Matters of The Ndebele and His Place in Zimbabwe

In light of the recent 'changes' in Zimbabwe and the ongoing debate on matters pertaining to identity and history, I have the pleasure to introduce today's blog post, from Novuyo Rosa Tshuma, a famous writer friend of mine whom I am honoured to have on my blog. This post first appeared on her blog in 2010 and its thesis remains relevant today as it was then.

Her first novel House of Stone is available for pre-order here.

Well I was back home in Zimbabwe very recently, and had intended to stay for a couple of weeks, but I found myself eerily displaced from this place I call home, and it kinda scared me. I am back in South Africa, where I have always felt displaced from the moment I set foot, and I wonder if this displacement may be internal.

City Hall of the city of Bulawayo, former capital of the Ndebele Kingdom
(c) Scott Wheeler, GNU Free Documentation License

Close to Zim as SA is, I view it as another Diaspora. All the symptoms are there. The feeling, strong and stark and ever there, that one is an outsider; there are always these lines between one and the other; the insider and the outsider, and then lines between the outsiders themselves, the different nationalities; and then further still, from my experience with other Zimbabweans, lines between outsiders from the same place. The system itself is designed this way. Sometimes I think people hold an extra bag of fear with them, just in case an occasion rises up unexpectedly. In Johannesburg, it is advisable that if you are a foreigner, you carry a certified copy of your ID at all times; you may be asked to produce it by the authorities, failure to which may land you in a jail cell. I guess there are too many illegals around here. There is a certain hardening of the heart out here, and who can blame anyone? People, even relatives, are never really interested in you or your business. When they say, ‘How are you?’ they want to hear that you are ‘fine’, anything otherwise and you can see their eyes glazing over. Perhaps you may get a pat on the back and a gruff ‘Things will be ok’, and that’s that. Back home in Zim, that compact sense of family is ever there; it is the hall mark of our culture, and something to be proud of. And perhaps that is how many Zimbabweans have managed to survive these past years, because of this strong family support one could fall back on. Because one could approach the family with the confidence that help of some sort would be given. Because there was never any questioning of its existence. The case of Zimbabwe is sad; it feels new to us Zimbos, as it well should, and yet it is another ironical turn out of an African state. People carry this story with them, out of their country, brandishing it like a Food Pass at a refugee camp, only to get to the other side and realise that there is nothing special about this story. It reminds me of a passage in Parselelo Kantai’s short story ‘You Wreck Her’, a tale evolving around a prostitute in Nairobi:

‘They cackle and blow smoke in your face when you speak of a lost and painful childhood when you became your mother after she died…..They tell you to save it; everybody has a copy of that story. You can sell it for an extra 500 bob to a sad man in the short time car park.’

And so you come out into the big wide world to discover that ‘everybody has a copy of that story’. In fact, being away from home instils, more than ever, that sense of identification with one’s nation. The world ran out of empathy a long time ago; now, it has mostly a condescending type of pity. And nobody wants a condescending type of pity. It can be a good thing, this ‘condescending type of pity’, even if it is not meant to be; it is like a wake up call, that removes that sense of helplessness about one’s home and awakens a sense of responsibility that can motivate a desire for action.

It is even more ironical for the Nebeles; the Shonas have always been clear about where their home is and they have never sat on a fence about that. But the Nebeles, my tribe, oh! You just need to walk through the streets of Bulawayo to understand the devastations of the Ndebele misconception that South Africa is somehow that other home they are entitled to, that is just waiting with candles and a big creamy chocolate cake. This sense of kinship stems from history; the time when Mizilikazi broke away from Tshaka Zulu’s tribe in South Africa and moved into the Matabeleland region of what is now known as Zimbabwe. This desire for kinship with South Africa also delves from what is termed a complicated history, but may somehow not be so complicated. It is always complicated when a certain history in a people’s time is not acknowledged to the point that it festers into a series of tales that are sometimes delusional, emotional more than factual, and destructive in their unresolved state. Human beings have always been quick to lurch onto that sense of entitlement when wronged; it is a natural phenomenon, it very easily becomes the blemish upon which every subsequent wrong or fault, real or perceived to be so, is blamed. I think I may be speaking in riddles. For those who are not familiar with what I am talking about, just google Gukurahundi. I have heard many things being blamed by my tribe on this period; favouritism of other regions in the country, etc etc. It is not that simple. It never is. But it is never about what is or isn’t, it is about what is perceived to be.

This mind set, in my opinion, has made its effects felt in Bulawayo. Bulawayo seems to be slowly deteriorating; it seems devoid of people, like most of its occupants have left. People seem to be dragging their feet. Slow slow. A lack of enthusiasm about their city. A shrug of the shoulder in response to the problems. Complaining and complaining and more complaining. And then another shrug. It is sad. It is like a precious treasure that has been abandoned, in search of delusional riches elsewhere. You ask the people why; they shrug and say ‘they have never really felt a part of Zimbabwe’. Now this is a rich answer that stems from pain. But I think if the very same people who say this continue this exodus into South Africa, and then return to Zimbabwe, and you ask them the same question, they will be more careful about their response.

South African culture pervades Bulawayo at many levels; the fashion, the music, the way people come to South Africa for a month and suddenly every sentence starts with a ‘Mara ne?’, ‘ukukhuluma’ is suddenly ‘ukuthetha’ and so forth. It is a costly misconception; upon arrival in this ‘Promised Land’, it finally hits home that here, to the South Africans, you are Zimbabwean Ndebele or not, and that’s that. These ties of brotherhood are delusional. And so this kind of reluctance by Ndebeles to participate in matters of home, are disturbing. I heard talk of having a sort of ‘different governing body’ for the Matabeleland region, not a breaking away from the country, but a bit of ‘individualism’ if you could call it that. This was just talk between people, but it just reflects a certain state of mind, that is at times perpetrated in the limp attitudes of the way matters are approached by the Ndebele people in Zimbabwe.

Ceremonial Hall & East Wing, National University of Science And Technology
(c) Siphatha, GNU Free Documentation License

Again, if you ask them about the reasons for this attitude, there is always a reference to history, to how improvement is promised to the region but never followed up on. The Joshua Mqabuko International Airport, Bulawayo's airport, under construction for the past light years, is an embarrassing cluster of buildings more befitting of a growth point, and not worthy of an international status. There is also the Joshua Mqabuko Hospital, an impressive project that remains unfinished. And the National University of Science and Technology, again in Bulawayo, an impressive university which is in use but has not yet been completed. In fact, there is a crane that stands in the University grounds, rising high in the air. It now seems like such a natural part of the landscape that jokes have been made about how, even upon completion of the University, it should remain there, as a piece of artistic impression. And so, in spite of the hardships facing our country, according to my tribe, many of these half-done projects are seen as sabotage. That is what they perceive. And so they have retreated into what they see as a justified apathy. But sometimes this apathy is self-destructive. Somebody, a relative who is Ndebele and lives in Harare, the capital city, once pointed out to me what she perceived as a certain difference in attitudes between the Ndebele businessman and the Shona businessman. She said, the Shona business man will thrive, go to his home town/ rural home and improve the roads. The Ndebele businessman will thrive, bathe in the glow of his success and not lift a finger to improve his home town/ rural home. She gave a few examples of people she knew. This, of course, is a generalisation, but it serves to illustrate the detachment that the Ndebele seems to feel from his homeland. Which is not healthy. Not healthy at all. As the country moves towards ‘nation building’, it seems these are some of the issues that need to be addressed, for an effective way forward. The problem is, some of these issues are delicate (such as Gukurahundi) and are not even acknowledged by the leaders of the nation. See, the problem with issues such as Gukurahundi is that if they are not addressed, they become the powerful basis around which many ills, which may have nothing to do with them, are pivoted. There was a ‘Summary Report on the Disturbances in Matabeleland and the Midlands 1980 to 1988’ entitled ‘Breaking the Silence and Building True Peace’, compiled by the Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace in Zimbabwe and the Legal Resource Foundation, in 1999, which sought to give something of a balanced view of the Gukurahundi period and advocate of peace and healing and not to, as they said, bring forth any accusations.

