AFTER waiting more than two hours for the phone call from the agency, Farai gave up and decided to find something else’s to do.

It had been a short night on account of the marathon session at the local pub that he had endured along with his friends. After two years in the country, Farai had found some limited comfort in the company of a few local guys with whom he had cultivated a friendship of sorts.

However, much of their companionship seemed to revolve around consumption of alcoholic beverages, football banter and talking about women. Exaggerated tales of individual escapades with female companions were regularly exchanged in that group.

The friendship and the occasional chaos that accompanied it had however failed to sever Farai’s observance of his familial obligations. He knew they looked up to him back home. His parents and siblings waited every month, sometimes twice in one month for instructions to collect cash from the local currency dealer.

So even though on this morning Farai’s head was rather sore on account of the previous night’s exertions at the pub, he was all too aware that he needed to go to work. He had called the agency to confirm his availability for the morning shift and the agent had promised to call.  But after two hours, Farai had given up.

He looked into the cracked mirror in the bathroom and decided that he needed a hair-cut. Farai had inherited a gene from his father’s side which accounted for a fast-receding hairline, which at his age he felt was an embarrassment. To prevent any notice of the threatening baldness Farai had decided early on that he would keep his hair as short as possible. That way, nobody would notice. That meant frequent visits to the local barber.

So Farai decided to visit his barber for yet another shave. The barbershop was just a stone’s throw away from his flat – which he shared with another young man from Albania who was of strict religious persuasion and kept largely to himself, often ensconced in his bedroom. He hardly watched television so the only occasions they met – rare occasions – were in the kitchen or collisions in the bathroom.

On this morning he hadn’t seen him for a week. Farai had tried, in the first few weeks of sharing the flat to knock on his door to exchange greetings but he had given up when he found his flatmate unresponsive.

The barbershop was like a site of daily pilgrimage for locals. In this part of Coventry, called Hillfields, there were more faces of African extraction than any other portion of the city. The young and old from the continent or their Caribbean cousins converged at the barber-shop.

Next door to the barbershop was a hair-dresser’s shop which announced on its front wall that it ‘SPECIALISED IN AFRO-HAIR’. It attracted a large number of females from the community. Hair of different types and colours was sold in that shop and it is this that attracted many customers who preferred wigs, weaves and other fancy styles. Farai had noticed that just like at home in Harare, the women in England also preferred this new hair that they had to buy compared to their own. Maybe God should have known, Farai often said to him self. These women could have saved a lot of money.

Farai had, at great personal cost if pride were a measure, attempted a few times to speak with the young ladies who frequented the place. They had made fun of his accent. On his part, Farai had found it odd that they would laugh at his accent when he considered theirs to be even funnier. He had given up the chase when he realised that this was not like the local township at home where a boy would try his luck with any girl that happened to pass through. He had found more luck with middle-aged women who, to his shock, and later pleasant surprise often approached him at the pub seeking companionship.

So the barbershop and local area attracted a great variety of characters. Some came for haircuts. Others came to just sit and talk. Others brought drinks and joined in the chatter. There wasn’t much going on but gossip and rumour were major lines of trade. One of the characters, well known in the local community was an elderly man simply known as Old Joe. He was quite a character.

Old Joe, known to many who frequented the barbershop as the “resident expert” always sat in his chair situated in the corner of the room, as usual a can of beer in hand and chatting with clients on all manner of subjects. He always had something to say, with some air of authority, on any subject from football, politics, music, society and even how to look after women even though it was rumoured that he had married three times before giving up on the idea. “Marriage is overrated”, was his verdict whenever a debate cropped up regarding that institution.

Old Joe is one of those people gifted with the rare talent of being able to strike a conversation with a stranger on any subject; you know, the type that is difficult to ignore, even if you tried. Perhaps it was the manner of his speech – a gradual, calculated type with a tone that suggested some form of wisdom and authority. Somehow, when those characters speak you feel duty bound to pay attention and to respond perhaps because you feel sorry for them so you can’t ignore them or you feel that ignoring them could be the harbinger of tough luck. So you respond out of duty – whose character is indeterminate.  

