Hope Is Our Only Wing Read online

  Dear Reader,

  As a child, I used to listen in fascination while my grandfather told stories. I would marvel at his expression and passion. And then when I went to bed, my parents would take turns telling me bedtime stories. The journeys I went on in my imagination were beautiful, but what I loved most about these stories were the messages behind them.

  So when I wrote Hope I wanted to tell a story with a message. A story that doesn’t underplay how hard life can be, but that also doesn’t underestimate how hope can inspire the will to go on. Most of all, I wanted to share a story about my home, Zimbabwe.

  I grew up knowing that Zimbabwe was the breadbasket of Africa and it broke my heart when so many things changed. But the part that is rarely told is this: even though it was a time when people could have easily been broken, the resilience I witnessed was astounding. I saw a hope that I pray will remain alive and usher us to better times.

  This is a book inspired by what really happened. A story about a place I love. I hope that as you read it you’ll get angry, you’ll laugh, you’ll be shocked and perhaps even cry at times. But I hope you remember through all that emotion that hope is our only wing!

  —Rutendo Tavengerwei

  Copyright © 2018 by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of f iction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used f ictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States by Soho Teen

  an imprint of Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tavengerwei, Rutendo

  Hope is our only wing / Rutendo Tavengerwei.

  ISBN 978-1-64129-072-2

  eISBN 978-1-64129-073-9

  1. Friendship—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Sick—Fiction.

  4. Boarding schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Political corruption—Fiction.

  7. Zimbabwe—Fiction.

  PZ7.1.T3838 Hop 2019 [Fic]—dc23 2019000820

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my lovely parents, Simbarashe and Jenifer Tavengerwei.

  Thank you, among so many other things, for introducing me to

  the world of writing and storytelling.

  PART ONE

  January 2008

  1

  Shamiso’s heart broke into a shudder of beats. She could hear the jazzy trails of the mbira spiraling in the air. Her father would have loved that sound. She glanced at her mother, who stood next to her, fanning her sweaty neck. She seemed preoccupied. The music played on, painful and familiar.

  When Shamiso was eight, her father had insisted that she learn how to play. The metal pellets had bruised the tips of her fingers as she plunked on them. A series of confused notes bumping into a glorious discord. The frustration had been too much for an eight-year-old, made worse by the fact that none of the other kids at school understood quite what the instrument was.

  Shamiso listened as the voice of the mbira rose proudly. Whoever was playing knew what they were doing. She could hear the underlying tone of a hum that flowed well with the song. And in that magnificent noise floated all the memories and feelings she was trying to ignore.

  Her mother hovered by her side, trying to figure out where they should go. Shamiso felt numb, staring down at her shiny new shoes and listening to the music that disturbed the air.

  “Shamiso.” Her mother hesitated. “Are you all right?”

  “I told you before,” Shamiso muttered, biting her breath, “I don’t want to be at boarding school. Especially here!”

  She watched her mother wipe her damp neck as though she had not heard her. Her blouse clung to her skin, moist from the sweat.

  “There’s no time to cry,” her mother said softly. “Wipe your tears, mwanangu. You’ll be fine.” She nodded at the administration block in front of them.

  Shamiso saw the exhaustion on her mother’s face as they picked up the luggage and headed for the building. They sat in the waiting room and looked around. The young man behind the reception desk seemed caught up in a tsunami of phone calls. The walls were lined with pictures of alumni at different events across the years. Shamiso could hear snatches of conversation from two men standing by the door.

  “Yes, but by staying away . . . we . . . are only punishing the children,” one of the men said rather slowly. Shamiso kept her head down, concentrating on the tracks of the mbira.

  “You are beginning to sound like that journalist . . .” the other man commented.

  Shamiso raised her head. She guessed the men were teachers, but she could barely hear what they were saying. She leaned in.

  “Of course . . . we . . . we have to be smart about this,” the first man continued, his voice rising in volume.

  A bubble of anger formed in Shamiso’s throat. She tried to keep calm. Her ears picked up the music, which was slowly forming into a song. She wondered if she would ever be able to play like that.

  The notes poked at her brain. Her father had called it the sound of home, the stolen guitar of nature. She closed her eyes. Memories sat vividly in her mind. His fingers dancing around on the little pellet strings, his lips pursed, the music swirling. She held her breath, scared that if she breathed out too soon she would lose him.

  A sudden voice jolted her back to the present. “Aww, first day at school, is it?”

  Shamiso opened her eyes and wiped them with the back of her hand. A girl stood in front of her, holding a pile of books. Her curly hair was tied back tightly into a bun. She seemed to be headed for the staffroom.

  “Newcomer or first form?” the girl asked.

  “I’m new,” Shamiso mumbled.

  “Would you look at that! We have ourselves a Brit,” the girl declared.

