I am from Zimbabwe and I am looking for an agent for my book of tales about my Zimbabwean childhood, my childood home being in the capital Harare. I hope you enjoy my style of writing and hopefully you will represent me. Thank you.

Sample Chapter

The Business

Father owned a thriving shop in Harare that sold an assortment of goods ranging from toys, radios and television sets to bicycles and key rings. It was a shop that was bright and bustling with constant activity and where money changed hands so often you could smell it in the air.

I would go to my father’s shop as often as I could. His secretary’s name was Jane and there was also Hitman, the bouncer who was named after Brett ‘Hitman’ Hart, a famous wrestler at the time. I do not know what his real name was but our Hitman was one of several shop guards and he was one of my father’s friends. There was also Bernard, another guard, along with Farai, James and Emanuel who were the repair team. Emanuel was a computer expert who worked together with a technician called Tawanda and between them these guys could fix anything that was not working properly. Father also owned a small repair shop behind the main shop, which was occupied by James, Emanuel, Tawanda and Farai and this was where a lot of the dirty work was done.

Some of the imported electrical products would arrive damaged but the guys in the back would put them back together again and make them look brand new so they could be sold at the full price. James ended up by being fired because a client came to the repair shop one day with a radio that needed to be repaired. James had removed some of the parts then told the client it could not be fixed but unfortunately the client knew a thing or two about electronics and when he arrived home he opened up the radio to find that half of the parts were missing. He came back the next day with the police and though father convinced the client to drop the charges against him James was fired. There was also a team of carpenters who repaired any damaged items in the furniture section and at times they would completely resurrect the dusty pieces of old broken furniture into attractive looking pieces which Father and his salesmen would convince clients were antiques and were often paid sizeable amounts for them. I do not remember the names or faces of the entire workforce but to a child the shop was a very vibrant place where exciting things happened.

Because it was a busy place and a tempting prospect for thieves due to the large sums of cash it generated, the shop was robbed more than once. I still clearly remember Hitman’s vivid narration of one of the robberies. It was around half past five in the evening and Father had closed the shop to count the money before heading for the bank. Just after the money had been packed into a bag, about ten masked men forced their way into the shop and demanded the cash. Father was renowned for his quick temper so naturally he became enraged and began screaming at the intruders. The leader of the robbers calmly walked up to Father, slapped him across the face then stepped back. To everyone’s dismay this slap was enough to quell Father midway through his ranting and on seeing their boss being manhandled and silenced with a single slap the cowardly bouncers and so called heads of security Hitman and Bernard ran for the hills.

According to their fellow employees they ran so hard they bumped the robbers out of the way and were out of the door in a flash. The robbers gave chase and Hitman and Bernard ended up running into a college situated nearby where they hid behind the desk in the principal’s office even as she sat there. They later claimed that the robbers had chased them into the college and that they hid behind the principal’s door and watched through the gap between the door and the frame as the robbers passed by the office, but this story is doubtful because it is unlikely that the robbers would have run through the streets and into a college wearing masks.

The principal’s version was different. She said that Hitman and Bernard arrived breathless, sobbing and near to tears, begging her to call the police and saying that men were after them even though there were no men in sight. They were so terrified that they were still hiding behind the principal at her desk when the police arrived. More likely the robbers ran into an alley, took off their masks and disbanded when they failed to catch up with Hitman and Bernard as they fled.

Hitman was well known for having a large mouth as he was very talkative. He was once beaten by a gang of street kids who in Harare are notorious for their drug consumption, their thuggish menace, their violence and the fact that they are completely filthy. They are normally shoeless and have kinky hair. Hitman was apparently outside smoking during his lunch break when he spotted a street kid aged around eight to ten years. He told this street kid to stop staring at him and go away and naturally the street child replied with some powerful language and then proceeded to insult Hitman’s mother. This enraged the temperamental Hitman who went inside and grabbed a sjambok which is a long rubbery weapon somewhere between a whip and a baton. On seeing Hitman returning the street kid ran and Hitman gave chase. Hitman chased him into an alley where he was immediately surrounded by the street kid’s older sidekicks who laid into Hitman. Though he begged them for mercy and offered them money to let him go, Hitman received a thorough beating from the gang who took all his clothes save for his underwear. Hitman returned to the shop in a daze wearing only his bright orange underpants and displaying a large bruise. He had fallen into the oldest street kid trap whereby they insult you to make you chase them so they can outnumber you and rob you. Hitman had many misfortunes in his time. I was told later that he had died in the early years of the new millennium.

Apparently Tyson got his nickname because he would physically pick up rowdy customers and deposit them on the pavement outside if they dared try to argue with Father. Father always had a way of fighting with people, particularly difficult customers. Because he actually believed he was better than they were he would frequently insult people and so the shop saw a wide variety of altercations, although few of them resulted in flying fists. I don’t remember but I am told that when I was still very young and my father was arguing with someone I would rush up and bite that person’s leg, an experience guaranteed to shock the recipient.

