This is the latest piece, written early February after a week's trip to Zimbabwe.
The Language of Home
waMagaisa
The language of home is beautiful. It is a language of words and no words. It’s a warm feeling and a consuming sight. It is the language of the warm sun and the unique smell of rain. It’s the sight of the tall green grass, the Msasa trees in the forests and the Jacarandas that line the streets of Harare that say "Welcome home, sonl". It is the potholes that disturb the otherwise smooth flow of the roads, the language of driving as drivers deftly negotiate their way around these mini-craters; the same language that enables drivers to find their way through traffic lights that broke down years ago.
It is the language of the people – the driver who says to his compatriot who was about to bump into his car, “Ukawana nguva ukwane” (Please be sensible and drive carefully) and the compatriot who immediately retorts, “Kana kwaunogara kuine chechi padhuze uyende!” (If there is a church near where you live please attend and receive salvation). It is the language of the chorus of laughter that diffuses the tension in those moments, each driver heading their way.
I arrived on the first day of February, having left the crowded underground trains where everyone seems to communicate with their books and newspapers, dropping off and getting on – the announcer telling you exactly where you are going, the next stop and to mind the gap – the mechanical language of my adopted home.
The first impression is that it’s warm and nice, of course, much warmer that cold England that I left the previous evening. So I take off the coat and place it over my large suitcase – large because it is full of this and that which I have been asked by fellow Zimbabweans to take home. I like to travel light, small bags that reduce hassle. But when going home, whether its business or social, when Zimbabweans know, they have this and that to send to so and so.
The largeness of my bag has caused the young lady at customs to ask me to open it for inspection. The first thing she sees is a small bag of undergarments and she asks, “Ko ichi chii ichi?” (What’s in there?) And I say, “My sister, these are my clothes”. She takes a look, smiles then laughs and waves me on. "Vharai henyu muende" (You can close the bag and go) she says to me as she waits for another passenger).
I have two lady colleagues from East Africa with me. Outside we see our driver but he has a small vehicle. So I ask him to take the ladies first and I wait outside. This is home and I can wait.
The sun is bright and the sky is clear blue. I observe the green grass around the airport and wet soil that suggests it had been raining during the night. I see many people around and we communicate with our eyes – eyes that say "hello" and a nod to acknowledge one’s presence. A few airport taxis are waiting but there is little business here as most airline passengers are being picked by friends and relatives.
A group of men sits by the corner, talking and laughing amongst themselves. I see two policemen in their grey uniforms, sitting near the group of men. They seem to know each other. “Officer”, that’s hoe the men are addressing the policemen. The group of men are taxi drivers. One of them takes a roundabout way until he approaches and asks me, “Vachauya here mudhara?” (Are they coming, Sir). He’s asking if anyone is coming to pick me up. He is looking for business.
For a moment I think I should have taken the driver’s number. I would have called him to say, “Look here, this guy will take me to the place. Don’t worry about coming back”. So I say, “Sorry, wangu, if this guy comes back he won’t find me and that wouldn’t be fair on him”. “Anenge alumila” (Tough luck if he finds you gone) he says, laughing. I say no, that would be unfair.
“Iri bho, mdhara, kana anonokesa motiudza tokumhanyisai” (It’s ok, if he delays you much longer, please let me know and I will take you to your place).
Thanks, I say to him. The heart smiles at this combination of business enterprise and traditional African courtesy exhibited by this fellow countryman. He returns to join his fellow drivers, to wait for customers who seem as rare at this airport as the desert rain.
A middle-aged woman drives up and parks her car, a Toyota Rav 4 near where I am standing. She gets out and goes into the arrivals terminal. I notice a fellow wearing a yellow bib walk over to the car. He’s holding a large clamp and he immediately starts to clamp the Toyota. He walks away, job completed. He reminds me of the eagle that would soar above the village all afternoon, waiting for the hen to lose a moment of concentration and swiftly swoop and catch an unsuspecting chick. He’s like a hunter, waiting for prey. For a moment I thought I should intervene, England has taught me to mind my own business.
The woman returns holding a bag. Another woman is beside her, walking slowly. They start opening the doors, unaware that the car will not move. So I say, “Ambuya, mota yenyu yaklempwa” (Mama, your car has been clamped). She looks and her face tells a story of shock and disappointment. “Iwo maminitsi aya chete?” (Just those few moments?) she asks. She is looking at me but I am not sure I am expected to answer. I just give her a look of empathy and solidarity.
After a moment of contemplation, she asks where the clampers are and I use my eyes to point to the two men sitting on the other side, near the group of taxi-drivers. They are all looking at the car and the two women. “Ava varikurwara saka ndanga ndauya kuti ndivatore” (My friend is poorly and I have come to pick her up) she says to me, as if she were pleading for mercy. “Taurai navo zvakanaka” (Go and talk to them nicely) I suggest – words that mean many things but a language that is universally understood here. So she goes and talks to the guys. After a protracted negotiation process, they relent and they allow her to go.
My driver eventually arrives and we talk along the way. It is true that taxi drivers across the world are repositories of local knowledge. I say to him muri kukiya kiya handiti (you’re wheeling and dealing, er?). He says, “Mukoma kukiya-kiya kwacho kurikunetsa because makey acho awandisa. Saka kana uchikiyinura one door, paunotsvaga key kuti ukiyinure rimwe door, rawakiya rinenge richikiyiwa futi!” (Wheeling and dealing is hard, my brother. There are so many doors to open and so many keys that you need. When you open one door, whilst you are looking for keys to open another, the one you opened will be closing again!) We laugh together.
It’s the language of home. It sounds like fun but these are serious matters of survival we are talking about. I’m always amazed at the way my fellow countrymen and women invent language that captures their lived realities and they do so with a touch of humour that appears to lessen the burden. I have since concluded that it’s a survival technique, carried through the medium of language.
At the lodge where I shall be staying with my colleagues, I meet the security guards and catering staff whom I met last October when I was here on a similar mission. Smiles, embraces and handshakes all round.
“Madzoka, Mdhara, madzoka!”, (Good to have you back, my brother) they say. It’s just like it was back in the village, on those happy occasions when one who had gone to the city had returned home. It’s nice to see these guys. We spent some time last year talking and listening to their stories. It seems like we have known each other for a long time. The language of human beings – a bond created by meeting and getting know each other. I’m pleased that I remember their names and they say, “Hamukanganwe mukoma” (It’s good that you don’t forget). Last time, they had many questions about England – the weather, the football, the opportunities and generally the conditions in a country so far away from home. “Munombofunga kumusha here?” (Do you think of home when you are there?), they ask.
They talk about 2008 in tones that reflect a desire never to return to those days. “It was tough, mukoma. We don’t know how we survived but we thank God”, one of the guards had told me last October. He talked of how he used to walk all the way from the high density suburbs until his boss bought them bicycles.
“The wage was not enough to cover transport costs”, he says. He smiles as he tells me how through those dark days he kept his job when his friends in Glen View, the high density area where he lives laughed at him.
“Why do you go work?” they had asked him during the darkest period of 2008. But he kept going.
I’m the one who’s laughing now, he tells, laughing heartily. “Vaakuti sha wakagona wakachengeta basa” (They are saying you did a good thing to keep your job). They are pestering him now, “Ko shamwari taura nemurungu wako andipewo graft” (Please can you ask your boss to give me a job).
The money is not much but its ok, he says. He derives particular comfort from the fact that he has employer’s trust so that whenever he needs an emergency loan, his boss gives him. It will be deducted from his pay. “They even ask me how much they should deduct. And sometimes they don’t deduct at all” he says sounding happy that he has this decent credit facility from his boss. I’m intrigued by the observation that these guys are so grateful to their boss that they even view the ‘soft loans’ he gives them from time to time as a perk of the job.
Maybe he should give you more because right now you must have a huge debt, I ask him. No, he says, “unongotambirawo pawapuhwa because ukada kungwarisa basa racho rinopera”. (You have to accept what you’re given because if you want to be too clever you will lose the job). I can sense some fear in his voice, the mere contemplation of asking for a better wage which in his world-view may be a ground for dismissal.
“Ko chiiko chirikumboitika kuEgypt uko” (Whatis happening in Egypt?) he asks. He says he had heard that something similar had happened in Tanzania. I think he means Tunisia, so I say no, it’s Tunisia. I say people are protesting against their government there. Some people don’t like their president, Mr Mubarak anymore and they want him to leave.
“Ko takanzwa kuti uyu akatotiza?” he asks and I say yes, President Ben Ali and his family fled to Saudi Arabia.
“Manje muno handifunge kuti zvingaitike izvozvo” (I don’t think that can ever happen here) he says with a hopeless look stretching far into the distance. “Ha-a vanenge vaenda kupi zvavo vakomana, vana mukoma?” he continues, after a brief pause, saying the military would not tolerate demonstrations of that kind. “Vanhu vakarohwa muna 2008 ende hapana anoti bufu” (There were severe beatings in 2008 and no one wants that again), he explains.
