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.

Reminisces of A Mission Boy: Sis MuForm 3

REMINISCES OF A MISSION BOY[1]

By Tererai R. Mafukidze

Sis muForm 3

It was at the beginning of 1987. I had arrived at a huge school with double-story classrooms. The diet was a dramatic improvement for someone coming out of Driefontein (‘Dria’). Our diet at Dria was what is called a spare diet. We had in my last year of primary school been relieved of the child labour that had been a huge yoke round our necks. We were no longer required to work in the big Shashe plantations for many hours every week. Someone had intervened. Whoever it was, may the Lord bless his or her soul. My great and wonderful memories of Dria are always coloured by the pain of the child labour, the spare diet and the unsanitary dormitory conditions. And so, getting to Gokomere High School was honestly a major change in lifestyle. While some schoolmates mourned about the conditions at Gokomere, those of us who had been to Dria honestly found life a lot more comfortable.

A few days after we had ‘finished’ grade 7 in October 1986, Samora Machel was tragically killed in a plane crash while flying over South Africa. We had been allowed to go home and enjoy the long holiday pending the commencement of form one in January 1987. I followed the news of his death with great relish. I knew almost every detail of his life by heart. And so, when Mrs Knottenbelt, our form one English teacher, informed us that we would have a public speaking contest I felt that I could do a speech. I chose to speak about Samora Machel. My class speech won and I earned the right to represent my class Form 1A in the school competition. The junior division was for form 1, 2 and 3s. I came second to Shirlyn in the semi-finals. In the finals, I won the top prize. I was the junior public speaking champion!

And so, suddenly, within 3 months of arriving at Gokomere, I had become a mini-celebrity! Virtually everyone knew my name. My voice, which has refused to break, was mimicked incessantly. Especially by the bigger girls! It was very embarrassing, but there was not much I could do. I still have people I meet 25 years later, and mimic my speeches!

Sis muForm 3

And so, it happened that three girls came to visit Netsai in our form 1 class during the break. One of the three girls was an extremely beautiful girl. When I set my eyes upon her, I melted. I had never seen such beauty. When the three girls left, I went up to Netsai and said to her;

‘Who is that girl? I love her!’

Netsai rolled with laughter and she shouted;

 ‘Ndonovaudza chete...ndiSis X...! MuForm 3! She is our prefect at Stone House!’

Netsai danced with excitement. I was in shock. I knew I had messed up. I should have just kept my admiration to myself. I did not think the girl was in form 3. I thought she was in form 1 like me! I begged Netsai all day to protect me. But this was too juicy to keep under a lid. I had messed up!

On the next day, Netsai came to class wearing the broadest ‘you-are-in-deep-shit’ look I had ever seen. I knew she had sold me out. I was in trouble. She confirmed my worst fears. I was in deep trouble. How could a form 1 boy love a form 3 girl? How? It was an abomination. I had breached one basic rule of Gokomere life. There were no cougars in our day. There would be no Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore. I was in deep, deep trouble.

While sitting at my desk at break time that day, I lifted up my eyes only to see, to my horror, the subject of my admiration in the company of her two friends. I have never been so frightened in my life. I wanted the earth to swallow me. I wanted to jump into the desk and hide with the books. I wanted to fly out of the classroom and run. It was too late. I started to sweat. She had, overnight, become the Monster. On that day, I realised how true it is that one is secure with love unexpressed. Once expressed, one is vulnerable to hurt, rejection and in my case, I imagined, mortal violence.

I sat still. I tried to disbelieve their presence but they kept walking towards my desk. I froze. I was damned. Netsai had sent me to the slaughter. My vaulting ambition had sent me crashing on the other side of the horse. I was in deep, deep shit. Three form 3 girls against the fickle force of a romantic form 1 boy was a ‘no contest’. I turned round to look at Netsai. She was nowhere to be found. These girls had come for me! I was shaking. I was about to die. How ‘love’ can quickly turn into ‘fear’! I wanted to kneel down and apologise before they said anything. My mouth went dry. I could not utter any word. The three musketeers had come for me!

