FICTION IN REFLECTION
"Inheritance" by Philippa Hatendi
Inheritance
She lies on a tombstone looking up into the sapphire sky as the wisps of clouds wander languorously by. The air is fresh. The way it is in the places which only the ancestors know, the ones that haven’t felt the sting of modern man’s touch. This place is known as “World’s View”. The land that Zimbabweans had liberated stretches out before her and she forgot the problems it had inherited from this hill of balancing rocks in the lands of the Ndebele tribe. Her jeans fit snugly, hanging just beneath her belly button as she basks on the cool rock tracing circles idly on her stomach.
Despite the clouds, there is no chill in the air. The jacket that her husband insisted she bring lies beside her. Imaginative man, though pompous. Then again, she hadn’t really come here for Cecil Rhodes.
She came here for the ancestors.
“Gugu, I am ready to go,” Bukhosi says. She does not respond to him. She observes as he sits down on the grave with her. She hates it when he calls her by her pet name. He is too comfortable with such intimacies. She had asked him to come here because she wanted to know what the places her ancestors dwelled in looked like. Bukhosi had promised to take her everywhere and so in this fourth year of their marriage they had begun their weekend trips.
She had not enjoyed the privilege of traveling the country as a young girl. Though her father was a traditional and patriotic man, he never liked to stray too far out of his housing compound. He didn’t have the same urge to explore, to learn all the stories that she did. He would always tell her that she was hungry for words. This was a passion she had only truly shared with her late husband, Chengetanai.
“Gugulehtu,” he says, interrupting her reverie again. Since he uses her full name she looks up at him, a hand over her eyes. His face is stern.
“I said I am ready to go.”
“You never ask.”
“Ask what?”
“If I am ready,” Gugulehtu says, sighing. “As long as Bukhosi is ready, the world is ready.”
He looks at her for a while. She watches the muscle in the side of his jaw twitch then looks at the view with longing again. When she peeks back at him that muscle is still twitching. Bukhosi picks up her coat from the ground, dusts it off for her and leads her as she makes her way back down to the car. The brambled bushes on the sides of the path cling to her jean legs, and her sneakers are reddened by the soil. It is very easy to stumble over rocks or branches.
The couple was staying with Bukhosi’s mother in Matopos for two nights before traveling back to Harare in the morning. Gugulehtu never missed Harare while they were on these trips. The endless savannah and fresh air were all she needed. Bukhosi opens her door for her before he strides to the driver’s side. He looks too big for the car. She chuckles. For a few minutes, he just sits there with the key in the ignition – brooding. “Gugulehtu, I try my best to be considerate toward you. You never reward me for it.”
“You’re considerate only because you’re expecting a reward.”
“Is that what you heard me say?”
“You used the word ‘reward’ about our marriage.”
“I didn’t mean it the way you heard it.” He corrects himself, all too late. “I don’t ever remember you speaking this way to Chenge,” he remarks, narrowing his eyes in exasperation. Bukhosi puts a hand on her cheek. She moves her face away. He puts the car into gear as she hears the ignition come on. “My lioness,” he murmurs, turning to her briefly before putting the car into reverse. “You only give in to me when you’re on your back. Otherwise, always biting.”
Gugulehtu disappears into the kitchen to help Bukhosi’s mother prepare dinner after a silent car ride home. Soon she makes her way through preparing the millet, and is onto her favourite part – preparing the goat intestines. The name for this delicacy within Shona culture is “maguru”, and they are lightly cleaned before cooking in order to maintain the chewy and delicious taste. Love for this type of meat was something the couple had in common. He would often ask her to make them when he had a particularly trying day at work.
“Bukhosi is so happy that we are making his favourite food tonight!” Rudo says as she puts a tender hand on Gugulehtu’s back. A wife’s most consecrated duty was the ability to cook for her husband and make sure that he was well taken care of. Gugulehtu does this with diligence. Rudo had been pleasantly surprised that though her daughter-in-law had an education abroad, she still believed in the importance of a wife’s traditional role. To be entrusted to cook for anyone was a position of great trust and intimacy. A husband especially, which is why cooking was traditionally kept only within marriage. The hand that feeds is the hand that nourishes. It was a blessing to find a girl who hadn’t been spoiled by years overseas.
