The Silence Between Us

A story by PETER NAWA

Be careful what you tell a broke and desperate man, especially one on the verge of hopelessness. A situation I found myself in as a 30-year-old bruised man. Life had been unapologetically harsh from the day my parents called me Suzyo. Problems. Sometimes I wished I was called Dalitso, blessings or Wongani, be thankful, but Suzyo it was. So, when an idea came to me by chance, I snatched it. In the morning, Mutafela dropped the seed, but I gave it permission to grow roots. I watered it with my imagination and weeded out whatever reality my depressed life presented. There was only one problem—my wife.

As I made my way home through the crowded, dusty compound streets, the tempting music from the local bar whispered my name, but my pockets were too empty to oblige. It had been that way for a while. I also needed to be clear-headed before I faced my wife that night.

I walked into the communal yard of five separate one-room houses and a shared dugout toilet. Privacy was a rare luxury for people like us. My wife stood on the verandah beside a brazier 

“Where’s Junior’s medicine?” The first words out of her mouth after she looked at my hands. I only had my box of merchandise.

I put my hand over my forehead. “Yaba, forgot. Tomorrow.”  

We both knew I hadn't forgotten, still, I lied. A skill that every man in the compound was acquainted with. Postponing the day’s worries to the next day and the next. The truth was that business had been rough; the lollipops and crisps were not selling as fast as they used to. Either people held tighter to their coins, or it was the goons who had joined our unforgiving streets.

Namonje stared at me and pursed her lips before releasing a dismissive hiss. She returned to stirring the cabbage in the pot. The same stuff we have had for the last three days, yet I dared not complain. A man who does not bring the meat home has no right to demand what he is fed.

I stepped into the matchbox we called home and found Junior playing with his toy trucks, which had missing wheels.

“Daddy!” he screamed as he ran and wrapped his arms around my legs. At least someone was happy to see me.

I put the box down, then lifted him closer to my chest. I noticed the weight loss. Initially, we were concerned a virus or disease caused his bones to protrude. It was before the nurse told us what he had. Malnutrition. The medicine I was supposed to buy was to help him regain his appetite; he finished the last bottle five days ago. Appetite for what exactly, I wondered, at the time. Just the other day, I punctured another hole in my belt to make it tighter around my waist. I threw his thin frame in the air three times and let him return to the toys he temporarily abandoned.

I stepped behind a lace curtain separating the room into two. Behind the veil lay the bedroom and love nest; it had only a single bed, which my wife and I shared. Clothes hung from nails on the wall. My son made do on the floor on the other side of the curtain. His side served as a multipurpose area that could be transformed into a sitting room, dining area, bedroom, or play area, depending on the time of day. And yet, if things didn’t work out soon, we would have been forced to move into a ramshackle place with barely enough space to fit a sheet in between. I sat on the bed, and the mattress sank under my weight. Those were the days I longed to live in the mayardi, where big fancy houses with flushing toilets hid behind towering fences. The idea flickered.

Namonje came into the house, and I helped her place the two plastic plates on the floor. One plate had five lumps of nshima while the bland-looking cabbage floated in a bowl. She sat on the floor, and her feet almost touched the wall. I walked out to wash my hands before returning.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I felt the constriction in my stomach, and my body temperature rose. After six years together, we both learnt to communicate without uttering a word. Stillness possessed a unique meaning dependent on how it wove itself in the space between us. I knew she was upset, but the itch to share the idea intensified.

Eventually, I blurted out, “I met Mutafela today.” I snatched a portion of the nshima and turned it into a ball between my fingers. I waited for her reaction before saying anything more.

“How is he?” she asked disinterestedly, as she too dug into the nshima we shared.

I searched for the right words to say because mentioning Mutafela’s name in the house was a delicate issue. We grew up and got into trouble together as neighbours many years ago. Previously, his name sparked heated arguments that would begin at any time and continue for days.

“He’s fine. Driving a new moto.”

Namonje stayed mute. I wondered if it was appropriate to mention the new car. I should have ended with how Mutafela was doing. It was the nerves, I convinced myself.

“There’s a business opportunity—.”

“Hmmm, you didn’t learn. That week in jail was not enough?”

“Awe, that’s the past. His businesses are now proper. You should’ve seen his suit and tie. The chap looks money, money,” I added, ignoring my wife’s backhanded comment.

“Mutafela is a crook and will always be a crook. Whether in a suit or overalls, he is the devil’s nephew at work.

The conversation wasn’t going in the direction I planned. I needed to think fast before my window closed.

“Baby, this chance can change our lives forever.” I swallowed another ball of nshima.

“That is what he said when he made you transport expired goods. You have a short memory.” Namonje rubbed her back while Junior played with the strands of cabbage.

