By: Black Edward

The June cold had settled properly over Glen Norah. It crept through jackets and sat quietly in your bones.

Along Kunzekweguta Road, the usual smell of burst sewage floated above the potholes and open drains. Most people no longer noticed it. It was just part of the neighbourhood, like barking dogs, kombi conductors shouting destinations, and children kicking balls they made from discarded plastics and paper…  

Alan glanced at the time on his cellphone and increased his pace. He wanted to see his uncle in Chitubu before he left for work. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

Then he noticed the figure ahead. He only saw the outline at first. A man moving slowly through the pale morning light. Shuffling. Dragging his feet. Shoulders hunched. Head lowered.

Alan stopped.

“Ah, no…”

Even from a distance he recognised that walk. Themba. Nobody walked like Themba. The drugs had changed everything about him except the way he moved.

Alan stood still for a moment, watching. Then he noticed something strange. A dog. A medium-sized brown dog walked beside Themba as if they had known each other forever, like they were buddies. It was as if he were talking with the dog, not talking to it. It was eerie.

That was enough to make Alan stare. Themba hated dogs. Only Tinashe loved dogs. Everybody knew that. When they were younger, Themba used to throw stones at them for fun. He once chased a stray halfway down Zvimba Road, hurling insults and chunks of broken brick while pupils from Shiriyedenga Primary School laughed. The sight of him calmly walking beside a dog felt wrong.

But there was something else strange. Something Alan could not immediately place. He frowned and continued walking, his pace now slower.

The dog stayed close to Themba’s leg. Suddenly, he laughed as if the dog had said something funny. Then he bent down and scratched behind its ear. Alan almost stopped again. The gesture was gentle. Affectionate. Tender. The kind of movement you make without thinking when you genuinely care about something. Yet tenderness had disappeared from Themba years ago. Mutoriro had stripped it away. The crystal meth had hollowed him out until he barely resembled the boy everyone once knew.

His cheeks had sunk inward. His skin carried a grey tint. His eyes looked permanently exhausted, as if he no longer slept. And the neighbourhood had tried everything. His family had spent money they did not have on rehabilitation centres. Church women had prayed for him. Prophets had fasted. Traditional healers had burnt herbs and performed rituals. Neighbours had dragged him out of drains, trenches, and pubs. Nothing worked.

Themba always returned to the streets. Eventually, people stopped trying. In Glen Norah, Themba became part of the scenery. Like the garbage nobody expected to be collected. Like the potholes, everyone learned to drive around. People stepped over him when he slept outside Fatso Bottle Store. Children pointed at him. Adults shook their heads. The community buried him long before death arrived.

Yet Alan remembered another Themba. The real Themba. The Themba from Glen Norah High 1 School. Sharp. Brilliant. The boy who solved mathematics problems before Mr Mangwengwende finished writing them on the board. The boy who corrected Mr Mushore respectfully and turned out to be right. The boy whose future seemed guaranteed. University material. Doctor. Lawyer. Engineer. Teachers had used all those words.

Alan and Themba had sat together in Form Two. Themba had rescued him countless times during mathematics lessons.

“How are you failing this?” Themba would ask.

Then he would explain everything so simply that Alan would wonder why he had struggled at all.

Themba came from a comfortable family. His parents worked. Their core house had been extended. He had proper school shoes. Pocket money. Textbooks. A quiet place to study. Everything was lined up for him.

Then somewhere along the way, things changed. The cough syrup came first. Then mbanje. Then pills. Then cheap alcohol. Then harder things.

By seventeen, the bright future everyone talked about had disappeared. The drugs won. Alan sighed. Life could be cruel like that. Sometimes it did not matter how much potential a person had. Sometimes one wrong turn was enough.

His thoughts drifted to Tinashe. Another friend. The third member of their small group. Unlike Themba, Tinashe had never been the smartest. He was simply disciplined. Consistent. Patient. While Themba experimented with drugs, Tinashe studied. When Themba skipped classes, Tinashe attended every lesson.

When Themba started falling apart, Tinashe tried harder than anyone to save him. For years he refused to give up.

“The old Themba is still there,” he would insist.

“He just needs help.”

But eventually, even Tinashe ran out of hope. There comes a point when trying to rescue somebody begins pulling you under too. He had to let go. And after that, his life moved forward.

Harare Institute of Technology. Engineering degree. Employment. A Honda Fit. Massive solar installation at parents’ home. Helping relatives. Paying school fees for younger family members. The kind of success that made mothers point at him whenever they wanted to lecture their children.