“Did you two enjoy your trip to Matobo Park?”
“Yes, I really loved it. I loved the freshness of the air up there.”
“It holds a sacred peace, doesn’t it?” Rudo responds, stroking her back again. Gugulethu appreciates that she has such a good relationship with her mother-in-law, who is so kind. There were so many horror stories about mothers who’d put their sons’ wives through hell. Thankfully, Bukhosi could be counted on to defend his wife and home. His size and sternness discouraged people from going against him – even Rudo.
“I hear that you and Bukhosi have been having some issues with other women trying to sleep with him. Is this true?” Rudo asks.
“How do you know about that?”
“Well, people talk to each other about everything. Surely you know that.” Rudo watches Gugulehtu’s face contorting from strain. “I can help you. Tell me why these women feel like they can make their way into your marriage?”
“They’re not!”
“All men have their weaknesses. I think I know what may be happening.” Rudo takes Gugulehtu’s face into her hands. Losing a husband so early into a marriage was paralyzing – like a python’s fangs to a heart. As she grieved for the loss of her son, Rudo had watched the girl’s face slowly fade from despair into hopelessness. Everyone had assumed that the longer that Gugulehtu was married to her eldest son, the more her grief would subside. It was natural. Rudo often comforted Bukhosi when he came to her distraught. He would kneel at her feet, dogged by his brother’s dominion over his wife’s heart.
So Rudo had been trying to counsel the girl, because there was nothing worse than to see your child so voracious for love and incapable of attaining it. “Wives should never befriend neglect. He hungers for you. Men need to be shown love. You asked us to provide a husband for you after Chenge died and we did, the cleansings were done – “
“I had to. I didn’t want to be pushed out of Chenge’s family.”
“Tradition would not see you pushed out no matter how many people have distorted our practices – it was made to keep families together. You are a good daughter both to me and your parents. We did not want to lose you even though grief swallowed all of us.” Rudo feels the girl’s sobs wrack her body and holds her, whispering comfort. Her own heart pangs as she thinks of her youngest son and the joy he brought to that first marriage. How his spirit would lighten every time Gugulehtu walked into the room. Chenge never had to be persuaded to go home to his pregnant wife, he never lingered at bars and was always looking for ways to make his wife happier. Who could have known that a moment of rage could devastate so many lives? What she would give to have both her sons here again. “Mwanangu, you asked for a husband. We gave you one because it was our duty to take care of you. A man must not be physically neglected by his own wife. If he was neglecting you that way, you would have every right to complain and we would correct him as well. We loved you and Bukhosi does also. So, it’s your turn now to give love.” Deep tenderness fills Rudo’s voice. Gugulehtu nods, wanting to be agreeable as Rudo uses her fingers to wipe the tears from her face.
After their visit to his mother’s house in Matopos, Bukhosi is subjected to countless nights of frustration. He's certain he has done something wrong. He called his mother countless times asking her what had upset his wife, but his mother had refused to tell him. She said simply that Gugulehtu would come to him when she was ready and he should just be patient with her. He wants to tear his eyes out.
She wouldn’t even let him touch her!
Even in her anger, she had always rose to meet his passion bucking under him till her traditional waist beads shook. Now she had taken even this, the only form of intimacy that they had in their marriage, and he was left with nothing. Just this brute cold. She had resorted to moving to another bedroom, and had expressly forbidden him from following her. He could not understand how he had angered her enough to leave the marriage bed.
She would prepare his meals before he got home, and come out of her room only to put the plates on the table and dish for him. She wouldn’t even sit with him in silence like she had after they had married. The table felt vast when he sat there alone. He ate but could not remember the taste of the food. He ate though he wasn’t hungry because this was all the contact that she gave him now. He couldn’t remember feeling so inadequate. All he wanted was to please her. To be her husband.