The report starts:

‘People who live in Matabeleland and parts of the Midlands know only too well what happened to them during the 1980s. Their lives were affected in serious ways by both Government troops and also by dissidents and Youth Brigades at this time.

However, most people from other parts of Zimbabwe still have no idea what it was like for those who were suffering. They have no idea how people still suffer as a result of the violence that took place. People who were affected also do not have ways of talking to people in other parts of the country about what happened. Ordinary people all over Zimbabwe, need to know what happened during those years in their own country….people in affected regions can read how their history has been told, and people in unaffected regions can learn about if for the first time.’

(c) Source

But really, the issue has never been addressed much. The result? You just mention Gukurahundi in Bulawayo, and see how people open their mouths. ‘Ah!’ they say ‘You want to disappear?’ These are residual effects of that time. Suspicion, to the point that even the mere mention of that name, instils fear. And the effects of people from my generation? I never really knew about Gukurahundi until I was a teenager, and I never heard about it from my family. I never heard them speak about it when I was growing up. There were usually a lot of tribal connotations about the Shona tribe. Up to today, I have a relative who does not even entertain job applications from people who come from the Shona tribe. A Shona name is enough to guarantee that one will not get a job in his company. He will not entertain the Shona language to be spoken in his home. When another relative got married to a Shona, he did not attend the wedding. So far go the extremes of his resentment. According to the ‘Breaking the Silence’ report, the Gukurahundi period was not designed to be a civil war; it was not meant to be a Shona versus Ndebele war, there was state involvement in a bid to contain dissident activities and other ‘clandestine’ activities and gruesome atrocities and all the other delicate things one should take care when talking about etc etc etc etc etc. But emotions do not distil matters so far, especially without much room for dialogue on the matter. Growing up, I was not exposed to excessive tribalism, I had and still have many great friends who hail from the Shona tribe, in fact my generation is viewed as the ‘hope generation’, that can transcend these tribal tensions. Mild tensions, compared to other parts of Africa, but tensions nonetheless.

So one day I asked my family about what it was like during the Gukurahundi period. You hear a few personal stories, and suddenly the matters of tribalism are no longer black and white. You begin to understand why people are the way they are. And the issue becomes how to address the root of the problem, not to chop down the tree but to totally remove its roots. A tall order. So, talking about Gukurahundi with my peers, both Shona and Ndebele, I could never understand why my Shona friends would quickly brush the matter aside and advocate that it should be a period that should be swept under the carpet and forgotten. Move on, they would say. The past is the past. I never understood it, until, when talking, I realised that they had no idea about what happened during that time. There are regions in the country that do not know what happened during this period. And so, on the one hand, you have a tribe that is nursing anger and resentment, and on the other, a tribe that seems to bear little grudge in return because they are not familiar with the roots of this resentment.

Many Shonas I know are simply baffled about the Ndebeles’ strong tribalism; besides the lukewarm tribal clashes in terms of cultures etc from both sides, for the Shonas, there is no bone to chew. And so in the end, it seems, for my tribe, that they are harbouring all sorts of hurt, nursing it and hating an enemy that seems unaware. It is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. In the end matters that in the present state of things have weak ties to this period are blamed on it; such as the Shona tribe’s economic power, for instance. Which should not be surprising, since the Shona people make up 80% to 84% of the country, and the Ndebeles only 10% to 15% (Wikipedia statistics). And so the matter should not be about the Shona people’s economic power, but the Ndebele people’s lack of innovative applications, their apathy, their hapless attitudes. And how, the nation as a whole, can aid in addressing these matters and putting the past where it belongs, behind and in a peaceful state. The Germans and the Jews dealt with it on a much larger scale; the Holocaust. And so we can too. It is a sad, sad thing and I wonder, on the way to ‘nation building’, where the Ndebele sees himself. Zimbabwe is our home, and as such, needs our nurturing and care. We, the Ndebele people, need to find our place in it, otherwise we may find ourselves literally belonging nowhere.

Novuyo Rosa Tshuma
Ms Tshuma is a Zimbabwean writer based in the USA.
Her more recent essay can be found on Elephant Info: ERASED MEMORIES: Re-couping Zimbabwe’s humanity

City of Bulawayo's Coat of Arms
Si Ye Pambili | Let Us Go Forward

We Should All Be Feminists

Today's blog challenge is 'Feminism/Humanism/Womanism: Where do you stand'. I have no hesitation in stating where I stand: I am a feminist. And as much as I love rambling about my thoughts and positions for once in my life I would really like you to listen to someone who I think, managed to capture what being a feminist is; and why it is so necessary and important, in a way that every adult on this planet should hear out.

Ladies and gentlemen. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

“I looked the word up in the dictionary, it said: Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes. My great-grandmother, from stories I’ve heard, was a feminist. She ran away from the house of the man she did not want to marry and married the man of her choice. She refused, protested, spoke up when she felt she was being deprived of land and access because she was female. She did not know that word feminist. But it doesn’t mean she wasn’t one. More of us should reclaim that word. The best feminist I know is my brother Kene, who is also a kind, good-looking, and very masculine young man. My own definition is a feminist is a man or a woman who says, yes, there’s a problem with gender as it is today and we must fix it, we must do better. All of us, women and men, must do better.” 
― Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We Should All Be Feminists

Why I Am Doing the 30 Day Challenge

The more astute of my readers will have noticed that I have suddenly started churning out blogs (almost) daily for the past few weeks. The even more astute will have noticed the #30DayAfriblogger Challenge hashtag and will have seen me mention it here and there. And besides drawing the conclusion that I have now resorted to drowning my sorrows in the blog, you will know I am on a 30 Day Blogging Challenge with an awesome group of other bloggers (seriously, Google the #30DayAfriblogger and read the amazing blogs of my fellow bloggers following this challenge with me). The question though remains: why am I doing this to myself?

Why am I doing this to myself? (source) 

Because to be honest, it's not easy to blog on a schedule like this especially in-between a full time job at a start up and during the week my company is launching a product. That was my first thought when I saw the call to the challenge on Facebook. 'If only this had happened a few years ago, when I was still a student and had lots of free time.' I closed the Google Chrome tab and went on with my life. But a little voice kept nagging at me from the back of my mind. You dare call yourself a writer neh? You started that blog with the ambition of making something of it no? When exactly was the last time you actually blogged? Give me ten reasons why you shouldn't? What about all the To Do's you've been promising you'll get to? You know you turning thirty soon right?

And it's true. This blog has been one of the things festering at the back of mind for the past year or so when I have seriously neglected to maintain it. At times I would be with my friends then an idea would come to me and I'd be like, that would make an excellent blog post. And then when I got home I'd tell myself I'd do it during the weekend. Then the weekend would come and I'd either have forgotten what it was that seemed such a good idea a few days ago or life would happen (translation: laziness). And sometimes I'd read my past blogs and think on how good (or bad) they were and think to myself, yeah you had energy back then. If you've read my blog about avoiding regret by living in the past (How Not To Live) or my blog about why I write (Confessions of a Writer) or if you have watched this amazing video about the five second rule (see below: seriously though, the video is worth watching!!!) you'll think, I know whats coming; he had an epiphany and pushed himself off his lazy ass and started writing.

