life and reversed briefly. The first gear was engaged and the Peugeot slowly approached the right hand side verge of the road. Its top tilted to the right as the right hand side wheels entered the storm drain by the edge of the road. The top tilted again, to the left this time, as the left wheels took their turn to plunge into the storm drain. The beams from the headlight lit up the tops of the trees ahead as they were projected at an angle from the ground. The car proceeded into the forest as its top levelled up. Straddling the small bushes on the side of the road, it laboured forward as inch by inch as Mr Muzondiwa nervously manoeuvred it, afraid that one small mistake could put paid to any attempts to get back on the road. The wheels clearly did not have adequate traction. It was a nail-biting moment when time seemed to freeze. Everyone was quiet, concentrating on the precarious progress the car was making and trying hard to will it to weather the challenge. The only sounds that could be heard were the labouring engine, twigs breaking under the wheels and the bushes brushing against the bottom of the car. The engine screamed as the driving wheel turned a fast spin, obviously lacking adequate grip on the soggy ground, and painfully slow progress was made with the earth ominously threatening to withdraw at any time what little resistance there was. It was a touch and go situation. Soon the fallen tree was to their left and before they knew it Mr Muzindiwa was turning the steering wheel back to the left to get back on the road. None of them had thought they would make it this far, and a sense of relief was beginning to register itself in their hearts.

  

‘This is unbelievable,’ an incredulous Mai Kumbi said, almost in a whisper. ‘It’s too good to be true. It’s like a dream.’ No-one answered her. It was not over yet; it was not yet time to celebrate.

 

The car tilted to the left as the car re-entered the storm drain. It tilted to the right, moved forward and the last wheel was about to ascend out of the drain when the unthinkable happened: it stopped moving forward despite Mr Muzondiwa relentlessly depressing the accelerator pedal and the engine screaming. He depressed the pedal harder, but to their surprise, instead of moving forward the car was going nowhere and its rear was being lowered as the wheel dug deeper into the earth.

 

‘We are stuck,’ Mr Muzondiwa said, thrusting his back against the seat in disgust after disengaging the gear and taking his foot off the accelerator pedal. He remained in that position, thinking, while the two ladies were too shocked to utter a word. He then got out of the car with his torch again, to inspect the wheels. ‘Phewwwww,’ he was heard whistling a long, plaintive whistle that was slightly muffled by the sound of the idling engine, then he came back to slump in the driver’s seat. For a moment he remained quiet. ‘I hate to say it,’ he said hesitantly, ‘but I need a push.’ He was quiet again, then he carried on, ‘It’s very unlikely that a car will come this way at this time of night, and we are in the middle of nowhere. There are no homes nearby to ask for help. We will just have to try what we can to get Agnes to hospital. Can you try to push the car while I try to drive it out of the mud?’

 

‘It looks like we don’t have a choice,’ Mrs Muzondiwa acquiesced dutifully. ‘The child has to get to hospital as soon as possible.’

 

With that doors were flung open and the two ladies struggled out and took their positions behind the car. Agnes was left lying on the back seat, whimpering quietly. Mr Muzondiwa engaged the first gear, revved the engine and began to release the clutch pedal. The ladies huffed and puffed with all their might, but the car just sank deeper into the mire until it could sink no more. Mr Muzondiwa came out of the car with his torch again. ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed. ‘The diff is sitting on the ground. The soil in the storm drain is very soggy.’

 

‘That’s really unfortunate,’ Mrs Muzondiwa said despondently. ‘What do we do now?’

 

‘There is no way we are going to get it out of that hole,’ Mr Muzondiwa replied resignedly. ‘We’ll need a tractor, or a span of cattle to pull it out, and that can only happen after daybreak. We have to work out a way of getting the girl to hospital before that. What do you think we should do?’

 

The man knew that the only option was for the two ladies to walk either to the main tarred road where they would get a lift from the truckers whose trucks rumbled up and down the road all night, or straight to the hospital using a short cut that passed through a long stretch of wooded, uninhabited Savannah forest, while he remained behind guarding the car, but he was hesitant to say it, and preferred to let the women suggest it themselves. He knew the dangers involved with both options. The women too could not dare volunteer to suggest that course of action. 

 

‘I haven’t got a clue,’ Mrs Muzondiwa answered.

 

There was silence. Mai Kumbi began sobbing quietly as the likelihood of a sad ending to the whole event became increasingly possibilie to her. She visualised her child getting weaker and weaker, and eventually dying.

 

‘Don’t cry Mai Kumbi,’ Mr Muzondiwa comforted her. ‘We’ll work out a way.’ He wanted to suggest what was the only workable solution, but it was very difficult for him. After some more silence he decided that time was running out and somebody had to say it for the sake of the child.

 

‘Why don’t you two take the child to the main road where you can get a lift to the hospital on a haulage truck, or to the hospital through the woods, while I guard the car?’

 

‘That would be a good idea, but women never travel alone at night in these parts,’ Mrs Muzondiwa differed timorously. ‘The path through the woods is scary because there are no people’s homes anywhere near it and it is a place where warthogs and hyenas roam free at night. There are also snakes and bats. The road is safer, but then you know as well as we do that occasionally people have been waylaid and murdered for their body parts to use for ritual purposes. Then there are the ghosts at Munyuki Hill.’