One night when she comes out to serve his dinner, he notices her eyes are red and her face puffy. She has been crying, as she had a few times during the course of the last few weeks. He clenches his fist. He aches to comfort her, positive that she wouldn’t let him. The food was well prepared as always, but this time he abandons his plate half-eaten and marches to the guest room where she has secluded herself. He turns the handle (knocking be damned!) to find it locked.
He waits. She does not let him in. Tears sting at the back of his eyelids, he put his hands on his head and slides down against the door into a crumpled hunch. He isn’t aware how long he sits there, his thoughts racing and everything within him aching. He is tired, work had demanded so much from him today and he’d needed to come back home to something warm. He needed a wife’s warmth, and she was here. Where else would he go?
A few hours later, Gugulehtu opens the door to clear his dishes and get herself a cup of water. She lets out alarmed cry when she stumbles over him. Even though he is tired, he gets clumsily up to his feet, putting out his hands in an attempt to calm her. Apologies descend from his lips as she studies him aghast. As her heartbeat begins to steady, she notices a few things about him. The lines under his eyes are more pronounced, his shirt unbuttoned, his eyes red and his knuckles seem bruised. Had he hit something?
“I could not take it any longer.”
“So, you thought you’d frighten me, and that would put me in the talking mood?” she said, and cringes right after. He didn’t deserve her cruelty.
“Please…please tell me what I did?” he asks, taking her fingers into his hands with an injured look in his eyes. Her heart softens, he resembles Chenge. Her sweet Chenge. She knows there was just as much love in Bukhosi as there had been in Chenge, but how could she let him give her this love?
“Is this about the women who fuss over me at work? I promise, they don’t mean anything to me. You know I send them away. It’s just gossip.” Bukhosi says, grasping at straws. It’s not about the women. Regardless, she says, “Why do you encourage them to come into our marriage?”
This stills him, and he frowns at her. Perplexed. This can’t be what she’s been so angry about. He’s been in love with her as long as he can remember. She saw him on the side-lines. She knew all the while. He’s certain. Saw him in the frayed edges of her sight that were not filled with Chenge. The framed picture of the three of them on his mantle at home. In his office. How he’d leave – drop everything whenever she called on him as her brother-in-law. He stayed close even though it wrecked him to see her in his brother’s arms, wished them happiness at their wedding because he wanted her to be happy. He chose her happiness. His brother’s happiness – ever since he and Chenge were little. All the women that had been placed in front of him had never diminished his devotion. So why is she asking him this? This wasn’t why she was angry. He clasps her hands tighter, determined to understand the true source of a distance between them.
“There is no one in our marriage – not even us” he says. “I need to feel wanted as a man. No man alive can compete with the dead.”
She slaps him. He staggers back even though it doesn’t physically hurt.
“Don’t talk about him like that!”
“You’re my wife now!” he says, cupping her shoulders. “I hate myself because he is dead and I can’t give him back to you. I know I should have driven him home that night. If it could have been me, I would have taken his place Gugulehtu. But I can’t be him and I can’t give him back!”
“Stop it, Bukhosi! Don’t try to change the subject.”
“You’re not angry about the women. Chenge is the subject.
“No.”
“I’m starving and they can smell it.”
“What?” she says, incredulous.
“You send me out of this house everyday close to madness. That’s why those women want me. They bring me things. Offer themselves. They can smell the loneliness.” He steps closer to her, his breathing heavy and slow. She holds her arms around herself. Biting her lip to stop herself from crying. “You know I’ve only ever needed you, Gugulehtu.”
“Why did you tell your mother?” Gugulehtu asks, not ready to relent. He grimaces, head low. She really had a way of making him sacrifice his pride, even while she was still married to his brother.
“She’s my mother. Who else could I confide in? He would have been home with you if I had not invited him out that night. I’ve been struggling with this ever since we got married.” he says, his shame quietly whispering. Gugulehtu’s eyes pool. Had she broken him? The tears were warm and bulbous, moving slowly down her face. He yearns for the love that she knows could grow inside her. Sturdy and striking as the seed of a Jacaranda tree, her love’s flowers would be bloody with purple.
Rudo was right. It was her turn to give love.