In any event, it was difficult to be annoyed by Old Joe’s questions. The man is blessed with a wonderful sense of humour and even if nobody cared to laugh, Old Joe would always find something to laugh about in his own statements. He was self-deprecating - a contrived approach, Farai always thought, which made him appear humble and therefore drew the multitudes to his cause.

It’s not clear if it was loneliness that brought him to the barbershop every day. He came every morning, Old Joe, always with four cans of beer. He preferred Stella Artois, the Belgian liquor that he spoke of highly to anyone who cared to ask. He said it was the beer for real men and he was a real man.

He always carried a packet of cigarettes, Malboro Reds (20) of which he regularly remarked that if you smoke, you have to smoke the real thing. “I don’t do the bigger stuff anymore”, he often said. No-one ever asked what the “bigger stuff” was. It seemed everyone knew or thought they knew.

Old Joe said he had tried it a few times in his youthful days but had realised early on that it wasn’t good for his head. “Make a man go crazy!” he would often say, with a loud laugh that showed a set of teeth that had attained a yellowish complexion on account of smoke, perhaps. He wore a gold tooth which struggled to distinguish itself in the line of yellow in which it was located. .

So on that morning when Farai arrived at the barbershop, Old Joe was there – like the permanent feature of the little shop that he had seemingly become. Even though he had no proprietary interest in the barbershop, the establishment itself had become popularly known in the local community as Old Joe’s. He didn’t mind. In fact, he seemed to derive some pleasure from this circumstance.

It was the conversation of men who had known each other for a long time; one in which no more than few words needed to be said. Each knew what was to be done. He cut hair the same style. He had done it so many times. All he needed was confirmation.

It’s fascinating - the knowledge that barbers carry. Every person is a master in his trade. The lawyer knows his client who is always up for drink-driving. The doctor knows his patient who almost always comes with a problem “down there”. Just like the shopkeeper who knows the newspaper that his elderly customer buys everyday so he reserves it until he comes to pick it up every morning. If he doesn’t come, the shopkeeper gets worried.

The barber too, knows his clients’ hair, its texture, their favourite style, etc. He even knows that each time he will tell them to buy this or that type of chemical to get rid of dandruff even though he knows too, that his advice will never be heeded. But he says it anyway. It’s like a ritual.

The barber began to cut Farai’s hair. It was early but a few people had already come into the barbershop. Some were just loitering around with no real purpose. It was an unusually cold November day in the West Midlands and the chill and a slight rain kept them close to the wall, smoking and talking as the minutes of the day ticked, registering the passage of time in the lives of these men and women.

As the barber was busy cutting Farai’s hair, Old Joe, who had been unusually quiet and observing from his corner, began to talk.

“Where you from, young man?” he asked, his eyes fixed upon Farai who couldn’t see him as he was facing the other side. But Farai could not mistake Old Joe’s voice. He had seen him many times in the barbershop. He had heard him speak. But they had never spoken before except exchange greetings, often by nodding heads. Farai must have been the only person who frequented the barbershop that Old Joe had never engaged in conversation. As it turned out, it was only a matter of time.

“Zimbabwe”, answered Farai, opening his eyes. There is something that happens when you’re having a haircut, especially a close one, near the sensitive parts of the head, like the underside of the ears or the back of the head. Eyes shut without intentional command - maybe it’s their form of protection against the little bits of hair that usually fall off as the barber performs his trade. Or it’s just the sensations that attend upon the meeting of machine and skin that cause the eyes to respond in that manner. It’s actually a nice feeling – it’s like a lullaby that a mother sings to her baby, causing him to sleep especially when he has been crying incessantly.