“I will just keep coming to work and look after my family”, he adds. “Ndozvirikungoita munhu wese. Kungokiya-kiya” (That’s what everyone is doing. You have to wheel and deal to survive).
I have come here to attend a workshop of postgraduate students who are doing their DPhils at the University of Zimbabwe. It’s hosted by the Southern, Eastern and Central African Regional Centre for Women’s Law, a long name commonly known by its acronym, SEARCWL. Along with others, I have often spoken about Diaspora contributions to local communities in Zimbabwe. Some have disparaged our little efforts describing our trips to Zimbabwe and conferences as holidays and rent-seeking opportunities. It’s they way they see things.
But I have never sought the need to justify our efforts, believing that as long as one believes in his heart that he or she is doing the right thing, that’s what matters. One is judged by actions and results and not by words alone. I’m no expert of women’s law but I responded to the call to co-supervise students doing work that has business law components, which is my speciality. Interacting with them, I have learned a lot from them and I hope they have also learned a thing or two from the contributions. But we want more Zimbabweans abroad to do similar work – collaborating with staff and students in the local universities and colleges.
The workshop begins the next day so I take advantage of the ‘free’ afternoon and evening to pay homage to friends and relatives. This is home and it’s hard to explain that you have come for work and therefore cannot indulge in social meetings – going round to meet everyone, eat home-cooked food and talk all day and night. We meet at a pub at Newlands Shopping Centre – Libby’s is the name, I think. I hear there are few that have sprung up in recent times, Red something, Boleros, etc. The carpet in Libby’s has clearly seen better days. A small television hangs on the wall and is tuned to Sky News, showing the huge crowds of people demonstrating in Cairo.
Conversation turns to the protest there and a fellow sitting alone in the corner joins in saying, these people (the Egyptians) are different because they have strong faith. He says he has been watching the protests all day and he had seen the way they pray. He kneels on the ground to demonstrate the way they were praying – kissing the ground and rising many times before stopping. “Vanhu vanonamata vachidaro vanenharo. Haumbovagone!” he explains his theory – saying that people who pray in that manner must have a strong belief and faith and you can’t put them down if they decide to protest. “We don’t have that belief that’s why we can’t do the same” he explains his theory as to why Zimbabweans will never be able to do what Egyptians have done. We all laugh at his unique theoretical exposition.
The conversation turns to football - European football, that is. No-one here seems to take local football seriously. I had read somewhere that the local national team was going to play in a continental tournament in Sudan and this didn’t seem to raise any interest at all. Instead, we speak about Messi and debate whether he is the best player in the world. I thought there would be agreement but one fellow stands up and says Messi is not the best player but number three in the world. He speaks with the authority of a football expert and there are many of type that I have seen in pubs. His first and second choices are Messi’s Barcelona team-mates Xavi and Iniesta. He tries to explain but he realises he’s in a very small minority.
I try to divert the discussion and say for me Maradona has to be the best of all time. A few older guys say it has to be Pele. The debate grows and I meet a few Arsenal friends. We are all convinced we will surpass United and win the league and that we will also beat Barcelona in the Champions League – it’s amazing the belief you have when you’re with your own! Others ridicule us, saying we are the nearly-men of football. They like our football, they say, but we have to win trophies. The debate rages on. Later, a group of ladies enter the pub, a circumstance that, for a brief moment, seems to grab the attention of everyone in the pub.
It is now dark and getting late. Whatever it is they call jet leg must be catching up with me and I feel tired. Of course I have had a few Pilsners. We have talked and laughed. Mdhara Mod, Livvy, Les, Eddie and my brother’s son Simba – who not many years ago was only a small boy but has graduated into the circle on account of his recent impressive completion of his A Levels. Back in early 1994, I had similarly graduated and taken my first official alcoholic beverage. The boy has become a man just like I had experienced many years ago, when he was just a toddler. I feel my age.
Later back at my lodgings, I say to the security guard - “I see that Egypt kure, wangu” (Egypt is far away, my friend).
Ha-a, kure Mdhara wangu (It’s far my brother) he says, laughing away as he returns to his booth at the side of the gate where he will spend the night ensuring our safety and peace of mind.
And I walk over to my room. The sound of the African night is filled with the music and cries of its millions of nocturnal creatures. It’s a beautiful orchestra, conducted by the Creator Himself. It is a combination of tiredness and this sweet music that sounds like a lullaby that sends me to sleep.
(Stories from Home - Part 2 to come later)
Tuesday 15 February 2011
My friend, the Harare taxi driver
Background: I wrote this piece after a trip to Zimbabwe late October 2010. At the time there was talk of elections in 2011. The story captures my observations regarding thoughts of the ordinary man in the street, through the voice of my frind, Eddie, the Harare taxi driver.
My friend, the Harare taxi driver
Alex T. Magaisa
IT MAY be said to be the optimistic view of a relative but I reckon but for the time and place of birth and the less charitable circumstances that surrounded his youth, my nephew, Givhi could have become a renowned comedian enjoying the security and celebrity that comes with that station in life.
Givhi is a derivative of the name that he was given at birth. The paper that records his birth carries the name, Gift. He would be called Chipo if the vernacular had been preferred but the local variety was not fashionable at the time. Unfortunately, in making the choice as is often the case consideration had not been given to the fact that tongues of the villagers could not possibly be expected to handle the syllables with ease.
Villagers improvised, as they often do in order to tame the harsh circumstances that surround them. They called him Givhi. And that is the name by which he is now known and the application of his original name is now limited to those formal occasions when its use is unavoidable. These include school and hospital records or more importantly in recent years, the register of voters, where his name still appears in its original form alongside grandparents and other relatives who passed on many years ago.
He has a gift of making people laugh and carries the memory of an elephant. It’s probably twenty years since he was last behind a school desk, but Givhi can recite, word by word, stories that he read at that time. My powers of judgment are limited but I don’t think am far away from the mark if I pronounce that my nephew Givhi is one of those rare types who were gifted with some variety of photographic memory and it’s a shame it’s not been put to full use. These days he uses his hands to survive. He became a shoemaker; a cobbler and he plies his trade at the local mission school.
All he ever asks for is thread and glue – basic equipment that is necessary for his trade. And a good drink when we meet. And we talk. We laugh. We talk about the old days and as ever he is full of words that invoke great laughter. There is only one subject, however, that brings seriousness to his face. Talk of elections induces temporary sobriety, even in those drunken moments. He recalls the winter of 2008; the period when the wintry conditions collided violently with the heat of the election season – how the young men in the villages sought refuge in the village cemeteries. They dug deep pits and in there spent long, dark and cold nights alongside the spirits of the ancestors. It’s easy to tell why talk of elections yet again registers heavily and sadly on the face and the many faces around.
“Yanga yagasa”, one elderly fellow says making reference to the calm that comes after the storm. “Manje ikauya futi yakadaro pane anobuda?” (If the storm comes again, like before, will anyone survive?) he asks. It’s that kind of question one asks without necessarily expecting anyone to offer an answer. It’s the question one asks because he must although it is directed at no-one in particular. It is not actually a question; rather it is a statement signifying one’s desperation.
The man is in the autumn of his life. His hands and eyes register experiences that no amount words can ever capture. He walks with a limb – a register of wounds sustained during the war in the 1970s when he was beaten so hard along with his peers for allegedly supporting the ‘terrorists’, whom they called liberation fighters.
I have never known an election to cause so much fright in a community. It is not a subject that brings comfort, although it was the very same for which they had sacrificed life and limb in the war to attain. Now they are afraid. The elderly man thinks elections are a curse.
I see the same language of fear on the face of the taxi driver, Eddie. Eddie is no ordinary taxi driver. In an intricate and complex web of relationships that would probably require a small book to explain, he is an uncle – a small uncle. But he is much closer than that, for he is a childhood friend. We spent many days together in the bush and pastures, Eddie and I, looking after the village livestock in our boyhood years. He was a clever guy, the boy who knew all the cattle by name – their habits and their ways. If we lost a cow in the forest, Eddie was always the boy who could find it.
Now Eddie looks for people on the streets of Harare – he picks them up in the Chinese-made second-hand car that he drives. And he takes them to their destinations. Some are mothers going home to their children. Some are men going to the pub for “one or two” before finally heading for home late at night. Others are fellows with their young female companions heading for the nearest lodge to spend a few moments of happiness. His mobile phone rings regularly – clients asking to be picked from this lodge or that pub at all hours of the day and night. He works hard, my friend Eddie, the small uncle.
When I am in town, Eddie wants to drop everything so he can take me around. But I say Eddie, we are not herding cattle anymore; if he must carry me around town, then I must pay. “No, wavakuita zvechirungu, wangu!," (We do it as usual, we are brothers, so don’t brings your foreign ways here!) he says with a loud laugh – chiding me for raising the money issue.
