When the familiar makes you weary

Mother, my head is spinning. I cannot paint today. I tried to do touch ups, by I just can't. Why? I ask. I gave the bus driver who goes to my village money to give my parents and he diverted it for personal use.

I enquire, but there is ecocash. Why did you not send it directly to them via ecocash?

Because, we have always sent groceries and money via this bus driver and he has never cheated. This is the first time.

I answer, but you know we are living in times of hunger, even, people who were trustworthy before are loosing their credibility because when they divert funds meant for others hoping to pay it back, they are failing to pay it back.

He answers, Mother, I need money. Have you got money to give me. Even the kids at home do not have anything to eat.

I reply, sorry I do not have any money today.

Mother, I am going to wait for the driver at the bus station, I have to go. Bye.

As Morgan leaves, I wonder why I continue to transact with him. I get irritated at myself, for always entertaining new and various stories from him every time we make contact. 

It is now official. I am a sucker for pain.

I have known Morgan for the last 13 years when we moved into this area. We commissioned him to paint all the buildings on the property. In later years we found work for him at other sites and family and friends. We parted ways with Morgan some 8 years ago, when he went raving mad after overdosing on marijuana. We had given him accommodation in our compound because there was a lot of work to do and he was coming from very far so it was uneconomic for him to travel to and from his place of residence everyday.

We worked relatively well together until one afternoon, women who were weeding the lawn ran up to the main residence shouting Mother! Mother! Please come and see, come now!  

I was busy in the study and had asked not to be interrupted unless someone was bleeding, broken, burning or beaten by a snake. So, when I heard the pandemonium, I called out to Sisi, the house help to go and check what it was and if it was a snake, ask her husband the gardener to kill and burn it.

Sisi went out to check and came back with a puzzled look shaking her head sideways and blurting, Mother! Mother! just come outside and see for yourself.

There, in broad daylight in the middle of the compound was Morgan, in his nakedness walking in all kinds of directions and speaking in tongues. Yes, it did sounded like those ones you hear in spirit filled churches, the tongues that no one is able to translate or interpret.

Morgan, I enquired, what is going on? Go back inside and cover yourself, I demanded. He started running towards the women, who started running towards me and we all ran away from him towards the main residence. We quickly got inside the garage and closed the doors.

I called Bernard the gardener on his mobile, to round up  two other men on the property to catch him, dress him up and physically detain him until the driver comes.

The long and short of it is he was detained for 5 days at the unit for the mentally challenged people at Parirenyatwa Hospital.

When he came out we paid him and asked him to take leave for sometime at his rural home in Murehwa. We were in contact for the first 6 months and thereafter, never heard from him for a while.

He started calling to give me updates on his health after 2 years. We were all just delighted that he was still alive because he loved weed and when he inhaled it, he went overboard. Over the years he would phone and say, Mother, I am now on medication so I need work. I would brush him off saying, when there is work, I would call him. He remained persistent until last year, he begged and advised that he had married sometime back and needed to work hard and feed his wife and 2 kids and pay rent in Chitungwiza. 

In August 2014, I commissioned him to do some maintenance painting. We agreed the work would take 3 months. In November he had not finished and 5 months later in March 2015, we are still discussing the same thing, the very slow pace and quality of his work.

Morgan is now on permanent medication. Apparently he stopped taking weed. My take is there was something in the weed that made him an exceptional painter because nowadays the love and passion for his work is gone. He was an artist painter. You could see a paint effect in a magazine and Morgan knew how to do it better. These days he gives many excuses and tells wide ranging stories on why things are not getting done. There was creativity and perfection in his madness. His sober demeanor does nothing for his work because we are forever arguing why he has not prepped for example, areas that were damaged by water before he started painting.

He is the sole breadwinner. Most importantly he is honest. Nowadays you cannot leave people painting the indoors without full time security. Morgan is trustworthy in that regard.

I feel I am stuck with him, like we are tied at the hip. He started working for us 13 years ago when he was hardly 18 years old. He had been taught painting by his uncle who later departed for greener pastures in South Africa. Morgan is like my child.

The sensibilities of my subconscious prefers that I rather deal with a problematic child that I have known for years than commission an unknown quantity who study the terrain of our compound and come back later to rip us off blind. 

When you stick with the familiar that makes you weary, you are indeed a sucker for pain.