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