Every man must have one. Most men have at least one- a teenage heart-throbe. There is a girl you really loved. She was the embodiment of serene Nubian beauty. She had a full body, pure white teeth and a smile to go with it. No matter how hard you tried to ensnare her, she had no time or concern for your attentions. That girl was your teenage image of the mother of your children.
If yours lived in your neighbourhood, endless trips past their house were the norm. If you went to the same school and were in the same class, you may have done many home works for her, tried to teach her Shakespeare or even the matrices, hoping than your brain would ensnare the beauty. All efforts would come to nought. If you went to the same church and were Catholic, your petitions in Mass included her. If she was in the choir, her mellifulous voice was all you heard endlessly.
But like all teenage heart-throbes, we waited, they did not care a hoot about us. We were heart broken. Years later, they seem to appear from nowhere having traversed the world. They now look dilapidated, like the forlon grave of a harlot. Unkempt, uncared for and somewhat victims of beauty's own inflation. More quantity yet less in value.
I will not mention the three kids with different totems.
Forgive the reference to prostitution. When I am 84, I do not want to spend my birthday telling school children about prostitution. What happened to 84 year olds forgetting when they were born?
In the mid 1980s, possibly in 1986, I was the lead altar boy at the funeral of one of Zimbabwe's greatest Shona poets, J.C. Kumbirai. He was buried at Driefontein Mission in Mvuma. I recall that one literary luminary, possibly T.K. Tsodzo of the Pafunge fame. (someone must a make a movie of this book!), read what was said to be his last poem written in long hand. It must have been about the sun.
Before that day, I suspected that the only poem by the same poet I had read was one that encouraged us to go to school as the new economy did not have cattle. I may be wrong, but like a preacher I will not let facts stand in the way of a good sermon. I resolved that I would put some effort into finding the works of this men showered the greatest eulogies by each speaker at the funeral.
When I first read a collection of Shona poems entitled Mabumira eNhetembo, a found a good collection of his works included. One poem that took my heart was the one called, “Ndingati Uri Munhu Mwanangu”. I
n later life, I stumbled upon a poem by Rudyard Kipling called “If”. I was struck by the similarity between the two poems and I hastily concluded that Mr Kipling had plagiarised from my hero. A bit of biographical research revealed that Mr Kipling had died in 1910, unlike my hero who died in 1986. They are actually separated by a Hailey's comet which appeared in the years of their deaths. It only appears once in 76 years!
Rudyard Kipling says in the last stanza of his poem:
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!”
Students of history and poetry will tell you, that these two great poets separated in death by the Hailey's comet, wrote about the same country that is Zimbabwe. Kipling's poem was about Dr Leander Starr Jameson and his ill-fated 500-men raid of the Transvaal of 1895. The raid precipitated the Anglo-Boer War from 1899 to 1902. Some quiet diplomacy from Salisbury, I guess!
JC Kumbirai was giving the unfailing lesson that each parent must give their child.
When Jameson left to make the disastrous raid, he crossed paths with a telegraph sent to him by Cecil John Rhodes from the Cape. The telegraph simply stated,
“Read Luke 14 verse 31”. He might as well have recommended the entire chapter.
Jameson never did. For those without Bibles this relates to Jesus's teaching about the cost of being a disciple. The verse says:
“Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Will he not first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand?”
My own heart-throbe married a rich polygamist who as expected, pre-deceased her. Simba Makoni was my heart-throbe. I tried to woo him but he would not have my attentions. He now turns up with excess baggage like Ibbo Mandaza and Major Mbudzi. My heart has moved on.
I accept in my heart that Simba Makoni maybe the best President Zimbabwe will never have. In the same way Jairos Jiri is the best Minister of Social Welfare we never had. In the same way that Amai Rwizi (Susan Chenjerai of the Mukadota Family show) is the best First Lady and Mother of the Nation we will never have. Imagine Mai Rwizi saying, “vanhu vangu”!