 

Mr Muzondiwa remained quiet, knowing these fears to be realistic. He was in a dilemma and did not know what to do. One option was for him to walk to the hospital with Mai Kumbi while his wife guarded the car, but that was not really an option because armed thieves were known to steal parts from broken down vehicles, and guarding broken-down cars was not really a woman’s job. Such was the shortage of spares in the country that cars seen abandoned by the roadside were an irresistible Godsend to the thieves, who stole anything from engines, starters and alternators to headlamps, batteries and wheels, leaving the vehicle, or more appropriately, shell, propped up on stones or bricks. Once you had the unfortunate experience of losing car parts in this way you most likely never recovered from the financial ruin that unavoidably resulted, and you might never get the car back on the road again because the spares were horribly expensive, unless if you decided to sink so low as to buy them from the black market, where all the stolen parts were sold for a fraction of their value, in which case you might buy back goods stolen from you, resulting in the unemviable situation of paying twice for the same item.

 

Mr Muzondiwa could not even suggest the last option, not being the kind who would put his wife in harm’s way for anything, yet at the same time he could not offer to leave the car unguarded and walk to the hospital with the two ladies, because the loss he might suffer would be immense.

 

‘My life has been ruined,’ Mai Kumbi sighed, her voice breaking. ‘I know people face misfortunes, me included, but I did not expect this kind of misfortune. What did I do to deserve this? I have worked hard to raise my children single-handedly, now as if that is not hard enough my youngest child gets bitten by a snake. Out of the goodness of your heart you offer to drive her to hospital, but Diabolus has other plans. This is painful. I cannot take it anymore,’ she said in an anguished voice.

 

Mr and Mrs Muzondiwa listened grimly, powerless to assuage the suffering of this tormented woman pouring out her soul. They tried but failed to find suitable words to say to cheer her up.

 

‘I am walking to hospital,’ Mai Kumbi announced determinedly in a low, agonised voice. ‘If I die I die. How will I ever live with myself if she dies because I was afraid to risk my life? What would my life mean to me without my daughter?’ She picked up Kumbi, threw her onto her back and began strapping her to it in her mbereko (baby shawl:). Mr and Mrs Muzondiwa watched her silently in disbelief. She picked up her holdall and began walking down the road.

 

‘I am coming with you,’ Mrs Muzondiwa offered as she followed her. Mr Muzondiwa remained standing there as if in trance, stunned by this sudden turn of events. He continued watching as the silhouettes of the two women became smaller and smaller and the sound of their footsteps became fainter and fainter as they proceeded further down the road.

 

Knowing the dangers of guarding a vehicle left by the roadside, Mr Muzondiwa turned to the business of arming himself in the event of an encounter with thieves. Using his torch, he selected and broke off a thick piece of wood the size of a baseball bat from the fallen tree, then sat in the back seat of his car. In his mind he reviewed the things he would do if his car was approached by a group of men, meaning he was obviously outnumbered. He decided that he would follow the advice somebody had given when he and other men were discussing the endemic problem of the theft of parts from broken down vehicles. He would pretend that there were several people in the car by shouting to some imaginary fellow occupants to wake up as there were people approaching the car then, in a different voice, he would impersonate another man responding to the alarm raised. A third and a fourth voice would be heard as he held this intimidating conversation with himself. Content with his plan, he sat back and waited for the seconds to tick by.

 

Not long afterwards, he heard the sound of footsteps quickly approaching and people panting. His heart skipped a beat and his bloodstream began to fill with adrenalin. He gripped his weapon with sweaty hands and as he looked in the direction the sounds were coming from he thought he could see the dark forms of several men advancing towards him and, his body turning into a quivering jelly because of fear, he decided that he would put his plan into operation when the intruders were within earshot.

 

‘Ba Chamu! Ba Chamu!’ he heard a voice call, a female voice. He was confused. ‘We have seen a ghost!’ the voice continued. It was his wife: the two ladies had been forced to retreat. He was immensely relieved to realise that he would not have to fight off a gang of armed men. His nerves still tingling, he tried to compose himself and not display any signs of the pulverising fear that had gripped him.

 

‘Where did you see it?’ he asked, getting out of the car and doing his best to make his voice sound normal.

 

‘At the huge tree by the path to Makoko village,’ Mai Kumbi answered as the two women edged closer. ‘It was a large glowing light the size of a football in a bush by the side of the road. What shall we do now? Use the path through the woods?’

 

Mr Muzondiwa thought for a moment, ‘I am coming with you,’ he said, and we are going back the way you came. The path through the woods is too long. We have lost a lot of precious time and we need to get the child to hospital as soon as possible. I’ll take you to the main road, get you on a truck, then I’ll come back to the car. We will rely on God’s protection. God is not a fool you know.’

