The Mofwe Tree

A story by EMILY PENSULO

On the third day, when God created the plants and trees, He set the Mofwe tree in this very place. Tall and defiant, it overlooked the land it stood in the midst of. 

Years later, when the first settlers arrived, they built their huts around it. In the summer, they sat in its shade and in the winter, they avoided its coolness. And many years after the first settlers, the British arrived. They tried to cut the tree down because its width was taking up valuable land, but the axes instead cut arms and feet, so they let it be. In the early 1960s, the British returned to the tree. This time, not to cut it down but to build a five-bedroom house. A judge who represented the Crown in what was now called Northern Rhodesia bought the land because he had never seen anything so exquisite as the tree.

It was at this time that Ba Zulu arrived in Lusaka from Petauke. After spending three nights at the bus station because he had nobody to take him in, he found a job at the Judge’s house as a gardener. He credited this to an ancestor who appeared to him in a dream and promised him good luck, but really, it was because that year, the tree had shed so many leaves that Judge Smith needed an extra hand to keep the yard clean. On the first day of his employment, after the Smiths retired to bed, Ba Zulu woke up at three and dug a hole at the foot of the tree. He buried a reed, which, in defiance of space and time and form, was his heart. He had been warned of the jealousy of his kin before he left Petauke, and he didn’t want to die before his time, so he took the local ng’anga’s advice. 

In 1964, after a struggle that sometimes turned bloody, Northern Rhodesia gained independence and became Zambia. Many who worked for the colonial government returned to England, but Judge and Mrs Smith stayed on. At first, the Smiths said it was because of Ba Zulu and Ba Mable, the maid. Even though their government oppressed the locals, the Judge and his wife were kind to their employees. Maybe it was because Ba Zulu and Ba Mable were hardworking or because the Smiths were trying to make up for their government’s shortcomings and exempt themselves from guilt by association. But it didn’t matter from which perspective their kindness came; Ba Zulu and Ba Mable enjoyed Christmas, New Year and Easter gifts, the pay rise every year and the numerous tips. The Smiths also said that in this new environment where the local people governed themselves, Ba Zulu and Ba Mable could be anything they dreamed of becoming, and they wanted to help them realise these dreams. To uplift other people who were unlikely ever to pay back. To do something very kind.

Next, the Smiths said they could not return because of the weather. It was more forgiving here than in England, and they had grown accustomed to clear blue skies. Finally and importantly, they said they couldn’t return because of the Mofwe tree. They had never seen anything like it, its length and width, leaves and fruit with the appearance of a partly peeled banana, and the way it emanated a calmness that asked them to stay. They thought of turning it into a tourist attraction. They would rent out some rooms in their house so that people could experience the tree. But they didn’t quite get around to doing it. There was always not enough money or not the right time, but mostly the fear that someone could find a way of usurping their land because they wanted the tree.

In the late 1970s, the Smiths’ sons, Timothy and Theodore, left for Oxford University. Mr. Smith hoped they would return because Zambia had now become their home. But they both stayed on in England. Timothy cited the unlikelihood of finding a wife in Zambia, and Theodore had found a job as an assistant to an assistant to the Queen’s equerry. With hard work, he would come closer to the crown. Disappointed and with much unwillingness, the Smiths resolved instead to visit their children in England, sometimes during Christmas and at other times during Easter. The visits lasted two weeks, at most three.

During one of these trips in the early 1990s, the Smiths went to England and never returned. A month went by, and then two and then three. In the fourth month, Ba Zulu tried to call Timothy and ask after the Smiths. At first, he thought they were simply staying longer, but now he had begun to worry. He picked up the receiver, and there was a dial tone on the other end. He had thought that when Mrs. Smith spoke to her sons, she simply picked up the receiver and heard their voices on the other end. He put the receiver back in its place. Before he walked back to the backyard to rake leaves, he studied the numbers on the phone, arranged in a circle. He wondered what they were and how they worked. His head began to pound, so he left thoughts of speaking to Timothy behind. 

