After reading one paragraph of Zimbabwean writer Brian Chikwava's debut novel , Stanley Makuwa knows he has found the kind of book he has been looking for. Chikwava's tale of a youth militia trained to kill enemies of the state for the Mugabe government and who migrates to London (Harare North) is 'a very sad story told in a very funny way' that exposes the hardships of trying to live in a foreign land. Full of praise for 'an honest book that you feel the author wrote from his heart', Makuwa writes, 'Chikwava is an international award winner and this is clearly another triumph for him. If this comes with another major award, it shouldn’t be a surprise.'

Hallo... Hi, it’s you? ... Oh, yes. Your voice, it sounds different. What’s happening? Ha ha, he he... No, actually, it’s sexier today. I guess father of children is home, that’s why. Ha ha... Mine? No, he is out of the country. You know he is a busy man... Yes, he went to China yesterday. You know, as the president of the country he must travel all the time to encourage investors to come and invest in our country whose rivers never run dry of milk and honey... I am fiiiine! Strong and fat like a white man’s dog. What can eat me, a woman of class?

Don’t talk too much, you friend of mine. Give me the chance to talk. If you don’t shut your mouth I won’t tell you why I called. I will keep mine shut... That’s better. Guess what, friend of my heart. I have some great news meant for your ears only. I spoke to him last night before he left the country. Yes, we are getting the plane. Hurray! We are getting it. Just imagine, you and I in a two-hundred-and-something sitter empty plane. Just the two of us flying to Rome next week... You can’t believe me? You better believe, girl. It’s happening live in this very third world country. You and i next week going for shopping. We shall shop till we drop as they say. No limits. Anything goes.

That perfume you mentioned last week? Yes, I will make sure I buy it. That’s the first thing I want to buy as soon as we touch the soil of Rome. Why not? I heard the likes of all the Hollywood celebrities haven’t heard of it. I was the first one in the whole world to learn about it and I will be the first one on mother earth to wear it. How awesome. Paris who? She does not stand a chance. She hasn’t. I don’t think so. This time I will beat her to it. She is always the first one to get anything that hits the fashion world but this time I give her no slightest chance. I hate that girl... J-who? I don’t even want to hear her name. Both of them come second this time. I told my husband about the perfume and he is sooo excited. He cannot wait. Yes, we were supposed to go earlier but he said there is no fuel so the largest plane in the country is currently grounded. As soon as it’s filled up, we are the first ones to grab it, and that’s exactly one week away...

The new underwear? I heard that J-girl and the Paris one bought it but no worries. We will be the first ones in this part of the world anyway. We must make sure we fill up the whole plane with our shopping bags. That’s why I sweet-talked my husband into diverting the route of the plane to Rome. Ha ha ha. You know the best moment to talk. As soon as, you-know-what, starts talking that’s when I make my demands. Just before he enters. Yes. I simple say, “honey, just hold on a bit. I have something to say.” Before I say it he shouts, “yes, yes. I will do it for you. Anything.” Stop laughing. That’s the trick. Try it with your man and you will get anything you can dream of. Don’t let that thing enter you before you get what you want, he he.

...Hezvo, hezvo, hezvo, don’t tell me. Don’t worry, I will sort it out. He was talking of a school that needs to be built in his constituency. You know he is an MP too. President and MP. I will make sure that the school is not built and the money goes towards your kitchen. You know you need a presentable kitchen. What kind of husband is he? I don’t understand your man. A businessman of his class must know what his woman needs. Never mind. I will deal with it. Leave it to me. A village school is nothing. They can do with learning under a tree using their knees as tables. All the money for that school is going to your kitchen... Don’t thank me. That’s what friends are for.

Yes, I bought the handbag. I used the money meant for sinking boreholes in his constituency... The electric toothbrush? You mean the one we saw when we went to London last time?Yes I bought it. He wanted to build pit latrines for his people and I said, “stop, you don’t own any people except me, your wife. I come first.” I told him they can use the bush for now. After all they have been doing it in the bush for the past donkey years. Nothing new. I can’t brush my teeth with an ordinary toothbrush like a village woman. Next thing people will see me using a stick like a cow herder.