 

The two women just gasped in surprise but did not protest. Doing a u-turn, they joined Mr Muzondiwa down the road. They were quiet most of the time, with the occasional comment, mostly by Mr and Mrs Muzondiwa. Mai Kumbi was in a pensive mood, anxious to see the end of this whole affair. In the distance they could hear the heavy vehicles rumbling up and down the road and proceeding to Sanyati town. They got to the path that branched off to Makoko village, and sure enough there was a mysterious radiant ember-orange object. They continued to walk, looking straight ahead, resisting the urge to look at it, though, overcome by fear, they all occasionally stole a glance. It seemed to fidget around the bush as they were passing. After they had covered about two hundred metres, they looked back, only to see that the object had left its position in the bush and was now right in the middle of the straight road. No-one said a word as it was taboo to comment on weird nocturnal goings-on in the presence of the dreaded disembodied spirits. All comments were to be made later in broad daylight.

 

After they had covered a mile or two Chido began to throw up, forcing them to stop and attend to her. Her mother was thrown deeper into despondency as she began to fear the worst for her darling daughter. 

 

Exhausted after trudging along the road for what seemed an eternity, they reached the tarred road as the sky was beginning to redden above the eastern horizon. Chirping could be heard as the early birds were beginning to stir in the trees. Soon a truck came racing down the road and they all flagged it down frantically. It had been travelling so fast that it only managed to stop about a hundred metres past them. The two women were offered a lift and Mr Muzondiwa began his long journey back to the car, relieved that the little girl would finally reach the hospital. To him it was also comforting to think that by the time he would reach the scene of the ghost it would be after daybreak. 

 

When the haulage truck driver heard the story about Kumbi being bitten by a snake he said that as he approached the party flagging him down he had decided that he was not going to stop as he had been travelling really fast, which was why he had stopped so far from them, but the sight of the child made him change his mind. Once he saw her he had had a hunch that something must have gone seriously wrong for people to be out by the roadside with a child and no luggage so early in the day. When they reached the junction to the hospital he kindly turned off the road to drive them the three hundred metres to the hospital, which they would normally have walked, then he returned to the tarred road to continue with his journey, declining payment.

 

On reaching the hospital the two ladies took Kumbi to the reception, the entry point for both out patients and accident and emergency cases. It was quiet and deserted except for the receptionist, a plump young man with short hair who was dosing behind the desk, sitting in a comfortable swivel chair. They told him what had happened and he instantaneously picked up the phone and made a short call, then gently replaced the receiver in its place. Shortly afterwards two female nurses appeared in their immaculate white uniforms and crisp, well ironed caps, one of them pushing a wheelchair. Kumbi was placed in it and whisked along shiny, brightly lit corridors filled with the smell of medicines and chemicals, rushing through several double doors which were flung open by the nurse who was not pushing the wheelchair.

 

They left the main corridor and followed a narrower corridor, at the end of which they turned right into a small room with an adjustable bed, some padded chairs, a hand wash basin, some scales, a trash can, a tall lamp for examining patients and a cabinet with an assortment of shiny stainless steel instruments, rubber tubes and medicines in it. In the room was a bespectacled middle aged American doctor, greying at the temples, wearing a white coat, with a stethoscope hung round his neck. The wheelchair was pushed right in front of him, where its wheels were locked. He immediately turned to Chido.

 

‘So you’ve been bitten by a snake little girl?’ he said amiably, leaning closer to the girl. ‘You’ll be all right. Come, let’s look at you,’ he said affectionately.

 

Chido tensed, not being used to seeing white people. She fixed her gaze on his face with her fearful dilated eyes, not sure whether to trust him or to let out an almighty scream. The doctor took her hand slowly, sensing the discomfort she was in, and she looked at her mother as if to look for a cue to say it was fine for her to let the white man take her hand. Her mother smiled and, understanding the message but still edgy, apparently not fully convinced that it was the right thing to do, Chido reluctantly let the doctor examine her.

 

Dr Randall gently supported the child’s little arm in one hand while with the other he held her fingers as he examined the hand that had ballooned to almost double its normal size. ‘This is not looking good,’ he said.  ‘There is surface extravasation,’ he went on, more to the nurses that to Chido’s guardians. ‘Her body fluids are seeping through the cloth. There are also signs of ecchymosis.’

 

The doctor scribbled lengthy notes on a sheet of paper clipped to a clipboard, then he gave instructions to the two nurses. ‘Admit her to children’s ward B and begin peripheral intravenous infusion. Collect a blood specimen from the contra lateral arm and urine for the laboratory tests I have listed here.’ Pointing at the sheet and following the written lines with his pen, he did a quick rundown of the things that the nurses were to do using jargon that left the adults clueless as to what he was saying. They just heard ‘coagulation parameters, fibrinogen levels, serum electrolytes, haemoglobin’ and more, which made them marvel at the depth of his learning, and gave Mai Kumbi hope that her child was at last being rescued.

 

Kumbi was wheeled to the children’s ward, where the young patients were mostly asleep, except for a few who were either crying or just sitting up in their beds unable to sleep or being attended to by a nurse. Some of the states the young patients were in were as scary as they were pitiable. Some had bandaged limbs suspended from some holders above their beds, while others had missing limbs altogether. A child in the far corner had the whole head covered in what looked like some plaster or bandages, crying all the time and sitting up, perhaps missing his or her parents. Another child was sleeping, but all the skin on his or her face was missing – possibly a victim of a horrific burning accident. One or two had their beds sealed off by curtains, and there was no way of telling those curtains concealed or what kind of misfortunes might have befallen them. This ward laid bare the reality of human suffering.

