Excerpt

Huchu's 3Ms: The Maestro, The Magistrate And The Mathematician

 

An exclusive excerpt from Tendai Huchu's The Maestro, The Magistrate and The Mathematician.

Tendai Huchu's The Maestro, The Magistrate And The Mathematician tells a layered story of three Zimbabwean exiles as they chart the course of their new lives in Edinburgh, Scotland. Each distinct in background, personalities and thus, in their narrations, they share a paradox of belonging and identity, and a conflict of cultures — respectively affixed to immigration.

The Magistrate, as implied by his name, was formerly a custodian of justice in Zimbabwe. In Edinburgh, however, the ladder rungs are reversed, and he is forced to take on menial jobs for survival. This excerpt, stirring yet hilarious, provides a glimpse into his jarring reality and the disservice political unrest is capable of instituting.



T

he Magistrate waited, listening to her strident advice, while she did not even look in his direction. He felt small, a gnat, intruding on her space. The office had two desks placed together in an L shape. The other desk was empty. Both were untidy with paperwork chaotically stacked, a scattering of empty mugs with dried lipstick stains around the edges. The Magistrate remembered a time when he walked into places and people rushed to serve him. Mwana wamambo muranda kumwe. The wastepaper basket between the two desks was overflowing. The windows were grimy.

The bench was a lifetime ago. It pained him to think of his past, to recall memories of what once had been. If only he had no memory, no sense of his old successful self, then it would be easier to accept his new circumstances.

“Men like that need to be taught a lesson. If my boyfriend did that I would chop his thing off… Yeah, he knows it.” The woman on the phone was explaining her philosophy for a stable relationship. The Magistrate involuntarily crossed his legs. Attempted murder? Grievous bodily harm? A crime of passion? The most popular one with aggrieved women back home was to pour boiling cooking oil over the philanderer’s face, though none of those had ever reached his court. He’d dealt with a lot of domestic violence. But then again crime feels common if it’s all you deal with day in day out. In his line of work it was natural to assume society was sick. The law was rather mute on couples that actually loved one another, except, that is, for marriage, a ceremony he disliked presiding over.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Can’t you see I’m on the phone?” The woman returned to her caller.

“Some people are just so rude, ha, they can’t wait just a few minutes.”

“I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes!”

The woman continued her conversation as though he was not even there. He could feel rage swelling up within him. He stood up abruptly and his chair fell over. “Calm submissive state, my arse,” he thought. The woman gazed admiringly at her nails.

“Have a nice day,” he said, making for the door. As he opened it, Alfonso fell in, struggling with several plastic bags.

“Aikaka, Magistrate, you’re here?” Alfonso blew air from his mouth.

“I was just about to leave.”

“And go where? I’ve just arrived,” Alfonso said, ushering him back in. “I’d just gone to Lidl for my shopping. It’s called multitasking. I have a theory–”

“Your receptionist is very unhelpful.”

“I’m an administrator,” the woman called out.

“No, no, there must be some misunderstanding. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of you. Here at Busy Bodies Recruitment and Employment Solutions we aim to provide First World service to Scottish businesses, governmental departments, the charitable sector, and other not-for-profit organisations. We are the one stop shop for all your recruitment solutions.” Alfonso was really trying to say he was sorry but couldn’t do anything about it since she was his small house. “Please, please, sit down. Let me just put these to one side and then we can talk.”

The Magistrate was reluctant but Alfonso’s imploring face with its comic meerkat-like appearance stayed him. Alfonso rushed round to the other side of the desk and sat down. He straightened his tie. He was a small man and behind the desk he cut a ridiculous figure.

“So, what brings you to our offices?” Alfonso smirked with apparent relish.

“I need a job,” the Magistrate replied in a low voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that.” Alfonso cupped his left ear and leant forward.

“I need a job.”

“Aha.” Alfonso leapt up. “I told you he would come, Spiwe. Didn’t I tell you he would come?” He looked intoxicated, gleeful; casting his hands wide open as if embracing the whole world. “I knew it. I just knew it. How long has it been? A year?”

“Not that long.”

“Near enough.” Alfonso nipped round his desk, grabbed Spiwe’s phone and cut her off.

“What do you think you’re DOING?”

