Perfect Imperfections

Makanaka Mavengere-Munsaka

Description

Maxine escapes an abusive polygamous marriage to a man much older than her to make a new life in Harare, Zimbabwe. The story follows the five madams she works for. Through them, we see the struggles of women trying to hold down careers and relationships in a big city where tradition, patriarchy, domestic abuse and unhealthy societal behaviours form a backdrop. While Maxine bears witness to the women’s lives, she also tries to work through her own issues, finding a way to free herself of the cruel man she married and experience meaningful relationships. The book explores women learning about and seeking the love they feel they deserve. Whether self-love or romantic love, each woman must find the courage to believe in and hold onto that love. Through Maxine’s narration, the intricacies of the relationship women share with their helpers are uncovered. These relationships reveal the truth that women can discover themselves via their friendships with other women.

Sujets

• Littérature Africaine
• Littérature Africaine
• Romance
• Romance d'Afrique de l'Ouest
• Littérature Sud-Africaine
• Littérature sud-africaine
• Littérature
• Nouvelle
• Nouvelle, Quebec
• South Africa
• Novela corta
• Littérature
• Littérature

Informations

• Publié par: Blackbird Books
• Date de parution: 01 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781928337911
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Perfect Imperfections



Perfect Imperfections
Makanaka Mavengere-Munsaka




First published by Blackbird Books, 2019
593 Zone 4
Seshego
Polokwane 0742
South Africa
www.blackbirdbooks.africa
© Makanaka Mavengere-Munsaka, 2019
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-928337-91-1
Also available in print.
Cover design by Maggie Davey
Cover artwork © Sindiso Khumalo
Editing by Nkhensani Manabe
Proofreading by Megan Mance
See a complete list of Blackbird Books titles at www.blackbirdbooks.africa



To my late grandmothers, Mucharuvhunza Bessie (Hwena) Mavengere and Christina Mataga Mandemwa (née Mashingaidze)
To the 16-year-old Makanaka who spoke this book into existence ...


Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Exciting New Look for BlackBird Books Fiction