“Look at Tinashe! Don’t end up like Themba.”

The neighbourhood loved saying that.

But there was one thing about Tinashe. His love for animals. Especially dogs. In Glen Norah, dogs were security guards. Nothing more. People fed them leftovers and expected them to bark at strangers. That was the relationship. Not Tinashe. He treated his dogs like family. He named them. Talked to them. Bought proper food for them. Took them to veterinary clinics. He even fed stray cats. Neighbours thought he was strange.

“You are wasting money,” they told him.

“Those things are animals.”

Tinashe would just laugh. His laugh was unforgettable. Big. Warm. Contagious. The kind that made other people laugh even when they did not know the joke.

One evening, years earlier, he had sat with Alan outside Maynard tuckshop telling him a story.

“A cat stopped a court case.”

“A cat?”

“Yes.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m serious.”

According to Tinashe, a stray cat had wandered into a courtroom and hidden beneath a judge’s bench. Every attempt to remove it failed. The cat hissed at lawyers, clerks, and police officers. Proceedings stopped completely. The entire court waited for a cat. Tinashe laughed so hard telling the story that tears rolled down his cheeks.

“The whole justice system defeated by one cat.”

Alan smiled at the memory. Then the smile faded. Because six months earlier, Tinashe had vanished. Just vanished. No argument. No warning. No goodbye. He had kissed his mother on the cheek, said he would be back for supper, and driven away. That was the last time anyone saw him.

His phone rang once. Then went dead.

Three days later, the Honda Fit was found abandoned in Budiriro. The windows smashed. The seats cut open. Everything valuable gone. But there was no blood. Nobody. No note. The police investigated. Nothing. Prophets did their thing. Sangomas called in. Nothing. Relatives searched. Nothing.

Months passed. Nothing. The mystery remained.

And Alan still thought about it almost every day. He was so lost in thought that he nearly missed the second thing that had bothered him. The thing he had noticed earlier but not fully registered. The jersey. Themba was wearing a red jersey. Frayed around the collar. A small tear on the left sleeve.

Alan froze. His stomach tightened.

“No…”

He knew that red jersey. Everyone close to Tinashe knew it. It was his favourite. And according to his mother, it was the exact jersey he had worn on the day he disappeared. Alan stared. Maybe it was another jersey. Many people owned red jerseys. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe…

No. The tear. The collar. Everything matched. His heart began beating faster. He started walking towards Themba. Slowly. Carefully. Themba had stopped beside a rubbish dump. He was digging through the trash. The dog sat quietly beside him. Watching. Waiting. Almost like…

Alan pulled a twenty-dollar note from his pocket.

“Themba.”

Themba looked up. His eyes immediately locked onto the money. For a brief second something flickered across his face. Recognition. Awareness. A glimpse of the boy he used to be.

He grabbed the note. Held it tightly against his chest.

“Ndinotenda,” he said softly. “Thank you, brother.”

Alan felt cold. Not because of the weather. Themba’s voice sounded different. Clearer. Gentler. Sane.

Then tears appeared in the addict’s eyes. Actual tears. Themba looked away quickly and wiped them. Alan swallowed.

“Themba.”

“Hmmm?”

“Where did you get that jersey?”

Themba looked down. His fingers touched the material carefully. Lovingly. As though it were precious. He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. Then he smiled. Not the vacant smile people associated with drug addicts. A real smile. One that belonged to another time.

“Tina gave me.”

The dog barked.

The words hit Alan like a brick.

“Tina?”

Themba nodded.

“Tinashe.”

Alan’s mouth suddenly felt dry.

“When did you see him?”

Themba opened his mouth. And then something strange happened. The smile remained. But the words that followed made absolutely no sense. A stream of sounds. Not Shona. Not Ndebele. Not Chewa. Not English. Not any language Alan recognised. Themba spoke confidently for almost a minute. Nodding. Laughing. Gesturing. As if he were explaining something perfectly.

Then he stopped. Alan stared.

“What are you saying?”

Themba blinked. The confusion returned. The moment disappeared. Alan tried another approach.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

Themba looked at the animal again. His face brightened immediately.

“That is not a dog.”

“What?”

“That is Tina.”

The dog barked again.

Alan forced a laugh.

“Themba, that’s a stray.”

Themba shook his head.

“No.”

He leaned closer. His voice dropped.

“Tina visits me every night.”