 

There was drama when the intravenous needle was inserted into Chido’s vein. She cried and put up a tough fight to avert the painful ordeal, wetting herself in the process, and the nurses had to hold her down firmly. One of them said something about the girl being too powerful for her age and how she had to exert so much pressure on her she feared she might break her bones. In the end they succeeded in administering the intravenous infusion and taking the blood specimen, but they had to wait before they could take the urine specimen. 

 

The little girl remained in hospital for a day under observation, and was discharged the next day with more medicines to take at home and instructions to return if there were any complications. A beaming Mai Kumbi and a relieved Chido travelled home to a rapturous welcome from her children and fellow villagers who had heard about her mishap. Chido’s sisters were beside themselves with joy because it was like she had come back from the land of the dead. Everyone had been fearful of the worst and a dark cloud had hung over the three sisters all the time Chido was in hospital. Being the youngest child, she was loved dearly by everyone in the family.

 

Days passed and Chido took the medicines as directed. She was still poorly and clearly not out of the woods yet as she did not play as much as she used to. She showed signs of tiredness and the family helped her recuperate by allowing her to rest. Marjory was tasked with the responsibility of staying at home with her while the rest of the family went to work in the fields, with Mai Kumbi occasionally coming to check up on her herself.

 

Two days after coming from hospital the tissue surrounding the bite began to die off, after which it began to slough. Wasting no time, Mai Kumbi took little Chido back to the hospital and was gone for almost a week. An unforgettable poignant moment that would leave them all in tears awaited them. When she finally returned Kumbi had a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her right arm could be seen dangling out of the shawl, but her left arm could not be seen. She entered her hut with all her children following her. She was in a melancholy state and there was an unmistakable tenseness that hung in the air; the children could clearly see that there was something wrong, and wondered what it could be. Kumbi was alive and well, so their prayers had been answered; what more could they ask for? Everyone was grieved because Chido’s arm had been reduced to a stump in a white bandage. It had been amputated at the elbow.

 

The dog who would not forgive himself

 

Rodgers, a slight, hardy young man employed as a tractor driver for a tea estate in Nyanga, in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe, tottered home from a drinking spree with his friends at the famous Nyarutombo pub. The day being a Friday, they had arranged to meet there after work to relax and to revive themselves after the hectic week. They had downed pint after pint of lager, spurred on by the chilli peanuts and the spicy chicken nibbles that they snacked on, coupled with the music blaring from the speakers, while other cheery, double-visioned revellers gyrated and swayed on the dance floor. Rodgers had just left the company of his friends, having come to that part of the road where the road plan dictated that he detach himself from his group, as the path he was now following led directly to his own house.

 

He was yodelling gaily to himself at the top of his voice without a care in the world, unperturbed by the low opinion of him that would be formed in the mind of any unseen person who might be witnessing his meandering homeward progress as he staggered along. Timid crickets that were whistling in the grass abruptly stopped their shrill noises as soon as they sensed his approach. A monkey in a tree nearby cheekily chattered disapprovingly. Rodgers stopped, swaying like a tall pine tree buffeted by the wind and, turning to the tree, unleashed a string of expletives directed at the monkey. He bent down and began groping on the ground for a stone or other to hurl at the monkey. In doing so he lost his balance and fell head first. He swore, picked himself up, and continued to look for the object. His hand seized a hard object and he straightened himself up, still swaying, and flung the missile at the tree. The thingamabob whizzed through the air and plunged into the tree, which must have been well foliaged from the muffled sound made by its landing, and the sound of several irate monkeys was heard. At the same time the throwing action made Rodgers lose his balance and stumble quite a way until he fell just beside the path. It was while he was lying there that he heard the monkeys chorus their displeasure at being threatened with a dangerous flying object while they were in what they believed was their own territory. ‘Serves you right, idiots,’ he retorted drunkenly. ‘I hope I caught one of you in the eye. No…two…a blooming stupid monkey and his wife. I won’t be told off by a monkey.’

 

He picked himself up and resumed his perilous homeward journey. Not content with giving the monkeys a piece of his mind, he decided he should add insult to injury by singing aloud about how dim-witted monkeys were. Almost immediately he heard the moaning of the wind. Not that the wind started moaning after his altercation with the monkeys: it had been moaning all along but he was too busy yodelling and quarrelling with the monkeys to notice it. He immediately stopped singing, baffled. ‘Wind, oh wind, so you have decided to join the fray?’ he began. ‘I see that you are not wise because you can’t even decide sensibly whose side to be on. How can you side with monkeys, those brats who do not even have the sense to wash their hands before their meals of stolen uncooked corn? Tree dwellers who pride themselves in spending the night on branches, swaying under open skies, thinking it’s the coolest thing to do? Do they shut their eyes at night? I’ve always wondered. Well, now that you have decided to interfere in matters that do not concern you, bring it on. However, it will take your whole clan to fight me. Summon your whole tribe – your father and mother and their brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles and aunties; your grand fathers and great grandmothers. You will come in one way but you will all flee in a thousand. Have you not heard of Rodgers the invincible? Well, I am he.’ At that he reeled backwards a few steps, gathered momentum, then come down like a massive multi-storey building in a demolition project. He rolled backwards until his legs were waving in the air, then he sat up. ‘Oh my back, my back,’ he said, feeling his back with one hand. ‘Don’t claim the credit. I tripped and fell because, eh, you see I have had a little potent drink. You could never achieve that…blooming stupid wind. Ha! Ha! Ha! Not even with the help pf those sill monkey and their grand fathers.’

