THE good shepherd’s predicament slowly unfolded before his eyes.
Power had gone off the whole hotel complex and apparently there was no back-up to keep the essential services going.
He was locked-up with a traumatised lost sheep in a lodge in the middle of a city in turmoil.
The traumatised sheep kept insisting that he should keep trying the reception desk even when the hotel line had gone dead.
The lift was dead.
They had tried to go down the staircase but it was so frighteningly dark the traumatised lost sheep had freaked out.
And now, back in the ‘love nest’, the good shepherd’s own trauma had begun building up from watching the traumatised lost sheep.
The traumatised lost sheep’s trauma refrain had changed from: “Mwari pindirai,” to: “Vana vangu kani nhai Mwari wangu.”
Pasowe remapostori, the woman who had not wanted her children to join the peaceful march had said to the prophet: “Mwana wangu ndamushaya.”
The prophet had queried: “Mamushaya?”
“Yes man of God. He defied my orders and went to join the demonstration. It is now end of day and he is not back and he is not answering his phone and I know these things never end well.”
The daughter had tugged at the mother’s long skirt and whispered: “Mhamha please don’t tell him anything.”
The mother had ignored the daughter.
The prophet had noticed that the daughter was beautiful and he had smiled and said to the mother: “You are wasting your time worrying about the boy. Ndamuratidzwa. Ari right chaizvo. Muregei aite zvaari kuita nevamwe vake.”
He had looked at the beautiful image of God and smiled.
Not knowing that the beautiful image of God was whispering a warning to the mother, the prophet had addressed the older woman image of God: “Asi regai nditaure ndichiti, Jehovha Mwari varatidza nyasha kwamuri nekuti ane dambudziko haasi mukomana sezvamuri kufungira. Murandasikana wamauya naye uyu ndiye ane dambudziko rakusundirai musowe rino musingazive. Ndiko kushanda kunoita Jehovha Mwari ikoko.”
He had touched the face of the beautiful image of God with the tip of his long polished rod.
The beautiful image of God had pushed the stick away from her face.
The prophet had looked away, put his hand to his ear and spoken in tongues as if on a phone.
And when he finally hung up on God, he had decoded the message to the petrified older woman image of God saying: “Uyu murandasikana anoda kushandirwa zvakasimba uyu. Ndaona achiedza kutangisawo imba yake sezvinoita vamwe asi zvichiramba kusvikira murufu. Ndabvunza kuti sei Mwari zvikanzi nditi ….”
He had been cut short by the message-notification sound from the girl’s phone. The congregants had expressed shock.
Someone asked why the ‘slave-girl’ had not been told to leave the gadget outside holy ground.
The beautiful image of God was asked to hand over the gadget but elected to take it out on her own.
On the way out, she opened the phone and read the message.
It was an unknown number with the picture of an opposition leader as its profile.
And, it read: Your brother is wounded and in police custody. Check with Machipisa Police.
The beautiful image of God panicked and called out: “Mhamha handei!”
And she started running.
And the prophet pronounced: “That is the demon I have just been talking about. Please run and catch her before she harms herself.”
The distressed mother wailed: “Please help! Mwana wangu angazviwisire mumota.”
And two young men raised their white cloaks to hip level and gave chase.
A girl followed at a feminine pace.
The faster image of God overtook the girl and very soon the three sectarian images of God subdued the ‘possessed’ image of God and brought her back to the sacred space where the prophet wasted no time exorcising the ancestral spirit he claimed was tormenting its own descendent.
The beautiful image of God kept insisting that she was not possessed and the
prophet insisted kuti: “Dhimoni racho rakasimba zvekuti.”
He needed more one-on-one sessions with the beautiful image of God. And he instructed that the mother of the beautiful image of God should confiscate the girl’s phone and not give it back until she was healed.
And the prophet assured the worried mother not to worry about the missing son because he was safe and sound.
The street-dweller with a head as dirty as a public toilet mop braced-up and greeted the man whose wife had refused to be touched: “Good afternoon sir.”
The man smiled: “Mafamba zvakanaka here?”
The man whose wife had refused to be touched looked at the street-dweller’s greasy companion and remarked: “I can see watiigira vayeni.”
The street-dweller looked at his companion in a gesture urging her to speak for herself.
And she raised her right arm sleeve and removed a greasy latex glove, revealing
a clean slender hand which she raised to her mouth and removed dirty dentures.
And then her greasy face lit into a milk-white two-dimpled smile.
And before the man whose wife had refused to be touched could recover from the shock, she said: “Call sign V11 just passing through sir.”
The man whose wife had refused to be touched exclaimed: “Nyarai! What the hell are you doing in that outfit? Haukure handiti?”
“Just following orders sir. But, at the same time, how do you expect me to grow out of it izvo zvinhu zviri manyama amire nerongo kudai izvi?”
“You can say that again. Chihuya unyatsndikwazisa. It has been a long, long time handiti?”
They shook hands.
The street-dweller with a head as dirty as a public toilet mop looked on.
On ZTV, the news was that the generality of the working public had ignored the peaceful demonstration.
Those interviewed were in general agreement that they could not boycott their own work. They were the owners of their businesses and could not engage in acts of industrial suicide.
Other news covered the gutting of several small-to-medium-sized enterprises in the high-density Harare South as well as the breaking and looting of businesses in down-town Harare.
Some prisoners assisting police with investigations were expressing regret at having been misled into believing that the demonstration was a genuine peace initiative.
A man wounded in the peaceful violence was featured castigating the opposition leadership for mobilising the violence and then hiding behind the scenes.
A media socialite swore that she had witnessed youths being given drugs and alcohol to prime them for the peaceful demo.
The woman who had been beaten-up by her friend’s house-maid, came into the lounge and wanted to sit next to her husband.
The husband frowned: “I don’t want to be crowded. Uri kudei?”
The wife forced a smile and said: “I want us to talk.”
“You can do that uri kure uko.”
The wife moved to another sofa and the man looked at her.
To be continued…