[Short Story] Ophelia

By Ambrose Musiyiwa*

I am my Beloved’s but my Beloved is not mine.

We were sitting on the edge of the road when she asked me: “What do you think about my Beloved?”

I didn’t want to think about her Beloved.

“Well?” she probed — big, bright, brown eyes looking up at me as if I were a genii about to grant a wish.

“Well, what?” I asked, looking away.

“Well, what do you think about my Beloved?” she insisted.

“You might not want to hear what I have to say,” I said.

“I want to hear it,” she insisted.

“I don’t think I am the right person to ask,” I said. “I can’t be objective.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I want to here what you have to say.”

“You want the truth?” I asked.

She nodded.

“I don’t like Simba,” I said. “I think he is childish and mean and I think he is using you.”

My Beloved’s face darkened the way earth darkens when rain clouds gather around over it and a glint appeared in her big, bright, brown eyes.

“How can you say that about him?” she asked.

“You asked for the truth and I gave it to you,” I said.

My Beloved loved Simba. I could see it when the two of them were together. She had a special look she reserved for him. She looked at him the way a child looks at a favourite, loved, trusted uncle. She looked at him the way she looked at me when she asked: “What do you think of my Beloved?”

She got up and went indoors and I got up and went home and read William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience.

The hollowness remained.

I put Blake back in his place on the bookshelf.

Ophelia had a hold on me and nothing Blake could say could loosen the grip. I hungered for her with a hunger that fed upon itself. Nothing I could do, nothing Ophelia could do could dispel the hunger. And when we argued and fought, the hunger grew until it became an ulcer eating away at my insides.

I read the Song of Songs and the hunger became a wound which bled.

And for the next seven days Ophelia would not speak to me.

What had I been trying to prove?

For all I knew, Simba might love Ophelia as much as she loved him, as much as I loved her. I really had no right to say anything about him. And what Ophelia did with her body was her own business, not mine.

And I missed her. Even though I saw her everyday, I missed her.

She would not speak to me.

I filled my days with things to do and waited for her to call. A week passed and she did not call.

I went to her.

We took the beer I had brought with me, as a peace-offering, into the living room and Ophelia took two mugs from the kitchen and we sat on the cold, polished floor of the living room and leaned against the wall of the unfurnished room and the hunger was like a presence crowding in on us. And Ophelia felt she had to speak to shake off the presence and she said: “I am pregnant.”

I had a feeling all this had happened before.

Last year Ophelia had gone to Goromonzi where Simba was teaching. She had stayed with him for a week. A month later she found she was pregnant and did not want to have the baby.

Rudo. We had agreed to call the baby Rudo.

I had tried to dissuade her from aborting.

“But Simba no longer wants to see me,” she had said.

“He will come back to you,” I had said. “He always comes back. And even if he doesn’t, I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The baby will need a father,” she had said.

“I am here,” I had said.

But her mind was made up. She wanted an abortion.

Simba and Ophelia raised the money and I found the doctor who was willing to perform the abortion.

It had been for the best.

I suppose.

If she had agreed to my madcap idea, what were we going to give the baby? What was she going to wear? What was she going to eat? When she got ill, where were we going to get the money to send her to a doctor? I wasn’t working. Ophelia wasn’t working. Our chances of getting jobs were slim. And my parents had all but disowned me. If her parents had found out that she was pregnant, they would have chased her away from home.

“How long have you known?” I asked.

“A week.”

“Whose is it?”

“It’s Simba’s. Who else’s can it be?”

She drank the last dregs of beer that were in her mug and refilled it.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Does Simba know?”

“Yes. I told him yesterday,” she said.

“How did he take it?”

“He wanted me to have another abortion. I told him I am keeping this one.”

It was past midnight. The station Ophelia’s portable radio was tuned to had closed and we hadn’t noticed.

We finished the remaining beer in silence and I got up to leave and she took me as far as the gate and we stopped and she asked: “Does he love me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.”

Ophelia and Simba are now living together.

They have been living together for the past three years.

She hasn’t written.

Or maybe she has written and the letter is still in the post.

*Ambrose Musiyiwa has worked as a freelance journalist and a teacher. His short stories have been featured in anthologies that include Writing Now (Weaver Press, 2005) and Writing Free (Weaver Press, 2011). Currently he is working on another story.

