SHORT STORY: The Day Father Called Home

“Nyasha, Nyasha!”, sounded the voice. So piercing was it that it sent chills through my body.  Yet I could recognize that voice, many a times it wouldrebuke me, comfort me and console me. It was that voice that no child on earth could deny. That once sweet sounding voice like warm honey now shrouded with agony.  I could sense the urgency in that voice so much that it still haunts me even today. I hesitated but for a moment then I shot down the stairs as adrenaline was pumped through every vein of my body. Just then reality hit me in the face like a mighty tsunami wave on a fragile glass door. There she was, my dearest mother in the hands of Death. I could see him sink his dirty claws into her body sucking the very life that was left in her. There she lay, tranquil in his arms looking out before her as if she were reading from that divine book that preceded all books, that book of all fates. After a series of heart breaking coughs, Father called her home.

I sometimes wonder how I can compare the world to a hen. But no, what in comparison to a hen can the world bring to the table. I have searched all over but have not found it. In trouble the hen gathers her chicks under her wings reassuring them of her protection and of how no distress will befall them in her presence. Then I look at the world, in the passing of a shadow, COVID-19 has claimed his victims, robbed people of their livelihood and like a nosy relative, promises no departure. In panic everyone hides behind doors living but not living; eating, drinking and sleeping with no promise of tomorrow. “Time of death: 1914 hours, 27th of June 2020; cause of death: COVID-19,” crooned the nurses. I strolled down the streets of Gweru to my one-roomed home, feeling dejected and thinking about how I was to survive.

Then I thought of my sister, Nyaradzo who ran away to South-Africa in search of our estranged father. “What will become of me,” I muttered. From that point on I made it my goal to earn money to bring my sister back into the country for my mother’s memorial, but it was hard as everyone knew me as the daughter of the deceased by reason of  COVID-19. No one would allow me to do odd jobs around their houses, not even the boys on the streets would turn around to whistle at me anymore. I was officially on my last legs, with neither bread nor clothing. Doleful tears trickled down my cheeks, this was my eleventh hour. Weeks had passed since my mother’s death and I did not have enough money to send for Nyaradzo, let alone organize mother’s memorial. I staggered, drunk but not with wine but with sorrow. I hastened thoughtlessly to the backyard, rope in hand and tied it to a tree. Just as I was poking my head in it, a familiar figure raced towards me pushing me out of the way. I could not believe my eyes, it was Nyaradzo. We embraced each other wiping tears from each other’s eyes. She had a bundle of money which I assumed was for mother’s memorial and a letter in hand from father, “ Tears, tears my child- ‘ For He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes, there shall be no more death, nor more pain and no more crying.”