“The Best A Man Can Get” by T.L. Huchu

Detective Munatsi watched the electric gate whir shut in her rear-view mirror. It was way too slow. In a city where criminals were given to tailgating, that could be the difference between being robbed or getting away in time. Then again, one often noticed the tell-tale dents on the passenger doors of rich people’s Mercs and Bimmers where ill-timed gates had done damage. As with pretty much everything else in Harare, you were damned if you did and damned if you didn’t.

The gigantic Rhodesian ridgeback barking and pawing at her window was the reason Munatsi stayed in her car. Zimbabwean dogs weren’t pets, they were working animals, guard dogs, highly territorial, and she didn’t get paid enough for that kind of nonsense. She’d read somewhere that American police routinely shot people’s dogs, even witnesses they’d visited to help with their enquiries, and this was a cause of some outrage out there, but she didn’t carry a weapon and felt ill inclined to use it on man’s best friend, even if she did.

A garden-boy in torn overalls appeared around one corner of the house with a hoe slung over his shoulder. He walked briskly towards her and whistled, calling the dog to his side.

“Here, Spider,” the garden-boy said, patting his thigh. He took the dog by the collar as soon as it reached him and held it firm. “Sori-i henyu. You can come out now.”

Munatsi eyed the sandy coloured animal; it was big, powerful, and the scrawny man would be no match for it if it decided to go for her. The Rhodesian ridgeback was bred by white settlers to hunt lions in colonial times. Any dog that could take out one of those wild cats was more than a match for a woman. Munatsi opened the door and swung her foot out.

It had been raining and so Munatsi landed in a puddle of blood red water. The soil here was a rich red called mhukutu in Shona. It was prized for its richness and crops grew well in it, though at number 12 Dover Road, these tended to be flowers and other ornamental plants. She shut her car door and kept her eyes on the garden-boy, avoiding eye contact with the dog.

“Don’t worry, he’s trained, he won’t bother you now,” said the garden-boy.

“Are the others inside?” Munatsi asked.

“Yes, just go through the front door,” he said. “I’ll make sure Spider is chained until you finish.”

“Tatenda,” said Munatsi, languidly making her way on the paving slabs towards the front door of the old bungalow.

Her black brogues were covered in mud and she wiped them on the welcome mat before pushing the door open and walking inside.


The porcelain tiled floor was covered with shoe prints. The choice of flooring meant the house was newer in construction than the wood tiles or carpet preferred for the older buildings in Chisipite. The two uniformed officers standing in the lobby stood up straighter when they saw Munatsi enter.

“Detective Zvobgo is already inside,” one of them said, quick to pre-empt any questions she might have for them. Munatsi liked this—it meant there was a chance they actually knew what they were doing, which was rare given the calibre of new recruits on the force.

She gave the officers a nod and followed the sound of sniffling into the living room where Detective Zvobgo was sitting on a couch opposite a white woman in a dressing gown. The woman’s face was beet red from weeping. Munatsi thought the woman was in her early forties, though she couldn’t be sure because the African sun had a way of bestowing premature wrinkles on fair skin.

“. . . freak accident. Utterly tragic, Mrs. Harvey,” Zvobgo trailed off and stood up when he saw Munatsi standing near the doorway. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Zvobgo was a short man, neatly attired in an Edgars suit. His afro was trimmed short and neat, dark skin shining with Vaseline. Munatsi could smell the Old Spice coming off his body. They were at the polar opposites of what ZRP detectives looked like. She was incredibly tall, so tall she stooped to enter doorways, and her dressing was rather shabby, especially in the male outfits she wore, because it was hard for her to find female clothes that fitted her gigantic frame. The hostility barely masked on Zvobgo’s face was a testament to the nature of the relationship between the homicide department’s two finest.

“I can only assume you were called out here by mistake,” said Zvobgo in a low voice for Mrs. Harvey not to hear.

“Superintendent Chiweshe sent me,” said Munatsi, coolly. “You got any issues, take it up with him.”

“Stay off my case, stay out of my way,” Zvobgo said.

Munatsi looked down at her colleague, and not without some bemusement. He had a severe case of short man syndrome, and though they’d had their run-ins over the years, she wasn’t about to do it here in front of the grieving woman. Munatsi put her hands in her pockets, turned away and walked out of the room.


