THE WAY OF THE PROFIT
How following a ritual led to a ransacking
‘GOD, no,” I grumbled. “If hell is hotter than this, I’d better get myself this religion.” Another thought crossed my mind. “It’s because of religion that you find yourself in this sticky situation. You have to go four weeks without touching the bottle and, boy, it’s going to be a long four weeks.” I sighed and, for the umpteenth time, asked myself how I had got myself into such a pickle.
It was the middle of summer in Zimbabwe and I was at Kumbudzi, at 3pm. The Jacaranda trees were in full bloom and the cicadas were sounding from the nearby Msasa trees. I was waiting for the bus to fill up and take me to Beitbridge border post — it was going to be a long wait. Touts were shouting and bus drivers revving as if they were about to go, even though everybody knew departure was five hours away. Everybody was wary, for despite the presence of a police post less than 50m away, pickpockets and all sorts of malcontents were sure to be about.
Across the street, in a rundown bar, a lady of easy virtue twirled, keeping pace with the latest song from Alick Macheso, her body swaying suggestively. A Castle Lager sign caught my eye and my mind drifted to the chilled bottle, waiting for me to wrap my fingers around its slim neck and take a deep gulp.
“No, you can’t,” I admonished myself. “You have to wait four weeks for the cure to become effective.”
You see, I had been to consult the prophet. I could see him in my mind’s eye. Fat, cleanshaven head with a flowing beard that would have made the fathers of the Dutch Reformed Church envious and proud at the same time. He was dressed in the loose, white gown of the Apostolic Sect and casually draped across his shoulder was another piece of cloth, neatly folded. He had the bearing to cow even the devil himself and from my position, I felt insecure as I knelt on the hard ground, taking instruction on how I was to
Don’t drink beer. Don’t sleep with any other woman
perform the rituals to cleanse me. There were few dos and many don’ts. Don’t drink beer for four weeks. Don’t sleep with any other woman besides your wife. Most of the don’ts did not apply to me, except the moratorium on beer. Now I was stuck in the sweltering heat, wishing for what was forbidden.
You see, I, a Zimbabwean, had acquired a business permit in South Africa and had successfully registered a business. Now the prophet was giving me business luck. There are two types of luck. Bad luck is caused by evil spirits that follow us and destroy all we seek to build. It must be prevented at all costs. On the other hand, businesses need good luck to grow and be successful. It is the job of the prophet to ward off the bad luck and open the floodgates for the good.
“Well, the white man has his insurance. It won’t hurt to get this black man’s insurance,” I thought.
I left the hot interior of the bus and stepped into the sun. The result was predictable. As the heat dried the sweat on my brow, I felt thirsty. I quickly located a woman selling icicles, those sweetened frozen waters.
“How much?” I croaked, taking two from her cooler bag and immediately opening one for a long suck. “R2, bhudi.” I dug into my pocket and handed her a R5 coin. She gave back a R2 coin. “Sis, it’s R1 short.” At the risk of repeating myself, Harare in general and Kumbudzi in particular, is full of all sorts of con (wo)men who can strip you to nothing faster than a tankful of flesh-eating piranhas. I was not about to go down without a fight.
She smiled sweetly and, in a tone reserved for the village idiot, explained. “You see at the official exchange rate, your R5 is worth 50 United States cents. Now, in the transport industry, our exchange rate is $1 to R8. Since you gave me 50c or 4, your change of R2 is complete.”
With another smile, she flounced off, leaving me bewildered.
“Heck, I never saw that one coming. I could really do with a beer.” — Sithole is an entrepreneur based in Polokwane