{"id":89,"date":"2015-09-25T03:28:09","date_gmt":"2015-09-25T03:28:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/staging\/?p=89"},"modified":"2026-05-28T23:04:10","modified_gmt":"2026-05-28T23:04:10","slug":"barbara-mhangami-ruwende","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/barbara-mhangami-ruwende\/","title":{"rendered":"Barbara Mhangami-Ruwende"},"content":{"rendered":"

Red Roses and Chameleons  <\/strong> <\/em><\/h2>\n

Dream I<\/em><\/p>\n

I am in a garden. It is  not like any garden I have ever seen. It is all fleshy succulents and green prickliness. A cactus garden. There are no trees or shrubs to break the monotonous landscape of stubby plants. I am all alone, and as I walk, I become aware that I am looking for something. I am not scared. Just calm and determined. There are no birds in this garden, no scurrying of small animals, or the sharp rustle of grass. There is nothing to distract me, and I am hypnotized into a trance-like state by the mantra that is this infinite field of cacti. The path I walk on appears as I move\u2014each step forward producing a slab of concrete after it\u2014and it stops when I halt. Strange, but I am neither perturbed nor surprised by this; the fact that aside from a lone slab that my feet are planted on, all is cactus. Above me is clear, blue sky and the stoic sun. I wake up.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Busi and I have been together for nine years. We met in secondary school under rather unusual circumstances. We were both fifteen at the time and in the same class, but had never interacted outside of the formal study times. We were both boarders and shared the same dormitory along with the other Form 3 students at Moleli Girls High. I was the first to walk to the dorm that day. The afternoon study session was over, and I hurried to the dorm so I could change my sanitary pad with some modicum of privacy before all the other girls came in to get ready for supper.<\/p>\n

There she was, crouched in a corner in the corridor leading to the dorm. She was surrounded by a pack of hyena-like Form 6 girls, hands on hips and bristling for blood. At first, I could not recognize her in the dim light because the passage had no windows, so the only light coming through was from the open door. Tino stood over her pointing down like some self-appointed deity issuing a holy command.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you dare tell anyone about this incident, there will be more, and it will be worse. Do you hear me?\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her hands had gathered her blue uniform skirt and bunched it up between her legs. She winced, struggling hard not to show any pain, though it emanated in relentless waves from her whole body. Her eyes flickered past the pack of bullies to me. Chanda followed Busi\u2019s gaze and whipped her head round. We locked eyes and I saw panic. She tapped Tino on the shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Let me deal with this idiot.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chanda tapped her again, more urgently. Tino spun \u2018round and saw me. She stared me up and down, her body bristling with a challenge, menacing and scary. Maybe to someone else but certainly not to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cLeave her alone. Pick on people your own age.\u201d<\/p>\n

I spoke clearly with a softness to my voice that lent it the weight of authority I did not feel. Then I pretended to search for my cell phone in my book bag, mumbling about evidence, social media, and the press. Chanda, Tino, Lihlo, and Pumi looked me over in a futile attempt to reassert their control over the situation, but I could smell the fear. I stood there engaged in a battle of wills with them until they slithered away, making fists and flipping birdies, and left the dorm.<\/p>\n

I got close to Busi and gave her my hand to help her onto her feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her voice trembled, face swollen with tears. But they did not fall. She winced slightly as she fixed her uniform, now wrinkled as though it had just been chewed by a donkey.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you OK?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I am fine. Thanks for stepping in.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat was that all about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was nothing, just a squabble.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was something that compelled me to persist.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell you might want to fight with people your own age next time. What did they do to you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi took a few wobbly breaths before she spoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey dragged me to the back of the school just before study, and they ripped my panty off and sat me on an ant nest.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

I was stunned, cold seeping into my core.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey sat on me so I could not move, and those red ants just tore my backside up. I tried to fight them off, but six of them? I had no chance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow awful!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI felt every single one of those thousands of bites, but not once did I scream. Just look at this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi got up, turned around and pulled her uniform up to her waist. Her buttocks were pockmarked by ferocious-looking red welts. But it also looked like there was a redness that spread from the thousands of tiny wounds up her back and down her thighs. Little did I know at the time that Busi was having an allergic reaction to the ant bites. She ended up in the infirmary that night after she started throwing up violently and panting for breathe like a dog.<\/p>\n

She told the school administration what had happened to her and who had done it, and Tino and her stooges were expelled. Strangely, this story never made it out into the student body the way most dramatic stories of expulsions, newly discovered pregnancies, and attempts to sneak boys into the dorms usually did. Tino and company simply vanished, and after a few days in the infirmary Busi was back in class with the rest of us. No one made the connection between the expulsion and Busi\u2019s sudden illness.<\/p>\n

A year later, during the two-week intense study period before our O-level exams, Busi brought up Tino and her gang. We were sitting on my bed, and she had just finished braiding my hair into a pretty cornrow pattern.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know Tino and I come from the same village, Ntuli?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up from examining my new hairdo in the hand mirror, surprised.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo way! That means you see her during the holidays then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Not really. But let me tell you why she sat me on that ant nest.\u201d<\/p>\n

I could not think of any sensible reason why Tino and her friends had been so cruel, but I was curious.<\/p>\n

Busi lay back on my bed, hands behind her head face up to the ceiling. I did the same, but I closed my eyes and listened.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went to Masuku Girls Primary School with Tino\u2019s younger sister, Vuyo. We were both borders. The school is quite far from Ntuli, but I was happy to be leaving home anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMina, I can\u2019t imagine being a border at seven years old. I would cry every night for my mother; they would send me home after a week.\u201d<\/p>\n

