Petina Gappah - An Elegy for Easterly

We sat outside and read in the light glowing from the windows. I offered him an Everest, he took it and we smoked and drank our two warm beers in silence. Mabel, in the meantime, had disappeared to a kitchen from which enticing smells were coming. After half the Kwayedza and three cigarettes, I thought it sufficiently safe to mention my itinerancy and asked where I could spend the night.

Anything would be better than another night in the cramped confines of the Datsun, I said. I would not even mind sleeping on the floor, ha, ha, ha.

Hotel California Bed and Breakfast is just half a kilometre from here, he said. He gave me such detailed and concise directions that I could only take the hint, and thank him for his trouble. I said my goodbyes, and turned my car in the direction indicated.

I could not see much of the hotel in the dark, but it looked more like an overextended house than a hotel. The sound of the car attracted a man who came to the door to greet me. Welcome, welcome, he said in Shona. Mauya, mauya ku Hotel California.

This made me grin, of course, it reminded me of the Eagles song, and of the game that gave my brothers and me endless amusement as we translated the lyrics of English songs into Shona. And you know that once a song gets into your head, you can’t get it out. The Eagles played in my head almost the entire time that I was there, and for a good many days afterwards.

In the light of what passed as the lobby, I was able to take a closer look at my host. He had in his mouth a matchstick which he had probably been using as a toothpick. It was stuck between two of his teeth, and moved up and down as he talked. You are a very lucky young man, he said. I am full up tonight, but just for you, I can create a vacancy.

He took my money for the one night, pointed me to the toilet at my request, and said I was just in time for a hot meal; it would be served in the sitting room. He then led me to a room where five men sat on two sets of matching sofas in a check-check pattern. They made room for me, and I found myself squashed between two of them. The only thing on the walls was a portrait of the President, only this was taken in the days he was the Prime Minister and had not yet started dyeing his hair. It hung at a slightly crooked angle above the television which was turned on to the news. Inflation had risen to eight point eighty-five per cent in the last quarter, said the news anchor, but the Finance Minister had urged the public not to panic because there was no danger at all of reaching double digits.

Every minute or so, someone would get up to adjust the aerial and the picture would clear before going fuzzy again. I had not been seated for ten minutes before a young woman entered with the food. I watched her, unsure as to which was more attractive to me at that moment, her firm breasts and bottom or the plates piled high with sadza , leaf vegetables and stewed pig trotters that she set down before us.

Now, I am not supposed to eat pork; my father’s family is of the mbeva totem, and according to their wisdom, the humble mouse and pig are somehow related, and I am not supposed to touch the meat of either. But I was hungry and the trotters smelled inviting. It would not be the first time that I disobeyed my ancestors’ edict, I reasoned to myself, and, promising a future libation, I laid aside my ancestors’ scruples and tucked in. I had no idea that pig feet could taste so good. Perhaps it was my wilful disobedience of my ancestors that caused what happened later.

By the time I had got to this point, my new friend had to slow down his car. POLICE AHEAD, said a sign. The good old boys in brown shorts and tunics, Harare’s finest blackmailers, had set up a police roadblock next to the intersection just after the national sports stadium. The car stopped and a smiling policeman came up to the driver’s window. He peered in and asked my new friend to switch on his indicator lights.

Everything was in order.

Wipers, he said.

They whirred silently.

The hooter, he said.

It gave a reassuring blare.

He beckoned over to two of his colleagues and nodded to them to stand behind the car.

Handbrake, he said.

The two policemen strained as they pushed the car from behind.

It did not budge.

Licence disc and driver’s licence, the policeman said.

My young friend had both, and the disc was still valid.

Tivhurireiwo ku back, vakuru , was the next command, and my friend obeyed and opened the tailgate. There was nothing more sinister in the hatch than a spare tyre which the policeman took out with great ceremony. He bounced it up and down on the road as if testing it before returning it to its place.

He peered to see whether I had my seatbelt on.

It rested securely against my chest.

He then looked into the back of the car.

And why are these three passengers not secured, he asked.

What law says back passengers have to have seat belts, I said.

Is this your car, vakuru , the policeman asked me, and to the driver, he said, You will have to pay a spot fine of one million each for these three unsecured passengers. As my new friend joined me in protesting, the policeman told us that we could discuss it further at the police station if we wished.

Unfortunately, he added, the station is rather busy at this time, and you will not be attended to for at least five hours.

My friend opened his glove compartment, took out three million dollars and paid the fine.

I have no receipt books, the policeman said, You know how it is, so many shortages, what with all these international sanctions against the country. You will have to come to the police station next week to ask for it.

He must be relatively new at this, I thought. An old hand would not even have bothered to make these excuses. He waved us on our way, and, after we had each paid our share of the money for the fine to our driver, he and the others urged me to continue my story.

After the meal was over, I asked the proprietor of the Hotel California if he had any beer. I was feeling generous after the meal, and thought I would treat my companions to a round or two.

We have only opaque beer, he said.

It was good enough, and soon we were all passing around a carton of Shake-Shake as we watched a football game that followed the news. The Hotel California began to take on a more pleasant aspect. We shared about six cartons in this manner, until, feeling tired, I asked for my bed. The matchstick man directed me to a bedroom. The blankets were not the fluffiest, nor were the sheets the cleanest; the whole looked like it had last seen soap and water in the days of Ian Smith, but I was too tired to care. I do not remember falling asleep, but I must have done so because I began to dream that there were sounds of moaning and laughter all around me. I suddenly woke up. It took a minute for me to remember where I was. I looked at my Sanyo, it was almost midnight. I remembered where I was. Then, through the walls came the sound of moans and laughter. It had not been a dream.

The moans came again.

Then laughter.

Moans.

Laughter.

There was a murmur of voices.

Then, Eh, eh, none of that funny stuff, said a woman’s voice.

I will pay more, said a man’s voice.

You do not have enough for that sort of thing, came back the response. The moans resumed. Despite myself, I was becoming aroused. The gentleman of the funny stuff was succeeded by a man, who, at the appropriate moment, shouted, hau madoda, hau madoda so loudly that I thought surely the entire hotel would hear him.