Bhobho was my childhood friend. We were neighbors in the Vengere surburb. There was no Durawall or fence separating our yards, and our families’ closeness meant we grew up like brothers. I was a year older than Bhobho, but we basically shared every step of growing into adults.
Bhobho was a hothead from the get-go. I vividly remember getting whipped by my own sisters for agreeing to go fishing with him in the Lisapi River. We were just eleven, and the idea of other children going to the dam was unthinkable. The dam was known to shelter a mermaid that had ravaged the Rusape community for years, so us going there was a big deal. But that one experience alone spared me from a lot of the trouble that would follow Bhobho as we grew up. Just knowing that he was a friend who dared to do all sorts of things simply because his parents were not as strict as mine.
Fast forward to our twenties, and life events began to to build Durawall that had never stood between us. Still, we’d always kept in touch, organizing meetups whenever we were away from home but in the same cities. Bhobho had become a fully-fledged woke modernist. He had even started smoking cannabis, another version of the notoriety that had always defined him: a young man daring to experiment with his own life, and yet I didn’t judge him.
By this time we were both in the final years of university, fully grown into our consciousness as young adults with a bit of exposure to the world. I got to learn that my friend was now fully hooked, and felt like it was the most inconvenient time for it. Lectures no longer excited him the way they once had. I’d seen enough peers disappear from university corridors to know where such roads led.
One holiday in 2020, during the COVID-induced lockdowns, many institutions closed, universities included. It meant we’d be spending more time in Rusape, close to our families. This was exactly how hell broke loose. Bhobho’s father figured out his son had become a habitual smoker. He got to know before everyone else, being himself a drinker and occasional smoker, though he swore he never touched cannabis, judging by the way he reacted to the matter.
Bhobho’s father was a stern man. He reserved his laughter for special days, and his word carried weight in the neighborhood of Vengere. One weekend morning he found me sunbathing in our backyard. The old man strode towards me, which was unusual, even though he was a father to me as well. He asked me if I also smoked weed, like many of my peers. I knew exactly where the conversation was going. I told him no, and saw his eyes sink. He went on, “Bhobho is coming home every night smelling of cigarette smoke, but I think it’s actually marijuana. Please, my son, do you know anything about this?”
I denied it, in defense of my friend, but his father said there was hard evidence. He invited me for dinner with them that night. He had already worked out his approach and how the act would work to expose Bhobho. I tried to get hold of Bhobho but his phone was offline. I figured he was probably at a house in the ghetto the youths used as a drug base.
Bhobo showed up just as dinner was served. We were all gathered in the dining room. All his siblings were present. His mother served pasta with beef and mixed vegetables. Only his father and I knew the details of what was coming.
As soon as we were done with the meal Bhobho’s father reduced the volume on the TV and sighed. “Right,” he said. “I invited you all so that we can discuss an issue.” The room became tense. He grabbed a backpack he had taken from Bhobho’s room. I was sure my friend had some idea what this was all about.
Bhobho’s father opened the backpack and pulled out a tissue, unrolled it, and placed a half-smoked blunt on the table for everyone to see. “Are you all aware that Bhobho is now smoking mbanje? I have invited you all so we can find have a solution, before we waste more resources sending him to university.”
Bhobho’s mother burst into tears immediately. His two brothers and sister moved closer, as if to verify that it was indeed a blunt. Bhobho remained in his seat, quiet and motionless. “So tell us, Bhobho,” his father continued. “Do you still want to continue with your education or you can tell us now you have chosen to be a street dweller with this habit of yours?”
At this point my friend was trembling and couldn’t produce a response. There was nothing to hide anymore. His mother asked when he started smoking. The revelation was even more shocking. Bhobho went on an emotional rant about how his siblings had never been a part of his life, how he felt isolated to a point where the streets became his second home. Everyone gasped in disbelief at what they had just heard. The atmosphere changed into a courtroom with everyone casting aspersions towards my friend. He started crying, in a smart fashion of twisting the plot so that everyone received a fair potion of the emotional blackmail.
In the end I promised Bhobho’s father that I would help his son out of addiction by offering him the companionship he had longed for, in solidarity with the siblings, who acknowledged that their absence in his life might indeed have been a push factor for Bhobho to start hanging out with addicts.