 

Some dogs began barking. ‘Dogs are also taking sides with monkeys? When did dogs and monkeys forge a friendship? Come on dogs, you are man’s best friend. We look after you and feed you. Ever heard of the saying “biting the hand that feeds you”? A hand feeds you…then you bite it. That’s my hand. Not very fair, is it?’

 

Rodgers was still sitting down at the place he had fallen. The barking of the dogs continued unabated: if anything, it actually seemed to be increasing. ‘I see that you are determined. Side with the monkeys and the wind if you wish. We will see if they will give you sadza with meat and gravy. I don’t care which side you are on. I will take on all of you, and you don’t stand a dog’s chance…Ha! Ha! Ha! A doggie chance! Ha! Ha! Ha! I am Rodgers son of Mandebvu. And you lead blooming miserable dogs’ lives. Ha! Ha! Ha!’

 

He heaved himself up and continued to lurch home, shouting at the dogs as he went, and they kept a live fire of barking, joined by some distant dogs from all directions that obviously had no inkling what the cause of the ferocious barking was. He approached his own homestead to find that his very own dog, Bonzo, had also joined in the onslaught on him.

 

‘And you too, Bonzo?’ He picked up a dry clump of earth and flung it at the unsuspecting dog, and it landed dangerously close to the animal. ‘That should teach you who your master is. I am not afraid of you. I raised you by my own hand since you were a blooming sickly puppy, now that you have grown into a massive dog feared by all the other dogs in this area you think you drive fear into my heart too? You must be having a laugh!’ He teetered closer to his home. His infuriated dog was barking viciously, its blood rushing in its veins because the intruder seemed to target its prefecture.

 

Bonzo was no ordinary dog. He was a massive, tawny Great Dane-Rottweiler cross. He was a very friendly romping dog but he was also unpredictable if you were a stranger. He was bold and in his former encounters with foes he had always had the upper hand owing to the invaluable combination of size, agility and unparalleled gumption that he possessed. That combination had enabled him to vanquish such formidable foes as baboons, spitting cobras and wild pigs, foes against which ordinary dogs stood no chance. He was a very obedient dog and jealously guarded the home against any unwanted intrusion, and had learnt to distinguish between welcome and unwelcome intrusion. He seemed to have decided that he was not the type to tolerate any nonsense, and would mete out instant justice to anyone who crossed the forbidden line and encroached onto his jurisdiction.

 

Rodgers, reeking of alcohol, edged nearer the gate, still shouting, as Bonzo was beside himself with anger, barking wildly and threatening to sink his fangs into any flesh that injudiciously ventured beyond the gate. Reaching the gate, he hesitated, but was all over the place treading everywhere on his wobbly legs then, making up his mind, he floundered forward, pulled the latch aside before pushing the gate ajar and stepping in. Without further warning Bonzo lunged at him and while he was still in mid-air it suddenly dawned on Rodgers that this was no longer the child’s play that he had all along taken it for. He yelled, ‘Bonzo!’ but it was too late: the animal’s fangs tore the outstretched arm that Rodgers had put out to stop the animal from attacking. Bonzo thought he had heard his name called and he had recognised the caller. He landed on the ground and stood still, confused, wondering whether he had heard right, but still cautious and ready to inflict more damage at a moment’s notice. Realising the danger he was in, Rodgers called out the dog’s name again and that was enough for the dog to make up its mind; it just turned and vanished from the scene, having confirmed that it had indeed bitten its owner. By then members of his household had come out and there was commotion as they were all hurrying to find out what had happened and to offer assistance if any was needed. They helped Rodgers into the house where they were horrified to see that the man had been bitten by his own dog and blood was pouring from his right hand.

 

‘I’ve been blooming stupid,’ Rodgers mused ruefully. ‘That dog could have killed me.’ He seemed to have been so shaken by the incident that he had sobered up. The wound was washed and dressed by Susan, Rodger’s wife, before he was served his dinner, after which he would go to the estate clinic. He was anxious to see Bonzo before he had his supper, so he went outside and called the dog, but it did not respond. He tried again and the result was the same. His heart sank, and he immediately lost all appetite.

 

‘My dog is really upset,’ he said. ‘I really want to see him to assure him that he needs not worry. I’m not hungry. He’ll have my dinner tonight.’

 

‘You can’t give Bonzo your dinner,’ Susan protested. ‘I made you grilled beef fillet. It’s very tender and juicy. It’s first grade beef. You can’t waste that on a dog.’

 

‘He’s having my dinner. He’s really troubled and he needs reassurance that he’s still loved like nothing has happened.’

 

‘You are not serious Rodgers. I put a lot of effort into preparing that meal for you and I’d really be insulted if you care more about the dog than my feelings about the matter. There’s no way I’m going to let you feed that gourmet food that I prepared with all my heart to a dog. If you are not hungry I’ll keep it for you to eat tomorrow.’

