The man on Harare street corner

Background: This is a more recent piece, written in early November 2010 after a trip to Harare. It is centred around a street vendor who sells mobile telephone top-up cards in the Avenues area of Harare. It chronicles the challenges, fears and opportunities of the era in which Zimbabwe is governed under a government of national unity.

The man on Harare street corner

Alex T. Magaisa

THE big bird landed at Harare arriving to a hot reception courtesy of the brilliant October sun shortly after noon on the 20th day of the month.

The hotness of the October sun is tradition in these parts of Southern Africa but even folks of advanced age could barely remember the last time temperatures had been so highly elevated as they were at this time.

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 British Isles, I had been looking forward to the sun – to its warm embrace – but my body had already begun to rebel.

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 Buckingham Palace to Westminster. Yes, trying to indigenise but still clinging to the old tradition.

I know a man at the corner of Josiah Chinamano Avenue and Second Street. I have seen him a few times. He is always there it seems, from dawn till dusk. It is difficult to gauge his age from appearance alone. He is neither young nor old. It is hard to tell. The last time I was here, in July, he was at the same corner. He occasionally gets up to run to a passing vehicle along Second Street. The vehicle slows down and passengers hand over heavily soiled notes in exchange for mobile phone cards. That is his business, this fellow at the street corner. He sells mobile phone top-up cards. A dollar each. Two dollars sometimes. And so on. Buddie. Easycall. Telecel, Business something. And so forth. These are the names of the cards that he sells. A few times, passers-by stop and buy from him, too. Residents of nearby flats call him out and he runs to them with the cards. Business seems brisk at this little corner of Harare.

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 Harare trying to earn a living. That’s all they get for being good, decent, and ‘smiling’ men and women who give life to people’s mobile phones. For being agents of the big mobile phone companies that reap huge profits day after day. 8 cents. I don’t know if it is true and I hope it is not.

We had waited upon arrival at Harare International Airport a few days earlier. We waited in the queue to the immigration desk. And we waited some more. There was a drum-beat on the other side, somewhere near the arrivals lounge. It reminded me of the drumbeat of the village. Back then, there were surrounding villages where they beat the drum literally every night. You could hear the drumbeat late into the night. It was like a lullaby for the whole community, a musical performance for the gods, perhaps.

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 Harare Airport – but I can confirm that there was a cheering squad. I wondered why they were beating drums at the airport. It didn’t take long though to realise why.

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