Matrimonial enclosures: Of men, drunkards and dogs

MEN, drunkards and dogs! Could we really be talking about the same species? There are probably over a dozen species of dogs and drunkards, all of them relating to man in his many disguises, egos and whatnot. And, when it comes to dogs, the idea that a dog is a dog holds no water.

Well, the notion is open to scrutiny, for there are as many types of dogs around, from different backgrounds with different tastes and egos, as there are drunks and men.

Come to think of it, men are often said to be dogs. It perplexes the mind, really. But, could there be a link? Also, those in the know say there are different types of drunkards, while the lay among us believe that a drunk is a drunk — simple!

Trust Shimmer Chinodya to beam the light on such issues. It may just be worthwhile.

In “Can We Talk and Other Stories”, Chinodya explores such matters that we may take for granted, but have a bearing on familial, communal and national relations.

In the journey of life, the individual encounters taboos inhibiting him/her in the attempt to make sense of the world.

There is a lot that is said, or not said rather, which aggravates the claustrophobia of the family unit, starting from the matrimonial base.

Originally published by Baobab Books, the short story collection was re-launched on May 30, 2017 at Alliance Francaise under the wing of Weaver Press.

The book evokes mixed feelings on the quintessence of life itself, its purpose, especially when read on the backdrop of skyrocketing divorce rates, cross generational sex, and the rise of Pentecostalism.

A disciple of the autobiographical mode, Chinodya invites the reader into his own experiences as a boy growing up in the dusty Hoffman Street of Gweru, in the Midlands Province of Zimbabwe, through humiliation, hurt and struggle until he makes his mark on society.

Central to the anthology is the power of communication.

The characters in the stories are worried by the imaginary ghosts that stalk them: the invisible demons that give them no peace of mind, yet there is no one to talk to. Neither listening ear nor soothing voice exist to spur them on to possibilities.

In “Strays” Chinodya highlights the analogy between humanity and dogs through the protagonist, Sam, and his dog, Sango. The significance of the two companions’ backgrounds is conspicuous throughout the story.

The writer begins by situating the extended metaphors of the dog and drunkard in man’s relations with his fellow men and the environs around him.

“A dog is a dog. The average African dog is less than that. The average African dog is a creature to be kicked, scolded and have missiles thrown at it—an inconvenient extra mouth that threatens precarious supplies in seasons of drought, or on rare munificent occasions such as Christmas will efficiently devour the moulds of leftovers . . . a companion, tolerated, but kept hygienically at a distance,” Chinodya writes.

Although a dog is still a dog, there are different types of dogs, depending on background, family raised in and the environment.

There is Kutu, the nameless African dog, whose existence is premised on suffering, neglect and boredom. The European dog on the other hand is not “just the dog or that dog.

“It is a member of the family, with a personality, name, a kennel, a veterinary-aid card and, of course, a budget. It usually has a family tree, probably a place in its master’s (or mistress’) will and is guaranteed funeral arrangements.”

There is yet another type of dog, Chinodya points out: the “suburban African dog in an aspiring middle class household”, which is “something between the two.” While this third species “benefits from the example of its white neighbours, it remains a household appendage.”

You see, a dog is not just any other dog. Dogs are different, and so are drunkards, nay men.

So dogs are dogs, really? So many dogs, from different backgrounds, with different tastes and egos; yet dogs are said to be dogs.

In Chinodya’s view, people may say “a drunk is a drunk,” but there are “many types of drunks, probably over a dozen species.”

In their attempt to escape from the restrictive nature of the matrimonial base, men usually find the elixir in alcoholic beverages. With the desire to escape forever beckoning, drunkenness becomes an alluring vent, often with disastrous consequences.

Questions remain: Drinking to escape from who? For what purpose? To what end?

In “Strays”, Sam, who is described as a “hard Mashona” type, is catapulted from the other side of the river through his profession—architecture. As a hard worker, he finds himself working alongside whites in a newly independent Zimbabwe.

With hopes ever so high, the hero acquires a beautiful house in one of the leafy suburbs of the city. However, it remains the issue of taking Sam out of the ghetto with the ghetto remaining stuck in him, much to the annoyance of his wife, Ndai.

