Tiny Little House

Tiny little house.

I grew up in a two-roomed house. Yes, you read that right: two-roomed, not two-bedroomed. Walk in through the front door—bedroom to your left and kitchen to your right. Toilet? Right in the middle. It was fun. My mum was a single parent, divorced, and she had bought this house after the split—new house, new beginnings. Before that, they used to live in one of the posh suburbs, Borrowdale, but after “she couldn’t take it anymore” or “he sent her away”—I don’t know—she took her kids and found a place to call home. She left, and he stayed.

I must have been pretty young because I have no recollection of this, nor any memory of growing up with my dad besides the few times I was bold enough to visit him and my stepmum. That was a feat I quickly realized wasn’t worth a dime—she would starve us, and we would only get a meal after Dad came back from work. In contrast, in that tiny little house in Chitungwiza, there was food and love, and faith. Strong faith.

Mum had converted to Christianity, and the Lord was her shepherd. She worked as a literature evangelist for the church, selling books for a commission. The church further rewarded their workers by paying part of the school fees for their children, and so we had a good education. They didn’t do housing, though—that stuff was reserved for pastors and top officials.

So we grew up, all five of us—six if we’re including Mum—in that tiny, two-roomed core house. My brother (the one I come after), myself, and my sister, who is the eldest, slept with Mum in the bedroom, while my other two older brothers would convert the kitchen into sleeping quarters by night. Later, when my three older siblings moved out and only I and the brother I come after remained, we finally "graduated" to the kitchen. Things do change.

The toilet, however, did not.

It was a hole in the ground made of brown ceramic tiles. Man, I hated that colour; I get the need for camouflage, but God, I still hated it. The floor was rammed concrete, and with time, you just got used to it. In a tiny little house like that with four siblings, the only sanctuary for privacy—besides outside—was the toilet. I spent hours in there, reading newspapers right before I sent them down the sewer after cleansing my behind. I dare not think how much information passed through my back into my brain; let’s just leave it at that.

Tiny little house.

Now Notice—yes, Notice (and no, I’m not about to make an announcement; that was actually his name)—lived a house away from ours. I don’t know why his parents gave him that name; I was ten or eleven at the time and it was definitely none of my business. But then again, my name is Isaac, which means "laughter," and I find most things funny that normally shouldn’t be, you know? Anyway, I managed to keep a straight face most of the time when calling him.

It was very noticeable that Notice’s family was fairly better off than us. They had an "extended house"—which is when they give the core house an upgrade—and they had done all the standard work: nice colours, a verandah, and a toilet... seat. Yep, they had an indoor toilet where you could actually sit down and do your business. I always wanted to "do my business" (like have my own company and everything, you know) inside their house, but his mum was strict: “You can only become an entrepreneur at yours, not in my house.” A few times while she wasn’t around, though, I won a few council tenders, and my God, the developments I made in that area!

Anyway, Notice’s parents were not as "strong in the faith," so they had a TV set. After school, and after going home to change, we would call out, "I’m going over to Notice’s house to play!" "Play" consisted of me standing outside Notice’s verandah, peering into their lounge through the cream lace curtains and feasting on the Devil’s Box. Man, I saw Power Rangers, Captain Planet (Captain Planet, he’s a hero!), and Barney and Friends. Sometimes Notice would get friendly during these sessions and slide the curtain to the edge, giving us a full HD movie experience right through the window.

You see, it wasn’t only myself who went to the “cinema” a few houses away from ours. Our neighbours, right next door, had also partly extended their house and would sublet the rooms to families. Yep, they had a whole community in there—I won’t say much. And all these kids would join us outside Notice’s verandah and hope for a 3D experience. Naturally, this used to piss Notice’s mum right off. Her verandah was her most prized possession; she would spend hours on her knees, applying dark red wax floor polish and buffing it. That shit was shiny—you could see your own reflection in it.

And then we would come with our tiny, dirty, and dusty bare feet (bless us) and hold our "foot painting exhibition" right on that floor. Man, she wasn’t pleased. I can still hear her shrill voice crying, “Iwe mwana wekwa Jengwa! Enda kumba kwenyu!” (You son of Jengwa! Go home!) We would run off and wait for her to get back into her kitchen. Then Notice would give us the all-clear, and the games began all over again.

