Tim had been musing over the lines he had written when there was a knock on the door. A complete stranger was at the door Rumbi at his side. Must be the husband.
'Hi Tim,' Rumbi had beamed at him. 'This is my husband Farai.'
'Good afternoon sir.' Farai's voice was deep and confident. He was heavily built; square jawed with a wide forehead, flat nose and full lips. His coffee-coloured skin glistened in the afternoon sun. He was well-dressed in well-pressed trousers and a shirt neatly tucked in, the shoes, though, had seen better days. Definitely not how your everyday gardener would dress.
'The name is Tim, just Tim okay,' like his wife's, his handshake was strong, but unlike hers his was restrained.
'I will leave you two to it, I have a few chores to take care of.' Rumbi had said before rushing off
'Thanks, Rumbi,' Tim had said over his shoulder as he led Farai into the house. 'For everything,' he had added subconsciously.
They sat down at the kitchen table facing each other, both sizing each other up without appearing to. Jorum coughed to clear his throat before speaking.
'I would like to thank you Tim for allowing us to stay until the end of the month. I don't know how I can thank you?
'There is no need for that. I am only happy to help.'
'We will forever be indebted to you. My wife will sleep easy tonight. The thought of living in the informal settlement was driving her crazy'
'I'm glad to be of help,' he was not used to being thanked for anything. This was a welcome change but it was making him uncomfortable. 'I wish I could do more. I was going to offer you coffee or something but the power tripped or something.'
'That rarely happens around here. How did it happen?,' he had been genuinely concerned.
'The thing is I wanted to make a cup of coffee, but the moment I plugged the brewer in the power went off.'
'I will take a look,' he had said already getting up. 'I replaced two of the sockets yesterday, must be one of them.' He had open one of the cabinets and taken out a screwdriver. He had quickly gone to work with Tim besides him but not seeing anything problem.
'It must have been this loose neutral wire that caused the short circuit. Let me just put it back in and tighten a bit. Right, there we go. I think it's fixed.' He talked as he worked for the benefit of Tim who watched like an eager student. After fastening the socket back in he had opened the door to the pantry to reveal the distribution box inside, but Tim's attention had been caught by something shinny nestled at the top shelf. When the lights had come back on, his suspicion had been confirmed.
They had talked some more about odd things over a cup of coffee. Tim had insisted on doing the serving. Serving an assortment of cold meats, sandwiches and snacks. He had learnt that for the five months they had been out of employment they survived by whatever Farai got from the various menial jobs he did when he was lucky enough to be hired. It was barely enough, but it was something. Every morning he would go to a certain traffic intersection where scores of other job seekers went and anyone who wanted a part-time worker would come. Competition for the few jobs was high hence the wages were pathetic. But occasionally a good Samaritan came along who paid handsomely. So Farai had become a sort of jack of all trades handyman. You learn to do everything quickly, otherwise you will starve to death he had said. So Farai had become a master bricklayer, tiler, carpenter, painter, plumber and a thousand other things.
After Farai had left, Tim had retrieved the half-full bottle of brandy from the pantry. He had gone over to the kitchen counter to go over the note book but it was no longer there. Had Farai taken it? Obviously, otherwise his creative mind was playing tricks with him. Fueled by the caffeine and his poison he was ready to face his computer screen and make some progress. Yet all he could think of was Farai and Ruth. How compatible they seemed to be. Each talked about the other in endearing terms. Even in the midst of their evident problems they seemed to be at peace with their situation. Grateful over the small things, yet going out of their way to make the lives of others comfortable. He remembered how after his minor indiscretion, Aletta in her anger or vindictiveness had, armed with a cricket bat, smashed the windshield to his new car. The social media scavengers had had a field day. How can true love turn into such hate at the flip of a coin. Well, if he was honest with himself, it had not happened overnight. It had been a long time in the making. He had taken out the crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and had added the lines:
I am walking away
I am putting your threats to the test
I do not care if your words and actions
Cut me to pieces on the social media gallery
The lines seemed to flow from unknown recesses in his mind. He let them flow without attempting to psychoanalyse them. His poet's pen was wet tonight and as long as the brandy flowed it too would flow. If he continued like this he would relapse into the alcoholic that he had been before. He wrote the lines:
I am walking away
I am tired of you guilty tripping me
Every chance you get,
Every turn or out of turn
Yet, I am still walking.
He had gone to bed with the thought that there was something off about the couple in the cottage. A lot of things were not adding up. They were not who they pretended to be. His writer's mind had been piqued and he knew he had to get to the bottom of it all. In a moment of enlightenment he had decided to keep them. He would offer them their jobs tomorrow. Maybe the move had been a blessing in disguise.