books – ZENZE

Anita is a fictional short story of a mother on the search for her daughter, admist frustrating bureaucracy, finding out that she didn’t know her daughter as well as he thought she did and the legend of the Zambezi water goddess Kitapo. It is written in honour of International women’s day, recognizing the lives of women who are extraodinary despite traits that may not be widely likeable or ‘perfect’ but simply because they exist as themselves on a day to day basis, the ancient lore that centers women and the incredible love held by many women who are mothers and daughters.

Anita

Anita woke up to the usual morning routine. Her alarm clock rang at 06:45, but she had hit the snooze button automatically. Anita would drift through some comfortable haze until her body had finally woken her up at 07:10. With bleary eyes, she scrolled through Instagram, chuckling to herself as she passed by memes and checked in to her horoscope. On any given day, she would see a motivational video on YouTube coaxing her out of the morning fog. At 07:20, she would jump out of bed and go through the routines as a matter of course: drag her from her sleep right to the kitchen for a piping hot cup of coffee, on which some Allan Watts-esque video droned in the background, accompanied by a steamy, self-indulgent shower into which she slipped herself-just long enough to clear the remnants of sleep.

This two-year ritual had been part of her life, interspersed periodically with stretching exercises or switching over to Pinterest to get her fix of inspiration. That is, until last week-Tuesday, to be exact-when everything changed. She called in late to work, and at first, coworkers thought she was merely ill and hadn’t called it in to human resources, so they weren’t alarmed. But to her mother, Mai Mushawako, the silence was loud. It was highly out of character for Anita not to call that evening, and highly unusual for her to completely ignore the myriad of messages sent onto her phone.

Anita’s studio apartment was on the ground floor of a newly built estate and told volumes about her Bohemian character. It was decorated with bottles reused as lamps, a shelf full of vinyl records, though sans phonograph, fiction novels, and books on African gods and customs. The walls were pasted with motivating sentences, and plants were thriving on every available nook. Nothing was disturbed; she looked like she had just stepped out, having left no traces of a tussle or kidnapping.

Mai Mushawako had become a fixture in the complex, knocking on doors in a frantic search for her daughter. She was clad in a chitenge, tightly wrapped around her body, with feet dragging in worn flip-flops. Many residents-who, because of her normally polished appearance, could barely recognize her-implored her for information. Each of those questions was tinged with increasing dread, building into a suspicion that maybe, just possibly, one of them knew more than they were letting on. They could not turn a blind eye to her desperate appeals; rather, they almost wished for some sort of answers while at the same time not wanting the worst to be confirmed.

The police at the missing persons’ unit reacted with a shrug, labeling Anita’s absence as youthful rebellion. Detectives Haufiku and Majapo were parents themselves, inured to such cases. When Mrs. Mushawako urged them, they would say some stock phrases: “We are doing our best,” “We are still waiting on more information.” With each rebuff, some of her respect for them eroded, and this amateur sleuthing became her only source of hope.

Mrs Mushawako put together over six months of details about Anita’s life in order to paint a fuller picture. There was Samantha, her close friend, pursuing her PhD in African studies, and a new connection in Anita’s life in the midst of discovering that she had been increasingly interested in the lore of Bantu, aspects of identity that Mai had hardly realized. Anita had been reading stories about their ancestors, learned the totem chants, and the long trek from the Congo basin to Zambezi. Mai felt guilty over the distance she had created between them with her heresies. Was she stifling the inquisitiveness in Anita with dogmatic Christian dogma? In a supposed attempt to piece together what might have been going on, Mai noticed that Anita had been communicating with a Professor Matenga, who was reported to be a specialist on the Kitapo water goddess legend. A water goddess named Kitapo, dear to the Tonga, miraculously shared a love with the Nyaminyami spirit-the walls of colonizers’ dams separating them both. This story, which would otherwise be considered a simple cautionary relationship tale, seemed to take whole new meaning now that her daughter was gone.

Confronting him with raw emotion, her voice cut through the air at a café meeting with the professor. “Have you involved my daughter in ungodly rituals?” she shouted, anger spiraling to despair. He attempted to calm her: “Your daughter has answered a call, wherever she is, she is safe…”. The words fell flat against her growing outrage. She stormed out, leaving the professor bewildered and detectives full of doubt over where this case was headed.

Mai Mushawako drove her Nissan into her village homestead. The loneliness of the journey weighed heavily on her. VaMushawako had remained in South Africa, saying life must go on, but to Mai every quiet moment felt like an eternity of anguish.

Gogo Mushawako sat on a lowly wooden stool, her body worn by time, but the presence of a queen. The two buildings behind her, a modest two-bedroom house built by VaMushawaro and a round hut kitchen, were a testament to the meaning of family and history. As Mai drew closer, Gogo’s knowing eyes met hers; an understanding which needed no words was made.

“I have to tell you what happened to Anita,” Mai started, a quiver in her voice. Gogo cut her off, “Your daughter was here, mwanangu. She has answered the call of Kitapo.” It was like thunder that hit her, sparking an instant storm of denial in her mind. Memories came flooding back-stories of her cousin who disappeared, elders’ whispers accompanying the absence.

“Do not be sad, mwanangu, Gogo said firmly yet calmly. “I will explain it all when the time is appropriate, but she is safe.” The reassurance fell flat – starkly in contrast to the deep bubbling sorrow within Mai. Overwhelmed by all this knowledge, she collapsed into sobs – her terrors fell like waves to the shore.

Her cries echoed in the homestead as neighbours averted their eyes; this was avoidance to not confront the grief they felt was imminent. In that instant, a piece of Mai’s heart broke, an impregnable bond that she felt with her daughter against the fraying mark of uncertainty.