Reminisces of a Mission Boy: Karikoga Gumi Remiseve

REMINISCES OF A MISSION BOY

 By Tererai R. Mafukidze

Karikoga Gumi Remiseve

It was in 1992. We were in the English Room. It was around 9 in the morning. Mai Knottie was busy dishing knowledge. Something happening in the corridor caught our collective attention. The Headmaster was in front. Behind him were two men armed to the teeth. They were like the Zulu impis straight out of the history textbook. One was carrying miseve novuta. The other was carrying 3 big knobkerries and a spear. There was kakano, the small axe, in the mix. It was an unusual sight at school!

At the back of the procession, following slowly was another unusual sight. There was a heavily pregnant girl in a blue dress. They were coming from the direction of the labs.

Immediately, we knew! There was drama in the offing. Someone had taken their biology practicals too seriously. Now they were about to be dissected! There was nothing more interesting for an Arts student than to prove that Sciences were dangerous! Yes, my good friend and English classmate David Mayanga had captured it well with his distinct SaManyika accent, when he explained his A’level ‘combination’ choice in 1991:

‘Ndaide kuita maScience. Asi ndakanzwe kuti kunoite nyaka-nyaka!’

Nyaka-nyaka indeed!

The tabloid journo in me could not be suppressed by the desire for Victorian literature on offer. I had no time for Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing! This was much ado about something. With Henry Pote in hot pursuit, we were on the trail.

The Headmaster’s office had a distinct advantage for snooping. One could get a full view of the military delegation and the bulging Sarajevo Incident, without catching the attentions of the Headmaster. The men were livid. The Headmaster was trying to calm them down. We knew there was a huge scandal before our eyes. We suspected one of our schoolmates may have been responsible. We already had a list of our ‘Usual Suspects’!

But who would bring such armoury to the school to confront a pubescent student?

After a while, we smelt a heavy scent of tobacco. We all hastily turned to read something on a blank notice board! The Headmaster looked puzzled to see half the school looking at a blank wall. He knew ‘uswa hwunotaura’! He asked one of the students to go and call Mr. X. The secret was almost out!

And then, before our eyes, we saw a guilty-looking teacher walk in to join the tribunal. Yes, teacher vakanga vamitisa! The men were not in a mood to listen to his nonsense. They had attempted to dissect him at the lab!

After a lengthy discussion, we saw the army leave the school. Much to the relief of the Cuban trained teacher.

 ‘Major’ Bwakura captured it well, with his usual humour, when he asked his bemused class immediately afterwards:

‘Mavuvona here vuuuta? Vuuuuta’?

Yes, a lesson had been learnt! Usatamba nemwana waZimuto!

Vincere Caritate!

© Tererai R Mafukidze, Gokomere 1987-1992 (tereraim@gmail.com) 

This is a series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please respect the anonymity given to protagonists.

Reminisces of a Mission Boy: Mapucha

Reminisces of a Mission Boy: The Boomerang Love-Letter

REMINISCES OF A MISSION BOY

By Tererai R. Mafukidze

The Boomerang Love-Letter

It was in November 1983. I was at a mine primary school in Lalapanzi doing grade four. I had arrived a year before from the hinderlands of Gokwe. Yes, the proper old Gokwe with two shops.

And so, we were having what must have counted as a Shona lesson in the teacher’s plan book. We were doing tsumo. The teacher wrote on the black board:

‘N’anga inobata mai.’

He then turned round and demanded a meaning of the saying from my classmates and I. We were a sea of silence. Only the exploding dynamite from the deep chrome shafts below our classroom offered some interruption. We remained silent. Silence is not consent in a classroom. It is certainly either ignorance, fear or simply a collective  marathon prayer session for one hand to go up. None did. I offered salvation. I had a duty to my classmates. If you were known to raise your hand often, you often felt duty-bound to embarrass yourself, if necessary, just to save that clueless big boy ‘with no hands’ in the corner. When my form one Geography teacher, Mr Madambi, unravelled the relaxed intellectual refugee in the corner, he was prone to give his slurred speech torrent:

‘Z-u-v-a vhuu! Chabuda h-a-p-a-n-a! Ini zvangu, ndobva pano. Ndoinda kumba kwangu. Ndonomwa doro rangu...randasiya mufiriji. Nomwana wangu T-e-n-d-ai...takadziya moooo-to!’

I had to be the saviour. I raised my hand. The teacher pointed at me with a one-metre long wooden black board ruler. I got up, as I was required to. I cleared my throat. And then offered my wisdom;

            ‘Zvinoreva kupembedza n’anga inobata mazamu amai!’

Like a cat on a snake, the teacher flew in my direction muttering words I cannot recall. He gave me several blows with his weapon. The element of surprise in the attack cost me a chance to block the blows. It was a vicious assault on one trying to save mankind. In a flash, the teacher flew back to the front of the class, still frothing at the mouth with anger. I was confused. I could not understand. Seeing no one was prepared to offer wisdom in the light of my unjust desserts, the teacher picked a piece of chalk and then wrote the answer below his question;

            ‘Zvinoreva kuti unopembedza n’anga yati mai vako muroyi!’

