On a Day Like This

In this part of the world, few celebrate their birthdays! Not that they do not wish to – but, it is the nature of circumstances which force them not to. In actual fact, many have been forced by the political economy not to celebrate.

Many in the dusty high density suburbs of Harare do not even give a damn on considering celebrating the day they were born. All they have to confront are the daily battles to put food on their tables. To make matters worse, the rains have been unkind to nation. We seem to be headed for another dry spell. Thus another drought is in the offing. We are indeed living in difficult times.

He took a deep pull at his cigarrete. I could see his mind was miles away. I could see the smoke swirling around him. As he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. He then went into a deep silence. Cough….cough….cough….!! He went on coughing before, spitting a thick phlegm which seemed to be clogging his throat. As he spat on the floor, I witnessed the phlegm had some traces of mucus. He bit his chest. Showing indications of a man who had been relieved after some minutes of struggling to breathe.

One could clearly see his ribs, as he had pulled off his greasy T- shirt (a T-shirt which was once white but had turned grey in colour due to dirty) .It was a T- shirt he had received as a donation from the local M.P (after the recent Harare by-elections). The T-shirt was emblazoned with the inscription 100% Total Empowerment.
Taking from his incessant coughing, I just imagined that the smoking was taking a toll on him. After a long silence which seemed like some moments of meditation. He went to say ‘so you mean today, it’s your birthday’. ‘Yes, uncle’, I responded!

He went on to ask;
‘For Christ’s sake just explain to me, how on earth will you celebrate in such an economy?’ he gleefully queried.

His rhetorical question, indeed triggered some deep thoughts in me. The old man had a point. In an economy where everything that can go bad, has gone bad. In an economy in which many could not afford to celebrate their birthdays in style. No blowing of candles, no popping of bottles of champagne or cutting of cakes. It is an economy were the children scream and merrily shout (Yeeeeeeh magetsi adzoka; power has been brought back).

An economy punctuated with incessant power cuts. In such a country children then become so delighted after power is restored (after long hours of blackout).They celebrate as if electricity is a privilege.

It is an economy in which the little ones jubilantly celebrate when they see an aeroplane flying past their hood. Yeeeeeeh (ndege ndege…they scream and dance upon seeing an aeroplane).

Perhaps, as you plan to cook a decent meal on your birthday, you realise power is gone. It only happens in this part of the world. Not in some parts of the world! On a Day Like This!.

Tales from the Village

Now that we had poor rains this year – everything is coming to a head. The elders in the Village will tell you with a sorrowful face (Hatina kukohwa gore rino) meaning we had a poor harvest this year. As if the Gods had turned against the village. The rains were unkind to us. Hard times are therefore upon us. Just like in the previous years of serious drought – fellow villagers would come far afield from neighbouring villages. Normally with an empty sack begging for some ‘little’ mealie – meal to prepare porridge for the kids. They would beg for mealie – meal under the pretext of ‘save us, kids are starving back home – I’ll not leave till I have something to offer the little ones back home’. In times like these you would see mother going to the granary with a 25kg bucket. She would make it a habit not to reveal the quantity of the maize supplies in the granary.

But after such generosity, one after the other will also come begging and lamenting over how the kids are starving back home. They had a perfected mastery of the same language. It was just like an everyday ordeal. In these moments we also became accustomed to the phenomenon of uninvited guests. A distant relative (linked through a shared totem) would frequently pass through. In justifying his/her visit one would say, ‘it has been ages, so I just thought of passing through to check on your family’. In such a community it was the norm to check on the neighbour and relatives’ wellbeing.  A distant grandmother would also pass through early in the morning and she would say, ‘I am passing through on my way to the garden – so I’m checking on my grandchildren’.

After exchanging pleasantries and salutations, it would mean that you would prepare a meal for the visitor. In such periods of drought – such a meal would count. As if not enough, the frequent visitors constantly ask for second share (asking for more food). Just like Oliver Twist asking for more. Others would help themselves to six tea spoons of sugar. The thinking being ‘we have found it today – let’s eat till our tummies ache’ with no idea of using the resources sparingly. Now that we are yet heading for another serious drought- we will sooner or later have these frequent visitors. These are the tales from the Village.

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil: Signs of Changing Times

African Solutions in Peace and Security

By Gift Mwonzora*

Africa continues to grapple with emergent conflict situations such as the recent CAR, South Sudan conflict, Lesotho (August 30, 2014 botched coup) and Mali crisis. The situation raises the question of Africa’s capability and commitment to solve its own problems. How long should Africa continue to outsource solutions? Why can’t African countries find specific home grown solutions within the realm of their borders, without necessarily going across borders to shop for solutions? Why do we rely on large foreign military contingencies in our African conflicts, case of the overshadowing presence of the French military in Mali can attest.