Well sort of. It involved a bottle of champagne as well as an epiphany but the end result is the same.

I said fuck it: Challenge accepted!

The Three Dishes I Grew Up With

Today's blogging topic is about the staple food in my family. Rather than tell, I will show. A picture is worth a thousand words no?

1. Sadza, Stew and Relish

This was our daily go to. The stew might be beef or mutton or goat. The spices might be mild, or not there at all. The relish might have onions and tomatoes or have been prepared in nothing but sunflower oil but the sadza was always the same. We ate sadza 98% of the time so this can safely have been called the staple food of our household.

Isitshwala in Ndebele (source)

2. Rice, Chicken and Coleslaw Salad

Weekends were a treat for my young mind! We'd have chicken! For those who don't understand, growing up chicken was more expensive than beef so it was something that we'd have once in a while and its rarity made it extra tasty in my mind.

In Zimbabwe, 'salad' can actually be used as slang for a brat. People from the upper middle class who had salad everyday. (source)

3. Chips and Chicken

On extra special occasions like my birthday, my mom would make french fries (or chips in Zimbabwean English) and deep fried chicken. Those days were paradise. (Funny story to be included in my autobiography, someone once found their way to my heart by making me french fries)

In Zimbabwe we have chips with vinegar not the abomination of a meal that the french do; chips and mayonnaise or apple source. (source)

These three meals defined my childhood, probably 80% of our meals were a combination of the above, though on some occasions we'd mix things up with things like ostrich meat, pork, tripe etc. #nostalgia #memories 

The Face Of God

God used to smell of incense. He was ritual and the silence of the church. He was song as the choir burst into song and a thousand students stood as the priests made their way to the altar. He was light and darkness, beauty and golden chandeliers, He was there and not there. The three priests would turn to face us. "The Lord be with you", they would say. "And also with you", we would answer. And also with you.

The chapel at my high school, St Columba's Anglican High School, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

God was my face the day the Headmaster made me stand up in front of the students. I used to like to sit in the very front row of the church, all the better to hear the music and watch the rituals unfold in front of me. The breaking of the host and its mysterious transformation into the sacrifice. The pouring of the blood red wine into the silver grail as the choir exploded into song, Igama lenkosi malibongwe. The girls soprano dancing above the rumbling of the boys tenors and bass. I would march up the red carpet and take my seat and watch in wonder and awe, sad that I could not take part in any the communion because I was a Lutheran and not an Anglican.

Usually I would leave unmolested but that day the Headmaster, who was also one of the Head Priests was bellowing through his sermon then suddenly he waved, "you are all made in the image of God. All of you. Love one another because God is in each one of you. You have the Face of God". He looked around and let the words sink in, then he grabbed me by the arm as he gestured for my terrified self to stand up and face a thousand students. "In fact, even this small boy, look at his face. If you ask yourself what God looks like, he probably looks like this." The teasing endured for months. 

Njube Lutheran Church where I was baptised at eight months (c) Agneta Jürisoo and Mats Lagergren,

God was harsher and more stringent at our humbler church whose domes made it look more of a cross between a mosque and a museum. The wall was covered in white plaster that rubbed off on your clothes if you leaned against it and the louvred windows reached almost up to the top of the building letting light stream in throughout the service. Here God was simpler, no incense and no golden chandeliers, the candlesticks were made of simple metal painted black and the flowers picked from the garden outside. No high tech public address system nor red carpet. But He was louder, harsher, more demanding. He was the voice of the pastor whose robes would flail from behind the lectern as he warned us all of the consequences of sin, of the dangers of death, of the evils of the world. My heart beat in wariness of the sins I knew I had committed and in mortal dread of the sins I didn't know I had committed and in absolute horror at the sins I might commit. 

God was mystery at my A-Level school. His words had turned from Shona and Ndebele to Latin as five hundred boys repeated after the brothers. Kyrie elysion, Christe elysion, Kyrie elysion. He was wrapped once again in incense but this incense formed thicker clouds around him with words of dogma, of history and traditions and messages from a Pope, (or to use his formal title: His Holiness, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God.) in the Vatican, thousands of miles away who spoke on His behalf and whose spirt we regularly prayed for. God's mother, Mary, was suddenly everywhere and she was prayed to. Prayed to for her mercy and intercession so she could speak to this mysterious God on our behalf. He was incredible wealth as the brothers spoke of the many other schools like ours around the world but he was also service in action for the poor and oppressed in the world.

The Pietà Madonna by Michelangelo in St Peter's Basilica, The Vatican

But in an instant God became nonsense in Algeria. Suddenly the privilege from living in a 99% majority Christian country disappeared like the morning dew when I found myself in a 99.8% majority Muslim country surrounded by a fraction of the almost two billion Muslims around the world. God was hidden Bibles on our way to church, covered crucifixes around our necks, was a thousand inquisitive questions, some friendly, others harsh where suddenly a lot of 'simple' things became extremely difficult to explain.

"So you have three God's n'est pas?" "No, we have one God". "But you just told me that Jesus and this Holy Spirit person are also God no?" "Yes, yes but they are one." "You literally don't make any sense at all you know that, plus you said God died on a cross!" Latin words and dogma lying in a library somewhere in the Vatican somehow started feeling less comforting. "So this Bible of yours has many versions but some versions are the true one and the one you follow is one of the true ones but not some of the other ones whom you call cults....who gets to decide heh? You know the Koran only has one version?"

Anger and frustration would rise, but also questions that led down paths that sometimes had no answers. Like the time when I was a child and I had piped up during a Bible study session; but if God was really so good why did he put the Apple tree smack bang in the middle of the garden? My question hung in the air like an unexploded bomb until someone told me not ask such silly questions. Perhaps God's answers were in the mosque I attended with my friends several times but the flood of Arabic only raised more mysteries. Perhaps God was only in Zimbabwe and this was indeed a people doomed to fate. Perhaps he was in the Vatican whispering answers to the Pope. Perhaps he was in the streets with the prophets who screamed fire and damnation was nigh to anyone who was not in their denomination of Christianity, one of 38, 000 worldwide. What did I know? Nothing.

I looked at my Algerian, Muslim friend, his face screwed up in confusion at the crawling mass of my stories of this God of ours against the injunction of his Allah. And then I heard Mr Moyo's rumble of a voice from that incense filled building, Your friend has the face of God.

Love him. 

My Top Ten Songs From Zimbabwe

Today's blog takes us to the world of Zimbabwean music, specifically my Top Ten Songs from Zimbabwe. For those who are actually Zimbabwean, forgive the 'datedness' of my list, (and the Shona translations (hides)) it has been years since I have continuously lived in Zimbabwe. 

The reason I love lists like this, making and reading them, is that they allow people to discover music they might not otherwise have ever heard. Click here for a similar list I compiled for my favourite French music. And now to Zimbabwe....

10. Ammara Brown - Mukoko

Ammara Brown is one of Zimbabwe's newest stars. She is also part of a family rich with musical legacy, her mother was Chiwoniso Maraire, an international legend on the mbira and her father was the musical genius Andy Brown, both sadly have passed on. In this song, Mukoko (the Shona word for honey) Ammara proudly proclaims that she isn't just a babe (a honey in Shona slang), but a real woman. The video is one of the best choreographed Zimbabweans I have seen in a while, with splashes of colour and the ambience of the township.

