PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – JUNE 2023
THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: TARIRO (HOPE)
Written by Simbarashe Zimuto
According to the doctors, Tariro was brought into the hospital two weeks ago. Her legs were broken beyond repair. A plaster was holding the last remains of her left minced, butchered hand and her right hand clasped a blood-soaked diary. Half of her face had been marooned by iron shrapnel in the midst of the tragedy. She was the sole survivor on the day of the tragedy but today she breathed her last.
I am happy she died, heaven was her only chill spot and peaceful place. That leaves me to reminisce about the life of my daughter who died full of grief.
She was born on a stormy night, August 17. The clouds were pregnant and this was symbolic of a great soul she would grow up to be. We named her Tariro. My daughter was the kind of joy that came to heal my wounds after scars that were left by her father, an evil spirit who put me in the Intensive Care Unit every day. Tariro was once my smile keeper, but the gigantic jaws of death caught up with her.
My daughter was an African teenager who depicted the struggles that every teenager faces under the forces of demanding parents who expect her to live up to their values. She had good days and mostly bad ones too. The good days were brought by my mythical thoughts clinging onto the dream of becoming the next Tsitsi Dangarembgwa.
“You do not see an open window with academics in this type of a country”, Tariro’s father said to her once. However, deep down Tariro knew her father was partly correct because life in a country within the dark depths of Africa was not life. It was just living in a place where political cries and the economic crisis surged.
Keeping her head above the water seemed to be difficult when she was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Girls Tariro’s age were living lavish lives by sleeping around with old men, but Tariro kept her head high, burning the midnight lamp studying. What was my daughter’s driving force? Competition was once part of her values, but it vanished the day a local ophthalmologist from Harare diagnosed Tariro with an eye condition called Keratoconus. From that day, she never pictured herself within the counsel of leaders. Her esteem became shattered. Who would want to follow a partially blind leader? Seems like every straw she held onto was crumbling. Why couldn’t Tariro, my daughter, just let herself drown in the deep waters? Academics were the only Plan “A” within Tariro‟s radar. Without the value of excellence, Plan “A” became worthless. Plan “B” had been decided by her father; he was to marry Tariro off to an old man if ever Plan “A” failed. According to Tariro’s father, our daughter had to be made ready for such a marriage through female genital mutilation [FGM].
“It is just a prick to safeguard your virginity and appease the gods,” the sangoma assured Tariro, “the might of the gods will bless the holy matrimony you are about to enter.”
Her fate had been sealed. Like a sacred spring, blood gushed out between her legs, and that night she drowned in the pool of her own blood. All because of her father’s firm doctrine; Tariro would not live to see the dawn. Tariro’s father stood nodding approvingly to the sangoma’s incarnations as he rubbed herbs onto my daughter’s womanhood and showcased prowess in knifing skills. The herbs gave Tariro a burning sensation followed by excruciating pain from the cutting rusty razor blades. Why couldn’t they just let Tariro rest in peace?
That night, Tariro reminisced about her dreams and goals for the last time. I audibly heard my sniffles as the pain of being a mother crept up my emotions. I stared in horror at my only daughter lying on a blood-soaked leopard hide. The sangoma scrapped pounds of flesh and he grabbed a thorn to start sewing parts of Tariro’s womanhood for a quick recovery. The razor blade was partially blunt, and his bony fingers scurried in the dark for a knife. Flies buzzed around Tariro’s womanhood and kept on distracting the sangoma. My insolent husband seemed more content with the procedure, yet the sangoma was now dismayed. Why cling to an ancient tradition at the expense of your own daughter? Anxiety was killing me, wondering what it is like on the other side because there is nothing left for Tariro in this Motherland. Traditional cycles ought to be cut. My devil husband had made our only daughter a victim of the ancient primitive tradition. Why?
