memoirsfromzimbawee

Each time we passed through the old bus stop, I heard the same remarks: “There lies Mbongoro, right in the middle of the road”. Cars, buses and lorries would sound their horns, but not until Mbongoro retreated to the side of the road could they manage to pass. That day, I was on my usual marathon training session along the Chitungwiza-Mbare road. A heavy twelve-wheeled lorry skidded, with the driver applying the emergency brakes, but it was too late. There was a putrid smell of smoking tyres grinding through the tarmac, followed by the heavy impact of the crash of metal against bone. As I turned in the direction of the impact, I could see a grey body in the road, and one hundred metres ahead the bloody large intestines of Mbongoro the Stubborn Donkey. A half grin touched my face, as I stared at Mbongoro’s big brown teeth in his wide extending jaws, which would never close again. Yes these were the jaws that had made such a great noise during his braying days

We arrived at the rural bus terminus late on a hot Saturday afternoon. The crowd of people, a mixture of young and old and the daily vendors selling their wares, exchanged greetings, laughed and hugged each other. We waited for what seemed ages, but still there was no sign of the bus. My mother looked restless, and stared us almost dejected. Up in the sky, thick black clouds gathered menacingly. Before long, big drops of rain were falling. In the confusion, we looked for shelter, but hardly had we taken cover when the bus rolled in. It was a scramble to get in. I slipped on a banana skin and landed on my back and a few metres from me a heavily built woman fell awkwardly, exposing her panties, but no one noticed. With my siblings we struggled through the adults, finding our way into the bus. Inside we laughed and jeered in childish behavior at the human mass of adults pushing and shoving each other. The bus pulled out with its headlights now on, heading towards our rural home on this gloomy Christmas Eve, soaked to the skin but now happy that we were on our way at long last

That night, Alfonso sneaked into the protected area unnoticed. It was pitch
dark and he wore no shoes on his feet. Slowly, he worked his way through the
fence after cutting the wires with a sharp pair of pliers. In the dark he
managed to grope his way along until he reached the tunnel. Like a trained
soldier, he crawled silently through the tunnel, until he could feel cool
air above his head. That was when he realized that he was now in Zimbabwe’s
El Dorado, the Chiadzwa diamond area. Suddenly, he froze on hearing the
voice of an armed soldier: “I am trained to kill, and I shoot on sight”, but
the soldier was not talking to him, only boasting to his fellows. Shocked,
he could see silhouetted figures, smoking. The pungent smell of cigarette
smoke itched his nostrils, and he restrained the urge to sneeze. Hours
later, his loot wrapped around his waist, his heart leapt with joy, but he
knew that any slight movement would spell his doom. He had never felt close
to death like this. He bit his little finger for twenty minutes, inwardly
praying. It seemed the night would never end. Out of danger, he retraced his
way to the tunnel and crawled back to safety. Hitching the earliest lift he
could get, he was in Harare early that morning, and somewhere in the high
rise buildings a deal was secretly struck and a transaction concluded. With
a wad of twenty thousand US Dollars in cash, Alfonso returned to Mutare. A
month later he moved from the sprawling high density suburb of Dangamvura to
Morningside low density suburb, into a posh house, basking quietly in his
new found quick riches.

Spotting a 50 cent t-shirt and baggy trousers, Andrea, sized the revelers with a mocking look. His eyes were read and lazy as they ran wide till he spotted a short dark-skinned lady, entering the night club. He had taken one too many and felt that false confidence of an amateur drinker. “Hello sweet lady, love a drink” he grinned at her,exposing brown teeth, and wading the latest Zimbabwean 100 trillion dollar note. Cool as a cucumber, the lady walked towards Andrea, and the two were soon dancing to a high-pitched Sungura beat. Grabbing Andrea by the waist, the hooker, could feel the wads of cash, and she was equally responding to his every move as he touched her behind. An hour later, like a sheep led to the slaughter, Andrea was ushered into the three-roomed house in the Mining Compound. That night he ate sadza (thick porridge)with steaming gravy trotters. He then slept like a baby. The following morning, he awoke from the deep slumber, with only a blanket wrapped round his body. It dawned to him that, he had been robbed clean. He piped through a broken window too scared, let alone ashamed to be the laughing stock of the sprawling compound

Built of poles and dagga and thatched with African kikuyu grass, the dark hut stood fifty yards from Grandpa Gora’s homestead. None dared venture close to it. In the village there were tales whispered about this hut. One had it that inside lived a huge python that was fed with milk. Early every morning, Grandpa Gora would sweep the hut and pour milk into a clay jar. His children had deserted him because of strange happenings in his homestead. Another strange story had it that one of his sons had attempted to kill him, but the axe he used landed on Gora’s ankle and spun back and landed on his forehead, killing him instantly. However, one of the grandsons had once swept the hut, but it remained a deep mystery why the youngster never noticed the monstrous snake. To this day, the dark hut has remained a mystery to the whole village.

