The year 2060 was catastrophically embedded in inceptive agony, beyond human fathom. The city of Harare was an apocalyptic cesspool, a stray dog sniffed the air sensing the unpropitious aura and whimpered back into a dark alley. Rambai avoided eye contact with his son; he could not bear the acknowledgement of a reality that eyeballed them nevertheless. They had been hiding in this abandoned home for a week and they were out of food. They lurked in darkness of the house’ storeroom, which reeked with a putrid stench of a decomposing corpse. Maidei was the weakest; she died inevitably from starvation and mostly because she had not adjusted to the new air composition with minimum oxygen. They dared not to move her rotting flesh lest it attracted the Veto patrols in conjunction to the obvious threat; none of them had the strength to even walk a hundred meters. They waited; embracing macro phobia as a norm and hoping that death finds them first before Veto did. Rambai, his son Rugare and the rotting heap of flesh that was once his daughter huddled in Armageddon.
Dzidzai a housewife, lived a snail pace life of monotony and seemingly tolerating her husband’s series of infidelity. After giving birth to Maidei their youngest daughter, she fell into post-natal depression; she never came out of it until she was diagnosed with an avoidant personality order. Socially inept and isolated she spent most of the time nursing OCD, and dotting around the house with detergent spray and a cleaning swab. Her day started assuredly at 4am, she would systematically clean the house before innately making breakfast for her family. She served breakfast the whole time trying to escape the disparaging looks from her husband. Her withdrawn personality and docility had distanced her from her children. For 15 years this routine was her life, the only outside world that she knew was the shopping mall within a few hundred meters vicinity of their complex. Dzidzai missed Tokyo Japan Olympics, Malaysia flight 370 disappearance; Nelson Mandela’s death, Ferguson shooting, Boko Haram, ISIS and she thought Obama was slang for some sort of nuclear weapon.
The cocoon that she had weaved around herself suited her just fine, secure and comfortable enough for her to exist behind the scenes like a ghost. So many interventions had been made in hopes to bring her back to normality. Every one of her family members had eventually given up. She resisted all the efforts, with meticulous diligence and her psychotic permeability never allowed anyone in her cocoon. Rambai had pursued a rather scandalous affair with his personal assistant and they bore a fruit: a beautiful 2year old daughter Zarah. Even if Rambai were to disappear for months, Dzidzai would conclude in her mind that he was on another ‘business trip’ and that he would eventually return. Sometimes she hoped that he would not return and disappear incognito so that she did not have to indulge in some sort of human conversation. This disease of self-isolation had become so superficial that it had excluded even the most peripheral of acquaintances. No visitors allowed, even her children could not bring friends over the house.
Her family no longer paid any attention to her, Maidei was actually scared of her mother, and they did not realize how chronic and dire the condition had become. Dzidzai sat in her room and uncovered a dagger that was wrapped in a cotton washcloth, its sharp edges glimmering in a dimly lit room. The corner of her mouth cracked as a wild eye reflected on the blade. She could almost hear the screams of her husband as she engraved Zarah’s name on his chest. She knew, she knew it all, she knew about Tashamiswa, she took out the picture from under her pillow of all three of them at some restaurant with neatly cut out holes from Tashamiswa’s eyes. Her eyes shifted towards a small cage by her bedside. Closing her eyes for a fleeting moment, she could see Zarah in the cage. “Oh yes” she thought aloud, “my little pet Zarah.” The façade of timid isolation and psychotic reverberation blanketed the rage and turmoil that had been nursed for ten years. She was slowly succumbing to this perverse desire to kill. It consumed her whole being, every minute; every second was an imminent progress to her murderous plot.