The bathroom was covered by white tiles that ran from floor to ceiling. Two small windows, crosshatched burglar bars, gave it the feel of a prison room. To keep the thieves out in Harare, one must build their own prison fortress. That’s why the houses there had razor wire, Durawall, or, for the green fingered, bougainvillea hedges. None of that was enough to protect the middle-aged white guy who lay naked on the floor.

Munatsi crouched near the body and observed the thinning hair, the slight paunch on what was, otherwise, a healthy looking male. She imagined Mr. Harvey playing squash or tennis at weekends with expats or the small Rhodie community. The shower curtain and rail lay at his feet, as though he’d taken them with him on his way down as he fell.

“Detective Zvobgo told us to bag him,” said one of the uniformed officers. “Bugger probably had a heart attack and fell.”

“Those burn marks on his chest—what do you think caused that?”

“Detective Zvobgo . . .” The officer’s voice trailed off.

Munatsi pointed at the red and blistered skin just below the left clavicle. Even in the low light passing through the frosted glass windows, this was plain to see.

“Turn the light on,” Munatsi said.

The officer outside flicked a switch on and off a couple of times, but nothing happened.

“Yet, you have lights in the living room. Have you considered that?” she said.

“Erm, Detective Zvobgo said this was an accident.”

“Maybe,” Munatsi said. “Maybe not.”

She stood up and looked at the bathtub on the left-hand side of the room. It was a traditional roll top tub that fitted nicely with the décor. The shower on the right was a different matter altogether. It was small, taking up little space. The tiling used for it, though white, was of a different design altogether. It was as though someone had tried to find a match and settled on the next best thing. There wasn’t any grime in the grooves, which might indicate age, or it could just be because the Harveys had a house-girl, like other upper-middle class folks in this neighbourhood. Still, it was evident the shower was a new construction.

“You think it was the shower?” the officer said, stepping inside. He was starting to get with the program. “How could I have missed that? It’s so obvious. These houses have geysers installed up in the ceiling, which is how they get hot water for the tub and kitchen. But this shower is one of those new electric ones. It takes cold water and heats it up without need for connection to the hot water main. It’s supposedly cheaper to run.”

“I’m glad you got there at last,” Munatsi said, dryly. Working with men around her, she knew they liked to look as though they’d figured things out themselves. It helped their fragile egos. Munatsi stood up.

“What do we do now?” the officer asked, excitedly.

“Call your OIC at Rhodesville, tell him I need an electrician from ZESA, now-now.”

“Right away,” said the officer.

Munatsi cocked her head and stretched her neck one side and then did the other. It made little pop. This was going to be a long day.


The rain had started up once again, when Munatsi stepped out onto the veranda. It fell onto the lush green lawn surrounded by pine, palm and other exotic trees. This garden was clearly designed before indigenous plants became all the rage among the city’s elite. She sat on the stone table and rolled herself a cigarette. Then she checked her pockets and brought out her box of Lion matches. There was one stick left, but when she struck it, the wind blew it out. She flicked the matchstick out into the flowerbed next to her.

Munatsi hadn’t smoked for a few hours and was gagging for one. She kept the rollie between her lips and shoved the matchbox back in her pocket.

She got up and went to the boys khaya, the servants’ quarters at the back of the property. If the servants didn’t smoke, they damn well always had light for candles and the primus stoves on which they cooked their own meals.

The khaya was a small cottage with two rooms, one for the house-girl, the other for the garden-boy, with an adjacent squat toilet for them to use. Munatsi knocked on the door of the first room and the garden-boy opened it.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“You’ve stopped working. It’s not even lunchtime,” Munatsi said.

“It’s raining,” he replied.

“Of course. What’s your name?”

“Givemore Ndau.”

It was a typical name in Zimbabwe. Givemore. Names in Shona culture had to mean something, but in colonial times it was advantageous for one’s employment prospects if the British could pronounce your name, and so began the strange and persistent custom of made-up English names, cobbled by people for whom regular English names like John or Bill carried no meaning.

“I need a light,” Munatsi said, holding out her cigarette, and pushing her way into Givemore’s room.

Givemore withdrew and retrieved a green lighter, which he handed over to her. The room smelled of paraffin and the walls were blackened by smoke. Munatsi lit her cigarette and handed the lighter back. Givemore sat at the table where he was fixing a small, old cathode-ray tube TV. Pieces of the circuit boards were on his single bed and wires were everywhere.