So Farai who had been enjoying his moment of bliss as the barber’s machine ran over his head so smoothly opened his eyes when he heard Old Joe’s voice and told him that he was from Zimbabwe. Their eyes met in the mirror because when Farai opened his eyes, Old Joe was sitting in the far corner, behind him but where the mirror could capture his image.

“That’s a long way, son”, Old Joe remarked with a chuckle at the end. “That’s old Rhodesia, ey?” Old Joe asked after a slight pause.

As he was asking, the barber was adjusting his head into position for a closer cut on the right side. The language between a barber and his client is the language between the barber’s hands and the client’s head. The hands of the barber adjust the head into position and the head of the client responds. You know when you are the client what the barber is saying when he adjusts your head. You tilt accordingly, obeying the unwritten, the unsaid instructions. No words ever need to be said. It’s a wonderful language, the language of the client’s head and the barber’s hands. So when Farai asked the question, he did so while his head was tilting to the left in response to the instructions of the Barber’s hands.

“Yeah, man. I remember the guy, years ago! Strong head the fellow had!” said Old Joe before continuing, “Strong head, you know the guy told the Queen go to hell! He say ‘Rhodesia’s my country; Got full of happy black people, you know. He say, they’re the happiest blacks in the whole world!” Old Joe laughed as he spoke.

“Happy blacks but they got no land. They got nothing in their own land! They work for him and can’t even sit in the same restaurants. They clean the street but can’t even walk on them with their families. But the bloke said they were happy people on earth!”

Farai wanted to help Old Joe laugh but he couldn’t. You don’t talk too much or laugh when having a haircut. You disturb the Barber’s flow and risk getting a bad haircut or even getting the machine shredding the sensitive part of your skin. So he just grinned slightly – even then a normal grin can be risky. He just grinned slightly to show support to Old Joe, who was watching his reaction from behind.

“Yes he did” said Farai – he couldn’t say much now because the Barber was shaving behind his ear. That’s a sensitive part which does not need any movement at all and talking can cause skin movement that can be pose risk of a cut.

“Kept his land and all?” asked Old Joe as if he didn’t know. He asked it the way a person asks not because he doesn’t know but because he’s simply seeking confirmation from another.

“He should have gone to jail for all them crimes against innocent people, man! Instead you give him a position?!” He was laughing again.

“So you’re a Mugabe man then or you run away from him, too like them all say?”, asked Old Joe. Farai observed that rather unusually, Old Joe was in the mode of asking more questions than lecturing that morning. But it didn’t take long for Old Joe to start his lectures – the fountain of wisdom.

“I got respect for that man, ey! The man knows what he’s doing, you know! You guys don’t understand him. You should sit down and think and learn history, man. He giving you land, resources, man and you run away! You say let me run to Britain … the Great Britain! And you say he a bad man! Do you have land here in England man? How many black man do you see with farms in England? Did you hear that man in Leicester – he was farming out there, growing corn or something. Locals called the police, yeah man, they called the police and say we saw a thief! Cause the fellow was a black man, yeah. They thought, how can black man farm in England?! See?” he asked a flurry of questions.

“You see, you young people don’t understand. You need to read the world better. You need to understand history” He said this without getting into much detail.

Old Joe, who was about to say something turned his eyes towards the man. He was not one of the regulars. He wore big jeans that looked oversize. They had different colours and had some inscriptions written in large uncoordinated print. He had an oversized jumper, also with large inscriptions of a similar character. He had been reading a newspaper. The page he was holding had a large picture of a girl who was wearing just her underclothing. Her breasts were uncovered. She seemed to be smiling to the camera.  He had been looking at this page for a long time but in the process he seemed to have been following the conversation between Old Joe and Farai.

He was looking at Farai, who couldn’t really see him because he was facing the mirror and the man who had spoken was not within the mirror’s reach. Farai had realised in his few years in England that the phrase “my brother” was one that was used quite liberally within the black community. Everyone was “my brother” or if she was a woman, it was “my sister”. There was some unwritten code of brotherhood or sisterhood in the black community although he was yet to identify or realise its practical implications. But sometimes he found it a little patronising because often it was used when the new brother was asking for a favour.