Two years went by, and the Smiths had still not returned. Word went around that they had left in the middle of the night after Mrs. Smith woke up to smoke a cigarette and found a naked figure with no discernible male or female characteristics standing by the Mofwe tree. It looked at her, and she looked at it. Though it didn’t speak, she knew what it said. They packed their bags and left for England. Others said they missed their sons so much that they gave the house to Ba Zulu and relocated back home. This made Ba Zulu a figure of envy. Some of the gardeners in the neighbourhood wondered why the Smiths had not instead sold the house and used the money for their new life or donated it to an orphanage in Lusaka or to an NGO that looked after Aids patients. The house would have been better put to use than giving it to Ba Zulu.

A week after this rumour, Ba Zulu found fresh faeces in a pile outside the gate positioned in a way that it had to have been a deliberate act. He wondered who would do such a thing, but he was not mistaken in what it meant. He returned to the yard, took a shovel, dug through the earth, and covered the faeces with dirt before shovelling and discarding them at a bare land three houses away. That morning, he did not stand outside the gate to watch passers-by as they rushed for work as he usually did. He sat inside the yard by the gate, listening to footsteps, especially those that lingered longer, hoping to catch a suspect. But none came. At night, he kept watch, hoping the culprit would return. But he did not, and none of the things Ba Zulu had feared would happen happened. He did not develop an illness, see things in his dreams, or hear strange noises in the house. After a week, the incident was forgotten.

Three weeks later, Ba Tembo, the only other gardener who had worked in the neighbourhood for as long as Ba Zulu, knocked on Ba Zulu’s gate. He had come with other gardeners who were newer in the neighbourhood. After the fifth knock, Ba Zulu opened the gate and even though Ba Tembo had not carried a smile on their way there, he let one alight. It did not reach his eyes. 

“Bwanji baba,” Ba Tembo said, running fingers on the bare middle part of his head.

“Bwino,” Ba Zulu said, extending a hand for a handshake. He turned to the other men, “muli bwanji ba nyamata?”

“Bwino,” they responded in unison.

He shook their hands.

Ba Tembo peeped into the yard through the small opening of the gate. The grass was brown and longer than it should have been. He turned to Ba Zulu. 

“Baba,” he began, “we thought we should come here and visit you,” he said, even though the visit was his idea. The others nodded. They had come along because he had asked them to. They were happy to go with him even though they did not know why. Ba Tembo had been in the neighbourhood for so long that he learned how to keep a job. In this place, gardeners could be hired and fired within the same day. He knew the bosses who were kind, mean, friendly, or formal and the happenings in their homes. And when new gardeners arrived, he told them all about their new bosses. Then he taught them survival techniques such as kneeling when speaking to the boss, never arguing with the children, always appearing to be working even if there was nothing to do and never, ever looking at the boss’s wife. Those who heeded his advice stayed employed longer, and they credited him for their success. And they reaffirmed his words when new gardeners came along.

Ba Zulu nodded.

Ba Tembo smiled. “How are the gardens doing?” he asked. He had seen women by Ba Zulu’s gate buying spinach and tomatoes, which they would later resale. 

“Well,” Ba Zulu responded.

For seconds, the two men stood staring at each other. Both knew the gardens were not the reason Ba Tembo had come to visit. Ba Tembo turned his gaze to the ground and tried to think of a better proverb to use for the advice he had come to give. But he could think of nothing better than the Bemba saying ishuko ikonka ifupuba. The Smiths had gone to England and left Ba Zulu in a five-bedroomed house, yet he had done little to profit off this good fortune. Ba Zulu could have rented out the house and used the money to buy land and build his own home. He could also have started a grocery business. With the profits, he could have found a woman, paid lobola, married her and lived comfortably ever after. 

Ba Tembo turned to Ba Zulu. He decided not to use the proverb because who would take advice after being called a fool?

“There is a man,” Ba Tembo lied, “he wants to rent a house. A five-bedroomed house.”

Silence.

“When he told me, I immediately thought of this house.”

“Ummm,” Ba Zulu said.

“Baba, he is willing to pay a lot of money.” 

“Baba, how can I rent out a house that is not mine?” Ba Zulu asked.

