Houses Like Grass

On one of his visits to the takeaway shop, Kunta brought a hand held video camera. “Smile,” he said to Natalie first, aiming the lens at her. Natalie, ever agreeable, grinned into the camera. When he turned to Tsitsi, she held her hand in front of her. 

“Stop that,” she told him. 

“Don't be a killjoy.” He brought the camera closer to her. The only thing dividing them was the long and curved counter top. 

“I'm serious,” she said. He scoffed but turned the camera from her to the televisions behind with their bright, red fonts and crisp pictures of fries and chicken thighs. Kunta took a step back for a wider shot, the camera aimed at the two girls. 

“This is Natalie and Tsitsi,” he began to narrate. “Tsitsi is grumpy today. She'll be in a better mood when she comes to the party tonight.” 

Tsitsi held up her middle finger for a split second so that none of the customers would see it and Kunta laughed. He turned off the device and stepped to the counter again, directly in front of Tsitsi. 

“What's up?” He asked her in that casual way he always did, not really meaning the question. “Nothing, Nhamo.” 

“I told you not to call me that.” A streak of annoyance. 

“It's your name, isn't it?” 

“Whatever. I'll see you tonight.” He turned to Natalie. “Make sure Tsitsi comes.” “We’ll be there,” Natalie assured him and Tsitsi wanted to bash Natalie's head against a wall. 

● ● ● 

The two guards who always stood at the front gate of Kunta’s house still asked for their IDs even though they were here all the time throughout the week. 

“Pricks,” Natalie said when they were out of earshot. 

The lights in the living room were off, including the chandelier, and there was some movie on the television; cars racing each other on a hillside. The room smelt of perfume and liquor and the possibility of sex. Tsisti recognised the familiar shadows in the room; Yolanda, Simba, Tinashe, Dion and Onai. She stood in front of them, eclipsing the television, searching for Kunta. He was slumped on one couch drunk already, she could see. He held out his right arm and she sat down placing her body in the space of his hand. She curled on the couch and rested her head on his chest. His perfume could almost choke her if she breathed in hard enough. 

“You're sleeping here,” Kunta said by way of greeting. When he was drunk, all he thought about was sex. 

“No, I'm going home.” 

“What do you need?” 

“Hee?” 

“You're annoying today,” he told her. “I hate that. What do you need to make it stop?” On the television screen, one of the cars had veered off the road and was rolling down the green in slow motion. 

“You're an idiot,” she told him.

Someone had lit a marijuana cigarette and the smell wafted across the room, powerful and poisonous. 

A hand tapped her shoulder, Natalie's, and handed her a glass. She took a sip of the golden liquid and the burn spread across her chest, pleasant, like she expected it to. 

“Lake Hope next weekend?” Yolanda said from across the room where she lay across Tinashe’s lap who had his hand under her shirt, circling one breast lazily. 

“Maybe,” Kunta said to her. “My father is attending a rally. I don't know.” “Have you ever been to Lake Hope?” Yolanda was looking at Tsitsi, barely hiding her sneer. “No,” Tsitsi said after a long enough pause. 

“It's nice,” said Yolanda. She always used “nice” to mean expensive. 

“Maybe you can go there by yourself one day,” Yolanda continued. Tsitsi’s body tensed and there was a long silence until Dion, on the other side of the room, said, “Pass the smoke.” Tsitsi took a long gulp of the whisky. She wanted to leave but could not give Yolanda the satisfaction of watching her leave. Against her head, Kunta’s body remained relaxed. She doubted if he remembered the last ten seconds. 

“This is my last time coming here,” she said to Kunta, her voice low so that no one else would hear. Kunta uttered a “Mmmm”, his eyes not moving from the television. “Listen to me,” she said and he turned to face her. “I'm not coming to your house anymore.” His eyes drooped slightly. “Cool.” She knew he didn't believe her, but it was alright. Yolanda and Tinashe had started kissing, their breathing loud like both of them were suffocating. There was a brief interval of sound — cars and wind — and Tsitsi knew it was the front door opening. A new guest? There was never anyone else at these parties. Were it Kunta’s parents returning early from the regional conference? Last night at her house, Tsitsi had turned on the television to find Kunta’s father staring at her — the moment so eerie like something from a horror. It was the night news. There was a recap of the father's speech in Ghana where he spoke slowly, like all ministers did, his English stilted and heavy. Tsitsi changed the channel before he could finish. 