I tell him I must pay him anyway because I am in the country on work-related business and they pay me to do that. Eventually, Eddie succumbs, reluctantly so, it must be added. I understand him. It’s the nature of our community – we have a big hand of giving and we like to look after our guests.
Later, I ask him about elections in 2011. Eddie starts talking about football and asks if I have been to watch Arsenal this season – the Beautiful Team is the team of mutual affection. He pretends he hasn’t heard my question. He prefers to talk football. So we talk football and claims to be the only one in his neighbourhood with an original team shirt – the one I brought for him two years before. I am not sure about that but I say I will try to get a new one next time I return. It’s his way of asking for another one. We don’t do direct requests you see, we ask in a roundabout way and hope one will figure out somehow.
I ask again later when we stop at a place where he says he wants to see someone. “Hameno, wangu,” (I don’t know, my brother) he says, shaking his head slowly, his eyes firmly fixed ahead although I can’t say he was looking at anything in particular. Its like someone looking at an empty space; trying to avoid eye-contact and so pretend to be looking at something. His mood changes, too. It’s a tone that says he doesn’t want to know.
“I am just concentrating on my business. Zvematongerwe enyika zvinonetsa, wangu. Tiri vatete kwazviri,” (Politics is a hard game; we’re just small fish) he says, still looking at nothing.
A pause and then, “You see here”, he adds pointing at several cars around us, “Look at the number of taxis in this city. There are too many and business is tough, wangu so we just focus on getting the next customer. People got taxis before the World Cup having been promised there would be big business with all the tourists crossing from South Africa. But zvakadhakwa (it didn’t work out) It’s a dog-eat-dog world and up there the politicians are eating each other too!” he manages a chuckle and concludes, “And when elections come it will be dog-eat-dog of a serious kind! Hameno!”.
He is interrupted by a small fellow who approaches the driver’s window. The little fellow answers to the name, Big Mike. For a man of dimunitive stature, Big Mike carries a heavy name. He has a strong, hoarse voice that defies his stature. Maybe that’s why he is called Big Mike – the small man with the big voice.
He greets me as ‘Vahombe’ (the big man). Eddie tells him we are old friends. Big Mike laughs at Eddie, a condescending laugh that says Eddie is lying. The conversation is quick and they exchange a couple of packages.
As we are about to depart, Eddie says to Big Mike, “Vahombe varikuti unofungei nezvesarudzo?” (He says I am asking what he thinks of elections).
Big Mike’s happy face suddenly gains sombreness. “Asi ndeve poritiks?,” (Is he a politician?) he asks, hesitantly, fear laced around the words, his face transformed into an inquisitive frown.
Eddie reassures him that I mean no harm. “Ah!," says Big Mike before a short pause during which time he looks behind his shoulder as if to check if someone is eavesdropping, “Iyi ine mhunhu pasi iyi, Big Dhara.” And he departs very quickly without saying goodbye.
Eddie laughs. “Wanzwa ka?,” (You heard for yourself, huh?) says Eddie as he laughs some more.
We heard for the pub.
As I lay on the bed later that night, Big Mike’s last words rang continuously in my head, “Ine munhu pasi” – it’s a serious matter, there are people who have lost lives on its account. A serious matter, indeed. Fear, trepidation and uncertainty. Fear of another storm. Fear of the unknown.
My friend, the Harare taxi driver
Alex T. Magaisa
IT MAY be said to be the optimistic view of a relative but I reckon but for the time and place of birth and the less charitable circumstances that surrounded his youth, my nephew, Givhi could have become a renowned comedian enjoying the security and celebrity that comes with that station in life.
Givhi is a derivative of the name that he was given at birth. The paper that records his birth carries the name, Gift. He would be called Chipo if the vernacular had been preferred but the local variety was not fashionable at the time. Unfortunately, in making the choice as is often the case consideration had not been given to the fact that tongues of the villagers could not possibly be expected to handle the syllables with ease.
Villagers improvised, as they often do in order to tame the harsh circumstances that surround them. They called him Givhi. And that is the name by which he is now known and the application of his original name is now limited to those formal occasions when its use is unavoidable. These include school and hospital records or more importantly in recent years, the register of voters, where his name still appears in its original form alongside grandparents and other relatives who passed on many years ago.
He has a gift of making people laugh and carries the memory of an elephant. It’s probably twenty years since he was last behind a school desk, but Givhi can recite, word by word, stories that he read at that time. My powers of judgment are limited but I don’t think am far away from the mark if I pronounce that my nephew Givhi is one of those rare types who were gifted with some variety of photographic memory and it’s a shame it’s not been put to full use. These days he uses his hands to survive. He became a shoemaker; a cobbler and he plies his trade at the local mission school.
All he ever asks for is thread and glue – basic equipment that is necessary for his trade. And a good drink when we meet. And we talk. We laugh. We talk about the old days and as ever he is full of words that invoke great laughter. There is only one subject, however, that brings seriousness to his face. Talk of elections induces temporary sobriety, even in those drunken moments. He recalls the winter of 2008; the period when the wintry conditions collided violently with the heat of the election season – how the young men in the villages sought refuge in the village cemeteries. They dug deep pits and in there spent long, dark and cold nights alongside the spirits of the ancestors. It’s easy to tell why talk of elections yet again registers heavily and sadly on the face and the many faces around.
“Yanga yagasa”, one elderly fellow says making reference to the calm that comes after the storm. “Manje ikauya futi yakadaro pane anobuda?” (If the storm comes again, like before, will anyone survive?) he asks. It’s that kind of question one asks without necessarily expecting anyone to offer an answer. It’s the question one asks because he must although it is directed at no-one in particular. It is not actually a question; rather it is a statement signifying one’s desperation.
The man is in the autumn of his life. His hands and eyes register experiences that no amount words can ever capture. He walks with a limb – a register of wounds sustained during the war in the 1970s when he was beaten so hard along with his peers for allegedly supporting the ‘terrorists’, whom they called liberation fighters.
I have never known an election to cause so much fright in a community. It is not a subject that brings comfort, although it was the very same for which they had sacrificed life and limb in the war to attain. Now they are afraid. The elderly man thinks elections are a curse.
I see the same language of fear on the face of the taxi driver, Eddie. Eddie is no ordinary taxi driver. In an intricate and complex web of relationships that would probably require a small book to explain, he is an uncle – a small uncle. But he is much closer than that, for he is a childhood friend. We spent many days together in the bush and pastures, Eddie and I, looking after the village livestock in our boyhood years. He was a clever guy, the boy who knew all the cattle by name – their habits and their ways. If we lost a cow in the forest, Eddie was always the boy who could find it.
Now Eddie looks for people on the streets of Harare – he picks them up in the Chinese-made second-hand car that he drives. And he takes them to their destinations. Some are mothers going home to their children. Some are men going to the pub for “one or two” before finally heading for home late at night. Others are fellows with their young female companions heading for the nearest lodge to spend a few moments of happiness. His mobile phone rings regularly – clients asking to be picked from this lodge or that pub at all hours of the day and night. He works hard, my friend Eddie, the small uncle.
When I am in town, Eddie wants to drop everything so he can take me around. But I say Eddie, we are not herding cattle anymore; if he must carry me around town, then I must pay. “No, wavakuita zvechirungu, wangu!," (We do it as usual, we are brothers, so don’t brings your foreign ways here!) he says with a loud laugh – chiding me for raising the money issue.
I tell him I must pay him anyway because I am in the country on work-related business and they pay me to do that. Eventually, Eddie succumbs, reluctantly so, it must be added. I understand him. It’s the nature of our community – we have a big hand of giving and we like to look after our guests.
Later, I ask him about elections in 2011. Eddie starts talking about football and asks if I have been to watch Arsenal this season – the Beautiful Team is the team of mutual affection. He pretends he hasn’t heard my question. He prefers to talk football. So we talk football and claims to be the only one in his neighbourhood with an original team shirt – the one I brought for him two years before. I am not sure about that but I say I will try to get a new one next time I return. It’s his way of asking for another one. We don’t do direct requests you see, we ask in a roundabout way and hope one will figure out somehow.
I ask again later when we stop at a place where he says he wants to see someone. “Hameno, wangu,” (I don’t know, my brother) he says, shaking his head slowly, his eyes firmly fixed ahead although I can’t say he was looking at anything in particular. Its like someone looking at an empty space; trying to avoid eye-contact and so pretend to be looking at something. His mood changes, too. It’s a tone that says he doesn’t want to know.
“I am just concentrating on my business. Zvematongerwe enyika zvinonetsa, wangu. Tiri vatete kwazviri,” (Politics is a hard game; we’re just small fish) he says, still looking at nothing.