The man with the newspaper paused for moment before he continued when he was sure that he had been afforded the platform to speak.

“It’s true what this gentleman is saying, my brother. That Mugabe man is right, o!” he declared. “The white man came and took that land by force from the black man. He made black man work for him. He pocket the profit and sent it here to Europe. So now what’s wrong when black man says I want my land?” It wasn’t clear that he was posing the question to anyone in particular.

He realised that he was being placed in a specific corner – the corner of stupid, ungrateful black Zimbabweans who didn’t seem to appreciate the deeds of their leader.

Sensing he had found a supporter in the man with the newspaper bearing a picture of a naked woman, Old Joe was quick to capitalise on it and he cut Farai before he could respond.

“It’s not about the land? So what is it then? Everywhere in Africa there’s fighting. There is political problems everywhere! But you don’t hear nothing about it here. A white man loses a farm in Zimbabwe and it’s all over the place, man! See them pictures of white man’s blood all over the BBC? It ain’t like there are no black folks suffering, man. But white man’s picture is better see?!”

“But you don’t seem to appreciate Mugabe’s problems with the black people, too, Sir. It’s not just him against the white man as you think. It’s against the black man, too and you guys don’t see that. You just see him as a black hero fighting back against the white man. What about the ordinary black people who are also protesting?” Farai asked the two men.

“It’s because all these bullies here are using black man to fight Mugabe’s revolution. Them are all puppets, don’t you see? You think they care about black man in all this? If they cared about black man they would have done something in my own country man. You know, I come from the richest but poorest part of Nigeria – the Delta State. We got oil man, lots of oil all over the place but our people are dirt poor! Who got all the oil?” he asked. It seemed like a rhetorical question but Farai took a chance to answer.

“Your politicians are to blame” he said. “They have got all their children studying at schools and universities here in England because they are busy stealing the money. Don’t just blame the white man. Your politicians are also thieves and they are black. It’s black man oppressing another black man.”

“No, no, no, no man! – that’s just small fish, man!” The man with the newspaper bearing the picture of naked woman protested. Farai now knew he was from Nigeria.

“They are stupid, of course and corrupt but the big problem is the oil company from America and Europe man. They get everything but the people of the land are poor. They’ve got nothing. Nothing at all!” continued the man with the newspaper bearing the picture of naked woman.

The Barber didn’t say a word until his mobile phone rang. The ring tone was a very loud dancehall music tune. It reminded Farai of the days when he was at university in Zimbabwe. Along with his friends he had bought a large stereo player imported from some Far Eastern country when he received his payout from the government. It was called a Saisho – it was big with flashing red and blue lights.

At the end of the term he had taken the big Saisho stereo to his rural home, where he stayed during vacations with his parents and extended family. The whole village had been impressed by this huge gadget from the Far East. They had never seen one like that before. They danced all night and over the coming weeks, boys and girls from the village would descend at their homestead to play music cassettes. The music of choice then was reggae and the dancehall genre straight from Jamaica. The boys in the village had even changed their accents so that when they spoke English they spoke like their music heroes do when they sing. Others had even adopted names like Shabba, Cutty Ranks, Buju, etc.

So the Barber’s ring tone brought back many memories and made Farai nostalgic for a moment.  The Saisho didn’t last long in the rural environment. The notorious cockroaches did not spare the tiny cables. The bliss that had visited the village on account of the Saisho evaporated and it was back to the same old routine. 

In that moment, Farai’s thoughts turned to home. Old Joe and the man with the newspaper bearing the picture of naked woman continued to discuss but Farais thoughts were transported to a land far away from the confines of the barbershop.

Farai’s circumstances of growing up were anything other than bare but it was not until he read books that he began to understand the world around him and to ask searching questions. Until then, he and the rest of his generation lived in blissful ignorance of their circumstances.

