The Language of Home

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)