I had just visited my uncle when I passed through a resettlement area. A chain of filthy mud huts stretching for two kilometres greeted me. From these tiny habitations emerged men, women and children in tatters, and above them thick smoke hovered. As I walked, I waved off flies, big green ones, that were feeding on the muddy water. The level of poverty amazed me. My nostrils felt like sneezing because of the pungent smell. “They came here soon after the 2000 land invasion, and each family stays together and bears more children in these huts”, remarked my uncle. Cholera had taken its toll, claiming eleven lives in a week. I shuddered to think why they lived in this filth and how they sustained themselves. Sickened, I passed through, imagining this time bomb ready to explode anytime right here, deep in the countryside.

Cain leaned on the wall as he watched the impatient crowd wait for the bread van. He was in total control and none dared to jump the queue. It was not long before the van arrived and was greeted with excitement. “Order, hold on to your numbers”, Cain shouted with authority. For twenty minutes the queue moved slowly and in an orderly manner. But then a lanky soldier with faded camouflage uniform came up, and all hell broke loose. As he moved to the front, he felt a big hand on his shoulder.” Hold it right there!” barked Cain.“Who do you think ?” the soldier started to answer, but he was cut short as a right uppercut caught his  jaw and he staggered backwards, managing to balance and avoid falling. Upright, he ducked another blow and kicked Cain with his hard black boots. He followed his kicks with two solid punches that collided with Cain’s big front teeth. The latter fell spread-eagled, dazed and stunned by the lightning punches. The two men traded fierce solid blows, and head-butted each other. Their clothes were soon soaked with blood and stuck to their bodies, and the crowd now looked horrified. The arrival of two policemen on mountain bikes brought the fight to an end, and the two men, in handcuffs, were led towards the Central Police Station, with their heads bent downwards, followed by a laughing and mocking crowd.

We huddled together, my younger brother and I, close to a huge rock, watching the contest. The black mamba’s head was held high, ready for instant attack, while a few metres away the grey mongoose with its small forelegs stayed bottled up, waiting patiently but watchfully. For a split second we saw sprayed venom, but with born instinct the mongoose ducked, then sprang into the air, its tiny claws grazing the black mamba’s skin. The latter turned swiftly and surprised the mongoose, its viciously head puffed up, a forked tongue menacingly visible poking from its wide mouth. Now perched on top of a sharp rock, the mongoose prepared for another spectacular stunning leap. In the deep forest we held our breath, watching as lone spectators, intrigued and amazed by this battle of wits between two dangerous predators in this closely contested fight.

That night my eyes held no sleep. In the dark night I felt restless, lonely and wide awake. It was bound to be a long night for me. Then it came, the dream. Walking towards my hut, I saw it coming, a black sharp-horned African bull charging towards me. It called my name, how strange, lifting its forelegs at me. As it advanced, I felt lifted up and floated in the air like an angel. Beneath me, the puffing, frothing and confused bull bellowed angrily. I landed back on earth, but this time on a sandy hot desert. I was relieved to see my siblings around me, but suddenly they disappeared and in front of me stood a witch, naked, with multi-coloured beads around her waist. I tried to run, but my legs felt stiff, and she caught up with me. We engaged in a fist-fight. I became spiritually possessed, with such strength I have never had in my life. Once, twice, I caught her with stunning blows, but she would rise up challenging me, declaring, “You won’t defeat me”. The struggle went on as I beat her very hard. I leapt from my bed, body heavily soaked, alive and awake once again to discover it had, after all, been nothing but a strange dream.

I arrived at the Book Café on the first of November 2008, for the House of Hunger Poetry Slam, in Harare, Zimbabwe. I stared at my poem, then amateurishly contorted my features as I silently rehearsed before my name was called. Soon, I heard the call, “Now, please help me welcome our next poet, he is a librarian from Gweru, Zimbabwe, the Midlands Province, and his poem is entitled “Dusk”. As I delivered my poem, sweating and with my heart beating hard in my chest, I soon felt the words echo in my ears, full of life and oozing with the beauty of self-expression. That is when I realized that I was home and dry. Mine was a triumphant presentation, and a loud clap of hands from the audience summed up my presentation. Thus to this day I love the power of poetry