The Maestro, the Magistrate and the Mathematician. Tendai Huchu

open them again.

      “Open them.” He did so and Chenai was holding out a Sony Walkman with orange headphones.

      “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

      “I know. It’s so retro isn’t it? I got it off Liam; he had it years ago but everyone’s into iPods and MP3 players now. It still works. I figured you could listen to your gwash music.”

      “Who’s Liam?”

      “Just a mate from school.”

      The Magistrate reminded himself that things were different here. Girls could be friends with boys, something unheard of in his time. But still, he’d remember this name, Liam. Alfonso wouldn’t leave it at that. “Is this Liam from a good family?”

      “His father’s a councillor.” Chenai gave him a fierce look.

      “Tell this Liam, I said, ‘Thank you for such a kind gift.’” The Magistrate smiled and Chenai bounded upstairs. He took a sip of his whisky straight from the bottle and felt the inebriating warmth radiate through him, along with the beginnings of a new future.

      The Mathematician

      Deco passes the ball to Ronaldinho who dribbles, nutmegs a defender and lays a sitter through to Eto’o who drives it over the top bar, kneels down and buries his head in shame.

      ‘Eto’o, uri kuda bhora rakaita sei?’ Farai shouts at the screen.

      Brian breathes a sigh of relief, his Man Red defense is proving to be leaky against Farai’s Barcelona, but the game is still 1–0 in his favor after a cheeky Rooney dink in the 25^th. He’s got to hold it together against wave after wave of Barcelona attacks. Farai pauses , goes to the settings, and substitutes Giuly for Saviola.

      Eto’o

      Ronaldinho Saviola

      Deco Xavi

      Edmilson

      Van Bronckhorst Oleguer

      Puyol Márquez

      V. Valdés

      ‘I’d have substituted Eto’o, he ain’t doing nothing,’ says Brian.

      ‘Worry about your own team, dude.’

      Play. The game continues, 90 minutes compressed into 10 minutes of uberhyperreality. The commentary follows every tackle, every through pass on the 42-inch plasma screen. Farai’s thumbs ache, he keeps bashing the buttons. He’s 2 games behind in the best of 5. He needs to get this one back or it’s all over.

      The Xbox 360 purrs away, 60GB of raw computing power. It could have sent the Beagle to Mars. Farai’s first gaming experience was Pong on his Atari, a gift from Uncle Douglas in America. He played that thing to death. He remembers hanging with his mates, connecting it to their cathode ray tube TV on afternoons after school and waiting for the game to warm up. ZBC didn’t start broadcasting till 4 pm, so there wasn’t anything to watch anyway, except the multicolored round thing with the time on it. There was nothing more exciting than seeing that little square ball bounce back and forth on the screen. Back then it wasn’t thumbs that hurt but wrists from turning the nob on the console.

      In the 90s, progress happened. Big Bite opened at the Parkade just off Samora Machel. At the weekends, he’d go with his mates, pockets full of change, to the new arcade. They were all into Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat, which was cool, but Farai was retro, he was a Pacman guy, and sometimes Rally-X too. The lights in Big Bite were always dim. Around the walls were the blinking screens promising electropleasure for the malleable pubescent males who crowded round the games. You had to be savvy and have your wits about you, because the colored kids patrolled the den, crowding players and picking pockets. Farai fought epic battles in those mazes, and when he went home to bed, he’d dream of , always , chasing him around the house. He’d wake up in a sweat, horrified at the prospect of the GAME OVER screen and that soul-destroying electronic sound effect.

      Rooney blasts 1 well wide of the net. That’s half time, 5 minutes of play in real time.

      ‘You guys fancy a beer?’ Scott asks from the sidelines.

      ‘I’ve never said no to a beer in my entire life,’ Farai replies.

      He watches Brian agonize over his substitutions, checking the energy meters to see which players are sagging, and the defense is, because Farai’s attack has been relentless, and the back 4 always pay the price. He’s sure he can sneak 2 in, and hopes that Puyol keeps things tight at the back. There’s no need to play real football, the experience is packaged for him in the comfort of his living room. He doesn’t even need to break a sweat for it.

      ‘Come on, let’s play already,’ he says.

      ‘Patience,’ Brian replies. ‘Mr Miyagi say, “Wax on, wax off.”’

      ‘That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.’

      Brian finishes setting up his team. The commentators drone on about how it was an exciting first half and they are hoping for more of the same in the second. Scott comes back with the beers and hands them 1 each. There’s a knock on the door.