Prologue
Present Day
The atmosphere in the village court was tense. Sinyoro’s wives were sitting on one side, all looking unnerved. I did not understand why the chief needed to hear from them. None of them would have dared to go astray; Sinyoro seemed to have the leaves and grass working as his agents, telling him of their every move through their silent whispers.
My parents and sister walked in first, then me and Tamuka followed close behind them. Everyone turned to look at us with shock written on their faces. ‘It’s that wife of Sinyoro … Maxine even has the audacity to come with the man she met in the city! Nhasi pachauraiwa munhu pano.’ I heard people murmuring all around me, some speculating that Tamuka’s presence at the hearing would cause serious trouble.
Tamuka had insisted on coming to stand by my side, knowing that my husband Sinyoro would not welcome him. As we waited for the chief to arrive and as people continued to snigger, I began to feel very afraid.
August 2006
The heavy booted feet of workers making their way home after a long day in the fields, the wheels of old trucks that delivered supplies to the village every so often, the feet of school children walking more than two hours to and from the nearest school and heavily laden scotch carts drawn by oxen that had seen better days had all worn the red, cracked gravel road in Buhera, Zimbabwe. The dusty path led to Michero Mitatu village.
As the sun was setting, the inhabitants of the village could be heard settling into their evening routines. There were muted conversations from the men as they made their way home from the village court and the loud whistles of the herdboys as they rounded up the cattle, directing them into the kraals.
Pots were clanking as the women put what meagre rations they could find together into a wholesome meal for their families and some girls could be seen walking back from the well at a leisurely pace, balancing calabashes of water on their heads as they snickered and laughed out loud at whatever rumours were circulating in the village.
I gazed into the distance, following the long winding path with my eyes, and wondered about the world beyond it. The world where I heard meals could be prepared on a contraption that did not require firewood; where people lived in houses that were big enough to hold entire villages; and where both women and men could earn a living and provide a better life for their families. The place I knew I was probably never going to see.
August 2005
I was a happy fifteen-year-old girl, full of life, with the dream of one day going to the city to study to be a teacher. Unlike my peers, I loved school despite the fact that it was two hours away. I did not care that the school was made up of a tiny office block, two windowless classrooms for the A-level students, and a few Musasa trees scattered around the grounds with old blackboards stuck on their trunks on which all the knowledge I had accumulated thus far had been scribbled with white chalk.
I did not take to heart the remarks of teachers like Ms Pararayi, a science teacher who felt that doing arts subjects (English, history and Shona) was a complete waste of time. She would say, ‘Kutoita maArts? Mxm.’ Ms Pararayi was convinced that all of us doing these subjects were going to end up being traditional healers and believed we would be better off just going to the river and getting captured by a mermaid instead of wasting our time.
After school, I used to go to the borehole, fetch water for the house, gather firewood, take a bath in the river then rush home to assist my mother with cooking supper for the family. I did this almost daily and unlike everyone else around me, who seemed content with the tedious repetition and routine, I felt there was much more to life than being within the confines of Michero Mitatu.
I did not aspire to be married off to a man living in a brick house like most girls did, or hope to get a job in the nearby farms or mines like most boys did. I wanted to take my chances: go to the city and build a better life for myself. In my mind every sunrise and sunset meant I was a step closer to my dream.
But this all changed on 18 August 2005: the day my father’s youngest sister, Aunt Dorica, died from Malaria. A week after she was buried her husband Sinyoro, a fifty-seven-year old man with a skeletal frame, ashy grey skin, a big nose and foul breath, called for a meeting with my father’s family. He told my father and uncles that he needed them to honour the kugadza mapfihwa tradition: a girl from the deceased wife’s family had to be given away in marriage to Sinyoro, the widower.
After a lot of deliberation, my seventeen-year-old sister Maggie was selected as the replacement wife, but Sinyoro refused to take her. He claimed Maggie was ‘damaged goods’ because she had a ‘fatherless baby’. Another round of discussions and arguments ensued and when they died down the conclusion that had been reached was that in exactly a year – after Sinyoro had observed the year-long mourning period dictated by tradition – I was to take on the abominable duty of replacing my aunt.
I went numb when the news reached my ears. It felt as if, in that instant, a big black hole had opened up and was swallowing all that I was. I knew almost immediately that my life as I knew it was over. I was now going to be bound to a life of being treated like a baby-making machine and field worker whose only real purpose was to please my husband and increase his descendants. My hopes for my future were dashed.
I cried long and hard, because everything that was to become of me had come down to a tradition I did not even understand; a dictatorial one, religiously upheld by those who stood to benefit from it. In this case that was Sinyoro, a man who already had four other wives.
I could not believe how something as tiny as a mosquito could have changed my life so suddenly and so drastically. I felt betrayed by my parents and uncles because I expected them to protect me, but they went ahead and sold me off like a mere calf at an auction, demanding an extra payment from Sinyoro – more than what he had paid for my aunt – as a token of appreciation because I was ‘tender and fresh’.
When my father informed me that I also had to pull out of school with immediate effect, I cried even more, because education for me was my ticket out of poverty. Being pulled out of school just before final exams meant all my efforts over the years had been for nothing.
Every day after I heard my fate, I would wake up, sweep the homestead, fetch water, and prepare food for my mother as she headed to the fields and for my father who usually went to the village courtyard to engage in some frivolous discussions with other men. I would then sit under the mango tree next to the tiny mud hut kitchen praying for a miracle.
I would think of running away in the dead of night to board the bus and let it take me to that promised land called Harare. But every time the thought crossed my mind, reality always found a way to snatch me out of that fantasy, reminding me that I knew no one in the city and that I did not have a single cent to my name.
Sometimes I would stand at the entrance to our homestead, wishing I had given in when Simon (the chief’s son) made his demands, or had given a chance to Girimon and the host of village boys who spent years vying for my attention, getting into fist fights in the fields while they were herding cattle in a bid to prove that they were strong and worthy of my affection.
Ever since news of my impending marriage made the rounds, the same village boys avoided me like a plague because they feared the consequences that would befall them should they be seen even looking my way.
I had been condemned to aloneness.
30 August 2006
True to his word, exactly a year later Sinyoro came marching triumphantly to our house, demanding that I make my way to his homestead, and said that he expected to find me in his house when he returned from his visit to another village in five days.
In my desperation and despair, I spent those few days trying to think of ways and means to get myself out of the imminent predicament. I was so