In recent years there seems to be a marked shift amongst the African political leadership from the see no evil,hear no evil, speak no evil–syndrome (Welch, 1991: 538) towards active military intervention and involvement of various states. Do the regional and continental interventions of institutions such as…

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Rigidity in Culture in a new and Different ‘Space(s)’

I recall having grown up in a conservative rural society where we were lectured and groomed on etiquette, humility and a sense of respect. It was a society where unbecoming and uncouth behaviour was strongly detested and the rode was never spared in such incidences of moral and societal deviance. Such was a society that strongly believed and subscribed to the African adage which reads ‘Spare a child and spoil the child’. Foul mouthed and vulgar leaning individuals had no place in such a society.

It was a society which had stricter norms of ‘ubuntuism’ a sense of oneness and a sense of how one was expected to conduct him/her self along socially acceptable norms. It was a society steeped in good mannerisms, obedience, with largely Christian social upbringing. The Girl child was expected to be obedient and exemplary. Society expected her to be refined with having some feminine finesse. Though, the issues of women empowerment had started to gather steam and traction on a global level and national level as exemplified by the post – Beijing Conference movement. This did not deter the male folk in castigating and downplaying the role of women in decision making within the realm of the family.

In such a patriarchal society it was common to hear men bating with their lives, that never would they be ruled with, what they termed ‘peti-coat’ government? Crudely, implying that women were objectified and viewed as what has been termed as ‘subjects’ in the Mamdanian sense and not as, ‘citizens’.

Nonetheless, the girl child was forbidden in openly talking about sexuality (though in private) we knew the Girl child always discussed these issues. We could pick from their puerile giggles at the well, in the fields and on their way to fetch firewood behind the woods in the forest. In such a conservative society the girl child was expected to be bow down when she meets an elder. Blame it or not, it was a society which had its own way of relating.

In such a community where my umbilical cord lies, it was also socially unacceptable for the young people to call the elder person with his/her first name. In fact, it was totally forbidden to call an elderly with his/her name. This rule was applicable even to those perceived as social outcasts.Nomatter, how you mocked or mimicked him, society never allowed the young ones to morally cross the level of calling the ‘outcast’ using her first name. In such a society titles were easily identified basing on familial relations and also defined along totem lines.

Many years later in a foreign country I witnessed how an Asian colleague was always at pains in trying to address the professors and Drs with their first names. In our introductory lectures to acquaint to a ‘new’ life in a developed country, the lecturers had told us ‘Do not call us with our titles, in this part of the land we call each other by our first names and we are comfortable with it’. This astounded me and fellow colleagues.

But, having interned at a trade union in Zimbabwe, my surprise wasn’t that much, as compared to the puzzlement of my fellow students. In order to dilute status and hierarchy (socially speaking though not professionally) the management at the trade union had decided to loosely use the term ‘sekuru’ meaning ‘uncle’. Without necessarily meaning one was actually related. In other cases, they used totems, and myself being of the ‘Simboti’ leopard totem, I would therefore get constant calls as simboti.

Such was done to dilute cleavages which might have arisen due to hierarchical differences. Thus, making others feel unease, less important. Such a relaxed and (un)officialised environment made work easier.

Back to the Asian guy, I witnessed for countless times how he faced challenges in addressing the professors with their first names. At times he would pre –fix a Mr John to a one Dr John. At times he would try calling the name John but it could all not come out of her lips. I understood his uneasiness.

This discomfort might have emerged from his upbringing and different societal rules, norms and culture. A situation which I can also personally relate with. Even by the completion of our studies, he still had challenges in calling John by his first name, which is John. Rather he would rather pre – fix it with the Mr John title.

Tourist Politicians

Tourist MPs who come on a tour from the city to the rural areas either monthly (that is if you are lucky) or after the lapse of his/her 5 year term in office. All of a sudden after getting elected into Parliament – the politician suddenly and miraculously become filthy rich. So is the situation in the urban areas. The very same Member of Parliament will relocate from the high density suburb to the plush leafy low density suburbs. How can such an MP relate to the problems of the suffering people in the locality? Isn’t it ideal for the MP to reside and experience the everyday struggles being faced by the very same people he purports to be representing. Navigating the pot holes, undergoing those long dark hours without (power) electricity. Case of missing M. Ps seem to be a very common phenomenon across most African countries.