In J.C. Kumbirai's poem, he states in the last stanza;
“ Handi nyore kutsika mumvura ukasanyorova,
Kana kupinda muno utsi ukasakachidzwa.
Handi nyore kuzembera unye hukasambokuvava,
Kana kutsika chiva chigorega kukuruma.
Ukazvigona ndingati uri munhu mwanangu.”
When I am 84, I will sit by the fire and read poems to schoolchildren. And JC Kumbirai will be top of the list. At that age prostitution is not a recommended topic.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Saluting our betters
I have not the least difficulty in addressing a male judge as “my Lord” as is the custom even though I learnt in my Catechism class that I have one God. I have no difficulty in addressing a female judge as “my Lady” even though I am married. Of course, it increases my motivation to so address her if she is good looking. Sadly beauty and sharp legal minds rarely coincide in female judges.
I have on numerous occasions saluted magistrates as “my Worship” even though I do not worship them. I bow every time I enter or exit courts in session in the same way I do in church. But the latter is born out of solemnity and reverence, while the former is mere politeness and custom.
Old men and women have no difficulty in my church in referring to a young priest, old enough to be their great grandson, as “Father”. In the same way, I have no difficulty in referring to a judge as “Mr. Justice” as he is busy dishing out injustices. Lawyers call each other “learned friends” in court even as the other is making the most nonsensical of arguments. I have no difficulty in addressing a Member of Parliament as “the Honourable” even though he may be Jonathan Moyo or on his way to jail.
I presume junior soldiers have no difficulty in saluting their superiors, generals or less, even as the juniors under their breath suppress their indignation. Napoleon Bonaparte, a great general like no other, had soldiers saluting him even though he himself quacked with fear on the appearance of his own wife, ironically named Josephine.
It is all done out of politeness imposed by custom. In some professions like in the army the practice is encouraged by the threat of punishment.
The trouble starts when the person so addressed or saluted takes this too seriously.
It was therefore with consternation that I learnt of the threat by “service” chiefs General Chiwenga, the inappropriately named Major General Paradzayi Zimhondi and lately Augustine Chihuri, to withhold their salutes from Morgen Tsvangirai or Simba Makoni should either of them win the presidential election. I presume they have no difficulty in saluting Langton “Huckabee” Towungana the other challenger, should he win.
The two men are saluted by countless others because of the title they wear rather than for their subjective desirability. If we only used the title “His Excellency” in reference to those who are really excellent, how would we address our President? His Holiness, Pope Benedict the 16th is still a sinner like me, a simple parishioner.
I advise Tsvangirai and Makoni that if one of them wins both the voting and the counting, the winner should take a bowl of warm water, the most fragrant soap and a piece of cloth and wash the feet of the three men. After which you must salute them.
Soldiers On High
In April 1985, my Uncle kindly took us to the Zimbabwe International Trade Fair in Bulawayo, which was a great show back then. After we got tired of touring the stands, watching the tug-of-war matches, we begged him to take us to the Luna Park. I recall walking past the Lever Brothers' stand where hundreds of people were receiving free hampers of soap, toothpaste, cooking oil, lotions, and hair care products and so on.
The Surf Pick-a-box show was in its element, well hosted by Kembo, the comedian of the Mukadota Family fame. Next to this stand was the Army exhibition stand. Many visitors were busy riding tanks and curiously inspecting the weaponry on display. Smartly dressed soldiers were all too keen to share their knowledge.
Somehow, a country that has known violence has a fixation with all things military.
Down the road on the right was the famous Gora Tavern. The sweet smell of roasted meat and intestines filled the air as much as the high decibel chorus of drunken noise emanating from the drinking place. Ebony Sheik must have been playing in there too.
When we got to the Luna Park, the area was full of people waiting to get their chance to ride the machines. My brother and I chose to ride the “Jets”. After a while we got the tickets and joined the long queue winding around the jets barricade fence anxious for our turn to arrive.