Every one remained morose and motionless. The assault on me had numbed souls. I was feeling the injustice of it. Yet, I was unconvinced by the learned teacher’s explanation. I had already taken an undeserved punishment for trying. I believe there is an additional sense in me that is suicidal. It does not sense danger. It aggressively encourages me to follow danger. The sense then told me, tt would not hurt more to challenge superior wisdom. And so, with tears running down my cheeks, I raised my hand and the teacher stared at me. I did not wait to be called. I asked;

‘Sir, saka mati zviri nane kuti mai venyu vabatwe mazamu nen’anga panokuti vahi vanoroya havo?’

The class released its tension in the usual way! All fear thawed into the most generous laughter at the expense of the teacher’s logic. The teacher froze. He stared at me with eyes turning red like he had tomato sauce glands. This time, he walked towards me with the deliberateness of a boxer. A torrent of blows followed. This time he was dead silent. Only the sound of a wooden plank making contact with 10-year old back, head, ribs, shoulders and behind, filled the classroom. It went on for what seemed to be ages. I was rescued by the headmaster who was walking past. Through the window, he screamed to my would-be murderer;

            “Zvaita sei?’

The teacher stopped. He could not answer the chief. I was saved. Not without incurring a few scars. That ended our class for the whole day. The teacher was too angry to teach. And so, he picked up his ‘plan book’ and ‘scheming book’ and left. Polite girls expressed sympathy for me. But the boys typically offered none. Even the boy in the corner did not feel I had incurred this for his sake. The story grew legs. At break time, I was surrounded by older pupils from other classes who wanted to see the young man who had taken on the vicious teacher! The big girls with real breasts were equally curious.

At the end of the eventful day I went home. I was not short of companions on the way.

And then later that night, my father arrived from work-via-pub. He was in a mean mood. Without sitting down, he immediately demanded to know ‘what I had been doing at school’. I was in trouble. He had met the stay-away teacher at their usual drinking hole. He started to undo his belt. I was in for a third round of thrashing. I was in trouble.

My mother demanded to know what I had done. She aggressively repeated this demand to my furious father. It was a non-negotiable condition to my punishment.  My father stammered. He tried to say something again, but he could not. It appeared after all, my father had just been told I had been naughty. He had not been favoured with the full details. I smelt mbudlo. For the uninitiated, mbudlo is the escape hole that the mouse keeps just in case danger comes through the main door.

Gokomere’s Mr Mapengo used to say;

‘Usatonga mwana wechikoro. Tanga warova wozovhunza kuti zvaita sei. Ukamutonga hauchamurovi!’

 I quickly got up and offered my parents the ‘full details’ of what had happened. This is how I related it;

‘Tanga tiri muclass. Teacher vakati: ‘”Nhai Tererai, chii chiri nane pakati pokuti mai vako vahi nen’anga muroyi kana kuti n’anga yacho ivabate mazamu.” In hangu ndikati mai vangu better vahi muroyi. Saka teacher ndokubva vandirova. Kana muchida vhunzai headmaster!’

I think they did not even hear the last sentence. My irate and screaming mother was collecting an axe and my equally irate father fetching the biggest log from the firewood stack outside. Within seconds, I could hear their distant screaming voices. They were heading to the last place the teacher had been seen. I could smell blood. I resumed my sit on the lounge floor and enjoyed the next episode of Mukadota Family.

Disbelieve all else you have heard. This is how I ended up in boarding school at Driefontein Mission in January 1984. I was now in grade 5. It was a new experience. It looked promising.

And then

I walked into my new class the next day. I was to sit opposite the most beautiful I had ever seen. Having started school at independence, we had really big boys and girls in our classes. So big I remember many of them protesting that the school was preventing them from having ‘vasikana’. And so the moment I saw her, I felt I needed to have a girlfriend too and she was going to be mine. Soon I had to consider the best way to express my ‘love’ for her.

She was so beautiful that the mere thought of asking her out frightened me out of my wits. In fact, there were only two beautiful people I had seen then: Her and Shirley Nyanyiwa. Shirley Nyanyiwa was every boy’s dream. Of course there was Marshall Munhumumwe’s Vimbai. But no one had ever seen her.

By the way, do you remember the time when Marxist-Leninist inspired Teurai Ropa Nhongo tried to ban the Miss Lux beauty contests on the basis that it ‘cheapened women’? I know at the time the majority of you were still struggling to put on underwear, if any, without balancing against the wall. To think that the best strip joints import their best talent from former-socialist Eastern Europe! (Of course, this is hearsay evidence!)

I digress.

And so, much of the year went by. I took no action, despite the encouragement from friends. My heart would beat in my mouth the moment I imagined expressing my love to the princess from Chiguhune. I don’t how many letters I wrote and tore up undelivered. Yet she sat across the table. Every school day was torture.

And then one day, I grew some balls. I decided that if I wrote a letter and put it in her exercise book, I could make some progress. It was the easy way to go in that day. But I changed my mind again. It was a dangerous route. The letter could end up on the teacher’s desk and earn me a most vicious beating. And so, I decided to be bold. It must have been during the break. I saw her seated, busy with her school work. I walked up to her and said at the speed of lightning: ‘ndinokuda.’

I was ready to run off as soon as I got ‘my answer’. She stared at me. She was in youthful shock. Her innocence gave a new life to her beauty. I stood there in admiring fear. She put her pen down. Looked me in the eyes, and then released the longest and loudest ‘nxaaaaa!’ I had ever heard. And then she dropped the bomb on Hiroshima:

‘Unongoti kureba somutundo wemangwanani!’

I stood my ground and replied:

            ‘Usandishainira iwe zvako! Unotokundwa nemhashu ine pitikoti!’

