How Can I tell Nhamo's Son

I knew that after the visit by Nhamo Junior son, my nights would be long and unbearable. 

They say one does not have to feel guilty over what happened during the war. 

The war is another time. Another country. One where one should never go back to. A time which a person should never live twice.

In most cases, the war will live forever in those involved. It becomes a scent. A smell that lingers after one has passed by.

It is there in the mind. All the voices. The images. The despair. The uncertainty. The fears. The insecurity.

Most who walked ahead of the pack did not return home. They fell. Today they are the unknown soldier. Real soldiers died. Most of us who returned leading the pack after the war were never at the front. 

We survived not because we were heroes but cowards.

Maybe what they say about heroes being the dead ones is true. I did not ask what Nhamo Junior wanted. But well, he said he was just passing by. Checking on me. He did not stay even.

I am tempted to tell him how his father died. But how will he feel? How will he look at me? I was there. I saw it.

When we buried the earth scooped from the mass grave behind the family's homestead, I thought I saw Nhamo's face floating before my eyes. 

I saw the blood spurting from the gap between his teeth. His eyes rolled back as his legs kicked. Then the eyes held still. And the body stiffened.

Yet what we buried that cold wintry day was a goat's head, some shrubs, a flag and then an elder planted a tree on the head of the grave.

I broke down in tears. My body shook. Nhamo's father referred to me as a hero. One who has helped the family to find closure. He said the family also viewed me as a son. And that I was free to visit any time and demand anything.

Nhamo's mother said while she was sad that Nhamo did not walk back home, she was consoled by the fact I had brought his spirit home.

I was touched. For a moment I almost told them the truth just like I want to tell Nhamo Junior the truth. But how would I be in their eyes? How would they take it. And what would the whole country say?

I was not the only one who returned from the war guilty. The only cowards who acted hero.

Even today, how can I tell them that I killed Nhamo? Oh God, bring back my sleep.

Nhamo's Son

Today, Comrade Nhamo’s son visited me. He calls me uncle. I am the only one who survived when his father died in Dotito. It was me who broke the news to the family after the war. I also showed the family the mass grave in which their son was buried together with six others.

The children come to me. Always. I help them. I pay their school fees. I have also helped some to get jobs. I know most are just useless. But they are children of the struggle. Their fathers died for the country. Who should benefit if we leave them out?

But this Nhamo Junior is a replica of his father. He walks with that languid gait. As if he is carrying a heavy load. The way his father walked under the strain of all those guns and bags.

I don’t understand why he also has a limp like his father. And that gap between his teeth.

It reminds me of his father lying in the dust, blood gushing out of his mouth. The gap in his teeth was like a hole spurting blood.

I helped the young man to enroll at the local university. He is not very bright, though. The only child from a chance encounter at Chimoio between his father and mother who was one of the recruits.

I am not sure what happened to the mother. There are many stories about her whereabouts. Some say she died during the raids on Chimoio by the Rhodesian forces led by Nyathi while others say she died in Nyanga in action.

Nhamo had told me about his son two days before the fateful contact in Dotito. We had had one too many gourds of masese at Ambuya vaSebhi's. Lying on his back at the base, Nhamo had wept. Saliva drooled out of the gap in his teeth, wetting his cigarette-burnt lips.

He had one wish, he told me, if he dies I should go and look for his boy. And if the country ever became independent, I should help the boy grow into a responsible man.

I did exactly that. But Nhamo's family could not allow me to keep the boy. They said he was their son resurrected. Nhamo's mother even said they lost one child to the war, and got another from the war.

I did not argue with them. Although I had wanted to take in Nhamo Junior, I am not sure whether I could have looked him like a responsible father. I have not been able to look after my own children. To be a loving father.

None of my children want to stay with me. They do not even pass by the office. At least those who have made a life for themselves. My brother once said that I should try to bring my children close to me. Well, what if they do not want? I have done my part as a parent. What more can a father do?

Look, I am like the father of a nation. One of the very few who still believe that the country should be run according to the dictates of the liberation struggle. Unlike the idiots who are funded by the British and the Americans. Some of us are still committed. Jesus, where is my sleep?

Orgasms

I have not had sex in a long time. Almost a year now. Strange that after Sarah left, I have not had much time for sex.

After all, I am surrounded every minute. The only time when I am alone is in the night. Even then, I know there are always men and women outside. Ready for my call.

Once in South Africa, Taka my bodyguard brought me a woman. A young girl in her early 20s. Giggly. And all childish. I needed a woman badly. For some other reason, I was experiencing unexplained orgasms. Even in the meeting with the foreign minister, my imagination ran wild. And while sitting there, I had several orgasms.

It is not a good experience. Maybe it is because the foreign minister is a woman. One of those big chocolate skinned women whose breasts fight to hang out of the massive bra.

Her neck had rings of soft flesh and looking at her made me come. I am not sure if she did not realise it though because I sweated while looking at her.