Sango, on the other hand, comes from a “European” background, as he is bought from a white woman. He refuses to eat, takes a “sour, forlorn look”, and decides not to be “touched or approached.”

Hence, two companions from contrasting backgrounds, with different values, are joined by fate. Two males, a dog and a man, sharing the same needs and aspirations, but unable to understand each other, find themselves sharing an abode. Consequently, they are always fighting, hurting each other; venting anger at each other.

As a result of the constant struggles, Sam begins to feel the inadequacy and restrictive nature of his matrimonial home and marriage. Like the narrator in “The Waterfall”, who is “afraid to go home” and the hero in “Can We Talk”, he is alienated from himself and his family. He seeks companionship, yet he is blinded by the mist in his eyes.

He forgets that camaraderie should start from one’s abode, from one’s family, neighbours and community.

Ndai tells him that Sango needs a mate, that he should take him on walks; and that he should learn to talk to his neighbours.

However, Sam is so “Africanised” that he cannot openly show affection to his wife, his daughter, Nyasha, and Sango. He feels that he is insulated from love, feeling and passion.

Chinodya adeptly explores the running battles and scapegoating that come as a result of lack of communication.

As Sango escapes from the imprisonment of his existence through the holes he creates under the fence, and later on using the gate each time an opportunity avails itself, to be with his friends next-door: a male and a bitch, Sam finds the tonic in drinking places in the high density suburbs, yearning for the nostalgic feeling of “Hoffman Street”.

Interestingly, but sadly, the two companions devoid of affection make a pact not to restrict each other.

Chinodya puts it all in context: “It was almost as if he found his own sense of alienation mirrored in the dog’s behavior. Now when he found the dog outside the gate he quietly let him in. They understood each other, as if they were allies at some sport or as if they understood each other’s constraints.”

Sam and Ndai’s marriage suffers as a result of communication breakdown.

The more Sam goes out, the more he meets misfortunes; the more Sango escapes, the more he brings misfortune on himself and his owners, and the more cracks widen on the matrimonial base.

As the stories follow a chronological sequence from “Hoffman Street” to “Can We Talk”, the characters can be read as the same ones, passing through different stages of their toils in which talk of certain issues is taboo.

The narrators in “Hoffman Street” and “The Man Who Hanged Himself ” can be read as one.

They are both linked to an intolerant society which blocks children out each time they try to get inroads into the societal landscape. Because of insecurity and fear, they escape through bedwetting and reverie.

And, as they grow up, they get used to a onesize-fits-all approach to life. They want so much to be heard, but no one pays attention to their inner turmoil. The metaphorical snow of their existence numbs them physically, emotionally and psychologically. The tormented children become unfeeling as adults, and are unable to talk their way out of situations, as is apt in “Play Your Cards Right”, “Snow”, “Strays” and “Can We Talk”.

Solitude assumes a new low as the estranged narrator in “Can We Walk” asks his widowed friend, Alice, during one of their outings at Mereki: “Do you think friends can meet in death . . . as ghosts. . .and love as ghosts?” to which she replies, “You are a lonely man. A very lonely man.”

The phantoms stalking the characters through reverie and bedwetting in childhood take new forms in their adulthood.

Women escape through religion — Pentecostalism, and to a lesser extent alcohol and sex.

Men find the panacea in alcoholic beverages, the city woman and sex. Due to escapism in all its variables, communication becomes blurred, intimacy dies, and the matrimonial base collapses, leaving a trail of broken hearts.

Hypocrisy, individualism, deceit and materialism are in vogue as the rat race intensifies. In the ensuing dog-eat-dog situation, children and pets, like Sango, become the scapegoats and victims who later on are turned into monsters.

And, the vicious cycle begins anew. Using the autobiographical mode, with its attendant aspects of realism, the stream of consciousness technique, metaphors and conversational language, Chinodya takes a swipe at societal tendencies to inhibit the individual from playing a participatory role in the shaping of his/her destiny, until it is too late for him/her to make any positive impact.

He advocates dialogue at the personal, familial, communal and national discourses for the individual psyche to be honed for a better world, where everyone fights in the corner of loved ones, friends and companions.

Straying out of enclosures may not be the solution, because claustrophobia is both physical and emotional, thus it requires collective effort and willpower for it to be mitigated.