THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: Sunset At Noon
Written by Edwell Zihonye
The day the sun set at midday lingers in my mind every day. I realized that life had no meaning at all. One minute it was there, the next it had vanished. It was like the proverbial shadow. As the sun disappeared, so did the shadow. The realisation hit me like an arrow from an experienced archer. I had long forgotten. I had taken everything for granted. I took everything in strides…
Up to this day, I still vividly recall what I was doing when it happened. Every detail of the occurrence is deeply embedded in my memory. It was a moment out of this world. I lived with my family – my parents and three siblings. Ours was a modest house in a middle-income suburb. Life was good – at least that’s what we believed. Both our parents worked. My mother worked at a local bank and my father worked for a mining engineering firm. I was the second born and at high at Fletcher High School. My elder sister, Sakhile, was at Regina Mundi High School. Two of my siblings were at primary and kindergarten school respectively. We lived in Shurugwi, a small mining town in the Midlands Province in Zimbabwe. I was proud of my upbringing – my parents’ love, Selukwe Primary School, my siblings. We lacked nothing in real terms.
I was ambitious. My father’s words always echoed in my ears. My father always talked about moving up the social ladder. My sister was my inspiration. She led by example and we were closer to each other, more than anyone could imagine. My young brother, Jayden and my baby sister, Chantel, were way down but the bond was strong. The smiles we shared were real. The understanding we had as siblings, gave our parents peace of mind.
As I sit here, in my aunt’s house, I can’t help recall the good times we shared. I remember the many shopping trips to Gweru, about thirty-three kilometres away. Our parents had a tendency of spoiling us and we loved it. We walked the length and breadth of the City of Progress. Usually, we would spend the whole day and only return home in the evening. That was then…
On the fateful day, I had just returned from the shops. I was with Jayden. He had some packets of fresh milk and some tomatoes. I had two loaves of bread, some eggs and meat. We looked forward to a hearty meal together. It was not the meals – it was the spirit of togetherness we always looked forward to. It made us feel special. We walked past the service station and along the main road to the provincial capital. We were in high spirits. How ironic!
When we got home on that sunny August morning, breakfast was quickly prepared. We were at table together and our talk was animated, at least the majority of us. Chantel, who had been toying around with her food until my father reprimanded her, was sulking. I did my best to cheer her up, but it didn’t have the desired results. She nibbled at her food and appeared absent-minded and distracted; by what exactly, I couldn’t say. Our father tried to tickle her, but she remained sullen and uninterested. We let things be and continued with our meal. My mother, for some strange reason, was unusually quiet. It was as if there was something wrong with her food, as well.
After the meal, my sister and I cleared the table and washed the dishes. As we did, we shared some jokes and all was fine. My mother was in her room and Father was reading the newspaper in the living room. I overheard him talk to a friend over the phone. The children were watching television. We finished the dishes and dried them. We neatly packed them in their respective compartments. We cleaned the sink and tidied the room.
As per routine, we went into our rooms to study. Our parents always insisted on balancing schoolwork and leisure time. During school holidays, like now, we only watched television in the evening. This was part of the way up the ladder, my father always said. We couldn’t disappoint! I was studying Pride And Prejudice and The Merchant Of Venice. Literature had always been my favourite subject. I would study History and Geography later. That was my plan. If only I had known!
As early as half past eleven that morning, my mother started cooking. My father was leaving at one o’clock that afternoon, with a friend. He had a business trip to the capital city, Harare. The meal to be ready by then. Our mother called us intermittently to assist with one or two things. We, however, continued with our studies in our rooms. Sakhile was in her final year at high school and was doing Business Studies, Accounting and Mathematics. Her efforts were visible for all to see. I envied her work ethics. She never complained. She was more than a sister to me. She was like my mother. She was my inspiration. I told her that. She thanked me heartily then we continued our studies. Thirty minutes after we had left the kitchen, we heard a loud explosion and a piercing scream. At once, we were galvanised into action. Our minds were paralysed by both fear and anxiety.