At one time a well dressed man came in and bought a video camera but my father accidentally gave him the wrong recording tape, which the man didn’t realize until he had gone home. When he returned the next day and explained what had happened Father, being Father, lost his temper and first called the man a liar and then a thief. The man tried to show Father his receipt but Father would not hear of it and said the man was insulting him by saying he had given him the wrong product. Father genuinely believed he never made mistakes but this time he went a step too far. First he insulted the man’s father and then, not being known for his restraint, he went on to call the man’s mother a whore. At that point the man calmly excused himself and walked out.

Several hours later he returned with at least eight large and intimidating looking friends. This time he was wearing a vest and jeans, bare-armed and wearing gym gloves with a red bandana knotted around his head. His chest muscles were rippling inside his vest and he looked a terrifying sight as he challenged Father to fight. In my fear for my father’s life I immediately wet my shorts. Hitman, as usual, tried to act tough and stop the man but he received a swift cracking uppercut to the jaw that took him straight to Dreamland for ten minutes. Father now looked terrified as he tried to speak calmly but the man wouldn’t listen and he even gave Father a slap to try to enrage him enough to fight. Because Father knew he would lose the fight he wouldn’t come out from behind the counter but whilst all this was happening his secretary Jane had gone into the office and called the police. By then I was bawling and screaming in a corner in my wet shorts. It turned out the man’s mother whom my father had described as a whore had recently died and that the customer had bought the video camera to record her funeral.

Luckily the police responded quickly for a change and came to Father’s aid. On seeing the policemen Father, who earlier on had been stammering, slurring and looking gaunt, immediately became his old self and began roaring profanities. He challenged the man and knowing that the police were present he even dared to slap him across the face. There was a brief commotion which the police swiftly broke up and the officer in charge began to lecture both men, telling them to act like grown-ups especially in front of innocent young children like me. He obviously didn’t know about the leg biting but this stern lecture seemed to work and left both men looking chastened. They shook hands and even hugged each other. Father had been saved by the police and he ended up giving the man the correct tape, which was all he had wanted to begin with.

The Bongiwes

Mother was quite a traveler and in the course of her travels she met many people and made many friends, among whom was a large red haired woman whom I did not like. I would tell Mother this but she would laugh at me and in order to silence me would tell me she would not invite Mrs. Bongiwe to the house again but because of her unfortunate nature Mrs. Bongiwe was not one to wait for an invitation.

Wherever she went Mrs. Bongiwe carried a large dark leather handbag and small black umbrella, neither of which ever left her side. What was fascinating about her to a young child was that she was black yet she had a shock of red hair. She also had a bulbous nose on her chubby face and a loud and sudden laugh that could give anyone who wasn’t prepared for it a heart attack. She also had a deep voice like a man that I never got used to.

Mrs. Bongiwe was a heavy eater and whenever she was at our house during meal times she would clear her plate completely. For some reason I would at times find her large greedy fingers roaming all over my plate too which always thoroughly annoyed me. She and I officially became sworn enemies the day she ate more than three quarters of my packet of Korn Kurls and from then on it was war. She would visit our mother on most weekends, the days we normally spent with Father, so we would only meet her for only a few minutes at a time as she was leaving the house as Father took me and my brother back. On about the third time we met, which was on a bright and glorious Friday afternoon, Mrs Bongiwe arrived at the house as I was watching Mr. Bean on the television whilst playing with my toys and eating the large packet of Korn Kurls I already mentioned, those being my favourite snack food at the time. When Mother and she walked in Mrs. Bongiwe was as loud as ever and was talking at the top of her voice. She saw me and walked over to shake my hand but both my hands were occupied since one was inside the packet of Korn Kurls the other was holding a toy car. I thought a smile would suffice as a greeting but the pushy Mrs. Bongiwe was having none of it. She yanked the packet of Korn Kurls out of my hand, shook it forcefully then rubbed my head very roughly. Mother simply smiled as I gave Mrs. Bongiwe a cursing look. I resumed eating my Korn Kurls and playing with my toys whilst Mother went into the kitchen together with Ashley to organise some lunch.