I opened my eyes to look at Busi, but she did not react.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo we had been at school about two weeks when this girl Luba asked me if my mother was coming to the special Mother\u2019s Day celebration held every year in May. I told her my mom died when I was a baby so she would not be able to make it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh Busi, I am so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought about how I would be devastated if my mother were dead. I sat up and looked at Busi, who remained in the same position. She looked sad, wistful almost. Sad and beautiful. She has skin that looks polished, copper-toned, and plump. I am light-skinned also, but I can only achieve her natural look with the help of make-up. She is about the same height as me, tall, and has eyes like black quartz, shiny with unshed tears when she is hurt and smoldering when she is angry. I stared at her slim waist, which fanned out dramatically into voluptuous hips. I felt sad for her.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s fine, Ludo. My mother is not dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

She turned her head to look at me, a curt smile crossing her face. She turned her gaze back to the ceiling. I wondered briefly if there was a particular spot she was focused on. I lay back down, confused but curious.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo when I told Luba that my mother was dead, motor-mouth-Vuyo heard me and she yelled out for everyone to hear: \u2018Lies, lies! your mother is not dead! Your father chased her away because she is a witch!\u2019 The whole class started laughing and jeering at me. I lost it with Vuyo for telling my family\u2019s business like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYoh! Busi what did you do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore I could think, I flew across the room hauled back and socked her in the jaw. I decked her, then sat on her and gave her a thorough dusting. All the while the others chanted Mthakathi-mthakathi-mthakathi, and being called a witch like that just fueled my fists. I beat her so bad I broke her nose. By the time Miss Nleya rushed into the classroom there was blood everywhere. Everyone was now quiet, accusing eyes boring holes into me. Of course Vuyo milked it for all it was worth, sobbing and wailing like someone had died. Maximum sympathy for her, maximum condemnation for me. I was punished of course, and Vuyo became the most popular girl in our grade. I was the lone leper roaming the playground. Any group I tried to join would scatter like they feared getting infected.\u201d<\/p>\n

We lay there in silence for a while. I did not know what to say or whether I was to say anything at all. I wanted to know more, but something made me hold back the questions that I knew would come flooding from my mouth if I started talking. There was something about Busi that compelled me to stay still and wait.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe others will be coming soon.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her voice broke into my meandering thoughts.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get ready for supper. I will tell you the rest another time. Ludo, thanks for being my friend. I have never had a real friend before.\u201d<\/p>\n

 \u201cIt\u2019s cool.\u201d<\/p>\n

 I smiled back at her.
\n
\nDream II<\/p>\n

I am in the cactus garden. The sky is dark, heavy clouds on the verge of unleashing a torrent of rain. It is hot, and the humidity makes my clothes stick to my skin, damp and smelly. A path appears, slabs of concreate that fork into two separate directions. I stand there at the fork, not sure which path to take. I hear crying. A baby. It is definitely a baby, and I hurry down the path in the direction of the wailing. An acacia bush appears, a leafy green umbrella under which lies the baby on a yellow flannel blanket. Its chubby legs are flailing, and the diaper has loosened. It is a girl. I look around desperately, hoping that whoever left her under this tree is somewhere close by. There is no one in sight. Just an ocean of cactus. Plump drops of rain begin to fall. The smell of wet earth fills the air. Quickly, I crouch and reach under the bush and as gently as I can, I pick the baby up. I wrap her in her blanket and hold her to my shoulder. But she struggles and squirms herself into the cradle of my arm, all the while screaming bloody murder. \u2018Ehu-hu-e, Ehu-hu-e,\u2019 I sing her the monotonous lullaby that my mother sang to me, that all mothers sing to their fretting babies and have sung for centuries. I bounce up and down to the rhythm of the song, but she is inconsolable. Then I watch as she nuzzles my breast. I move her head, but she persists, frantic. She grabs my shirt front, burying her head in its cotton folds and is quiet. I know I should not nurse a baby that is not mine, but I unbutton my shirt. Before I can do anything her tiny mouth latches onto my nipple. The clouds scatter across the sky, wisps of fluff floating above us. A rock appears before me, and I make myself comfortable on it and nurse the baby. I wake up.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

It was a hot afternoon, and we were done with classes. Busi and I walked out of the math room together, headed towards the dining hall for lunch.  Old Jacaranda trees lining the walkway dropped purple blooms from the canopy above. Like confetti, they littered the path and gave off a sweet scent as we trampled on them. The sun\u2019s hot fingers of light filtered through the purple canopy, creating a muted, languid atmosphere.<\/p>\n

A river of blue and white-clad girls jostled past us, brown paper-covered books in hand. A Prefect yelled: \u201cQuiet please! No running or shoving.\u201d The lunch bell rang, and the rowdy river of hungry girls changed course and flowed in its direction.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s sneak off to the dorm so I can finish telling you my story.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was starving. Food was not in abundance at the school, and I had already devoured my snack from home in the first two weeks of the term. Missing lunch meant that my next meal would be supper at 6 pm. It was 12 pm. As if Busi sensed my hesitation she coaxed,<\/p>\n

\u201cI have peanut butter and Mari biscuits.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her eyes pleaded with me, and I could not say no.<\/p>\n

Busi came from a wealthy family. She had everything she wanted and needed at all times. At least that is how it appeared to me at the time. A driver came to the school twice a month, the car groaning with all manner of goodies for Busi. Food, toiletries, sweets and biscuits, even movies and music CDs. Busi was one of the few Form 4 students with a cell phone. She always had enough data bundles to access Facebook to post pictures at the weekend. Others relied on a boyfriend or aspiring lover to juice their cheap phones with airtime so they could Whatsapp them sweet nothings in the middle of the night.<\/p>\n

\u201cOk let\u2019s go, but quickly so no one sees us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAch, no one will care. Those greedy cooks won\u2019t fuss. They will be happy to have our portion of sadza, cabbage, and beans. No one will miss us in that mob.\u201d<\/p>\n