When we got into the corridor, we could barely see anything. It was filled with thick smoke and there was the acrid smell of burning material. Oh, my God! The house was on fire and the flames were spreading fast. The fuel in the garage! My mind whirled as I groped my way to what I thought was the living room. I collided with my father who was heading for the kitchen. The children were now in their room. I thought Sakhile was somewhere behind me. I got to the living room and struggled to locate the children. Things had happened so fast. I could hear them coughing and choking. I finally found my way into their room and took them to the kitchen – that was our only way out of the house. The main door was usually locked and there was no time to look for the keys in this commotion.
My father didn’t find mother in the kitchen. He went to Sakhile’s room and dragged her out. She was in shock. He left her at the door and came back for my mother. She was nowhere to be found. The children started screaming and running about in panic. I lost them and went back to the living room. For the second time, I bumped into my father who told me to leave as he was in control of everything. I tried to argue with him, but it was pointless. He searched the two bathrooms but found nothing.
It was at this point that a second explosion rocked the house. It propelled me into the air and out through the door. I landed outside and then there was total darkness. I must have blacked out. When I came to, I was about five metres from the door. There were many people around me. The noise around me was confusing. There was pandemonium. There were several shouts from all over the house. Someone was talking to me but I couldn’t make head or tail of what he was saying. Where was Sakhile? Where were my other siblings? What about my parents? In the din, I could see people pouring water on the angry flames. Some were splashing sand on, all in a vain attempt to douse the flames which were devouring everything in the house.
As my senses were coming back, I could see people frantically on their phones. I believe they were calling the police, hospital and fire fighters. The rest were watching helplessly as the flames engulfed the whole house. At that moment, I saw Sakhile. The pain I saw on her face was indescribable. I ran into her arms screaming and lamenting the destiny that was staring us in the face. Onlookers were silent and tearful. When the fire fighters arrived, the tragedy deepened. They were ill-equipped and their system malfunctioned. Angry residents shouted insults at them and heaped blame on them for their legendary incompetence. The audacious ones threw a few stones at them in the heat of the moment.
The arrival of the police and an ambulance crew didn’t help matters. There was shock and disbelief all over. Our parents and the kids were still trapped inside. Sakhile collapsed under the mango tree and soon three women from the neighbourhood were busy attending to her. The roof of the eastern side of the house caved in and there were sounds of terror from the onlookers. A medic joined in the attempt to revive Sakhile. She lay prostrate on the dusty patch. Eventually, the fire was put out but all hope of getting any survivors from the smouldering ruin was lost. It was as if my heart was in liquid fire. To expect miracles was unthinkable. I stood rooted to the spot, supported by Mr. Tom, our neighbour.
The fire fighters made their way into the house. We held our breath and waited. Everything had happened so fast. It was like we were watching a horror movie. Instinctively, everyone moved closer to the house. The heat was dissipating. The people were silent, powerless and their bodies were moving as if on their own. There was a sombre atmosphere as a sullen body of human sympathisers waited – melancholic and depressed. After what seemed ages, there were movements and people’s eyes were reverted to the kitchen door. The fire fighters asked for blankets from well-wishers. This was it! They didn’t have to confirm it at all. This granted, they disappeared into the house or what remained of the house. When next they emerged, they had four bodies of my family members. They were burnt beyond recognition. They were found, we later learnt, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen. My heart and mind ceased. I was numb with grief. I experienced some convulsions, and for the second time, I lost consciousness.
The funeral was an affair out of this world. Four coffins were paraded before us. My sister and I sat like statues close to our aunt – teary and gloomy. Buckets of tears continued to fall. Our hearts had been split into pieces which couldn’t find each other. We had wept ourselves to a standstill. As the funeral proceedings continued, our eyes were almost dry. They were red – lack of sleep and crying. We were like moving ghosts. We followed the events like robots. It was, to us, like a mechanical process not meant to involve us. The world clock had stopped and all was in turmoil. It was as if we were living outside of ourselves and watching ourselves from outer space. When at last the coffins were lowered into the ground, we felt as if we were falling into a bottomless pit. Darkness embraced us. We knew not what was happening around us and what would happen.
The funeral over, we held onto our aunt, our only solace in a world of strangers. We walked into a void and a dark cloud descended upon us. We, the two survivors, without anything to our names, stood like stumps gazing into the western horizon. Our future seemed to follow the fading sunset. It wasn’t up to us. Our future hung precariously on a thin thread. That thread was Aunt Naomi. All we could do was hope. Our sun had set at noon…
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
PUBLISH'D AFRIKA 