She begins to walk away from him. He watches her confused as she signals for him to follow her, but he does not ask questions. As she approaches their room, his face glows with the stoked embers of understanding. After she enters, she takes his jacket from him. She hates to leave dishes out overnight, but knows that her attention is better spent here. She carefully arranges it in his closet, and removes the rest of his clothing. He says nothing, simply watching her in reverence. This was the first time she had taken the time to undress him. Usually she would just put his clothes away in the morning—or he would hurriedly undress himself.
She coaxes him to into bed, and he follows. His arms remain at his side, but she knows he is keen to hold her. “Hold me,” she says.
When Rudo came down to visit them for her 60th birthday six months later, she was very pleased. Bukhosi picked her up at the bus station with a wholehearted kiss and a hug. He is bubbling over with stories about work and Gugulehtu. He was planning another trip for Gugulehtu to Victoria Falls.
The capital city, Harare, was stunning to Rudo. The Jacaranda trees with their inky purple flowers on the road leading to the president’s house were just opening in bloom. Bukhosi had a home in Borrowdale, which was one of the most prestigious neighbourhoods in the capital. He had chosen it mostly because a lot of his father’s family had lived there and he wanted to stay in the neighbourhood where he had grown up.
Gugulehtu was an accomplished equestrian. Bukhosi had begun to extend his lunches on weekdays just to drive back from the city centre to watch her ride. He could understand her obstinate nature as he watched her gallop through fields on horseback, her gold tinged afro bustling behind her like an Aurelian mane.
Afterwards, Bukhosi drops his mother off at the house though Gugulehtu is also not back from work. Rudo decides to take a nap. She never managed to sleep on the bus because those seats are never comfortable. Always too small! She spent most of the trip helping a young woman nurse her toddler. To be honest she felt, like other older women whom she knew, that it was her job to impart knowledge of womanhood onto younger girls. The old African wisdom says it takes a village to raise a child and this was something that she had stuck by.
The smell of cabbage cooking in the kitchen wakes her up. It meanders into the room quietly and tickles at her nose. As she wanders into the kitchen, Gugulehtu gives her a smile and then looks startled.
“I’m sorry, Amai. Did I wake you up?”
“No mwanagu,” she says, as she takes the spoon from Gugulehtu and stirs while inhaling the smells of the flavour mix. “The smell woke me. A wife’s cooking!” Rudo leans in, conspiring, her curiosity lighting up her blue-ringed eyes. “Tell an old lady where you’re taking me for my birthday.”
Gugulehtu laughs, playfully touching Rudo on the shoulder before checking on the maid who is preparing the rice. “Amai, you are not old and you know I’m not allowed to tell you that.”
“I don’t see Bukhosi anywhere, how would he ever know?”
“Amai, you’re a hive for trouble!” Gugulehtu says, laughing.
The following morning, Bukhosi comes to the breakfast table with an impish smile. He rubs his wife’s shoulders; his hand lingers under her neck where her pulse is. Rudo catches this brief exchange happily. Gugulehtu decides to set the table in the garden under the old msasa tree, and spider lilies whispers to flame lilies as their scent meanders through the morning air. Jasmine lingers from the night before as the sun moves gently, careful of shining too brightly into freshly woken eyes. It prefers peeping through the leaves bringing out the canary yellow of the hibiscus on the veranda. Bukhosi settles into his chair, giving his mother a kiss and wishing her “happy birthday”. He places a ticket on the table in front of her, she picks it up curiously. Her brows furrow and rise, then another smile bursts onto of her face.
“Victoria Falls is also for me? You told me it was a surprise for Gugulehtu!”
“So, I lied.”
“It’s a sin to lie to your mother.” She swats his arm with the ticket. “You know I hate planes. Is the flight long?”
“A little over an hour. Don’t be concerned about the flight, Amai! I want you to be excited.”
“I am.” Rudo says, placing a thankful hand on her son’s cheek. He bends to her touch.
“As soon as you finish breakfast, pack your things.”
“Have you packed?” Rudo asks. Gugulethu gives a signalling look to her husband as he begins to respond. He stills and lets her answer for him. “I packed for him.”