Ok, I lie about answering back. I never did. I had no words to say to her. I could never have.

I ran for dear life. Every other classmate heard it. I had been slaughtered. I exited the classroom at speed. I had stroked a hornets’ nest. I was in trouble. How could I return to the classroom and sit opposite her like I had ‘innocently’ done for much of the year? I had excreted in the well.

In order to arrest the flurry of insults, I waited for the teacher to return to class from break first. I followed him in stealth. I took my sit. I could not look her in the eye. By this time, everyone had heard the news! There were incessant giggles. She stared at me like I was some apparition. I wanted to change seats, but that required the teacher’s permission.

I was miserable. I regretted my adventure. For the next few weeks, I avoided being in class in the absence of the teacher. But I had limited success. The insults did not stop. But her headline insult became legendary. Classmates would direct it at me repeatedly. It was the worst moment to be a failed romantic. As with all things in school, a new scandal is bound to turn up and replace yours. So it came to pass that I recovered my classroom presence. In fact, I discovered that the older boys in senior classes considered me a hero, for they were also eyeing Chiguhune’s princess. But they lacked my balls. Bravery, in any event, lies somewhere between cowardice and recklessness!

The following year, 1985, the princess did not return to Dria. She had changed schools. Her youthful uncle turned up to join the school. As with mission secrets, everyone told him the misfortune that had befallen yours truly. Sputo never tired of laughing at me over this.

In 2005, after many years, I bumped into the princess’s uncle, and within minutes of our meeting he had repeated his niece’s 21-years old insult verbatim. We laughed hard as we enjoyed the waters of wisdom!

I never saw her again since she stopped sitting opposite me.

Eureka! Eureka! Eureka!

And then, one day in 1990, someone gave me the news that the princess had been located. She was at Mukaro Mission. Mukaro Mission is just 10 kilometres from my village! Talk about looking for a rat in the forest! I was excited. I wanted to get a ‘second bite’. With ‘maturity’ and the irresistible Gokomere High brand, I was sure I would be able to show her the error of her ways.

And so, I decided to pen her a nice one. Strategically, it was not wise to resuscitate your failed mission in the first letter. All I had to do was restore contact. Once I got a friendly reply, I would then test my age-given artillery. As they say in Shona, ‘yafamba kamwe haiteyewi!’ I addressed the most love-neutral letter I could ever write, and yet made no secret of my joy and discovering her lair. I re-read the letter a few times and made sure that it conveyed the most effusive feelings of a friendly and yet endearing kind. I did not want to suffer like I had done half a dozen years before. I dispatched it with excitement. In those days, all you could do in the interlude was to count the days. A letter took 5 working days to get to a ‘P. Bag’ address. I waited. I waited. A week went by. The second week was almost done, when something happened.

I was walking from the hostels during the lunch break and crossing the soccer field. Walking to the hostels from the opposite direction were Mike and Tawanda. They were smiling at me. I smiled back. It was the polite thing to do. But their smile had more than friendliness. I could not fathom what I had done to deserve their grace. I kept smiling too. As we were about to pass each other, they both stopped. I stopped too. And then Mike said:

‘Zico, ugouya wotora tsamba yako!’

I was confused.

‘Tsamba yangu?’, I asked.

And they both rolled with laughter. What letter was that, I wondered. After what felt very awkward, Tawanda offered to put me out of my misery.

‘Tsamba yako yabva kunaRashie?’

I was shocked. How could my letter from the Chiguhune princess end up with these two mates? I was embarrassed and angry! Mike was just enjoying himself. Tawanda offered some more help.

‘Rashie musikana waMike. Saka tsamba yawakanyora aitumira kuna Mike!’

Imagine, I had written a letter from Bruno to Mukaro only for it to end up in Shashe!

The witch had struck twice! Of course now I could never expect a reply. In fact, I was no longer interested in one. I did not want it anymore! I did not even go and collect my ricocheted letter from Mike. The boomerang had hit me hard. It was the most embarrassing thing to do. My second misadventure had earned me a second round of ridicule! It was unforgivable.

Eight years later, Mike gave me the honour of being in his wedding party. I can confirm that he did not marry the witch either!

Vincere Caritate!

© Tererai R Mafukidze, Gokomere 1987-1992 (tereraim@gmail.com) 

This is a series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please respect the anonymity given to protagonists.

Reminisces of a Mission Boy: Bro Hakira's Delicious Porker

REMINISCES OF A MISSION BOY

By Tererai R. Mafukidze

Bro. Hakira’s delicious porker!

I remember that Friday night like yesterday. It was full moon. The granite rocks were shining like precious stones. The earth was silent. The ‘children’ were fast asleep. It was a beautiful night.

The law was cast in stone. You could not get along, as a group, with the stream immediately behind or ahead of you. It was just the way it was. You had to jump a stream. But something odd happened in 1992. Two streams were jumped in order to establish one of the strongest bonds in Mission life. The 1992 Form 3 stream was something else! They were aggressive, competitive and yet had the most beautiful girls in the entire school. Unusually, they also had a close relationship with their male classmates. The boys were some of the most fascinating characters.  Going to sports events with the Under 16s was one of the best moments in Mission life. We laughed together and suffered together. They knew how to enjoy life. More about that soon.

Not all of them were sports persons. There were some with other talents. But a strong sporting ability enhanced the camaraderie of this stream. As the Form 6s in that year, some of us had a very strong relationship with this stream. And may I proudly say, it survives to this day!