[Update] Danfo Driver

My short story, "Danfo Driver" has been accepted for publication in Writing Free, an anthology of contemporary Zimbabwean writing. The anthology is published by Weaver Press and will be out soon. - Ambrose Musiyiwa, 7 April 2011.

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Related article:

The Bracelet [Short Story], by Ambrose Musiyiwa, Conversations with Writers, February 17, 2010

Short Story _ The Bracelet

By Ambrose Musiyiwa*

We were both in the kitchen when I first saw the bracelet.

Sharai had just come home from school and was having tea with sandwiches. With one hand, she was stirring some sugar into her tea, and with the other hand, she was fingering the bracelet.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a bracelet,” she said.

“Can I see it?”

She handed it to me.

The bracelet was made of gold and looked like something that had come from Argos or H.S. Samuel.

“Where did you get it?” I asked.

“A friend from school gave it to me,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because he likes me.”

“And what are you going to give to him in return?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“When you go back to school tomorrow, please return the bracelet. Tell the boy who gave it to you that I won’t let you keep it.”

“That’s not fair, Dad,” Sharai protested.

“You are taking it back tomorrow.”

“I want it. I want the bracelet. Mum knows about it and she says I can keep it.”

“It’s either you take it back or I do it for you. The choice is yours,” I insisted.

Sharai stormed out of the kitchen and she stormed out of the lounge, slamming all doors behind her. She locked herself in her room and would not come down for supper with her mum and I.

*

“You know about the bracelet Sharai got from some boy in her class?” I asked Maidei after supper when she was watching TV.

“Yes. And it’s not some boy. It’s Jason. They're in the same class and they've been dating for over a year now.”

“Sharai is 12 years old. Isn’t that a bit too early to be thinking about things like dating?”

“She had her first boyfriend when she was 8 years old.”

I was getting sidetracked.

“We're talking about the bracelet,” I said.

“Yes. What about it?”

“I’ve asked Sharai to return it when she goes to school tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. I’ve already told her she can keep it,” Maidei said.

“You should've told me.”

“What’s the problem, exactly?” Maidei asked.

“Did you see the bracelet?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not something you give to a 12-year-old girl.”

“It’s just a bracelet. There’s not harm in her keeping it.”

“And what is she going to give Jason?”

“I don’t know,” Maidei said. “Nothing, I suppose."

“Presents like these teach acquisitiveness, which can destroy relationships and ruin lives.”

“I’ve heard what you said. Now I want to watch TV. Do whatever you feel you have to do,” Maidei said.

*

I was cleaning Sharai’s room, several days later, when I found the bracelet. It was on the floor, next to her bed, among the dirty clothes, rolled up pieces of tissue paper, shoes, pencils, books and photo albums.

I picked it up, put it in my pocket and finished cleaning the room. When Sharai came back from school and she’d had her sandwiches, I asked her, “You didn’t return the bracelet did you?”

“No,” she replied.

“And the reason for that was?”

“Mum said I could keep it.”

“Since you won’t return the bracelet yourself, I’m going to do it for you.”

“Dad, you’re being horrible.”

“No, Sharai. I’m not being horrible. You shouldn’t be accepting presents like these from people who are not close relatives. And this isn’t just about Jason. It’s about people in general. Today, they’ll give you a bracelet; tomorrow, a mobile phone; next week they’ll give you that camcorder you’ve always wanted. What if, after some time, and after some more presents, they start asking for favors in return? What would you do? What would you give them? How far would you go?" I asked.

“And what were you doing in my room, anyway?”

“I was cleaning it… which, again, is something you should be doing yourself but aren’t.”

“I hate you. You should get a job and stop spying on us,” Sharai said.

*

“Sharai didn’t return the bracelet last week?” I told Maidei. She was sitting in her chair watching TV.

“No, she didn't. I told her she could keep it.”

“Even after I’d explained to you how I felt about it?”

“I see no harm in her keeping it if she wants it.”

“If you think she should have jewellery like this, then you should buy it for her. Not Jason.”

“It’s not right that you should be interrogating me like this,” Maidei said. “You’ve been home all day, sleeping and doing nothing. I’ve just come back from a 12-hour shift.”

“This isn’t an interrogation and you know it. You knew how I felt about the bracelet. You knew I’d told Sharai to return it and yet, behind my back, you told Sharai she could keep it. What you are doing is not right.”