Best line: I will sing for you and make you my hubby. But you gotta treat me like a treasure. You gotta treat me like a treasure!!! 

 

9. Hillzy & Oliver Mtukudzi - Ndiwe Wega Uripo (Trap Soul Remix)

I actually had not heard Hillzy before this song and I never knew there was a Zimbabwean trap singer, much less a trip soul artist. Surprises never cease. In this soulful remix of Oliver Mtukudzi's Ndiwe Wega Uripo, Hillzy raps above the melody of the echo of the original song and then harmonizes in a haunting chorus. I wish this had a video!

Best line: Ndiwe mumwe wangu, ndiwe wega uripo...(you are my better half, you are the only one there)

8. Tricky J - TAMBISA DAKO ft.Sinte & KYD

This song was banned on Zimbabwean TV! And if one if familiar with Zimbabwean conservatism, one can begin to understand. Who cares! I love this song, the beat is amazing, the choreography is great and the video is so funny! Even funnier for me was that I initially had no idea what a 'dako' was, my Shona whilst passable is hardly perfect lol. 

Best line: Tambisa dako!!! (Shake that ass!!!)

7. ExQ - Bhachura ft. Ammara Brown

Ammara Brown makes another appearance on my list, this time with ExQ, a popular Zimbabwean urban grooves singer. The video is heartbreaking and the lyrics are bittersweet, a recently single young man singing that it was better being single. Relationships huh? 

Best line: Everything Ammara sings! The passion in her voice. Tjoh.

6. TINASHE - Bated Breath

This is technically cheating, because Tinashe is technically American. But in my defence, her name is Shona and her father is Zimbabwean so there. I will claim her back as one of our own! What makes this song even more special for me is that I was listening to my random Spotify Daily Mix when this came up on the playlist. Not even knowing that it was a Zimbabwean born singer, I played it over again and again.....

5. Chiwoniso - Wandirasa

And the Queen of the Mbira is Chiwoniso! This discordant hymn to pain is one of the most haunting Chiwoniso songs I know. Her voice rises above the mbira filled with pain and a cry to be released from pain. An ode to a lover who has abandoned her, the title literally translates to 'You have thrown me away' (it's amazing how one word can turn into an English sentence!)

Best line: Something about you baby has touched me deep inside, I can't explain it to you. No matter how hard I try to stay away from you but we both know it will never be the same.....(and the screams in the end that haunt your dreams long after)

4. Oliver Mtukudzi - Neria

This is a song that a lot of Zimbabweans will resonate with no matter what language they speak. A song that reminds us of the award winning movie Neria about a widow whose in-laws throw her out to the streets to fend for herself and her children. Decades later I can hardly remember the details of the movie but this song takes me back to the first day I heard it as if it was yesterday. Oliver's voice and the guitar of which he is one of Zimbabwe's unrivalled masters gently sing to comfort Neria, telling her God is with her, not to lose heart and to be strong. 

Oliver Mtukudzi's CV is too long to list here. With countless albums, countless awards, work as an ambassador for UNICEF and the Cavaliere of the Order of Merit Award from the government of Italy, we Zimbabweans simply know his as Tuku.

Best line: Usawore mwoyo kaNeria, Mwari anewe.....shinga moyo shinga! 

(PSA & shameless plug: head over to www.zimhealth.org, an organisation I am part of and who have as their Ambassador for Health none other than Oliver Mtukudzi!)

3. Mafriq - Chizevezeve

When I left Zimbabwe in 2007 this song had just come out. And I remember at the time it had one of the best music videos I had seen for a Zimbabwean song. The song itself is an morality song, a young couple singing of the work of gossipers who are never happy when people are happy but always happy when gossip and bad relationships abound. The Shona was so deep for me at the time I had to ask a few of my Shona friends to translate the song for me. 

Best line: Nhasi vadanana, mangwana varambana. Chenjerai kunyara makuona vachichata (today they are in love, tomorrow they are fighting, watch out will all your gossip because one day they will be married)....[Shona transcribing skills fail here] when the girl told the boy her name was Chido and the boy lied back and said he was Tindo, all of you were not there, you have no shame!

2. Pah Chihera - Runonzi Rudo 

I actually don't know much about these two singers but I love the song and the video. Lovely, happy and colourful. The title translates to 'It's called love'. 

1. Chiwoniso - Iwai Nesu

I won't lie, I was going to add another Oliver Mtukudzi song to the list, he is one of my favourite singers but then I remembered that there is a song I listen to when I'm down. A song whose smooth voice comforts me, whose prayer reminds that the world, an unfair place as it, is still a place of beauty.

One of Chiwoniso's last songs before she died, Iwai Nesu, (Be with us), is a song & a prayer. It pleads with God to be with us. To listen to us. To see a world ravaged by injustice and be our Father. The mbira, played by Chiwoniso, strums  in the background as she reminds God that we are His children.

Best line: Vamwe vaparara nendzara, vamwe vachifa nekuguta, kumwe vaparara nemvura, vamwe vechipera nezuva....Tirivana venyu.... (There are those dying from hunger, whilst others are dying of gluttony, others are washed away by floods and others are finished by the sun...We are your children!) 

PS: Some will remark that all these songs are almost entirely Shona, a language I learnt at the age of ten, and not my mother tongue, Ndebele. I noticed it today and perhaps that is the subject of another blog post? Perhaps. Probably. 

Blood Of My Blood: My Totem

Today's post was originally going to be extremely short. One paragraph at most. Why, you may ask? Because for once I was writing about a topic that I am not that well versed in, my totem. But then I realised that that is not an excuse. My responsibility as a blogger was to arm myself with (some) knowledge and Game of Thrones references and then, and only then, deign to write the ramblings of my disturbed mind.

The concept of totem is one I knew from an early age. My relatives used to call me a monkey when I was small and as I grew up I came to realise that my surname for the Ndebele people was synonymous with monkey. You see, just as the Great Houses in Game of Thrones, (and more true to real life - European nobility) have coat of arms with animal or floral representations of their houses; in Africa each House has a spirt, or symbol that represents their clan. For the Ndlovu's it is the elephant, for the Nkomo's it is the the cow and for me it is the monkey.

(c) Ian Leino

But it goes way beyond just a name and a symbol for us sub-Saharan Africans. To understand this one has to understand that there are two ways of proving kinship: bloodline or totems. Rukariro Katsande explains that ' Extended family is made up of intricate kinship, with parents, children, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters, all regarding each other as closely related. The word “cousin” does not exist in sub-Saharan languages/dialects, and kinship ends at the nephew and niece level.' And that is only the first part, in addition, those who share the same totem may not get married to each other, or if they do, special ceremonies must first be conducted to break the totemic bond between them; lest their relationship be considered incestual.

Another little known fact is the sacredness of the totem to those whose name it represents. For the most part, a family cannot eat their totem. This means that it is taboo for me to eat monkey meat, and as types of meats go, I am very fine with obeying this rule till the day I die! More research has to be done by me on this totem business for sure, including a few calls home to understand and explain the intricacies of it all but I hope that gave you a glimpse of the fabric of our history and culture.