The boys knew and understood the basic rules. If Mukoma liked a girl in your stream or class, you were obliged to assist Mukoma in his pursuit. Sometimes you ended up a witness to a romantic bloodbath, but you still had to keep encouraging Mukoma. It was considered rude not to assist Mukoma. Sometimes you had to be a courier of Mukoma’s letters and acidic replies. Of course, Mukoma’s letters occasionally provided entertainment, but it was rude to reveal your pleasure at Mukoma’s suffering. At other times you had to dilute a verbal message to something that Mukoma could take without losing his dignity. It was the way it was.

If Mukoma came between-5-and-6 to try his charm you had to excuse yourself from the target despite your own interest. It was the way it was.

In return, Mukoma had duties and responsibilities towards you. If you wanted to smoke before your A ‘Level time, Mukoma had a duty to provide facilities. This would entitle you to smoke relaxed in a room rather squatting in stinky Bruno toilets. When you knocked out drunk on some copious amounts of Don Juan or Mai Mukaki or Mai Rhekeni’s potent 7-days’ brew, Mukoma had an obligation to provide you safe refuge until you were about your wits again. It was the way it was.

The other watchword was that in order to enjoy these benefits you had to be generous with your treasures. It was considered rude to visit Mukoma stone-drunk seeking refuge and cigarettes without paying a little homage. You had to make sure there was a little for Mukoma to imbibe. It was the way it was.

And, I must say, no boys’ stream understood this more than the Form 3s of 1992. We affectionately called them VanaYuti. They understood the hierarchy of it all. Rarely would they partake without preserving a few litres for VanaMukoma. Many times VanaMukoma would whisper a word of warning when they smelt danger. When we bumped into each on covert operations, we exchanged intelligence. It was a brotherhood. It was the way it was.

The Invitation

And so one Friday afternoon, word came from VanaYuti that VanaMukoma were required. It was an invitation. VanaMukoma had to come after 10 pm. The rendezvous was the water tank, some 400 metres behind JB Hostels. Achebe says, you do not invite your neighbour to a feast because he does not have food at his own house. It is a kind thing to observe an invitation. It was the way it was.

We had clothes that were never seen. We would only change into these outfits when going on covert operations. They were perfect disguises. Be like a flower, but the serpent under it, as Shakespeare advised. Right on cue, we did our dress-up and usual intelligence, counter-intelligence and reconnaissance. We then headed to the rendezvous. We made sure to quietly negotiate the terrain surrounding JB hostels. Stealth was second nature. It was a quiet night. It was full moon.

 As we approached the Tank, we saw VanaYuti huddled around a small fire. It was an unusual sight. A fire could invite unwanted attentions. But we knew ‘Hudhu’ would never patrol the Mission bushes, especially the snake infested Chomundarira. On Friday nights, he busied himself with quietly watching ‘Murotso’ through the A ‘Level Rec-Room window. Unbeknown to him, our counter-intelligence had observed him. We knew he loved the illicit videos the Big Boys watched at midnight. More about that some day!

VanaYuti stood up to receive us. Greetings were quickly exchanged. VanaYuti were pleased to see us. We had honoured their invitation. Two of them went to drag out of a neighbouring bush two ‘travelling bags’ heavily laden with 5 litre containers of Masese. A party was in the offing. We sat down and started to imbibe. It was the Wednesday bulk delivery. By Friday, it would be what Mordecai Hamutyinei called ‘chipanda’. The glorious moon continued to shine. The Mission belonged to the Night Hunters!

We spoke in loud whispers. But the earth was quiet. Mission drinking was waterfall drinking. You virtually poured beer down your throat. There was no time to serenade your pallet. It was not a wine tasting event. We were honouring the spirits of the ancestors. After we had downed the second 5 litres, the elder amongst VanaYuti then spoke and in typical adult-speak that we adopted for these moments, and he said:

‘VanaMukoma, tati tikukokeiwo. Tati mungazohwa kuti VanaYuti vakadzimba vakadhla voga. Tikatiwo tiite svimbukuro svokuyeredza mbuva yatinayo!’

As he spoke, one of them went and returned from behind the bushes with a semi-dried stack of meat. It was quickly laid across the fire. We all clapped our hands and in unison clamoured:

‘Hekani waro Vadzimba!’

It was a Friday. We had consumed our usual diet of sugar beans and the sourest Hakira milk. Pavlov’s dogs did not know what salivating was. It was as if each one of us had a waterfall. Within a few minutes, we were chewing the most delicious meat we had ever tasted. It was tasteful. It was out of this world. We did not ask questions. It was rude to. The glorious moon continued to shine.

As more disappeared from the fire, more was laid across. It was a feast of the crocodiles. We ate. We laughed. We talked. We sang. We prayed. We hugged. We were in the footsteps of the Bushmen who left their mark on granite walls of  Chomundarira! We did not ask questions. It was rude to. It was a great party!

Some hours later, we dissipated. We made sure there was no danger of being discovered. We would be too stoned to run.  Our intelligence was perfecto! VanaYuti had to negotiate their way back to Shashe. We had to make ours back to Jacaranda. We rehearsed our warning whistle tunes. We put out the fire with copious amounts of urine and left. The night had belonged to the Brotherhood!