Sis muForm 3 was in front. She started to smile. That famous ‘I know’ smile! I was in deep, deep shit. After what seemed to be the endless descent of the guillotine, they got to my desk.

‘Hesi Tererai!’ she said.

I don’t remember if I answered. Her friends similarly greeted me. I don’t remember if I answered either. I was busy making my final prayers. I was in deep, deep shit. Then they started a conversation. They asked me about school and many subjects I cannot remember. I am not sure I uttered anything in response. I was just fearful of facing up to what I had disclosed to Netsai. I just kept my eyes glued to my desk.

After what seemed like ages, they merrily said good bye. And they left. I felt a heavy load fall on me. I had survived. But the hunter had become the hunted. I was in deep, deep shit. I knew for certain that I did not ‘love’ her anymore!

On their way out, they must have met Netsai somewhere because when she returned to class, she was laughing uncontrollably. She was having a great time. She wanted to know whether I had ‘seen my girl’! I wasn’t enjoying it. She definitely was. I was in deep, deep shit. For many months afterwards, Sis muForm 3 became a permanent feature in my social life. She would visit me weekly, sometimes alone and sometimes with her two escorts. Many times I would disappear and return just before the bell went off, so that she would never find me. But she seemed to enjoy the cat and mouse game. She would corner me at times. I was the elusive ‘lover’!

The story of my romantic ambition must have gone viral at the hostels judging by the number of ‘big’ girls who greeted me with quizzical smiles thenceforth. After almost a year, my fear had subsided. Sis muForm 3 was now a ‘normal’ friend...a good one at that! I could now converse with her without trembling. I became comfortable in her presence.

As was the practice in those days, the social network constituted of a book. When you dated a girl, she would give you a handwritten profile which was called an ‘autobio’. It had her star sign, birthday, favourite food, favourite sport, favourite actor/ actress, favourite music, favourite songs, hobbies etc. In fact, a dear friend once dated a Zimuto girl who gave one of her hobbies as ‘smooching’!  But that’s a story for another day!

At the end of the year, it was a practice for form 4 and 6 girls to circulate an ‘autobio’ book to friends to author their memories of them. At the end of 1988, Sis muForm 3, now in form 4, came to me with her ‘autobio’ book. She wanted me to write my memories of her. As I opened it, I was shocked to find that I had been given the honour of occupying the First Page. That honour usually belonged to the best friend or someone special. On the top of each page, she had written quotes that she would remember each writer by. For me, there was no escaping. There in bold were the words that nearly cost me my life:

‘Netsai, musikana uyo anohi ani? Ndinozomuda!’

We became and still are great friends 25 years afterwards!

Vincere Caritate!

© Tererai R Mafukidze, Gokomere 1987-1992  

The first in series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please respect the anonymity given to protagonists.

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[1] This is a series of personal recollections of a life spent at Catholic Mission boarding schools. © Tererai R Mafukidze