When Mrs. Bongiwe saw Mother leave the room she decided to join me on the carpeted floor and in doing so she began to attack my packet of Korn Kurls, stuffing them into her mouth while she was talking. Since I had no interest in whatever it was she was talking about it went in one ear and out through the other but after about five minutes I decided to have another handful of Korn Kurls. As I put my hand into the packet I felt it sink in ever further, almost to the bottom. The packet was almost empty and the red haired hippopotamus beside me had demolished almost all the Korn Kurls. I looked at her with icy fury. This time she had gone too far and I was determined to take revenge on her in some way. With great emphasis I told Mrs. Bongiwe that she was fat and that I did not like her, which for once left her speechless for she could not believe her ears. I then told her to leave my mother alone and not to come to our house again. This so outraged her that after checking to see that no one was present, she put her face very close to mine and punched me really hard in one of my kidneys then said ‘Listen here, boy. I will not leave, and if you test me I shall remain here forever!’ She released me and sent me on my way with a hard tap on the bottom with her umbrella. It was my turn to be shocked. I was the king of my house yet the appalling Mrs. Bongiwe had just attacked me. Unfortunately I couldn’t do much about it so I headed to my room to cry a little and to plot further vengeance.

Mrs. Bongiwe became a regular visitor to our house and I would always try to avoid her because whenever she could she was sure to give me a swift kick or a rap on the shins with her umbrella when no-one was looking and, of course, she continued to take food from my plate during meal times.

As the weeks went by it dawned on me that Father despised the overpowering Mrs. Bongiwe as much as I did and I decided to take this as a signal for further action. Apparently she had developed the habit of visiting Father’s shop and as she walked around she would knock things over with her large bag and umbrella leaving huge damage in her wake. This always annoyed Father but what annoyed him more was how she would hang on his arm and talk very loudly for minutes on end whilst he was trying to conduct business. This sight always caused much amusement among the workers as Father would look like a cornered deer while in the clutches of Mrs. Bongiwe.

Mrs. Bongiwe came to lunch every Saturday. I remember how her husband would normally drop her off and then disappear before returning to pick her up after a few hours. He was a tall, shy, very thin man with a bushy mustache who hardly ever spoke. Normally he would just say ‘Hello!’ through the half-open car window and then leave again but one afternoon Mother begged him to come indoors for a few minutes which he did, but when he reached the front door he took off his shoes before crossing the threshold. This was odd enough but what I found even more peculiar was that he was not wearing any socks. He took off his shoes and clutching them in his hand he went into the living room behind Mother and his wife and I followed behind them. As usual I was observing silently and eavesdropping on the adults’ stories, sometimes pitching into their conversation with my uninvited ideas.

A few minutes after the arrival of Mr. Bongiwe I began to smell a rather curious smell which led me to think someone had farted. The smell kept getting stronger but I knew for sure that no fart was so strong that it gained power as the minutes passed. As I began to sniff to try and find the source of the smell I noticed Mother also wrinkling her nose a little which confirmed that I was the not the only one who could smell it. Naturally I suspected one of the Bongiwes and to my mind the most likely perpetrator was the immense Mrs. Bongiwe since she never stopped eating. By now I was determined to find the source the smell and extinguish it. First I grabbed a can of air freshener and began to discreetly spray it around. Mother noticed and gave me a warning look but I had to continue as the smell was unbearable. After a few minutes Mother went into the kitchen to ask Ashley to prepare some snacks and I followed her and started talking about the stink. She confirmed that she could also smell it and said she suspected there was a dead rat somewhere but I pointed out that the smell was not there before the guests arrived.

After a while Mother led everyone towards the dining table where we began eating the snacks. The vile stink followed us. It did not seem to bother our guests at all, which made me even more suspicious that one of them was responsible. I began eyeballing each of them in turn and when I locked eyes with Mr. Bongiwe he seemed uncomfortable and became jittery. By then the smell was so terrible that I was beginning to lose my appetite. We had a large oak dining table that could seat twelve people and I used to enjoy crawling underneath it and hiding there, especially when there was a tablecloth covering it and no one could see me. I crawled under the table and there I spotted Mr. Bongiwe’s shoes. He had been carrying them around since he entered the house and it dawned on me that that was where the stink was coming from. I moved forward cautiously and sniffed the shoes and indeed they smelled terrible. Then I decided to sniff Mr. Bongiwe’s feet and the stench they produced was even worse than that of his shoes.

I crawled out from beneath the table and gave him an accusing look. By then he was looking extremely guilty and was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. I kept looking at him and perhaps because I was staring at him he seemed to guess that I knew his feet were the source of the ghastly smell. The fact that anyone one so skinny could produce such a colossal smell first made me smile before my eyes began to water as I tried to choke down my chuckles. Mr. Bongiwe grew even more uncomfortable for he knew it was only a matter of time before everyone else asked me what was amusing me and he was revealed as the source of the stink. He kept trying to excuse himself so he could leave but he couldn’t interrupt his wife who by then was on a roll, telling the other two adults some loud involved story or another to do with her travels.