Tina Turner was on TV singing Simply the Best. Maidei turned up the volume until the wall of the house were shaking. She didn’t want us to talk anymore. I was being dismissed.

*

I went to Feerick Primary, the next morning.

I asked to see Sharai’s teacher and I explained to her that Sharai had received this bracelet from Jason. I didn’t think the bracelet was an appropriate gift or present for a 12-year-old girl. I wanted to return it and I also wanted to ask Jason and his dad not to give Sharai any more presents.

“Would it be possible for you to be there while I do this?” I asked.

“Jason and his dad should be here by now,” Miss Marsh said.

We went outside.

“There they are.”

Jason and his dad were standing just outside the school gate.

“Morning Miss Marsh,” Jason said.

“Good morning, Jason,” she replied.

Jason’s dad smiled and nodded at Miss Marsh.

“Mr Banner, can I see you for a moment?” Miss Marsh said.

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

We went to Miss Marsh’s classroom.

“This is Sharai’s dad,” she said.

“Yes. I know,” Jason’s dad said.

“Some weeks ago, Jason gave Sharai a bracelet,” she said.

“Yes. Jason said he wanted a present for Sharai so we went to Argos and he picked this bracelet. I paid for it. Jason and Sharai seem to be very happy with it.”

"I'm returning the bracelet," I said. "I’d appreciate it very much if you could take it back. I'd also appreciate it if you and your son don’t give Sharai anymore presents.”

“I don’t understand,” Jason's dad said.

“Please just take the bracelet back and don’t let your son talk you into buying anymore presents for Sharai.”

The whistle went. School had begun. Children started entering the classroom. I thanked Jason’s dad and Miss Marsh and left.

*

Much later, when I thought the incident about the bracelet had been forgotten, I asked Sharai, “What job does Jason’s dad do?”

“He’s a photographer.”

“What newspaper does he work for?”

“No, dad,” Sharai said. “He’s not that kind of a photographer. He’s a freelancer. He works from home and for many different people and groups.”

“He seems to be doing well.”

“Jason says most of his money comes from photos he does for a number of websites.”

“Has Jason seem any of these sites?”

Sharai shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he has. Maybe he hasn’t.

“Mum says when my birthday next comes around, we’re going to go to Jason’s house. Jason’s dad is going to take many photos. I’m going to be just like a model. Mum and me will select the best photos and Jason’s dad will print them out for us.”

About the author

*Ambrose Musiyiwa studies Law at De Montfort University in Leicester. He has worked as a freelance journalist and a teacher. His short stories has been featured in anthologies that include Writing Now (Weaver Press, 2005) and Writing Free (Weaver Press, 2011). Currently he is working on another story.

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[Interview] Ambrose Musiyiwa

By Kaye Axon*

Ambrose Musiyiwa has worked as a freelance journalist and teacher. One of his short stories was featured in Writing Now (Weaver Press, 2005), an anthology of contemporary Zimbabwean writing.

Currently, he is working on another story.

In this interview, Ambrose Musiyiwa talks about his concerns as a writer:

Did you write in Zimbabwe?

I've always been writing.

In primary school, I was writing short stories and other narratives. When I moved to high school, I was writing short stories, poems, letters and opinion articles for national newspapers and magazines. After high school, I stopped writing poems altogether and concentrated on short stories and feature articles for newspapers and magazines.

When I went to teacher training college, I was concentrating more on feature articles and book reviews than on short stories or other narratives.

The list of newspapers and magazines I've written for includes The Sunday Times, The Zimbabwe Independent, the High Density Mirror, The Daily News, The Financial Gazette, The Sunday Mail, The Herald and the women's magazine, Mahogany.

How have your personal experiences helped to shape the direction of your work?

In the short stories that I write, I tend to concentrate on those things that I find difficult to deal with, personally. Things I wouldn't know how to deal with otherwise. For example, one of my short stories explores the effects of suicide on a family while "Living on Promises and Credit", which was featured in Writing Now, is about a teacher who is trying to come to terms with a death threat he's received for doing his job, as he understood it.

How do you balance the different aspects of your writing, such as short stories, journalistic work and book reviews?

I don't think I've ever made a conscious effort to balance the different aspects of the writing that I'm doing. I tend to write those stories that want to be written the way they want to be written. (Which, I'm told, isn't really the right way of approaching the job of writing.) This is also probably why I tend to write more journalism and book reviews than short stories.