“My wife takes good care of me, you don’t need to worry about us.” Bukhosi says, with a reassuring grin. Gugulehtu beams. Something in Rudo makes her feel as though he’s saying so much more.
On their last night Rudo turns in early. Clearly the exertion of gallivanting all over town and talking to every shopkeeper she could lay her eyes on wore her out. Bukhosi and Gugulehtu sat on their balcony looking out into the night, listening to the chirruping of crickets and the sighing moon. They sit quietly for quite some time, enjoying night crickets and the pleasure of sitting together in the evenings as they had done the past few weeks since their reconciliation had blossomed.
Gugulehtu looks stunning in the moonlight, her dusky shoulders sprinkled with silver, and her hair sparkles. She has a small smile on her face, and has agreed to put something over her shoulders after Bukhosi had kicked up a fuss about how she would get bitten by mosquitos in just a bubu. He didn’t want a mark on her, except the ones he chose to leave behind. Since the fight, she’d let him hold her at night. She’d come back to the marital bed. He didn’t want to ruin it by asking for more but this space they were in was heady for him. He had to be careful not to get ahead of himself.
“Bukhosi, thank you for this trip.” Gugulehtu said, at which point he remembers that he had forgotten to give her his gift. He puts a finger up, and dashes back into the room. A few minutes later, he brings out a statue of a snake. He hands it to her carefully, he had made sure not to pick one that was too big at the market so that she would be able to hold it comfortably. She looks over the wooden statue carved from serpentine with its tightly coiled tail and fearsome eyes. Its long stone fangs, gills and fish-like head speak to its mythic origins. Bukhosi watches her carefully, observing her fingers and arms to make sure there were no signs of strain. He eventually sits down beside her again, somewhat convinced.
“The Nyaminyami,” she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand. It is these small intimacies that she allows him, these subtle touches that have championed his belief that their marriage was moving into an expressive new phase.
“Yes, the river god.”
“Mudzimu?”
He nods with a small smile. “It is said that his body stretches all the way from here to Kariba Dam where he lives for most of the year. He comes back here to visit his wife every now and again.”
“They’re separated?”
“The Nyaminyami is angry because the dam wall separates them, and even though he visits her once in a while they cannot be together until the wall is destroyed,” Bukhosi says. Gugulehtu nods in contemplation and looks at the fanged statue. A gloom falls over her face. She wonders why her husband would give this to her. He pauses. Aware of the risk he’s taking. “Gugu, I have been trying to find my way to you.”
“Bukhosi…”
“I feel like that wall is coming down. I hope I am not wrong to be so hopeful.” Gugulehtu puts the statue down with care, and stares up at her husband. Her hand slowly moves to his face, passing soothingly over his forehead as she acknowledges how much he has fought for their marriage. His turbulent floods of despair, constant attempts to reach out to her and she finds herself reflecting on this time that they have spent together since Matopos.
“There’s something I have been keeping from you. “ At this he comes to kneel beside the statue. Moving carefully so her hand does not fall from his face, her warm touch on his cheek is like the Sun’s brilliant rays were on the morning they set on this trip. They reach all the way through him.
“I…miscarried.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I was pregnant with a boy. It was too early to say anything so we didn’t tell you. Then there was nothing to say because I lost it.”
Bukhosi feels as though he’s been hit in the chest with an iron mace. His face falls. His mind races recalling the day his brother died. The whisky. Giving Chenge the keys. The wrong feeling in his chest. The twisting feeling. He should have driven. Was he screaming out loud or was this just in his head right now? Gugulethu takes her head out of her hands when she senses his quiet. She must continue. She pushes herself to continue. “My husband was dead and I hated you. I hated him for speeding that night. I hated myself for grieving so deeply that my sadness caused our baby to die.”
“We? Did Amai know about the baby?”
“Of course, she knew.” At that, Bukhosi take her face in his hands with urgency. His eyes wide with horror “Why didn’t she tell me before we…consummated the marriage? I would have waited–”
“No. These are women’s things.” Gugu says. A quiet falls over them both. Now it’s his turn to put his head in his hands. A mother’s wisdom. They should have said something! He had a right to know. He recoils. His fingers tighten against his skull until he feels her small hands settle on top of his own. Anger is not going to make things better right now. Not with Gugulehtu like this. He understands that Rudo wanted this to come from his wife. He doesn’t speak. His tongue is acrid. He lets her face fall. Let’s her get it out.
