Trymore MacVivo

Short story 1: A confession

The man, clad in a immaculately cut grey three-piece suit, walked down the carpeted main hall in the hotel under the glinting crystal chandeliers, crossed the hotel reception area, stepped into the hotel bar and sat down at his usual spot at the back. Despite the dim lighting in the almost deserted bar, his freshly shaved head shone, gleaming riotously of Vaseline (or cooking oil?) like that of a Jowani Masowe church elder. Looking at the man as the waiter gave him his usual drink—Black Label on the rocks—one could be mistaken to think he was a business man, an oil magnate from Nigeria perhaps? In fact, this was Arthur Mutambara, taking a refresher in Meikels hotel in central Harare away from his disappointing campaign.  

Arthur, “faction leader” as the state media calls him, loves the ambience of Meikels’ Explorer's Club, one of the two exclusive, membership only pubs. It reminded him of his early seminal days at Oxford as a student at St. Edmund Hall. Back then, after classes, he would visit the Teddy bar, to drink, watch the FA premier league and to reminisce about home, for this was his first time living outside the country. Today, only a few days before the March 29 watershed election, Arthur was ill at ease, for his mind was occupied. Issues of the election and the MDC II he led weighed heavily on his mind. “I should have never accepted to join this MDC faction,” Arthur thought in regret that bordered on remorse, as he nursed his drink waiting for his friend and ally Ncube, to arrive. He felt remorse for he more than anyone else, knew that MDC II would be thrown into the dustbin of history after March 29.  

Even his die hard cadres like Paul Nyathi, had expressed their fears to him since the beginning of March. “What will become of me if I lose this election? What am I to do Arthur, tell me?” the fiery Trudy Stevenson had spoken to him on the phone only a few hours earlier. Judging by the number of people who came to the rallies he personally addressed, Arthur knew, statistically speaking, that all House of Assembly candidates from his party would lose in the elections on March 29. “With no members in the House of Assembly or the Senate, surely MDC II would be finished,” he had read somewhere.  

Drinking his forth pint, Arthur reconsidered the monumental decision he made following the failure of the reunification talks. That day, he realized that sweet as politics was, it was time he withdrew from the limelight and rejoin the academia, where his superior intellect enabled him to succeed. 

The trouble was how to tell this to his Godfather, Ncube. If he were to tell Ncube today during their surreptitious meeting, what would the man do? Would he explode in a fit of anger? It was difficult for him to know what might happen, but he had made up his mind. “Instead of lying to the man, I will tell him the truth,” Arthur vowed with fervor. As he was about to order another pint, Biggie, one of his aides, rushed to his side and whispered: “Prof. Ncube is here, sir.” He checked his watch and noted that Ncube was late by an hour. Slightly annoyed, he said to Biggie: “Is he alone, like I arranged with him?”

“That is correct, sir. He is alone as agreed.”

“Okay, take him up to my suite.”  

After a two minute delay, Arthur went up the stairs (the lifts not working, no electricity), to his suite, up on the seventh floor, desperately trying to summon the confidence to tell Prof. Ncube the truth. 

Arthur loved the suite in the South Wing of the hotel, overlooking Africa Unity Square Gardens which came complete with a separate lounge, fax/computer modem point, air conditioning, satellite television in the lounge and bedroom and best of all, butler service! 

He found Prof. Ncube sitting on one of the black leather couches in the lounge, smoking a cigarette while watching CNN on the satellite TV.  Arthur dismissed his two aides with a slight curt of his left hand.  

“You are late,” Arthur said, taking a seat opposite the former UZ professor, struggling to veil his displeasure. Arthur loathed people who didn’t keep time, a habit he had developed in the US during all the years he spent there working.

“My apologies, I was tied up at headquarters,” Prof. Ncube said, trying to lighten up Arthur’s corrosive mood while using the remote to lower the volume on the TV. “I’m sure you know things are busy these days, what with the elections two days away,” the professor added. Arthur’s anger evaporated instantly, for he was not a petty man. Ever since Prof. Ncube had scripted and executed Arthur’s ascendancy to the presidency of the MDC II, the two men had developed a cordial working relationship, warm feelings as it were. As a result, they were at ease with each other, in each other’s company. 

