Marakadzi — Lice eggs.

Chamba neBronco

“HEY YOU!” Me and Rascoe shouted at the same time.
It’s a rainy day today. This weather limits activities.

Rascoe.
One of the youngsters I have come to know. He is a 9 points A’ Levels certificate holder. Though I haven’t come to the knowledge of what the combination is. He wears dread logs too, not true Rastafari though. Oh by the way, like me, naye uyasithetha isiXhosa. He has been around too, since 009.

Me.
 I’m the one telling you zvaitika. Makuhwa hangu. Ehe. Ndinawo. Lol.

Yes, it has just happened that me and Rascoe have been spotted by someone who knows us. It’s Muchineripi, Muchine in short. Muchine has quick eyes and a conniving brain. In short aneka papaz, maiketa.
 Muchine waved a bottle of a cough syrup mixture. I saw Rascoe doing a double intake of breath. He then shouted, “Ndoozvachoka Muchine!”
 Vapfanha kwandiri. The cough syrup is their favourite way to oblivion. My generation ndeyechamba. My generation is the one that says, “God created the environment. Man made guns. Who do you trust?”

“I don’t have time for you, ndiri pabasa.” Muchine shouted and drives on, only to skid into a nearby parking lot. He is driving a delivery bakkie. He is a reckless driver too, say with the way he skidded into the parking.
 “Ngatimusvikire ipapo Mdara.” Like I said ndiri mudhara wavo. We went and found him achitochimona. They start shouting at each just the way friends do. I’m watching and listening to their banter.
 “Sei sei?” Muchine greets me. Dhara ravo ndini.
 “Long time Muchine. How are you?” I’m saying while bumping my fist on his.
 “Hapana apa, kungonetswawo hangu nazvada uyu.” He says nodding at Rascoe.
 “Uchandijairira tsaga. You forgot kuti ndakakutambira pabhazi nhaika?” They are at it again insulting each other. Muchine is done rolling it. He offers it to me to make it ablaze.
 “Mix maya.” I say, my brother once told me, ‘Chamba hachinzi handirove. Rather find a polite way of declining it.’
 “Sorry, kutodhibha wena?” Muchine is not apologetic, he is happy, less mouths means more pulls.

“So you know him very well?” I’m asking Rascoe after Muchine was long gone.
 “Muchineripizano Majokwa?” He says the whole name to show me how well he knows him.
 “Handiudzirwe about him. I have known him since our days tiri paDUB. He was my headboy. He came neticket rechechi ka uyu.” Really? I remember the first time I met Muchine, he was dressed like a pentecostal pastor.
 “Chimoko chaainacho ndaivapoo paakanochibvuta.”
 “Is it?” I am urging him to go on.
 “Live, he came after me. I was staying in Visserhoek then. When we were at school it never crossed my mind that in another life, in a far away city, I and him will be this close. Ndaivawo ndururani ka, apa gwazhi ndichikwapaidza. I’m one of those people who grew up with it. My daddy had everything. Do you know that presenter on etv ‘s Our Borders programme?” Yes I know her, I tell him so.
 “She is my sister.” He said looking in my eyes daring me to dispute. I looked for the resemblance but failed to make them look alike, maybe its because of the presenter’s use of make up and all that enhancing stuff or the fact that Rascoe ari kudyiwa nemadakhisi. Anyways he doesn’t have a reason to lie to me.
 “Mdara I left home because I wanted to do my on thing. All my life I had been following what my parents wanted, not what I want. At primary school my mother chose friends for me, friends I had nothing in common with, some were bullies. I wanted to attend Marist Boys High School but because my father’s golf buddies at Chapman’s Peak sent their kids to Allan Wilson, Churchill Boys High or Prince Edward. He chose DUB for me. I wanted to play soccer but my father said soccer is a sport for sisses. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps by playing rugby. I played but my heart was not in it. If the national youths service was still in style, I’m sure he would have had me enlisted.”

What happened to Rascoe applies to my youth too. At high school I was in the school choir, my father laughed at me — chirombe ichocho. I joined the drama club and my father told me to pay for my own school fees if I wanted to be a clown. I had no choice but to concentrate on academics, I passed with flying colors but here I am.

“Mdhara I have nothing to show but my freedom. I love my freedom. I did not come here to look for money but to live, enjoying my life.” Rascoe puffs his fongkong cigarette. Freedom my foot.

I’m sure Rascoe’s father did not make the time to know his son. How could he not know that his son was a Maradona in the making? Rascoe is not the only youngman who had parents that re-lived their young lives through their children. They were so concerned with their social status than their son’s interests and likes. They chased money, worked their behinds off, they were so successful career wise but failed on their son. I’m sure Rascoe would have taken his father’s business to the next level up.
 If he had known his son better, he could have groomed him to be a businessman or a professional footballer. But he wanted him to be a scrum half which took him nowhere. He has a small body that would have never made him The Beast. Frustration made Rascoe bitter, all he wanted was to escape their home. He did just that. He is 25 years old, looks 30 though. Yeah, too much cough mixture does that to a person’s appearance.

“I don’t ask anything from my old man, I don’t even have his number, I just hear rumors of him striking deals. Even my sisters, they too have the controlling tendency of our parents. We just chat on messenger. I don’t want to fall into their clutches again. Regai ndibate hangu vhudzi. Chakaipa kubata ngunzi.”
 Rascoe thinks he is being a guy. If I was him, I would have gone back home after the first two years. Yes he does have freedom but not the life of someone who is an heir to his father’s thriving business.
 Kubata vhudzi kwacho is not paying enough but yemushonga nechamba haaishaye hake.

It’s his life, instead of being a CEO he chose kutamba nemarakadzi (lice eggs).
 He can still turn his life around.
 Hope it won’t be too late.

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