The Colours That Blind Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  Dedication

  Part One: The thing that happened

  Chapter 1: Tumi

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 6: Tumi

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14: Tumi

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part Two: The colours that blind

  Chapter 19: Tumi

  Chapter 20: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25: Tumi

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33: Tumi

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 36

  Part Three: Dark and jagged scars

  Chapter 37: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40: Tumi

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45: Tumi

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60: Tumi

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67: Tumi

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69: Ambuya’s story

  Chapter 70: Tumi

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Read on for an extract …

  Copyright

  Also by Rutendo Tavengerwei

  Hope Is Our Only Wing

  For my aunt Synodia Tavengerwei,

  who has a very kind heart.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of

  the Elim Vumba missionaries, whose story

  has stayed with me ever since I heard it.

  And to everyone who feels inadequate, you are enough.

  1

  Tumi

  If sleep is meant to summon peace and rest, then why does mine hunt down dead memories and haul them back to me like a cat with prey?

  It’s the same every night. The scars are the first thing I see, and when I do, it feels as though it is happening again. They are always so vivid. Clawed onto a face. A man’s face, a woman’s face, sometimes no particular face. Burrowed deep in skin and smeared with charcoal.

  Then that strong smell, flooding my nose and choking the breath out of me. It terrifies me, how real it feels.

  I whisper a prayer, like I do every time I realise I have escaped my terrors and that it was the alarm ringing, not clucking chickens, that woke me.

  It takes me a minute to put myself together. But it’s OK. I’ve shaken all of that off now and it’s time to go win a race.

  Let’s do this!

  Stormzy’s rippled rap is now blasting through the double bass of my headphones as I walk to the mirror fitted in the middle of my wardrobe. I stare blankly at my reflection.

  My tie looks too tight, tucked into the nook of my shirt as though I’m about to hang.

  It’s ridiculous, given that I’ll take it off in a bit, but today I need to look like a winner. And winners don’t look as if they’re trying too hard. I loosen it a little and step back, craning my neck to see if there’s an angle where I like my reflection better. I take in a deep breath and my eyes lock with the brown ones of the pale figure in the mirror. My lip curls slightly. It’s usually at this point that I remember why the horrors keep visiting me at night. I still look the same way. And that is the problem.

  Focus, Tumi.

  The track changes on my playlist and I click to bring it back to Stormzy. It’s the nerves that have me all riled up like this. I can’t afford to mess up today, and Stormzy’s best for getting that confidence flowing in my veins. I start rapping along to the tune. I must keep my head in the game and not be distracted. For the rest of the team, failing is just a minor setback, but for me it’s not an option. Winning this race is like breathing; it’s something I have to do.

  Focus, Tumi. Champion, that’s all I must see. Not the paleness of my skin, but a champion! People love champions.

  Mkoma’s car honks outside. I steal a glance at my game face before peering through the window. We’re still at the warning honk that he always gives to say that the car might just leave without me. But, knowing my brother, I have a few minutes before he really gets annoyed. I look at the calendar and mark the date. Three more weeks to go! Today will set it all in motion.

  In a few days Coach Ngoni will choose the swim-team captain. The battle is between Bongani and me, and although almost everyone tells me that the coach will pick me, because I am clearly the better swimmer and Bongani’s butterfly is weak as hell, little flies of doubt occasionally buzz around me.

  The thing is, everyone at school adores Bongani and thinks he’s cool. I’m up against a lot here. He is already captain of the tennis team and the track team, and there’s been talk that he might be made prefect next year. And as if that’s not enough, he plays piano sometimes during assemblies, making all the girls want to chat him up. The only good thing is that whenever Bongani plays, it’s always renditions of Cardi B or Khalid, leaving old Mrs Roderbelt in horror at such ‘improper behaviour and mischief’.

  I mean, the kid’s a real jack-of-all-trades and a master of … well, none. So I guess, all things considered, he’s cool or whatever, I mean, if that’s the sort of thing you’re into. We’re friends, but really it isn’t a big deal. What matters is that I’m part of the team.

  The car honks again. I peep through the window and see it now, Mkoma’s black Discovery, out of the driveway, parked by the road, with the gate slid open behind it.

  I will definitely be in trouble with Mkoma if I don’t get out of the house immediately. As I pass the kitchen, I pop my lunchbox into my schoolbag, sling my gym bag across my shoulder, grab the pile of books by the kitchen counter and bang the door on my way out, racing to the car.

  Mkoma is not always the most patient person. His eyes are already pasted on the rear-view mirror, giving me the pretalk before the actual ‘the clock doesn’t take pity on anyone’ speech. I pull the main gate shut behind me and glide into the car. His eyes fall on my headphones and I quickly slide them down as though they’ve suddenly become hot.