It takes a whole lot of bureaucracy to reach the M.P. Why does it take many weeks to report the burst sewer pipe? Even the local councillor does not have constant contact with the M.P. What however, remain surprising is the sad realisation that villagers on many occasions take a break from their busy routine rural chores to attend the ‘promised’ meet the MP rallies. In the sun they sit gleefully waiting until they became sun-baked. Some of the elderly men will come clad in their best outfits. Necktie and suits, don’t mention colour blocking! This is even in spite of the scorching sun. A gentleman has no weather so they say!

These people have faith, high hopes and are always expectant of hearing some wise words from the M.P. For the thinking in such a communities is that the legislator is the panacea to all their problems. He is the educated and wise one. From simple complaints of shortage of water at the dipping tank to the poor rains. They all believe their MP should shoulder the burden. Despite calling for such rallies the M.P never show up. It is just but waiting and waiting….Hope 2015 will be kind. Hope the citizens across Africa will be able to initiate civic agency and civic driven change. Hope citizens will be bold enough to hold the elected officials to account for their actions, deeds, inactions either wilfully by accident or by design.

People Power!

Down Memory Lane

Life used to be so enjoyable. When the radio was still the radio that played interesting gems. Gone are the days. One can remember those good olden days when we could switch on our stereo sets. In the morning you could wake up to hear the voice of  seasoned D.Js  in the likes of Eric Knight (Knight Ryder) Mzala, Joe Panganai (now late).Of course  how can we easily forget that popular advert (Jarzin Man) (murume wemadollar – the dollar man). Then there was the voice of Paul Mkondo (Mari Nehupenyu Hwavanhu) (money and people’s lives). We all relish these moments with nostalgia. Of course, how can one forget the popular 3 FM – which had programmes such as (Chirongwa che Good Living) by non – other than Mr Cool (Kudzi Marudza).There were the likes of Dj Mackenzie, Tich, Josh Makawa, James Maridadi, Peter Jones, Admire Taderera (with that sweet voice), and others. Life will never be so well than these bygone years.

Then came Sundays – one could also not forget how soccer used to be soccer unlike these days’ child play. Those were interesting times of great footballers in the mould of Madinda Ndlovu, Peter Ndlovu, Maronga (Bomba) Nyangera, Stanley (Sinyo) Ndunduma,Bruce Grobbealar, David ‘Yogi’ Mandigora, Stanely ‘Stix’ Mtizwa, Moses ‘Razor bambo’ Chunga, Norman ‘Normara’ Mapeza, Ephraim Chawanda, Francis Shonhayi, Benjamin Nkonjera, Adam Ndlovu, Rahman Gumbo, John Phiri, Paul Gundani, Agent ‘Ajira’ Sawu, Blessing ‘yogo – yogo’ Makunike, Alexander Maseko and Henry McKop and a near endless list.

Those were the heydays of the so – called ‘Dream Team’ under the tutelage of Reinhard Fabisch. To give a sparkling dimension and midas touch to the Game of Football was non – other than the seasoned football commentator Charles ‘Charle’ Mabika. After the match it used to be time of playing (Yawe Nyama yekugocha, Yowerere – Baya waBaya). Then we used to get some well deserving music treat from the superstar Oliver Mtukudzi with the sorrowful songs such as ‘Neria’ and not to be outdone was the legendary Chimurenga music icon, Thomas Tafirenyika Mapfumo with songs like ‘Madhebhura and Vatete’ amongst a host of other well-polished songs.

During those days, the Marxist brothers were at the peak of their musical odyssey with songs such as ‘Munda wekurima and Gomo Risina Michero, Samatenga’. Gomo Risina Michero (was my dad’s favorite, late the soul of the old man rest in eternal peace and find serenity in the silence of death). In the song the musician laments how life has changed between two friends who grew up together in the country side. Yet the  other is still facing endless challenges and is failing to make a breakthrough in life. The singer uses the allegory of the forest with no wild fruits. The parallels of life! In the rural areas herdboys could be seen carrying radio sets on their shoulders going to the Growth Point playing such all-time precious gems.

Then there was an icon among them all. Probably the best of them all. Non – other than Leonard Dembo, who for some unknown reason was believed not to have had produced any video during his life time. With some alleging that he only produced one. Songs like Venenzia, Mutadzi Ngaaregererwe, Zvaunoda Handizvigoni, Nzungu Ndamenya set many Christmas parties ablaze over a couple of subsequent years. A song called Chitekeke sold gold. In actual fact, it became a ‘Zimbabwean’ National Anthem literally speaking. Then came ‘Mugove’ by the wordsmith, lyricist and great composer Leornard Zhakata. The song also did very well. However, others alleged that it was (mis)interpreted as carrying political connotations. Nevertheless, that did not take away the interest value and the weight of the message in the song. They say the message is within the music and the music is within the message.