“Devil!” the sangoma cursed at his old dog as it licked the blood off the surgery kitchen knife. He threw the pounds of flesh scraped from Tariro’s womanhood to send off the dog. In the final touches, the kitchen knife dissected the womanhood. On this fateful night, Tariro was supposed to bear farewell to us in a way that would haunt everyone eternally, but she survived. Fate had almost answered my wishes of Tariro dying so that she rests in peace.
Whenever I opened my eyes, I saw my daughter’s broken dreams and shattered hopes. It was hard to live a life knowing that one day from here she would be changing an old man’s diapers and warming his cracked skin patch. Fast forward, Tariro was married off to an old man. Life had been throwing punches at my daughter. Her life was like an unbreakable cycle that repeated itself over and over. I was unfortunate to see it with my own two eyes when I visited my daughter. My two-week stay at my daughter’s house was hell on earth. Tariro’s home was a kickboxing arena. Like father, like son, my son-in-law was a treacherous devil.
“These are just the aftermath of teen menace,” Tariro always said when l asked the reason behind her missing front two canines and a fragmented molar. The gaps in her mouth never hid the nightingale smile as her laughter boomed across the house. Luckily, the mask was ever present to refuge the goalposts in her mouth.
Out of the blue, the heavy footsteps opened a new chapter. With the official closing of beer halls, it was no surprise to see Tariro’s husband get drunk with tea. As soon as my son-in-law’s hefty body got in the picture, our mood changed like a chameleon’s colours. His tobacco-stained teeth made him look like a monster out of a horror movie. When he caught a glimpse of Tariro, his fists yearned for a punching bag.
“Why is my sadza not yet ready?” he asked looking for petty issues to evoke a fight.
Tariro’s tears scourged the pretty black skin. Her make-up the following day was intensive just to hide from the world a shame of a man she cared for. Was there another hell for my daughter in the afterlife since she already was in one? Like father, like son! My daughter and l shared the same fate. We were human punching bags. The broken nose and stuffy face showed the ugly woman Tariro had become. Her vintage teen photos showed she was once a lovely testimony to the infinite artistic capabilities of Mother Nature. Welcome to the life of my daughter, a sixteen-year-old who is bashed by a mad son-in-law. This is not a great environment for a pregnant Tariro. Her skeletal figure bulldozes a swollen belly, maybe carrying a triplet pregnancy. The devil of a man she was married to was not concerned about her health. He just saw a punching bag and a baby-making machine. Consequences of child marriage.
One time the doctors outlined the odds of Tariro waking up from a coma. She had been escaping the jaws of death after every head injury operation but this time, it would not be possible. My mad son-in-law was just waiting for my daughter to wake up and continue his fighting scheme. Was l wrong for congratulating Tariro for finally making it towards death? The world did not deserve her, and heaven was Tariro’s only chill spot. Please bear with me. As an old woman, l could not man up to the six feet old goliath who pounced on my lovely daughter. The only choice was to cower in the corner and sob mercilessly. Was there another hell for Tariro, my daughter, in the afterlife since she was already in one?
***
I have reminisced through the memory lane remembering all the moments my daughter, Tariro had. I look at her corpse in the hospital mortuary and tears well up in my eyes. Out of the blue, Doctor Manyama hands me a tattered diary believed to be Tariro’s. It is the same diary I gave her as a gift a day before she was married off to the devil. Deadman tells no tales. Fortunately, Tariro’s diary lives to tell the tales of the Cyclone Idai horrors and the Higherlife Foundation men and women she kept murmuring about.
Sunday 24 March 2019
Do you see the twenty-metre-deep debris? The Higherlife Foundation rescue team retrieved me from underneath there. They found me on the brink of death. Twenty-four hours before this photo was taken we were a happy family of seven. A normal family with a red modern house made from farmhouse bricks. The rain came and everything became history. If only we knew this was our last supper.
We retired to sleep under the eyes of the angel of death, dark clouds. Little did l know it was the last time giving my five daughters sweet lullabies hearing their laughs boom across the house. The joy in our village would be robbed and with grief. In the middle of the night, ear-splitting lightning and screams awoke the village. The walls were shaking and swerving like a reed in a thunderstorm. Abruptly, the roof was hit by the cyclone. That is when the drama began. I still vividly see the gruesome death of my devil and daughters. The walls crushed on their minute figures. My devil husband died holding my petticoat tightly. Squash! A quick death, no groans or screams of pain. That was the last of them.