Am I shouting? It’s that minister of agriculture making noise. He is working in my garden. He is cutting my lawn with the lawn mower. He does it twice per week. You should come and see my flowers. He did a great job, that man. Yes. Yes. All the money meant for farmers’ fertilizers went to my garden. I have a fresh garden full of nothing but roses. This minister of agriculture is doing a wonderful job I tell you. If it wasn’t for him I don’t know where my garden would be. Maybe it would be a cheap one like the ones we see in locations when we accompany our husbands to campaigning rallies. My hubby is proud of him. That’s why he chose him when he reshuffled the cabinet. The last one was stubborn. He wouldn’t do my garden. Always pretending to be in a hurry. “Hee, I have to go to my constituency. Hee, this year we need a bumper harvest. Hee, I want to feed every belly in this country with my own hands.” Where in these worlds has someone fed the whole country with his own hands? He was a dreamer and I told my husband to kick him out of office...

The minister of health? She is doing very well as my nanny. My children are well fed. All my dogs and cats are healthy. I don’t have to worry when I go out of the country for my shopping. I will tell my husband to extend her term... Yes, she is here. She is playing with the kids in the playing room. My worry is the minister of home affairs. That man, I don’t like him. He was here yesterday. I asked him to feed my dogs and he refused. He doesn’t know me well. His stay in government is in my hands. The other one is the minister of information. He sees and talks too much, that man. I don’t like his ugly head. He tells my husband everything. Everything, I tell you. Yes, you are right. I understand. Yes, he banned all the private newspapers. They never stopped writing about my shopping as if I am the only one in these worlds who does shopping.I know. Yes he did well to ban the opposition on radios and TVs. “The first lady is shopping too much. The first lady is shopping too much.” That was their only campaigning tool, my shopping. Nothing else to offer the people of this country.

Hold on, hold on. Just a minute, I need to talk to my other maid. She has just walked in. Hey, who told you to just walk in like a cockroach while I am talking on the phone? Answer me. I told you when I am on the phone I don’t like people sneaking in like snakes, you here me? You better be sorry. Tell me, do you still want to work for me? You keep stealing my dogs’ food...Yes, don’t deny it. You steal it and send it to your village to feed your filthy children. They don’t eat dog food? Are you sure? Don’t open your stinking mouth to tell me your kids don’t eat my dogs’ food. If I find it missing again I will show you the way to your village.

Your pay? I didn’t pay you last month? Look at you. When you came here you were thin like a match stick. Now you have grown fat and you tell me I didn’t pay you last month. The food you are eating in this palace is your pay. You must count yourself lucky you are blessed enough to work for someone like me, the president’s wife. Some people are dying to shake my hand and you shake it everyday. Isn’t that a blessing?

Come here. Come closer. I couldn’t find seven of my under panties. You stole them. I know you did. Lift up your skirt... I am embarrassing you? Is that how you talk to a wife of a great leader? Now, leave. Leave my house. I don’t want to see you.

Sorry my friend. These village girls we employ, they need to be taught who is the mother of the house around here. If you don’t they will enter your pockets. To tell you this girl stealing my underwear is fifty-seven years old you won’t believe me. Yes, fifty-seven. Alright, where were we? Oh, I was talking of my husband’s cabinet ministers. They must work hard and impress me if they want to stay in government. I told my husband his army is eating government money for nothing, and guess what. They now take turns to help the minister of agriculture in my garden. They are busy weeding my flowers with their own hands right now. The other four are out walking my dogs and cats. I told them if they want pay rise this month they must show me that they deserve it. I don’t want my husband’s government to pay people for eating and sleeping.

Oh, yes I still have your birthday in my mind. It’s going to be a great party for you, my dear friend. I can’t let you down. You have been by my side for a long time. I overheard him saying the orphans will receive a donation of US dollars next month from America. That coincides very well with your birthday since it’s also coming up next month. What? Yes...yes...aha. Alright. What I am trying to say is the money is coming straight to my handbag. Don’t worry. I know how to do it. From my handbag it goes straight to buying you the best birthday present a friend has ever received.

