You are dead without money

By Onie Ndoro | 5h ago

Something was wrong. There was no peanut butter to add to the porridge.

“How come there is no peanut butter in the porridge?” I said

Mai VaMaidei waited for me to finish talking and then she brought the plastic container of Mama’s peanut butter. It was empty.

“This is why there is no peanut butter in your porridge,” she said.

I did not take it lightly. She knew that I liked my porridge with peanut butter. I would do anything to make sure that there was peanut butter in the house. She was making a huge statement. Most of our food provisions for the month were finished. The packet of 10kg roller meal on top of the green bucket was almost finished. Even the sugar container was empty.

I continued to eat the tasteless porridge with a bitter look. I could see that my children had already eaten their porridge. Their dirty plates were piled up in the plastic dish which was on the kitchen floor. I could hear their voices clearly as they played outside with their friends.

They would only come back for their meals or when their mother called them. The school holidays brought a new pool of friends from other towns, neighbourhoods and from the rural areas.

In most cases, my son Marwadzo came back with dirty and torn clothes from reckless playing.

Keep Reading

After eating my porridge I pushed my plate on the floor and it made noise as it landed upside down. Mai VaMaidei gave me a sideways glance that made me take a pause. But just at that moment, there was a knock at the door.

Mai VaMaidei opened it. It was Fatso. I had last seen him at Zororo Bar the other week.

Time stood still. Rasta wanted to enter, but Mai VaMaidei blocked the entrance. She scowled at him. I could see that she was in a no nonsense mood.

“Are you married?” she shot the question at Fatso.

He was startled as much as I. He shook his head puzzled.

“So why do you come here looking for my husband? It’s you who get young girls for him,” said Mai VaMaidei.

This was too much for me.

“What is the meaning of this? I said, standing up.

“You are not leaving this house today. He must go, he is not your age mate,” she said.

She never liked Fatso, but she had never openly declared this attitude. Fatso took a step backwards. I opened my mouth, then I shut it as words failed me. I was embarrassed.

After that, Fatso just turned round and made his departure leaving us glaring at each other.

“You think I don’t know what happens with that girl who works at the hair salon,” she said.

She was talking about Lynette, a hairdresser at the salon next to Zororo Bar. She always thought that there was some chemistry between us. She was wrong. I was a husband of one wife despite all my other faults.

“You are not going anywhere today, we will go to the market together,” she said.

There was no point in arguing with her. I took an ear thumped novel in one of the boxes under the bed. It was a James Hardley Chase paperback by the title: “You are dead without money.”

Ironically, the title of the novel pole_ axed me. There was some truth in it. The struggle was real. Without money, life was an endless struggle. Poverty was a daily occurrence, living from hand to mouth, just managing to stay alive but with nothing to show for it.

I tried to read the book while Mai VaMaidei made preparations to go to the market. I might as well go with her.

*Onie Ndoro Onie X@90396982