Courage Is a Pair of Shoes
By Chioniso Tsikisayi
In December of 1950 on a brilliant blue morning embellished with rays of sunshine I arrive in a small village called Hope on the out skirts of Bulawayo. The air is punctuated with laughter and the sweet giggles of dusty children, one of whom I will belong to soon. I am strapped to the back of a bicycle, beneath a parcel of goods, green bar, sugar, rice and cooking oil.
Khumalo is a quiet man, he strolls down the worn footpath in faded overalls humming softly under his breath. A church hymn perhaps. We have not been acquainted long. It was only yesterday when he finally walked into the store, a determined man, after months of hopelessly staring at me displayed in the window. He didn't resemble the other customers who usually frequented the store, clean, formal and affected by money. White mostly. Dressed in dull grey suit pants or warm, pleated skirts. The ones who took time to parade the aisles, examining and analysing, weighing out their options according to the privilege afforded to them.
Khumalo was dark in complexion, weathered by the sun and labour and the never ending hurdles of life with laugh lines etched into the creases of his warm brown eyes. His skin was the black texture of mine, polished, solid melanin. Rough in some parts and smooth in others.
“Sir, can I help you?" The shopkeeper had asked but in a tone that implied he would rather not help at all. Khumalo responded gruffly pointing a callused finger at the section of glass that I was enclosed in.
"Do you have the money?" again in a condescending air. "Did your boss send you to collect these ?"
The fan spun around the ceiling slicing the African heat into cool pockets of air but it could not cut the thick blanket of tension forming between the two men. One stood on one side of privilege and the other on one side of poverty. A man of Khumalo's appearance, greasy overalls and incorrigible speech. It was a notion so foreign, to conceive of him as a self governing individual moved by his own merits and human flaws, capable of desire and ambition outside his role as subordinate to the masters of that time. I held my breath.
"No, these are for my boy." Khumalo said, maintaining a steady composure as he produced the crisp notes to make the purchase. A few moments later, now on the pavement in the street, I was breathing Bulawayo air for the first time, listening to the noisy orchestra of cars hooting and people moving in traffic, exposed to the elements of nature, a distant reality to the life of fluorescent lighting and detergent smells I had grown accustomed to in the shop.
There were many others like me I soon came to discover, of different cuts and sizes, colours and design. All housing the feet of the suburban population, each pair denoting class and socio economic status. From domestic workers to window cleaners, corporates to street sweepers.
Upper class women wore stylish pumps or a classy set of heels, emerging from coffee breaks in between secretarial work or housewife affairs. You could tell from their feet, especially the ones who wore sandals, exposing a perfect set of glistening, manicured toes that they did not walk as much. These were women who drove or were driven by their husbands unlike the women in tennis shoes making their way to the bus ranks after work in the suburbs. Women with children, husbands, in laws, orphaned nieces and nephews to look after and care for.
From the security of my cardboard box which smelt of promise and new leather, an epiphany made its way to me. It seemed we were created with a purpose, to uplift some while degrading others. To separate a certain demographic and elevate the other. Khumalo's steps were brisk, as though he desired to put a lifetime of distance between himself and the shop. As though, he felt that at any moment someone might snatch the box out of his hands and steal me away forever. His work boots were worn and tired, stained with paint. They too told a story of their own.
We stopped by a Bakers Inn, where Khumalo bought a bun and coke. He was a burly looking man in broad daylight, big and intimidating to stare at. The small coke bottle seemed misplaced in his large hands. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth, stood up and continued trekking to the bus stop. The sun had swallowed itself by the time we got to his lodgings at the back of the school grounds where he worked as a maintenance man.
I slept on the floor next to his old overalls and waited for the sun to rise, and so today is finally here. Today I meet the child that I have been purchased as a Christmas gift for.
When they see him emerge from the silhouette of yellow grass, a heroic figure of sorts bearing the fruits of urban labour, Khumalo is greeted by a rapturous audience, by songs and dance, ululations and offers of cold water to drink.
This place is decorated with huts and the fields are dotted with cows and goats. It's the type of place where life happens quietly. Where people move in well rehearsed routines.
Khumalo has a family. The hard man fades and in his place is a much softer being. He is many things. A friend, a son, a father, a husband. A breadwinner. Now they give him a chair to sit and a little girl is washing his hands in an enamel bowl. Groundnuts and sweet pumpkin fresh off the fire stove served in bowls, is placed before him. Someone is removing his work boots. Another is pouring black tea in a giant mug.
I hear a woman's voice soft as moonlight simmering in the background.
"Go on," She says "Say hello to your father." The girl must be three years old. Too young. She hides behind her mother's skirts, a chocolate doll with big, beautiful eyes that carry the mysteries of youth and innocence. She is assessing the stranger in their midst. This man that her mother lovingly embraces. Her father smiles.
"Come, my darling.'' he coos. "Ntombikayise." Khumalo holds out a piece of pumpkin as a peace offering. She wobbles unsteadily towards him and falls into her father's lap to the delight of all those around.
"Where is your brother?" He muses. "I have a surprise for him. My son. Where is he?"
"He was in the fields. He should be here any time now."
The boy emerges from the distant horizon, a long legged creature in a pair of torn shorts, barefoot and sweaty. He is the spitting image of Khumalo but his features are softer, untainted by the woes of the world. He carries an air of purity on his fourteen year old shoulders and bobs across the land with a mud stained pick in hand.
"Sibusiso." Father and son embrace.
I am the first pair of school shoes to arrive in this family.
What an honour.
I am the first pair of shoes that Sibusiso has ever owned in his life. The sanctity of this moment is overwhelming. It is an occasion so sacred, so beautiful like no other. This is the moment that will forever be engraved in his heart and mind. This is the precious anecdote that he will, one day share with his grandchildren in the years to come, when his father is long gone. He will think of this moment, of the sacrifice and the blood, sweat and tears. Of the nights his father slept alone in the city so he could keep meals on the table for his family. He will remember with a fond heart the pair of new soles given from the soul of a loving father and even when he outgrows me, when he is better positioned in life to afford better looking shoes, I will live in the back of his wardrobe in every dorm room and apartment. In the good times and the bad. In the evenings when he writes his homework by candlelight. I will remain a permanent fixture in his life. A historic marking point on the turbulent journey of his adolescence.
Chioniso Tsikisayi is a spoken word artist, seasoned poet, performer, writer, singer and filmmaker based in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. She was the first runner up for the 65th Kenya Poetry Slam Africa Contest and placed third for the Intwasa Short Story Competition 2021. Her work has appeared in Brittle Paper, Isele Magazine, Litro Magazine, The Kalahari Review, Ipikai Poetry Journal, Agbowó art and Intwasa Short Stories Volume Two. In 2022, her play, A Woman Has Two Mouths was shortlisted for the African Women Playwrights Network Festival of Plays on tackling taboo topics in female writing.
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