“I told you he’d come.” Alfonso spoke in a frenzy. “This man is like a brother to me. He’s smarter than me; he has a degree, a Master’s, and many, many certificates. But let me tell you one thing, he doesn’t know the UK like I do. I tried to tell Mai Chenai. I said to her, ‘Look, tell him to stop applying for those posh jobs in the newspapers. They are not for the likes of us.’ This country now uses a system I call voluntary slavery. They used to bring you people in big boats, shackled together – you didn’t even need a passport, and then you started refusing, saying you wanted equality. Now you flood their borders looking for work. What do you expect them to do? I’ve seen it all before, many times: Nigerians, Jamaicans, Polishans, Congoans, Russians, Indians, you name it. There was an electrician from Bulawayo, you know Mdala Phiri… of course you do. Phiri came here with his wife, a nurse, he thought he was going to get an electrician’s job. I told him, ‘Phiri, this is the Civilised World, forget it,’ but he didn’t listen, no one listens to Alfonso. So, he went for an interview and do you know what the man said to him? He said, ‘Look here, why are you bothering us? Can’t you see the electricity we use is different from the electricity in your country?’ You don’t believe me? I swear it. Phiri himself told us. Spiwe here is my witness.”

“Leave me out of your stories, Mr Pfukuto,” said Spiwe.

Alfonso strutted around the room with a limp, as though one leg was slightly longer than the other.

“It’s even worse with the law, Magistrate. I tried to say it but no one listens to Alfonso. They think we come from the jungle. They think we have kangaroo courts. They will say, ‘How can you practice law here when you couldn’t even preserve the rule of law in your own country?’ I knew your applications would come to nothing. They didn’t even reply you, did they?” Alfonso ignored the Magistrate’s obvious discomfort. “Only nursing is the same, because no matter where you go in the world, wiping bums is still wiping bums. But don’t worry, that’s why I’m here. I am going to make sure you get a good job with good rates of pay too. You’re not like these tsotsis weaving and ducking without papers. No, you will get a good job, a very good job.”

Alfonso threw an application form in front of the Magistrate and gave him a pen. He picked up the phone, flicked through a diary and dialled out.

Spiwe, help him to fill it out.” Spiwe gritted her teeth, but she stood up and went to the Magistrate anyway. She hovered over him as he filled the document in. He was slow, thorough, reading each question carefully before writing. He was used to going through legal documents where he could not risk misinterpreting the contents.

“Hallo, hallo, is this Olu?” Alfonso asked, in a faux Nigerian accent, to someone on the phone. “Oh, my sister-wo, how are you in the name of Christ Jesus our Lord and Saviour… Yes, I am fine… Listen, Olu, there has been a problem with your shift tonight. They have cancelled it… I know it’s terrible. I said to them, ‘Why did you book it if you knew you were going to cancel it?’ Don’t worry I will call you as soon as I get something. You are my number one… God bless you, my sister-wo.”

He got off the line and smiled at the Magistrate. “I’ve got you a shift. You start tonight. First we must give you a pair of safety shoes, a tunic and some industrial gloves… Don’t worry we’ll deduct the cost from your first pay cheque… It’s okay, don’t thank me. That’s what friends are for.”

 

Tendai Huchu's The Maestro, The Magistrate And The Mathematician was published by Kachifo Limited under their Farafina Books imprint in 2015.

Read reviews by This Is Africa and Wawa Book Review here and here.



About Tendai

Tendai Huchu is the author of The Hairdresser Of Harare. His short fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The Manchester Review, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Gutter, AfroSF, Wasafiri, The Africa Report, Kwani? and numerous other publications. In 2013, he received a Hawthornden Fellowship and a Sacatar Fellowship. He was shortlisted for the 2014 Caine Prize for African Writing.

 

The Hundred Wells Of Salaga: An Excerpt

 

An exclusive excerpt from Ayesha Harruna Attah's third novel, The Hundred Wells Of Salaga, published by Cassava Republic Press (May 2018).

In The Hundred Wells Of Salaga, Ayesha Harruna Attah, through the stories of Aminah and Wurche, explores slave trade in pre-colonial Ghana. Encapsulated in this exclusive excerpt provided by Cassava Republic Press is the emotive use of language Attah employs throughout the book, which transposes the reader to Salaga — a town in Northern Ghana doubling, both historically and in this novel, as home to hundred hand-dug wells used to wash slaves prior to their sale. In just 8 pages, Attah mirrors the captives' collective yet futile battle against pain, loss and death.


