Shimmer Chinodya
The day his father sent him to see Mr BV he put on his cream-coloured, long-sleeved shirt, his flared grey “something else” trousers and his black moccasin shoes.
His mother had suggested he put on a tie and insisted on his having a solid lunch, and his father had dropped hints about him needing to have a haircut, but he had quietly decided on a smart, but semi-casual look.
Now in form three, he was learning to get his own way. He compromised by putting a comb in his back pocket and eating a slice of bread, just in case.
It was a hot, dusty afternoon and he soon began to hate himself for sweating. He sniffed his armpits and smelt the perspiration washing away the soap he had glazed over them after his shower and realised he should have taken the bus to save himself the long tramp through the bush and around the backyards of the industrial sites, to Mr BV’s Wholesales. He had brushed his teeth carefully, and to keep his breath sweet he had bought – with the money he could have used for the bus ticket – a packet of Mint Imperials to suck, but now he found himself chomping nervously through the medium-sized box.
Just before he reached the market-place he stopped in front of a shop window and ran his comb through his hair again. He brought out the dab of Vaseline he had rolled up in a twist of khaki paper and smoothed it on his lips; then he noticed the owner of the shop, a tall white man, pointing at him and he ran on. He stopped to wipe his shoes with an old newspaper.
The big watch in Main Street said five past two and he thought that Mr BV would have returned from lunch, so he crossed over to BV’s Wholesales. He walked past the yard packed with rows of ploughs, scotch- carts, hoes, door-frames, bags of timber and cement to the front where the offices were. In the yard there was a man in a green dust-jacket counting stock. The man was his cousin or nephew or something, but he did not want to be held up and he walked on as if he had not seen him.
Right behind the wholesalers there was a departmental store where his father worked and this was managed by Mr JV, Mr BV’s younger brother.
Once or twice when he and his brothers had gone into the store, their father had taken them to see Mr JV, a quiet, busy man in his late 30s, who looked sideways at you as if you were about to play a trick on him, nodded briefly and went on with his business.
Mr BV was much older and fatter than Mr JV, had a balding head, and talked and laughed with everyone. He spoke Shona and called their father “Longman”, and if you were lucky, he would take a giant packet of Crystal sweets or Choice Assorted Biscuits right off the shelf and thrust them into your unsuspecting hands.
As he approached the office he saw Mr BV through the small window sitting at his desk inspecting some papers. The man looked briefly in his direction. In a sudden panic, he walked on past the door, and down the street before he turned round and made his way back.
He patted his pockets to assure himself that the letter his father had given him was still there, then he walked boldly into the shop. He saw men pushing and packing stacks of goods, and a young Indian woman writing at the counter. He walked on and tapped on the door of the office. Mr BV looked up and he stepped in cautiously and stood near the door.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said.
Mr BV looked up and nodded, then turned his papers over quickly.
“My father said you wanted to see me, sir,” he said, feeling the perspiration welling up in his armpits.
“Who?” Mr BV said, rather surprised.
“My father, sir. Oh, I’m George Mahari, sir.”
“You’re who?”
“George Mahari, sir. Mr Mahari’s son.”
“Longman? You’re Longman’s son?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, momentarily taken aback.
“What can I do for you?” Mr BV said, squeezing his hands as if he had just applied a lotion to them.
“My father said you wanted to see me, sir,” he said, and when Mr BV glanced at his papers and squeezed his hands again he took out the letter from his pocket and put it on the gleaming glass table and said, “My father asked me to give you this letter, sir.”
Mr BV slit the letter open expertly with a little knife and skimmed through it.
“Longman wrote this?” he said, stretching back in his padded seat.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait outside,” said Mr BV. “I’ll call you.”
As he stepped out of the office a bald- headed man in spectacles and a white dust- coat called to him from the counter.
“Don’t you remember me?” said the man. “I’m an uncle of yours. Gideon Masimbi is my name. Of course you wouldn’t know, the way you keep yourselves locked up at home, studying. Your mother has the same totem as me – the elephant – and I regard your father as my in-law. What’s your first name?”