  ‘What did I say about being late, Tumirai?’ He presses down on the accelerator. I watch him shift his legs between the pedals, change gears with one hand and gently place his foot on the accelerator again. I close my eyes as the cylinders bow to the sound, and I imagine myself in the driver’s seat. Just two more years and I’ll be sixteen, shaving, and old enough to drive a car like it really ought to be driven.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mkoma,’
I say quietly, fidgeting with the pile of books the librarian allowed me to bring home and binge-read. This time I got books mostly to do with biology. I figured the most important things I have to work on to improve my swimming are speed and endurance. And if I am going to devise an effective personal technique, if I am to be better than the rest of the team, I have to read as much as possible to understand my body and activate my core.

  I glance at my phone and my eyes linger on the date. It’s almost as though it’s haunting me. In three weeks, I must have read all these books and applied my new knowledge as quickly as I can, so I can be the fastest at the national trials. Coach says there are only ever two new recruits picked at any try-out, out of the hundreds that pitch up. But he says if we’re lucky they might pick our team for the relays because there’s a bit more room there. The whole team is hoping we all get picked, but secretly we’re preparing for the individual events just in case.

  Normally Mkoma fusses about how the chlorine is especially bad for my skin and that swimming means more visits to the dermatologist and expensive creams, blah blah … But for my birthday, Mkoma gave me a blank cheque, anything I wanted! So I asked him to drive me to Bulawayo for the national swimming try-outs.

  I sit waiting for my brother’s iconic line.

  ‘You need to be more serious, Tumirai, about life, about school, because, you know – the clock doesn’t take pity on anyone.’

  And there it is. There’s the line.

  I smile and look out of the window.

  ‘You only get very little time for a shot at so many great things in this world. And you must understand this now: people like us cannot afford to be mediocre. They won’t give you a chance out there unless you work harder than anyone else and take it!’

  ‘Yes, Mkoma.’

  I almost know this speech by heart now. People like us are looked down upon simply because of where we come from; people like us are presumed incompetent before we do or say anything; people like us have our countries robbed and are mocked for experiencing poverty as the resulting consequence; people like us are told to hold in our grievances and move on because we suffer from paranoia; people like us are people of colour, or no colour in my case.

  Mkoma has told me again and again about the injustices the world has committed against ‘us’ – in this country, in the world. Among the many things that changed Mkoma, being overseas was one of them. He came back hardened and angry. I think that happens when you see your life pass you by and you’re forced to accept it as though it was part of your plan all along. Also, I don’t think it was very easy for him over there. He often talks about how they jealously guarded all the good opportunities for themselves, while also stealing the good ones back home too. The ‘revolving wheel of injustice’, as he calls it.

  Mkoma must have realised I had drifted off again. He glances at me, his eyes searching my face to make sure I’m listening.

  ‘Seat belt.’

  His voice is always stern when he’s serious. Right now, it ripples with frustration that I was late yet again. But it’s really not my fault. Waking up early is for some people, people like Mkoma. But I clearly missed out on that gene.

  When I finally glance at him, his face is serious and his focus steady on the road with his eyebrows slightly bunched up. He has something on his mind. Typical. I have memories of Mkoma when he used to be carefree and when his laughs simply would not stay in his belly. But that was before the thing that happened …

  ‘Saru will fetch you in the afternoon after she’s gotten Noku from nursery school. Don’t go home by yourself.’

  Mkoma reminds me the same way he does every morning, with his right eyebrow raised and his voice stern. I sigh. I hate that he treats me as though I’m just a kid. The other boys in my class either drive themselves back home already or walk, but I still have to be picked up from school like a little child.

  ‘You have your sunscreen?’ Mkoma just needs a dress and he would make such a perfect mother, honestly.

  ‘Yes,’ I mumble as I try to balance my books and my gym bag.

  I always try to remind myself not to get upset at him. Somewhere deep down I know he means well, and I imagine it can’t be easy trying to play father to a soon-to-be-fifteen-year-old brother. So I always try to exercise my best patience with him. But also I think this crankiness has something to do with the fact that the coffee pot was empty this morning.

  ‘Tumirai,’ he calls after me as I reach to close the door.

  ‘Haa, Mkoma, I’m going to be late now.’ I don’t mean to, but now irritation oozes out of me.

  ‘Don’t forget.’

  Mkoma’s eyes are sincere and his lips crack into a tiny smile. His hand reaches out for a fist bump. A smile creeps up on me. I love this part.

  ‘I never forget.’

  2

  There is an electric teenage energy that fills the air on the last day of school. Even Mrs Roderbelt, who usually does a stellar job at hushing students just by the sound of her heels in the corridor, has given up and is now just standing by the pedestrian gate watching all the chit-chatter.

