There is nothing west of Gwanda. It is empty Matabeleland.
But I turn my toe to that nothing. And I go.
*
A man is a terrapin—so my father says. His wife, his child, they stand on his shell. And he pulls them. He goes a mile a day, he is steadfast. Another child climbs on. Another. Perhaps his father, his mother, who have grown old. He goes a foot a day, now, the terrapin. Now inches. Now an inch. Now he is kicking sand, and getting nowhere. As he kicks, a grandchild climbs on. And the poor terrapin—he is crushed.
That is my father. I laugh. Wagging my head.
Mwana, he says. You are a bachelor—still. You do not appreciate.
I watch the fire. Down in the coals . . . The best words are there.
Baba, I say. You can bear nothing, and still be kicking sand. The chambers of the heart . . . There is room for burden, there. More than a back could ever bear.
He grunts, my father. Sticks his pipe in his gums.
Quiet is confirmation. He knows, my father. I am no fool’s son.
I tell him . . . about the missing boy, the ransom. But he does not listen.
He looks in the fire, my father. He says nothing.
*
I am walking, I am kicking along. I kick the dust until there is none. Then I kick sand. The sand gets redder, as the sun setting. Then it is rust red of Kalahari. A man who prizes life, stops there. I keep going.
A gully comes up. I go down the hill and up. It is high, the other side. I am so tired by climbing, I pile my bones on the top.
I will never get up again.
So I close my eyes—then open them. I pluck my bones up, I surprise myself. I am settled—yet maybe afraid. I cannot say. But I keep going.
It is flat land ahead. A man can see eternity, but he looks at his feet.
I forget I am walking until I remember my thirst.
I forget my thirst and remember my hunger.
I forget my hunger and remember the sun.
Then I forget everything. I hear something. It is—I am unsure what. It is like a bird. I catch it again—but the wind snatches it.
I turn my toe. There is something on the skyline. The heat waves it, like a flag. I am beat but my feet are curious. They keep going.
A bridge. It is no illusion. It is a bridge—and next to it, a banyan.
I rub my eye—but in the shadow of the banyan, there is a man. As big as a kitchen. With a big beard. Sitting bent-legged in the sand.
Strange, to see a man there. But I am there, too. Perhaps it is not so strange . . .
Hello, I make myself say.
The big man grins.
Hello, again.
Nothing, again. But a bigger grin.
I think he is not quick. I wonder if he is dumb.
A few steps and I see the vine. The kiwano vine winding around the tree. The tree is dead but the vine thrives. The big boy plucks a melon, pricks it with his thumb. He sucks the jelly from the shell. The white seeds in his black beard—I see these from far off. And the shells everywhere.
When I am close, he puts down his melon. Pinches a fat one off the vine. Holds it out to me.
I shake my head. I am hungry, and I am thirsty, too. But none of that matters . . .
So he sits the fat melon on his lap, the man. And finishes off the other.
The bridge. I am staring at that bridge. It is inscrutable. It is stone—chembera, very old. It spans nothing. There is nothing under it. Just sand.
So I turn my toe to this bridge. I stand in its middle. A bridge is as good a place as any, for thinking.
But my heart is beating. And I cannot think.
The wind uncovers something. A ring of—mudbrick, it looks like. In other spots, too, I see bits of brick.
A village.
The desert is brutish. It feeds and it stretches. More villages have been consumed than are left, I would bet. And there is not only drought. There is the virus . . .
Virus. When I think that word, I am finished. A word may as well be a cannon. When it is the right word.
I am finished. I am done. I sit on the bridge. Then I lie.
I will never get up again.
I close my eyes . . .
There is that sound, again. Like a bird. It is the same—but louder.
I open my eyes. I sit up. I stand.
There is nothing in the sky. But lower down . . .
It is no bird. It is the big boy. He has switched his melon—for a horn. He is blowing it, beautifully. I think … it is the sweetest thing. That I have ever heard.
I am beat, but my feet are moving. They are taking me to the tree.
That music. I close my eyes, it is so good.
When he finishes, the big man spits out his horn. The melon on his lap—the same fat one, I am certain—he picks up. Holds it out to me.
This time, I take it.
There is room for two, in the shadow. I suck the jelly. And listen to the big man play.
I sit a long time there, eating kiwano, listening. I do not even think, but listen.
And it returns to me. My courage. My desire of life. My strength. It happens, it is that simple. It is inscrutable. Like the bridge.
I hold my hand out. The big man takes it. He shakes me. He grins.
I think I grin, too.
*
I am not sure how, but I get back to Gwanda. I get there just. The sky is turning. My ears are ringing. Then the sky is flying back . . .
When I open my eyes, I am in a white room. In the new hospital.
Good news, says a smiling man. There is money for medicine. From the government.
I am a cool man. But I am crying.
*
It is a long time, before I tell my father. About the desert. The big man, the bridge. To try a new thing, he listens. Then pulls his pipe out.
Mwana, he says. That is fever. That is dreaming.
Down in the coals. I pick my words.
It is dreaming, I say. But it is true.
He grunts, the old man, sticks his pipe in his gums. He looks into the fire.
He says nothing.