We ran through the jacarandas and past the sculpted bougainvillea bushes that separated the classrooms from the dorms. The main door was open, and inside was much cooler than the sweltering heat outside. Busi dropped her books on her bed, and I sat down to free my feet from the confines of shoes and socks. The cool cement floor was welcome relief.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet me get our lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi giggled, and on her knees, she reached under her bed to pull out her huge metal trunk.<\/p>\n

\u201cThese coffins are just ugly. I wish we were allowed alternative luggage.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTruth is where would you find nice-looking cases that could contain your entire life like these things? Books, toiletries, uniforms\u2026 My mother once told me a story about a student at Gokomere who would bring a small pot and a 10kg bag of Roller Meal to cook sadza behind the dorms because the food the nuns gave them was never enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi howled, \u201cBut when would she cook it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe would wait till everyone was in bed, and she and her friends would sneak out to the back, light a fire, and cook sadza. They ate it with tinned baked beans or corned beef. Soon others were doing it. But one night, someone forgot to put out the fire. A huge bush fire almost incinerated the entire school. The nuns preached fire and brimstone onto the person who had deliberately tried to set the school ablaze, and a couple of guilt-ridden culprits confessed. That was the end of midnight sadza feasts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSadza and corned beef doesn\u2019t sound bad at all. It beats weevil-infested beans and boiled cabbage.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell as you know, weevils are protein\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh disgusting!\u201d Busi scrunched up her face, and we both laughed.<\/p>\n

Busi rummaged through her trunk and came up with a jar of peanut butter and an unopened box of Mari biscuits.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee? These biscuits will be nice and crunchy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi sat back on the bed, and we busied ourselves scooping out peanut butter with our fingers and spreading it onto the small round biscuits. We tossed them whole into our mouths and crunched on the sweet, sticky mess.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is better than the lunch mush in the dining hall.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi nodded. \u201cI have something to drink.\u201d<\/p>\n

She went back into her trunk and produced a kango cup and a large box of expensive guava juice. She gave it a good shake and used her teeth to rip a hole at the top. She poured some into the cup and handed it to me. I took a drag of the tepid but sweet juice and handed the cup to her. She sipped a couple of times and set the cup on the night stand. She twisted the silver biscuit wrapper, closed and fiddled with the ragged edges.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy father is a bastard. But everyone thinks he is a nice man.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stopped chewing, momentarily shocked.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mother is not dead. He kicked her out of the house. I was about five. I remember how she cried, screaming and lying in the dust in front of him begging for forgiveness. She begged him to let her stay for the sake of her children. She begged us to help her beg him. We were all crying and begging him, and he told us to shut up and go inside. Then he told the guards to take her and her belongings out of the homestead. My brother was only a year old at the time and still suckling. He cried every night for months for my mother. My sister, Nqo, who was only twelve, would strap him on her back and walk about all night trying to quiet him. During the day, he drank cow\u2019s milk, but at night he wailed for my mother. We all shared one room, and I would put my fingers in my ears to keep his crying from squeezing my heart painfully.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat a nightmare, Busi.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh it was<\/em> a nightmare. It has not ended. It will never end.\u201d<\/p>\n

The dorm was quiet, save for the tap-tapping of a tree branch on the gutter running by the window opposite Busi\u2019s bed. It was a high window to stop girls from sneaking out at night. A green bomber fly buzzed loudly and hurled itself against the window pane over and over again trying to escape. I watched this fly and felt a sadness settle in my middle. The fly fell on its back on the narrow window sill, buzzed feverishly until it was right-side up and took up its fruitless ritual again.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was too young to remember everything, but they say that my father\u2019s second wife caught my mother sprinkling some muti onto his supper. My stepmother screamed, and my mother stood frozen like a statue holding a piece of newspaper containing the powdered potion. There was shouting and doors banging, and my father was called into the kitchen to see what my mother was doing. It is said that he ordered my mother to eat the food she had sprinkled with the muti and she refused and that is why she was thrown out. My older sisters say that the eight kids were eating in the dining room. My mother and my stepmother each have four.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBusi, why would your mother choose to poison your father after having four kids with him and after she had even accepted a second wife?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLudo, you don\u2019t understand something.\u201d Busi turned on the bed to look at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy father is the god of our village. He has practically all the businesses there. Butchery, bottle store, dry goods store, grocery. The vegetable market is his. Villagers pay him to get a stall there to sell onions and tomatoes. The village boreholes and cattle-dipping posts are his. Villagers pay him to use them. The village clinic was built by him, the nurses and doctor are paid by him. Every person in the village including the Chief and Sabhuku bow to him. He is rich, and he uses his money to buy people and goods. So my mother had no choice whether he took a second wife or not. Just like his second wife had no say when, a few years later, he took a third wife. No one could protect my mother or help her after she was sent away.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you say third wife?\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi laughed, a humorless cackle. She kicked off her shoes, and a whiff of her smelly socks caught me off guard. I wished she would take them off, but I did not say anything so as not to disturb the flow of her story.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. There is a third wife. That is why although I hate boarding school I would rather be here than at home because my two stepmothers and their children are some dumb creatures. The wives each think they are my father\u2019s favorite, and the children compete against one other, each believing that they have the best spot in my father\u2019s heart. They don\u2019t know him like I do. The man has no favorites, and he has no space in his body for a heart. So there are no best spots to occupy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut what is he like with you, Busi?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWith me? What do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike your relationship.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat relationship? I don\u2019t have anything to do with him except when I go home for school holidays. Then I sit in his office and go through the interview.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cInterview?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. That is what a conversation between me and my father is. An interview.<\/p>\n

\u2018Busi how are you?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I am well baba and you?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Fine.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018How was school?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018School was fine baba. Here is my end-of-term report.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201cThen he sits in silence, nodding and frowning, sucking and puffing on his tobacco pipe. I\u2019m telling you it\u2019s like how they show God in movies, all surrounded by clouds and mist. Then he will say:<\/p>\n