“I can make good money. You don’t want to start that business, eat nice food, move from this ramshackle?” I said, drawing attention to the cramped room stacked with plates, dishes, and clothes from wall to wall.

Namonje’s gaze locked on the plate. I noticed her face soften. In that moment, the silence meant hope.

“Eh, Bashi Junior, please don’t give me a headache. It is drugs, isn’t it?”

“It’s… It’s….” The words failed me. I took another ball of nshima into my mouth to avoid the piercing stare of my wife. My mouth became dry and throat stiffened. The words were on my tongue, but wouldn’t escape. Then, under my breath, “I need to sell my kidney.”

“A kidney, oho, a kidney.And how will you survive?” Namonje asked.

Finally.

“I have two. Humans have two kidneys. I’ll live perfectly on one,” I told her with a weary smile as if I had just revealed a secret.

“Suicide.” She cupped her palms together. “And who wants to buy your kidney?” Her finger pointed at my chest.  

I wanted to correct her on where the kidney was located, but it wasn’t the time. At least she knew it was a body part.

“Mutafela says there are a lot of Indians, Chinese, and muzungus willing to pay for kidneys. Theirs have stopped working ‘cos of all this microwave stuff.”

She remained silent once again. I needed her to ask me questions. Call me stupid or crazy. I wanted her to tell me I was making a big mistake and help me regain my senses. Instead, she looked away.

“Mutafela this, Mutafela that, Mutafela said. Has he donated a kidney?”

“No, he hasn’t, but you know he has been in and out of the hospital.”

Junior coughed, choking on the meal, and for a moment, we were both alarmed. He spat out the white paste and smiled. Namonje softly patted his back until the episode ended. There was a temptation to tell her that with the money I would get, Junior could choke on some chicken bones and not strings of cabbage.

“This is the Satanism or witchcraft people have been talking about. Bashi Junior, I’m too young to be a widow?” Namonje said, “Help me up, I am tired. I need to sleep.” I assisted her to get up. She tightened the wrapper around her waist and snaked through the room and left. She retreated behind the curtain when she got back. I heard the bed springs squeak.

The conversation had gone exactly as I imagined. It would have worried me, if there was no rejection of the idea despite its tempting shine. For a while, the uncertainty swung back and forth in my mind. Money had been slippery all my life and finally it could stick, but the gown of fear has a way of burying optimism.

As I got into bed, I saw the silhouette of my wife rise and fall. My slender frame made it possible for us to share a single bed.

“Can you really live on one kidney?” Namonje asked.

“Yes, the doctors say so.”

“And how much is a kidney?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

She didn’t say another word, and I struggled to interpret the meaning of the silence between us.

                                                           *

Early the next morning, as the sun began to sneak out of the evening shadow, I counted my lollipops, gums, sweets and crisps. I prayed for a better day ahead because the rent bill loomed. My landlord had already heard every lie and excuse available. Last month, she came with a thick chain and a moon lock, as she threatened to chuck us out if payment was delayed again. She made sure the other tenants heard her warning.

My strategy for the day was to shout louder, harass mothers to buy sweets for their kids, or change streets. The $10,000 kept flashing in my mind, and an electric surge rose within me. I heard the cock crow outside, nature's reminder to get moving. I put the box of merchandise on my shoulder, hopped over Junior and walked out to battle the day.

I spent the morning dashing from one end of Cairo Road to the other. I ran when someone whistled from a minibus window and sprinted when a hand waved as the car drove away. Sometimes, all the person wanted was to know the price, after which they closed the window and ignored my existence—bloody fools. When I managed to make a sale, it was more of a relief than an achievement. It was incredible what selling one bubble gum could do for your motivation.

The end of the day approached, and sales had been better than the previous day. My pocket had enough cash for Junior’s multivitamin syrup, but I remembered the landlord’s thick chain. Suddenly, I heard a whistle, and a hand summoned me to their car. Instinctively, I ran to the black Mercedes-Benz parked by the side of the road. When I got closer, a bulky man in a navy-blue suit stepped out. Mutafela. It was not a convenient time to talk about slicing up one’s body.

“Mutafela.” We locked hands, after which he leaned against the Mercedes. He raised his sunglasses to the top of his shiny bald head and folded his arms.

“So, are you game?”

I placed my merchandise on the ground as I felt its weight on my left shoulder. “Madam doesn’t want me to do it.” I avoided his gaze by focusing on his coffee brown leather shoes. I pictured what it felt like to own a pair before I turned to my feet. The second-hand sneakers were begging to be retired.

“Ummm, she’s not for the idea. She’s worried that something will happen. Just need a bit more time to convince her.”

“What do you mean?”

I anticipated Mutafela to be disappointed, but he appeared more confused.

“Iwe, are you okay? What are you talking about? Namonje called me this morning.”

