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.