Julius “Slow Hand” Mavuto had a name that people whispered in the dark corners of Harare. You would hear it in bars where the chairs wobbled and the customers spoke quietly over their drinks. His nickname was not because he was quick or strong. In fact if Julius had ever done anything fast no one had seen it. He was called Slow Hand because he was never in a hurry especially when it came to the business of death.
He was an assassin at least by job title but if you told anyone who lived near him they would probably just laugh. Julius? That quiet man with clean shoes and the habit of waving at every gardener he saw? People would joke that the only dangerous thing about him was the way he made his tea. But if you needed someone to disappear quietly with no mess no blood no stories in the newspapers Julius was the person to call. His weapon was patience. His method? He waited watched and blended in. He let nature do the rest.
His first job back when he was just starting was from a woman so scared she wore sunglasses even indoors and wanted to meet in the park as if the trees might hear her plan. “Julius I need him gone. Quietly” she said. Julius only nodded already taking out his old notebook. He would ask a few questions. Did the man drink too much? Did he smoke? Was he sick already? But honestly these were just for the file because all Julius ever really needed was time.
He had done jobs all over Zimbabwe from the big houses in Harare to the dusty streets of Bulawayo. The accountant in Bulawayo made Julius believe in his way of doing things. He rented a small flat across the street and introduced himself as a bookkeeper looking for clients. The accountant always looking over his shoulder for the taxman was happy for the help. Julius would listen to stories about lost money drink tea that was always too sweet and offer to help organise the home files. He was useful but not too useful. He paid attention to how the man smoked counted the piles of cigarettes in the ashtray and noticed the shaking hands whenever the man poured his whisky at night.
Eight months later on a normal Monday the accountant dropped dead in his chair holding his chest his eyes wide. Julius was already outside halfway across the street the first to call the ambulance. The neighbours said “Shame but at least that Mavuto was there to help.”
Word spread in the ways that matter. If you wanted someone to die quietly with no signs Julius was the person to find.
There was also the retired school principal in Kwekwe a man who loved betting on horses but always picked the wrong ones. Julius moved into the same building bumping into him by the lift always with a smile. “Maybe today is your lucky day” he would say. Before long Julius was driving him to the betting shop in his old Toyota. The two of them would laugh at the radio news as they dodged potholes.
At the shop Julius would sit quietly with his Mazoe watching the principal’s mood swing up and down with every lost ticket. The old man’s blood pressure was already bad and the stress finished the job. Fourteen months after they met the man dropped dead over a losing ticket his face almost as pale as the paper. Julius always the helpful neighbour waited outside for the ambulance shaking his head and saying “Eish these things happen.”
Patience was all Julius needed. He never rushed or pushed but only waited longer than anyone else.
His longest job before now was in Mutare upstairs from a small shop run by a man who smoked from sunrise. Julius rented the room above helped with deliveries and was always happy to fix a door or sweep the steps. Each morning he would hear the coughing downstairs getting worse every week. Julius never said a thing. He just stayed nearby helping with small things never asking about the cough. After almost two years the coughing stopped for good. The shop closed for a week the family cried and Julius packed his bag. No one suspected anything.
The trick Julius always said was to be helpful enough that no one ever wondered why you were there. If someone asked he was just Mavuto the friendly neighbour always willing to fetch bread or keep an eye on the house.
He called it “death with no fingerprints.” No gun no poison just time. Sometimes he joked to himself that he should send a thank you card to cholesterol.
But then came the job that nearly finished him. The target was Ernest Makari.
On paper it looked easy. Ernest was already eighty-nine living alone no close family around. The client a cousin who only showed up for weddings and funerals was sure it would be quick. “Two years maybe less” the cousin said handing Julius an envelope in a busy Chicken Inn. Julius took the money nodded and promised only patience.
He found a small house on the same street and moved in just like always. He met Ernest the next morning holding a loaf of bread and wearing his best smile. Ernest thin and tough with bright eyes that looked like he had just heard a funny story welcomed him with open arms.
Julius soon became a regular on the street. He joined the residents’ committee even though he did not enjoy the meetings and helped Ernest with groceries fixed leaky taps and before long he was dropping by for tea almost every afternoon. He even learned to take his tea without sugar just to keep up with Ernest.
But Ernest did not want to die.
Every morning Julius watched as Ernest went for his walk sometimes jogging sometimes coming back with guavas or stories about goats causing trouble near the shops. Ernest survived a car accident and walked away with just a scratch. He fell on wet tiles but was back up the next day. At ninety Ernest danced for hours at a wedding outlasting the young people. At ninety-one he outran a barking dog shouting “Not today Satan” as he jumped over a ditch. Then at ninety-two he got pneumonia but he was back in a week hosting meetings and arguing about potholes.
The years slipped by. Julius became Ernest’s close friend his defender at meetings his walking partner on Sundays his trusted house-sitter. He helped Ernest’s grandson move to a new flat went to birthday parties and even spent Christmas singing Shona songs in Ernest’s little lounge. Sometimes Julius would laugh at Ernest’s stories and almost forget why he was there.
But every evening he still watched closely for any sign any cough any tired sigh. He kept notes in his kitchen drawer about Ernest’s habits but the list never changed.
After six years Julius had waited longer than he expected. The job changed him not just his looks or his waistline but the way he thought. The neighbours started calling him “Uncle Julius” and people asked him to watch their homes when they went to South Africa.
Then one morning Julius fainted in his kitchen while making sadza. He woke up in hospital with an oxygen mask over his nose feeling lost and confused. The doctor a young woman with glasses looked at his chart and said “You need to rest now. Your heart is tired. Stop worrying too much.”
Julius stared at the ceiling trying to make sense of it all. Out the window he saw Ernest jogging past the hospital gates his bright red tracksuit shining in the sun waving at a group of schoolchildren. Someone called “Morning Ernest” and the old man waved back looking as strong as ever.
Julius lay back a small smile on his face. For the first time he wondered if he might not finish this job after all. The patient assassin outlasted by his own target. In Zimbabwe even death takes its time and always comes with a story.