The bombshell information didn’t entirely surprise me; it was the tsunami of insults I imagined Namonje told Mutafela that did. I began to prepare a sincere apology when the smile on Mutafela’s face calmed my fears.

He rubbed his palms together and whispered, “She offered me her kidney, too. So, if you are game, we are good to go.”

The words didn’t sink in for a few seconds as I tried to process the news. “Eh, Namonje, my wife?”

“Do you have another wife called Namonje?”

“No… No…I… I—”

“I’m now just waiting for you,” he said, “we are talking dollars here. Dollaaars. Dollaaars. Have you ever held dollars in your hands? Mutafela rubbed his thumb against the tips of his other four fingers.  

There was something about the way he said dollars that was devilishly enticing, like an addiction serenading its victim until the hook left them dangling for dear life. Remember what I said about a broke and desperate man?

I was still shocked to provide any meaningful response. “I need to confirm with Madam.”

Mutafela scowled, pulled down his sunglasses over his eyes and got back into the car. “Don’t waste my time. I’ll find someone else.” He slammed the door and sped off.

The black Mercedes-Benz zig-zagged through a series of vehicles, then disappeared when it turned the corner. It felt like I just watched my future drive away. A vacuum replaced where hope had begun to spring in me. I placed the box back on my shoulder as I withdrew from the streets.  

On the way home, a swarm of birds took their last flight for the day. Exhausted and sweaty bodies chaotically dashed in different directions. For Kanyama compound, it seemed like the night shift had just begun. I recognised two drunk men staggering along the dusty, narrow path heading to their next tavern. Thank God, it was dark, and the chaps didn’t see me. Mothers shouted for their children to return home, while not too far, a woman berated her husband.

“Bashi Levi, you’ll not embarrass me like this. No, you can’t. Going out with all the prostitutes in this compound! Take me back to my parents! Take me to my parents!”

He appealed for her to lower her voice, but the louder she screamed. I ignored them and continued along.

When I got home, I found two thick T-bone steaks grilling on the brazier.

“Welcome back,” Namonje said, and dug the fork into the steaks, turning them around. The charcoal sizzled as the blood dripped.

“Thank you.” I wanted to ask questions, but decided to reserve them for later. I definitely hadn’t left any money for T-bone. The last time we had meat for any meal was chicken feet a few weeks ago. She whistled a tune as I got into the house.

As soon as I stepped into the room, Junior hopped up and hugged my legs.

“Daddy, looky,” he said, showing me a gap between his front teeth with his finger.

“A tooth came out?”

“Yes, it is here.”  He pulled out the tooth from his shorts’ pocket, “Mummy said, ‘me I am big boy’.”

“Yes, you are becoming a big boy. Can I see your muscles?”

Junior lifted both arms in the air and exposed his small biceps as he gritted his teeth. I patted him on the head and recalled when Junior was born four years ago. It was as if I had broken a piece of my heart and given it to him. My heart shattered knowing his life would have limits because of my inadequacy. There would never be enough. Sometimes, the word daddy stung more than it brought joy. Even though he bore my name, Suzyo Daka, I prayed he would become nothing like me. I am convinced each human has to deal with lack, illness, grief or weakness. My portion from the heavens was lack.  

The aroma of the grilled meat captured us the moment Namonje entered the house with the plates in her hand.

“It’s ready!” she said and placed the plates on the floor—the T-bone, gravy, spinach and nshima.

“Yeah, meat!” Junior shouted, jumping up and down.

“Where did the T-bone come from?” I asked.

“This one. I asked Ba Robby to give us on credit.” She began to slice the meat for Junior, who suddenly had a rush of appetite.

Ba Robby owned the butchery five streets away from our house. I was always suspicious of him, from the day I heard rumours that he had a thing for my wife. Even though I had no evidence to prove those rumours. One thing I knew was that he had more money than I did.

“I don’t have money to pay for this, with the rent due soon.”

Namonje loudly chewed the T-bone, “I negotiated with him. We’ll pay him later.”

“When?”

“When we sell our kidneys. Junior, eat.”

“We?”

       “I called Mutafela and offered mine too. Kabili, you said humans only need one to survive. Twenty thousand dollars!” she said, enthusiastically.

       In an instant, a combination of doubt, panic and shame crashed into my mind. Did Mutafela really have contacts with people who wanted our parts? Would Junior become an orphan if something went wrong for both of us? What would her family think if I allowed my wife to go ahead with the operation? Suddenly, the unrestrained confidence dimmed.

“We?”

Showing her surprise, Namonje said, “Of course, we’re in this together. Aren’t you going to eat?” She bit off another chunk of the meat.

I stared at the borrowed T-bone, with its thick layer of brown fat, and wanted to decline in protest, but my stomach growled. I reluctantly took a piece.