“George,” he said.
Uncle Masimbi shook his hand heartily and introduced him to the other workers in the Wholesale. “This is Mahari’s second son,” he said. “What form are you doing, now?”
“Form three,” he said.
“You are a big brain, eh?”
“All Mahari’s sons are big brains,” said the man he had ignored in the yard who, as it later turned out, was a distant cousin. “They have no time to play. They’re always at home, studying.”
“Mr BV said he wanted to see me. I brought him a letter.”
“You boys are doing very well for your father and we’re all proud of you. You have realised that books are the only way out for us people and you are sticking to them. Your father has worked all his life to send you boys through school and you should never forget that. Keep up the good work. And I congratulate your father for raising you the right way. So, what brings you here? Did you come to see Baas BV?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not looking for a job yet, are you?”
“No,” George said, “Mr BV wanted to see me.”
“Your father asked you to come and see Baas BV?” Uncle Masimbi said, with surprise.
“Yes,” George said hesitantly, “I brought a letter for Mr BV.”
“A letter. Oh. And has Baas BV seen the letter?”
“He read it and said I should wait for him to call me.”
“Very well,” said Uncle Masimbi, arranging some invoices. After a pause he said, “Your father and I worked together in this wholesale long before he met your mother and before anybody dreamt of you boys. You can sit here at the counter if you like, or walk around and see what we do every day. Come, Naison, show him around.”
Naison, the distant cousin whom he had ignored in the yard, showed him round the wholesale. The place was dark and dusty and hot with the smell of trapped air. The shelves, which rose right up to the ceiling, were stacked with clothes of all kinds, school uniforms, kitchenware, groceries and other merchandise. There were a dozen or so customers – mostly shop-owners – placing their orders. After a quick tour George returned to the counter, anxious to make himself visible when Mr BV started looking for him. Mr BV was talking animatedly to a young Indian couple who had visited him in the office.
“Baas BV seems rather busy today,” Uncle Masimbi said, checking off a big order at the counter. “You could go and walk around for a while, otherwise you’ll exhaust your feet standing in one place.”
Realising that he might be getting in the way, George went out to the veranda and stood leaning against a pillar where he would be visible from the office. The young visitor left and Mr BV continued poring over his papers. At one point George saw Mr BV eating something from a lunch-box with his bare hands and licking his fingers. Pickled onions perhaps, George thought, remembering the highly spiced foods Mrs JV sometimes gave his father to bring home.
As he was eating Mr BV looked out of his office and crossed eyes with George. George backed off. He was feeling hungry himself and damn it, he should have had his lunch after all. Rushing off on an empty stomach to spend the afternoon loitering on a veranda watching the passers-by was not his idea of fun. And it was hot – he was sweating freely now and was afraid unsightly yellow rings would form under his armpits.
He quickly ran to a caf at the corner of the street and stuffed himself with a Coke and two scones, wiped his teeth with his thumb and returned to his post on the veranda. The office was empty, but he could hear Mr BV’s voice from somewhere in the dark recesses of the shop, shouting names and barking commands. A flurry of activity followed.
At five minutes to five George stepped out into the open doorway of the wholesale. Mr BV was standing on a ladder in one of the corridors, packing shirts onto the shelves. He had taken off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, around and below him stood three or four workers, who passed the shirts up to him.
“You can come in now, M’zukuru George,” Uncle Masimbi called out, and he went to stand at the counter. After a while Mr BV came down the ladder, rolled down his sleeves and returned to his office. All the customers had gone; it was time to close the shop. Mr BV put on his coat and came out to the counter.
“But why does Longman do this?” Mr BV said, holding out the letter and looking first at George and then at Uncle Masimbi. “How can Longman do this?”
“Is anything wrong, Baas?” Uncle Masimbi asked. A silence fell in the darkening shop and the workers gathered round the counter.
“Why has your father done this?” Mr BV asked George, holding out the letter. “Hini ndava enaLongman aenza so [Why does Longman do this]?”