Aminah


T

hey walked and walked. The horsemen raided villages and led their captives to an unknown destination and, as their numbers grew, bound them around trees in rings like obscene jewellery. The horsemen stole cattle, sheep and goats, and mixed up their captives so they wouldn’t plot escapes. Aminah had managed to hold on to Hassana and Issa, whose skin clung to his bones, but they had lost Husseina. The horsemen had pried her from Hassana’s grip and tied her to another group of people. Every chance she got, Hassana craned forward till she could see her twin, and only then would she relax. Children and women were tied neck to neck, their hands free. The wrists of the men – there weren’t many of them – were bound with cord, and the strongest were restrained with wooden chokeholds. Once, when a horseman was retying the cord around Hassana’s neck, she choked. Her skin almost turned purple, and only then did the horseman relent. Husseina had stuck her head out and didn’t break her gaze until the person behind her tripped over her.

A man tried to run away. Aminah didn’t see the horsemen hang him, but in the bright morning light his slack body swayed from a tree, his feet dangling above the muddy soil. His hairless head, shaped like a cone of shea butter, rested against his right shoulder, his bare body gashed with lines of blood. The horsemen chatted around a fire. The smell of roasted meat wafted the way of the captives, digging into the emptiness in their bellies, into their nausea.

‘I hope they have nightmares,’ Hassana shouted. With sunken eyes, she leered at the horsemen.

‘It’s okay,’ said Aminah, trying to hush her. ‘It will get better.’

Hassana stopped talking but her eyes were fixed on the dead man. Aminah didn’t think it was going to get better. She knew nothing, really. And she was wracked with guilt at possibly having enabled her mother’s death. She should have gone into Na’s hut to wake her up.

One woman – also Gurma like Aminah’s people, but not from Botu – had said they were being sent to a lake with no beginning and no end. An infinite lake. She called it ‘big water’. Her weaver husband had gone south to sell in the markets and had seen these pitiful people chained to the fronts of houses. He was told they would be put in boats controlled by white men and sent on the infinite lake. Her husband was shaken by the whole thing; he stopped asking questions. The woman had gone to visit her mother when the raiders attacked her mother’s village. When they started tying her up, she knew her fate.

At least she’d had some preparation. For the rest of the captives, it was like walking in the forest on a night with no moon. They groped, bumped into things. Wild animals lurked and, sometimes, the animals bit.

A gust of wind sent the lifeless body swinging and wafted the smell of meat in Aminah’s direction. A lump pressed hard against her sternum, from inside her body. The muscles of her belly contracted and convulsed. Up came bitter liquid. She swallowed it, suppressed it. It was horrible. She’d never had to swallow vomit before.

After the horsemen feasted, they poured water to quench their fire. They gave their porters the leftovers, and the porters gave some of their captured the bones and gristle. Issa didn’t eat the tiny morsel of meat Aminah gave him. Then the horsemen split into two groups. A porter ran along the file, counted up to a point and cut the cord. The group ahead of Aminah, Issa, and Hassana went to the left. That group included Husseina. They walked until the tall grass swallowed them. Where were they going? Would the two groups reunite?

Aminah wanted to chase after them to get Husseina back, and just as she thought this, a shriek cut all the noises around to silence. It came from Hassana. Her scream froze blood. She doubled over, folded her arms over her belly, and wouldn’t stop. A horseman trotted over and yelled something at her. She was now curling into a ball on the ground, her nails digging into the red soil. The horseman dismounted and walloped her with his riding whip. She didn’t stop screaming. He kicked her ribs, but still she screamed. Only when a patch of red stained her dress, did Aminah break out of her trance. She fell to the ground and wrapped her little sister with her body and tried to stop the shrill scream by covering her mouth. The man’s riding whip whacked Aminah’s body until Hassana quieted down. Hassana whimpered all afternoon. Aminah had lied; it wasn’t getting better.

The captives tried to function as one. They urinated and emptied their bowels at the same time, under watchful eyes. When they were given food, they made sure every one got at least a small piece. But it was impossible to stay united in such conditions. Some of them were in more pain than others.

Issa struggled to walk, slowing down everyone behind him. Aminah begged one of the porters to let her carry him even though she herself had very little strength. He now weighed next to nothing.