The Ten Rules I Grew Up With, An African Love Story

Today, once again, I will be writing about home. Not the home where I live in but the home I came from. I grew up in Bulawayo, in Southern Zimbabwe. It's a city where I spent the first eighteen years of my life (back then my main aim was to leave) but it's a city that shaped me and whose very texture I miss. But more than the city and my friends, I miss my homes. And no, that is not a typo (see Rule 6), as an African, every home where a relative lived was my home. That's just how things were. Those were the rules and here are the top ten (in no particular order):

"A city whose very texture I miss"
Jacaranda's in Bulawayo (c) Frankie Kay https://frankiekayfotos.wordpress.com/

10. Elders are to be respected

End of story. There was no if, and or but about it.



9. Money does not grow on trees

This is a statement that was hammered into my head time and time again, my parents, uncles and aunts repeated it ad nauseam.

"Stop wasting water as if money grows on trees." 

"Why did you leave the lights on? Money doesn't grow on trees."

" Why is the Mazoe finishing so fast, do you think Spar gives them out for free eh? Money doesn't grow on trees!"

Growing up, one never quite understands the implication of all those rebukes and the place they were coming from but now as a working adult and with bank statements, tax declarations and bills pouring through my postal box like water, I now (quite sadly) understand. And living in Europe, where people do live as if money (and resources) grow on trees, I am grateful for the lesson.



8. There is no such thing as sleeping in

When I was in Algeria for university one of the (guilty) pleasures of life that I discovered was waking up at midday on a weekend. I would like to say that this was a rare occurrence but I have enough sins on my plate let me not add lying to the list. (In my defence though, once you live through 45° Celsius summers you won't be snickering so hard at me will you?) The joy of knowing it was a Saturday and that there was absolutely nothing to do was glorious and I would open one eye early in the morning, acknowledge the world existed and go back to sleep.

Why was slothful submission to sleep this glorious you ask? Because growing up, there was no such thing as a weekend. My mother would come and knock loudly on my door if I slept too late and if she didn't hear the patter of feet in a few seconds she would burst into the room and draw the curtains, sunlight streaming into the room like an uninvited guest at an African wedding. Any notion of sleeping a few more minutes would die there and there because my bedroom faced the East and the full glory of the day would blind me momentarily and chase sleep away. My mother would stand there to meet any complaints, "Ah, when I was growing up, we would be up long before the sun had finished charging its batteries, and here you are complaining in bed at 9am. Mxm. Vila voxo!"



7. You know nothing John Snow!

Fans of Game of Thrones and those raised in African households will know what I am talking about. The formulation is simple: as an African child growing up in an African household any complaints on why things were as they were would be met with the phrase: "ah, you know nothing shame. When I was growing up..."

Complaints about why we had to take the bus to school when the other children had cars: "you know nothing, when I was growing up we used to walk ten kilometres to school and we would arrive fresh and ready to learn." 

Complaints about why ZESA was gone: "ah when I was growing up, we had candles and gas lights to study with and when night fell it was time to sleep vele. If only you knew."

Complaints about being bored and having nothing to do: "hehe if only you knew. When I was a boy I would be woken before dawn to go and herd the cattle and only be back home after the sun had set. Children of today shame!"

Complaints about going to the rural areas for holiday: "you know nothing you child of the City. This is where I grew up. This was my home"

Looking back I really do realise that I really did not know anything.

(c) HBO

6. Family comes first

Without going too deeply into the drama that is family (my mothers family is Sotho and they speak Sotho which I don't understand, my fathers is Ndebele but they all speak Shona and that's just touching the surface), there was one thing that came as naturally as breathing. It was a rule that was hardly spoken, it just was. Just as it is in Game of Thrones (forgive me, I am a geek and therefore a superfan), family is everything. My parents once lived in Europe before I was born and they told me about siblings who would book appointments before seeing each other and that would be once or twice a year (this apparently was Sweden in the eighties). To illustrate how different things were in my African household, we once drove to Gwanda where my aunt lived when I was around six or seven. There I met my cousin who was a year younger than me. When it was time to leave, I calmly told my parents that they could leave without me, I would take the bus and follow on Monday morning. And that is exactly what I did.

No invitations necessary, no deadlines or schedules to work around. I would spend weeks in Harare at my cousins, a month at my aunts in Beit-bridge and weekends with cousins in Bulawayo on the spur of the moment. Because that is what families do.

Family. Duty. Honour
(c) HBO

5. Gratitude is not optional

My name, Bongani, literally is an instruction to 'give thanks'. One does not just walk into an African household and eat food then rub ones belly in satisfaction. One claps their hands in gratitude and lists the clan names of the house before thanking them from the bottom of their hearts. And that is that.

One of the best stories from my cousins was when they ate then sat to watch TV as if nothing had happened. Their mother, my aunt, quietly gathered the plates went to the kitchen and cooked a fresh pot of sadza and stew and served them again. When she registered their apparent dismay she innocently mocked, "I didn't hear a thank you so I assumed you were still hungry. Now finish those plates." 



4. When we buy new things one does not remove the plastic cover until it is torn and begging to be removed

We all know the TV remote that stayed wrapped in its plastic until it had holes. And in an age where we all now regularly buy smartphones with the processing capabilities of a 1980's supercomputer then replace them when the screen cracks, this is just a beautiful extension of rule number 9. And an application of rule 7. We know nothing.



3. Friends should be chosen carefully

I would like to think I was not the only one who was subjected to a full FBI interrogation when I asked that a friend come and sleep over. Who are his parents? How long have you known this person? Where does he live? But of course once they met my friends they would be granted the seal of approval and our home was theirs.

I only came to understand why when I was leaving for Algeria. My mother, a woman I had never been apart from for more than three months at a time gave me this parting piece of advice: "choose your friends wisely. They will be many acquaintances in life and you can afford to have bad ones but one thing you cannot afford is a bad friend." 

Now, looking back, regret says; if only I had understood exactly what she meant.



2. I am because we are

In Ndebele we have a saying, umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu. It is part of the concept of Ubuntu. (And no, white people, it is not Ubhuntu, it is Ubuntu) Simply put it means 'a person Is because of other people.' Notice the capital 'I' in 'is', that again is not a typo: our raison d'être (the French have a beautiful way of expressing that capital I: raison d'être; the sole or ultimate purpose of something or someone) is not for ourselves but to change the world around us and to serve those around us. In some households it would be expressed as don't waste food, children are dying in that country I don't want to name whilst you are busy here wasting food. Certainly that was true in mine as well. But it was also in the small things, stubbing your toe and squealing with pain and everyone around you says sorry. In Europe when I say sorry to a friend who has hurt himself, they laugh at me and say but it wasn't your fault. Yes, I know but I feel your pain.

I Am because you are. It was being reminded to do whatever one could do for those less fortunate than oneself. It was weekends spent at a children's shelter with my Dad, watching my mother give her time and effort to whatever cause she felt could help. And slowly learning that I could do the same.



1. This is not a democracy, it is a constitutional monarchy

I remember watching some America reality show and seeing the children swearing at their parents. And when I say swearing, I mean screaming 'fuck you' at their mother. For those who were raised in African households this needs no further explanation. For those who were not, let me just say a little demon whispered in my mind, imagine that happening to you and the rest of my mind revolted in horror. Because we all know what is like in an African household (if you still don't know refer to rule 10). And we all know that any bambini unfortunate enough to whisper back at an African parent will know that day what is is like to visit hell.

"I'm beating you and you are crying? Hahaha manje you will know what it's like to cry."

[Five minutes later]

"I'm beating you and you are silent? You are a man now? Let's see who is the older one today!"