A pause and then, “You see here”, he adds pointing at several cars around us, “Look at the number of taxis in this city. There are too many and business is tough, wangu so we just focus on getting the next customer. People got taxis before the World Cup having been promised there would be big business with all the tourists crossing from South Africa. But zvakadhakwa (it didn’t work out) It’s a dog-eat-dog world and up there the politicians are eating each other too!” he manages a chuckle and concludes, “And when elections come it will be dog-eat-dog of a serious kind! Hameno!”.
He is interrupted by a small fellow who approaches the driver’s window. The little fellow answers to the name, Big Mike. For a man of dimunitive stature, Big Mike carries a heavy name. He has a strong, hoarse voice that defies his stature. Maybe that’s why he is called Big Mike – the small man with the big voice.
He greets me as ‘Vahombe’ (the big man). Eddie tells him we are old friends. Big Mike laughs at Eddie, a condescending laugh that says Eddie is lying. The conversation is quick and they exchange a couple of packages.
As we are about to depart, Eddie says to Big Mike, “Vahombe varikuti unofungei nezvesarudzo?” (He says I am asking what he thinks of elections).
Big Mike’s happy face suddenly gains sombreness. “Asi ndeve poritiks?,” (Is he a politician?) he asks, hesitantly, fear laced around the words, his face transformed into an inquisitive frown.
Eddie reassures him that I mean no harm. “Ah!," says Big Mike before a short pause during which time he looks behind his shoulder as if to check if someone is eavesdropping, “Iyi ine mhunhu pasi iyi, Big Dhara.” And he departs very quickly without saying goodbye.
Eddie laughs. “Wanzwa ka?,” (You heard for yourself, huh?) says Eddie as he laughs some more.
We heard for the pub.
As I lay on the bed later that night, Big Mike’s last words rang continuously in my head, “Ine munhu pasi” – it’s a serious matter, there are people who have lost lives on its account. A serious matter, indeed. Fear, trepidation and uncertainty. Fear of another storm. Fear of the unknown.
Monday 14 February 2011
Plight of Rural Citizens in 'Dollarised' Economy
Zimbabwe
Alex Magaisa
MY cousin, Bessie died last week. She was only 37. She had not been very well for a long time.
She had been away for a lengthy period. Her husband, our mukuwasha brought her back to the village in her fragile state. She stayed there, in her place of birth until her final moments being cared for by maiguru, her mother and the extended family.
There is very little in the village. Things are tough. It is here where a forgotten tribe of Zimbabweans reside and try to eke out a living -- the tribe of the rural dwellers.
As usual funerals are the rare occasions when the city-types meet with this forgotten tribe. They come to pay their last respects. They also come with provisions to cater for the mourners. The city types come face to face with the sad reality of rural life. There is no US dollar here. There is no Rand.
But the sense of community remains intact. You have to admire the spirit. Men and women come from all corners to bury one of their own. And so on this occasion, they came together to bury their daughter for everyone here is everyone's child.
An uncle from the city went down to the village cemetery. There he found the usual types -- the men who whenever communal duty calls, drop everything to attend to the chores attendant upon a funeral. These were the grave diggers, taking turns to dig the dry and hard earth with their basic tools.
If they are lucky in these days someone gets them some opaque beer to get them going. That is why they are happy when they see the city boys -- surely one of them can spare a dollar or two to get a few litres of the good waters. They were happy to see uncle; even happier with the alcoholic beverage they had been waiting for.
One of the diggers called uncle away for a private conversation. It took a while for uncle to recognise him.
They had been together in primary school centuries ago. But a combination of the elements and time had registered heavily on uncle's ex-schoolmate. Here was a man who had clearly had to bear the heavier load of life's burdens and they had left him a broken man. He reminded uncle about the old days.
He chuckled and laughed as he told uncle how large he had become over the years. He was pleased to see his old mate. His name is Champion. No one knows why his father had chosen that title for him.
As the conversation progressed he apologised. Champion apologised for the request that he was about to make. Like every man here, he is proud and tries hard to work his way through life so even the thought of making this request made him uncomfortable. Uncle urged him to feel free.
"Shamwari," Champion started "Ndinokumbirawo dhora. Dhora chete" ("My friend, can I please ask for one US dollar. Just one US Dollar.") He was pleading. He wanted a dollar; a single US dollar. Uncle asked why just a dollar and what he wanted it for.
Champion explained, "Shamwari, zvinhu zvakaoma kuno kumaruzevha. Hatina mari iyoyi yakauya iyi. Ini nemhuri tapedza two weeks tichidya mangai because hatina mari yacho yekugaisa chibage.
Saka hatikwanisi kudya sadza" ("My friend, things are tough for us here in the rural areas. My family and I have been surviving on a daily diet of boiled maize because we have no money to process the maize into maize-meal. So we haven't had Sadza for ages"). Sadza, a thick porridge made from maize-meal is the staple diet in
But tell me Champion, how have you survived all along, uncle enquired. He was keen to know more about how the rural folk have been surviving since the introduction of the new money and Champion seemed to be a willing source.
Champion explained, "Well, in the beginning the millers accepted barter trading. To process a bucket of maize into maize-meal, we would give the miller a smaller bucket of maize as payment. It worked for a while. We got maize-meal and he got some maize in return.
At least we could cook sadza and have a decent meal" He paused for moment as he lit his chimonera (rolled cigarette) and took a quick pull, then shook his head as he continued. "But now the miller has changed. Perhaps he now has too much of the maize. So he now demands either US dollars or
Trouble is, us folks don't have that kind of money. I have never seen a US dollar. I do not even know what it looks like. But, my friend, my children also want sadza. It's embarrassing my friend to be in a position where the children cry and you, as the man of the house you cannot provide for them. That is why I ask for a dollar. Just one dollar will do because I can go to the miller tomorrow to process some maize-meal. Just one dollar, shamwari. At least the family will eat sadza for a few days", he pleaded.
Uncle felt pity for Champion, his old mate. He took out two dollars and handed it to Champion. The man was grateful -- almost going down on his knees to dramatically register his gratitude.
To have asked for just one dollar and then got two dollars seemed like a miracle. He looked long and hard at the two, wrinkly notes -- they have been exchanged so much between so many hands they are barely recognisable.
He was pleased. He was happy to have finally got a US dollar in his hands. "I am probably the richest man among my friends at the moment", he quipped, pointing to his fellow grave-diggers. "I bet none of them has ever seen a US dollar, let alone used it!" he said with a chuckle; the laugh of a very relieved man. He offered uncle a bucketful of maize but uncle declined. He said the two dollars was his gift.
There are many 'Champions' in the rural areas of
Of course even Zimbabweans in the urban areas where affected, particularly pensioners. But at least in the cities the 'kiya-kiya' culture (wheeling-dealing) facilitates opportunities for urban-dwellers to get access to the new currencies. The situation is markedly different in the rural areas where the opportunities are severely limited.
It is here where
Champion may have earned two dollars from his begging enterprise but it is not enough to serve him and his family for the long term.
Meanwhile, they buried my cousin. They say by the time she passed on, she was in a bad state. They had cared for her in the village. There was nothing else that could have been done. They could do no more at the local clinic. So at 37, sisi Bessie was liberated from this world -- a young life taken away.
She leaves young children. Our mukuwasha had stayed on in the village after he brought her back. He is a man of limited means. He could not even mobilise bus fare to return to his home. So the family put together the little that was available and sent him away.
Scenes like this are not isolated. They are a daily occurrence across
Mdhara Chimowa’s tears for fifty dollars
Background: I wrote this story to highlight the challenges faced by older people in the rural areas after the introduction of the US dollar replacing the hyper-inflated Zimbabwe dollar. Mdhara Chimowa is a man I know. When I was growing up he was one of the elders whose hard work and industry inspired us. I sopke to my mother on the phone (she was a headteacher at the nearby school) and she narrated what had happened to Mdhara Chimowa. I decided I would write a story about it, using the space I had in a national newspaper to highlight the problems of adapting to a new currency and the challenges faced by older folk, especially in the rural areas. I later met Mdhara Chimowa when I went home. He was grateful for the support and along with others, said they had many more stories to tell.
Mdhara Chimowa’s tears for fifty dollars
Alex Magaisa
I LIKE to think that I have observed enough in my time to know that few politicians truly believe things that they say or promise; that when they make references to ‘the people’, that is no more than a veil for expressions of self-interest.
You have to hope, however, that in their pursuit of self-interest, there will be some collateral benefit that accumulates to the ordinary men and women. You hope that there is a ‘core of good’ in every man and woman which can be persuaded, nurtured and harnessed for the good of those in lower stations of the political and social hierarchy.
But my profound belief in the inherent goodness of humankind has often deceived me. All too often, I am disappointed. I wish the politicians could think more and more about the plight of the ordinary men that they purport to serve; the ones that they claim to be saving from strange forces out to colonise them.
That is why, at the height of the political negotiations last year, I was moved to ask the question: Why don’t they negotiate in Mukumbadzetse Street? I was referring of course, to that lengthy street in the high-density suburb of Mufakose – itself a symbol of a location where politicians could possibly observe and feel the trials and tribulations of the ordinary people on whose behalf they always claim to be fighting.