Arthur, forgiving Prof. Ncube of being late, the two men’s talk lapsed into the pantomime, the banal. At last, there was an ephemeral pause in their candid conversation. Prof. Ncube then spoke of the campaign.  

Prof. Ncube spoke of how good and awesome the campaigning was going in Matabeleland for their party, of how their party was going to win, of how together with Dr. Makoni they would go on to form a government of national unity. “There is no way Simba will leave us out, we have been on his side since he began his project,” he said at one point, with Arthur doing most of the listening.  

Arthur was amused. It boggled the mind to know that here was a man building castles in the clouds by pretending that MDC II would win seats in the elections. It was an amusing charade; one he had exercised himself since the re-unification talks collapsed.  

Prof. Ncube lit another cigarette and was about to continue his delusional and nonsensical talk when Arthur stopped him by suddenly saying: “Welshman, I’m not a child. Let us stop playing games.”

“What?” the professor was taken off guard.

“It is time for the two of us to be serious with each other. We have to look at the facts, and from those facts draw up pragmatic conclusions.”

“What do you mean,” the professor asked, slightly baffled.  

Arthur ran his hand over his bald head in a gesture of anxiety. He stood up, made three steps to the mini-fridge, retrieved a bottle of Coke, opened it and declared: “Welshman, you know as well as I do that there is no way any of our candidates will win in this election.” Prof. Ncube looked away from Arthur to hide his embarrassment, and put out his cigarette. He sighed loudly, like a man defeated. A look came over him, that look of a man about to confess of being a murderer or a wizard.

“To tell you the truth, I have had my fears about this also, I confess.” Prof. Ncube said in a feeble voice. Arthur was confused by his response. How come the professor was not freaking out? Why wasn’t he getting angry?

“Really, you have known all along that most of the guys won’t win?” Arthur asked at last in utter shock. He had never imagined that Prof. Ncube had reached the same conclusion as him. So they had been fooling each other all along? It was impossible to imagine.  

“Yes. I have been afraid to say this to you. I mean, even me, I struggled to find support in Makokoba. All my rallies were poorly attended. There is no way I will vanquish Khupe. Looking at that fact alone, I realized that we are finished.”

“I thought…I thought…I thought you didn’t know and you actually believed that we will win?” Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  

“It was all just a show, a pretense really,” the professor said with a straight face.

“I can’t believe this.”

“It is the truth. You know what Arthur; politics is a bad thing, dirty business full of lies and empty promises.”

“I know what you mean; I have realized that just now.” Arthur took a casual sip of his coke and said: “But professor, I’m curious about something. Have you already planned what you will do after the elections?”

“Of course Arthur, I have plotted my future,” the professor said and paused to gaze at the ashtray sitting atop a coffee table between them in the center of the lounge. “I think I will work on developing my farm. I was a beneficiary of the Third Chimurenga you know. Only two weeks ago, I received a tractor under the Agriculture Mechanization Scheme.”

“Surely professor you can do better than that!”

“I know. I won’t turn my back on academia completely. I will work as a lawyer, in Bulawayo, you know…taking on the usual simple cases. I mean, defending the little man now and again.”

“I have an idea, why don’t you come with me? I have already passed around my CV; the people back at MIT have expressed some interest in me. I can find you a better paying job…even a tenure track professorship position at some university in the US. I have connections, you know.”

“Why would you do that for me Arthur?”  Arthur laughed, the curling of his thick lips exposing his flossed white teeth.

“It’s time for me to pay back. Take this favor as a thank you for everything you have done for me. You made me the president of this MDC II faction! That shows you are a true friend. Who else could have done me that favor?”   

The two men spoke into the night. Instead of telling their colleagues about what they had decided, what they were going to do after the elections, they agreed to keep it a secret.  

Trymore MacVivo

(Converse with the writer here: macvivo@alumni.grinnell.edu).