\u2018Ok this is not a bad report. Keep working hard because that math must improve next time. Ninety-two per cent is inferior to hundred per cent. So next time it must be full marks. Only a perfect score is good enough.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

I was shocked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYoh! You get ninety two for math and it\u2019s not good enough? Wow!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. It\u2019s crazy. But what is really crazy is the way he expects me and everyone else to be perfect when he himself is not. I hate how he doesn\u2019t see his own bullshit but has antennae for everyone else\u2019s. I call that hypocrisy. Fathers are hypocrites.\u201d<\/p>\n

That statement from her jarred me. I looked at her, and I could see that she was adamant.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot all fathers are like that, Busi. My father is\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, all the fathers I know or have heard about are just tyrants. Even ones with no money, so yours must be special.\u201d<\/p>\n

I did not know whether she was being sarcastic, but her comment stung a little. I shifted on the bed longing to tell her about my own life back home. About how poor we were and that we owned three mud huts, a couple of goats and chickens, and not a single cow. I wanted her to know that we still fetched water from the streams and did not have solar panels to power TVs, radios, and fridges like she had. I wanted her to know that my scholarship was not because my father knew people in high places but because I really was poor and this time \u2018round the board had done the right thing by giving money to a student who needed it. I wanted her to know that my father had walked every day for two months to the government offices five miles away from our home to ask whether my scholarship application for money had been successful. I really liked Busi, but I did not want her putting my father in the same group as the bad fathers. I wanted to talk, but I didn\u2019t. I don\u2019t know why.<\/p>\n

\u201cBusi, so where is your mother now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe went back to her people. She is Karanga, from Masvingo. My siblings and I have no contact with her or anyone from her side of the family. My grandfather once sent a delegation of elders to try to talk to my father. They were not even allowed in through the gates. Not even offered a drink of water or a place to sit and rest after such a long journey.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow. Your father is hardcore.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe is a beast. That is what he is. He did not give a shit that we did not have a mother to care for us. My sister, Nqo, went from age twelve to thirty, being mother to us and my brother who would not sleep at night. My stepmothers are horrible to us, and when he finally realized this he sent us off to boarding school. That is his solution for everything. To send people away. Maybe I will look for her one day when I am grown up.\u201d<\/p>\n

The sadness in my middle tightened, and I could not stop the tears that I had been holding back from falling. Quickly, I wiped them away with the back of my hand. Busi did not seem to notice.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe came a couple of times to see us, but my father had the guards beat her and chase her away. I was about ten years old. Imagine hearing your mother wailing, calling Nqo, Vika, Busi, Themba over and over again. Then the father\u2019s voice barking orders that she be removed from outside his gate and dumped as far away from the property as possible. Imagine having her so close, hearing her and not being able to see her or touch her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t imagine such Busi, angeke.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLudo, I ran into the house, up the stairs, and watched from our bedroom window as those guards dragged her through the dirt. She kept calling our names until I could no longer see them. But her voice. I can still hear it today.\u201d<\/p>\n

We sat in silence. The green bomber fly was dead. It lay belly up on the window sill. The tap-tapping of the tree branch on the gutter was faint. I looked at Busi. Beads of sweat had popped up just above her upper lip. Another trail of sweat snaked down her temple from her hair line. She continued to fiddle with the biscuit wrapper, small motions with her fingers. Time stretched between us, a long drawn-out yawn filled with things I longed to say. But everything that I longed to say remained trapped at that junction where the head, heart, and mouth meet.<\/p>\n

The lunch bell startled me. Within minutes the dormitory was alive with the energetic sounds of fed girls with an hour of free time before afternoon studies at 3 pm in the main hall. We chatted with the other girls, Busi and I. We even laughed and shared jokes. But something had happened that tethered us to each other in a way that no crowd, then or thereafter, could undo. There would be parties, funerals, graduations, exams in huge halls with hundreds of other students, and I would feel the reassurance of that tether.<\/p>\n

That night after lights out, as I was fading in and out of sleep, Busi came to my bed. It was pitch-dark, but I knew it was her. I shifted to make a space for her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am scared.\u201d<\/p>\n

She snuggled up to me and we lay there for a moment, a pair of spoons, both facing the wall. Then as though to a silent command Busi turned to face me. Her quick paced breath was heavy on my face and in the dark my lips found hers and they touched. Frantically, she pushed herself closer to me. She dipped her head to my chest and, with feverish fingers, found my breasts. With a hand on one, she took the nipple of the other into her mouth and sucked gently. Her tense body relaxed and poured itself into the valleys made by mine. She sucked harder. I gasped.
\n<\/p>\n

Dream III<\/p>\n

I am in the cactus garden on a sunny day. The shadows are long and ghost-like, so it must be afternoon. A dark red rose in full bloom appears encircled by cactus plants with long needles. Smaller plants with tiny furry needles form a circle inside the larger ones. The rose petals are red like blood and velvet-textured. It has a long stem covered with sharp thorns and a few leaves. I am intrigued by the size and beauty of the rose, and the scent is so sumptuous it makes me drowsy. I shake my head to rouse myself, but the more I shake it the drowsier I become and the more magnetized I become. I reach out to pluck the rose. I have to be careful not to get stuck by the cactus spines. I take my time, slowly getting closer. I do it. I take the rose by the stem and bring it to my nose. I inhale and I am deliriously happy. I wake up.<\/em><\/p>\n