There is a song which inspires me most whenever I think of the lamentations of the ordinary folks, so often used but overlooked by the politicians when it matters most. In that song, the Master of Song Simon Chimbetu speaks the language of the ordinary person – “Kana moenda mukoma, muchinopinda mumisangano, muitaure yehupfu hwevana vangu” (When you attend those big meetings, my brother, please do not forget to tell them about the plight of my children).
He goes further, “Vanochema vana vaye, Vanoyaura vana vaye, Chavanoda kuSurvivor” (They are suffering, the kids. All they ask for is survival).
The beautiful song played in my mind over and over again as I digested the plight of Mdhara Chimowa, whose story I narrate today. It is a story that caused me a lot of pain and reduced my confidence in humankind. I hope in doing so, I fulfil part of Chimbetu’s call – remind the big men of the plight of those they purport to fight for.
Mdhara Chimowa (Elder Chimowa) is a man I have known since I was a toddler. He is a decent man. He works hard. He always has.
I remember him and his wife moulding bricks in the village. Those who know the manual exertions required in the trade of manufacturing bricks the traditional way (kukanya zvidhinha/ukutshaya izitina) appreciate that it is hard work of an extreme kind.
For just two people, man and woman, no words can capture the industry required and the energy expended in the process. Yet, this man and his wife put everything into it. They wanted their children to go to school - to drink from the calabash of knowledge and responsibility as Ngugi wa Thing’o put it in that beautiful book, The River Between. Mdhara Chimowa always worked hard to give his kids what he had not been afforded in his youth.
He has been in the village all his life. He is part of the fabric of the community. He is always there, ready to give a hand; always present to do his bit for the community. He is the man you can count on at most times. He is the character who arrives at the funeral and gets on with the hard chores of that occasion – digging the graves, fetching firewood, ensuring that people are well fed. He has a way of speaking which makes him very endearing. Those of us who know him remember and often talk about him fondly. He is a good man.
So when I heard the story, my heart broke. It is a simple story of the fifty US dollar bill.
Mdhara Chimowa’s mother, who is in the autumn of her life, sold her goat a few weeks ago because she wanted to travel. She has always had goats. It is her wealth, nurtured and grown over many years. She sold one of them. Mdhara Chimowa also wanted to travel, with his wife. They wanted to visit their daughter who had recently married. But between them, there was only one fifty dollar bill, part of which had come from the sale of the goat. So in order to facilitate the two different journeys, the fifty dollar bill had to be spilt. They had to find some change.
So Mdhara Chimowa went to the nearest township, about a mile away from the village. Munyoro is the name. We used to visit Munyoro often as kids, to play games and listen to the big radios that played very loud music. Sometimes we would dance.
I’m told it has become a fairly busy place recently on account of the new surfaced road that took the better part of thirty years to reach our part of the world from nearby Wedza town. Tara yakaunza business (the tarred road has brought some business to the otherwise sleepy township).
It is to this township where Mdhara Chimowa went to look for change. He hoped one of the shopkeepers would help him. But the shops did not have change for fifty dollars. It is big money in this part of the world where some do not even know what it looks like. He went to every shop but they said they did not have change. He was stuck. But he had to find the change if the trips planned for the following day were to materialise.
So he approached one of the commuter omnibus operators who ply the route. I am told they are many now that the road has been surfaced – almost 30 years from the time plans were first laid down by those who lead the nation.
He approached one driver and asked for change. The driver was generous enough to help and Mdhara Chimowa was happy as he left their brief meeting after the completion of the transaction. The driver did not spend a second longer, as he departed on his trip towards Harare.
Mdhara Chimowa’s happiness at getting the change he needed was to be short-lived. He told his colleagues that he had finally managed to get the change. He showed them. At that point, an eagle-eyed colleague who boasts of better financial literacy in the community noticed that something was not quite right.
Mdhara Chimowa had been given four separate notes – three that he thought were 10 dollar bills and one that he had taken as a 20 dollar note. The more literate fellow pointed out that he had in fact been given just $5 worth of notes (three $1 bills and one $2 note).
The driver of the omnibus had advised him that this was his change and trusting the goodness of mankind, Mdhara Chimowa had walked away a happy man. But not for long, as he soon discovered.
I cannot even attempt to put in words what must have gone though the old man’s mind. No one can ever know the conflict that raged in his heart as he realised that he had lost the better part of his mother’s goat. He cried. This is a man brought up to believe that grown men do not cry. But he wept. He had lost his mother’s goat. The driver of the omnibus had left him in the lurch.
He wandered aimlessly as he contemplated what to report home. How would he explain it to his elderly mother? How would he explain it to his wife? Would they believe it? He tried to borrow, so that at least he could go home with something for the journeys the next day. But no one had the money. It is not easy to get the US dollar in these parts, just as Champion explained in the story told in these pages a few months ago.
When the story was told, I became emotional. I like Mdhara Chimowa. He is a strong man who works hard for his keep and to imagine him in a helpless state was painful. I had spoken to him a few weeks ago, when he was among those who had gathered for a ceremony in the village. It was a pleasure talking to the old folks, including him on the cellphone.
He calls me sekuru, on account of some complex relationship which I cannot even begin to explain here. He had jokingly asked for a bit yehwahwa (for a drink). We had laughed hard as he insisted he preferred only opaque beer. I promised that he would get it. It brought back many memories. He also asked why I have never written about him, too. I said one day I would. Little did we know then, that I would soon be writing about this circumstance of limited fortune.
But this is not just a story about Mdhara Chimowa. It is the story of the plight of the ordinary man and woman whilst some well-fed men and women in Harare refuse to obey the dictates of common-sense. But that’s not surprising. After all, fifty dollars is spare change for them. They have access to the beautiful stones of Marange; they have generous benefactors who make sure they eat well and sleep well.
It is an on obscene world – a world in which their children live, study and party in foreign lands paid for by proceeds of the labour of men like Mdhara Chimowa – a grown man who had to weep for fifty dollars.
It is not that Mdhara Chimowa lost money to an unscrupulous commuter omnibus driver; it is that he and many of his type, the ordinary type, have for years lost the fruits of their labour to a few men and women who masquerade as politicians fighting for the greater good.
I do not know if the driver of the omnibus will read this. Perhaps, he will. I do not know if his friends will read this. Perhaps they will. And if they do, perhaps they will tell him. I do not know if he will care at all; indeed, if his conscience will say anything to him. But if he does, I hope the next time he passes through Munyoro Township, he will look for Mdhara Chimowa and do the right thing. It will not happen of course, but this is me being naïve, again.
I do not know if Zimbabwe’s political leaders will read this. Perhaps, they will. I hope they spare a thought for Mdhara Chimowa and those of his ilk whose dignity has been subtracted in large measure due to the bizarre and tragic politics in Zimbabwe; politics that they can, if they are willing and capable, get right. I hope the next time they find themselves close to ‘the people’ they talk of so often; I hope they will look at them and do the right thing. But as Chimbetu said in that song, vanokanwana ava (they forget, too easily).
* Author’s Note: For Christmas, Mdhara Chimowa will get $45
Mdhara Chimowa’s tears for fifty dollars
Alex Magaisa
I LIKE to think that I have observed enough in my time to know that few politicians truly believe things that they say or promise; that when they make references to ‘the people’, that is no more than a veil for expressions of self-interest.
You have to hope, however, that in their pursuit of self-interest, there will be some collateral benefit that accumulates to the ordinary men and women. You hope that there is a ‘core of good’ in every man and woman which can be persuaded, nurtured and harnessed for the good of those in lower stations of the political and social hierarchy.
But my profound belief in the inherent goodness of humankind has often deceived me. All too often, I am disappointed. I wish the politicians could think more and more about the plight of the ordinary men that they purport to serve; the ones that they claim to be saving from strange forces out to colonise them.
That is why, at the height of the political negotiations last year, I was moved to ask the question: Why don’t they negotiate in Mukumbadzetse Street? I was referring of course, to that lengthy street in the high-density suburb of Mufakose – itself a symbol of a location where politicians could possibly observe and feel the trials and tribulations of the ordinary people on whose behalf they always claim to be fighting.
There is a song which inspires me most whenever I think of the lamentations of the ordinary folks, so often used but overlooked by the politicians when it matters most. In that song, the Master of Song Simon Chimbetu speaks the language of the ordinary person – “Kana moenda mukoma, muchinopinda mumisangano, muitaure yehupfu hwevana vangu” (When you attend those big meetings, my brother, please do not forget to tell them about the plight of my children).
He goes further, “Vanochema vana vaye, Vanoyaura vana vaye, Chavanoda kuSurvivor” (They are suffering, the kids. All they ask for is survival).