Zeroth Rule. There is nothing an African Household will not do for its own

This is an extension to rule 6. But more specifically aimed at the household rather than the extended family. In Ndebele we have a saying, indlovu ayisindwa ngumboko wayo.

Literally put, an elephant is not weighed down by its trunk.

Simply put: there is nothing I would not do for them.

And there is nothing they haven't done for me. 

We Are Not Lions...

I am as bewildered as the ordinary Zimbabwean as to why the death of what essentially was a big, wild cat has managed to unite the world in mourning. The excitement has risen to the extent of seeing my Twitter Timeline and Facebook homepage flooded with hashtags such as #cecilTheLion, #WalterPalmer and even, sacrilege of sacrileges, #jeSuisCecil. Demonstrations have been organised, petitions signed and Jimmy Kimmel was so moved by the events in Zimbabwe that led to Cecil’s death, that he shed tears on his show. In 24 hours alone, the hashtag #CecilTheLion racked up three quarters of a million tweets. Zimbabwean Twitter was soon alight with tweets of bewilderment and slight mirth as we watched this global display of grief over the death of one of our lions.

Honestly, shrink him a little bit and he's nothing more than a cat! A glorified cat!

The backlash was inevitable though; some Zimbabweans are now feeling slighted by the international media, who have thrust a dead lion, into the limelight ahead of what they feel are more deserving issues. Like the case of political activist Itai Dzamara who was kidnapped four months ago and is still missing or a government seemingly hell bent on digging now that the economy has reached rock bottom; issues like rocketing unemployment and an ever fragmenting ruling party facing off with a fractured opposition. But in the plethora of commentary both for and against Cecil The Lion, I find something deeply disturbing. In criticising Western Media for their focus on this story, Zimbabweans are silently overlooking our own silence on our own stories. 

Men and women on the far side of the planet have taken to their streets to protest for the rights of a lion they will never see. Yet in Zimbabwe itself, we have held our relative peace as nine thousand people have lost their jobs in two weeks according to President Robert Mugabe himself. We have looked and mocked each other on Twitter as we watched Mrs Mugabe essentially award herself a Doctorate from the country’s leading University, the #DrAmai hashtag trended for a few weeks but at the end of the day, we have let her keep her dubious degree. We watch as government bickers openly, Ministers are spied on and political parties fragment into more pieces than they are Christian churches and in all this we seem to have failed to bring as much attention to our own issues as outraged white Americans and ‘Western Media’ have bought onto the case of one dead lion.

One assumes Cecil is in Lion Heaven singing Hakuna Matata....

Our voices all over social media have never been as united as they have been in this weird pro/anti Cecil The Lion universe we have been thrust into. Our willingness to analyse the legality of extraditing Dr Palmer has never been as in depth as our analysis of Doctorates falling from heaven into the laps of ruling party members.  And even when our voices have reached levels matching the current brouhaha, action has not matched Western efforts over a dead lion. In one day Jimmy Kimmel has raised USD 150 000 for Cecil The Lion. This is not to negate nor ignore the tireless voices who have spoken out over the past decade, organisations and individuals alike, who have fought for Zimbabwe. But this is to question the many who have remained silent in the face of the few who have acted and spoken, risking livelihoods, lives and limbs.

 Part of it is due to the eternal optimism of Zimbabweans, what else has taken us through hyperinflation so terrible the government could no longer fit enough zeros onto the local currency before it collapsed? What else has taken us through almost a decade of electricity cuts, water cuts, understaffed and underequipped hospitals? Where the citizens of almost any other country in Africa would have long ago declared enough to be enough, we have simply held onto the belief that tomorrow is another day and maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will bring something better with it. The rest is fear. Fear of a repressive regime that rules in a country where opposition leaders get severely assaulted by the national police, where political activists disappear, where outspoken Catholic Archbishops like Pius Ncube are silenced with nationally broadcast ‘leaked’ sex tapes. 

But in failing to address the optimism that has led us nowhere nearer to regaining the glory of our yesterday nor face the fear that has bound us to inaction, Zimbabweans are demonstrating that as much as we might cry for this lion, this alpha male who was king of Hwange National Park, we leave our story, by default to be told for us by the ‘Western Media’ and foreigners who will always care for whatever their heart chooses to care about. And in failing to stand up for our own stories, speak out with our own voices, we fail to be fearless or brave or agents of change on the broken scene of our country’s landscape. We fail to be lions. 

Tywin of House Lannister: A True Lion

Remembering Home, Remembering You

I remember the sun peeking over the horizon as if it was scared of announcing a new day. But already the light of its glory has set the sky on fire and the day has begun. The rooster crows in agreement and I lie in bed, this feeling of deliciousness inside me. The joy at being alive, of being here, inhabiting this space, this time, being home. Outside, the dew covers the delicate fronds of grass and hangs from the rose petals, a delicate beauty dripping like diamonds from the soft pink of the buds.

I remember that beauty. Beauty of the garden I kept myself, worked every Saturday to water and mulch. I remember the stark blue of the sky in winter. Cloudless and stretching like the mind of God to the ends of the world as I lay in the grass watching it. Innocent. Guileless. Clueless. My world was limited to the borders of the city I had been born in, Bulawayo: the place of killing. I began each day as I always did; a bowl of porridge. On a good day, with a tablespoon of peanut butter and generous amounts of sugar. I never understood those who put butter in their porridge, I was always a peanut butter guy. I haven't had porridge in almost ten years.

I remember the avenues of Bulawayo lined with jacaranda's in October. That is the image most tourists have in their heads, the image that a quick Google search will give to you: streets covered in a carpet of purple, drops of perfume falling from the trees to the ground where they lay waiting to be squished by the wheels of cars or your feet as you passed by on your way to the shops to buy a loaf of steaming fresh bread from the Hot Bread Shop. But an image less know about is an image of the Flamboyants that bloom in early summer and explode in a red as deep as the eyes of the setting sun. Some are isolated trees, lost amongst the crows of the Jacaranda's, but some are armies that line Cecil Avenue on it's way to meet Hillside Road, standing guard over the narrow road like loyal red sentinels watching over you as you pass by.

"Loyal red sentinels watching over you as you pass by..."
(c) Mrs P. Wise

I remember my first high school. Nestled deep in the heart of Makokoba, its green solitary field, an emerald that I told myself would one day watch as I played soccer to the applause of a cheering crowd. That never happened. Instead I lost myself in the brown face brick buildings, discovering science and literature and a world I had never imagined existed. Hard working men and women showing up every morning to make sure one thousand children each got an education that would arm them for a life in a country that was beginning its slow decline into madness. But what did I know of that? For me life was scrunching up my noise on days when the sewage in Mazaye decided to smell and waft into our Maths class as we tried to concentrate hard on these things called variables. Or the smell of incense during mass at school that made me wonder if God smelt like that; mysterious, stuffy and holy.

I remember you. Remember the force of your being, the beauty of your soul. The way we laughed all day never once thinking that it would all end. Remember the way you and I walked through the streets of that City we both called home, looking for what it was we did not know. But perhaps it was just looking for the happiness of existing in each other's world, sharing the space that Universe had loaned us, given to us and whispered softly that she would take it back one day. But we never heard her did we? We walked carelessly past the white splendour that was City Hall, sat our buttocks on the hard pavements as we waited for our kombi to go home, the squalid beauty that was the flea market with old women selling tomatoes. The freshest tomatoes in the world they said, the most beautiful, juiciest and reddest of them all: all for just two dollars. Two dollars only. I would give every dollar I had to have those days back.