“That thing looks even older than I am,” Munatsi said.

“These were built to last,” Givemore replied, fiddling with some wires. “They don’t make things like that anymore.”

“I was wondering, did your missus and baas have any problems we should know about?”

“All married people have issues,” Givemore answered. The common-sense wisdom of this surprised Munatsi, especially coming from one so young. “They have been arguing a lot. The missus has a lover.”

“An African?”

Givemore shook his head. “Murungu.”

“Do you think this lover would have any reason to hurt Mr. Harvey?”

“Baas didn’t know anything about it.”

Givemore shrugged. His attention seemed more taken by the little TV than anything Munatsi had to say. It was a fragile line between loyal servant and informant. Maybe he liked the young missus, maybe her lover had slipped him a small tip now and again. He certainly needed it, given how squalid his conditions were. Munatsi exhaled smoke and was suddenly feeling much better, more alert than she’d been a few minutes ago.


The ZESA T 35 Mazda truck rolled in, just as Munatsi was making her way back to the house. The driveway was now blocked by her Land Rover, the uniformed officer’s Santana, Zvobgo’s VW, and the Harveys’ Nissan pick-up and Toyota nearer the front door of the house. There was one more vehicle that was missing in the lot and Munatsi found that interesting.

The ZESA electricians in cargo pants and t-shirts stepped outside and grabbed their toolboxes from the back. While the country had frequent blackouts and residents couldn’t rely on these guys showing up to fix things, the parastatal was responsive to the needs of the ZRP. In the quid pro quo nature of Zimbabwean interactions, they knew that doing one such job could mean a speeding ticket being written off, or some such personal favour down the line.

Munatsi went up to the two men and recognised the older one, Mr. Banda, whose services they’d used before.

“Detective,” Mr. Banda said, holding out his hand. “I know it’s bad news when I arrive somewhere and see your old Land Rover. Meet my new apprentice, Ivan Pasipamuka.”

“I thought they were trained at university these days?” Munatsi replied, shaking his hand.

“The graduates come in and become our bosses, but it’s still us who do the real work. The degrees teach you how to fix systems in the UK and overseas, but our systems are a hodgepodge no book learning can help you with.”

Banda roared with laughter at his own joke. Munatsi explained what she wanted them to inspect as she led them to the house. She asked one of the uniformed officers to take the electricians to the bathroom. The other she asked to run a check for her, while she went back to the living room where Zvobgo was still cosying up to the widow.


“I thought we agreed—” Zvobgo started, but Munatsi cut him off.

“I need to ask Mrs. Harvey a few questions.”

“I have already conducted the interview; can’t you see this poor woman is in shock? Mrs. Harvey, I must apologise for my colleague,” Zvobgo said, obsequiously.

“I didn’t say an interview, just a few questions, that’s all,” Munatsi said, staring down Zvobgo. She was no longer in the mood to play nice and would go over his head if she needed to. Amateur hour was over, it was time for her to work. “Perhaps you’d like to see the electricians in the bathroom, since you’ve exhausted all your enquiries.”

Zvobgo looked flustered, confused by this talk of electricians. He got up, adjusted his jacket, held his chin up and walked out of the room. He knew now that he’d missed something and was worried this would get back to the department.

Munatsi sat down on the sofa next to Mrs. Harvey. She observed the widow, though clean, still had the musky scent of sweat and sleep about her. Mrs. Harvey’s face was buried in Kleenex damp with tears. The soft whoosh and patter-patter of rain on the roof filled the air.

“When did you last bathe?” Munatsi asked.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Harvey said, looking up in surprise. “My husband has just died, and you’re interested in my hygiene?”

Munatsi sighed.

“This is important,” she said.

“I had a shower last night. I bath in the morning and shower at night. Twice a day, I hope I’m clean enough for you!” Mrs. Harvey said, and burst into tears.

A suspect crying—and all family members are first suspects in a murder—may be trying to evade scrutiny. Or they may simply be grieving. Or it could be both. It was important to work these things out.

“You do this every day. A bath in the morning, shower at night, am I correct?”

“That’s what I just told you,” Mrs. Harvey replied, agitated.

“Who else uses the facilities?”

“Kath, my husband’s daughter, but she has her own en suite so she rarely uses the main bathroom.”