  Shamiso gritted her teeth. The door to the staffroom suddenly opened. The cartoon on the door warned her that it was out of bounds. A teacher stood in the entrance, blocking the view as though the staffroom was some sacred destination that students were not meant to see. All Shamiso could hear was laughter as the teacher beckoned the girl inside.

  “Well, don’t worry, Your Majesty, it will definitely get worse. The queen doesn’t come here for tea, I’m afraid,” the girl said in her best imitation of what she thought was an English accent before following the teacher inside.

  Shamiso fought the urge to call after her. She had hardly been in this country long and she was already certain she did not like it at all.

  2

  Shamiso stood beside the plump principal. Her mother had left—not that Shamiso had wanted her to stay. The principal signaled for the class to sit down.

  Shamiso fidgeted. Her armpits stung and fear jeered right in her face. The last time she had been in a new place, her father was there. Things had always fallen into place when her father was in charge. She pulled the cuffs of her cardigan into her palms and held them tight.

  “Good morning, class,” the principal’s hadeda voice rang out.

  She looked over the students, poised like a goddess standing with her hands sharply by her sides, her spectacles beneath her cold eyes. Her navy-blue dress perfectly matched the seriousness of her face. Her thin, curly, gray hair lay tired on her head. She seemed as though she was probably no more than a year or two from bein
g bald.

  “Now, I have Miss Muloy with me. She is new and will be joining us this term. I would like to stress that here at Oakwood we pride ourselves on our hospitality.”

  She paused for effect. Her spectacles slid down to the tip of her nose as she placed a hand on Shamiso’s shoulder.

  “There’s an empty seat at the back; you can make your way there.”

  Shamiso did not want to be here. She turned slightly toward the principal and could see it in her eyes that she knew this too. Still, Shamiso did what she had been asked. Her fists swung close to her hips and her breath was tempered. She glanced at the rest of the students, each with a book opened on their desks as though someone had taken the time to carefully align them. Their shirts were a crisp white, with the girls in green cardigans and the boys in maroon.

  The room itself was old, with sagging paint and aging Post-its, windows with rusty frames and the wood-tiled floor.

  She stared at the tiles. There was something about their tired and unkempt state that she could relate to.

  “You can sit down!” the principal told her, but it was as if Shamiso wasn’t in her body. She continued to stand, almost dazed, her feet forming some sort of bond with the floor.

  “To sit, or not to sit, that is the question.” One of the students chuckled. The class broke into wild sniggers as Shamiso snapped back to reality.

  “Quiet!” the principal said, turning to one of the girls at the front. “Paida, shouldn’t you be keeping the class in check until your teacher arrives?” Shamiso’s eyes popped. The girl! The girl from reception! She shifted toward the principal.

  “Because of the strike, ma’am, Miss Ndlovu hasn’t been coming to teach us. We were reading from our Shakespeare set book. I believe that’s what Tinotenda is referring to,” the girl said with a smirk on her face.

  The principal halted by the door. “Things are hard for the staff, but I will talk to Miss Ndlovu.” She paused. Three distinct lines formed on her forehead. “Paida, can I trust you to make sure that Miss Muloy settles in?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” the girl answered confidently.

  As soon as the principal was a safe distance away, the class broke into chatter. There was only one thing Shamiso liked about this arrangement: she could sit in the back corner where she could hide and blend into the wall. She opened her desk, fighting the lump in her throat. She had to pull herself together. Her mother had insisted on this school. She was convinced that it was only at a mission school that a good education was guaranteed, and she had groped for every cent she could find to pay the fees.

  Oakwood High was one of the few mission schools left in the country, built by missionaries during the unstable liberation war of colonial times. It was located close to Chinhoyi, just a few kilometers west of the capital Harare. It had stood there for decades, thriving due to its exceptional pass rate and good morals.

  Traveling to Oakwood had been close to a nightmare. Since petrol was scarce, only a few buses a day went to Chinhoyi. The bus had been packed beyond capacity in spite of the heat. Shamiso leaned close to the classroom window, still sticky and hungry for fresh air. She wiped the film of sweat from her forehead and gazed at the enormous oak tree outside. It reminded her of home.

  “You know, it’s always a good idea to come a day early. It takes away most of the stress and frustration,” the student in front of her said, turning around. She had a delicate voice, soft like ripples of water, and a smile that lit up like gasoline. She extended her hand.

  Shamiso lowered the lid of her desk, her eyes gliding from the girl’s face to her outstretched arm. The girl’s eyes had bags under them, carrying a world of fatigue. Shamiso stared a second longer and looked away. She could make out a mbira beneath the girl’s chair. She blinked rapidly, reached for her backpack and felt for her textbook.

  “Around here, you’re going to need friends,” the girl said with a chuckle. “When you realize that, my name is Tanyaradzwa.”

