adminKundai Chitumwa Short Story
THE black letters and digits on the white plates screamed with subtlety that the big, white Toyota Land-cruiser was in the employ of a diplomat. This one in particular was assigned the task of ferrying the diplomat’s child to school. With this much punctuality, it was doing well, but then again it could be the excitement of the first day of school. I headed off into the corridor while it parked so I didn’t get to see who disembarked from it. But who was I kidding? I knew too well who was in the car; she was the reason why I was here.
Where I come from, sports are taken very seriously to an extent that the training we receive is much like that of military training. So, as agile as I was, I was actively involved in the national sports programme.
It was another aspect of me, however, that had me climb the ranks. Yes, ranks. Graduation from sports was graduation into the military service. I was of African origin and that meant I was of special use to the Special Forces, or at least that was how they sold the whole idea to me. At twelve, I was drafted into the Special Forces, and at fourteen I was deployed in this beautiful country of yours to learn what I must say are lovely languages; IsiNdebele and ChiShona. Three years later, and it was time to be an invisible guard to a diplomatic Tsarevna (Slavic for princess).
She was the daughter of Ambassador Ivanov, and no, he wasn’t from Russia but his country was indeed of Soviet origin. His daughter was not the only one who was an adopted African ethnic though; I also happened to be adopted, explaining why a person of my kind grew up in ice cold blizzards.
Cherylenko was what these disrespectful youngsters call a yellow-bone chic. Yellow sounds derogatory and there’s a reason why the word fair exists. Would I say fair-bone? Trust me, there was nothing boney about this fair-lady (not chic); she was voluptuous. However, my mandate was not to look at her but to look around her and make sure that, from my vantage point as her schoolmate, she was safe. I also had the arduous task of doing so while protecting my cover.
“Good morning Ms Ivanov”, I said as I approached her. She was standing alone in front of the main entrance of the administration building. I knew she still had a few niggles to sort out concerning her registration but what was I doing there? I was looking for a cellular cash agent. And I knew you wouldn’t believe me.
“And where did you learn to speak Russian?” asked the raspy voiced beauty.
Bleep! This is a family magazine so I won’t be apologetic about the censorship. But seriously, how could I? The major had strongly emphasised that I should keep my distance and now look what I had done!
“The internet,” I promptly responded, fighting hard with a stammer lodged deep within my throat.
“I learnt a bit of Russian on the internet for the foreign language lesson we have scheduled later on today.”
Her pause was fraught with doubt but I didn’t anticipate the next blow.
“Yet that doesn’t explain how you know my name.”
Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! Please excuse my language but what had I done? I couldn’t be a covert operative with a blown cover.
“Uhm, or, or, orientation! You may not remember me but we first met during orientation. I’m the politely rude dude who picked up your hair braid from the floor and gave it you. I don’t expect you to remember me because you hardly turned your head to see who was giving it to you. I’m sincerely sorry if I embarrassed you but I thought you would appreciate the gesture.”
In picking up her hair-braid, I honestly saw myself as Prince Charming picking up Cinderella’s glass shoe. In this case, at least, I didn’t have to search the whole kingdom in search for the owner. That’s the fantasy, half of the story. The real story was that I couldn’t allow any of her genetic material to be lost and be disposed of in a manner in which I couldn’t give an account of. So, yes, I’d picked up her braid and gave it to her, evidently not the best of details to remember about orientation.
“Oh, you’re that guy,” she said as her mouth broke into a smile. The fact that she had forgotten about her initial question (or at least she appeared to have) gave me a glimmer of hope that no damage had been done to my cover. So, I continued conversing with her and she did open up, albeit, unknowingly to her detail. The arrival of the staff brought our conversation to an end as we weren’t going to the same office. The morning had really been the highlight of the day and I couldn’t be happier about my new-found acquaintance.
A week later, I was summoned to the consul and I knew nothing good would come out of it; I wasn’t scheduled for a briefing for another six months. And I was right. I exited the consul having been crowned the king of depression, and what a coronation service it was? I had been told, in not so pleasant terms and tones to keep my distance from her.
Apparently, Cherylenko had let slip about a young man who had greeted her in Russian. She had gone on to mention how interesting the young man was and how she would like to get to know him better. The cherry on the cake, more-over, was how she had asked her father if the young man could be invited for dinner at the Ivanov residence in Greystone Park. I shook my head as I remembered all these details of the briefing but I was in such deep thought that I forgot about the loose rug at the entrance of the consul. I slipped when I stepped on it and that shook me back to reality.
I yawned gapingly as I got out of bed. I knew I liked her but this was extreme; was I now dreaming about her? Yesterday, when she walked past me, I couldn’t help but notice that her bag wasn’t emblazoned with a cheap Charmza, but with an expensive Soviet. The white sneakers were also Soviet. And so was the pair of jean shorts she was wearing. Who, you ask? Look closely.
Bongani Ndlovu