Of course, I blamed it on the South African weather. After the meeting I struggled walking out. There was a pain in my scrotum. Like an overloaded sack. I was also stiff and throbbing.

I knew then that I needed a woman urgently. Since Sarah's departure, I had resorted to masturbation. I ogle at some half dressed women online. Follow them undressing for me. Smiling. And making me feel like I have them in my bed.

I feel I come quickly these days. Maybe it is old age. But after ogling at the foreign minister and imagining her lying on her back for me, I felt then I wanted a woman. But all what Taka brought me was a girl. Giggly. And acting childish.

Of course, I came too quickly and she stared at me saying: Oupa. (Uncle in Afrikaans). I was not ashamed of myself. I paid her. Did not ask her what her name was. And called Taka to drag her away.

Tonight, I feel I should have a woman. One like the South African foreign minister. A real woman. One whose fat soft thighs will wrap me up. One whose breasts will hug me. Cushion me. And then maybe, my sleep can come back. Maybe I can sleep with a smile on face. Maybe I would not cry.

But I cannot afford to bring a woman here. I would not want them to see crying. I would not want them to know that I cannot sleep. Tap into my mind. Walk into my past.

I know my seven ex-wives will not say anything about me. I have paid them to keep silent. They have signed an agreement not to give interviews about my life. My sleepless nights. My crying during the night.

Taka is dead. He was the only one who kept my secrets. He would have brought me a woman. Back here, I would have told him what woman I wanted. Taka would have delivered like pizza.

Memories

Keeping all these memories is like carrying a bottle of acid. I am corroding. I have shunned traditional cleansing. I have shunned medical help. I have also shunned God. Time has not healed me as I expected.

I walk about with all the memories. I carry the past in my mind. I live it. It takes away my sleep. It has killed my soul. I have not been able to keep relationships. Seven women. Thirteen children. None of them close to me.

I am 67 now. Time when I need an ear. A warm soft body by my side. A woman who can whisper to me when I cry alone during the night. Rub the stiffness off my back. Assure me all is well. Dry the tears for me.

I cry. Most of the times. Yes, I cry. I will sleep to wash over me. To hug me. Embrace me. Bury me in her soft curves. 

But sleep like all the women who came into my life has left. I cry because I am alone in the nights. I listen to the wind outside. I stare in the darkness. I am afraid. 

Nobody tells me any more about seeking help. But I see it in their eyes. In Cabinet. At the office. In Parliament. All the eyes tell me to seek for help.

Why can't they tell me? Stop being scared of me. And walk up to me and shout it in my face: Go Seek Help Old Man! Maybe, I will hear them. Maybe, I will take their shouted advice.

There is no one. I am alone in the world. I have amassed all these assets. I lack nothing. Yet I cannot manage to get sleep. I fly. I am driven around. Soldiers salute me. When I am driving around, traffic stops for me. The whole city too stands still. Yet I cannot sleep.

I need to talk to somebody. Anybody. But what I know, have seen, and done is not for human ears. So I will write about it. I am doing so now. So when I lose sleep, I will talk to my diary. I will confront my past here.

Yes, I will talk to myself. No need for a psychologist to probe into my past. No need for a traditional healer to spit at me. No pastor to lay their hands on me. I will also defy time. I will heal myself. Get my sleep back.

Sleep

I cannot sleep. Not that there is anything new about it. It has been like this since I returned from the war. That is more than 34 years ago.

Maybe I should have done what my mother said. Gone for cleansing. Others went. But I did not see any need to. We had been in a war. We had lived sleepless nights. Watching. Vigilant. And the body was used to staying awake.

It would end with time, I told myself. Don’t they say time heals everything?

So I prayed on time to heal me. But 34 years later, time is yet to heal me. In fact, each day seems to bring back everything that happened in the past. I seem to be living my life backwards.

I see all the faces. That blood. I feel the pain. I hear the voices. The pleas. The cries for mothers far away back home. The past has become my future. My present.

Still I regret not doing what my mother had suggested. Maybe I would be sleeping peacefully. Float in dreamless sleep. And be human again.

Or I should have done what my first wife said. Go to church. Confess. Pray. And ask God to make me human again.

I did not go to church. What was the use? Where was God when all those bad things happened? When man turned into beast? When life lost its meaning? Where was he? And would he be there for me now?

After all, I survived the war where we used guns. I have also survived the post-war period. Thirty-four years of playing a game that is more dangerous than a war of guns. And I will survive the next 40 years if need be. By all means necessary. I will survive.

Maybe my second wife was right. That I have no soul. It died in the war. She said I should see a psychologist for help.

I did not because nobody will ever understand what I am going through. Understand why I cannot sleep. Erase the memories. Lighten this sadness.

Even these wolves who want to challenge me for presidency do not understand how it was in the war. I have given half of my life to the war. And now they want to just come and take the presidency from me.

I will not make it easy for them.