 

‘I appreciate all the effort you put into making this food, but I am really worried about Bonzo. I know him well. The way he is behaving shows that something has gone horribly wrong. I have to be convinced that he is fine. I hate to see him hurt like that.’

 

Rodgers took the plate of potatoes roasted in goose fat, sugar snap peas sautéed in olive oil, steamed broccoli, mushroom and cream gravy and a large slice of tender fillet steak grilled to perfection, oozing with appetizing aromatic juices, and went outside to give it to the dog. He called Bonzo, but his voice just echoed back to him and the dog did not appear. He just put the plate down next to the dog’s feeding bowl, and then he went back inside to get ready to go to the clinic.

 

At the clinic the gash on his hand was given twelve stitches and he had a tetanus injection. He was given some paracetamol tablets to take at home and was instructed to return if there was any problem.

 

On getting back home Rodgers expected to be met by a romping Bonzo, but nothing of the sort happened. He had resolved that on approaching his home he would not repeat the mistake he had made earlier on, and expected at least some kind of barking from Bonzo at first, but there was deafening silence. He checked the plate of food and was shocked to see that it still lay there, untouched. Bonzo had been nowhere near it, and that forebode a sad conclusion to the whole incident, because the dog had the reputation of having a voracious appetite, which came as a matter of course if his sheer size was taken into account. Distressed, Rodgers made a final effort to locate his dog, but he might as well have saved his energy, because the animal was simply not going turn up. He went to bed clinging to the shred of hope that Bonzo would clear his head overnight and wake up in a much better state in the morning.

 

All the time Rodgers was calling Bonzo could see and hear him, hiding in the shadows, too mortified to present himself. He was out of sight in the darkness, behind some rose bushes and saw the plate of food he was offered but, like his master, he had all but lost his appetite. He was lost in a world of his own, refusing to believe he had made such a dreadful mistake. His mind was in turmoil, thinking of where to begin picking up the pieces, but it all seemed an impossible task.

 

He had drawn his master’s blood, he reasoned, and for that he deserved to be put down. His master is giving the impression that he had forgiven him, but can he be trusted? Is that not a ploy to ensnare him so that he could exact revenge? If he was wrong about his master’s intentions was he worth his salt as a dog anyway? Assuming that his master was genuine about forgiving him, would he be able to forgive himself, and would relations between him and his master return to the same level of affection that they had both worked so hard to achieve before the fateful evening?

 

Throughout the night the dog thought long and hard. At the first light, when the strands and wisps of cloud in the eastern sky were beginning to turn pink, Bonzo realised that he did not have much time to think. With a heavy heart, he rose from his hiding place, his stomach grumbling with hunger, and turned his back to the only place he had ever called home, the home he loved so dearly. He wriggled through a hole in the fence at the back of the homestead and trotted away. He stopped, turned and took at the last glimpse of his former prefecture. If he were human tears would sting his eyes and a lump would form in his throat. For the second time he turned his back to the home and resumed his journey into the unknown, fully aware that he would never set a paw on his paradise again. Dogs have more grey matter than we give them credit for.

 

Early the next morning Rodgers woke up and immediately went outside to look for his dog. The first thing he noticed was that the plate of food he had left outside for Bonzo was still there, intact. Strangely, not even the hungry mice that infested the place had nibbled any of it. With the sun almost out, he could clearly see every part of his homestead, but Bonzo was nowhere in sight. He searched everywhere, behind every bush and in every nook and cranny, but Bonzo had vanished. His eyes stung and he shed a tear or two. In the days that followed, he put up notices at bus stops and on shop windows and trees, offering a reward for information leading to the recovery of his beloved dog, but no sightings were reported.

 

It is now fifteen years since Bonzo vanished and is most certainly dead, but Rodgers is still a heartbroken man. He has many unanswered questions for which he is still seeking answers. He yearns to know what happened in the last days of his beloved dog, an incredibly intelligent animal.

 

Eyeball to eyeball with a cobra

 

My mum and dad had come to visit us for a fortnight and, unbeknown to us, all my siblings had secretly planned to invade us with their families to make it one unforgettable weekend for us all, but more importantly as a surprise for mum and dad, who cherished such family re-unions.  My children could not believe me when I told them that their uncles, aunties and cousins were going to spend the week-end with us. Abner’s family, which lived in Bulawayo, to the west of Zimbabwe was going to travel all the way to Harare, where they would team up with Comfort and Mary’s families, in addition to Orpah’s family from Sanyati in the north-eastern corner of the country, to make another long and tiring journey in a convoy to Mutare where we lived, close to the border with Mozambique to the east. Neville, my son, was ecstatic at the prospect of playing with his cousins Gareth, Jordache, Phil, Michael, Joseph, Eric, and Mukundi, while Samantha, Yolanda and Maxine were over the moon because they and Esther, Farai, Denise, Gracious, Linda, Rumbidzai, Ratidzai, Rebecca and Zoe-Chantel would not even notice the time pass as they played in the doll house. There would certainly not be a shortage of people to play with! It was going to be a big gathering and it was such gatherings that we liked the most.