The war had ended. He was too young to have remembered the war. Elders never talked about the war. It was as if there was a law of silence, prohibiting people from speaking about the war that had raged in the country in the seventies. Farai had figured this was an epoch that the elders felt was best buried and forgotten in their memories, never to be passed on to the new generations.  Who wants to inherit memories of war?

But one day Farai returned from school with many questions. They had had a fascinating history lesson. The teacher had spoken about colonisation and how the Africans had lost their land and also their power to rule themselves. Later that evening Farai was determined to ask more questions from his father.

Farai’s father liked to keep his distance from the kids. It wasn’t often that children asked him questions. Usually they would direct questions to their mother who would then transmit the messages depending on their seriousness. Mother was like his professional assistant – the officer who receives and vets information before it goes to the boss. So before he could ask his question directly to his father on this rare occasion, Farai had to seek permission to do so.

“Yes young man, what is it? Are you in trouble again at school? You ask too many questions from your teachers as well, heh? I have told you not to ask too much when at school. Teachers are there to teach you not for you to ask them too many questions. What is it this time?” his father asked. When Farais father asked questions it was like a machinegun firing bullets one after the other, no chance to answer one at a time. But he was in a good mood that evening so Farai didn’t feel intimidated. 

“So what is it then? Money? I haven’t got any money, young man” Farai’s father explained, thinking Farai was after some money and therefore, that he must pre-empt the request.

“But who told you that we are poor? Did someone say that to you at school? Is it your teachers?” asked Farai’s father, his voice getting a little agitated. He hadn’t expected this type of question from Farai.

“Well, we haven’t got any land and every year during the rain season you complain that the sandy soils are useless. You say the soil does not keep water. When the rains come we have to go and borrow cattle from the neighbours because we don’t have enough for draught power to plough the land. Our neighbours have to borrow some things from us too, like our cultivator when they want to cultivate their land because they have got one.   And those women at the end of the village, Mai Rumbi and Mai Ticha – they always come and help in the fields and in exchange we give them some grain. I think they are poor, too. In fact I think all of us here are poor except maybe Teacher Chikomo who, at least has a scotch-cart and a bicycle which we all borrow from him.” explained Farai.

“Ah, you think that means we are poor?” said Farai’s father with a loud but friendly laugh. He realised his son was asking difficult questions.

“It doesn’t mean we are poor, son. We are just helping each other. That’s African culture. We help each other. It’s not because we are poor” he tried to explain.

“But father”, Farai said, “How come MuJerimani has so many cattle on his farm? And his farm is so big everyone in this village could get a decent portion and live well. The river flows through his farm and he has a dam in there. By the time Chikunzvi river reaches us here, most of the water has been captured up there on his farm. From January to December his fields are evergreen. His children drive cars. He doesn’t plough with oxen like us. He has tractors and other machines. Surely, MuJerimani is a rich man compared to us?”

MuJerimani was the name given to the farmer who owned a big farm a short distance away from Farai’s village. Apparently the original farmer was said to have been of German origin. ‘German’ had been converted into the vernacular Shona language as ‘Jerimani’ and so he was commonly referred to as MuJerimani – the German. The farmer who occupied the land at that time was also called by that name. It was convenient.

“Are you saying he is rich because he is a white man, father?” Farai was still enquiring. It was like a cross examination in a court of law as he drew his father to answer the question that he seemed to be avoiding.

“No, they have good land plus they are clever. They are good farmers and know how to make people work. Don’t you see how many workers he has there? All those people have no homes to go to because they all came from Malawi, Zambia or Mozambique during Smith’s time. Mabhurandaya nemaSena they work for him because they have nowhere else to go. They can’t go back to their homes because no-one knows them there anymore. And here, they don’t have any villages”. Farai’s father explained, giving a little more detail hoping that would end Farai’s inquisition.