After walking for what must have been a week, like they were never going to stop, they arrived at a place unlike any other they had crossed. Rocks jutted up from the ground and trees grew everywhere. Okra-green grass carpeted the land, and even in her despair, Aminah found the green fresh and beautiful, the rocks mesmerising. Not far off, vultures flew in circles.

The horsemen dismounted, trussed up their stolen sheep and goats, and led the captives towards clusters of large rocks and trees with gnarly crowns. On a large boulder, people were gathered, eating. Aminah’s heart pinched itself in what must have been excitement – the first time in a long time she had felt any hope. Perhaps that was the group that had left first. They could be reunited with Husseina after all. Aminah watched Hassana, but said nothing. Her reddened eyes stared ahead, focused on nothing in particular, as if she were sleepwalking.

If they died, would they become spirit walkers? She had to stop herself from thinking like that. She pressed Hassana’s hand – to transmit that something good might be on its way, but also to convince herself.

Up on the boulder, Aminah searched for faces from Botu. The group was unfamiliar. Suddenly, their captors whipped them and shouted at them to move. Aminah didn’t understand the language, but the word ‘Babatu’ was repeated. It was a name she’d heard in Botu, a man who was feared by the people of the caravans. If these ruthless horsemen were also afraid of him, he had to be a terrifying person. As that group left, any hope she had harboured dwindled.

Their horsemen led them to a patch of bald rock and one of them approached three women sitting behind large pots. Aminah couldn’t see what was in them, but she had sat behind enough pots to know the thick, gurgling sound of boiling porridge. The horseman returned and, with his accomplices, divided the captives into smaller groups and sat them before oval troughs smeared with the muddy dregs of the previous group’s leftover porridge. The women slopped the thick porridge into the troughs and the hollows steamed. Aminah cupped her hand to scoop the scalding gruel, blew on it, and led it to Issa’s lips. He shook his head and pinched his lips shut tight. No matter how much she begged him, he wouldn’t eat.

The sight of the skin puckering above his lips began to annoy her. She felt a strong urge to slap him. Hassana swallowed a handful of porridge and twisted her face but kept eating. Finally, Aminah ate what Issa rejected. The millet porridge was sour, with no sweetness. After eating, they were led to larger holes, where water had collected, and from that they quenched their thirst. For the first time, Aminah’s mind and body had pause. Something about having a full stomach calmed her.

She thought of Baba and Na, wondering what had become of them. She had left things incomplete with her mother. And then she hadn’t called her out of the room. How would she ever right that?

When the horsemen said it was time to go, Aminah got up, feeling full. Not satisfied, like after a good meal, but her body had more energy to keep going. Then down the hill they went.

Below them spread groves of trees nestled in lush green grass. It was never this green in Botu, where Aminah wished she could return, and strangely, the sentiment of loss and nostalgia made her hope the big water would come soon. She didn’t know what future it held, but she just wanted to stop walking.

Issa fell. He didn’t trip or stumble. His body was sucked down, as if called by the earth. His skeletal form stacked itself against the grey metallic sheen of the rock. Aminah stared at the way his bony legs had crisscrossed, as if someone had delicately arranged him into a neat pile. It was Hassana who got down and tried to revive him. When they realised Aminah and Hassana were stalling, a horseman and porter raced over, shouting. As they drew closer, they saw what had happened.

The horseman muttered and dismounted. He peeled Hassana off Issa and picked him up as if he were a bird. They carried him, then flung him over the rock. Above the rock, the circling vultures. Vultures were attracted to death. Aminah imagined below them was a cemetery of people like Issa who hadn’t found the strength to go on. She pictured skeletons stacked on skeletons or flesh on skeletons, in Issa’s case. Suddenly cold and afraid, she took Hassana’s hand, small and dry, and tried to think of to say something to comfort her sister, but more to comfort herself. She felt the heaviness of her tongue. She swallowed several times, before words could come out.

‘Maybe this is better for him,’ she said. ‘He was so weak.’

‘I hope he comes back as spirit walker to haunt these people,’ said Hassana, snatching her hand away to wipe her face, wet with tears.

When they left the rocky place, dying began to seem an attractive option. Running away was too costly; Aminah was so disoriented she didn’t know which way home was, and she could fall into a worse situation. The name Babatu was frightening, if even these horsemen were afraid. And how would she do it? Die? Swallow a poisonous bark? But she looked at Hassana and blocked her thoughts. They needed each other.