Ba Tembo chuckled and shook his head. “Baba, iyi nyumba ni yanu manje, you can do anything you want with it,” he said.

“Si so, Ba Tembo, iyi nyumba niya Ba Judge,” Ba Zulu said. “When he returns, he will decide what to do with it.”

“I just came to give advice,” Ba Tembo said.

“Zikomo.”

“You are welcome.” Ba Tembo turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back to Ba Zulu, still standing by the gate. “In case mwachinja nzelu tell me. Otherwise, this man is very much interested in renting this house. I could ask him to come and meet with you if you like, just to talk. I can come with him even tomorrow.”

Ba Zulu neither nodded nor shook his head. Ba Tembo walked away. The other men followed him. They strolled in silence in the crisp June air. And when each got to their place of work, they turned with a brief goodbye. Despite the weather, sweat ran down Ba Tembo’s forehead because hot blood rushed through him. He had thought money would win Ba Zulu’s endearment. He had imagined them walking to the neighbouring compound, sitting in the dimly lit bars and exchanging sips from a large cup of Shekisheki. Then, after a few weeks, Ba Tembo would instigate an invitation into Ba Zulu’s yard. He rarely allowed people in. He said the Smiths would disapprove, but Ba Tembo suspected it was because of the Mofwe tree. Ba Zulu did not want it to do for others what it had done for him. The tree was an omen of good luck. Ba Tembo believed so. Didn’t the new government allow the Smiths to keep their home after independence despite its hostility to the colonial rulers? And didn’t Ba Zulu, a simple gardener, now come into possession of a five-bedroomed house in a neighbourhood where ministers and top ruling party officials lived? Ba Tembo decided he would think of another way to get to the tree. He could tell Ba Zulu he wanted to help with the maintenance of the yard. After all, the grass was long and brown. The Smiths had a borehole, so water was not the issue. But then, how would he justify working at night? The ng’anga had said to dig a hole beside the tree and bury the little house at midnight. This ritual would be more potent than defecating by the gate. Then, three days later, without any good reason, Ba Zulu would leave, and Ba Tembo would move into the house with his wife and last-born son. They would live in the guest house, which was a little bigger than the servants’ quarters. He would find a tenant for the main house and use the rentals to buy a plot and build his own house, which he would rent out. 

Ba Tembo wiped the sweat off his face and fanned himself. He sat outside the yard under a guava tree whose branches extended over the wall fence. It was because of this very tree that he was employed. That year, it bore so many guavas that they fell to the ground and rotted, filling the yard with a stench. So, he was employed to clear the fallen guavas off the ground. 

Ba Tembo reached for his portable radio and turned it on. PK Chisala’s voice crooned through. Ba Tembo moved his head to the rhythm but stopped midway and changed the channel. Unlike the character in the song, he would be smarter and not be caught putting charms in his friend’s yard. He turned the dial to Radio Two. There was an advert for washing powder. Like a bulb lighting up, Ba Tembo remembered something he had heard from the other gardeners. Thieves these days now use something called chloroform before entering a house at night. It would make the occupants sleep so soundly that they would not hear the world end, and the thieves would steal cushions, pots, meat, and mealie meal peacefully. Ba Tembo decided that he would get chloroform. How and where––he wasn’t sure.

It was the following Sunday, after Ba Tembo attended a service at St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church, that he met Gift. Gift had been a gardener at a house in the neighbourhood and was fired after a break-in. He spent three nights in jail, but because they could not find the TV, stove, pots and cushions with him, they let him go. But Ba Tembo thought differently. In the days after the theft, Gift suddenly had more money to spend in the bars. They exchanged a greeting. Gift wanted to walk on, but Ba Tembo held him back with inane questions. When would Gift introduce his ‘madam’ to him so he could give them marriage advice, how were his grandparents in the village doing, and when should he expect ‘grandchildren.’ When Ba Tembo had run out of questions, he cleared his throat, smiled, and then led Gift to a wall fence.

 “Eh, Gift,” he began, “you know, I noticed that among all the gardeners I have known, you are the most intelligent.”

Gift nodded, unsure of what would invite such praise.