 

I had a secret reason for rejoicing at the news. My brothers and I had a penchant for impressing our guests with our culinary skills - not that we were actually accomplished cooks or chefs who regularly cooked, or anything near it – but we always wanted to give that impression. We would each pick one of our favourite dishes and learn to prepare it to perfection in the hope that our quests would believe that we were capable of cooking everything else to the same level of excellence. The last time we had visited Comfort and his family he had wowed us with his mouth-watering white chocolate tiramisu. I therefore relished the chance to show off my pawpaw parfait, determined to produce something out of this world that would make Comforts tiramisu look like it was made by a blind-folded learner. I would prove once and for all that when it came to culinary expertise I was not only far better than Comfort, but that I was a master in my own right.

 

I had seen the paw-paw dessert recipe in Jamie Oliver’s recipe book and when I had tried it the results had been flattering as it was really delectable. I had lots of paw-paws growing in my garden and that would give me a reason to claim additional credit for my cooking – that I cooked organic food that I had grown myself.

 

Without wasting time I decided to go and harvest two large paw-paws because they would need a few days to soften. I took my long harvesting stick from the shed and as I stepped into the garden I could not help noticing the luxuriant vegetables growing in straight rows in neatly prepared beds. The wind blowing from the east wafted the scent of fresh growth into my nostrils. There were beds of spinach, curly kale, peas, cabbage and beetroot, all copious with large, healthy, lush green leaves. To the left were tomatoes that were at the peak of their productivity, many having been harvested, and against the well-trimmed hedge straight ahead were onions that I had just cultivated and were showing their white bulbs. A few paw-paw trees were growing along the eastern edge of the garden, the largest being near the fence that demarcated the end of our garden from the bush that extended towards Tsambe River. I surveyed them for a while and a smile lit up my face: they were all heavy laden with fruit and I had had to prop their branches up with poles that were y-shaped at the top to prevent them from buckling under the weight of the fruit.

 

When I set about the task of choosing the paw-paws to harvest I was spoilt for choice, for there were many yellow paw-paws and my brothers and sisters would have to take some of them home. My eyes finally settled on the tree near the fence, which had the largest ripe paw-paws. I strode towards it with the pride of an award-winning farmer, marvelling at just how it had managed to produce such fine fruits, and failing to believe that my own hands had planted them. Reaching the tree, I stood right under it with my back to the fence, so that I was between the fence and the tree, which was about three metres into the garden, then examined the paw-paws, a powerful feeling of elation filling my heart. The fruits ranged from white flowers and white flowers with young, tender, miniature paw-paws at the top, to large paw-paws at various stages of maturity and different hues at the bottom. Having chosen the first paw-paw I was going to harvest, I raised my stick and began to prod the fruit, ready to catch it once it was dislodged to prevent it from smashing to the ground and breaking into pieces. The entire tree shook as I did so. After a few attempts at shaking the paw-paw free it would not budge. The cluster of paw-paws was squashed together and there was no free play between them, to the extent that they seemed to be fused together and had become contorted as they did not have enough room for growth. I tried prodding it from a different angle, with the same futile results. I had harvested many paw-paws before but I had never come across a resistant one like this one. Baffled, I stood there with my stick in my hand, the thicker end resting on the ground and the thinner one pointing up to the sky, as a Middle-Eastern shepherd would hold his staff with the curved end at the top.

 

It then occurred to me that I should inspect the whole area around the paw-paw to try to work out a way of bringing it down. I scanned the cluster of paw-paws for a moment, and it was then that I saw something I least expected, one that was to be the shock of my life: a black cobra was staring down at me from behind the cluster, the rest of its body hidden from view by the fruits. It was only for a fraction of a second that our eyes were locked in contact, eyeball to eyeball, for no sooner had our eyes met than the reptile hurled itself at me, aiming straight for my face in what was clearly a premeditated move. I instinctively side-stepped it and it flew across in front of me, missing my nose by inches. Things were happening too quickly and I was stupefied, failing to understand what to make of the episode that was unfolding right there before my eyes.

 

As soon as the cobra hit the ground it simply shot forward into the tall grass bordering the garden. Certainly whatever mechanism it was that it used to propel itself forward was set in motion long before it touched the ground, judging by the smoothness of the transition from ‘flying’ to slithering: its flying changed to brisk wriggling in one seamless operation. What followed was the most spectacular display of agility and the most expertly executed getaway I had ever seen, too quick for the eye to take in every detail. All I saw was a very highly animated activity with partially blur, super-swift semi-whirls before I realised that my assailant was getting away without me exacting my revenge. Realising that time was not on my side, I quickly raised my stick, whose use had been transformed from a harvesting implement to a weapon, and in no time at all it descended swiftly, full of vengeance, on the offending serpent. It thudded on the ground in the place where its tail had been a nanosecond before. I just saw the whiplash of its tail before the stick thudded on the ground, missing it by a whisker, as the cobra made good its escape. I watched helplessly as it glided full steam ahead into the safety of the tall grass and bushes. The fence was of barbed wire, which made pursuit impossible. 

