The Death of Rex Nhongo Read Free Page B

nurses in Zimbabwe?”
    Jerry had left the Immigration Office feeling discouraged but not defeated. The feelings of defeat came later, after meetings with Tapiwa, the HR fixer at the embassy, and two more visits to Likwanda House over the subsequent month.
    At first Tapiwa had appeared almost beatific in her competence. “Don’t worry, Jerry,” she said, picking up the phone. “I know a guy.” And Jerry returned to the Immigration Office with an appointment to see a senior official on the fourth floor. When he got there, it seemed that Tapiwa’s “guy” was not available after all and he was instead received by another official who, if somewhat less indolent, was no more helpful than the first.
    “You see, Mr. Jones,” he said, “you are on a spousal visa that does not entitle you to work.”
    “I know,” Jerry said. “So how do I change it?”
    “You should have applied for a working visa at the same time as your wife,” the man said.
    Jerry reported this conversation back to Tapiwa and she was affronted. She vowed that she would accompany him herself and that would make all the difference. To arrange a suitable time for this took a further three weeks. When it finally happened, Tapiwa engaged in a heated conversation with an immigration officer that Jerry, despite not speaking a word of Shona, had no difficulty in understanding. Eventually, Tapiwa turned to him and said, “He says you should have applied for a working visa at the same time as we processed April’s diplomatic papers.”
    As it stood now, Jerry’s situation was in the hands of a high-ranking official at the embassy who would write a letter mixing indignation and contrition in equal measure to a similarly high-ranking official at Likwanda House. Jerry didn’t know whether this letter had yet been written, but he was tired of waiting. Consequently, when Jerry met Godknows Mpofu, the director of a local orphanage, at some terrible embassy-sponsored poetry slam for former street kids, he was only too eager to volunteer his services to Mpofu’s friend, Dr. Tangwerai, at the Epworth clinic.
    “I just want to do something useful,” Jerry told Mpofu. “It’s not about money.”
    Mpofu smiled at him ruefully. “Would that we could all say that. I will tell Tangwerai.”
    There was a tap on the window of the Land Cruiser. Jerry buzzed it down and turned off the music. He would tell his brother he was unconvinced by the alt country band from Swindon, although perhaps their music wasn’t flattered by context. He found himself looking down at a short man wearing spectacles, a suit at least two sizes too large, and carrying a small knapsack. He reached up his hand and Jerry took it. “Tangwerai,” the man said. “Nurse Jones, I presume.”

5
    J erry got home around seven. It would have been earlier, but he had stopped in Bolero at Newlands for a beer that turned into three. He sat alone. He actively didn’t think about his day. In the decade between starting at Addenbrooke’s and resigning his last position at St. George’s, one thing he’d learned was that a tough day needed to percolate for a few hours.
    He fiddled with his phone. He downloaded his email. There was nothing of interest; mostly spam and mail-outs from music websites he subscribed to in the UK and US—Rough Trade and Vinyl Junkies, Seven Inch Special and Tru Folk. He perused these idly. They were somehow incomprehensible, laced with a kind of disingenuous irony that he vaguely recognized but to which, in his current state—of mind and place—he couldn’t seem to assign meaning.
    He gave up and watched the comings and goings in the bar instead. The clientele was local and male. They were all suited and booted, talking in loud voices and drinking Johnnie Walker Black. He had no idea what any of them might do for a living. This was the conundrum of Harare—all those 4x4s driven by well-to-do men like these with apparently limitless disposable income and yet, so far as