Ha ha ha. Winning votes is not a problem my friend. They wanted to vote for the opposition. My husband nearly lost that parliamentary seat until I intervened. Yes, I did. I went there myself and held a meeting with the women of the area. Oh, my ancestors, those women were dirty. I have never seen such dirt in my life. Their dresses and blouses full of breast milk stains. Bare feet. Unkempt hair. You know I used to feel jealous whenever my husband went for campaigns thinking he might be seduced by one of his followers only to realize recently that there is nothing to fear. Little children smelling like toilets at the bus terminus. Running noses. Oh, no I feel like vomiting. I pretended to be strong and sat down with them, carrying their children in my hands and wiping their noses. I think some of those women haven’t washed their babies to this day because they don’t want to wash off the finger prints left by the first lady. I shook their hands too and there is no way they went home and washed the hands shook by the president’s wife, ha, ha.

Oh, yes, I went there to the constituency and injected my magic. I said to the women, “if you want freedom in your houses vote for my husband. I will donate sewing machines to you so that you can start your own small businesses, making your own money.” I gave them some of my second hand underwear and they couldn’t stop ululating. Some of them had nothing under their skirts and dresses and they wore the underwear straight away. Washed them? Does it matter? I don’t need to wash my underwear. I wear a new underwear everyday. I don’t do repeats. Not me. So why wash them? I just gave them away as dirty as they were. Isn’t it a blessing to wear underwear once worn by the president’s wife? Don’t you think it is? Well, be an ordinary woman in the village and you will see what I am talking about.

I haven’t finished. I promised them second hand shoes, washing machines…..yes, washing machines. I know there is no electric power in the rural villages but, you know, you can say anything to impress those women and they never take time to think. Before you finish to say, “washing machines,” they are already ululating.

I told them if they don’t vote for the president they will be in big trouble. I lowered my voice and said to them, “as a woman I am just warning you. My husband knows who voted and who didn’t. He can see it while lying on his back in his own bedroom. There are cameras that he uses to monitor whoever is voting in this country. If you put your X on the wrong place, you will see. Hear it from me, another woman like you. I am the president’s wife but I am also a woman and I don’t want other women to suffer. We must stand against these men.” There was non-stop ululation, singing and dancing. I told them to go and pass on my message to their husbands. Come election results day. My husband had a landslide victory. That’s why those who speak well say behind every successful man there is a woman.

You want to come to the celebrations with me? No problem. We must go and celebrate. It’s great to have a female president on this continent. I will make sure we get a private jet for that one. Females only. All our friends are coming. Drinking and partying all the way.

What? Food and fuel shortages in the country? I don’t care. Teachers and doctors on strike? Well, it’s not my mother and father and sisters suffering. My family is happy and strong. If they fall sick I fly them to my specialist overseas. Yes, I did. All the money meant for teachers and doctors pay-rise, I spent it. I bought my son a toy. He wanted a scooter. Food and fuel? Yes, I bought my girl a very nice baby doll. She is so excited, I tell you. She said I must buy her a pram for it next time and I am targeting the money meant for the new hospital my husband was talking about. I know. The budget is tight but not a big problem to me. That’s why I told my husband to choose a professor of accounts to be the minister of finance. He comes three times per week to help me with my budget. He is staying in the cabinet when the next reshuffling is done. I have already told my husband. He is very happy with him.

Yes, you are very right there. The new Reserve Bank Governor is awesome. I told him about my planned shopping trip. Guess what he said. He said he will print new bank notes just for my shopping. I am getting fresh, untouched, never used currency just to buy my little goodies. There is nothing greater than being the first lady on this earth, especially in this continent. Those who say Heaven is above are liars. It’s right here on this earth, in my kitchen.

Ha, ha, ha. It was very easy for him. He made an announcement that the country needed development funds to create jobs for the youths. The civil servants grumbled and grumbled but he stood his ground. He knew in his heart that he wanted to do something special for his young lady on Valentine’s Day. All those sweet little presents I got he bought them using civil servants’ money after introducing Development tax. Next month he is introducing another levy called Roads Levy. Oh, yes. On paper it’s meant to raise money to replace traffic lights around the country stolen and destroyed by the opposition youths but, you know what. I don’t trust these walls. Let me whisper. The money is actually meant for a holiday for me and my kids. Yes, we are going overseas for three months. We need real money.