“I have been thinking of you lately,” Ba Tembo lied, “that if I ever have a chance to help you find a job, I will do so.”

“Thank you,” Gift said.

Ba Tembo bit on his lower lip and stared at the ground. “There is this thing,” he said,  “what’s it called again,” he paused as if trying to remember the word, “chloroform, yes, chloroform, where can I get it?”

Gift stiffened. Panic and suspicion registered in his deep-set eyes.  

Ba Tembo smiled.

“I don’t know where to get chloroform,” Gift said.

Ba Tembo nodded. From his back pocket, he retrieved two notes and handed them to Gift. “In case you hear of anything,” he said, “please let me know, and I will double this amount.”

Before the day ended, Gift brought Ba Tembo a bottle of chloroform. He showed him how to use it and told him that he should let him know if he needed more. The men shook hands, and Ba Tembo promised Gift more money by the end of the month. Since there were still hours to midnight, Ba Tembo decided to bury the house that night. In the past weeks, he had studied Ba Zulu and observed that he always retired to his yard by eighteen hours. So Ba Tembo estimated that Ba Zulu would be in bed by at least twenty-one thirty. He would be by the yard at twenty-two and keep watch until it was safe enough to climb over the wall fence near the tree. He was thankful the fence on that side was not so high. 

That evening, Ba Tembo could not even finish his dinner. It was not only because his wife had served the Nshima with beans and ifisashi, and he preferred T-bone, steak, pork, or chicken, but because his mind wandered to the day, he would move into Ba Zulu’s house. He imagined opening the gate for the removal truck to enter, how he would instruct the men where to place the bed and sofas. He imagined the living room, the kitchen, and three bedrooms in the guest house. Since the ng’anga said that Ba Zulu would leave after three days, Ba Tembo decided to move in on Thursday morning. 

The clock struck twenty-two, and Ba Tembo walked out of the yard through a small back gate to a footpath that led to Ba Zulu’s backyard. He had carried a torch, but the moon was full enough to light his way. When he got to Ba Zulu’s backyard, he removed the bottle of chloroform from the pocket of his bomber jacket. He debated whether to scale the wall with it in his pocket or to place it on the wall. After a few minutes, he placed the bottle on the wall. It presented a lower risk of falling out of his pocket, breaking, and taking him to sleep instead. Three attempts later, Ba Tembo managed to reach the top of the wall. He calculated the drop distance and strategised on how he would land. He would count to three and jump but went as far as ten before he landed in Ba Zulu’s yard. He stood under the tree, in the susurrus of leaves, as a gentle breeze blew by. He stared at the tree. It was even more magnificent at close range. For a moment, he was lost in thoughts of its wonder and even as he walked to the servant’s quarter where Ba Zulu lived, he would turn back to look at the tree. At the quarter, he considered looking through the windows to see which room Ba Zulu was in, but he risked making a noise that would wake Ba Zulu. So Ba Tembo took out a cloth, covered his nose, and spilt the chloroform on the sills of all the windows as quickly as he could. Then he ran back to the tree and waited ten minutes. The night was still silent.  He dug a small hole with a branch and buried the house. The tension in his belly eased. A warmth surrounded his heart, and he smiled. Before returning home, he took a brief tour of the yard because soon, all this would be his.

That night, Ba Tembo slept more peacefully than he had ever done before. 

The following day, at nine-thirty, one of the gardeners came to see Ba Tembo and asked how to stop termites from eating the bark of a tree. He had not noticed earlier that a colony of termites was on the tree in his yard. Ba Tembo thought for a moment. There had never been termites in the neighbourhood eating the barks of trees. 

“Let’s go and see,” Ba Tembo said.

When Ba Tembo got to the tree, his skin crawled. The bark was covered in such a large colony of termites that by the time the gardener had come to see him, they had eaten so much of the tree that it would fall in a few days. Ba Tembo suggested using a pesticide even though he knew it was too late to save the tree. The gardener said he had tried spaying one in the morning, but the termites still did not die. Ba Tembo shook his head and walked back to his yard. Just then, another gardener came to see him. There were termites on the tree in his yard, eating away at the bark. Before Ba Tembo could narrate how he had witnessed a tree being destroyed by termites, another gardener came over. The tree in his yard was also being eaten by termites. By noon, a group of gardeners had gathered outside Ba Tembo’s yard to discuss the termites destroying the trees. One of them suggested visiting a ng’anga to find out who was responsible for this predicament because if someone harmed the trees, it was only a matter of time before they harmed people. 

