Just as I’m about to run for it, the watch salesman intervenes. He puts an arm around me and waves the olive branch of his right hand. The cacophony of the sales pitches evaporates, as if the pontiff has spoken. ‘Give the gentleman a space to walk,’ he says.
The vendors separate. The crowd of pedestrians who have gathered to assess the disturbance returns to business as usual. Half a block away, I realise my watch is gone. Was the entire group in on the act or did an opportunistic thief merely take advantage of the situation? I don’t know and I’m definitely not going back to ask.
I dart along the pedestrian path, dodging tiny piles of tomatoes, onions and bananas. Three for a dollar, four for a dollar, five for a dollar. Amidst this sidewalk commerce, unselfconscious mothers sit on kerbs nursing their babies. I’m not worrying about them though, or the street-corner shoe repairmen who beaver their way through stacks of pumps, wingtips and loafers in need of rejuvenation. My mind is on my wallet, my passport and any other target for a thief. I wonder if someone might try for my shoes.
As I reach the periphery of the shopping area, a young man in a navy blue sports jacket approaches. A silver cross hangs from a chain around his neck. He pulls a white handkerchief from his front pocket and dabs his forehead. The air is getting heavier, clouds are moving in.
‘Sir, don’t you want to last longer?’ he asks me.
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I reply, unsure of where he’s going with this.
‘I have just the thing for you, mupfuwhira love potion plus my boom-boom.’ He shows me some brown powder in a baby food jar.
‘The perfect recipe for perfect love,’ he assures me. ‘With my boom-boom you can last the whole night. Even African women will love you, handiti?’
‘I guess so,’ I reply. He puts two little packets into the palm of my hand.
‘Just five dollars for the two,’ he says. ‘Guaranteed. The madam is going to love you tonight.’
‘I don’t need them right now,’ I reply. I drop the packets into his jacket pocket.
‘Don’t you want to last, sir? You can be as powerful as an African chief.’
‘I guess not,’ I reply, stepping back and patting my back pocket to make sure my wallet is still there. I leave him behind and set out in search of something to eat. I duck into a small café called Tafara Take-Aways. The minute I enter everyone goes quiet for a few seconds as they scrutinise the newcomer. I’m trying to read the menu on the wall while I hide my concerns about pickpockets and armed robbers.
An Indian man at the cash register looks over the heads of the six people in front of me in the line. ‘Sir, can I help you?’ he asks.
‘Yes, but I’ll wait my turn.’
‘We can serve you now. No one will mind.’
I keep scanning the menu board. Two black men in front of me mumble to each other in Shona. ‘We were here,’ one of them says to the Indian man, who ignores them and keeps looking at me.
‘What would you like, sir?’ asks a plumpish black woman standing next to the Indian. She’s wearing a blue apron. Someone in the line speaks to her in Shona. She spits back a reply. I should wait my turn, but I’m hungry and don’t know how to handle the situation.
‘Sadza,’ I answer. She giggles at my reply. Sadza is a thick sort of porridge, something like grits. At least that’s what one of my 3×5 cards says. It’s supposed to be the nation’s staple food.
‘Would you like nyama or chicken?’ she asks. Since I don’t know what nyama is, I opt for chicken.
‘And to drink, sir?’ she asks. Her smile grows with each question.
‘A Coke, please.’
I start to hand her the money but the Indian man reaches over and takes it. She brings me a Coke in a much recycled bottle, the kind we used to get when I was a Cub Scout. Part of the glass looks frosted. I like the feel of the cold, sweating bottle in my hand.
A couple of minutes later, the woman hands me a green metal bowl. I’m almost too nervous to eat. There’s lots of chatter in Shona. War wounds could be close to the surface and I’m an easy scapegoat, especially after jumping the line. I remember the white driver’s warning about the ‘munts’.
The bowl holds four pieces of chicken, including a foot. The cook has poured gravy over the chicken but the little white mountain of sadza remains dry.
All five of the white plastic tables are occupied. I stutterstep as I walk away from the counter, trying to figure out where to sit. I want to avoid the man who objected to the Indian serving me first.
An old man eating alone pulls out a chair. ‘You can sit here, sir,’ he says, patting the seat of the chair.
‘I’m Nyatsanza from Mutare,’ he informs me as I get closer.
He holds out a limp wrist. I grab the top of his forearm and pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. Two young boys at the next table press the backs of their hands to their mouths to conceal a snicker. A pair of women behind them give each other a smacking high five.
‘I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.’
As I look at his face, he turns away. One of his eyes has no iris. His overalls have a faint smell of engine oil. He must be on his lunch break.
‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you,’ I say.
‘No, sir. Not at all. We are all Zimbabweans now,’ he replies.
My eating utensil is a silver tablespoon with chips in the plating. I don’t know where to start.
‘Sir, you can wash your hands,’ Mr Nyatsanza tells me. He nods toward a wooden stand near the wall which supports a green metal bowl much larger than mine. A white hand towel with a few dirty finger marks hangs on a hook next to the stand.
I walk over to the bowl. Tiny food particles peek out at me through the cloudy water. My hands go into the cold liquid, slosh around a little bit, and then dry themselves on the towel. Ready to eat.
I’m not quite sure how to handle a chicken foot. I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to eat it. Maybe it’s like a ham bone, there to add flavour. A man at one of the other tables holds his chicken foot in both hands while he nibbles at the skin. I do the same and no one laughs. The chicken foot doesn’t have much to sink my teeth into and the sadza has no real flavour. When I spoon the gravy on top I can pretend it’s mashed potatoes.
As I scoop up the last piece of sadza, Mr Nyatsanza nods toward the handwashing bowl. ‘It’s warm now, sir,’ he says.
Back I go, this time finding clear water and a slightly cleaner towel. I thank Nyatsanza for his hospitality and am leaving when I hear a banging on the window.
‘Sir, someone wants to speak to you,’ Nyatsanza says. He points to a face pressed against the front window of the shop. The watch repairman. Before my anger has a chance to boil over, he holds up my watch and motions for me to come outside. I tell him to come in. I don’t want another sidewalk convention of onlookers.
‘Sir, you dropped your watch,’ he tells me as he comes through the door. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He hands me the watch. He’s added a new leather band.
‘It’s still running,’ he boasts with that gap-toothed smile.
I offer him a reward but the most he will accept is a cold Coke, not enough to drown the shame of my mistrust.
At exactly 2.31 p.m. I head back to the hotel. A few clouds have rolled in. I wind my way through various gauntlets of polite but persistent street