Some say it was a genetic mutation which did it. Though others would claim it was the white lady. The one who not only reared them but apparently taught them to sing. The strange one who kept to herself and confined her existence as well as her husband’s, to that old dilapidating house they called a home. The one which was obviously never cleaned, for everyone knew the lady and her husband were too old for such feats. Nearly stooping to the ground, those who peeked through their parted curtains and past that falling apart fence, often spotted them walking about along the borders of their fenced yard. Always, the spectators observed from far off. These white people; an enigma in an ever-changing Zimbabwe to their native neighbors.
The white lady had a maid once but she had had to eventually let her go because they could no longer afford to pay her. And then of course there was that other thing which we’ll talk about later. This happened almost two years ago by the way, the letting go, and people could only imagine how bad things were for them in the years that came after. They had no kids, no relatives, no one to take care of them in their elderly state. Just their house, the neighbors who remained wary of them, the rusted letterbox with their name barely visible and of course, the aviary.
The aviary where the magic came to be.
After the Robs, as their neighbours called them, let Sisi Chipo go only one other person had been in that house and that was the boy who occasionally roamed the neighborhood going from house to house asking for handouts. The day he rang that bell attached to their gate everyone who was home that day stopped whatever they were doing to grow the size of the whites’ eyes as they turned in the direction of that house. Over their Durawall and through their curtains, all waited in anticipation, doubtful that anyone would emerge. Mrs. Rob had emerged, with slow hesitant steps she had taken almost thirty minutes to walk to her gate, open it and lead him back. She had actually invited him in!
He says that she offered him a plate of sadza with sour milk. The sadza he said was crusted around the edges, showing that it was days old and the milk almost putrid. According to him, that boy who goes from house to house, after he left his plate untouched, she had simply sealed his plate and placed it in the fridge amongst many other plates. She never threw anything away and that was another one of her issues with Sisi Chipo. Of course, after he recounted that set of events to the neighbors, they finally decided to call someone, anyone, who could help Mrs. Rob who clearly was suffering not just financially but mentally as well. They figured that if they reached out to members of the white community, they might know what to do about their situation. And sure, enough help had come and she and her husband were placed in a home which was known to be for white people and of course the black elite. Not a place for ordinary black people like them. Still, relief surged through the neighborhood and the people breathed and slept a little easier even past the embarrassment of finding out they were actually the Roberts. Either way. For a while everyone forgot about the dilapidating house and their guilt until the birds started to sing.
Ruva Rondodzai was the one who heard it first. A bunch of voices coming up behind her out of the blue one morning. The flock of sparrows had flown past her singing….an Anglican Shona hymn? The neighborhood was informed that very day and for the most part they all speculated and concluded that it was a work of witchcraft. That Ruva had been confronted by some sort of phantom sent by a jealous relation from her rural home. And for a few days they believed that explanation until someone else encountered the singing flock.
No one could really figure out how they sang in unison. How they sang as perfectly as a choir of fifty human beings. These tiny little sparrows and their singing flock. The flock that attracted attention and became the talk of the town.
Soon they evolved into local celebrities, these singing wonders, and even secured a record deal. The money never went to the elderly couple, no one really knows where it went at all. Still, they were a sensation. The talk of the town. ‘Local Celebrities’. Some called them tiny little miracles and others called them an abomination but still they sang on. They continued to live in the aviary of that old dilapidating house, coming and going at whim. Never flying solo but as one. Never fighting amongst themselves but existing in peaceful harmony. Never doing any person any harm but simply existing to sing. All they ever did was entertain the people of the town with their beautiful little voices.
That being said.
It came as no surprise when the birds went quiet one morning. They didn’t go about their routine that day. The one where they flew from their home at 8 in the morning while crafting musical bliss. That day as people walked the streets they weren’t met with a singing flock. They did not stand to stare in amazement and shake their heads asking how these birds had learnt to sing the songs of their native tongue. There were no pointed fingers, surprised laughs and whispers. The birds did not show up. Even those that claimed to hate them took special note of their absence. Only days after would a curious child look into the aviary and see the dead birds with their twisted necks and broken wings.
They had done no harm and caused no offence. All they had done was sing but perhaps they had sung too loudly for some.
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Read – Between A Mother and Her Daughter – A Short Story by Oluwabukola Olabode Nigeria