  Her green pleated skirt dances in the wind the same way her flowy blonde hair does. Her white blouse hangs slightly from the belt where it is tucked in. She now seems to have detained a few boys by the gate, talking on and on about something that evidently bores them. I think she should have joined Parliament instead. She would have loved it there, with all that endless talking.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Tumzy?’

  I turn and glance at Musa, who is sitting on a green bench close to me with his arm hanging lazily around some girl from the lower form to whom he is no doubt feeding lies. I raise my chin at him in agreement.

  Musa is one of my few real friends. In the earlier forms, he struggled a little with his maths and geography … and chemistry; well, with everything really, so the teachers were not always patient with him. Mrs Roderbelt always used to complain that he was too slow for her A class, but too fast for the B class. It must have been quite an awkward position for Musa to be in. I thought I knew how he felt, so I moved and sat next to him to help when he got stuck.

  My eyes wander around the parking lot, looking to see if Saru has parked somewhere, but I can’t see her. Saru is Mkoma’s … well, I don’t quite know what she is to him, to be honest. All I know is that she has a kid, Noku, with him, and that we’re family.

  Kids are laughing and chatting. So much excitement for a few days of holidays. Because we all know that in a week most of us will be back here, seated behind those wooden desks for holiday school. Mkoma says holiday school became a thing after 2008, when the teachers were striking and every child needed a tutor. That was the year my father disappeared.

  After everything calmed down, people never figured out what to do with their kids, I suppose. For my class, holiday school isn’t exactly compulsory, because I’m in the third form and exams are almost a whole year away. But with mid-term exams coming up in a few months, we still need to be ready. Mrs Roderbelt has made it abundantly clear that she will not tolerate anything less than perfection in her chemistry class, because otherwise it will tarnish her perfect record. She said this with a sharp eye on Musa.

  Two girls from the sixth form pass me by the bench at the pick-up point, smiling. ‘You killed it today in the pool, mrungu,’ one of them says. A group of boys start chanting ‘Mrungu! Mrungu!’ as soon as they see me, ruffling my hair and shoving me playfully as they pass. There’s a wide grin plastered on my face.

  The school is a mad scene, with cars constantly riding in, picking kids up and sending them into the holidays. The prefects don’t seem to fuss about us walking on the lawn today. It’s almost as though school is a prison and we’re all leaving it. Bongani and Liam toss a rugby ball on the other side of the car park. They turn towards me and nod, now walking in my direction. I glance at Musa, who is still preoccupied with the girl, now sitting a little closer to her than before.

  ‘Yo, blud,’ Bongani says
, turning to Liam. They’ve been friends for as long as I’ve known them, probably longer, so they’re close enough to call each other ‘blud’.

  ‘Your kind killed it in the pool today, didn’t he? He was a beast in there. Did you see how long he was underwater after that dive?’ he asks as though I wasn’t there. I don’t know why people do that.

  ‘Flip, boy, you ain’t white! What were you doing showing up like that?’ Liam laughs. He always makes those rejecting jokes whenever Bongani implies I’m white, but I think he means it. I don’t know that it hurts me, because he’s right, I’m not white like him.

  ‘Look at his white-boned genius self!’ Bongani says, now turning to me. They both chuckle and fake-punch me in the stomach. Laughing with them sickens me, but I join in, the same mistake I’ve been stuck with since my first day at St Catherine’s High when Bongani had said I couldn’t be black because my skin was clearly white, almost as though he got to decide. Now, that does sting. He reminds me of my Bamkuru and his philosophies about how I look. And although I want nothing to do with Bamkuru ever again, I’m not so dumb as to let Bongani or any of the other kids think I’m not cool enough to take a stupid nickname.

  The thing is, at St Catherine’s almost everyone comes from a well-off family, so to stand out you’re either athletic, swagged up or a school embarrassment. Nobody cares about a kid who gets all the answers right.

  And that’s why swimming is my drug of choice.

  When I first joined the school, I had never felt so misplaced and lost, which is strange because St Catherine’s is quite diverse, with black kids and white kids, a few mixed kids and even Meng Sue and Chang Li, the Chinese students. But I am the first kid with albinism ever to have come here. Some of the other kids told me they had never been that close to ‘someone like me’ before.

  It doesn’t really surprise me. Back when we used to do things Bamkuru’s way, I was at the school for the blind. Almost every student there had albinism. Although admittedly most of us just had bad eyesight, we could hardly be called blind. I didn’t necessarily enjoy being at the school for the blind, but at least there I was just a kid: not too pale to be black or too black to be white.

  ‘Looks like you might just take the captainship from me, mrungu!’