“What is all this about?” Uncle Masimbi asked George, taking off his spectacles which made his eyes seem older and wrinkled with worry. “What is this letter Baas BV is talking about? What’s the matter, Baas BV?”
“Let him explain himself, Gideon. Can’t he talk? What’s your name again?”
“George, sir,” the boy said hoarsely.
“What form you are in at school?”
“Form three, sir.”
“So why you no answer questions and look stupid? Is that what you do at school to your teachers?”
“No, sir.”
“So why your father write this letter? Why he doesn’t come here, himself? Your father just write this letter and say, ‘Go to Baas BV and get money for your school fees and your uniforms.’ Haikona mhani! [No man!] Is that manners, Gideon? Look, he’s written a list of everything in this letter – shirts, trousers, shoes, socks, bags, maths instruments, school fees and he gives this letter to this boy and doesn’t come himself. Eh, Gideon, why you people do this, man?”
“No, Baas BV,” Uncle Masimbi said, examining the letter. “It’s just a mistake Baas and Longman has to say sorry. I’ll speak to him myself and tell him that Baas BV was not happy with the letter. But didn’t Longman talk to you about this before writing the letter, Baas?”
“Talk to me, Gideon? You know I talk to you people about it every day. I say to you people, if any of you has a problem, come to me and I’ll help you. Didn’t I pay for your spectacles, Gideon?”
“Yes, you did, Baas.”
“And you, Taruona,” the short young man in a suit behind George said.
“And each time I do that you write a letter or you come to the office and say, Baas BV, I need this … or Baas BV such and such a problem has happened? Now you Gideon and Longman, you the old madala have worked here longer than anyone and I have said to you any trouble with school fees for your children, tell me. Not trouble because of drinking Go-beer! Just because I say so doesn’t mean I say Longman, write a letter. You hear that, young man? Go tell your father Baas BV says he can’t have the money for your fees and your uniforms because he is too proud.”
George’s eyes were already full of tears and he took a moment to see Mr BV holding the letter out to him.
“You know how long your father has worked for me and my brother?”
“No, sir,” George sobbed.
“Twenty-seven years, now. Longman and Gideon were the first two boys we had here and that time we have small shop at the corner. They worked good and were very good boys. They did not have long hands or long eyes and they kept their jobs. And I sent your father to night school And then we built this wholesale. And then the Departmental Store where your father works. Your father tell you all this?”
“No, Baas,” George said, hoping to salvage something by that lie.
“How come your father don’t tell you all this? How come you don’t ask him? Do you know my brother, Mr JV?”
“The one who manages the store where my father works?” George started.
“How come you say ‘the one who manages the store where my father works?'” Mr BV erupted, his eyes flashing, “Why don’t you just say, ‘my father’s boss’? Are you getting proud too, like your father? You think because you’re now in form three you can say, ‘the one who manages the store where my father works,’ Eh?”
No, Baas BV,” said Uncle Masimbi, “He’s just a child, Baas.”
‘How come your father doesn’t ask his boss for the money? How come your father keeps coming to me when he now has his own Baas? Look at him, Gideon. He’s crying. Why are you crying? Do you cry at school?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you cry at home?”
“No, sir.”
“Does your father often beat you?”
“No, sir.”
“How many times a week he beat you, George? Two, three times?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Does your father beat your mother?”
“No, sir.”
“Does your father make your mother cry at night?” Mr BV laughed.
“No, sir.”
“How many wives your father got?”
“One, sir,” George choked, alarmed by the question.
“Your father have any children with other women?”
‘No, sir.”
“What you do on Sundays?”
“We go to church, sir.”
“What your father do on Sundays?”
“He goes to church, too.”
“Does your father drink beer?”
“No, sir.”
“Is that true, Gideon?”
“Very true, Baas BV. You know yourself Longman doesn’t touch a drop and that he goes to church every Sunday.”
“How many witchdoctors come to your house per month?”
“None, sir.”
“Your father doesn’t have a witchdoctor?”