Brother Hakira’s Porker

And then one Sunday afternoon while taking quick swigs of Masese behind the Mushandira Store with our middlemen, we heard a story. Fr Mapfumo had dismissed an employee wekuDheri. A pig had disappeared. Brother Hakira had suspected him and reported to the Fr Superior. The man had his previous misdemeanours. 

Of course, we knew nothing. And indeed, we knew nothing. Even if had known something, it was always Fr Mapfumo’s fault. How could he dismiss a man from his job? Aren’t priests always supposed to forgive sinners?

Vincere Caritate!

© Tererai R Mafukidze, Gokomere 1987-1992 (tereraim@gmail.com) 

This is a series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please respect the anonymity given to protagonists.

Reminisces of a Mission Boy: Manyoka @ Vic High Dot.Com

REMINISCES OF A MISSION BOY

By Tererai R. Mafukidze

Manyoka @ Vic High Dot.Com

The 1992 soccer first team was rubbish. They did not make it to the district finals. Koki and I had written a pre-season review and published it on the Library Notice board next to the newspapers. We had described a scion of the Murehwa clan, as a ‘pale shadow of his brother not even qualified to lace his brother’s boots’. We said Pele’s worst blunder was better than Jabulani’s best move. We described another as ‘the star of the team. Proud as a peacock...If only he could humble himself.’ About MaPepa we said, ‘take away the left foot and you have no footballer’. About the coach, Mr Mthombeni, we wrote ‘He is a History teacher. Nothing more needs to be said!’ We were similarly acerbic about various other players. Everyone took it with a great heart. Maybe because it was generally true. But Mission banter could be of an acidic kind. Each one had their turn.

I feared that my History teacher would not take it well. Surprisingly, he did, which was an awkward surprise. We knew soccer coaches were a sensitive bunch. Who can ever forget the tempestuous first team coach slapping the late Shamu at Topora on our way from an away game? Shamu, who coached the successful U16s, had dared question the colleague’s tactics. I can still hear the beautiful Mrs tearfully pleading...‘X kanhi...! X...kanhi! Unondisvodesereiko kanhi?’ It was a painfully embarrassing sight.

And then someone decided that suddenly herding us back onto the bus would save faces. Kutisiisa doro redu pasi pemimengo yaMukwacha!

And the furious students did what they knew best when needing to express an opinion. It was sad to see the clearly devastated wife being comforted by Sr Chabhongora as students sang loudly, ‘...usauya wamwa doro, unotinyadzisa! Wamwa doro...!’ It was better that the assailant and the victim did not get back onto the bus and stayed behind. But I digress.

Yes, the 1992 senior team lost to Zimuto and drew against an Upper Top side. That ended their season. So it meant there was no Masvingo for them. Senior netball, U16s soccer and netball and the volleyball teams were the flag bearers of the school.

It was in July. The Mhunga bus came to fetch. I pretended to play volleyball, and so travelled a lot with the sports team on that account. If anything we made practice possible. As was customary we had arranged lunch with the Dining staff. Early on the Saturday morning we collected our sadza and meat. It was packed in the shiniest brand new aluminium bins with tipping lids. Mistake number one!

We were excited. We got to Vic High.

We then carried our food bins to the small open shed next to the soccer pitch near Les Sharp hostel. Mistake number two!

We had great sporting camaraderie. For some reason, my good muzukuru Cathrine decided she wanted to play netball once she was in A’Level. She was good at it. Open Girls ceased to take part in sports once they considered themselves to be ‘senior’ girls. Few did. One person who brought a new perspective to sport was my good friend Maria Kweuka. She had come for A’ Levels from Chemukute in Kadoma. She was a talented netballer and didn’t give a hoot about being a ‘big girl’. She loved sport and was the most affable person. She made sports trips a great joy. As previously advertised, the U16s were mostly VanaYuti and the Famous Form 3 girls. It was a great team. We enjoyed the trips.

I busied myself with assisting the sports master Mr Malisa with registering players. My good friend Thabani Dube, despite being captain of the losing senior soccer team, characteristically found himself some excuse to be on the bus. I handled the ‘vetting’ of U16 boys. The Vetting Officer used some paint to label approved players. I must say it was totally unscientific. My great friend Panso was approved to play soccer for the U16s. He was 20 in that year! In fact, he did triple-jump for U17 boys until he left Gokomere! Brian Nyatoro tried his luck. The man was almost marking him until he looked at my friend’s bulging drumsticks and laughed off the cheeky bid.

 And then came Mahapa. The man looked at him and started to laugh. Mahapa laughed too. We all joined in the laughter, and the man put his arm around Mahapa’s shoulders and said solemnly:

‘Mwanangu, ndava nemakore nemakore ndichikuona uchimhanya, uchiwuruka, uchitamba bhora. Une chipo mwanangu. Asi U16, aiwa booooodo!’

With that, Mahapa was excluded. I hope he has found a way to deal with that skin deep tattoo he carried on his arm. If each one of us had permanently tattooed our sweetheart’s name on our arms in Form 2, would we not all be wearing long-sleeved shirts for the rest of our lives? What was the name: Matilda? Mildred? Eish!