“You can’t sell your kidney?” I said with an unconvincing stern tone.

Namonje put her plate down and fixed her gaze on me. “Why?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Bashi Junior, our problems will be over. You go, come back, then I go while you stay with Junior, chapwa. Capital for business sorted. I can start going to Nakonde to buy clothes and stuff.”

I thought, was she playing mind games with me? How did we swap feelings? My excitement for her fear. When did the change of heart happen?

“No, No, my same money will fund your business,” I said.

“We can have more. I don’t see why you’ve a problem with it,” Namonje replied.

The conversation went back and forth, without a concrete resolution. Neither of us was willing to budge, and I was unable to offer a convincing reason besides my own gut feeling.

Eventually, Namonje asked, “Suzyo, do you trust Mutafela?”

She used my government name, which meant the question deserved an honest answer. Like a fish trapped in a net, I would be a hypocrite if I said I didn’t trust him. However, the dilemma remained, if I agreed, then there was no reason to worry. I let the question hang in the room. The outside noise seemed to have turned down to allow the world to eavesdrop on my response.

“I do.”

“End of discussion. Tell Mutafela, we have kidneys to sell.” She got up and went out of the house.

                                                     *

For the next few days, my attempts to persuade Namonje that she didn’t need to sell her kidney fell on deaf ears. She remained adamant that the opportunity was too precious not to grab with both hands. The compromise ended up being, I would go first and see if Mutafela was a man of his word.

We both stood in a line. We watched the people in front of us go to the counter and leave their forms. I still wondered whether we made the right decision. We agreed not to tell a soul. We lied to the neighbour who watched Junior, telling them we were visiting a relative in the hospital. In the end, it was too late to change our minds, Mutafela had already begun to spend money. He called it an advance payment.

After an hour's wait, we were at the counter. Behind it is a plump woman with oversized, round spectacles.

“You are together?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Forms,” she said and stuck out her empty right hand.

We handed them over. She flipped through page by page. She seemed satisfied as she put them down.

“Photocopy of the National Registration Cards, passport-sized photos and receipts.”

We removed them from a khaki envelope and handed them over.

She put the documents together and bound them with a paper clip.

“Come in three weeks. Next!”

Outside the Passport Office, I called Mutafela to give him an update. We had set the events in motion, and I dreaded it. I had to focus on the money we were going to make, albeit missing kidneys. It was a small price to pay. I returned to the streets to sell my sweets while Namonje went to catch a bus home.

As we waited for the passports, we needed to remember Mutafela’s list of instructions in preparation for the trip to India. Don’t take alcohol. Don’t do drugs or smoke. Reduce salt intake. Drink lots of water. Eat fruit and vegetables. Exercise. We faithfully followed the instructions.                                        

                                     *

After four weeks, instead of three, a passport was ready. It wasn’t mine. Namonje had her green passport while mine was still being processed. It shattered our initial plan. When we informed Mutafela, he insisted we could not wait. It was a dilemma I failed to wiggle ourselves out of. When options fade, we accept the path before us.

On a Tuesday morning, with the air ticket and passport in her hand, she gave Junior a squeeze.

“Text me when you reach,” I said. She nodded and gave me a hug, which was interrupted by the constant hooting of Mutafela.

“Bye, make sure Junior bathes every day.” Namonje picked up the small suitcase and headed towards the car. She paused, turned around and waved. Then she bundled herself into the black Mercedes-Benz, and they left.

                                                           *

The last text message I got from Namonje informed me that she had arrived. For five weeks, I sent texts with no reply. The panic then set in. Mutafela kept ignoring my calls and I didn’t know where to find him.

Junior asked for his mother every night. When people began to ask questions about her whereabouts. I told them she was on a business trip across the border. It was easier to lie than reveal the reason for her absence. I considered going to the Indian Embassy, but with no contact name or city, it presented a challenge.

One evening, as I returned from selling, I saw Mutafela’s black Mercedes-Benz parked by the side of our house, the same way it had done previously. I ran to the driver’s window and found Mutafela with his oversized sunglasses covering his eyes.

“Mutafela, where is Namonje? Where is my wife?” I asked. I peeped through the backseat window and didn’t see Namonje.

“Where is Namonje!” He shoved a brown hard suitcase into my hands and immediately sped off while I kept asking him about my wife.

I got into the house with the suitcase and placed it on the bed carefully. My hands shook as I took short, measured breaths while I opened the case. I picked up a brand-new yellow toy truck and placed it on the side of the bed. Then I saw the blouse and jeans Namonje wore the day she departed. Through the side of my eye, I noticed the grey, crispy $100 notes stacked like a pile of bricks. I brought her clothes to my nose, and her scent reminded me of the last day I saw her. The tears dropped, my heart ached because I knew what the silence meant.