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?