After a few minutes I could take it no longer and burst into laughter which caused the adults to look at me in curiosity. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and after a while I started waving my hand in front of my nose to indicate that something was smelling. This seemed to shock Mrs. Bongiwe and surprisingly she suddenly noticed the smell for the first time. Mother gave me another laden look. Mr. Bongiwe tried to pretend he did not know where the smell was coming from and when my mother kindly suggested there may have been be a dead rat somewhere, perhaps in the attic or behind a piece of furniture, he took the lifeline and agreed with her but my childish mind would not let him off the hook so easily. I said “Mother, it’s not a dead rat. The smell is coming from Mr. Bongiwe’s shoes.”

On hearing this my mother gasped and said ‘John!’ sharply in a bid to silence me. Mrs. Bongiwe looked outraged and Mother threw the couple an apologetic look. By then there was no stopping me and I told my mother that if she thought I was wrong she should smell Mr. Bongiwe’s shoes for herself. Mrs. Bongiwe glared at her husband who was completely lost for words and looking deeply embarrassed. In a gesture of defeat he lifted his shoes up and said to me ‘Here. You can take my shoes outside for me’ On seeing him extending his lethally smelly footwear towards me I laughed, screamed, clutched my nose and backed away and told him I would not touch his shoes. By then, though Mother was managing to keep a straight face I could see the laughter in her eyes. Mr. Bongiwe received another stern look from his wife which he took as his cue to leave and he in turn shot me a dark look laden with malignance. Even Mrs. Bongiwe seemed slightly embarrassed as we all escorted Mr. Bongiwe, who had put his shoes on again, to the car. He drove away looking sheepish but as usual his wife stayed behind for lunch, though on that occasion she was slightly less talkative. When her husband came to pick her up later in the afternoon he parked outside the gate and stayed in the car and when Mrs. Bongiwe had made her exit and Mother had walked back into the house, we both laughed until we cried. How she had managed to hold in her laughter throughout that lunch with the Bongiwes fills me with wonder to this day.

After that, mainly because I had the feeling Mother did not really like the woman either, it became my sole mission in life to sabotage her friendship with Mrs. Bongiwe. One afternoon Mother left me in the living room with Mrs. Bongiwe and her sister who was equally loud, though to be fair she was slightly thinner. On that occasion Ashley was not there so being an excellent cook Mother decided to prepare the lunch herself.

I was having a rather bad week for I had a runny tummy and had to keep trotting to the toilet but on one of those many visits I realised there was no paper left and that Mother was too far away to hear me calling her. I was sitting and trying to think of something when inspiration struck. I decided to get up and walk to the kitchen through the living room buck naked and with a dirty backside.

I went into the living room were Mother’s two guests were sitting. As I walked in, Mrs. Bongiwe’s sister stopped dead in mid sentence and stared at me in shock while Mrs. Bongiwe followed her gaze to where I stood naked before them. I turned around, bent down and touched my toes, which produced a sudden intake of breath from both of them followed by a loud shriek from Mrs. Bongiwe’s sister. I walked into the kitchen where I also startled my mother with my total nakedness though by now I had put a sickly and sorrowful expression on my face to gain her sympathy. Knowing nothing of the havoc I had just unleashed in the living room, Mother took me by the hand and led me kindly back to the toilet, flashing the two traumatised women a sympathetic look along the way. Mother bathed me quickly and when I was clean again she went back to the kitchen to finish preparing the lunch. When we all sat down to eat I realised we were having spaghetti and mince which made me smile for the sight of this meal made the two guests even more uncomfortable as the food kept reminding them of my earlier performance and the fact that mother had touched my dirty little backside then gone back to finish cooking their lunch. For once Mrs. Bongiwe ate less voraciously and her wandering hands stayed well clear of my plate.

For a while after that the Sunday lunches passed off normally with Mrs. Bongiwe at times surreptitiously pinching me or giving me slaps on the back of the head that no-one else noticed. One afternoon we were having steak and roast potatoes for lunch. Mrs. Bongiwe had thoroughly enjoyed this lunch and had already had two helpings before her forever mischievous right hand began to rove over my plate, stealing potatoes or trying to pilfer slivers of the steak that had been cut into small pieces for me by my mother. After a while I grew tired of Mrs. Bongiwe’s scavenging hand and a solution came to me in a flash. I first thought of stabbing Mrs. Bongiwe’s hand with my fork but then I decided that this would not suffice and that a knife would do more lasting damage to her fat and greedy fingers. I was using a sharp steak knife to slice my potatoes and as her hand began to hover over my plate whilst she was talking to Mother I carefully positioned my knife then looked up. I swiftly bought my hand down and began to cut. Mrs. Bongiwe let out a loud scream and pulled her hand away. She threw me one of her most vicious looks but I looked shocked and innocent. Mother looked at me suspiciously but I put on my most angelic expression and said “I am truly sorry, Mrs. Bongiwe. I did not mean to hurt you.” From then on Mother made sure that Mrs. Bongiwe and I met as infrequently as possible. I had eventually won.