Alan felt another chill.

“When the darkness comes.”

Themba pointed to his own chest.

“He sits here.”

“Who?”

“Tina.”

“The dog?”

Themba nodded.

“He talks to me.”

Alan said nothing.

“He keeps bad things away.”

Themba glanced around as though checking who might be listening.

“People are blind. They only see a dog.”

The dog stood up. Slowly. Quietly. Then it turned and looked directly at Alan. For a second, the world seemed to become unusually still. No kombis. No shouting vendors. No noise. Nothing. Just those amber eyes. Watching him. Alan felt something he could not explain. Something heavy. Something unsettling.

Science could explain Themba. Doctors would talk about psychosis. Hallucinations. Drug-induced delusions. Chemical damage to the brain. There were textbooks for that. Medical journals. Research papers. Diagnoses. Science liked things that could be measured.

But what Alan felt at that moment could not be measured. The dog’s eyes held a strange familiarity. A patient. A sadness. A calm intelligence. And suddenly, against all reason, he remembered Tinashe. Not his face. Not his voice. Just his presence. The feeling of being around him. The dog blinked. The moment broke. It turned away and crossed the road.

Themba gathered his collection of sadza and chicken bones. Then he called out. And when he did, every hair on Alan’s arms stood up.

“Tina! Let’s go!”

The dog stopped. Turned. Wagged its tail once. And waited. Themba shuffled after it. The red jersey moved with him. Bright against the dull winter morning. Man and animal. Side by side. Walking away.

Alan remained where he stood. Unable to move. Unable to think properly. His mind demanded explanations. Coincidences. Logic. Anything. Yet none felt sufficient.

The police would laugh. Doctors would have explanations. Prophets would have different explanations. Everyone would explain. But explanations were not always answers. That was something life had taught him. Some things happen in this world that sit beyond the reach of science. Not because science is useless. Far from it. Science explains much of life. It builds hospitals. Creates medicines. Sends people to the moon.

But every now and then something appears that refuses to fit neatly into a box. Something that leaves even sensible people uncomfortable.

Alan watched until Themba and the dog disappeared around a corner. Then he looked at the rubbish dump. The empty patch where the dog had been sitting. His own hands. His empty pockets. The morning suddenly felt much colder.

“Maybe I’m losing my mind,” he muttered.

He started walking. Then stopped.

“No. No, that jersey was real.”

He walked again. Stopped again.

“What exactly did I see?”

Nobody answered. Only the wind. Eventually,, he turned around and headed home. His uncle could wait. His mind was elsewhere. As he walked, one thought kept returning. Tell Tinashe’s mother. She deserved to know. Didn’t she? But know what? That a drug addict was wearing her missing son’s jersey? That a stray dog looked at him strangely? That Themba believed the dog was Tinashe? What kind of information was that? What comfort would it bring?

He imagined her face. The hope. The questions. The disappointment. No. He could not do it. Not with what he had. Not with something so impossible. So, he kept quiet.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months. And Alan never told a soul. Not because he forgot. Because he remembered too clearly. Some truths are not meant to be investigated. Some mysteries do not want solving. Some things arrive in your life without explanations and leave the same way. You simply carry them. That June morning became one of those things. The sun rose. The seasons changed. Life in Glen Norah continued. Children went to school. Kombis hooted. Dogs barked. The streets filled with people who had never known Tinashe, who would walk past a dog and see nothing in its eyes. And that was fine. Glen Norah carried on. And somewhere in the neighbourhood, whenever darkness settled over the streets and most people locked themselves indoors, Themba would sit quietly in his corner of the world. Still wearing that red jersey.

And sooner or later, a brown dog would appear. It would curl up beside him. The two would sit together in silence. Perhaps talking. Perhaps remembering. Perhaps sharing things that belonged to a place beyond ordinary understanding. Nobody would notice.

And every day, Alan felt that same certainty settling in his chest. The certainty that there are mysteries which neither science nor faith can fully untangle. Mysteries that simply exist. Waiting in the shadows of ordinary places. Like a missing man. A red jersey. And a dog that was not quite a dog.

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Black Edward is a seasoned media professional, teacher, and writer whose work has touched many lives. His notable pieces include “The Silence of Rocks”, “Retrenched”, and “My Name Is a Crime Scene”. With over thirty years of journalism experience, he blends sharp investigative techniques with insights to create compelling stories. Edward holds an MSc, and his writing combines scholarly care with passionate storytelling.