As they discussed this, Ba Zulu eventually arrived, his shoulders hunched, countenance haunted. The group parted for him, and he walked to the front where Ba Tembo stood. He sat on a concrete block and buried his face in his hands. The group was silent. He faced them.

“I have been here many, many years,” he said, “and I have never seen anything like this before.” 

The group nodded.

Ba Zulu shook his head. “When I woke up this morning, I found that the Mofwe tree had withered.”

They gasped.

Someone suggested calling the city council to examine the trees and advise what to do. But many insisted on the ng’anga. If someone had cast a spell, not even the council would help. Ba Tembo and Ba Zulu supported reporting the matter to the council not because it was logical but because they feared what the ng’anga would find. The others were disappointed, but Ba Zulu and Ba Tembo were the eldest, and what they decided weighed more.  The meeting was dismissed. They would convene again soon to give an update on the situation. 

It was only on Wednesday afternoon when the council sent through an inspector to examine the trees. By then, the trees in the neighbourhood had already fallen, and the termites had disappeared as if they had not existed. The inspector took samples of what remained of the trees and promised to return with the results. He said that even though what had happened was unusual, it was not completely impossible because trees were known to live as a community and communicate. If one tree was under attack, it would send signals to the other trees to warn them of the danger so they could toughen their leaves, produce wax, or reduce their nutrients. But if a tree was under attack and could not send signals, the others would also fall prey. His explanation eased the gardeners. At least there was no one to blame.

Then, on Thursday, the day Ba Tembo had planned to move into Ba Zulu’s house, Judge and Mrs. Smith returned from England. Judge Smith was thin and looked older. He had suffered a heart attack, and it was only now that he was well enough for the Doctors to allow him to travel back to Zambia. They walked into their house, Judge Smith holding on to Mrs. Smith’s arm. The house was as they had left it, even though the furniture was a little dusty. They sat in the sitting room, and then Mrs. Smith asked Ba Zulu to take chairs to the backyard so they could sit under the Mofwe tree. In the time they had been away, all they could think about was getting back to the tree, to how calm it made them feel, to drink tea below its shade. 

Ba Zulu tried to explain what happened to the Mofwe tree but he could not find the right words. He asked Mrs. Smith to follow him. When they got to the backyard, a stillness ran through her body as she stared at the space where the tree once stood. She tried to speak, but the words would not form. She walked back into the house. Ba Zulu followed her. She sobbed, gentle, quiet sobs and then explained to her husband what she had seen in the backyard. He tried to walk on his own to see what she had seen. But she held him back, fearing another heart attack. 

A week after they arrived, the Smiths returned to England, having put their house on sale through lawyers. Ba Zulu could stay until a new owner moved in. Elsewhere in the neighbourhood, gardeners lost their jobs. There were no longer leaves on the ground to clear and keep the yards clean. Their employers also suspected something sinister in the destruction of the trees. Ba Tembo had been the first one to be fired. He had knelt and cried as he pleaded to keep his job, but his employer insisted that his time there had come to an end. He moved out of the servant’s quarter that afternoon.

A month later, a young Zambian couple bought the Smiths’ house. They marvelled at the yard, not knowing about the tree that stood in the backyard and had existed for thousands of years. The tree that many said made the Smiths’ backyard the most exquisite in the neighbourhood. The tree that inspired many in the neighbourhood to plant trees in their yards. Ba Zulu had asked the couple if they would like him to plant a tree in the backyard. But they said they preferred a flower bed and had their gardener who would take up yard maintenance. But Ba Zulu could stay until he found a place to go. Ba Zulu did not kneel or cry to plead for his job. His time here had come to an end. He did not know how to maintain a yard with a flower bed and not a Mofwe tree.