Here, Kunta seemed not to have noticed the door opening and when the new figure emerged into the living room, Tsitsi expected a flood of perfume but there was none. Disappointment matched with surprise. 

“Kunta,” a voice said. 

Kunta raised his head. “Ryan,” he said but didn't make to stand. “I thought you weren't coming.” “Well,” Ryan said. Tsitsi had never seen him before. In the half light he was very dark with an explosion of hair that was uncombed. 

“Sit down. Make yourself at home. Liquor on the table over there.” 

Ryan sat beside Tsitsi. She had been thinking of lying full body on the couch but now she couldn't. Her legs stayed on the floor. Up close, Ryan's scent was still a blankness. They watched the movie. Yolanda and Tinashe stood from the couch and disappeared somewhere inside the house. Natalie and Simba were whispering things to each other, their faces pressed together in conspiracy. Beside Tsitsi, Ryan was so deathly still she wondered if he was high. The movie had turned into a jumble of fight scenes in restaurant kitchens. “I'm going outside for some air,” Tsitsi said to Kunta. 

“Cool.” 

Taking her glass, she felt Ryan's gaze follow her. She walked through the large corridors, the entire house dark, until she saw the glint of the swimming pool reflected on the walls. She

opened the sliding door opening to the outside and let the cool air hit her; a relief. The first time Kunta brought her to this house, he showed her the pool so nonchalantly she knew it was a performance, that he expected her to be visibly impressed. And she was. She thought the house was ugly with its white tiles and crisp black leather couches and the glass tables that always looked unused. It showed a lack of taste, all the furniture looking expensive but mismatched with each other. But this, the swimming pool, was genuinely beautiful; light patterns dancing across the water. That first day Kunta had said, “Let's swim,” and she told him, “Not today. I'll catch a cold.” She never told him she couldn't swim, that she had never had the luxury of learning. 

Now, she took another long sip from the glass. Behind her, the door slid open almost silently and she turned to see Onai squeeze her body into the gap. Onai paused, surprised to see Tsitsi there. “Oh, it's you.” A slight disappointment in her voice. She raised a rolled marijuana cigarette. “Couldn't share this one.” 

“I understand,” Tsitsi said. 

“Do you?” Onai asked but so passively she immediately put the cigarette to her mouth to light it as if she did not expect an answer. 

There was something overly ambiguous about Onai. The first time Tsitsi saw her, she had been unsure if Onai was a boy or a girl. She had an unfinished quality, a smoothness to her skin and features that hinted at the privilege of indecision. To compound it all, Onai dressed in comically large jeans and trousers paired with oversized T-shirts that hid her tiny chest. 

Onai sat down on one of the patio chairs. Tsitsi didn't know whether to sit or keep standing. The glass in her hand was a useful prop, she decided. She didn't have to sit down. “He gets bored easily, do you know that?” Onai’s voice was slightly hoarse from the cigarette. “Kunta?” Tsitsi asked. 

Onai nodded. “He'll get bored of you soon enough, if he hasn't already.” She said it flatly, without malice. “You seem like a good kid,” Onai continued. “I'd be careful.” “I can take care of myself.” 

Onai looked at her, her eyes bloodshot in the faint light. “Of course you can.” Tsitsi took another sip from the glass and realised it was the last one. She felt like hurling the glass into the water. 

“I don't really care if he gets bored,” she found herself saying, and it was true. “I don't care at all.” 

The marijuana smoke was making her heady. She imagined Onai crawling down to the floor, transforming into an eel — a slippery thing. 

“All of you are the same,” Tsitsi said and she couldn't know if Onai understood what she meant because Onai said nothing. Tsitsi went to the door and slipped back into the house. In the living room, credits were rolling down the screen. Natalie and Simba were lying down on the carpet in front of the television; Natalie on top of Simba with Simba’s hands holding her waist. Natalie's head was buried in Simba’s neck, kissing it, licking it, rolling her tongue into his ear. Kunta stood over them, camera in hand, recording. Dion was no longer in the room but Ryan was at the liquor table pouring into a glass. Tsitsi wondered if he heard the sounds coming from the floor. 

“Natalie.” Tsitsi said it softly for herself to hear. “Natalie,” she repeated and still her voice came out low. 