“Did she use it today or last night.”

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her. She’s in her room.”

Munatsi found it odd that at a time like this, the two of them weren’t together. But the way Mrs. Harvey had said “my husband’s daughter” indicated the two were not blood. Still, this seemed significant.

“Who discovered Mr. Harvey in the bathroom today? You or Katherine?”

“It was the maid. I’ve already told all this to Detective Zov-boo-ko.”

“What happened when she found him?”

“She screamed and that’s when I got out of bed and came to see what had happened.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I told her to call 911 for an ambulance and proceeded to do CPR.”

Munatsi sat up. This was odd, indeed. There was no ambulance outside. No sign that medics had been.

“Your accent, where are you from?”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Mrs. Harvey snapped.

“Please answer the question.”

“New York, America, okay?”

“And, how long have you been in this country?”

“Just over a year. We met when I came here on holiday, hit it off, got married a month later and here I am. God, what does it matter where people are from? People are just people to me.”

But, it mattered to Munatsi. It mattered a great deal. No Zimbabwean with their own means of transportation would ever call for an ambulance, simply because they might not show up, or, if they did, usually too late, you were slapped with a hefty bill afterwards. A local wouldn’t have wasted vital time waiting for medics to arrive, they’d have acted. But, Munatsi also realised that Mrs. Harvey said 911 instead of 999, and this confirmed she was, indeed, American, not some Rhodie with a fake accent.

“I hope you don’t have any plans to leave the country any time soon?” Munatsi said, getting up.

“What is wrong with you?” Mrs. Harvey said, in an accent Munatsi was only used to hearing on TV. “I’m going to call the embassy.”

“That’s fine,” Munatsi said, making her way out. She turned back at the doorway. “Just one more thing, when was your shower installed?”

“Last week. Colly Electricals finished the job on Thursday afternoon.”

“Okay,” Munatsi said, walking out.

Mrs. Harvey had goose bumps on her arms. The architecture of the house was designed to keep it cool in the oppressive African heat, but on days like this, when thick grey clouds covered the sky, the temperature could feel somewhat Baltic.


Kath was weeping, locked in an embrace with the house-girl, when Munatsi found her in one of the bedrooms at the bottom end of the corridor, furthest from the bathroom. She was a skinny, malnourished looking goth kid, black mascara running down her cheeks, black lipstick. The room was filled with rock posters, bands Munatsi didn’t recognise. Black duvet covers, black pillow cases. The only thing colourful in the room was the black house-girl wearing the floral uniform complete with doek common amongst the servants of Harare’s upper classes.

Munatsi stood at the doorway, observing this small moment of intimacy. It was clear that Kath, who was in her early twenties, could not be Mrs. Harvey’s daughter. In this moment of grief and confusion, she’d now turned to the house-girl for comfort. The house-girl wasn’t a girl at all, she was a matronly woman just over fifty, greying hair showing just outside the doek. The term was colonial and had carried over from Rhodesia into independent Zimbabwe. Respect for age, so important in traditional Shona culture didn’t matter anymore; status, wealth and power did, so this woman, potentially a grandmother still answered to “girl”. And women like this had raised the white children who would go on to deny them their freedom, they had raised the black children of the new elites who now denied them their fundamental rights. That’s just how things were here.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Munatsi said, standing at the doorway.

“Zvaonekwa,” the house-girl replied.

“I need to talk to you both about what happened,” Munatsi said, walking into the room and closing the door behind her. This lessened the noise of the electricians and policemen talking in the bathroom.

“What’s your name?”

“Simbisai Magara,” she replied.

“How long have you worked here, Mrs. Magara?” Munatsi said, for she’d noticed the copper wedding band on her left hand.

“Thirteen, no, fourteen years this November.”

“That’s a long time,” Munatsi replied.

“We’re family,” Kath answered, sitting up and wiping her eyes.

Keep thinking that, Munatsi thought to herself. No doubt the two were close, but they were separated, each kept out of reach of the other by a deep chasm of power and privilege. Munatsi had been in and out of so many of these kinds of houses, she knew the score. But, at the moment, she wondered why Kath was even in the country at all. White kids of a certain age didn’t stay here, they dreamed of Australia or New Zealand, maybe even the motherland, Britain. It was the same with middle and upper class black kids; they emigrated too. There were no opportunities for them in Zimbabwe. The poor jumped the border and took their chances in South Africa or Botswana.

