FISHING IN A WATERPOT

The journey to greener pastures

When I was growing up, we were always told that education was the key to wealth. I was the eldest child, raised by my mother because, according to what she told us, our father had been "married off" to my aunt in Harare. My mother struggled to raise us by growing vegetables and tomatoes, walking from village to village to sell them.

My father was always ridiculed by my mother and my uncle, who would ask mockingly, "Have you ever seen a man who gets married by a woman?" My uncle would sometimes visit our home late at night after we had gone to bed. Mother would wake us and send us to sleep in the kitchen while they remained behind discussing matters considered too mature for children to hear.

As the eldest, I would sometimes hear movements at dawn as my uncle quietly slipped away. Later, my mother gave birth to a baby girl named Joana, by which time I was already in Form Four. Seeing the hardships surrounding us, I realised that my future was crippled before it had even begun.

I buried myself in my books to block out the insults hurled at my mother, who was mockingly called "Mary, who conceived by the Holy Spirit." My uncle's nighttime visits had become like Nicodemus visiting Jesus in secret, yet during the day he would avoid our home as though a leopard had given birth there.

You know, love does not understand poverty. There was a girl I secretly wished would become the flower of my heart. Her name was Nommatter.

She was beautiful—dark-skinned in the perfect shade. When she smiled, it was as if God Himself had carved her lips with divine scissors and polished them with smooth river stones. Her eyes were soft and half-closed like those of a sacrificial lamb. And her figure—especially her curves—could make a man watch till sunset without noticing the darkness arriving.

She began to like me after I helped her carry a bucket of water from the well. From then on, we found excuses to walk home together from the fields.

To say we were lovers would be a lie. I never found the courage to tell her I loved her because I feared losing the friendship we shared. It was easier to convince myself that she loved me than to hear her tell me she did not.

It was Nommatter who encouraged me to join the police force. She pointed out the suffering my mother endured and reminded me that I had younger siblings who depended on me. Since I was the eldest, I had to carry the burden of helping my family. I decided that I would continue my education while serving.

The day I left for Harare, I spent time with Nommatter. Unexpectedly, she kissed me after dark, and I kissed her back. Hidden beneath a tree that blocked the moonlight, we held each other. I carefully reached beneath her blouse and touched her breasts. My blood froze with excitement. She rested her head against my chest and heard my heart pounding wildly.

When I tried to venture further, she caught my hand and said:

"Easy there. First, pay the bride price for the right to taste what you desire."

We parted that night, she returning home while I went back to my mother. Mother had already prepared a chicken for me to take on my journey. But all I could think about was Nommatter and Harare.

That night I had a troubling dream. I saw Nommatter smiling at me from across a river. I entered the water to reach her, but as I walked, the river grew wider and deeper. The clear water turned muddy, then red like blood. A crocodile appeared ahead of me with its jaws open. Nommatter vanished, and all I heard was her voice calling:

"Admire! Admire!"

I awoke to find my mother shaking me.

"Admire! Wake up! It's time to go to the bus station."

The roosters were crowing.

At the bus station, my mother embarrassed me by shouting after me as I boarded the bus:

"Don't forget our suffering, my son! A poor man's child must fight to survive!"

The entire bus fell silent.

I sat beside a beautiful young woman wearing earphones. To show she was raised with good manners, she removed one earphone and greeted me. A young man sitting behind us joked loudly:

"Grace, don't talk to that village boy with the police recruitment papers!"

But Grace replied:

"He's actually cute. I think I have a crush on him."

She introduced herself and asked my name.

"My name is Admire. Admire Pamire."

Soon, she shared her music with me by placing one earphone in my ear. Her brother, Peter, became irritated.

"Leave my sister alone," he warned.

But Grace laughed.

"Peter, don't you have your own girlfriend to chase?"

She was extraordinarily beautiful and carried herself with confidence and independence. Yet as she leaned against me, I suddenly felt guilty. It felt as though I was betraying Nommatter.

At Chivhu, while they bought food from Chicken Inn, I remained behind with the lunch my mother had packed. I tried to hide it out of embarrassment when I saw Grace approaching.

"Why are you hiding your food?" she asked with a smile.

She handed me the meal she had bought for me and then opened my lunchbox herself. To my surprise, she began eating my mother's rice and chicken with obvious delight.

Soon Peter and the others were asking for portions too.

We talked throughout the journey, and by the time we reached Harare, I had almost forgotten Nommatter. Before leaving, Grace gave me her phone number.

I completed my police training at Morris Depot, surviving through determination and memories of my mother's sacrifices. Nommatter encouraged me through occasional phone calls, promising that one day she would become my wife.

But Grace visited me frequently.

On our pass-out parade day, she arrived in a luxurious Mercedes-Benz.

My mother had come wearing the suit I had bought for her, and I was proud to see her. But when Grace stepped out of that expensive car and embraced me, everyone stared.

Then she introduced herself fully:

"I am Grace Gumedhe, daughter of Honourable Gumedhe, Member of Parliament for Chiredzi North."

My heart nearly stopped.

She invited me to spend time with her family after the ceremony. During the drive, she explained that she had chosen to travel by bus because she wanted to experience life as ordinary people lived it.

When I met her parents, they welcomed me warmly. Peter also became friendly toward me. That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Grace sat close to me and gently stroked my hair.

At that moment, Nommatter returned to my thoughts.

I felt trapped.

Grace led me to her bedroom, pulling me by my tie. The room was decorated in pink, filled with stuffed toys and luxury. She kissed me passionately and undressed me.

Yet even in that moment, I saw Nommatter's face in my mind, crying.

We were interrupted by Peter knocking on the door to borrow a laptop. After he left, Grace confessed:

"Admire will be the father of my future children. I've chosen him."

But I knew something she did not.

I desired her, yes.

But I did not love her.

If I married Grace, I feared I would spend the rest of my life competing with wealthier men who could easily attract her.

The next morning, her father called me for breakfast.

He told me he was proud that his children had chosen to marry within their own people. Then he looked directly into my eyes and said:

"Take care of my daughter. Never make her cry. Keep that smile on her face. Because if you erase her smile, I will erase your life."

And with those words, they left for work.