Er, my door bell is ringing, my friend. Maybe it’s the minister without portfolio bringing my cup of tea. Ok, better I go. I will ring you again later in the evening. Yes….. Yes. Take care... You too. Oh, before I go, are you busy tomorrow? Ok, I am taking you for lunch.London. Just a simple lunch and we come back. Let’s meet at the airport. Bye.

‘We are late,’ from outside the door of the vendor’s room came the irritating voice of her friend, ‘We need to sell our vegetables while they are still fresh. Mbare Msika market is not near.’ She looked at her young son who was still snoring, covered him with the single blanket they shared, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as if wiping off the sun’s rays that sniffed with their noses into the square room through the cracked glass of the window and rose carefully from her sleeping mat.

THE END

* Stanley Makuwe was born in Zimbabwe and now lives in New Zealand.

* Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Stanley Makuwe looks at what it means not to have access to basic services from a point of view of dead people. Through a dialogue among corpses in a mortuary, Makuwe criticizes a government system that disregards the poor, while simultaneously, exposes a rotten system that rewards unscrupulous politicians whose only concern is to fly around the world and shop at the most expensive boutiques.

“What brings you here?” an old voice asks from the top shelf. A maggot crawls on the old body’s face.

“We are all dead. That’s what brings all of us here,” bellows a young voice.

“Is that how you speak to your elders? Young men of today have no respect. That’s why you die young. Long ago no-one of your age would be seen in places like this. We were healthy and strong like oxen pulling a yoke. Look now, how many of your age do you see around here? You die before you grow pubic hair, while you still have breast milk on your noses.”

Another voice groans and says, “Thank you for starting the conversation. Anyway what brings you here old man?”

The old body clears its throat before saying, “I have no family. I divorced my wife and she went away with my son. My parents said, ‘you are now a grown up bullock, you have to graze for yourself,’ then I left their home to look for a job here in the city. You have to know someone to get a job in this country.

For me I knew no-one. I was left homeless and jobless. I slept under bridges for many years. The cold weather kicked me to death. Someone found me dead and informed the police who bundled my decomposing corpse into a metal coffin and brought it in here.

“Government people appeared on the front pages of newspapers, on radios and television talking about the things they said they were doing for the people – donations of food and clothes to the needy, building houses for the homeless, providing free medical treatment to the underprivileged. But they had no money to look after a useless old horse.”

The stench in the mortuary almost chocks the dead bodies to a second death.

“You would put them out of budget. Fuel is now too expensive. Better one old man dies than having ten BMWs grounded,” a young body with says.

“No-one has turned up to claim my body,” the old voice continues, “we are becoming overcrowded in here. Do you think the president knows we are here? He is a great man, that president of ours. He wouldn’t let us suffer. Lucky are those who died when milk and honey were still flowing in the rivers of this country. I feel sorry for those who will die in ten years’ time. Sometimes I feel you are lucky, young men. You died at the right time, when there was still space in this mortuary.”

To the body on the floor, “what killed you?”

“Nurses and doctors went on strike for pay rise. The government said they had no money because they wanted to buy bulletproof vests, handcuffs, bulletproof cars, tear gas and batons, and to train more police dogs. Apart from that, the president was abroad attending to very important matters so they had to wait for his return so he could decide how much increment the medical staff would get, if they were going to get any. I heard he wanted to return but his wife said she wanted to do her shopping so he had to wait and help her carry her shopping bags. You see, he is a busy man.”

“They held fruitless talks while we took turns to die. It started in the first cubicle. I was in the fifth cubicle. I thought by the time death got to me the medical team would have returned to work but I was wrong. I held on for a while but in the end gave up. I couldn’t wait any longer. I woke up dead one morning.”

“We are piling up. I don’t know if my family will find me in this place. Who said hell is somewhere up there?”

The doors slide open. Deafening silence fills the whole mortuary. The sound of a poorly oiled cart breaks the silence, followed by heavy foot-steps and a thud, signaling the arrival of another dead body. The doors slam shut and the sound of the broken wheels slowly fades away.