Nobody bothered about the safety of the food. We enjoyed the matches. We tried to chat-up Vic High girls. Their boys came to try some luck on our girls. We knew some senior girls from our A’Level Divinity and History seminars. The girls always pretended to like Gokomere guys. It was mostly because they wanted to borrow ‘Notes’. This was clear from the letters exchanged. You would write a deeply romantic one and in reply she would spend 99% of the letter talking about a Mwata Yamvo assignment she had due the following week. If she was doing Divinity, you would be asked to share your ideas about the similarities in the divine message delivered by the prophets Amos and Hosea! To keep you ‘hooked’, she would invariably write as the last sentence:

‘When will I see you again? I miss you. But please reply as a matter of urgency as the assignment is due next week.’

We knew we were being used. We pretended not to notice. It was wonderful to receive a letter from a Vic High chick in that day.

So lunch time came. We all queued up and shared the food. We ate to our heart’s delight. It was too much food. In fact we shared some of it with the famous Mucheke One’s Tarino Girls. They liked us. They also had a cheeky culture.

Matches ended. Some of us had arranged waters of wisdom and happily consumed. Manenji Mhiribidi, our dear friend, was good at looking after that. We got onto the bus, sang the best songs and headed back to Mission. We had classic songs. Teachers would pretend not to listen as we sang the classic:

            ‘Muchiseme’

There were other classics, like Kahobho:

            ‘Kahobho kakadai, kasumbu kerudo!’

X... musikana wemadhiri,

Ende haambonyara gen’a riripo,

Anokuitira favour, achikuitira favour!’

Brian had imported this one for us from his old Goromonzi. It became a favourite. We enjoyed ourselves. Yes, and the other one:

            ‘Nzimbe yakarimwa nababa, ndoita kunakigwa....!’

Sometimes the songs sang about current affairs. Sometimes they expressed anger about a school authority. Sometimes they were just humorous. Like:

‘Elaya, Elaya, Elaya usadaro...wotora jovo, woteta nyama, wonanga kunaCorra!’

And Corra and Elaya would take it with a great heart! 

But I digress.

We got back to Mission excited by our great victories. We went and had our specially reserved supper and maybe went kufirimu.

Midnight Call

At 12 midnight on the dot, I felt a train running down my alimentary canal. I woke up from my deep sese-induced slumber. I was babalaazed too. I dashed to the toilet nearby. It was a real emergency. As I entered at great speed, I was amazed to see about 6 of my mates standing half-naked around the sinks. They were wearing pained faces. They attempted to smile at my appearance. I had no time for chit-chat. I hit a couple of doors, but they were ‘engaged’. I found a free one. The train left the station. It was swift, fast and painful.

After a while, I re-emerged, only to discover that some of my comrades had similarly re-occupied some of the cubicles. New comrades had appeared. It was like a diarrhoeal alarm.  We were in distress. I tried to walk back to my room, but someone tried to dissuade me. I would not listen. As I covered my body to try and sleep again, I felt another train coming I jumped off and headed back to ‘conference’ at great speed. The train left the station. After a while, I re-emerged to join my comrades. There was no need to convince me not to go back to my room this time. I was converted. There was no point. The trains were coming thin and fast. We took turns to go in and out of the cubicles. It was painful. It was food poisoning. 

After several hours of milling about the toilets, we felt strong enough to attempt sleep. It was a hopeless enterprise. There was yet another train trying to leave the station. At least now, the train had fewer wagons. We were in trouble.

Being a Sunday morning, we were tempted to miss church. But the devout among us would have none of it. So we went to church. The tummies were still unsettled. Before we entered church, word had already come around that a similar F1 Grand Prix had taken place at Shashe and Bruno. Hillside confirmed too that the Girls had had trains. Word from Mimosa was that only Cathrine had survived. Because she had had a ‘visitor’ who brought her lunch, she had not partaken of the Bhodho lunch. Love saved her!

During Mass, we did not tempt fate by dancing. It even felt dangerous to kneel, genuflect or sing. We looked around for comrades, but few had had the reckless sense to come to church. During Communion, I saw ‘Ghetto’ Manoti, the U16 boys centre striker queue up to ‘receive’. Mid way through the church and before reaching the priest, he just turned and walked briskly out of the church. He had a train coming!

After church, we arranged that the entire sports team should assemble at the Clinic. But first, we had to collect our ‘maboko mana nekajarina kacho’! Otherwise Rubaba would have carried on his usual Sunday bet: ‘Nhasi ndodhla sere!’ And Sere became his name!

We formed a convoy of around 70 and headed to the Clinic. Old delightful Sr Denhere had heard the news. She was ready with the salt-and-sugar solution and some anti-poison pills. We queued up and guzzled the salty Kuru with delight. Being a cold July day, we had fortuitously gotten the opportunity to sit in the sun. We sat, the tens of us, together with the 10 or so amused pregnant women who had come ‘kuzorindira’ at the Clinic.

We exchanged our midnight experiences. There were frequent interruptions as some had to make use of the nearby O’level block toilets. We spent 2 hours at the Clinic under observation and were later discharged. It took a few days to fully recover. But a lesson had been learnt.

On hearing the news, the Bhodhorians were obviously concerned. They felt culpable. Their desire to improve our appearance at the Vic High district sporting event by giving us their newest containers was bona fide, but tragic. On the next trip to the provincial finals, special arrangements were made for VaGozho to separately bring the food hot and off the stove around lunch time!

And one of the Tarino girls came to us at the provincial finals and said:

‘Handifi ndakadhla sadza rokuGokomere futi!’

It wasn’t the famous Pride. And yes, they did not join us this time. A lesson had been learnt.

But all of us were relieved that the trains left the station hours later when we were now back at Mission. We could not imagine what would have happened had this happened in full view of Ma’Nose’ @ Vic High!