Kunta panned the camera to her. She brought her hand up to her face and suddenly, death quick, Kunta slapped it away. The pain came to her, hot and enveloping. They stared at each other, his

gaze challenging her to cover her face again, to open herself to violence. The red light of the camera blinked at Tsitsi, waiting. She did not move. Kunta’s eyes burnt quietly, claiming victory, and he turned the camera away from her, back to Simba and Natalie. Simba had hiked up Natalie's blouse; the ridge of her naked back was smooth and unblemished. Tsitsi couldn't stand to watch. She walked to the liquor table, glass in hand, and grabbed the nearest bottle. She used her hand to scoop ice from the ice bucket, not caring, and poured. Ryan looked at her; a full, unabashed stare. She took a sip, barely waiting for the drink to cool, and said, “You're new.” 

Kunta laughed from the corner of her eye but she did not turn to look. She stared at the glass, at the ice cubes like sail boats adrift. 

“I've been here a few times,” he said. 

“So,” she said to him. “What does your father do?” 

All their fathers did something. He looked like a father's boy; a calm masculinity mixed with confidence, just like Kunta. She wondered what terrible things he was capable of. “He's a businessman.” 

“What business does he do?” 

Somehow, Ryan had not stopped staring at her and she, in turn, had not turned to him. “He's a contractor for government parastatals.” 

There it was. She wondered why she had expected a different answer, something to disrupt the pattern. Perhaps it was the wild hair. She had believed it was an entry point to other bigger rebellions. 

“Actually,” Ryan continued, raising the glass to his mouth so that he spoke through it, “I hate my father.” 

Of course he did. All of them hated their fathers, a trait of ingratitude she never understood the root of. She was unimpressed by it, his proclamation. 

“Mmmm,” she replied and still he was looking at her. “Tell me what's happening on the floor?” Ryan turned his face away, then returned it. “Your friend has her shirt off.” “She's not my friend,” Tsitsi whispered. No friend of hers would do this. No friend of hers would be allowed to do this while she watched. 

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” Ryan asked. 

“No,” said Tsitsi. “No, I don't want to.” 

She loved this about whisky; the way it burnt down her throat and how she slipped off balance for a few seconds, her head clouded. She took a sip as Ryan watched. Moans were coming from the floor. She took another one and the table shifted a fraction. 

“I won't take advantage,” said Ryan. 

Kunta would be angry, she knew. Good. She grunted something to Ryan and did not remember the walk from the corridor to the front door. A breeze had picked up outside, melting the trees. They stood side by side, her and Ryan; the distance across the driveway to the gate was outrageously long. Massive houses sprang all around them like grass. 

“You smell of cooking oil and chicken,” Ryan said to her, looking at the crown of her hair. “And you smell of nothing,” she told him. 

Standing at the threshold of the house like this, the house held a quality of unattainability; it could have been a hallucination. Ryan wasn't speaking as she expected him to. Talk. That was the word he had used. Do you want to go somewhere and talk? 

“I'm not trying something with you,” he said to her. “I've never seen you here before. You don't look like you belong.”

“Because I smell of chicken?” 

He didn't laugh. She hadn't meant it as a joke, anyway. 

“What do you do?” He asked her. 

“I don't want to tell you.” Wind ruffled the trees. 

“Why?” 

“I don't have to have a reason.” 

“You,” Ryan said, “are a breath of fresh air.” 

She burst out laughing at that. She wanted him to tell her why he thought he hated his father, why he thought he was unique, why he thought he deserved existence. 

Her pitch was too high, too excited when she asked him, “How much money do you have in your pocket?” 

He gave her an odd look. “I don't know.” 

“Can I see?” 

She guessed what the colour of the wallet would be; black. The wallet flashed jet dark in the darkness as Ryan sifted his hands through the notes inside and she almost laughed at that, at how easy it was to be right. 

“Take the money out,” she instructed. 

He did so. 

“Give it to me.” 

Here, he hesitated but handed her money, the notes crisp unlike the ones she received over the counter at work. She counted it; fifties and hundreds. It came to over a thousand, four times more than what she made for punching in orders, for standing for so long behind a register her legs shook on their own towards the end of each day. It was unfair; a distant thought. She held the money in both hands and, as Ryan watched, tore it apart down the middle. The sound was like a shingle coming apart. She clutched the notes like how she imagined it was like to choke someone until what was held became insignificant. 

Ryan stared at her, his mouth agape. His head followed the notes as they fell to the ground, and it was like bowing. He raised his head to her, the space between his eyebrows furrowed and ugly. She knew he would say something cruel, then; something meant to wound her. But suddenly, loudly, he laughed. 

He looked at her with a shining in his eyes. “I like you.” 

“That,” she said, already retreating into the house, “is the problem.” 

