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Hosea Tokwe

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Gweru-based writer Hosea Tokwe has worked in Librarianship since  1991. At  Mkoba Teachers  College was an Assistant Librarian from 1991 to 1996, and in  early 1997 he assumed the post of College Librarian. He then a Higher National Diploma in Library  in  2002 and returned  to Mkoba Teachers College for two and half years. In 2005,  he joined  Midlands State University, and was appointed to  the post of Senior Library Assistant.  In  2009 he was elevated to post of Chief Library Assistant, a post he has held to  date. With a passion for  writing, Hosea started performance at the Book Café   in 2009. He recently joined the Zimbabwe Writers Association, and is currently working on short stories which he hopes to get published. He is  married and has four children.  

The Carcass

I put on my navy blue suit that morning, confused, letting my  instincts lead the way. There is a main dust road I could have used but I  preferred a small footpath that threaded through the vast landscape. No, not the  main road I had told myself, never try to use this road, because the villagers  were a curious lot, always eager to find out about my journeys and also take
advantage of me for their own errands. The more I thought about this, the more  it irritated me. I disliked people who were fond of poking their dirty noses  into other people's affairs, affairs that did not concern them. That was why I  was now casting my gaze at the long, winding footpath. A cool wind swept across  the valley. From the East the sun was beginning to shine, glittering and  spreading across the surface of the earth like the sharp spikes of a garden  fork.

Above the thin grass it was all steamy, as if warm water had been  poured over the ground, yet this was early morning. The dew was evaporating  quickly to escape the impending heat, and it was no wonder the grasshoppers were  beginning to find their feet.

Hands in pockets, I whistled to cheer myself  up, disturbing the peace around me. No living soul was in sight. Where was  everyone else at this moment? Perhaps still dead in their sleep, or  rolling around and fighting off strange nightmares. As I watched every step I  made, on looking closer I realised that there were no other footprints here.  Instead, as I raised my head, bushy shrubs appeared in front of me and, amazingly,  the footpath was no longer visible. Stopping for a moment, I turned back and  could no longer work out the direction from which I had walked so far.

Thinking again about my position, I tried to come to terms with my confused  state of mind. Maybe it was time to readjust my thoughts, but just then a husky  voice, calling from behind, interrupted me. A little hesitant, I looked back  and came face to face with a short elderly man. His eyes were black and half  buried in a pair of puffy cheeks. The eyes were watery. "You are getting lost,  my friend, stop and follow me", he said in a strange voice. As I reached out my  hand to greet him, he brushed it aside and walked in front of me. The bottoms of  his oversized trousers swept through the short grass. From beneath his trousers  his white faded shoes could be seen as he walked, or possibly they were dyed  that colour; at all events they had no shoelaces but they fitted well and he  walked comfortably enough. "Just follow me”, he said with some authority, “I  know the footpath very well". As we walked we did not exchange any words as I  let him take control.

Where was he leading me? His worn out suit carried  a pungent smell, my nostrils itched and I found myself sneezing. I followed him  nevertheless until we approached a small stream flowing with clean water. It  brought me memories of my young days whilst herding cattle. Down it flowed and I  lifted my head and stared at a pool where a mermaid once lived. I felt a
chilling sensation in my body, I remembered those bright eyes and silver hair so  awesome, but now I wouldn’t like remembering that strange and queer human being.  As we crossed the stream, there in front of us stood a high anthill. On one side  of it were fresh diggings. Maybe a villager was about to prepare a mound of soil  to mould bricks, I thought to myself. On looking closer I caught sight of a  slight movement, surely something was buried beneath the earth trying to free
itself. The old man moved closer. Kneeling down, he gently removed some soil  with the palm of his hand. There was something there, rolling over and over.  Maybe a snake, I thought, black like the soil. Instinctively, the old man
stepped back with an awed expression on his face, and his eyes suddenly took on  a strange look full of fear, as the soil heaved in front of him. His hands were  muddy and he tried to shake the dirt off them. I remained still as if evil
forces were holding me fixed to the spot. Rolling once more, the creature  transformed itself, turning white and growing into something much bigger than a  snake. Slowly it emerged, a cow white in form with eyes masked, as though  covered in spider's webs. It was alive, fully skinned. Lifting itself out of the  ground, it raised a foreleg, pointing in our direction. My body warmed up, and  sweat flowed down and my clothes felt a sudden heaviness. I moved backwards,  terrified and speechless, feeling my heart beating fit to burst from my chest.

 The unseeing cow spoke, "Johannes, do not leave me here. Show me the way home."  Those teeth were caked with black mad, so terrifying. In panic, I fell to the  ground, overwhelmed and powerless. The old man gave a loud scream, shouting, "It
is not me who killed you". He begged and clapped his hands as if appeasing his  ancestors. The cow, now walking upright on its hind legs, blindly followed the old man,  declaring, "Johannes, you will never run way from me, I will smell you right to  your home."

Was this a dead body, I wondered, or a spirit sent to plague  the living? With that human voice, the strange carcass sent a chill down my  spine, rendering my joints powerless, and leaving me with a feeling of  hopelessness as I visualised myself having arrived among dead souls. I had heard  stories of rituals being conducted in our village with bulls being poured with  draught beer all over the body and assuming new ancestral names. To kill these  ancestral bulls would bring bad omen. The cattle rustlers were deaf to these  warnings, as they thrived on killing village herds with brutality. Was this  Benjamin, one of them? I tried to figure out. But the strange carcass was now  out of sight, I was sweating and panting and my legs were somehow carrying me  home. As I half walked and half ran I imagined there were queer-looking eyes  gazing at me and following each step I made all the way to my father's  homestead. It seemed a long way back tracing back my route home. Was I alive?
Exhausted, I collapsed in front of those eyes, that were both seeing and blind,  as life in me seemed to be drifting away, for in shock I could now truly see  myself, either living amongst the dead, or dead amongst the living.