Busi and I were inseparable. We finished secondary school and both chose to go to the National University of Science and Technology in Bulawayo. I was a scholarship student once again because of my father\u2019s tenacity. This time, he managed to get me a full tuition and living expenses deal. Bulawayo was huge and intimidating, a far cry from my village in Empandeni. I thought our school of 600 girls was enormous. The NUST campus was a small town unto itself, with blocks of offices, lecture halls, residence halls, a bank, hair salon, and its own transport system to ferry students from one part of the campus to another. The campus lay sprawled on a hillside along the Bulawayo-Johannesburg road, a major route decorated with vendors hawking all things South African. Along the paved walkways students and vendors mingled and collided. Vendors aggressively pushed their matches, candles, air-time cards, cigarettes, chewing gum, dry-roasted peanuts, eggs, bread, Maputi, roll-on deodorant, perfume, and love potions into the students\u2019 faces, and students dodged one vendor only to bump into another one.<\/p>\n

Student digs were comfortable enough. They held remnants of a former glory when water gushed out of stainless-steel showers, and electricity flowed continuously to fire up desk lamps and kettles. Now the soot-stained walls told a tale of candles, wood smoke from secret cooking fires, decay, and lack of maintenance. The metal and plastic buckets in the showers spoke of water cuts and cold bucket baths. This was not much different from what we had at boarding school. It could have been worse, I suppose. Busi and I got a room together thanks to her father\u2019s connections in the Ministry of Education. We were known to each other\u2019s family as best friends and had on occasion visited each other. Busi had enjoyed meeting my family whereas I had been relieved when my weekend visit to her impressive home ended. We had less than her family for sure, less money and things. But we had more of those intangible things that cannot be replaced by riches.<\/p>\n

Our room had narrow twin beds on one side, a shared wardrobe, and two desks on the opposite side of the room. There was a small bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower cubicle. The brown water stain in the sink was a tell-tale sign that the tap had not been turned on in ages. The white-washed walls were brown-stained with bits of sticky stuff where posters and photographs had once been. Busi and I used one of the beds as storage. We made the bed and kept books and clothes on it. We shared the other bed.<\/p>\n

The first couple of weeks were frantic with registration for classes, buying books, and finding our way around town to get cheap groceries and other necessities. Running across busy streets, negotiating our way around vendors, potholes, bicycles, beggars-with-tin bowls and angry motorists was overwhelming at times. But most times, I was thrilled at being an adult and doing adult things like buying, choosing classes and what to wear to which welcome party. Busi and I went to these parties together. Puff-and-pass and alcohol appeared magically, and music was a must-have. Busi and I tried it all and liked it all. Later in our own space we would unpack the goings-on. We would imitate various people\u2019s accents, how they chewed, or the pseudo-intellectual nonsense they tried to impress us with. We giggled over the boy-crazy girls, the ones you knew had been on lock-down at home or in a girls-only boarding school. They were the wild ones, frolicking like kudu freed from captivity. They were eager to mingle, and the young men were just as eager to please. We guessed who had gone home with who based on the flirting or brazen snogging or possessive arm-over-shoulder moves.<\/p>\n

Busi and I were only apart during classes. She was working towards a bio-engineering degree while I had decided to study marketing. I looked forward to these times apart. I breathed a little easier. Busi seemed to get upset if I was sociable with other people, or if someone seemed to take an interest in me. I felt more comfortable being totally myself when she was not around. I was too busy to think about what this meant, but a feeling of unease lingered each time we went out together.<\/p>\n

One Friday evening, a couple of months into the semester, I was invited to a party by my classmates at the School of Business.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey Busi.\u201d<\/p>\n

I bounced into our room excited and happy the week was finally over.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am off to a get-together later with some of my classmates. We can have dinner together before I go. I doubt there will be much in the way of food.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi was on the chair painting her toe nails. She did not look up.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re just going to leave me here by myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Of course you can come, Busi. I just didn\u2019t want to assume\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAssume what Ludo? That I want to spend an evening with your dumb classmates? Well I don\u2019t. I want to be with you. But I see you don\u2019t want to be with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt terrible and selfish.<\/p>\n

\u201cBusi, I am sorry. I didn\u2019t mean it that way.\u201d She looked up and smiling she asked, \u201cWhat shall we wear?\u201d<\/p>\n

I no longer felt good. In fact, I no longer wanted to go anywhere. I mustered a grin and worked some enthusiasm into my voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cJeans of course!\u201d<\/p>\n

By the time we arrived the party was in full swing. It was on one of the sports fields that now served as a park where students met to do all sorts of things. It was remote from the rest of the campus, and there were no tower lights and a fire was blazing.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you smell the meat braising? I guess there will be food after all.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi\u2019s energy was electric and infectious, and soon we were giggling and trotting towards the intoxicating music.<\/p>\n

One dreadlocked Rasta with a fake Jamaican accent handed me a joint. I looked at Busi and she gave a nod, mischief in her eyes. I took a drag. Rastaman nodded his approval.<\/p>\n

\u201cPuff an-pass my sistren. Now hol\u2019 it in sistren. Das right, hol\u2019n\u2019swallow. Hol\u2019\u2026 an release.\u201d<\/p>\n

I coughed and spluttered, my air passages burning. Busi patted me on the back and laughed. \u201cYou still cough Ludo, come on!\u201d<\/p>\n