I remember Christmas. No, nothing like the spectacular December lights on the Champs Elysée in Paris. Nothing fancy that sparkled in the flash of tourist camera's and makes them catch their breath. More humble, more basic; static lights stretched over Gwanda Road, all the way past the greens of Centenary Park, in the shape of a fat Santa, reindeer and spelling out Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Or perhaps it was one of the Christmas' I spent in the village with my gogo, the smell of the manure that was used to create the hard floor of the huts fading more and more into the background as each day passed. I regret never having milked the cows, never having carried a bucket of creamy milk to gogo milked by my own hands and waiting for her to congratulate me in Sotho, a language that I still do not understand.

"I will be lucky enough to go and live out those memories waiting to happen..."
Source: RedJBishop

It's funny no? One regrets the things one never did. I don't regret the day I froze in front of the entire school when I was supposed to give a prayer. I don't regret the friends I made who would later leave me, the days I spent carved into the hard stone of my memory that I will pass my hands over till the day I die. Instead one regrets the roads untravelled, the sights unseen, the words unsaid said to you. But perhaps one day I will be lucky enough to go and live out those memories waiting to happen. Add them to my memories of a City that calls out to me in my dreams, whispers to me in my days and says only one word, a simple word that tugs on my heart with such force I fear it will break.

Home. 

Zimbabwe's Lost Generation by ChrisNqoe

"Courage sometimes skips a generation."

I've written on the state of local youths before but I'm not sure I've ever been in such a disillusioned state or projected the anger and fear that harbours in the collective minds of Zimbabwe's born free
generation. For many fellow youths, born some years into Zimbabwe's independence, we inherited a country whose worst years were behind it. The liberation struggle, sanctions, threat of Civil war, international isolation, genocidal massacres and an uncertain future.

Like millions of young Zimbabweans born after 1980, we came into a hopeful world, a functioning country and a nation with potential to be one of Africa's success stories. In 1990, Zimbabwe had one of Africa's most impressive statistics, one of the world's best education policies with an economy that was the envy of many developing countries.

"Millions of young Zimbabweans...came into a hopeful world"
(GFDL Licence)

That story has been told so many times, exhausted beyond measure and exploited as the tale of how much could go wrong in so little time.

I'm not interested in telling the politics of Zimbabwe. I'm concerned about who'll tell the story of a generation of young Zimbabweans who have watched their country collapse, get plundered and destroyed by a generation of leaders who, ironically, were brave enough to go to war for it.

It might not all be doom and gloom for Zimbabwe's youth, many have transitioned through the academic cycle, graduated out of Zimbabwe's celebrated education system, in local and foreign universities. And then, began confronting the struggles of the real world. A world we were promised would accept us with all our qualifications and lack of experience. Or so we thought.

The reality of Zimbabwe is one were there's an entire generation that refuses to pass on chances to younger minds with fresher, radical and more relevant ideas. The problem Zimbabwe faces is not political. It's generational. It's a reluctance to accept natural change and advancement of ideas over the stagnancy of old systems.  It's a rigidity of perceptions and a stubborn refusal to accept the stale
nature of old school ideas that no longer fit into the globalised world we live in.

In the fields of politics, public administration, corporate world and ordinary life, willingness for innovation and adoption of new ideas is what determines the success of entities.

Perhaps it's time for our generation to take charge of its own destiny. Like the young men and women who felt compelled to take up arms and fight for their country's liberation. The moment is ours now, to channel our activism against old political systems into creating a new, reliable, youthful presence on the upper rungs of politics. Our country needs us.

The current system is simply not working for young people and the signs are there. We may be a demographic that was not inhibited by the racial inequalities that our parents faced. But, we must really be concerned that we are a generation that will be poorer than our parents. This is a reality we have to face.

A lack of jobs and financial difficulties are something most of us have in common. Many educated young people are leaving university with no prospect of a stable job, guarantee of employment or likelihood of financial independence.

Unemployment rates in Zimbabwe are amongst the highest in the world.
Central Intelligence Agency data (GNU Licence)

There exist sad common factors amongst young Zimbabweans. A lingering feeling of disenfranchisement because our government systems are not properly listening to our problems and the solutions we are offering. Young people are not being given a chance to lead. However, the answer to Zimbabwe's lack of growth, in so many ways, is found in its reluctance to allow youth led innovation.

The older generation feels threatened by young millenials; this is a sad but true indictment. In discussions with my peers, there is a similar frustration, we are not being given a chance to effect change, and this is not referring to Zimbabwe's troubled politics.

None of us sees the world in guarantees, our parents told us to work hard and we would be rewarded with success. Our current state tells otherwise.  We are a generation that's stagnant, unable to grow up. We don't have jobs or own homes. We have young educated job-seekers who rely on their parents for financial support, most of us stay at home because we can't afford to move out and pay rent.

Youth unemployment is a daily reality for millions and Alcoholism is a deadly animal that's consuming thousands of young Zimbabweans. Hopelessness is trait that's become second nature for many. But unlike the generations before us, we have few options. We cannot go to war. We can’t fly abroad. Jumping the border is not a choice. It's tougher out there. Zimbabwe is our option, but a collective effort is required to make it liveable for young people.

What solutions do we offer?  We need economic and social policies that are youth friendly and focused. Just as there exist government measures that protect Pensioners, Civil Servants and War Vets. Let young people come up with these solutions. Employ young people. Lower the retirement age. Enforce paid internships. Introduce learner ships and invest more funding to vocational education. Give funding, resources and support to youth led business ideas. Don't simply give
us money, train young people to be good wealth managers. Zimbabwe has millions of young people with educational qualifications, ideas, energy and patriotism. Take advantage of this.

Who am I speaking to? To you, the older generation. To all of you who were born in Rhodesia. Yes, you endured the hardships of colonial rule, but young people cannot be paying you forever. You took back your country, liberated your people, benefited from land reform and nationalised our country's natural resources. Is that not enough?

Give young people a chance.

A Hopeless Dawn - Frank Bramley 1888
(Creative Commons 2.0 Licence)

Passionate about Law & Media, Chris Dube is a disillusioned young Zimbabwean.
Follow him on Twitter: @ChrisNqoe

Dr Amai vs Dr Amai

Sometimes satire is the only way to deal with a reality so convoluted it makes your head spin.

All hail Dr Amai, Grace of the house Mugabe, Khaleesi of the Great Dairy Farm, Crusher of Mazowe, Queen of the Highlands and the Doctorates and the First Men, Prophetess of the Mountains, Breaker of Chains, the Soon to Be Burnt, Defender of Virginity, and Mother of Dragon purses made in China. 

When presidential politics starts resembling the reruns of a low budget 80's series that was taken off air because the network executives thought the storyline was too unbelievable.

When Julius Malema starts looking as if he is a graduate of Havard Law School compared to the mad rantings of a certain recently minted PhD graduate. 

Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe I will wake up and find out this all never happened. That they didn't take away my knighthood and my appointment for tea on the lawns of Buckingham Palace with Lizzie Dear was never cancelled. I'll wake and up Mandela will still be my bestie who calls me every night before I go to sleep and maybe Grace will still be typing away in her office and not in my bed.

Be sure they are all watching us and laughing their lungs out. Phoning each other at all hours of the night to read the headlines and laugh some more. The NSA probably has a live feed of her SMS's and her email inbox by now. And even they are laughing.