“I didn’t know how to deal with any of it. I had lost the only sliver of him that I could ever hope to keep, and I knew you couldn’t give it back to me. No one can ever know my grief at losing both a husband and a child.”
“It was the hardest thing. A horrible thing.”
“I left you alone. In our marriage. I didn’t care that you had lost your brother or that your mother had lost a son. I know now we cannot compare loss. You aren’t Chenge, but he’s part of you. Parts of our…our son are in you. I hope you can forgive me for the parts of him that I love in you.” Her eyes shift downward, she wrings her hands. Guilt. Bukhosi responds by coming to sit beside her, folding her into his side gently as she finishes saying, “I hope he can forgive me for wanting you now.”
“I need forgiveness too. I needed you to love me even though you lost them both. So, if seeing what you loved about him in me helps you to love me – I cannot hold that against you. I don’t want you to feel like you must forget him.”
“I don’t want you to compete with the dead,” she says. “I don’t want you to compete with your brother.”
“Hush.” He cradles her head. He wishes his brother was here. He wishes that he could have known his nephew. All of it hurts. “Mudiwa, hush. It is you that I swore to love now. We will find our way in this marriage together.” Warm tears storm over his shirt. She cries for a long time. He rubs her back in circles. Readjusts her shawl. He is shaken and joyful. He never thought he would be grateful for the grief, except in this moment where it made this closeness possible. He does not leave her side. He can’t believe how sincerely his prayers to the ancestors have been heard. Now he can be her husband - one day he will give her a child! Their child.
On the plane ride back to Harare, Rudo couldn’t help but notice how her son’s hands were never far from Gugu’s, how her daughter-in-law would smile as their fingers wreathed. He paid attention to every tilt of her head, every movement toward him. Adjusting. Fitting. Rudo bought cacti to put in front of all the entrances when they got home and mopped the whole house with salt. No more bad spirits. No more spirits of grief. When she took the bus back to Matopos, her heart was at ease. Chenge and her grandson were with the ancestors. Maybe now that this marriage had carved a new path through stone – it could create new life. Afterall, the old ancestral knowledge does remind us that the dead can be reborn. Musing, she could see Chenge asking her one question,
“Amai, will you know me with my new face?”
Shona words:
Maguru – goat intestines
Mudzimu – sacred ancestral spirit
Mwanangu – my child
Amai – mother
Bubu – house dress worn by women.
Names
Chengetanai – take care of one another
Rudo – Love
Gugulehtu – our precious one (child)
Bukhosi – royalty/prince hood
RR: How does conflict shape your characters?
PH: Conflict in my story serves as a crucible for growth and self-reflection. Gugulethu grapples with the pull between past and present—the challenge of progressing forward while the legacy of her history remains alive inside her. In contrast, Bukhosi, although outwardly powerful, finds himself rendered powerless by her profound grief, illustrating the transformative and often humbling nature of inner turmoil.
Which desires change throughout the story, and which don’t?
Gugulethu’s desires evolve significantly as her journey unfolds, serving as a catalyst for the story’s progression. In contrast, Bukhosi’s desires remain constant. This deliberate choice reflects a belief that, traditionally, women already wield immense power within cultural roles when those traditions are honored.
How does setting inform your characters’ choices?
The setting is the foundation upon which the entire narrative is built, determining cultural practices, historical nuances, and social dynamics that shape the characters’ lives. My characters are deeply intertwined with their environment—a living tapestry where the setting itself acts as a storyteller, guiding each choice with its rich, historical context.
Philippa Hatendi-Louiceus was born in Zimbabwe and traversed three continents for education. Her journey culminated in a bachelor's degree in the arts. Scribbling since her teens, her pen dances to the rhythms of African culture, mythos, and folklore, weaving tales that honor the richness of her heritage.
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