She handed me a glass of clear liquid and I took a huge gulp, thinking it was water. More fire ripped through my passages. Then delicious waves of warmth started to radiate from my belly. I relaxed. The music all of a sudden sounded amazing. The ragga base of Big Man\u2019s huge hit Musarove Bigiman accompanied by his raspy chanting swept me to my feet and I started to dance. I was a stream trickling down a craggy mountain slope, carving out a path with my undulating body. I rolled my hips, hands on my temples. I was a river, wide open rhythmic waves. I swayed, this way and that. I bent forward moving my back, hands reaching upward. I was powerful. A guy came up behind me, put his hands on my waist and without skipping a beat drew me into his hypnotic rhythm. The music thumped, a heartbeat so strong I felt it in my toes. I was molten wax, an elastic band. In front of me another guy appeared. He smiled and moved into my space, smooth as polished marble. The music was killing me secretly, and I threw my head from side to side, eyes closed. It was me and the music and the blood coursing through by body. I opened my eyes onto an infinite blanket of undulating bodies. Everyone was pumping to the raunchy lyrics of Lady Bee and smooth-hopping to the sounds of Kwaito music. All of us were moving like one huge coordinated body whose life was the music. We were suspended in time and rhythm, away from books, power cuts, water cuts, and all things power to do with the state of our nation. I saw Busi out of the corner of my eye, dancing like she had forgotten herself. The rapturous look on her face, mouth slightly opened called out a yearning in me. She sensed me. Her eyes flew open and looked at me. We spent the rest of the night apart, watching each other dance with other people, desire blooming.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t remember when we got home. I just remember Busi and me clawing at each other\u2019s clothes on the bed. My skin yearned for hers, and as her hands worked frantically to remove my jeans I moaned and lay back. Her lips were butterflies on my belly. My hands found refuge in her thick hair and the sensation of her strands on my fingertips, and I closed my eyes. I felt her breath on my face, her hands prying mine out of her hair. Something in the way she gripped my wrists caused me to open my eyes.<\/p>\n

Her flushed face, inches from mine held a look I did not like. Her eyes were smoldering. She was angry, and the energy between us shifted, jerking me into sobriety.<\/p>\n

\u201cBusi, what\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

Her grip on my wrists tightened, and she pushed my arms back and pinned them to the pillow.<\/p>\n

\u201cWena stop it, you are hurting me. What the hell has come over you?\u201d<\/p>\n

It did not once cross my mind that Busi would hurt me. So when she let go one of my wrists I did not expect the sharp pain as her hand connected with my face. I tasted blood as a tingling sensation webbed its way down the side of my face and neck. I was stunned. I did not fight back. I did not know how to fight someone, anyone who was not an adversary. The pain in my face was nothing compared to the devastation I felt.<\/p>\n

\u201cLudo. Oh my God, I am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi rolled off me and lay next to me face up. Her breath was raspy and she muttered.<\/p>\n

\u201cShit. Shit. Shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

I sat up and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, lashed dewy with suspended tears. Her lips, stained with the memory of lipstick were pressed together, trembling. She was wringing her hands, whimpering. I looked over her body in black panty and bra. The liquid fire in my blood had been replaced by tepid nothingness.<\/p>\n

Her eyes opened, red and tormented.<\/p>\n

\u201cLudo, I am sorry. I don\u2019t know why I did that. Maybe a bad trip or something. Maybe I shouldn\u2019t mix tequila and weed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Maybe it\u2019s the weed.\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned around, puzzled. The voice that spoke sounded like it came outside of my body. As though I had vacated my body and was responding to her from somewhere else. Maybe it was the weed. I got up slowly and walked to the bathroom. I felt disjointed as I sat on the toilet. A dull throbbing had replaced the tingling in my face. My bottom lip felt big. I licked it, but my tongue was like sandpaper. Maybe it was the weed. I got up and took a few cups of water from the bucket we kept under the sink. I washed my hands and only then did I look up into the mirror above the sink. The distorted face looking back at me frightened me. My lip looked like a piece of raw liver, and my left eye was bloodshot. I started to cry. I was confused, deeply sad, and so ashamed that I did not look again. I was lonely and I missed home. I missed my family. It was not the physical pain that made me cry, of this I was sure. But I could not identify this dreadful feeling I had. Maybe it was the weed. I just wanted to close my eyes and to wipe that night out of existence.<\/p>\n

Busi came into the bathroom. She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. I did not resist. Her I\u2019m sorry<\/em> mantra numbed me. She took a wash cloth from the rail, soaked it in water, and gently cleaned my face. Her touch was gentle and her energy caring. She handed me a cup of water, and I rinsed my mouth. She led me to our bed, pulled back the covers and helped me into it.<\/p>\n

As I fell asleep, I felt her climb into bed and spoon me into the curve of her body. The rippling sensation that shot through my body each time she came close to me was not there. Nothing. I could sense that she was alert. I was too tired and too dazed to say anything. I felt lost. It<\/em> was lost, though I did not know what that was. Maybe all this was because of the weed.
\n<\/p>\n

Dream IV<\/p>\n

I am in the cactus garden. The sky is dark. There is a storm brewing, and the air is static. In my hand I am holding the red rose. Its petals are droopy, the edges blackened and dry. The thorns have stuck into my skin, and I cannot pull them out because in the other arm is the baby. My fingers are bleeding, and the painful throbbing is unrelenting. The baby is screaming, and she has thrown off her blanket. She is crying so hard I see the blood vessels imprinted on her forehead. She is unhappy and hungry, but I cannot feed her. My hand hurts, and my arm muscles are strained from the weight of the baby. I look for the rock so I can at least sit, but it is not there. I am sweating and frustration is mounting. I wish the baby would stop crying so I can think of what to do. I try not to move my sore hand, but it\u2019s impossible with the baby jerking about in my other arm. Just as I am about to despair, a woman appears. She is young, her face somber. She has a baby sling around her waist, and she reaches over and takes her from me. The baby immediately stops crying. She bends and places her on her back and secures her with the sling. She carefully unsticks the dying rose from me, taking out the thorns one by one. It hurts like hell even though she is gentle. Then we stand there looking at one another. She does not say anything and neither do I. I wake up. <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/em><\/p>\n

By the time we started classes on Monday, the swelling on my face had gone down. To the curious gossips I simply stated that I had been so drunk after a party on Friday that I had fallen.<\/p>\n

