A Nugget of Simon Muzenda’s Pastoral Wisdom

In 1983, I attended the most opulent wedding ever. I have not been to a better one since. It was the wedding of one of the nationalists named Simba Marembo. It was held at his beautiful farm in Lalapanzi. The newly powerful were all there. It was like a Cabinet meeting. Powerful ministers whose names we only new from radios and grapevine were there. They were dressed in the best cut 3-piece vented suits of the day. Some were in the independence fashioned safari suits. They looked regal. They were the new black diamonds.

By their side were their mostly post-independence Lux-bathed young wives of the most beautiful kind. Their beautiful afros betrayed a generous supply of Satin Sheen. We had only seen their kind in the Impulse body spray adverts of the time. I was 10 then, but I could tell a beautiful woman. Shirley Nyanyiwa had set the standard.

Expensive gifts were given to the newly-weds. Money was thrown in truck loads. They call it ‘kukung’aa’ in my mother’s Mberengwa. The groom, an ‘Ex-Combatant’ as we called them in the day, had picked a beautiful flower. He was now a powerful executive in the corporate world. Lalapanzi had never seen such opulence.

I remember towards sunset, Dr Barnabas Mtumbuka bade farewell by giving $50 to the MC as his contribution towards ‘Find’ (‘fine’ in proper legalese) should there be any fights involving any of the guests after his return to Harare. In those days the standard fine for common fighting payable at the police station was $10. This meant the good Minister of Education had paid for the criminal conduct of 5 fighters in advance of the fighting, should it ever happen at the wedding. There was no time for fighting. It was not a place for fighting. It was a feast of great proportions. For a moment I dreamt of becoming a politician. I wished I had gone to war too.

The guest of honour was the then Deputy Prime Minister Simon Muzenda. It was the first occasion for me to meet the man. My father, being what was termed ‘member-in-charge’ in the day at Lalapanzi Police Station was responsible for providing the ceremonial security to the man. Of course his other ZRP boys looked after the event. He was of course dressed to the mimes in his police garbadin uniform. His shoes and belts were shining like mirrors. Ox-blood shoe polish and methylated spirit had been at work for a few days before. My late brother and I were shoe polishers of note in our day. Every policeman’s son was trained in this art back in the day.

I was playing with my late younger brother on the front lawn of the magnificent farm house before the wedding started. My father, who was with the man and the man’s two ‘ex-combatant’ bodyguards called to join them. We gingerly approached them. We shook the great man’s hand and those of his companions. He asked us our names, and we shyly replied. He enquired about the grades we were in and the school. We happily told him we were at the local St Matthias. The man seemed sincerely interested in chatting to us, which added to our embarrassment. He then asked whether we thought ourselves clever. The natural answer was to tell the Deputy Prime Minister of the country that he had met two clever sons of a policeman. He then said he had a question for us:

‘Kana n’ombe yakatarira kumavirira, mukgwe wayo wakatarirepi?’

I hastily answered: ‘Kumabvazuva!’

The man turned his eyes to my brother, and my brother did not demur. The Deputy Prime Minister then burst out laughing. It was a loud and hearty laugh. The two bodyguards and my father joined but their laughter was fence-sitting laughter—they were clearly unsure of the correct answer.

When the man recovered himself, he then said:

‘Vafana, n’ombe nyangwe ikatarire kumavirira, kumabvazuva, kuchamhembe, kumawodzanyemba...mukgwe wayo unoramba wakatarira pasi!’

He roared again with laughter but only this time the two bodyguards and my father joined in the merriment with assuredness. He rubbed our heads with serene affection and released us to the playground.

I have asked this pastoral quiz to many people over the last 30 years and yet most have offered the answer I had at 10. I don’t know why I am telling you this tale. I have no moral to preach.

Thanks Mzee for the pastoral wisdom. Some things never change! Mukgwe unoramba wakatarira pasi!