Vincere Caritate!

© Tererai R Mafukidze, Gokomere 1987-1992 (tereraim@gmail.com) 

This is a series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please respect the anonymity given to protagonists.

Reminisces of a Mission Boy: I lost My Maiguru

REMINISCES OF A MISSION BOY

I Lost My Beloved ‘Maiguru’

The Headmaster Mr. Mushonga had a way of re-enforcing discipline. Whenever a very serious act of mischief occurred, he would take the opportunity at the next Assembly warn the innocent or the not-yet-caught about misbehaviour. Who can forget the day he came to Assembly and said;

‘There are some of you who want to marry!’

Being old school Catholic, he pronounced ‘marry’ like ‘maari’! After the usual burst of laughter, he would add;

‘Please be warned, once you are caught, you will be in trouble! I thank you!’

Many times he would never give you a hint on who the mischief involved, leaving the efficient mission gossip mills to go full steam. Sometimes he was generous or unguarded. He would ‘innocently’ add;

‘May I see the following immediately after assembly: Orange, Banana and Zai!’

There were times in Mushonga’s quiet demeanour gems would be unleashed. Who can ever forget the day he came to assembly and announced;

‘You must learn good manners. An A’level student, not a Form 1 student, came to my office on Friday and said, “Headmaster, give me my pass!”

Or when Pepukai “Pepsi” Tanyongana hastily put together a Gokomere ‘Rugby’ team to play Victoria High School. The team had Manjeru, Ziki, Masango, George Govere, Lazie Chipembere and several other ‘heavyweights’. Many of them had never touched a Rugby ball in their lives. He trained the boys using a soccer ball for 2 days in Field C. And off they went, sponsored by the sceptical Headmaster. During the next Assemby, he called Pepsi down to give the results to the entire school. Our ‘Rugby’ team had lost! 0-46!

With a typical cryptic smile and a tilted head, the Headmaster offered the following sympathies:

‘I told them before they left, that they were going to lose!’

The Secret Society

Boarding school is like a secret society. It has its own unwritten rules, passed on to the next stream silently and without discussion. One of the rules of boarding school was that you had a responsibility over the juniors who came from your former school or from your neighbourhood. Sometimes neighbourhood simply meant the large expanse that is Harare. Even the bullies knew that before they touched a junior, they needed to know whether he had a connection to an important or senior person. A misstep was very costly.

Where no big brother existed, having an older beautiful sister made you bully-proof! Everyone liked a junior with a nice sister...just in case!

This unwritten rule made things quite tough for those who came to Gokomere from obscure schools, whether primary or secondary. One had to partner a ‘protected’ junior in order to get surrogate protection. If your school got too obscure, there was the risk of you being named after it! Who can ever forget Andrew? Andrew who you ask! That guy who had a yellow complexion. When he came for his A ‘levels at Gokomere, he disclosed that he was coming from ‘Mazoe Boys High’! From that moment he was known throughout the school as ‘Mazoe’! As his legend grew, the exact source of his nickname was forgotten. Many believed his complexion had earned him the nickname. But Mazoe was a jolly good fellow!

The misfortune of being named after your school befell my good friend and MC at my wedding, Agrippa. For having come from Dewure to Gokomere for his A’levels, he earned himself the moniker ‘Dewure’! And Dewure he became. His former schoolmates never understood how one young man could adopt the name of an entire school.

Oh, by the way I had a drink ten years ago with ‘Kajarina’. Didn’t we have a great laugh about his nickname and mission days!

 I digress. Nicknames are stories for another day.

Brotherhood of the Mission

And so when I arrived at Gokomere, I had many brothers to look after me. One of the greatest benefits of this circumstance was that you suddenly had a ‘maiguru’ if Mukoma was a charmer. One of my many brothers was such a charmer. Maiguru was an extremely affable girl. She would seek me out many times just to check whether I was well. She would ask me to ‘escort’ her to the hostels, a really ‘adult’ and pleasurable enterprise in Mission life.

One of the unwritten rules observed even by a vicious school authority was that a young boy in the company of a ‘big’ girl was not committing any mischief. This innocence was not assumed in favour of the big boys. So, it was a common sight to see big girls being ‘escorted’ by small boys. Yes, we were sophisticated enough to call it ‘kueskota’! It was a fringe benefit of being a ‘babamunini’.

There were other benefits too. Sometimes a few food parcels came your way. If she became a prefect in your dining hall, ‘seconds’ was guaranteed! You also got some laundry done. When the time was right, Maiguru could arrange and promote you to a ‘nice’ girl of your age!

On movie nights...I lie! We had ‘firimu’! On film nights, in the absence of Mukoma, the innocent pubescent babamunini would be invited to join Maiguru and her friends under the ‘Pooma’ or Zambia and enjoy a repeat clip of ‘Snake in the Eagles Shadow’ protected from the ravages of Gato’s wintry cold!

Which reminds me of Max Chiturumani!  May his dear soul rest in peace! You cannot remember Gokomere movies without remembering him. But I still cannot believe the man ordered ‘The Adventures of the Taxi Driver’ and ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ for an audience of our age. I am not complaining. I can only complain about his censorship hand which he would deploy in front of the projector at the juiciest moments! He must have been bored of ordering ‘Dinkaka’ and Jimmy Cliff’s ‘Bongoman’!

