Lady luck was not on his side lately. It seemed she had taken to conspiring with other malevolent forces to orchestrate his recent string of bad luck. First, a raid. Then those bloody thieves had seen a gap and wasted no time in taking it. Three month’s profits gone like dirty dishwater down the drain. Damn those bloody thieves! He would get them back. When and how he did not know but get them back he would. Presently, he had much bigger problems to face than how to retaliate to a gang of petty criminals. If he didn't come up with a plan soon he would surely lose everything. No money, no job, no business. What a fool he had been to trust those hooligans. The raid had been the genesis of his problems. No, now that he took a moment to think about with a sober mind his string of bad luck had started with the loss of his chickens. Somehow they had escaped their enclosure and run off in all directions. He had tried to catch them and return them to their enclosure but they had scattered themselves too far and wide in a frantic manner that chickens tend to. He was an old man and after three minutes of running around, he was wheezing and out of breath on the verge of a heart attack. All of his chickens gone, now he only had an empty coop that seemed to mock him and served as a constant reminder of his loss.
The loss of his money, well that wasn't his fault at all. Between the criminals and the bank, he had stood no chance. They were both thieves really, one in a suit and the other in a balaclava. As far as he was concerned, banks were greedy corporations who only wanted to get their hands on your hard earned money and then make it impossible for you to get to it. Keeping it at his house was the only option he had. He didn't trust the banks, no not at all. It baffled him really, how one man could have such an impressive string of bad luck. It was probably the doing of that evil witch of an ex-wife of his, Josephine. She really was a vile woman. She had probably snuck in and released the chickens too, the beast. He would never understand what had possessed him when he’d decided to marry her. She cast a spell on him, that was the only logical explanation. How else could he, a handsome, young businessman who all the beautiful women were after end up marrying a potato like Josephine? He was glad they had no children. He saw no need for them. Damn them all. The police, the thieves, Josephine, even the stupid chickens. He hoped they all ended up in a hot stew as penance for their escape.
The raid. He had a very explicit agreement with Constable Duma which involved a hefty sum of his money in Duma’s pockets. That pig of a man had taken his money but still failed to warn him about the raid. There had been all kinds of unsavoury characters conducting illegal activities in his tavern when the police came. There had been no time for anyone to escape. They had come in from all sides like an army of ants attacking a breadcrumb. What a shock it had been, no warning from Duma. The man was a snake. They shut him down for three weeks and confiscated all his stock. Liquor license se voet! Since when does a man need a license to serve cold refreshments to other men? It was all part of a plot to ruin him. They were all jealous of his success, that’s why they stole his chickens and sabotaged his business.
Township life was hard. With saboteurs at every turn waiting like vultures to feed on the carcass of your success. The odds had always been against him but this latest mountain seemed insurmountable. Did he give up and pack up his things and return to his beloved Manzamhlophe. No, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Not these dirty township mice or the village idiots. Don’t be mistaken, he loved Manzamhlophe but he knew that the villagers would greet him with a smile and snicker behind his back as soon as he passed. Going back now would be admitting defeat. They were all birds of prey, really. So he picked the lesser of two evils and decided to stay. At least the township vultures waited until you were good and dead to feast on your corpse, the eagles in the village picked the very live flesh off your bones.
While he was caught deep in thought MaMzobe walked in with what was now her trademark drunken stagger. Nobody had seen her sober since 1993. It was the death of her dear boy Msizi that had broken her spirit. Shot dead in the street, his corpse lay as if on display like a disturbing piece of avant-garde art. She had started drinking to forget and she had stayed forgetting and in a constant state of inebriation since then. ‘Get me a cold one please Johnny, it's been a tough day’, Johnny looked up at her as if to scold but then said ‘Tough day Ntombzodwa? It's only 09:00’ ‘Oh, did I say it's been a tough day? I meant please give me a brew that will provide me with the strength to get through what I know is going to be a tough day’ ‘How on earth is that possible? All you do is sit here and drink my beers on credit. What will you be doing differently today?’ ‘Oh hhayi! I didn’t realize customers have to undergo an investigation in this place just to be served a cold beer!’ ‘If you don’t want an investigation you can go to Madoda’s and inquire free beer!’ She shuffled out mumbling what were probably insults, but what anyone else might have thought were curses, under her breathe. Everyone thought she was a witch for no other reason other than that she was old and haggard. But she wasn’t a witch, just a drunken old woman with a heart that had been broken since 1993.
