Excerpt: Who Will Bury You by Chido Muchemwa

Who Will Bury You?

“Come in, come in, Mai Mfundisi. I’m so happy you could make it. It’s not every day that the reverend’s wife comes to visit. Please, sit. And I’ll get the tea. Yes, it’s just me here. Been that way since my Tino left for Canada last year. My only child gone to the other side of the world. I’m still not sure why she left so abruptly. For so many years, she watched her age-mates board planes to try their luck elsewhere, and she was content to remain with her mother in Zimbabwe. But one day, she decided that she had to go. She said to me, ‘This place is suffocating me.’ What does that mean? I have never been able to understand how home can suddenly no longer be enough. But you can’t tell these young girls anything these days. So all I could do was put an extra bottle of Mazoe Orange Crush in her suitcase and tell her not to forget to come back home.

“Those first days after she left were so lonely, Mai Mfundisi. I would lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling. It was so silent I could hear the ticking clock at the opposite end of the house. I would lie there and wonder what my Tino was doing. She dutifully called every other Sunday evening, but I felt like I was just an item on her to-do list. And she didn’t like to tell me what she was up to. She always redirected the conversation to what I was doing in Zimbabwe, what the neighbours were up to, who was pregnant, who was getting divorced, that sort of thing. And when she did speak about Toronto, all she talked about were her classes, the weather, and how busy the subway got. There was no mention of life beyond school. How could I bring these kinds of tales to the women at church? They were telling me about the plans for their daughters’ weddings, the cars their sons had bought, and their grandchildren’s antics. What did I have but hours spent alone in my house and a child who didn’t seem to care about anything except her books? It was after one such unsatisfactory conversation at church, after listening to stories about other people’s daughters becoming wives and mothers, that I went home and when Tino called that Sunday, I found myself asking, ‘Aren’t you tired of being alone, Tino? If you never marry, who will bury you?’

“Tino suddenly being on the other side of the world really highlighted for me how much of an introvert my child has always been. You know, Mai Mfundisi, she used to spend so much time alone at home as a teenager that I had to force her—yes, force her—to go out with people her age. While other parents were crying about their daughters being out all night, I was worried about a child who never seemed to want to go anywhere or meet anyone. If I left her to it, she would forever be behind her bedroom door with her books, only emerging for meals. And she’s never changed. I don’t think she’s ever even had a boyfriend. And now this child is out there fending for herself. Who will greet her when she comes home? The question worried me so much that I started to wonder how I could help her. But I didn’t know anything about her life in Canada. How could I know anything when she gave me so little?

“Then one of the women at church mentioned she was impressed by Tino’s photos on Instagram. I pretended to know what she was talking about, but it was news to me. Why had Tino never told me? I didn’t think Instagram was for an old lady like me, but if that was where my child’s life was, then I would try it. I downloaded the app and searched my child’s name and there she was: ‘Just Tino.’ But the account was locked, so I pressed follow and I sent a message to my Tino asking if she would let me follow her on Instagram. At two in the morning, her reply arrived, a simple ‘Okay.’ One word I had lain awake hoping for. So I opened the app and went to her profile.

And there it was: her life. Photos of her many firsts in Toronto: her first farmers market with mountains of colourful fruit, her first plate of poutine overflowing with gravy, her first pair of winter boots with fur trim. Photos of Chinese, Thai, and Ethiopian restaurants; of Indigenous art exhibits; and of pastéis de nata in Little Portugal. Videos every time she walked into her favourite Nando’s and they were playing Oliver Mtukudzi. And selfies, so many selfies, all these images of Tino staring into the camera with an excitement in her eyes I had not seen since she was a child.

“Now when I came to church, I had something to say. When the other women asked me what Tino was up to, I could tell them. ‘She’s settling in well. She’s learning how to ice-skate. You should see the Indigenous art she’s collecting. So beautiful. She says it reminds her of Zimbabwean art.’ But Mai Mfundisi, you know the things the women at church say. Now that my child was living the First World life, those with children still in Zimbabwe knew they could not compete on that front, so they changed the competition. Each week they would ask me, ‘Is she still not married?’ as if one week could be enough time for her to meet a man and marry. Their questions got under my skin. I carried them home after church, and when my Tino called that Sunday afternoon, I heard myself say, ‘Don’t you think it’s time you started thinking about marriage, Tino? If you wait too long, who will bury you?’

“But then three months ago, another girl began to show up in Tino’s photos, a Zimbabwean named Nicole, skinny thing with a big smile and mischievous eyes. You know the ones I’m talking about, Mai Mfundisi? The kind that signal a person who sees rules as challenges and leads others astray. But I didn’t say anything. I was just so glad my Tino finally had a friend. The two of them were always smiling, eyes gleaming with delight. But when I asked Tino who this other woman was, she was evasive. ‘Just someone I know, Ma. Don’t worry about her.’ Yet this girl showed up in every other photo, her hand always entwined with my Tino’s. This Nicole, she’s also almost thirty and still unmarried. I wonder if her mother also worries her child will never marry.

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