The beautiful song played in my mind over and over again as I digested the plight of Mdhara Chimowa, whose story I narrate today. It is a story that caused me a lot of pain and reduced my confidence in humankind. I hope in doing so, I fulfil part of Chimbetu’s call – remind the big men of the plight of those they purport to fight for.
Mdhara Chimowa (Elder Chimowa) is a man I have known since I was a toddler. He is a decent man. He works hard. He always has.
I remember him and his wife moulding bricks in the village. Those who know the manual exertions required in the trade of manufacturing bricks the traditional way (kukanya zvidhinha/ukutshaya izitina) appreciate that it is hard work of an extreme kind.
For just two people, man and woman, no words can capture the industry required and the energy expended in the process. Yet, this man and his wife put everything into it. They wanted their children to go to school - to drink from the calabash of knowledge and responsibility as Ngugi wa Thing’o put it in that beautiful book, The River Between. Mdhara Chimowa always worked hard to give his kids what he had not been afforded in his youth.
He has been in the village all his life. He is part of the fabric of the community. He is always there, ready to give a hand; always present to do his bit for the community. He is the man you can count on at most times. He is the character who arrives at the funeral and gets on with the hard chores of that occasion – digging the graves, fetching firewood, ensuring that people are well fed. He has a way of speaking which makes him very endearing. Those of us who know him remember and often talk about him fondly. He is a good man.
So when I heard the story, my heart broke. It is a simple story of the fifty US dollar bill.
Mdhara Chimowa’s mother, who is in the autumn of her life, sold her goat a few weeks ago because she wanted to travel. She has always had goats. It is her wealth, nurtured and grown over many years. She sold one of them. Mdhara Chimowa also wanted to travel, with his wife. They wanted to visit their daughter who had recently married. But between them, there was only one fifty dollar bill, part of which had come from the sale of the goat. So in order to facilitate the two different journeys, the fifty dollar bill had to be spilt. They had to find some change.
So Mdhara Chimowa went to the nearest township, about a mile away from the village. Munyoro is the name. We used to visit Munyoro often as kids, to play games and listen to the big radios that played very loud music. Sometimes we would dance.
I’m told it has become a fairly busy place recently on account of the new surfaced road that took the better part of thirty years to reach our part of the world from nearby Wedza town. Tara yakaunza business (the tarred road has brought some business to the otherwise sleepy township).
It is to this township where Mdhara Chimowa went to look for change. He hoped one of the shopkeepers would help him. But the shops did not have change for fifty dollars. It is big money in this part of the world where some do not even know what it looks like. He went to every shop but they said they did not have change. He was stuck. But he had to find the change if the trips planned for the following day were to materialise.
So he approached one of the commuter omnibus operators who ply the route. I am told they are many now that the road has been surfaced – almost 30 years from the time plans were first laid down by those who lead the nation.
He approached one driver and asked for change. The driver was generous enough to help and Mdhara Chimowa was happy as he left their brief meeting after the completion of the transaction. The driver did not spend a second longer, as he departed on his trip towards Harare.
Mdhara Chimowa’s happiness at getting the change he needed was to be short-lived. He told his colleagues that he had finally managed to get the change. He showed them. At that point, an eagle-eyed colleague who boasts of better financial literacy in the community noticed that something was not quite right.
Mdhara Chimowa had been given four separate notes – three that he thought were 10 dollar bills and one that he had taken as a 20 dollar note. The more literate fellow pointed out that he had in fact been given just $5 worth of notes (three $1 bills and one $2 note).
The driver of the omnibus had advised him that this was his change and trusting the goodness of mankind, Mdhara Chimowa had walked away a happy man. But not for long, as he soon discovered.
I cannot even attempt to put in words what must have gone though the old man’s mind. No one can ever know the conflict that raged in his heart as he realised that he had lost the better part of his mother’s goat. He cried. This is a man brought up to believe that grown men do not cry. But he wept. He had lost his mother’s goat. The driver of the omnibus had left him in the lurch.
He wandered aimlessly as he contemplated what to report home. How would he explain it to his elderly mother? How would he explain it to his wife? Would they believe it? He tried to borrow, so that at least he could go home with something for the journeys the next day. But no one had the money. It is not easy to get the US dollar in these parts, just as Champion explained in the story told in these pages a few months ago.
When the story was told, I became emotional. I like Mdhara Chimowa. He is a strong man who works hard for his keep and to imagine him in a helpless state was painful. I had spoken to him a few weeks ago, when he was among those who had gathered for a ceremony in the village. It was a pleasure talking to the old folks, including him on the cellphone.
He calls me sekuru, on account of some complex relationship which I cannot even begin to explain here. He had jokingly asked for a bit yehwahwa (for a drink). We had laughed hard as he insisted he preferred only opaque beer. I promised that he would get it. It brought back many memories. He also asked why I have never written about him, too. I said one day I would. Little did we know then, that I would soon be writing about this circumstance of limited fortune.
But this is not just a story about Mdhara Chimowa. It is the story of the plight of the ordinary man and woman whilst some well-fed men and women in Harare refuse to obey the dictates of common-sense. But that’s not surprising. After all, fifty dollars is spare change for them. They have access to the beautiful stones of Marange; they have generous benefactors who make sure they eat well and sleep well.
It is an on obscene world – a world in which their children live, study and party in foreign lands paid for by proceeds of the labour of men like Mdhara Chimowa – a grown man who had to weep for fifty dollars.
It is not that Mdhara Chimowa lost money to an unscrupulous commuter omnibus driver; it is that he and many of his type, the ordinary type, have for years lost the fruits of their labour to a few men and women who masquerade as politicians fighting for the greater good.
I do not know if the driver of the omnibus will read this. Perhaps, he will. I do not know if his friends will read this. Perhaps they will. And if they do, perhaps they will tell him. I do not know if he will care at all; indeed, if his conscience will say anything to him. But if he does, I hope the next time he passes through Munyoro Township, he will look for Mdhara Chimowa and do the right thing. It will not happen of course, but this is me being naïve, again.
I do not know if Zimbabwe’s political leaders will read this. Perhaps, they will. I hope they spare a thought for Mdhara Chimowa and those of his ilk whose dignity has been subtracted in large measure due to the bizarre and tragic politics in Zimbabwe; politics that they can, if they are willing and capable, get right. I hope the next time they find themselves close to ‘the people’ they talk of so often; I hope they will look at them and do the right thing. But as Chimbetu said in that song, vanokanwana ava (they forget, too easily).
* Author’s Note: For Christmas, Mdhara Chimowa will get $45
The man on Harare street corner
Background: This is a more recent piece, written in early November 2010 after a trip to
Alex T. Magaisa
THE big bird landed at
The hotness of the October sun is tradition in these parts of
The sun rises early. It hits you hard at about 8 in the morning – by then folks here would have long risen, getting busy with their daily chores and other adventures, all designed with one goal in mind: to survive. Things have not been easy in recent years but folks have learnt to survive.
By the time the clock reaches 10am, the sun seems to have been drawn even closer to the land. Yes, it is hot. Escaping the receding temperatures in the
But even then, the Zimbabwean gentleman doesn’t shed his tie and jacket. The suit, it seems to be a necessary accessory. I do not know why but it probably announces one’s station in life; it probably says, ‘I am somebody’, maybe it demands and gets serious attention – it probably says, “Take me seriously!” So when you walk into the bank, maybe the bank teller looks at you differently. Perhaps when you arrive at the Passport Office with its perennially long queues and large crowds, the suit is a feature of distinction. Or when you walk into the supermarket, the security guard doesn’t follow you around. Because you have a suit.
So as I watch fellow men clad in shiny suits that often look bigger than the wearer, under the punishing glare of the October sun, I am reminded of the tug-of-war in a society still struggling to define its way; a society that is at once trying to chart a new path but cannot exactly discard its past; a society that has an ambivalent attitude towards its past; a society that at once hates some its past but still cannot let go elements of that hated past; a past in which a ‘gentleman’ wore a suit and tie, the weather conditions notwithstanding. A man can sweat buckets, but he still wears his suit … and the tie.
A ‘nervous condition’, perhaps – I am reminded of Tsitsi Dangarembga’s classic, Nervous Conditions. A heavy suit under the red hot October sun, I notice a violent battle of the mind and of the mind and the body; a struggle between a Westernised past and an aspiring indigeneity. A country that is at once fighting to indigenise but whose judges still wear, under the October sun, horse hair that make up the wigs and huge black gowns. They sweat, both the lawyers and judges in packed courtrooms – because the gowns and the wigs are ‘tradition’. Even the President arrives for Parliament’s opening on horse-drawn carriage, much like the Queen of England does when she makes the trip from
I know a man at the corner of
He doesn’t have many people to talk to but when he does he exudes genuine warmth. He wears a generous smile, a smile that exposes one or two missing teeth but the kind of smile that you get from a well-meaning man in the village, a smile that says, “I am a good man”.
