The Mud Hut I Grew Upon HISTORICAL DRAMA Thabo Katlholo THE VILLESCENCE bOOKS GABORONE BOTSWANA 1 biklmnpqrcgi The Villescence Publishers© Gaborone, Botswana www.thabokatlholo.com First Published in Botswana in 2014 by Brandfire Publishing Copyright© Thabo Katlholo 2015 Thabo Katlholo has asserted his right under the Copyright & Neighbouring Rights Act, 2000 (Act No. 8 of 2000) to be identified as the author of this work This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Katlholo, Thabo, 1988- The mud hut I grew upon / Thabo Katlholo. ISBN 9789996802546 LC classification MLCS 2015/00584 (P) LC control no. 2014320372 Typeset in 11/14 Palatino Linotype by The Villescence (PTY) Ltd. Printed and Bound by: Printing & Publishing Company Botswana (PPCB). PPCB is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper. 2 biklmnpqrcgi Prologue “Maleka, Maleka, Maleka!” Makhelio said tauntingly as he approached her. He jumped on her and stepped on her throat. “Please leave me alone. What do you want from me?” “You must think you are invincible don’t you? Do you know who I am?” Makhelio asked her, his foot on her throat while Shimmy held her feet down like a cow about to be slaughtered. She nodded frightened, tears soaking up in her eyes. “Good, then you know what I’m capable of don’t you?”, Again she nodded. “I’m going to take my foot off your throat and if you even breathe out wrong I’m going to crush out your larynx you hear me?”, She nodded again. Makhelio released his foot from her throat and pulled her up with her hands. “Do you know who this is?” “Yes I know him. His name is Shimmy” “Wrong. He is one of mine and you fucked with one of mine. There is a price people pay for fucking with my business” “He raped me!” She reacted angrily “And why didn’t you go to the police?” “I couldn’t. I don’t have papers” “Zimbabweans. Fucking Zimbabweans. Why do you have to make everything so damn complicated? All we asked for from you was to come work for us and look where your 3 biklmnpqrcgi impertinence has led to” “To be a slave?’’. He hit her with a fist and broke her nose. “No... no baby girl you don’t talk back at me like that, you hear me? You don’t fucking talk back at me like that” 4 biklmnpqrcgi This book belongs to my daughter Masa; My siblings Chawa and Wangu; and My grandmother Tizhani 5 biklmnpqrcgi Book I 6 biklmnpqrcgi Chapter 1 7 biklmnpqrcgi Maleka Tjilume Gaborone Botswana 24° 39° 29° S, 25° 54° 44° E or a moment she stood in front of the broken mirror hanging on the door. Naked. Inspecting the bruises on her arms and the black spots between her thighs. I’m a mess, she lets out a huge sigh and shakes her head in despair. The wrinkles on her face and her swollen left eye are just, but occupational Fhazard. The fading makeup beneath her eyes reminds her of a rough night out in the jungle. Like a gazelle she knew her time would be up soon as long as she keeps up with this ecosystem. Her hair had begun to fall beneath her old weave and her cheekbones had started to retreat inward. Hers was an abusive relationship, on and off with different breeds of men. The new bruises on her arms had started to show a few days ago after a drunken orgy with some really fucked up boys from the University of Botswana. She’d wanted them to hurt her but she did not want to be hurt badly just enough to remind her of where she came from. What she left behind. Just a little. In a few instances the bruises had manifested into black-eyedness and bruised ribs. It was hard to get accustomed to this world of sex, violence, humiliation and exploitation. 8 biklmnpqrcgi The constant battering she endured every night at the hands of her customers was unimaginable. Drugs numbed the pain. For some girls at least. She’d sworn across heart never to go further than she already was. Wandering into the world of drugs was a totally different reality, one she never wanted to encounter. This brutal world was all she could settle for. A world so new to her. She remembered broadly how nervous she was when she first bought the basic tools required for her job — condoms, lubricant, kitchen roll, whips and dildos from some Zimbabwean gentleman who gave her a stern warning about his business’s privacy. She got a few jealous glances on a few occasions when she first started. Her tall, slim, D-cup appearance was both a jewel and a thorn to her existence. Most girls on the streets were out of shape, old and wrinkled with many layers of makeup and masks of concealed insecurity. The mismatching mascara on their eyes that made them look zombiesh; like they’d just walked from a gruesome scene of The Walking Dead. Classless bitches. She made one final gesture to the mirror, a self- motivational ritual to remind her of the real reason behind her struggle. The pain that had made her this artist; this creative genius of the night; creative with her tongue, articulate with her hands. A calligrapher of emotions for men seeking solace away from home. She sculpted pleasures and drew desires with her hands, her lips, her tongue and her words. A maestro who only came alive with the break of dusk, waking from the slumber of the endurance of her genitals from last night’s hustle. 9 biklmnpqrcgi She slid into her attire - a skimpy Jean skirt and a twined black top that revealed her navel. She did not bother with the underwear. Grabbing her weave off the floor she headed for the door and just as she was about to leave she hesitated, returned to the bedroom, slid into a dirty G-string, then on second thought she wriggled out of it and put on something more warm. Before she walked out she reluctantly took out an old greyish Uzzi shoebox and looked into it for a minute, a fog of sadness overcoming her almost pretty face. She took a picture of a small boy from the box and kissed it. Mama is coming home soon. A promise that she wore around her heart. Starring at the picture sorrowfully with resolve and an undaunted dedication to keep the promise she made to her son when she negotiated her body through the barbed wire separating The Republics of Zimbabwe and Botswana. He was only two years old when she left. The woman who had taken the responsibility of mothering her when her mother passed on agreed to take care of the boy only if Maleka sent money on a monthly basis. The little boy wept so hard it felt like her entire being was breaking at the seams. Every moon that preceded that day had become uncomely and everyday bitter. Sorrow had gnawed at her heart, tears swelled in her eyes but she fought them. Hatred poisoning her heart as she sat next to a strange dark-skinned man with a big scar running across his forehead at the back of a Mazda van. Zimbabwe had betrayed her. 10 biklmnpqrcgi Mother—nature groaned in darkness as they made transit through some dim lit villages of Botswana that night. The sky was packed with blankets of dark clouds, with distant flashes of thunderbolts. She said a silent prayer to the gods of her ancestors, her head lifted up to the cold 120km/hour cold breeze of winds from the south and begged them to hold off the rain. Mama is coming home soon, she repeated in her heart. The first few days were sad and dreary for Maleka. She wondered if she had made a good choice; if her son was safe and in good hands. As much as she could not afford the guilt she couldn’t fight it. The further she travelled into Botswana the more she felt the vinegar of emotions soak into her heart and soul. The pain was unbearable some nights and she would sit outside her temporary corner and watch the clouds pass by covering the stars and that alone would inspire her. The clouds pass and stars will shine again. No gunshots in the air. This shall pass, she’d convinced herself. Maleka didn’t want to become a victim like many of her sisters back home, she wanted to survive this like her mothers before her. Zimbabwe has gone through this and came out still a great country. Botswana on the other hand had so much more to offer and yet so much cruelty in its barrel of kindness. I have to survive this for my son. It pained her than anything else to leave him behind but then she couldn’t bring him across the border into the unknown. She did not want to end up a nameless, a faceless stereotype that appeared once a year on a greeting card with her virtues set to prose.