But the history of movies at Gokomere is actually tragic. Late in the 70s, having arrived at the end of a film show in the granite amphitheatre, the Comrades demanded that the film be rescreened for their pleasure. Students were similarly required to remain and watch the repeat. Unfortunately, someone had informed the Rhodesian forces of the presence of the enemy at the school. Unexpectedly, the film show was interrupted by a gun battle that ensued and claimed lives including those of some students. Our beloved Sr. Fide who was the boarding mistress at the time would retell the story with great emotion.

Once again, I digress.

Being a babamunini also imposed some obligations. You had of course to deliver letters to Mukoma when required. You also had to try and promote Maiguru’s cause when threatened. It was not infrequent to become peacemaker after fights over ‘nothing’ between the lovers. There was also the constant threat of competition to Maiguru. It had to be dealt with delicately. Mukoma was for his part always trying to put up a show. Many times he would seem not to love Maiguru as much as she loved him. It was a man thing. To show love, like in Okonkwo’s world, was to show weakness.

This attitude often embarrassed Babamunini, for you had to comfort a Maiguru who did not get anything for Valentine’s Day from Mukoma. Not even a card from the Mambo Press bookshop! It was a delicate enterprise.

I must confess, I was a babamunini once! Maybe twice! Maybe a few times!

When Mukoma finally broke up with Maiguru, I was devastated. The relationship between the three of us suddenly became complicated. Being seen with Maiguru was an affront to Mukoma, but I found it unfair to be expected to end it all on account of their break-up. Maiguru for her part would try and use me to cover up for her loneliness. Mukoma made it very clear that;

“WE were done with her. A new maiguru was in the offing. It would help my cause to move with the times!”

 It was a hard.

After a while, Mukoma did not care that I was now double-crossing Maigurus. I was now a friend to ‘big’ girls who could not stand each other. For their part, one always tried hard to avoid me when I was with the other. I played my role quite efficiently.

And then my dumped Maiguru found new love. Things had to change. Our relationship remained strong, but we both knew I had to share her with another ‘babamunini’.

Then one morning, I woke up to rumours that my First Maiguru had left the school. There were competing bizarre stories told. I went to her class to see for myself, and true, my Maiguru had left the school. I was devastated. She had never said goodbye. Mukoma did not know much about the reasons. It was unfair to ask him. The rumours were not good. I half-expected a letter in the post. But nothing came. I had now to dedicate myself to a monogamous life of escorting my other ‘Maiguru’. And to my disappointment, the Headmaster did not offer his trademark ‘There are some of you...’ warning. If he had, I would have gathered what happened to my Maiguru.

2003

Years went by. I lost hope of ever seeing her again. And then one day in 2003, something happened.

It was in the midst of a cash crisis in the banking sector. Being a bank employee then, life was not as hard as it was for the common man. There was a facility to ‘book’ and collect cash in the banking hall. Needing a good amount cash for the weekend, I called a colleague in the banking hall and booked my cash. She called me a few hours later to come and collect.  I promptly left my office to see her. As I entered the banking hall, I noticed that she had a ‘client’ in front of her. But she beckoned me to approach, notwithstanding. I did so reluctantly.

As I got to the desk, I turned to greet her client. The client looked familiar. I greeted her but  the client quickly turned away while returning a cold reply. My database quickly went to work. I knew this face. My colleague smilingly introduced her to me by name. At last, I had found my long lost Maiguru. Excitedly, I replied, ‘I know her!’ I was almost screaming. I was elated. I could not contain my excitement. It had been many years.

But to my horror, Maiguru did not warm up. She gave me a ‘who-are-you’ look. It hit me. It was hard coming down from that height of excitement. I said, ‘I know you from Gokomere!’. But it did not change her demeanour. She just replied,

‘Oh, asi waiva kuprimary?’

I could not believe my ears. There was a Maiguru I had escorted countless times. I had even been under her blanket. She had bought me countless ‘maputi’ packets. She had visited my classroom to see me many times. I had spent many ‘between 5 and 6s’ with her dutifully holding fort for my unsighted Mukoma. And now she had no clue who I was?

My colleague quickly jumped in, and introduced me to her by name. But Maiguru remained a blank Statue of Coldness. I was devastated. My colleague, the muroora, realised the awkward scene unfolding before her. To her credit, she quickly gave me my packet of cash, took my cheque and I said my ‘thank you and goodbye’ and left. I was devastated.

A few hours after the bank had closed I got a knock on my office door. In walked my colleague, the muroora. Before I could say anything she said in a low apologetic tone;

‘I am very sorry Mr. Mafukidze for what happened in the branch. I could see you were really excited to see my tete and hurt and embarrassed by her reaction. I know she really knew who you were. She was just putting up a fake look. She feared that you may tell me stories of her past. I am married to her brother. Unbeknown to tete, I know everything. I am sorry. You just part of a past she wants hidden.’

I narrated how to the muroora how well I knew my Maiguru. She was quite shocked. Maybe it was also not Maiguru’s fault. I truly belonged to a time she wanted to forget. Maybe I should have acted out of character and pretended not to remember her.

I bumped into her a couple of times after that. She would look away and I pretended not to notice. I was relieved. I had accepted the truth. I had lost a dear friend. I hope, for her sake, she is happy and well.

Vincere Caritate!

© Tererai R Mafukidze, Gokomere 1987-1992 (tereraim@gmail.com) 

This is a series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please respect the anonymity given to protagonists.