Suddenly, a tall dark man appeared and jumped to the front of the queue. He was obviously drunk and in army uniform. No one dared challenge him. He quickly jumped on the next trip his blood-shot eyes unashamed. His jet, like others, took to the skies immediately. The queue inched forward.
Suddenly, we all felt a heavy shower raining on our heads. Everyone scurried for cover. Like a Kintyre Estates sprinkler of old, the man sprayed all of us with traditional beer vomit with delicate uniformity and military precision.
When the three minute trip was over, the jets came down. The man sauntered out of the dirty jet, and made for the exit. He did not tender any apology. Someone in the queue shouted in Ndebele, “khithika mkaza idibha likhatshana!”
[Translation: hurry up tick, the dip-tank is a long way from here]
He did not look back. He may be an officer now and getting saluted by others.
My Grandmother
Coincidentally, on 29th March, it will be 20 years since my grandmother passed away at Gutu Mission Hospital. She was a victim of an attack by a dog with rabies. She was born Rungai Muzenda but for most of her adult life was known as VaChipembere due to her rhino-like temperament. She loved her traditional brew and used to brew it very well. I hated weeding her rapoko fields as I could not tell the difference between the shawi weed and the rapoko. But I liked the brew. In Gutu grandmothers rear children on beer, sometimes!
My grandmother had no habit of riding Luna Park jets when inebriated. No. She just loved to sing. We would hear her sing loudly from hundreds of metres away as she approached her homestead at sunset from one of her drinking trips in the village. We would join in from the smoky thatch kitchen as she sang;
“Chidhanana chera mwena, chera mwena
Chidhanana!
Chera mwena, nguva yakwana
Chidhanana!”
On good days a drum would be added to the merriment with telling ferocity.
I hope as I remember her on the 29th, I will sing her favourite song, Chidhanana! She can only hope that her watch will stay safe from drunken soldiers and dogs with rabies. And of course, that I have now learnt to tell a weed from the rapoko!
PS. If you should know, the police officer who took down the Union Jack, folded it neatly and handed it to Prince Charles, and hoisted the Zimbabwe flag on that Independence night in 1980 was a mere superintendent in the police. He spent most of the night watching Bob Marley very closely as he had promised to arrest him should he smoke weed at the show. Lt. General Peter Walls, the Rhodesian Army chief, was probably at the KG VI mess enjoying a beer and kudu biltong.
Tererai Mafukidze is a lawyer. He lives in Johannesburg. He can be contacted on tereraim@gmail.com.
I have on numerous occasions saluted magistrates as “my Worship” even though I do not worship them. I bow every time I enter or exit courts in session in the same way I do in church. But the latter is born out of solemnity and reverence, while the former is mere politeness and custom.
Old men and women have no difficulty in my church in referring to a young priest, old enough to be their great grandson, as “Father”. In the same way, I have no difficulty in referring to a judge as “Mr. Justice” as he is busy dishing out injustices. Lawyers call each other “learned friends” in court even as the other is making the most nonsensical of arguments. I have no difficulty in addressing a Member of Parliament as “the Honourable” even though he may be Jonathan Moyo or on his way to jail.
I presume junior soldiers have no difficulty in saluting their superiors, generals or less, even as the juniors under their breath suppress their indignation. Napoleon Bonaparte, a great general like no other, had soldiers saluting him even though he himself quacked with fear on the appearance of his own wife, ironically named Josephine.
It is all done out of politeness imposed by custom. In some professions like in the army the practice is encouraged by the threat of punishment.
The trouble starts when the person so addressed or saluted takes this too seriously.
It was therefore with consternation that I learnt of the threat by “service” chiefs General Chiwenga, the inappropriately named Major General Paradzayi Zimhondi and lately Augustine Chihuri, to withhold their salutes from Morgen Tsvangirai or Simba Makoni should either of them win the presidential election. I presume they have no difficulty in saluting Langton “Huckabee” Towungana the other challenger, should he win.
The two men are saluted by countless others because of the title they wear rather than for their subjective desirability. If we only used the title “His Excellency” in reference to those who are really excellent, how would we address our President? His Holiness, Pope Benedict the 16th is still a sinner like me, a simple parishioner.