After MaMzobe’s exit, Johnny stood up to close the door of his tavern not wanting any other patrons coming in when he couldn’t serve them because there wasn’t anything to serve them. He looked around at his tavern which could have been a small living area in another man’s house. He had very effectively maximized the tiny space giving the illusion of a larger room. But when it was filled with people it was a different place like the tavern was the sun and the writhing throng of bodies were planets orbiting it. Nobody wanted the night to end. Alcohol flowed like rivers that washed away all the world’s problems. After four stiff drinks, it didn’t matter that Zakhele’s wife was sleeping with his neighbour who had fathered all three of his kids. When she was dancing under the dim lights, Jabulile could actually feel what her name stated, happy. After five beers, Mr Ngcobo didn’t mind the fact that everyone knew his daughter funded his drinking habit with the money she made on the streets as a working girl. Nothing mattered. Problems and worries ceased to exist and euphoria lasted as long as you could afford the next drink.
Even Johnny watching the people, young people dancing under the lights, they looked like moths drawn to a light that would eventually burn their wings, and the old people sitting like the alcohol had melted their bones, he felt like this was it. There was no life beyond this.
He suddenly heard a big commotion outside and immediately rushed to see. There was a huge mob shouting and screaming. Holding pangas and knobkerries some wielding bricks and glass bottles. He pushed through the crowd to see the criminal who was at the receiving end of this vigilante justice. Surprised to find out MaMzobe never made it to Madoda’s tavern he found her at the centre of the mob. Jabulile was accusing her of casting a spell on her son Thabo. After cutting through her yard late last night on his way home from a night of heavy drinking he had collapsed as soon as he reached their yard. She had found him laying on the floor outside, conscious but unable to move any part of his body. She had just come back from the hospital where it had been confirmed that he was permanently paralysed from the neck down.
The doctors had told her it was a result of his fall but she wasn’t having it. She was convinced it was the result of the old woman’s witchcraft. ‘How could you MaMzobe? Your own neighbours! He was my only son, you’ve outdone yourself this time you old witch!’ Jabulile sobbed, ‘but you won't go unpunished.'
Johnny knew how drunk the boy had been when he left the tavern, he should have intervened. Then he thought, maybe they were right. Maybe she was the reason for the dark cloud that seemed to hang over the community. He should have intervened but instead, he picked up a rock and joined the mob. ‘Oh kodwa Msizi wami!’, she cried. They attacked from all sides, people she knew and trusted. Mr Ngcobo who had known her for 47 years, Zakhele who had been best friends with her son and Johnny Skhosana whose tavern she had visited every day since 1993.
She lay on the street, a unrecognisable pulp. The whole street was silent, the kind of ominous silence before a loud drum solo. But there were no drums, no beat. Her broken heart was silent. She had been dead since 1993.
Johnny walked back into his house, rushing for the phone to go and order new stock. He would start again and rebuild his business. But before he got to the house, something caught his eye. It was the broken latch on his chicken coop, he had been meaning to fix it for months but he got busy. He knew now more than ever that he should have intervened.
Ghana Writes chose to publish Nosipho's Mob Justice because the story is an excellent amalgamation of three complex subjects: rural to urban migration, African superstition and dangers of alcoholism. And the creative way she weaved the story around the aforementioned topics won our admiration. Enjoy!
To be the next Ghana Writes guest writer, kindly submit your best literary work to info@ghanawrites.com. We accept only short stories and poems from across the world. We publish only the best.
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