I find the book reviews more demanding in terms of the time I've got to give to a book before I can even start drafting the review itself.

Many of your factual articles focus on human rights issues, is this area of your work something that you have decided to concentrate on?

I write on human rights issues because I feel strongly about what people as individuals, groups and governments are doing to others.

In the UK, for instance, there's the way government is actively criminalizing asylum seekers and pushing them into destitution and poverty. The British government is currently electronically tagging asylum seekers and in that way further reinforcing the popular image of the asylum seeker as a criminal. There's the way government is denying asylum seekers access to education, housing, legal representation and medical care. There's the way government is threatening to snatch the children of asylum seekers from their families and force them to live in care homes. There's also the way government is encouraging white Britain to view the Muslim as a foreigner and a terrorist and the black man as a foreigner, a drug dealer and a criminal.

On the other hand, there's a very active group of people, working as individuals or as organizations or groups, who are working very hard and against great odds to reaffirm the humanity of asylum seekers and refugees. These include people like the Archbishop of York, John Sentamu and other church leaders; the National Coalition of Anti-Deportation Campaigns; the ASSIST Service in Leicester; the parliamentarian Kate Hoey and the All-Party Parliamentary Group on Zimbabwe ...

Do you feel that by publishing human rights abuses that it is possible to reduce their frequency and severity?

This is my hope. This is what I hope for.

With human rights defenders, one of the ways of keeping them alive is by writing and talking about them. In that way you tell governments that you are watching and can see how they are detaining the activists, how they are torturing them and how they are killing them. For example, in Zimbabwe, security agents have been known to detain, harass and torture human rights defenders and opposition party members. Some human rights defenders have died in accidents that can be traced back to the hand of security agents. Chris Giwa, a student leader, died in a traffic accident involving an army vehicle. And, recently, the women's rights activist Jenni Williams was told by a senior police officer in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe's second largest city, that she will end up losing her life if she continues organizing demonstrations and protest marches against government policy.

If you could write a few paragraphs that would influence UK policy on asylum seekers what would it be?

I am concerned that the British government, and the Home Office, in its efforts to reduce the number of asylum seekers in the UK, has stopped seeing asylum seekers as people, as human beings. What it is saying over and over again is that asylum seekers are numbers to be kept down. It is becoming increasingly inhumane and punitive. It is subjecting those asylum seekers who are in the UK to lives of extreme insecurity, hardship and poverty and is then sending them back to famines, dictatorships and war zones.

In May 2005, for example, the British government rejected Muhammad Osama Sayes' asylum application and sent him back to Syria.

Muhammad Osama Sayes was a known member of the Muslim Brotherhood and was arrested on arrival at Damascus Airport and is now serving a 12-year prison term in Syria (after being convicted of belonging to the Muslim Brotherhood.) The Muslim Brotherhood is banned in Syria and membership to that organization carries a maximum penalty of death.

What do you find are the major hindrances to your work and how do you overcome them?

I write all my notes in long-hand. This means when interviewing a source, he or she has to speak slowly. To overcome this, I am increasingly having to rely on tape recorders and I am learning short-hand. I am also increasingly relying on email as a tool for conducting interviews because it is sometimes impossible to travel to meet sources physically.

Given that all those hindrances disappeared and you could write about anything what would you write?

I'd most likely carry on doing what I'm doing now: writing on human rights issues, writing about human rights defenders, writing about writers and other artists and writing the occasional short story.

On a lighter note, how is the latest short story progressing?

A few years back, I collaboratated with a civil rights activist on a narrative about what she was seeing and the detainees she was meeting when she visited immigration detention centres. It was not a short story in the popular sense of a short story -- every detail in it is fact and is verifiable. The places are real and the people are real. It was a short story in the sense that it is short and can be read like a short story.

At the moment, I'm working on what I'm hoping will turn into a novel. The story is currently accessible on the blog, Diary of an Asylum Seeker but because of work and study commitments, I spend more time thinking about the story than I do updating it. It's making very, very slow progress.

An earlier version of this article was first published on OhmyNews International.

About the author

*Kaye Axon, has had several hundred poems published or self-published worldwide. She is a long-term vegan and travel addict. In 2005, her short story, "Kamikaze Black Moor" was short-listed in the Leicester and Leicestershire Short Story Contest. The story explores the role fish played in her childhood.

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