Giving A Lift to a Relative

Giving a Lift to a Relative

It is that time of the year when many of you travel long distance to the Village for the Festive season. One of the most difficult things is to GIVE or be GIVEN a lift by a Relative, unless you enjoy an EXTREMELY comfortable embarrassment-free relationship. The discomfort makes many of you lie and say ‘yakazara’; ‘handisi kuinda kumusha’; ‘ndiri kuinda kwanaMadam’ etc. This is just to avoid having to deal with the discomfort. Much of this discomfort would be reduced if we followed basic rules of etiquette. I suggest the following Rules:
1. Do not offer ‘kudira’ fuel unless you really mean it. Any driver will know from the sound of your voice when you do not mean it. Pretending to read my newspaper at the fuel station is just not funny. If you really mean it, just bring some coupons.
2. Do not call me ONLY just before a major holiday and talk aimless and end the conversation with the question ‘munoinda kumusha here’? If you do not know the names of my children, you probably should not be asking for a lift.
3. If I give you the lift, please buy your own beer. The cooler box is for me and my family. Again do not expect me to buy you food. I have a family to feed. Use that money you are saving!
4. Do not complain about my driving, speed or lack of it. I married someone precisely to do that!
5. No smoking. This applies whether it’s done inside or outside the car. Madison is not a good perfume.
6. When the Police stop us, please shut up! You are not the driver.
7. Use the seat belt. It is there for a purpose. If it makes you uncomfortable, you should really take Musasiwa. They do not have seat belts on their buses.
8. Do not throw out rubbish through the window. Neither should you throw it on the floor.
9. Please do not relieve yourself on my car wheels. Firstly, my family does not need to see you. Secondly, I will have to change the wheels at some point. It is enough having to deal with dog urine on the wheels!
10. If you have a weak bladder please do not DRINK! Do not compete with the Police in stopping me!
11. We will leave at the time that I have set. If you are not there by that time, I will not come and look for you at your house, nyangwe muri Sekuru!
12. On the way, it is good to chat. But please know what to talk about. My kids do not need to hear you say, ‘mbuya venyu vakaroiwa naMai Nzviru, nokuti vairima rukweza zvakaoma!’
13. When you turn up for the lift, please do not bring additional passengers like your wife and children and say, ‘tsano, ambhuya venyu nerudhendhe varamba kusara’!
14. Do not bring excess luggage. I may have a pick-up but it is not a hired container. You do not decide to carry all the scrap rubbish to the Village simply because I have given you a lift. The same rule applies on return. Do not bring sacks of maize simply because my car is now ‘empty’.
15. ‘Kuyenda hwumbangu, kudzoka hwumbangu’ does not apply. Do not expect me to take you back simply because ‘takauya tose’! We must have an EXPRESS agreement on this. Number 13 applies again!
Have a Merry Xmas, and a prosperous 2012! If you are anywhere near Bako, Gutu, come and enjoy 7 days on Unity Day!!

By Tererai R. Mafukidze

Intelligent Musical Voices of Our Time

Musicians are underrated. As George W. Bush would put it, they are mis-underestimated! Who can explain the right to liberty, the essence of human freedom, better than Leonard Dembo in his classic ‘Zvaunoda Handizvigoni’? Who can capture the soul and intrigue of our criminal justice system better than Simon Chimbetu in his song ‘Ndourayiwa’? Cephas Karushanga described the unfairness of our legal system when he sang ‘Shereni ihombe pamhaka’! My beloved Dr Love, Paul Matavire sadly lambasted the rape complainant in the banned ‘Joke of the Year’ and yet gave praise to the prison system in his ‘Back from College’.
Oliver Mtukudzi laid bare the essence and connection of the Rule of Law and Democracy when he sang ‘Ngoromera’. In the most painful tune one will ever listen to, Dr Love captured the tragedy of orphaned children in his chilling classic ‘Handirambi’. James Chimombe’s ‘Kudakwashe’ entombs the pain of disability in a child like no other. Yet his heart-rending acceptability of it teaches the true essence of love.
Dembo’s ‘Chinyemu’ captures the unfairness of the tax system, while Chimbetu’s ‘Survival’ portrays the emergence of greed in public life. Lovemore Majaivana in his banned ‘Sayiwela’ painfully presents an invoice for compensation of victims of the Matabeleland and Midlands ‘madness’. His elegiac cry and the melancholy in his voice as he calls out Lookout Masuku from emathuleni cuts a deep nerve of pain. Dr Love’s frustration with selective compensation of war veterans is aptly captured in the less known gem ‘Govanai’. The musician understands the essence of social justice.
His exceptional talent is in evidence as he describes the sexual abuse and inequality women endure in his tragic-comedy ‘Dhiyabhorosi Nyoka’! Chiwoniso’s rendition of the Mbakumba spiritual ‘Nhemamusasa’ puts you in a trance as the pain of pastoral existence is transfigured into a rallying call for hard work. Yet, when you recall the poverty of ordinary folk you realise that maybe all you want is for Leonard Zhakata’s God to give you your own ‘Mugove’. You want to cry out, like Dembo did and sing ‘riiniko muchauya here, Baba kuzotinunura, vachauya here Baba?’ Mtukudzi could not stomach the long wait and had to complain ‘mhinduro yenyu inonoka, muchazopindura aniko?’. The first ‘record’ my Father bought me in 1978 was ‘ndochema misodzi, misodzi yeropa, pamuromo chete, heyaa, pamuromo chete’. He had overheard me sing it, then aged 5.
Who remembers Thomas Mapfumo’s ‘Pidigori Waenda’? Who remembers Pied Pipers’ ‘Gidi Ishasha’? The Harare Mambos popularised ‘Mbuya Nehanda kufa vachitaura shuwa...tora gidi uzvitonge’. When you listen to it played, especially by Victoria Falls legends, Mandebvu, you stand back and say, is this message timeless? Despite being independence songs, they reflect a continuous struggle for political freedom against a system that continues to use oppression against popular will. Oppression is colourless. It can look like you.
Wouldn’t you today cry when you listen to Marshall Munhumumwe and the Four Brothers sing ‘Maruchengera, naZvanyadza svetukaiwo tipembere, hona rugare rwauya, tiiteiwo makorokoto...amai hwee kanhi ndofara ini...!’ Listening to it now, you realise that Maruchengera and Zvanyadza were sceptical. They did not readily drown in the euphoria. They knew something. Maybe, as the saying goes, ‘we came too soon!’
By Tererai R. Mafukidze