 

I stood there breathing heavily, refusing to believe that I had witnessed this bizarre incident. With the snake gone, I began to review the way the incident had unfolded. The snake must have already been in the tree when I came and must have seen me approach. It must have positioned itself behind the cluster of paw-paws and must have been watching me all the time I was trying to harvest the paw-paw. It must have reasoned that to escape easily it should make a dash for the bush behind me rather than attempt to flee in the opposite direction, towards the centre of the garden where the spacing of the vegetables and the walkways between the beds constituted bare spots that would deprive it of badly needed cover. Besides, if it had attempted to race me on the ground towards the centre I had a good chance of catching up with it and thumping it with my stick. Clearly its best bet was to make for the thick bush, which it coveted so badly and which was only a leap away, but then I stood in its way. I was standing between the tree and the bush. It worked out a solution to this problem: it would use the element of surprise to get me out of the way by lunging at me at the opportune moment, knowing full well that I would react by leaping aside and would be momentarily immobilised by the shock of realising that there was a snake in such close proximity to me. It would use that time to flee before I had recovered from the shock. Most importantly, it would implement this as plan B, because plan A was to stay hidden and not react until it was sure it had been spotted, hence waiting until our eyes met. That meant that if I had not seen it, it would have let me harvest the paw-paw and walk away oblivious to its presence there, leaving it relieved and musing about what a close shave it had been, and probably getting ready to vamoose immediately to prevent a similar scare occurring.

 

Judging by its length, a little over a metre, I would say it was a pre-adolescent, because an adult cobra of its sort grows to more than two metres in length and almost ten centimetres in circumference at the abdomen. Also, it was ebony black, not the jet black colour of some of the mature eight-footers I had seen before.      

 

I felt stupid at being outwitted by a snake and, replaying the dramatic escape in my mind, I was embarrassed that I had been scared by the snake, but I consoled myself with the thought that it was terrified of me too, perhaps much more terrified, which made me feel greater than it. All the nerves in my body tingling, I abandoned the task of harvesting the paw-paw, vowing never to touch the paw-paws that had been in contact with a snake. I reckoned I would have to hack them all off the tree and throw them away.

 

I did make my paw-paw desert in the end, having resolved to obtain the fruit from a different tree. It became a sensational success that contributed much to the merriment of all at the get-together, which prompted an instant request for the recipe, not from Comfort or Abner, but from Daires, Comfort’s wife. All the other ladies present immediately chorused their approval, expressing their interest in getting their hands on a copy of the recipe too, a request that made me feel flattered and which made me effusively offer a response in the affirmative.

 

My paw-paw parfait was served in tall, large dessert glasses and consisted of alternate layers paw-paw parfait and coconut mousse topped with paw-paw cocktail generously drizzled with lemon thyme syrup and garnished with sliced and meticulously fanned out sliced strawberries dipped in honey. It looked appetizing with its bands of white and yellow, and very colourful at the top. Looking at it, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that it quintessentially represented the ultimate in connoisseur taste and gourmet presentation. As a practical joke, I decided that every diner should sign a disclaimer before tucking into the dessert and enlisted the help of Zoe-Chantel, Comfort’s daughter, a toddler and the youngest member of the party, to make the announcement. I coached her how to say it. ‘Evely one should shine zhe dishlaimer,’ she said shyly in her sweet, child’s voice. ‘If you don’t shine you can’t eat.’ That left everyone in stitches as pearls of laughter pierced the air. Maxine then offered to read the disclaimer aloud for her. It read:

 

I, the diner, hereby promise not to take legal action against the chef if, in the course of consuming this product, namely paw-paw parfait, I forget that I have a tongue in my mouth and inadvertently bite it. I have been warned that this is an exceptionally delicious dessert and that the likelihood of such an accident happening is rated as very high. So I understand that by electing to proceed with the consumption of the delicacy, I do so entirely at my own risk. This disclaimer covers accidents caused by the deliciousness of the product only: any other eventualities are not included. 

 

After bursting with laughter like everyone else, my dad was all smiles, thrilled by this merriment, and remarked that he had always wanted a large, happy family where everyone got along with everyone else. The paw-paw parfait was then consumed amid much chattering, grinning and nodding of heads as people remarked how delicious the dessert was. This was temporarily brought to a sudden halt when Patrick let out an ear-splitting howl, sticking out his tongue and claiming he had bitten it, though there was no trace of any blood anywhere near his tongue. That drew another roar of laughter from the joyful mob.

 

That night there was a tremendous tropical rainstorm. Because of the downpour it dawned on me that the paw-paws contaminated by the snake had in fact been washed clean by the powerful decontaminant from above, so there was really no need to throw them away. They were too beautiful to waste. As for Comfort, refusing to concede defeat, he promised to up the game when his turn came, by digging deeper into his arsenal and presenting his Death by Chocolate Gateau. Abner bowed out of the contest, admitting he had fallen by the wayside, ostensibly because he was mismatched as he was the youngest contestant.

 

As I lay in bed that night before drifting off to sleep I could not help reliving the snake incident, and I realised it was more intriguing that had thought. When I saw it peeping at me from behind the paw-paws, how did it manage to keep its body concealed, I mused. To maintain its balance, it should have wound itself round the tree, I reasoned. It must have rolled its body into some kind of knot and hidden it behind the paw-paws, I surmised. But how does a knot of the size of that snake cling to paw-paws. It would simply be too heavy and would need a greater surface of its body to be in contact with the paw-paws to achieve an effective grip that would be able to keep it up the tree. Perhaps some things are never meant to be fathomed, I thought resignedly after finding no obvious answer.