A new movie was playing on the television. She did not want to look down at the carpet but her eyes turned to it and it was flat, uninterrupted. Natalie and Simba were gone, and so was Kunta. The living room was empty. 

Movement on one of the couches. No, not entirely empty. Onai was slumped down low enough so that only the top of her head was visible. Tsitsi went and sat beside her. Onai glanced at her, then away. 

“You again,” Tsitsi did her best impression of Onai. “Is that what you'd say?” “Probably,” Onai said. “I think I'd say that, yes.” 

Her voice was slow, as if she was picking out each word intentionally, particularly, from an endless choice of words. She was high. 

“Touch me,” said Tsitsi. 

Onai said, “What?” 

She repeated, “Touch me.”

Onai sat up. “What?” 

Tsitsi said nothing. Silence passed between them. Onai shifted her hand slightly in the space between her and Tsitsi and found Tsitsi's hand and then clasped it tightly. Onai’s hand was too smooth; Tsitsi imagined it being rubbed by lotions and oils. 

“There,” Onai said but did not remove her hand. 

A minute passed and Ryan came in and sat beside them. On the television, a white couple sat in a restaurant talking; the woman's eyes constantly fanned in flirtation and suggestion. None of them spoke but watched silently. Tsitsi couldn't follow the plot or dialogue. Her mind weaved in and out of focus. 

Kunta was standing in front of her. She hadn't seen him come, him and his bravado and his body always announcing itself. 

“Where were you?” He asked Tsitsi. He wasn't sitting down. 

“Outside. Where were you?” 

His eyes narrowed. “Come here.” 

She did not move. It was so peaceful there on the leather couch; her body the dent the couch hugged, worshipped, made love to. 

“Come here,” Kunta repeated. 

She rose as he turned from her and followed him through the house. They were going to his room, she knew. As they passed by the master bedroom, his parents’ bedroom, she stopped. Unaware of her absence beside him, Kunta kept walking until he halted and turned. He swayed on his feet, slightly losing balance. 

“In here,” Tsitsi said. 

Kunta looked confused at the heavy door with the intricate chiselling then turned his gaze back to her. She wondered if he was sober enough to realise what she suggested. He was taking too long. Placing her hand on the cold metal, she pushed open the door and it slid open so smoothly, it was like slipping on oil. She entered and, a slight hesitation later, she heard Kunta follow. He closed the door behind him, locking them both in. 

The bedroom had dim orange lights and the room was like a half waking dream; long shadows and dim objects. It was larger than what she expected, larger than what she could imagine. The bed cover had those eccentric flowery patterns she despised so much; the ones that looped in on themselves and made her dizzy. On one side of the bed was a long dressing table with a mirror where Tsitsi saw herself reflected; exhausted lines on her face and hair that had been last combed in the morning. 

On top of the dressing table was a jumble of perfumes, lotions, combs, creams and lipsticks. Arranged in a neat line were five white mannequin heads with black wigs on them. From where she stood, the wigs were identical but on closer inspection she saw that the texture and smoothness of the hair was different, was so subtle as to only be an indication of wealth. To the side of the heads was the only sign of a masculine presence on the table; two analogue wrist watches — one gold and one silver — bearing an emblem she did not recognise. 

Kunta moved behind her. Placing his arms around her waist, his lips were warm and moist on her neck. For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself the total surrender of a body into another; both its erasure and doubling, but her body rushed back to her. 

She stepped forward, her knees brushing the table wood. Delicately, like handling a child, she took one of the wigs and it was like water in her hands. In the mirror, Kunta was watching her;

his eyes drooped, his face dumb like a dog waiting for command, his face dumb like a dog not knowing what to do with itself, a dog, a dog. 

The wig fit snugly but its feel against her neck was an invasion. She was repulsed by its artificiality and fakeness. She turned and faced Kunta. What did he see? A poor girl in a rich house about to unclothe? She again turned to the mirror and picked a lipstick tube. Red lipstick was ugly and obscene, the way it turned the mouth into the colour of an open wound but, here, she applied it across her mouth and, again and continuously, looked at herself in the mirror. She had seen the minister's wife a few times on television and in pictures; heavy set with unremarkable features; a flat face without beauty. Her voice was raspy and thin, like she was always on the verge of crying. There was no ceremony to the way the wife wore the wigs and lipsticks; she did it as if it was natural, as if it was the only thing expected of her. What was it like to be unburdened like that, to furrow a straight line and not worry about what was behind or in front or what could disrupt? 