It was raining rock boulders. Rock boulders were tossed around. There was pandemonium everywhere. The water current was carrying cars, cattle and houses. I ran around madly looking for the remains of my daughters. Rock boulders landed on a helpless me. That was the last of me. I heard the shattering sound of bones in my legs as they were ground into dust by the boulders. Could l escape death by a whisker?
I remember waking up from a coma. It was my first time hearing the name, Higherlife Foundation. Around the camp, people were murmuring ‘Higherlife Foundation’. Their men and women in blue were clasping hands tightly, whispering prayers for the wounded and dead bodies on the ground. The traumatic memories of Cyclone Idai’s aftermath hovered over the camp.
We were forced to bury the dead in makeshift coffins. Some people never found their loved ones. Would their bones be recollected from the mixed debris in the mass graves? It was horrific. Human remains and cattle carcasses flowing in the current, rubble from smashed homes and stone boulders were a reminder. Water supplies and food were scarce. Out of the blue, Higherlife Foundation brought its calvary – trucks loaded with blankets, food and water supplies flooded the camp.
I remember the moment. The moment l caught a glimpse of the distant five corpses. Five dismantled torsos lay on the ground. I could recognise the tattered clothes my daughters wore from last night hanging onto the shattered bones. The men and women in blue comforted me. I had peace of mind; my family was going to get a proper burial from Higherlife. Higherlife Foundation, a stitch in time saved nine. A helicopter arrived in the nick of time and whisked us, the wounded, to the hospital. From the sky, what was once a massacre and death zone had been rekindled with hope. Bones were scattered and mixed up over mother earth. The men and women in blue scurried over the mountains and beneath the debris looking for survivors and retrieving our beloved remains.
By opening this diary, you opened fresh wounds. Wounds that will haunt and torment survivors. You will find them still living in makeshift poles and dagger shelters, even though Higherlife Foundation channeled funds towards Cyclone Idai victims. Whoever finds this, these are my last words. Thank Higherlife Foundation on my behalf. Thank Higherlife Foundation for the lives they saved and for trying their best to save my priceless life. Their relentless efforts saved multitudes. Higherlife Foundation, a philanthropic giving you made enabled me to achieve peace of mind on my deathbed.
Higherlife Foundation, you could not be here to see the smile they put on my butchered face, but they showed a different meaning of philanthropic giving. There is more to the money and donations. We will flourish in their love and compassion. They would sing lullabies for us in the makeshift tents, drying the tears off our cheeks. Feeding the infants who had been robbed of their mothers by the floods. If ever l die, my spirit will hover over the Higherlife Foundation men and women in blue.
Mom, if ever you read this, do know I have finally made it into a peaceful place. I cannot wait for you to join me. I cannot wait for the day you will be united with your five granddaughters. I will surely tell God to forgive my father and husband for they did not know what they were doing.
Diary by Tariro
Tariro’s last dying wish trembles in the core of my heart. In her last breaths, she remembers not the devil husband or female genital mutilation that pounced on her but love. A stitch in time saved nine. A small act of giving made a soul attain peace of mind as it breathed its last. She is one of the many victims who are grateful for the higher love from a Christian-based organisation in the midst of such horrors. Philanthropic giving, transforming lives.
Since that time the wise men of Africa have been blubbering that youth just like Tariro are the future of Africa. I have shown them the other side of the lives of the so-called “Future of Africa” that hinders their progress and positive impact. Wake up and smell the coffee. My daughter Tariro underwent female genital mutilation, butchered like a cow at an abattoir during the process. She was married off to the devil and bore him five daughters. Today she has finally rested in peace and lost everything in her life.
Tariro, is a tale of hope to the girl child.
PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3
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