But it also seems like a smile of helplessness – a defensive smile, the one that says, “I mean no harm, Sir”. It is a smile that a victim issues upon meeting his tormentor; a smile that is not really a smile but one that has evolved from years of crying, perhaps - you know, when you have cried so hard and so long in your life, you figure out it is better to smile. So people think you are smiling. They think you are happy. They think you mean no harm. In fact you are angry. Very angry. You are tired of crying. Life has been you so hard that you have probably forgotten how to cry. And so you smile. Or people who see you think you’re smiling.
I do not know where he goes to relieve himself during his business day – there are no public facilities nearby. I do not know what he eats during the day or at night. Nor where he goes to at dusk, when he abandons his business post. At night this corner is open for other business. Big beautiful cars stop here too, not for phone cards but for the services of young women who ply their trade during the darker hours of the night. I wonder if he, our phone-card man, has children - a wife and children to whom he returns at night.
I asked someone once, when I was buying a Buddie, as one of the phone cards is known. I asked how much a seller gets for selling a phone card worth a dollar. “About 8 cents”, I was told. 8 cents. Count your 5 fingers on one hand, then another three on the second. That’s what a man or woman gets for navigating the busy street corners of central
We had waited upon arrival at
It was part of our life in the villages - the sound of the drum. Even today if I lie down and close my eyes, I can still hear the drum beat from the villages – it’s amazing what the memory can do, it keeps so many things; it keeps them in the head and occasionally it brings them back, usually when prompted as the drumbeat at the airport did on this occasion.
So as I stood in the queue, waiting for immigration, the mind travelled back many years, to the drumbeat of the village, the memory resurrected by the drumbeat at the airport. So no, there was no firing squad, there wasn’t a flying squad, no, not even a frying squad at
A fellow with a huge entourage emerged from behind our long queue. He was wearing a stylish hat. He was a young fellow – excitement clearly registered on his face and walking with the briskness of man feeling very important and meaning business.
There was a loud cheer in front of us, a small crowd surged forward, mobile phone cameras at the ready. So I asked the fellow behind me in the queue.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“That’s Munya” he said.
“Munya who?” I hesitated but eventually asked.
“Munya from Big Brother”
“Oh, I see”. It suddenly dawned on me what the hullabaloo was all about.
“So he won, then?” I asked my newly found friend.
“No, he lost!”. He said it with a dismissive laughter. “Akaruza”, he repeated with heavy emphasis.
“So what’s the celebration for then?” I asked because there seemed to be a real celebration going on as big men in very big and bright suits had suddenly joined the scene, ushering the ‘hero’ through a backdoor, television cameras in tow. It was quite a scene, I have to say. I asked again why the celebration for one who had lost because in the melee I had lost my new friend’s attention.
“Because it was rigged!” my new friend explained. “Akarigwa mufana wacho (The vote was rigged against him)” he expanded.
It was then that I heard that some very big business people had launched a fund to award the new ‘national hero’ not just the $200,000 prize money but to top it up with an extra $100,000 all to spite the riggers!
It seemed to me that across the country this, at least, was one thing on which there was a general consensus – that the Big Brother vote had been rigged. I smiled at the thought that across gender, tribe, race, political affiliation, Zimbabweans seemed for once to be united on one instance of vote-rigging.
Later in the week, the new hero, was on TV and the front page of newspapers, shaking hands with his hero, President Mugabe (whom apparently, we were later told, he is ready to serve) receiving the handsome cheque. Even the President was not happy that young Munya’s vote had been rigged and time had been created in his busy schedule to make sure the new hero was duly rewarded by his hero.
Munya smiled too as he received the cheque. It was a broad smile. A smile worth $300,000 perhaps.
Why don't they negotiate in Mufakose?
Background: I wrote this article in October 2008, after leaders of Zimbabwe's political parties - Mugabe, Tsvangirai and Mutambara had signed the agreement on September 15 2008 but continued to haggle over government posts. Like the story on Tarisai, it was another appeal to the collective conscience of the politicians, to put the interests of the ordinary people first. It seemed to me that their negotiations in luxry hotels, far from the challenging conditions in which people lived, caused them to be out of touch with reality. Hence the suggestion that they probably go and negotiate at a venue right in the middle of one of Harare's high-density residential areas where they could perhaps better appreciate the conditions in which people were surviving.
Why don't they negotiate in Mufakose?
October 27, 2008
It is suggested, very humbly, in order to expedite the negotiations between ZANU PF and the MDCs, that the SADC Troika meeting on Monday be held at No.1200 Mukumbadzetse Street in Mufakose, Harare.
To gain entry the distinguished guests must cross a stream of raw sewage, which runs by the main gate of the venue. Should assistance be required, experienced residents will be on hand to guide them. Guests are advised to take extra care when crossing as they might easily slip and drown.
They must resolve matters very quickly otherwise the steady flow of the stream swells rapidly as the day goes by. Local boys charge $US10 to help with crossing at peak periods, although the prices can rise very sharply depending on the calibre and station of the clients.
There is a local 'central bank' nearby in Mudzambiringwa Street, should guests require any emergency funds, though they are available to non-residents at punitive rates. Guests are encouraged to reacquaint with the long lost relatives or friends in Mufakose, as they might be useful to obtain financial facilities like the local BACOSSI.
Residents have been advised to keep all windows open as there is no air-conditioning. But this should ensure a steady but heavy breeze transporting the potpourri of aromas and odours from the locality.
Guests must also bring candles lest their 'toks' extend into the night - there is no electricity here. Water will be provided from the nearest well and if the queue is too long, guests will be directed to the nearest stream.
For other types of relief, there is a small bush nearby but they must beware of pickpockets. They are advised to bring heavy guard for their expensive automobiles and other gadgets.
Guests should note that there is a funeral next door to the venue - the neighbour sadly passed on whilst awaiting medication kuGomo hospital. There were no doctors and drugs were either unavailable or unaffordable. Guests must, therefore, contend with the constant singing and wailing of friends and relatives ... It is advisable, as is the culture here, for guests to appear, if only briefly, to share a moment with the bereaved family.
It is hoped that this venue will provide a more appropriate setting for the negotiations. Not only will it be in the area representative of the 'people' for whom the deal is being done, this should also provide a more realistic picture of the 'people'. If negotiations are for the 'people', why, I ask, don't the negotiators come and do it where the 'people' live? Rainbow Towers seems to have failed, so why not try Mukumbadzetse Street?
Zimbabwe: Talks and tears for Tarisai
Background:
I wrote this story in August 2008, at a time when Zimbabwean politicians were negotiating a political settlement following a controversial presidential election in June 2008. The first election in March 2008 had been marred by controversy over delays in announcing the results. Morgan Tsvangirai won but was adjudged to have failed to reach the threshold required for him to gain outright victory. That meant a second round of voting (the run-off) against Robert Mugabe. Much violence marred the run-up to the run-off on June 28 2008, leading to Tsvangirai pulling out just before the election. Mugabe went on to 'win' and was declared President but given what had happened this was not universally accepted and the regional body SADC, appointed South Africa President Thabo Mbeki to mediate the negotiations that would lead to a government of national unity. This process took very long, with all sides stubbornly holding on to their positions. It was in this context that I wrote this story of Tarisai, to reflect the challenges that ordinary people were going through whilst the politicians haggled for power in their plush hotels. The story was directed at the politicians - an appeal to them, through the voice of the young girl, Tarisai that it was her likes that they were fighting to represent.
Zimbabwe: Talks and tears for Tarisai
First published on NewZimbabwe.com August 15, 2008
Somewhere, in a village nestled in the bushes of Chikomba, there is a young girl called Tarisai. Every morning, Tarisai wakes up early to fetch water from the sandy bed of the mighty Save River. The great river is dry in most parts, so in its vast belly of sand, she digs and digs, until the precious liquid oozes into the hole.
She spends a length of time scooping the dirt, to make way for what passes for some clean, precious liquid. She fills her bucket and carefully places it on her small head, climbing the cliffs and hills until she gets home to Amai. She has already mastered the art that, perhaps, only African women can, of balancing the large load on her head without the need to support it with her hands.
Amai is unwell. She has been unwell for some time and she cannot carry her fragile body anymore, let alone a load of water on her head. Tarisai is eight. Father was called to another world a year ago. The weight of the homestead is upon Tarisai’s young shoulders.
Later in the day Tarisai will go to the woods, to pick the little firewood she can find, to make a fire. She comes home and cooks for mama. There is not much to cook, the few greens that she dried months ago, that pass for relish and a bit of sadza (cornmeal). The good men and women who used to come with supplements have long stopped coming. Someone higher up in Harare stopped them, she heard.
This is Tarisai’s routine. Every day comes and goes, the same way. But even by her dire standards, things have got worse recently. And there is not much she can do to make things better. Every day she prays, summoning God’s help – because she has learnt the hard way, that none of this world can do much to help her.