At school, I was tall, very noticeable (I know), and wore hand-me-downs. I never could really be myself because I knew we were not as economically advantaged as the other kids. We lived literally two minutes away from my school, and kids would pass by our house every day. I always made sure to leave my class last, if I could help it, so that the other kids from my class were in front of me and wouldn’t notice the moment I slipped away from the pack and dodged into our gate.

Sometimes, if I was stuck in the middle of the group, I would walk right past it, listening to the other kids laugh at the absurdity of living in such a "tiny thing." And sometimes I would even see my elder siblings, but I wouldn’t wave; I would shrink into the crowd and pretend they didn’t exist or mean anything to me. I was embarrassed by our house─not my family─but shame is a strange thing because sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference.

And then one day, my sister came to visit. She was already married by then. She was only going to be home for a day or two before going back to hers. I didn’t know that. She had also bought some VCR tapes in town to take back with her—she wasn’t exactly 'strong in the faith' either—and when I saw them, I was elated! I realized that right there, I had my chance to earn my place among my peers; to be less "queer" and more like them.

So, the following morning in class during break time, I made an announcement: we now owned the "Devil’s Box" at our home, and its accessory, the VCR player. This was breaking news—top story—and the class was quick to appoint two emissaries who lived nearby: Cynthia and Virginia. Their mission: go to Isaac’s house and conduct an assessment of his "present truth" to see if he was now worthy to be inducted into the NCC (Normal Child Club).

They came along after school, and I was prepared. The tiny house must have been surprised, as this was the first time I had ever shown anyone from the NCC our house, let alone invited them inside the gate. You’re wondering how I was going to pull this off, right? VCR tapes with no TV? Well, I wasn’t going to let them inside—simple. I made up a story about how my mum didn’t want anyone in the house at all, and that they would just have to be okay with waiting right outside the door while I went to grab a VCR tape. This was good proof, right? I mean, why would we have a VCR tape if we didn’t have a player, and why would we have a player without a TV? Common logic; it was foolproof.

I ran inside, making sure to shut the door behind me, and guess what? My sister had left—with her bags! Life can become dark in a very short space of time. I panicked, and then I PANICKED! There were no VCR tapes anywhere; not under mum’s bed, not in the wardrobe. I rushed to the kitchen—nothing in the cupboards. The emissaries were now growing impatient, mentioning they couldn’t put up with this any longer and were about to reach a verdict. I couldn't blame them; they were just fifth graders, hungry after a long day at school and wanting to go home. I had to think of something fast. I couldn’t let them leave without proof, or I would never see the end of it—the shame and embarrassment when the school found out it was all a hoax and I was a fraud. I looked around mum’s bedroom once more, and my eyes landed on her bookshelf. She was a literature evangelist, and books were her thing. I quickly scanned for any with a binding thick enough to pass for a VCR tape, and my eyes landed on Testimonies for the Church, Vol. 2. It was perfect: black faux-leather binding with the title written vertically on the spine in a tiny font. My plan was to draw back a corner of the curtain and flash the spine of the book through the window; I couldn't dare let them touch the “tape”.

“Why can’t you bring it out?”

“I will get into trouble if I do.”

Did they buy it? Probably not, but they couldn’t prove otherwise either—even though Virginia could see the cracks in my story and, more than once, pointed out that it somehow looked like a book. Cynthia was none the wiser, and I survived that one to fight another day. The awarding body assessed my case and decided there was little evidence to back up my claim; however, they didn’t have enough proof to refute it either. And so I was stuck in limbo, left with the choice to either confess or keep spinning stories about the 'latest film' we’d supposedly watched over the weekend. Tiny little house.

My relationship with that tiny little house was beautiful but strange, and I didn’t know it would be the source of my first lingering heartbreak. After my mum fought my dad tooth and nail in court, she was awarded around two million ZWD—about £40,000 back then. And you know what she did? She renovated. Built a massive five-bedroom bungalow with roof tiles and a lush garden. She even went as far as hiring a gardener, Mr. Kalonjo, and before I knew it, that tiny two-roomed house on the corner had become a suburban oasis with a green lawn and roses. Did you know my mum grew black roses? I’m telling you, we had the best garden in the whole town; photographers and random strangers would stop by just to ask if they could take pictures in it.

And just like that, the tiny house was gone. My shame was gone. I went from being “extra ordinary” to truly extraordinary. I was the rich kid now, and about two years later, I was shipped off to a private boarding school. Mum wanted the best for us, and I am grateful, but that tiny little house held all the adventures and the mixed emotions—it was a trauma bond. Tiny little house, I miss you; if you can hear me, this is for you.