“I can see a child. Why are you here little one?” enquires the old body.

“I fell sick. My mother took me to clinic. Nurse said I was too sick and I had to be transferred to the district hospital. There was no ambulance. Father put me in our scotch-cart.” The door opens again. More bodies are rolled on the pile. Other bodies shout words of welcome before the child continues.

“When we got to the district hospital doctor said I must go to the provincial hospital. There was no fuel for the ambulance. Mother took me there by bus. People were staring at me and mother. The whole bus was whispering about my sickness. At the provincial hospital they said I must go to the central hospital. We took another bus. When we arrived there was a long queue of very sick people waiting for their hospital cards to be stamped. Mother asked for permission to jump the queue. ‘You must have brought your child early. We are all sick here,’ a man shouted at her in a harsh voice.

“Our card was stamped but not before mother paid all the money she had been left with. We waited for doctor. When he came he examined me and said I needed an x-ray for my chest. We had to wait for the next day for the x-ray department to open. When it opened we were told that the x-ray machine was not working. We went back to see doctor. There was yet another long queue. At last we saw doctor. He wrote some medication. We went to the pharmacy and we were told the medication prescribed by doctor had been out of stock for many moons,” the child’s voice pauses as a fly buzzes around her body.

“Mother broke down and cried, ‘what do you want me to do with my baby. Help my baby please. She is dying. Help her please.’ ‘What do you want us to do? It’s 4 o’clock, we are closing now,’ the woman at the pharmacy said to my mother before she shut the pharmacy doors. She had no mercy in her voice. And I am here today.”

A rat runs across the mortuary. Female bodies scream but other bodies pay no attention. Women.

“Your story, child, sounds like mine. I lost cattle, goats and chicken trying to be treated. I went to witch-doctors and spiritual healers. One of the witch-doctors told me my brother’s wife had bewitched me. He took frogs and lizards out of my chest and bathed me in chicken blood. My brother divorced his wife.

One of the spiritual healers said my uncle had bewitched me because he was jealous of my successful life. He gave me cooking oil to add to my bathing water. It didn’t help. Finally, I came to this hospital. The doctors gave me water through the veins. I was semi-conscious when I heard one of them saying to the other, ‘these are AIDS symptoms.’ Days later I was dead.

“I had money. Real money. Not a few dollars in the bank but millions that could buy me anything in the world. I spent it with women of all sizes and colours.”

“I died when I was drunk,” a faint voice whispers. His eyes are wide open, staring at the derelict roof of the mortuary. “I was beaten to death by young men dressed in green. They said I was a supporter of the opposition coming from a party meeting.”

A woman’s voice interrupts, “I was a strong member of the Women’s League. One of those women who wrap around cloaks with the president’s face printed on them.”

The voice starts singing a song of revolution.

Handei Handeiwo
Handei tinoitora
Nyika ndeyeduwo
Handei tinoitora
Ivhu ndereduwo
Handei tinoritora

(Let us go and take the country. It is ours. Let us go and take the land. It is ours.)

It is a hive of activity as mortuary attendants take turns to bring in more bodies, fresh bodies, some with blood dripping down their faces to the cold floor. The mortuary attendants pinch their noses as they walk into the mortuary. The opening of the door brings in some fresh air making the bodies feel refreshed.

“You deserve to be at the heroes’ acre, woman,” an invisible body shouts from the far end of the mortuary.

“No, I do. I was a war veteran. A liberator of my people,” an angry male voice says.

“We both do,” the woman’s voice reasons, “we must be buried at the Heroes’ acre. I don’t think our president knows we are here. The president wouldn’t allow this to happen. Someone hasn’t informed him. Do you think the minister of information informed him?”

“How can you expect him to inform you about a place he has never been before?”

“Before I died I heard from someone that he is a busy man. He has a demanding job that keeps a minister busy.”

“What kind of a job is that?”

“It’s one of the greatest jobs in this part of the world. It’s about talking the truth on radios, televisions and in newspapers. You have to be a professor to hold such a high post.”

