The Sunday News
THE City of Kings was bustling with activity. The tall jacaranda trees that flanked the narrow, pot-holed streets of the city were in full bloom with a purple carpet on the tree tops. Birds filled the air with sweet melodies as they flopped from the tree to tree in search of food and nest-building materials.
Civil servants had just received their back-dated salary increments and they had descended upon the city in droves to do their shopping. Although the day was hot and humid, the people on the streets seemed oblivious to the discomfort. They resembled a swarm of ants whose work was careless and beyond human comprehension.
Madzibaba Eriya, a church prophet, wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand and just paused to buy airtime from a street vendor. Madzibaba Eriya was on cloud nine. He had just withdrawn $2 000 from the bank and he looked forward to a joyful weekend with his family in Luveve suburb. In his hand he clutched a huge bag that was crammed with groceries and new clothes for his six wives and children.
As often happens in a place where there are many people, there is always someone with evil intentions. A tall, thin man who wore dark glasses and was immaculately dressed in a grey, double-breasted suit followed Madzibaba Eriya as he plodded towards the commuter omnibus rank. The tall man was a notorious pick-pocket. He had seen Madzibababa Eriya produce a fat wallet that was crammed with money as he bought airtime and he now wanted to relieve him of the wallet.
Being a monthend, the commuter omnibus rank at Egodini was a hive of activity. Commuter omnibuses hooted sharply and revved their engines loudly as they prepared to ferry passengers to different destinations in the high and low density suburbs. Hlamba, the driver of a Luveve-bound commuter omnibus revved the engine of his vehicle, ready to depart for Luveve suburb.
“Luveve — Gwabalanda! Luveve — Gwabalanda!” The shabbily-dressed conductor of the kombi, yelled at the top of his hoarse, drink-sodden voice. The conductor was pint-sized with a knife scar on his right cheek and a large flat nose, giving the impression of a street fighter, who had fought and lost many street fights. He wore a greasy t-shirt labelled, “Legalise Marijuana and Tototo” and crumped denim trousers that looked as if they had not been washed since they were bought.
“Two more, Luveve — Gwabalanda!” the conductor shouted exposing his yellow, tobacco-stained rabbit-like teeth. “Let us go, Jack. We have to rely on pick and drops to make up for lost time”, the driver said, shifting into reverse gear.
Madzibaba Eriya walked briskly towards the Luveve bound kombi and joined a group of commuters who were shoving and jostling to get into the vehicle. The pick-pocket was behind Madzibaba Eriya, as he slid into the kombi, the pick-pocket struck. He stole a swift glance, left and right, and then with the speed of a striking cobra, he fished the wallet from Madzibaba Eriya’s back pocket. The pick-pocket also got into the kombi and squeezed himself into the back seat.
The driver reversed the kombi out of the parking bay and the vehicle was soon streaking towards Luveve like a bolt of lightning. There was no time to waste because the crew had a target to meet. While the employer’s target was $80 a day, the crew made over $150 a day by deviating to shorter routes during peak hours, overloading and short-changing commuters.
The kombi driver held the steering wheel with one hand as he had a half-full bottle of brandy in the other hand. Lovemore Majaivana’s “Umoya wami” rumbled loudly from kombi’s speakers and none of the commuters, who were packed like sardines in a tin, could hear what the other was saying. As the kombi swept past Mpopoma High School like a bat out of hell, the driver gulped down half of the brandy and half-turned to pass the bottle to the conductor, who was puffing at his cigarette. As he did so, he lost control of the vehicle. The kombi veered off the road, overturned and rolled several times before landing in a ditch with its wheels facing the sky.
Most of the commuters sustained serious injuries. The pick-pocket died on the spot. His face and body were disfigured and crushed beyond recognition. Madzibaba Eriya suffered severe head injuries and an ambulance ferried him and the other injured commuters to hospital. A few minutes later, a police truck drew to a screeching halt at the scene of the horrific crash. Two policemen nipped out of the truck, one of them had a notebook in his hand. He frisked the dead man’s pockets to establish his identity. He came across the wallet that the pick-pocket had snatched from Madzibaba Eriya. The police officer jotted down in his note-book.
The two police officers then placed the corpse in a metal coffin and whisked it away to a mortuary. Shortly afterwards, they drove to Luveve to break the news of the death to Madzibaba Eriya’s family. Friends, relatives, workmates and neighbours thronged Madzibaba Eriya’s home for the funeral.
The real Madzibaba Eriya had lost control of his mental faculties and had been transferred to Ingutsheni Central Hospital. He absconded from the hospital at night and failing to find his way home, spent the night in clump of dense shrubbery near a newly-dug grave at Luveve Cemetery. As fate would have it, the pick-pocket was buried at the same cemetery the following day.
The hearse carrying the body of the deceased pick-pocket arrived at the cemetery in the morning. The coffin was placed near the grave. The pastor opened the Holy Bible and read about the resurrection of Lazarus. Then he closed the Bible and delved into sermon. Huge, colourless teardrops rolled down his cheeks and his voice now rose to shrieking, emotionally-charged crescendo: “And it shall come to pass that the Lord will call with a loud voice and the dead will hear him and come out of their graves. The Lord will say: Madzibaba Eriya Arise! And . . .”
At that moment, Madzibaba Eriya sprang out of the shrubbery, where he had spent the night. The sudden appearance of Madzibaba Eriya chilled the pastor to the very marrow of his bones. Convinced it was a ghost, the pastor fled from the cemetery at a speed that would have turned the Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt green with envy. High-pitched screams and wails shredded the still morning air as the rest of the mourners followed the fleeing pastor.