Bhurandaya is another Shona version of a foreign name, in this case Blantyre. Migrant people who arrived from the then Nyasaland were derisively referred to as Mabhurandaya – people who come from Blantyre. It is not a good name to call people because it is often used in a mocking fashion. Farai had often heard adults telling off children by saying, “Do not dress like a mubhuranddaya!” or “Why do you dress like a Mubhurandaya?” Farai remembered that the other word they used in similar fashion was “muNyasarandi” – a person from Nyasaland.  The Sena are a tribe in Mozambique. Farai had also noticed that the term was often used in a way that conveyed a derogatory meaning.

“But father, how come he has got all that land? Why does he, only one man have all that land and yet all these men here in the villages only have little fields filled with sandy soil? He has that river and that dam all to himself. We can’t even fish in that dam without being chased away. How come he has all that and we have none?”

Farai and his friends often sneaked into Mu Jerimani’s farm to catch fish in his dam or to pick firewood. When they were caught they were beaten thoroughly by MuJerimani’s workers. So they had to keep watch and run when necessary.

“The questions you ask, Farai! Why do you bother your father with all those questions?” his mother had spoken for the first time, intervening in the conversation between father and son and appearing to be on father’s side. It’s not that she thought Farai was being silly. It’s the kind of intervention a mother makes on behalf of a son, appearing to be taking sides with her husband when what she is actually doing is to soften his temper so that he doesn’t lash out at her son.

“Ah, hameno (I don’t know) I thought I was helping you” remarked Farai’s mother to her husband. She was sounding defeated but inside her heart, she was smiling, her mission to prevent a verbal lashing against her son accomplished.

Farai sensed this and he was happy, too with mother’s decoy. Mothers and their sons have a way of communicating. There are no words. Both mother and son just know.

“Is it true that we once had land that was taken by the white man many years ago? Is this why they have plenty of land and we are crowded in these poor soils?” Farai asked. He thought his last question had been too general so he took advantage of his mother’s intervention to rephrase his question.

“It is true, my son. Our ancestors used to live up there in the area they now call Watershed. The soil was good. The rains were good. There were good rivers that kept water all year round. That is what my father, your grandfather told me. They had lots of livestock – cattle, goats, sheep and many more. There were lots of wild animals in thick forests.” His father said before pausing.

During that pause, Farai’s father took a small piece of wood burning in the fire and lit his cigarette that he had been rolling up in a long piece of newspaper. He paused whilst he did this and then smoked it twice in quick succession, making sure it was properly lit. Then he continued.

“Then the white man came on horseback and said the land was his. Our ancestors were pushed away one early morning when the white man came with guns. They fired the guns and people scattered all over the forests. Some left their livestock. Others left their entire belongings. The white man followed those who had taken their cattle and said they too, now belonged to him. Then, after all this your grandfather and a few of his relatives came and settled here on this land. They had nowhere else to go.  That’s why this is home. But actually home is up there in Watershed. When we see dark clouds in the sky there we feel angry. It’s because we know the rains that bless that land are our rains. We know the lands that are blessed by those rains are our lands. Our ancestors are buried there. But we are powerless. We haven’t got power. That’s why we stay here.”

This time Farai’s father spoke slowly and carefully, looking at his son as he spoke. But when he spoke his last words, he was looking up to the top of the hut where the smoke from the fire twirled slowly towards the cone of the thatched roof and disappeared into the night. His voice seemed to crack. For the first time ever, Farai had almost witnessed emotion in his father’s voice.

“But even here, they followed and took more cattle. They said the cattle were too many for one person and that the land was too small for all the cattle. They were the ones who had pushed us here, to these poor lands and now they said our livestock were too many for the land and they were taking away the cattle!”

By the time he said the last words, Farai’s father was at the door. He was leaving the hut. He had tears in his eyes and he didn’t want his son to see those tears. He had told him from an early age that men don’t cry. He was not about to disobey his own commandment in front of his son. So he had stood up and left the hut.