“When last did you see your father, Katherine?”

“It’s Kath. Yesterday but one in the morning. I was out till late last night. I went to the Spoogeroon and came back around 2am. I didn’t see him again until this happened.”

Munatsi knew the Spoogeroon, popular pub out in Borrowdale.

“Were you drunk?”


“Did you notice anything strange when you got back?”

“I barely remember anything at all. My friend Bradley drove me home, but everything’s a blur.”

“Did your father have any enemies, anyone you know who might wish him harm?”

Kath looked outside the massive window, out into the lush garden. The curtain of rain distorted the colours—it was like looking through a dream.

“He was a good man, an actuary, a glorified insurance salesman. There’s no one who’d want to do anything to him for that.”

“Your stepmother—”

“A bitch, but he loved her. Do you think someone did something to him?”

“No, this is just routine. We have to do this kind of thing for our paperwork. My boss, he’s all about filling in the right forms. It’s a mere formality.”

Munatsi turned to the house-girl.

“Mrs. Magara, did you see anything strange at all last night or this morning?”

The older woman sighed and scratched her chin. Then she frowned and looked into space. Munatsi gave her a reassuring nod to try to prod her. No morsel of detail was unimportant. Everything was a piece in the jigsaw floating around in Munatsi’s head.

“I come in early to make breakfast, you see. I have my own key to main house . . . The door, it was open.” The woman had a thick Shona accent. She was proficient with her English, but her grammar was a little off.

“What time?”

“Quarter past six. Breakfast make ready for Mr. Harvey by seven o’clock.”

“When you say the door was open, do you mean it was ajar, or it was unlocked?”

“It was unlocked.”

“I must have . . . I forgot to . . .” Kath’s voice trailed off. She was choking up. It was clear to everyone that she’d forgotten to lock the door when she came back from the Spoogeroon. Irresponsible, but Munatsi knew kids in their twenties these days were nothing more that overgrown teenagers. They wanted all the rights of adulthood and none of the responsibilities that came with it.

“How often does this happen?” Munatsi asked, turning to the only other adult in the room.

“Two, three times a month,” the house-girl said, looking down at her lap.

There was a loud knock and before anyone answered, the uniformed officer burst into the room. His face betrayed no small amount of excitement as he quickly relayed that Detective Zvobgo wanted to see Munatsi in the bathroom.


The pristine white floor was now brown and dirty because of the numerous muddy shoes that had trampled back and forth through the room. It was a bit of a squeeze, having all six of them in the bathroom, plus the dead man on the floor, taking up even more space.

Munatsi found a spot by the bathtub. She sat on the ledge, reached into her pocket and retrieved a packet of tobacco and a small piece of newspaper. There’d been a shortage of Rizla papers since the country didn’t have forex for imports, but the state newspaper the Herald made for a good substitute. The pungent tobacco masked the scent of death as Munatsi started to roll her cigarette.

“I’ve discovered vital, new information that means from here on we must start treating this case as a homicide and not the accident some of you thought it was,” said Detective Zvobgo, his voice too loud in such a small space.

Munatsi’s lip drew just a micro-fraction, as she took a pinch of tobacco to fill the paper with, using her finger to make sure she had an even mix. With her head bowed, she took occasional glances at Zvobgo and the other men in the room.

“I called these ZESA engineers here, because I had a niggling hunch something was not quite right about this case,” said Zvobgo. The conviction in his voice meant he actually believed those words. “They have confirmed what I thought. Mr. Harvey here was electrocuted by his electric shower. See these dangling wires over here? The shower uses these copper heat exchangers to warm up the cold water as it runs through, since the shower itself doesn’t hold any hot water. The process is instantaneous. But, you shouldn’t have a live current running through it. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Banda, the electrician, looking at Munatsi. “Shoddiest job I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen it all.”

“Because of this faulty wiring, a current would have flowed through the copper, into the water and run straight through Mr. Harvey as he was taking his shower,” Zvobgo said, stepping back from the cubicle. “I think what we have here is a case of gross negligence or manslaughter. I’m going to need us to find the company and the electrician who did this job, so we can hold them to account.”