How can we also forget the likes of Edwin Hama, Paul Mpofu, Busi Ncube ‘True Love’, Marshall Munhumumwe (Rudo Imoto), James Chimombe (Virginia) and James Chibadura, Khiama Boys (Nicholas Zakaria, Cephas Karushanga and others). Arguably, maybe of the best of them all was one song belted by Jonah Moyo (Solo na Mutsai) which even update has transcended and has managed to withstand the test of time. There were also the likes of Bhundu Boys. I remember very well how we used to manage to buy disposable (rechargeable) radio batteries.In the city, the T.V used to be also interesting with the likes of plays with characters like Baba Sorobhi (Parafin), Mutirowafanza who could leave in you in stitches.

In the season of Zhizha (farming and harvesting) season we would sit under the makeshift shade in the fields with my grandfather. We could roast maize and drink maheu whilst playing cassettes (by then there were no CDs) or Memory stick/flash disk. Those were good times. We also used the Radio (noise) to chase away baboons intending to come to our fields. ‘You will remember me for the good times we had’, those were the words of my Grandfather. Today he is now gone. Of course I am remembering with relish the good times we had. I am now sitting behind my laptop playing ‘Ndikarangarira’ (http://youtu.be/h4I8ofd3syI) by Oliver Mtukudzi. It brings nostalgic and fond memories. Life will never be the same Again.

Tale of Kuda

Each day brought its fair share of challenges. Most of the times he would go home wearing a sad face. At times when lady luck could smile on him – he would go home with a smile on his face. At such a young age he had mastered the art of doing business. The challenges of orphan hood had thrown him into the deep end. His parents had passed on in the late 1990s due to the HIV/AIDS scourge. Such a tragic event occurred at a time when it used to be taboo mentioning about the deadly pandemic either behind closed doors or in public. These were the years when songs were sung about HIV/AIDS being a deadly killer disease. Various singers ranging from Charles Charamba, Oliver Mtukudzi, Dino Mudondo and others belted songs that spoke of the ravaging effect of the pandemic.

Many years had rushed into each other. Coincidentally, the World Aids Day also marked Kuda’s birthday. But unlike some children who had their living parents – Kuda never celebrated his birthday. The blowing of candles was something totally alien to him. On his birthday, just like the usual days, he woke up early to go to Kudzanai Bus Terminus. It promised to be a hectic day indeed. The routine chasing and running battles from the City Council (Municipality police) always affected his daily sales.

His day’s work always started at 5am. He would wake up very early to lit fire and boil the eggs. In times of bad weather he would use primus stove – but such would costly affect his business returns given the cost of paraffin.

‘Wachada Mazai – Mazai pano’, (Eggs for sale) – Kuda would embark and disembark from different buses. With a crate of eggs in his hands – he would spend the whole day at the market. At around 4 pm he would go to hoard for more eggs to sell the next coming day. Such was a tough business venture especially in the wake of a cholera outbreak and fear for other hygiene related illnesses, such as typhoid and dysentery by the clientele.

Despite such challenges, over the years, Kuda had mastered well the art of boiling eggs. He made sure not any egg would break or appear cracked.

As the world celebrated World Aids Day, the young innocent and affected Kudas of this world seem forgotten. For their tale is a fate of working children on the streets. He also had hopes of getting education. Probably, Kuda also had high hopes if asked ‘what do you want to do when you grow up’. Maybe he would have replied ‘I’ would like to be a Pilot’.

It is indeed a cruel world that takes the ones we love from this Mother earth. With such cruelty the world leave the innocent children at the mercy of a cruel world – were they are supposed to fend for themselves. Instead of being a pilot, he counts and watches buses and travellers as they come and go, at the bus terminus. More worryingly, he has been exposed to the foul language that has become characteristic with touts at most bus terminus such as Kudzanai.

Coming of the Rain Season

There were some similarities both in the high density suburbs and in the rural areas. Children would stand in the veranda and start singing ‘Mvura naya naya tidye mupunga’ (Let it Rain so that we will eat Rice). All this heralded the coming of the Rain Season. These songs also marked the end of the Dry season. These were songs that were sung with great enthusiasm. It was so comforting catching the new scent of the drenched soil after the first November rains. The blooming of the leaves especially the Jacaranda tree signalled the genesis of the rain season.

The only boring moments was waking up at 4 o’clock at the crack of dawn to go to the fields. My grandmother through her folktales, used to narrate how it was rewarding to be a hardworker. She liked using the idiom of an earliest bird that would catch the fattest worm.