Late at night she picks up the little wireless radio father brought back from his days in the big city many years ago in the 1990s before his employer told him they were ‘rationalizing’ and that his services were no longer required. They gave him a tie and a few dollars to recognize his long and loyal service.
Tarisai tries hard, very hard, to find a signal. She wants to listen to the news; to know what the big men in Harare have decided for her life. Sometimes, she catches a signal, sometimes, she does not. But whenever she does, the announcers are always harbingers of bad news. Sometimes she does not bother. She just waits. Like everyone else in the village and the many villages scattered across Zimbabwe, she waits. It’s like waiting for Godot.
She is a beautiful girl, Tarisai is. Little boys like to say she was made in His happy hour. But her world, Tarisai’s world, is a far cry from the sophisticated world of the internet and 24-hour news channels. She is far away from the ‘breaking news’. She is never going to be an expert on her life, even though none of the learned men will ever know what it means to be Tarisai. But they are ‘Africa experts’ nonetheless, experts on her life – but what do they really know?
She has no voice in the vibrant universe of internet chat-rooms and forums. Which may just be as well, for she will never see or hear the expletives exchanged there; naked words that can hardly be repeated in these pages; angry young men and women but at least they have choices. Tarisai does not have much.
All she has heard is that there are big men and big women located at some grand hotels in Harare and Pretoria, deliberating about her future. But these deliberations are for the big men and big women only – she, whose future is at stake; whose shoulders carry the dreams and burdens of those whose interests the big men and big women are supposedly fighting to enhance; she is an outsider; she is not supposed to know.
Tarisai is eight, but in those few years, she has lived the lives of many old men and old women. She only saw the world when the dispute over which these men and women are fighting began in earnest. She was on her mother’s back, sleeping, when they queued at Warikandwa Primary School to cast their votes in the Constitutional Referendum. She has seen them return to the polling stations, again and again, since then. Indeed, her life has changed. It has simply got worse.
You have to wonder, when you read all the papers; when you watch the big ‘breaking news’; when you hear the politicians at press conferences, where is Tarisai’s voice?
There are few times in life, when one must yearn for a miraculous transformation, to become, if only for a few hours, the fly that makes uninvited entry into the four walls in which those big men and women are discussing the future of Zimbabwe. And perch oneself in some corner far enough to escape their attention and the possibility of a crushing blow but close enough to hear their every word. It must, surely be in the thoughts of those scribes who have spent days and nights lounging and gossiping in the hotel lobby, for onward transmission to news agencies, for a small fee. It must also, you have to think, be in the thoughts of little Tarisai, as she makes her way to the riverbed of the mighty Save, to fetch the precious liquid every morning.
But then you also ask, could there be just one journalist; at least one scribe who might be tired of waiting for the big secrets from the Rainbow Towers, and instead make way to that village in Chikomba; to spend time with Tarisai and her fellow villagers and ask them what their thoughts are; ask Tarisai if she has a message for the politicians discussing her future at the Rainbow Towers. And perhaps write a story about Tarisai and her fellow villagers, a story which will carry their views and expectations to the decision makers. Perhaps the politicians could read these stories and, who knows, perhaps their views might also guide them in their thought-processes.
Because, you see, Tarisai will never come close to Rainbow Towers. She has never been to Harare and, at this rate, she might never get the taste of city life. And at eight, Tarisai has ten more years before she can exercise her right to vote; never mind that she carries the responsibility of every adult in her homestead; she is a child, but she is also the mother of her mother. She makes decisions and carries out tasks to sustain her fragile family. But the law says she is far too young to decide who can lead her and her country, not even her ward or constituency.
That is the democracy we are taught to believe in; the democracy we have accepted as the answer to our troubles; a democracy that does not recognise Tarisai as a responsible decision-maker in the electoral process notwithstanding her role as the pivot of the modern African family. Those important decisions are for men and women who spend time at the beer hall and the shebeen; men who return home and assault their wives to secure conjugal rights. But not for Tarisai - the little girl who has abandoned school to look after mama.
And when I watched Hopewell Chin’ono’s powerful documentary on the scourge of AIDS in Zimbabwe, and big though I am, an African man taught from a tender age to be a ‘man’ and never cry, could not hold back tears; tears for a broken nation whose politicians continue to dilly-dally about power. There is a temptation, in the topsy-turvy world of politics, to forget these silent victims; victims of a more brutal and sordid violence at the hands of that little but vicious parasite.
I have written many words in the past, far too much to probe the conscience of politicians. There is little to say that has not been said before. But I thought of Tarisai and I thought of her daily struggles – this little girl who has become a mother to her mother; a baby for whom life has been a battle from the beginning and for whom such battles are, at this rate, set to continue long into the future, that is, if and it’s a monumental ‘if’, she is favoured with more time. But having been weighed down by so much in her formative years, you have to wonder if she will have the energy to do so, let alone the will.
Tarisai’s hopes rest on the shoulders of the big men and women in Harare, who are having secret deliberations. But how much do they think of her as they deliberate?
Tarisai, ‘Please Sirs, look at me; look at the state of the country!’, she might be saying, for that indeed is her name.
If Tarisai’s story does not turn something in the hearts and minds of the big men and women in Harare, then, I suppose, nothing ever will. For there are far too many Tarisais in the many scattered villages of Zimbabwe – all looking to Mugabe, Tsvangirai and Mutambara.
Ordinary Zimbabweans
I have written many stories over the last few years. With hindsight, I realise that many of them are centred around the lives of ordinary people, mostly Zimbabweans, whether at home or abroad.
I have written about Tarisai, the young girl in rural Zimbabwe whose fate rests on the decisions of big men negotiating at a plush hotel in Harare, big men who do not seem to appreciate the anguish and anticipation of the ordinary people they purport to represent. In another piece, I have asked why these big men do not negotiate in a run-down high density suburb of Harare, so that they can perhaps appreciate the urgency of the situation.
I have also written about Mdhara Chimowa, the old man who lost $US50 to a con-man when Zimbabwe embraced the US dollar after ditching the hyper-inflated Zimbabwe dollar. I have recorded my observations of the life of a Harare taxi-driver and the street vendor who sits by the corner each day, from dawn to dusk, selling telephone sim-cards.
I have travelled to South Africa and written about the waiter of Rosebank, a Zuimbabwean who works at a Johannesburg hotel. Some readers have written and asked, 'why don't you put these pieces together, maybe in the form of a book or something". I have been sufficiently encouraged because the stories represent narratives of ordinary people at a critical historical moment. Many of my friends on Facebook have read these stories. Others have been published on Newzimbabwe.com and others in various newspapers at home including The Standard, a weekly paper published on Sunday. I have made many friends through these stories and I thank them and other fans for their support and encouragement. I'm just an ordinary boy who enjoys writing and if some people enjoy it, then I am humbled.
Perhaps one day the collection will appear in print but for now I thought as part of the project, I should collect and put them in one place, to be updated from time to time. The title of the blog, 'ordinaryzimbabweans' reflects the central character in all of the stories, the common man, woman and child of Zimbabwe. For older stories, I will add a brief note to give context to the time and events during which each story was written.
I hope you find some value in these stories of ordinary men, women and children of Zimbabwe.
waMagaisa
I have written about Tarisai, the young girl in rural Zimbabwe whose fate rests on the decisions of big men negotiating at a plush hotel in Harare, big men who do not seem to appreciate the anguish and anticipation of the ordinary people they purport to represent. In another piece, I have asked why these big men do not negotiate in a run-down high density suburb of Harare, so that they can perhaps appreciate the urgency of the situation.
I have also written about Mdhara Chimowa, the old man who lost $US50 to a con-man when Zimbabwe embraced the US dollar after ditching the hyper-inflated Zimbabwe dollar. I have recorded my observations of the life of a Harare taxi-driver and the street vendor who sits by the corner each day, from dawn to dusk, selling telephone sim-cards.
I have travelled to South Africa and written about the waiter of Rosebank, a Zuimbabwean who works at a Johannesburg hotel. Some readers have written and asked, 'why don't you put these pieces together, maybe in the form of a book or something". I have been sufficiently encouraged because the stories represent narratives of ordinary people at a critical historical moment. Many of my friends on Facebook have read these stories. Others have been published on Newzimbabwe.com and others in various newspapers at home including The Standard, a weekly paper published on Sunday. I have made many friends through these stories and I thank them and other fans for their support and encouragement. I'm just an ordinary boy who enjoys writing and if some people enjoy it, then I am humbled.
Perhaps one day the collection will appear in print but for now I thought as part of the project, I should collect and put them in one place, to be updated from time to time. The title of the blog, 'ordinaryzimbabweans' reflects the central character in all of the stories, the common man, woman and child of Zimbabwe. For older stories, I will add a brief note to give context to the time and events during which each story was written.
I hope you find some value in these stories of ordinary men, women and children of Zimbabwe.
waMagaisa
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