I advise Tsvangirai and Makoni that if one of them wins both the voting and the counting, the winner should take a bowl of warm water, the most fragrant soap and a piece of cloth and wash the feet of the three men. After which you must salute them.
Soldiers On High
In April 1985, my Uncle kindly took us to the Zimbabwe International Trade Fair in Bulawayo, which was a great show back then. After we got tired of touring the stands, watching the tug-of-war matches, we begged him to take us to the Luna Park. I recall walking past the Lever Brothers' stand where hundreds of people were receiving free hampers of soap, toothpaste, cooking oil, lotions, and hair care products and so on.
The Surf Pick-a-box show was in its element, well hosted by Kembo, the comedian of the Mukadota Family fame. Next to this stand was the Army exhibition stand. Many visitors were busy riding tanks and curiously inspecting the weaponry on display. Smartly dressed soldiers were all too keen to share their knowledge.
Somehow, a country that has known violence has a fixation with all things military.
Down the road on the right was the famous Gora Tavern. The sweet smell of roasted meat and intestines filled the air as much as the high decibel chorus of drunken noise emanating from the drinking place. Ebony Sheik must have been playing in there too.
When we got to the Luna Park, the area was full of people waiting to get their chance to ride the machines. My brother and I chose to ride the “Jets”. After a while we got the tickets and joined the long queue winding around the jets barricade fence anxious for our turn to arrive.
Suddenly, a tall dark man appeared and jumped to the front of the queue. He was obviously drunk and in army uniform. No one dared challenge him. He quickly jumped on the next trip his blood-shot eyes unashamed. His jet, like others, took to the skies immediately. The queue inched forward.
Suddenly, we all felt a heavy shower raining on our heads. Everyone scurried for cover. Like a Kintyre Estates sprinkler of old, the man sprayed all of us with traditional beer vomit with delicate uniformity and military precision.
When the three minute trip was over, the jets came down. The man sauntered out of the dirty jet, and made for the exit. He did not tender any apology. Someone in the queue shouted in Ndebele, “khithika mkaza idibha likhatshana!”
[Translation: hurry up tick, the dip-tank is a long way from here]
He did not look back. He may be an officer now and getting saluted by others.
My Grandmother
Coincidentally, on 29th March, it will be 20 years since my grandmother passed away at Gutu Mission Hospital. She was a victim of an attack by a dog with rabies. She was born Rungai Muzenda but for most of her adult life was known as VaChipembere due to her rhino-like temperament. She loved her traditional brew and used to brew it very well. I hated weeding her rapoko fields as I could not tell the difference between the shawi weed and the rapoko. But I liked the brew. In Gutu grandmothers rear children on beer, sometimes!
My grandmother had no habit of riding Luna Park jets when inebriated. No. She just loved to sing. We would hear her sing loudly from hundreds of metres away as she approached her homestead at sunset from one of her drinking trips in the village. We would join in from the smoky thatch kitchen as she sang;
“Chidhanana chera mwena, chera mwena
Chidhanana!
Chera mwena, nguva yakwana
Chidhanana!”
On good days a drum would be added to the merriment with telling ferocity.
I hope as I remember her on the 29th, I will sing her favourite song, Chidhanana! She can only hope that her watch will stay safe from drunken soldiers and dogs with rabies. And of course, that I have now learnt to tell a weed from the rapoko!
PS. If you should know, the police officer who took down the Union Jack, folded it neatly and handed it to Prince Charles, and hoisted the Zimbabwe flag on that Independence night in 1980 was a mere superintendent in the police. He spent most of the night watching Bob Marley very closely as he had promised to arrest him should he smoke weed at the show. Lt. General Peter Walls, the Rhodesian Army chief, was probably at the KG VI mess enjoying a beer and kudu biltong.
Tererai Mafukidze is a lawyer. He lives in Johannesburg. He can be contacted on tereraim@gmail.com.
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