In those chilly morning days, you would walk over the morning dew going to the cattle kraal. Clad in gumboots you would walk over cowdung. In no time the whole village would be alive with ox – drawn ploughs being a common site.

By midday someone would come with a basket of breakfast and lunch (brunch) to the field. By now you would already be feeling very exhausted. At times you will fake of having a terrible headache. But, the elders always knew beforehand that such tricks of feigned sickness were a sign of laziness.

Life in the Village

Growing up wearing sandak shoes.That time when you will travel to the city for holiday. It was a moment many youths in the village just craved for. You will be happy to go to the city to enjoy the neon lights, drink (kokokora), and bath with water (with carbonated soda). It would be time to break with the routine and the monotony of herding goats and cattle in the forest. Going to the dip tank and fetching water in the river.

Life in the rural areas were everything was communal from eating (people could circle around and eat in one big plate).The kids were not allowed to pick a piece of meat ahead of their elders. One had to wait till the elders pick or share the meat. So you had to endure serving sadza with broth (soup or muto).From harvesting (nhimbe) to collective communal hunting (mambure) life was just communal.

Life repeated itself, whilst others were watching movies and going to SIMMAD you derived happiness in going for hunting in the back of beyond in the thick forest in the Nyangani Mountains. The atmosphere was so serene. At sunset you would double count that there is no missing cattle or goat. It was really fulfilling going back home with goats and cattle with bloated stomachs. Especially, given the fact that the number of cattle one had, proved his status and wealth in society. The number of cattle one owned was a sign of prestige. Or at times we used to go for Sunday special outing at the Growth Point. Young boys would just spend much of their time wiling time at the shops, especially going in a grocery shop where there will be a beautiful shop keeper. In the evening, it was time for roasting maize and groundnuts.

The usual monotony would creep in, life repeated itself. The daily routines, going to work in the fields in the scorching sun. In the morning you would take maheu with the previous night’s sadza (munya). Life in the rural areas where you grew up being taught on mannerisms and etiquette. Anyone with a similar totem becomes your relative auntie, uncle, sister, brother, father, you name it. In a rural community where you discovered that everyone is related through the (maternal or the paternal) family tree.

You also remember very well – the teen hood delinquency. How you used to hide in the bushes surrounding the river banks, just to get a glimpse of the naked bodies of women bathing in the river. How at some point you tried to smoke cannabis – with the older boys in the village especially the village herd boys (vafudzi vemombe). This was all part of the essential syllabus of growing up in the village.

In a society where you had to greet the elderly with respect. In this village, there is a saying which goes ‘every child is everyone’s child’. During the school days you would reach school with wet feet from moisture (morning dew) accumulated along the way to school. Though you had shoes you would stand out as the odd one out. Others had no shoes, and they would just step in the school public toilets on bare feet. Life had never been all that rosy in the rural areas, it had its own fair share of rough patches. The ups and downs.

When you came to the City, you remember very well how the city girls in the neighbourhood used to tease you as the ‘boys from the village’. It demeaned you, it demotivated you, it crushed your self – esteem, your spirit and it ‘otherised’ you. But how time changes, most of them failed to succeed in life and you have fared better than most of them.

When Everything Becomes Strange

The hen had run across the road. The elders always believed that such was an indication and signal of an imminent bad omen. The bus was packed to the brim. We were packed like sardines. You could hardly straighten your back. It was Christmas holiday. Most people were travelling from the City to the Village.
The very same evening the owls were hooting unendlessly. I was so frightened. The dogs had been backing continuously. Having had spend much time in the city – I was a stranger in my own village just like Lucifer in Charles Mungoshi’s Waiting for the Rain. That night I could not catch sleep, images of ghosts and the fear of witches kept on crossing my mind.
Maybe someone had cast a bad omen – to my home come.
The next morning I woke up feeling so exhausted. All the elders from our village were gathered under the Msasa tree. There were three clay pots of frothing home-made beer. It was home brew that had been brewed by the elderly women who had reached menopause. Some were already sharing homemade cigarettes (chimonera). Others were bragging about how they can be allowed to smoke snuff (bute) even in the aeroplane. As if they had boarded the plane in their lifetime. This was the village talk – it was their way of socialisation. Everything in this village was done at ease.

I witnessed how uncle Nyandoro stood up and used his palm to wipe his mucus and in no time he was exchanging the drinking gourd with others. As I sat on the reed mat I kept on thinking, whom will I share my fears that there seemed to be a bad omen in the village. Maybe it was the problem of growing up in this society. A society that was so superstitious.