Zvobgo looked very satisfied with himself. He looked down at Munatsi who was finishing off rolling her cigarette. She licked the end and ran her fingers to seal it into a perfect cylindrical shape that matched any BAT Madison in any packet. The news print ran all around the length of the cigarette, giving it an artsy appearance. Munatsi put it in her breast pocket and stood up. At full height, she was easily the tallest person in the room.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your help. We’ll need a written official report from you for our files. You’ve done an excellent job.” Zvobgo said, with satisfaction, to the electricians. “You can leave now, Detective Munatsi. Tell Superintendent Chiweshe I won’t be needing you on my case. I’ve already cracked it.”

“Okay,” Munatsi replied.


The rain had abated somewhat. It was now a light drizzle that would stop at any moment now. The clouds above were starting to break, little bits of blue sky poking out. Munatsi put the rollie to her lips, she fished around in her pockets before remembering she was out of matches. The drive back to the station wasn’t that far but given Harare traffic with half the robots not working, and without a smoke, it would be way too long for her. She went to the little cottage at the back of the yard.

Givemore was on his way out, just as she arrived. With the rain stopping, it was time for him to start work in the garden again. Munatsi held out her cigarette, and Givemore smiled in acknowledgement. He went back into his room and came out with the lighter.

“Thank you,” Munatsi said, taking it and lighting up. She took a deep drag, taking as much nicotine down her lungs as she could take.

Then she handed the lighter back.

“You’re welcome,” said Givemore, taking it and putting it in his pocket.

“So why did you do it?” Munatsi asked, exhaling smoke into his face.

Givemore frowned, he looked startled and opened his mouth.

“Do what?” he asked.

“Don’t waste my time,” Munatsi replied.

Givemore’s shoulders dropped. He looked even smaller in those torn overalls, probably handed down from the last garden-boy who worked here. It was clear to Munatsi that this was just a boy, maybe twenty at most; he was so, so young.

“Three years ago, my sister Rudo was run over in Kamfinsa by that Nissan Navara parked out there. Mr. Harvey was driving it. Rudo was nine years old and she bled out and died at the side of the road. Mr. Harvey was drunk, but he bribed the policemen when they came, so they said it was an accident. They said that it was her fault, that she ran into the road, and he wasn’t liable for anything. We’re poor people. There’s nothing we could do to get justice for her.”

“So, you decided to make sure Mr. Harvey had an accident, too,” said Detective Munatsi, taking another drag. “You got a job here, learned the routine, knew his daughter drank too much and left the door unlocked some nights when she was on the booze, so you could sneak in undetected. I saw you with that TV, you have skills with electronics. It wouldn’t be hard to rig up a shower like that.”

“Our mother still cries every night for Rudo,” Givemore said with bitterness in his voice.

Munatsi exhaled and looked up at the sky. There was a foul taste in her mouth. She looked at the half-finished cigarette and flicked it out into the flowerbed adjacent.

“What you did was stupid. But this isn’t my case, kid,” she said. “My colleagues are much slower than I am. They don’t join up the dots as fast as I do. I reckon you have a day or two before they figure it was you. What are you going to do?”

She’d done the math. Zvobgo would go to Colly Electricals, who were professionals and did their work to international standards. They would point out that if they had rigged up the wiring that badly, their own electrician would have been shocked testing the shower. There’s no way it would have been usable for another six days before someone was electrocuted.

“I’ll be right here doing my job when they figure out it’s me. I’ve done what I needed to do, I’m not going anywhere,” said Givemore, picking up his hoe, slinging it on his shoulder and walking towards the garden. In that moment Munatsi saw him as a man, a man who’d made the wrong decision, but one who took responsibility. The country needed more of those.


Munatsi drove out of Dover Road in her old Land Rover, down the steep slope onto North Road. Through the windscreen she saw posh houses far outside anything she could afford to rent, let alone buy, on her salary. An ambulance, siren blaring, lights flashing, sped past going in the opposite direction.

T.L. Huchu’s work has appeared in Interzone, The Apex Book of World SF 5, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, The Year’s Best Crime and Mystery Stories 2016, AfroSF volume 1, the Manchester Review, and elsewhere. He enjoys working across different genres, from crime to sci-fi to literary fiction. Currently, he is working on new fantasy novel titled Ghostalker. Find him @TendaiHuchu

Image courtesy of Pixabay, altered by Cartoonize.

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