Farai, who had been looking at him closely saw his father’s teary eyes but he looked down to pretend that he hadn’t seen anything. He didn’t want to embarrass his father. So he pretended to be looking down as his father left. He felt sorry for his father, an emotion that he had never felt before. He was angry with himself for asking those questions. It wasn’t because he wanted his father to feel so emotional. But he had caused him to disobey his own commandment.

“You have made him angry. He never talks about these things because they make him angry. Now see he won’t return soon and his food will be cold. Maybe he won’t even eat tonight because when he is angry he doesn’t eat”

From that day, Farai had never asked about the land again or their poverty. He only knew that he had to work hard at school; that he had to read his books and know everything so that he would pass his exams and then go on to work for his family.

Farai had achieved that and now he was sitting in a barber’s chair in Coventry, the midlands of England. Farai had struggled to make ends meet. Like many others he was regarded as an illegal immigrant in England. He had left Zimbabwe to find a better life because jobs were hard to come by at home and the wages had become insignificant and worthless. It was odd that this had happened just when the black man was talking land from the white man. He had come to England and was one of the ‘ghosts’ of the system – ghosts because they didn’t really exist in the system. Everyday, he lived in fear of being found out and deported.

That was until a fellow Zimbabwean had told him he could claim asylum. But to do so, he had to create a story of persecution at the hands of Mugabe. Farai was not a politician, no. He had not even supported any political party. But he knew that to survive he had to ‘claim’ – as seeking asylum was referred to in the Zimbabwean community in England. Farai had waited for some time, as a ghost, but eventually the ‘papers’ had come. He knew many of his countrymen and women who were ‘ghosts’ in England.

The Barber was asking for Farai’s opinion of the back of his head. He held a mirror behind Farai so that the mirror reflected Farai’s back of the head in the big mirror in front of him.

The Barber took a spray can and sprayed all over Farai’s shaved head. It was cold and made his skin itch. The Barber took a towel and dusted Farai, making sure all the hairs were removed from his clothing.

As Farai stood up to pay the barber his fee his eyes met Old Joe’s sitting in the far corner.
 
“So how do you find England, man? Happy here?” asked Old Joe.

The old man stopped and took another gulp of his beer. He took out one of his Malboro Reds and a lighter. He lit up the cigarette, took a long pull and blew the smoke. The whole process seemed very long. He was slow, perhaps deliberately so.

He looked at the young man pointedly and began to talk, the cigarette between the fingers of his left hand, whilst the right hand held the can of Stella Artois. The smoke from the cigarette reminded Farai of the smoke from the fire in his mother’s hut, the smoke that rose and twirled slowly towards the cone of the thatched roof, disappearing into the night sky.

Old Joe put the beer can on the little table in front of him as he adjusted his cap and cleared his throat the way an elder clears his throat not because there is anything to clear but because he wants to draw people’s attention to something that he feels is very important.

“Young man, let me tell you something” Old Joe began as he sensed that he had grabbed the attention of everyone in the barbershop, including the Barber.

It was just like Farai’s father had looked up blankly many years before as he remembered the lost lands of his ancestors. Old Joe’s was an empty, distant look as if to communicate the magnitude of the length of time since he had left his native land.

“I was 20 then. Young, energetic and hopeful, I was. O, those were the days!” suddenly he seemed very nostalgic. “You know what I wanted, young man?” he asked, his head tilted slightly for effect.

 “I was looking for money”, then he paused again. He took another long pull of the cigarette, blew the smoke away and moved his eyes around the room as if to assess if he still had the attention of his audience before finishing emphatically, “and I am still looking for it.”

With that, Old Joe picked up his can and drank for a length of time. Farai turned and went for the door carrying in his head many thoughts.

Behind him was a chorus of laughter coming from the group of men in the barbershop. Even the Barber was laughing, too.  Farai walked out into the slight drizzle that had been falling all night and day. It reminded him of the rain that they called Mubvumbi rain back at home – the rain that falls all day and night … only this mubvumbi was cold, too cold.