  3

  Shamiso’s mother sat on the bus on her way back home. She knew her daughter hated the new place. To be honest, she hated it too. But she had to keep it together if they were to make it through this. She stared outside, watching the trees rush past. Shamiso’s tuition would cripple her finances. But at least the new environment would keep her daughter distracted for a while. She fanned her face with one hand. The last time she had ridden down this road was when her husband had taken her to see the famous Chinhoyi caves. He had asked to marry her that day. She smiled as she remembered how nervous he had been the whole drive there. It hardly felt real.

  She wondered if this was one of the many times he had gone chasing a story. Memories crowded in, and she shook them off. There were more important things to do. She had to figure out how she would take care of her daughter; how she would get money. All this had caught her off guard! But time is friend to no man. The cuddling eventually stops and time’s blow unleashes its rage.

  4

  A series of screeches spread across the room as the chairs scraped against the classroom tiles, the students all scrambling to their feet. Everyone except Shamiso, who remained seated.

  A short middle-aged man stood in front of the class, one hand holding a textbook and the other stroking his carefully trimmed beard. She could hardly make out his face. He paused awhile before placing the book on the mahogany table in front, then began to walk between the rows of students, inspecting the classroom with lazy eyes. As he got closer to Shamiso, she sensed an uneasy recognition. She had seen him earlier in the administration block, though he had not seen her.

  Tanyaradzwa glanced back at her, eyes raised, begging Shamiso to get up. Shamiso knew she ought to stand, but something stubborn hardened inside her.

  The man walked on, one hand in his pocket, his steps calculated as though preparing to pounce on an unsuspecting chicken. His knees refused to bend, making him drag his feet as he walked.

  As he neared her seat Shamiso sprang up, avoiding eye contact. He stood by her side, his breath touching the soft skin of her face.

  “Mmm,” he murmured. “Please don’t stand up on my account.” There was a pause. “Your name?”

  His exaggerated pauses aggravated Shamiso. He seemed to enunciate every word, taking his time, like someone combing lice out of a child’s hair. She turned to him. He wore a proud smirk, ready to assert his power. She noticed little spurts of sweat on his face and felt pleasure in knowing that the heat was baking him to perfection in his elegant coffee-colored suit.

  “Umm . . . Shamiso. Shamiso Muloy,” she said, her trimmed accent causing waves of amusement in the class. Tinotenda softly mimicked her until the teacher glanced back with a stern look. He stared at Shamiso for a second longer as though he recognized her from somewhere, then turned and began walking toward the front of the class.

  “And you are . . . ?” Shamiso asked.

  He halted. The class brimmed with whispers, nervous on her behalf.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “You are?” she repeated, holding her voice so it wouldn’t tremble.

  The teacher drew closer, pushing his face into her space. He lifted his left eyebrow a little. She drew her head back.

  The class stared at her, some in awe, others in plain amusement, waiting to see what would happen next.

  “Why do I hear noise?” he breathed, tilting his head and turning to the group of girls nearest to him. There was immediate silence.

  He turned back to face Shamiso. His right hand was in his pocket, and his left fidgeted with a piece of chalk.

  “Looks as if we will have fun here, won’t we?” He signaled to the class to sit down, then paused, tugging at his chin hairs. “But maybe you shouldn’t sit down.”

  Shamiso froze.

  “You know . . . so that your brain will retain my name . . . like mine has yours. It’s Mr. Mpofu . . . Don’t worry . . . I guarante
e . . . you definitely won’t be forgetting it.”

  He stared at Shamiso, as if to make sure a cold chill ran down her spine. Shamiso turned and looked out of the window next to her. Her heart beat wildly as she stood there, listening to his voice echoing in the room.

  “Now, class, we are going to be looking at equations today,” he said, flipping through his textbook. “There is an example on the first page. You know what to do.” Mr. Mpofu stared into his book, his head close to the paper.

  Shamiso turned to him. “Excuse me, I’m not clear on these instructions,” she blurted out, a wobble of fear. She looked around the class. Wonderful. She had become quite the spectacle.

  “Mmm, well, if most of you get it right, then I’ll allow you to proceed with today’s exercise.”

  He selected a piece of chalk and scribbled something on the board, his speed at odds with his personality.

  Shamiso weighed up the numbers and symbols carefully. “Excuse me . . .” she said hesitantly. “I think you got that wrong.”

  “What did you say?” he asked, lifting his head from the textbook.

  “The equation’s wrong. There is a bracket there, so you were supposed to multiply first, before you divide.”

  “Oh . . . so you think you are a genius?” he said, inspecting the board to verify his answer.

  He stared at the board a bit longer, then looked at Shamiso, his eyes digging into her flesh. Without another word, he erased the answer and wrote in a new one. Whispers surfaced everywhere. The teacher twisted to face the class, narrowed his eyes then turned back to the chalkboard.

  “Try solving this . . . since you are such a genius,” he said, writing a new problem.

  Shamiso chewed on her pencil and stared back at him with a blank face.

  “Our friend here . . . is challenged. What is wrong now?”