She turned suddenly, abruptly, to Kunta and kissed him, their teeth bumping into each other — like a first kiss between children — and it was like eating, the way she devoured his mouth. She tasted salt and knew it was blood. His or hers? Kunta’s hands were rough on her body like he was trying to squeeze something out of her. He walked her over to the bed, stepping on her feet as he did so but before she allowed herself that familiar collapse into the sheets, she stopped him. Drawing her mouth away, his face was smudged and stained with lipstick. 

“Put on the watch,” she said to him. There was no patience inside her for the confusion on his face. “Your father's watch,” she said and pointed to the dressing table. “Put it on.” No patience, no patience. Kunta ambled to the table and picked the golden one, clipped it onto his left wrist and came back to her. Still, there was something off but she allowed him to kiss her again. Again, she stopped before he laid her to the bed. She did not command him this time but walked to one of the closet doors. 

“Iwe,” Kunta said behind her and she ignored him as she opened the door. Skirts and floral dresses swelled outwards. Not this one. She opened the next door and there they were; suits and blazers and black leather shoes polished to a sheen. She lifted one hanger and took the jacket; black and silk. The gold watch on Kunta’s wrist glinted as she walked back to him. 

“Put this on.” 

“Why?” he asked her. 

She could not wait. She lifted one hand of his to put in a jacket hand but Kunta shoved her off and put the jacket on his own. 

She looked at him. The jacket was oversized and he wore the watch without the flair of someone entitled to it but the transformation was there; a shift so subtle she would lose it if she moved. She pulled him to her and when finally, finally, they sank to the sheets, she kept looking at him, not Kunta, but a half image of someone else. She adjusted the wig after he removed her blouse; she touched it to remind herself that she wasn't Tsitsi anymore but something more — a woman who wouldn't watch the sun rise from a tiny bathroom tomorrow, who understood the dimensions of this house, who knew the origin of each object, the price of the curtains and the carpets and the stupid safari dresses which made the body look shapeless and benign. 

When Kunta entered her, she did not move or writhe her hips beneath him but lay still, dutiful. The jacket lapped against her stomach and ribcage and she inhaled its crisp and smooth fabric. Kunta moved faster and faster, rushing towards his own release and she grabbed his hair and said, “Look at me,” because his eyes were closed. His eyes opened a fraction, then closed. She

repeated, “Look at me,” and dug her nails into his back to compel him. Kunta opened his eyes. He was there and not there. She brought one hand to the wig to draw attention to it and Kunta looked and kept moving above her. Nhamo. His name was Nhamo. When she tightened her throat and sucked in breath before she released the long moan, raspy and breathless, just like how the mother spoke, there was a brief moment of what felt like ecstasy. Freedom. A complete divorce from herself. 

What came over Kunta was confusion at first, then anger — he thrust into her harder and harder as if to break his own body against her and the feel of him was like the crest of a wave crashing over and over again, unabating — and then, finally, a pathetic apathy. He moved like a robot, without passion. As he released, he pressed his left hand down on her collarbone and the watch was warm on her skin. She kissed it, the metal, letting her tongue graze gold; a dull metallic taste like depressed afternoons. 

It was done. He lay breathing heavily for a long time beside her. A sudden emptiness came over her now that it was over, the borders of which she could not define. Outside, she could hear neither wind nor cars moving. Perfect houses did this; created a complete bubble around intimacy. She did not know what that was like. She wanted to ruin it. 

Beside her, Kunta said, “What was that?” but she knew it was a question to reclaim something he had lost a few moments ago, something inexplicable to him but which she understood so intimately she could name it if he asked. She did not answer him. What she wanted to do was go home and, turning her back to Kunta, she waited for him to fall asleep. When he started snoring, she picked her blouse from the floor and put it on. The wig was not put back on the mannequin head but was tossed deep into one of the closets. She hoped Kunta would not find it and would have to explain its absence to his mother. 

A headache was beginning to beat at her temple. She had slowed down when she shouldn't have. She needed another drink. No, she would not go home just yet but would have another drink, maybe sit by the pool and watch the water. 

Onai was at the liquor table and when Tsitsi sidled beside her, she said to Onai, “I hate you. I hate you so much,” and she said something else that she felt was not coming from her, that she would not remember in the morning. Onai did not reply her but went and sat on the couch. Tsitsi followed and they sat together. The television was off. No one made a move for the remote which lay on the carpet looking stranded. Tsitsi took a sip from the glass and she felt the headache ebb away. There, there.