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
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