“Someone told me the minister of information has another job in the government as a spin doctor. You see, he is a minister and also a doctor. He is too busy to inform the president about dead people rotting somewhere in a mortuary.”

“Spin doctor!” exclaims a surprised voice, “what kind of a doctor is that?”

“You don’t know?” asks another surprised voice, “a spin doctor is the president’s personal doctor. He treats him of the stresses caused by being a president.”

“Doctors of today,” says the old voice, “let people die in hospitals while they work in government as ministers of information. They have no ethics anymore. Look at that girl’s nose. It’s rotting. If things go on like this, we will march on the streets. We can mobilize all other bodies in other mortuaries. We have to speak with one voice. Our ancestors said one finger cannot kill lice. Just imagine dead bodies marching on the streets demanding fair treatment in the mortuaries.”

A huge applause.

“You have spoken, old man,” the young voice says, “your mouth has spoken. You are wise, I must admit. We must not only protest for fair treatment in mortuaries. We must also protest for fair treatment of our living families.

They have been suffering for too long. The leader of this country is taking them nowhere. If it were not for his mismanagement of the country we would still be alive. Those with no wisdom believe he is a great leader but the truth is this country has been brought down to its knees by this man. I want him out of office. How, I don’t care. As long as we kick him out. The living ones have failed to push him out. It’s now our turn, the dead, to do it.”

“I support you, my friend,” says another young voice, “if we start our own opposition party we can easily win elections just like that. People want change. They don’t care who brings the change, as long as the president goes. They are prepared to vote for anyone or anything, even if it means voting for a donkey.”

“You must be joking,” says the female voice, “who would vote for a dead people’s party?”

“Other dead bodies will vote. In this country dead people are more than the living ones. If all the dead bodies vote we can win. Imagine this country being run by dead bodies!”

“You must be dreaming in your everlasting sleep. The country would be dead too.”

“It’s dead already, killed by a living person.”

Huge applause and laughter.

Five more bodies are thrown in. The old body asks loudly, “What brings you here young people?”

“Don’t you know there is a civil war going on out there? Can’t you hear the sound of AKs and landmines?” says a bleeding body, its voice full of fury.

“Are you saying you have just died? What for? For your masters? You die while they are busy holding endless meetings in five-star hotels.”

The old body starts to weep, bringing grief to the whole mortuary. As the bodies wipe their tears from their lifeless cheeks, a thin and malnourished body is brought in. It wastes no time in making its voice heard.

“My, my, my, I wish you knew what’s happening out there. There is a drought with a mouth full of long teeth; it is biting and killing the old and the young. Our leaders said the granaries are now empty. They are surviving by shopping overseas. We, the poor, can’t afford to shop overseas. Only two days ago, before I died I heard that our very own president took his family to a far country for shopping. Him and his wife and two children took a two hundred sitter jet to fly to the far country to shop. They diverted the route of the plane so that they could use it to carry their groceries. Those who saw it returning said it was full of groceries, even on the roof, like a bus going to the village.

“We, the poor, wait everyday for death to knock on our doors. It knocked on mine. I said to it, ‘come in,’ because I had no choice. I had nowhere else to send it because it had claimed the lives of my loved ones. My children died. We buried them last week. I died this morning. Only the strong survive out there. If the civil war misses you, drought makes sure it does not, or it leaves you devastated.”

“I wish I was a government official,” a tearful voice speaks, “I heard they have a nice mortuary. I heard it’s a mansion of a mortuary. A palace. The bodies bath and dress in suits. They get the most expensive chemicals, oxygen, perfumes and three main meals and snacks in between.”

To another decomposing body, “Hey, you have been quiet. Why are you not talking? Are you happy with your dead life?”

“I listen and take information.”

“Are you a newspaper reporter?”

“No, I am a member of the government’s secret agent. The way you are talking compromises the security of the country. I am not warning you again!”

Fear grips the whole mortuary and there is dead silence.

• Stanley Makuwe is a Zimbabwean writers based in Auckland, New Zealand. His short story collection, Under This Tree & Other Stories, was published last year by Polygraphia. He is also last year’s runner up for the BBC World Service Short Story Award.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org