\u201cHmm, this girl! Are you sure your boyfriend did not panel-beat you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEven if he did, do you think she\u2019ll tell us?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHa! You people do not know that a man who beats you loves you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLies! How can someone claim to love you then beat you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour parents beat you, and they love you, so it\u2019s the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, but your boyfriend is not your father, so he has no right to touch you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYa, but some women need to know their place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCorrect! Some ask for it. They talk too much.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome are disrespectful. Men like respect.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was relieved that people assumed I had a boyfriend who might have beaten me. Busi and I both knew that our relationship was not the norm, and we were both aware that standing out as strange or \u201cnot normal\u201d would not be a good thing for us.  This didn\u2019t matter to me, but it seemed to matter in this place where every woman was on the hunt for a man to get hitched to before graduation. I knew what our relationship was and this is all that mattered to me. What I knew also was that we could not pull any crazy moves that would attract attention to what we were not. That would be disastrous. This lent a heaviness to what we were because though we were not secretive, we were not totally in the open either. Busi and I were lovers, and we could not celebrate this openly the way others did.<\/p>\n

Innocence. It was the loss of innocence that I mourned that Friday night Busi hit me. Our relationship lost its light, playful essence. Two girls sharing a bed in boarding school was a common thing. Girls got homesick and offered each other comfort. They spooked one another out with stories of witches and goblins and shared beds to keep fear at bay. Two women sharing a room at university was the way things were, but the women were pairing off with men. Men hit on me often enough, and the weight of lying that I was in a relationship with another man to keep them away was taking its toll. I detested myself for lying, for feeling like the only way to keep men away from me was to claim myself the territory of another man. I told them I was married and that my husband and child were in the village. I even changed my dressing to match my lie: Frumpy skirts and a dhuku on my head to classes. I did not like who I was becoming.<\/p>\n

One Sunday afternoon, just before end of semester exams, Tsitsi, one of the girls with a room next to ours knocked on our door. Busi and I were both studying. I was at one of the desks, battling e-commerce terminology and wishing that there would be a freak earthquake that would destroy the College of Business on the day of our exam. Busi was lying on the bed, frowning over a Chemistry text.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome in!\u201d<\/p>\n

She was irritable.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi ladies, kanjani?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey Miss Tsitsi, what\u2019s up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHi Ludo, can I sit with you for just an hour or so? Kawa is entertaining.\u201d<\/p>\n

She giggled and winked at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, have a seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

I pointed to the other chair and Tsitsi sat. She was pretty, with cat-like eyes and a mischievous grin. Her brown weave framed her face perfectly. Busi scowled at me. I ignored her.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo who\u2019s the lucky guy?\u201d I asked Tsitsi playfully.<\/p>\n

\u201cKanti Tsitsi you are not studying?\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi\u2019s tone was saccharine, disguising venom as she rudely butted in.<\/p>\n

\u201cHa ha! Study? That is so old school. I will pass, don\u2019t worry about me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tsitsi was smug as a crocodile with an impala clamped between its jaws.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow! So you are one of those prodigy types that doesn\u2019t go to lectures or study for exams but gets distinctions every time!\u201d<\/p>\n

I glanced at Busi, silently pleading with her to be polite. She ignored me.<\/p>\n

\u201cOr are you one of those sex-for-grades babes who uses what she has to get what she wants?\u201d<\/p>\n

Tsitsi stood up. The chair fell back and she glared at Busi, her eyes now slit in her face.<\/p>\n

\u201cBusi what is your problem? You should have just told me to go away if you did not want me here. I won\u2019t put up with your insults. I am out of here!\u201d<\/p>\n

She marched out of the room. I looked at Busi incredulous. Her head was already buried in the text book.<\/p>\n

I ran after Tsitsi and caught up with her outside the hall of residence. She was talking to a couple of girls and from her gesticulations and head movements I was sure she was recounting what had just happened to her.<\/p>\n

I interrupted them.<\/p>\n

\u201cTsitsi I am so sorry about what happened back there. I think it\u2019s just exam stress, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tsitsi looked at me, anger steaming out of her flaring nostrils. She looked at the two girls, both clutching their books to their chests. They were in no hurry to go anywhere.<\/p>\n

\u201cLudo, why are you the one apologizing for your roommate\u2019s bad manners?\u201d<\/p>\n

I was stumped.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnyway, that girl is very rude. She has issues. You need to warn her because one day someone less tolerant of bullshit will fuck her up big time. Just warn her.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tsitsi raised her finger in warning.<\/p>\n

\u201cLast week one of the guys, Clifford from Engineering, greeted her nicely by those vendors near Cecil Avenue. She looked at him like he was a walking piece of shit and sucked her teeth as though he had insulted her. Disgusting!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did Clifford do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe just let it go. But I tell you if it were one of those stoners, like Simba or Ringo, it would have been another story. She would have been on her knees begging for mercy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe acts like she is better than everyone else. They are rich I hear.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI doubt that. If they are rich why is she not in the UK or the US or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

I started to walk away. I was too upset to go back to the room, so I made my way to the ice cream vendors. I walked past lovers kissing under trees, sharing Fanta out of the same bottle, lounging in the late afternoon sunshine. I realized I did not have any money on me, so I walked past the red-and-blue ice cream trolleys towards the soccer field. It was parched and dusty with tufts of brown grass here and there. The glaring sunlight made me squint. I was unhappy. I walked round the track unpacking my misery, turning it over and over, trying to see if it could become something else. I was claustrophobic in that room, in that bed with Busi. It was hard to admit this to myself because I felt like a fraud. I was betraying Busi by thinking such thoughts, but I knew that if I did not acknowledge them I would suffocate under the blanket of her possessiveness. I was exhausted from trying to cover up my true feelings about her and me. I was sick of pretending we were just friends. I yearned for authentic interactions with other students, but our secret relationship left me feeling isolated, like a Sangoma alone with the secrets and burdens stored in her bag of bones. I was tired of the ball and chain on my ankle that the relationship had become. I wanted out. I needed to get out. I would wait until exams were over to tell Busi.<\/p>\n