 

The Hundred Wells Of Salaga was published by Cassava Republic Press (UK) in May 2018.

 
 

ABOUT AYESHA

Ayesha Harruna Attah is the author of three novels: Harmattan Rain, nominated for the 2010 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize; Saturday's Shadows, shortlisted for the Kwani? Manuscript Project in 2013; and The Hundred Wells of Salaga Cassava Republic Press, UK. A 2015 Africa Centre Artists in Residency Award Laureate and Sacatar Fellow, she is the recipient of the 2016 Miles Morland Foundation Scholarship for non-fiction.

 

Kilanko's Chasing Butterflies

An exclusive excerpt from Yejide Kilanko's forthcoming novella, Chasing Butterflies, published by Quramo Publishing (April 2018).

From the author of Daughters Who Walk This Path, Kilanko, comes a novella on love and marriage - Chasing Butterflies. Titilope is married to Tomide, a handsome and charismatic man. She, however, spends each day anticipating his moods; living in fear of offending him. Alone at a crossroad, Titilope must choose between duty and survival. Meet the couple.




U

nder the spotlight, all Tomide Ojo could see from the stage was a faint outline of his wife’s face. He’d thought Titilope would vanish through the shiny hardwood floors when he told her he was going to sign up for an open mic spot.

Tomide balanced the guitar on his lap and pulled the microphone close. “This is for my beautiful wife, Titilope. Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. Here’s to sweeter days.”

He smiled when Titilope covered her face with both hands. Tomide strummed the guitar to an acoustic version of Timi Dakolo’s “Iyawo Mi.” As his voice filled the room, Titilope’s face blurred.

When things became serious between them, he’d been upfront about what he wanted from a wife. His expectations were not unrealistic. Bottom line, he wanted a woman who knew how to take care of a man the proper way. The way his mother had taken care of his father. Titilope agreed to the terms, only to change after he’d placed a wedding band on her finger. Any sensible person would agree that Titilope’s behaviour was a breach of contract. To be fair, there’d been some good moments. He was also grateful for their son.

Tomide stood up from the stage stool and finished the song with flourish. He took a bow and stepped off the stage to enthusiastic whistles and applause. And that’s how to make a romantic statement, Tomide thought as he walked towards Titilope with hands stuck in his pockets.

“Welcome back, Mr. Superstar,” Titilope said dryly as he took a seat beside her.

He leaned into her. “I remembered our song.”

She rolled her eyes. “Darling, that was sweet of you.”

Tomide grinned. They normally didn’t use terms of endearment. Up on the stage, it had felt like the right thing to say.

The silence between them stretched as Titilope stared into her glass of water. “So, what did you think of my performance?”

Titilope bit hard on her lower lip. It was what she did when she didn’t know what to say or felt the need to embellish the truth. “It was…nice.”

Nice was just another word for mediocre. “That’s all you’ve got?”

She held his gaze. “Tomide, love is more than grand gestures.”

Her melancholy was beginning to grate on his nerves. “I don’t do anything in half measures.”

Titilope’s eyes clouded over. “No, you don’t.”

Determined to hold on to his good mood, Tomide took a deep breath. “The plan was for us to have a fun, child-free weekend. We can sit here and rehash old issues or move to the dance floor and have some fun. Your choice.”

“If only it could always be like this,” Titilope said in a wistful tone.

He gave an emphatic nod. “It can be.” Titilope snorted. “It can?”

He still believed so. “Things just get messy when we both forget to play our part.”

She searched his face and then visibly pulled herself together. “It would be a shame to waste our dinner and dance coupon.”

Tomide held out his hand. Titilope took it. “That’s my penny-pinching girl,” he said with a smile.

"


Chasing Butterflies will be available in bookstores nationwide from April 28, 2018.

 
 

ABOUT YEJIDE

Yejide Kilanko was born in Ibadan, Nigeria. She is a writer of poetry, fiction, and a therapist in children’s mental health. Her debut novel, Daughters Who Walk This Path, was published by Farafina Books in 2014. Yejide currently lives with her family in Ontario, Canada.

This excerpt from Yejide Kilanko's Chasing Butterflies has been pubished with permission from the publisher, Quramo Publishing. It may not be republished, modified nor stored in a retrivial system without prior written permission from the author, Yejide Kilanko or Quramo Publishing. All rights reserved.