“No, sir.”
“What kind of African don’t have a witchdoctor? What your mother do when you’re sick?”
“We go to the clinic, sir.”
“How many times you go to the reserves to play drums and drink beer and sing songs for dead people?”
“We don’t, sir.”
“Your father is a good boy. He’s been working here nearly 30 years now. He mustn’t do this. Well, what do you say Gideon? You think we send his son back and say no or we tell Longman to come here tomorrow and explain why he do this?
Uncle Masimbi glanced again at the figures on the letter and said, “I think Longman should come to talk to you himself, Baas.”
“Haikona, mhani. Haafaniri kuita so [No man. He mustn’t act like this]. When you go back to school?”
“The day after tomorrow, sir.”
“All right. I say, let’s give him the money,” Mr BV said. “We’ll give you the money, but your father must come and explain first thing tomorrow.”
Mr BV went to one of the offices, rang the cash register and while he was there counting out the money, Uncle Masimbi adjusted his glasses and took another worried glance at the figures on the letter and said in subdued tones, to George, “Your father really mustn’t do this because it makes things too hard to us all. Of course Mr BV is our Baas. His brother Mr JV is too young to understand this.
“These Indians are just like us black people and they are particular about how these things should be done. Your father could have come to me beforehand to let me know so that I would at least be ready for this. And we all have children in school, needing fees – but anyway, m’zukuru, the problem has been solved and you will be able to go to school and if Longman’s son or my own son goes to school – it’s all the same. These Indians work us very hard, you know. Very expensive school you’re going to, eh?”
Mr BV returned with the money and counted out the crisp new ten and twenty dollar bills on the counter.
“Give him an envelope, Gideon,” Mr BV said.
“Thank you, sir,” George said and Mr BV nodded quickly.
“So shy you no say thank you to Gideon? You don’t say thank you to Gideon for helping you?”
“Thank you, Sekuru Masimbi,” George said. He felt the tears welling again in his eyes but he picked up the fat white envelope, folded it and put it in his pocket.
“Be sure to take that straight to your father and tell him to come and see me first thing tomorrow,” Mr BV said, going back to his office.
“Give my greetings to your mother my sister,” Uncle Masimbi said. George nodded and stepped out of that dark shop into the paling light outside, away from the murmuring behind him.
‘So, did you eat any Indian food while you were there?” his brother said. “Did you sit in that office with him?” said another.
“What’s his office like? What does he spend the day doing?”
“Did he speak in English or did he use Indian?” his mother said.
Did you did you did you and suddenly he remembered the day his woodwork teacher at primary school had called him to his table and kept him there taunting him, saying, “Your life is in the hands of Mr BV. Everything you do depends on Mr BV. That man has been paying your father peanuts for 30 years …
“Your clothes don’t fit you … Are those secondhands Mr BV’s sons shed off for you?” until he, George, had snapped back. “It doesn’t matter” and the teacher had taken his glasses off and glared at him and laughed and said, “What? Do you dare say that to a teacher?” and the teacher had laughed again and glared at him across the table and then the teacher’s face had suddenly fallen and the teacher had taken him out to the next-door classroom and said to the teacher there, “You know what this boy said to me, you know what this boy said to me when I told him his life is in the hands of Mr BV?
“This boy said it doesn’t matter!” and he had gone home and told his older brother about it and his brother had kept quiet until the day they fought when he broke his brother’s mathematical compass and his brother had said with a bleeding nose, “That’s why you say it doesn’t matter to teachers!”
Did you did you did you and he went out of the house and as he left his father was standing the bicycle against the wall, back from work and his father grinned at him and lifted two loaves of bread from the bicycle carrier, two squashed brown loaves of left- over bread some uncle who worked at a bakery had given him and his father said, “How did your meeting with Mr BV go?”
“I left the envelope on the bed,” George said, and he went into the toilet, locked himself up and wept.
Going to see Mr BV is one of the short stories by Shimmer Chinodya contained in Can We Talk & Other Stories, Baobab Books (1998)