It was dark when I got back to the room. The power was out, and the whole campus was enveloped in the monotonous drone of generators. Students had their doors ajar so they could study by the light from the tall towers used at night to flood the campus with light. The generators only powered essentials, like the cold storage rooms where meat and chemicals for high-level science experiments were kept. The lecturers\u2019 quarters and the tower lights were also essentials.<\/p>\n

Some of the girls lit candles to augment the light, and since Sunday was find-your-own-meals day, many were eating bread.<\/p>\n

Not surprisingly, our door was closed. I opened it and walked in to find Busi hunched at her desk, scribbling furiously in a notebook. A candle was lit, and light filtered through the window from outside. I sensed that she was upset.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi.\u201d<\/p>\n

She did not respond to my greeting. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and face. She startled me. My heart quickened.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo where did you go?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh ah, you scared me. Creeping up on someone like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

I sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went for a walk. I needed some air.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLIER! You went with that bitch Tsitsi. Didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned around, anger making me bold.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you nuts? I ran after Tsitsi to apologize for your nasty attitude, and then I went for a walk, OK?\u201d<\/p>\n

As I turned back to the sink, Busi yanked me by the hand. I stumbled into her and she shoved me back.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho do you think you are talking to like that, who?\u201d<\/p>\n

I pulled my hand back and stepped away. I backed into the sink.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am talking to you Busi, you! Do you know what people out there are saying about you? Do you know what people think of you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck what anyone thinks. They can go to hell. They don\u2019t know me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell I care what people say because I am linked to you. I care because it is me who gets to hear all the comments and talk about your rude behavior. I am the one making excuses for your crap, and I am sick of it. I am sick of it all.\u201d<\/p>\n

Busi was still, every cell in her body on high alert, her razor-sharp eyes on my face, reading every clue she could pick up.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what are you saying Ludo?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked away.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s that Tsitsi. I know it. You want her right? You are attracted to her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh for fuck\u2019s sake! Quit it. This has nothing to do with Tsitsi or anyone else. This is about you and me, and this relationship Busi. I am tired. I am tired of being the only thing you need Busi. It\u2019s too much for me, this being all things. I can\u2019t be your mother, lover\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you say about my mother?\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a glazed look in her eyes, and I had the sick feeling that she had vacated her body or that she was looking at me but seeing someone or something else.<\/p>\n

Before I could draw a breath Busi\u2019s closed fist landed on my face. I heard a crack. Something was broken. I did not feel any pain, but I felt heat as my face puffed up and blood oozed out of broken vessels to form a black pool under my skin. I felt a warm trickle from my nose and tasted blood as it seeped into my mouth through closed lips.<\/p>\n

I looked at Busi. In her eyes I saw a wasteland of broken things: dreams, bodies, babies, stories and more stories, and someone. It was like the graveyard in our village, with mounds of red soil decorated by the deceased person\u2019s favorite dishes, pots, pans, and trinkets. But this graveyard in her eyes was so old the soil was eroded, and the trinkets had lost their shine and were strewn all over the place like abandoned toys.<\/p>\n

\u201cLudo I am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tears sprang up in her eyes, and I willed them to fall so that her vision would not be blurred. I wanted her to see what she had done to my face. I wanted her to see what she had done to her hand, which was swelling. I started to feel faint and my knees buckled. I could not breathe. My eyes refused to stay open, and I willed them to focus on Busi\u2019s blackening hand, blackening and swelling and hideous. Then I saw her, the person Busi had been looking at as she beat me. The person she was beating was not me. She was not angry with me. It was not about me. It had never been about me. Everything went dark.<\/p>\n

Dream V<\/p>\n

I am walking along a path in the acacia garden. I am with two of my cousins, and we are on our way from the stream. We have been fetching water and all three of us are carrying buckets of water on our heads and chatting and laughing. It is a beautiful day, and my cousins start to sing a song that I do not know. They dance, swaying their hips to balance the buckets on their heads. They do not need to hold onto them so their hands are on their wastes. I am so engrossed in their dance that I do not look in front of me as I am walking. I step on something and immediately it puffs up against my foot, all sponge-like. I look down into the face of an angry chameleon. It has turned black, and it opens its mouth to reveal a pink cavity and hisses at me. Its eyes are red and they are rolling in their sockets. It hisses again. Run! Ludo run. My cousins are already far off. They have dropped their water buckets, and they are running and calling to me. I am frozen. I want to run but cannot move. I am terrified, but I am unable to run. The chameleon is getting angrier and bigger, and its hissing is louder. My cousins\u2019 voices are mere whispers now, and I can no longer see them. The chameleon grows and my heart pounds faster, but I am stuck to the spot. The woman with the baby appears and she looks fearful. She says, in a force so powerful it almost knocks me over: \u2018Ludo run! Run now!\u2019 I hesitate for a split second, and just as the chameleon is puffing up into a gigantic monster, I drop my water bucket and run. I do not see a path nor do I wait for one to appear. I just run. I am drenched and my clothes are sticking to me, but I run and run and run. I do not look back.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Red Roses and Chameleons <\/b>
\nBusi and I have been together for nine years. We met in secondary school under rather unusual circumstances. We were both fifteen at the time and in the same class, but had never interacted outside of the formal study times. We were both borders and shared the same dormitory along with the other Form 3 students at Moleli Girls High. I was the first to walk to the dorm that day. The afternoon study session was over, and I hurried to the dorm so I could change my sanitary pad with some modicum of privacy before all the other girls came in to get ready for supper.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2129,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-89","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=89"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2130,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89\/revisions\/2130"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2129"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=89"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=89"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=89"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}