Meanwhile those who fought with all their strength and breath and sinew, those who gave their lives so that Africans might hold their hands up high in the world. Those whose every breath brought quiet dignity to Africanness, those whose very heart beat in rhythm with Ubuntu; meanwhile they turn in their graves and wonder what it is all going to become.

"When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers". - African proverb

Dear Mr Big Man aka Morgan Tsvangirai

Dear Mr Tsvangirai

Let me set the scene for you. It's 5am where I am and I am supposed to be sleeping but here I am sitting at my desk thinking about you. Please disabuse yourself of the notion, I am not thinking of you in that way, God forbid. No I am thinking about you in a more banal and more realistic way especially now that I read you have been suspended from your own party. I am thinking of all your successes and failures. Especially the failures. Yes, to be quite honest, I am having a very difficult time coming up with the successes.

Let us see dear Sir, let us count them off one by one. You founded Zimbabwe's biggest opposition party and for what seemed like the first time it had ever happened, you stood up to Robert Mugabe and his party, ZANU PF. I remember the strikes, the protests and the stayaways you organised in those forgotten years of Zimbabwe's history, that autumn before the winter that would find us holding the remnants of a country. But how were we to know back then that the dollar would collapse, that we would wind up in queues queuing for our own currency, for sugar, for bread, for water, for dignity. Yes, perhaps in that autumn of our country you were the only one who could see that far ahead. You led, you protested, you told us to vote for you and those few that saw your vision voted with you for what you said would be change and a brighter future.

Change did not come.

Through no fault of your own Mr Tsvangirai. Understand this, we saw you beaten, we saw you holding your bloody head in front of the camera's. We read about your MP's who would be dragged out of their homes in the middle of the night only for their remains to be found days or months later. Or never found at all. We saw the offices of the Daily News bombed and then closed down, we read about your offices being raided and we saw the horrors you went through Mr Tsvangirai. How could we fault you? You more than anyone knows what it is like to sit within the walls of a Harare jail for having spoken truth to power. But already the tendrils of your downfall were planted back then. You see Mr Tsvangirai, people saw you as a plaything of the West, a puppet and not your own man. You know how hard it is to convince Nationalists in any country and any era to see beyond the borders of their country.

Even then there were whispers that you were not that clever a man, that your deputies fought with you and more. But we were entranced bythe image of our country go up in flames like rabbits caught in the headlights of a car hurtling at it. Some of us left. Some of us stayed. You stayed and you vowed to fight. And you fought.

And change did not come.

By then things got worse Mr Tsvangirai. Your own party had split into two distinct pieces, ostensibly over the issue of contesting the Senate elections at the time but there were whispers of tribalism and authoritarianism. You failed there. You failed to provide leadership in your parties greatest test against no other than itself. It would only get worse from there on. Confusion on exactly where your party was heading, your own leaders who seemed at times to contradict themselves, and just the general malaise that somehow Robert Mugabe seemed the more skillful statesman all 'other things' discounted. Even Ambassador Dell in his email to Barack Obama, which Wikileaks so helpfully provided the world with access to, described you as:

Tsvangarai is also a flawed figure, not readily open to advice, indecisive and with questionable judgment in selecting those around him

He ended his scathing analysis with the summation: "Zimbabwe needs him, but should not rely on his executive abilities to lead the country's recovery." You laughed it off but as The Guardian put it, those  "... cables were written by Americans, to be read by Americans and they form the undigested raw material of American policy." What should our policy have been then as we saw you raise your clenched fist for us to follow?

Then change almost came.

The 2008 elections failed to follow the normal course of elections. People vote. One person wins. One person loses. In our case, people voted and you and Robert Mugabe for all intents and purposes won and became the strange bedfellows that was ingloriously referred to as the Government of National Unity, though united you were not and governing was a side hobby to your principal pastime: fighting. Much has been written on how you could have handled an impossible situation better and I will not rehash it or even pretend how it must have been to work in a partnership with a partner who made every effort to pretend you were a nuisance that would go away if they closed their eyes and pretended hard that you did not exist.

But I will note that you spent those crucial years criss crossing the globe, meeting world leaders and making speeches from the podiums that stand at the centre stage of global politics. Unfortunately Mr Tsvangirai those podiums did not stand at the centre of Zimbabwean politics. You left a fractured party at home which you seem to have never tried to heal. You left voters to themselves and off you went on taxpayers money to beg for more money. You also spent those years embroiled in one scandal after the next. Someone was pregnant by you, another claimed to have married you and there were rumours of yet others. If you do not have the panache of the French, where Holland can be photographed on a scooter on the way from a night of pleasure with his mistress and still not only survive politically but be admired, I would have advised you to keep your laundry clean. Nothing riles a good Anglophone like the stench of a scandal in a politicians bedroom. Just ask Bill Clinton.

And there was more Mr Tsvangirai; the mansion, the perks, the money and grandstanding over what I called a flawed constitutional process. Mr Dell's words seemed to have become prophetic; you had become an albatross around our necks and as I listened to Freshlyground's Big Man, I thought of you: "Wear fancy clothes, drive big expensive cars...You do for you, just what you want to do.What's the solution? Material pollution!" Those suits fitted you quite well Mr Tsvangirai but perhaps they fitted you too well. No longer did we see the man who had raised his fist to the heavens in fury and promised change to the masses. No longer did we see any change at all. Instead we saw more of the same. A party riveted by fighting, an opposition that failed to present a united front in any sense of the word, we saw and heard fights between yourself and your deputies and we wept. How could you unite a polarized country when you failed to unite your own party? Perhaps when you met Angela Merkel you should have asked her how she united the opposition in Germany and swept into power. And perhaps asked her why she still refused to live in the Chancellors residence but remained in her modest home. There is power in symbols Mr Tsvangirai. You seem to have missed all the lessons.

Then change finally came.

But it wasn't the change you had promised Mr Tsvangirai. It was a change back to the way things were. A change that saw Robert Mugabe tell Grace to start redecorating because they were not moving out of State House any time soon. You lost the elections. Again. And those who had voted for you wept. And those who had believe in your promises wept. And those who had listened to you turned to you and preached to you what you had preached to us for so long and so consistently.

Change.

And you refused. You dug in your heels and refused. You blamed everyone from heaven's gate to the foundations of hell. Everyone except yourself. There was some brouhaha where people were beaten up in your party's headquarters. Yet more brouhaha saw those people suspended from your party for asking for a change in leadership. It has been a remarkable and spectacular failure of leadership Mr Tsvangirai. You failed to unite your party. You failed to lead it. And now that it was breaking apart you stood and looked surprised. Unfortunately Mr Tsvangirai, we are not. How can we trust you to lead us through the finer points of our country's great constitution when you seem not be able to agree on the broader points of your own party's constitution? What is change if it is not what you act? What is wisdom if you fail to learn tomorrow from today. What is leadership if you have failed to lead.

Bigger men have resigned over smaller things. Germany's President resigned over using his credit card while on holiday. What action do you propose for wasting the political capital you had gained and using it to beat Mr Mangoma to a bloody pulp? Bigger men have resigned over things distantly related to them. South Korea's Prime Minister today resigned over the ferry disaster that claimed the lives of at least 187 people. What action do you propose for drowning the dreams of millions of people Mr Tsvangirai?

Nelson Mandela stepped down to let those who followed him to continue his struggle for him. Mr Tsvangirai, follow his footsteps, gigantic though they must be for you. Resign and let us finally see the change you have promised to us for the better part of two decades.

Africa needs Great Men not Big Men.

Yours,

Bongani Ncube-Zikhali
A concerned Zimbabwean citizen