Mugabe Taking His Morning-After Pills

MUGABE TAKING HIS MORNING-AFTER PILLS

I do not have any intimate knowledge about unnatural contraception. I am Catholic and so we do not plan our children. I always marvel at those who claim to. I cannot imagine sitting down with my wife, with an Agenda for the day’s meeting, a minute taker and the resolutions book. There is certainly a good reason in nature why most animals cannot breed in captivity. Catholics have their point, but do not ask me why I still have two children.

Many women will tell you that if they engage in an activity that may result in them falling pregnant against their will, they rush to the nearest pharmacy presumably on the next morning and purchase the wonder pills named the morning-after. The pills are designed to prevent breams and tiger fish in the Zambezi River’s upstream flow from finding a hospitable valley of fertility. For the medicine to gather and put back the bolting donkeys in the stable, it must be taken within 72 hours of the activity. The pharmacist is ethically required to give some counselling before dispensing them. The woman must be told that this is not a regular contraceptive. Put in another way, it is an “emergency kick-out panel”. The Pope and others consider this murder still.

If you do not take it within the required period, you risk giving birth to a baby or more with clenched fists and a naughty smile. When you undo the clenches, you may find the progeny holding the belated morning-after pills. Like election results posted outside polling stations!

The tragic-comedy that engulfs the Presidential results shows that Mugabe has decided to take his morning-after pills long after the 72 hour period. How else do you explain fraud charges against Binga ZEC officers? Some of the charges according to the state-owned Herald of the 16th April, 2008, allege that they recorded Tsvangirai as having 16 492 votes instead of 16 493, a difference of one vote! It is alleged that they recorded the Zanu PF’s candidate as having 2 794 votes instead of 2 798, a difference of 4 votes. In another instance it is alleged that they gave Langton Towungana, a presidential candidate, 107 votes instead of 111? Can anyone seriously prove any criminal intent to defraud? What happened to innocent counting errors? I thought the law has a rule expressed in Latin as, de minimis non curat lex? This means that the law does not concern itself with trivialities.

What will the morning-after pills achieve now? Mugabe either has to abort the foetus or give birth to an unwanted baby. A rerun will not reverse all the risks that unprotected polling brings. Even a ten thousand generals with freshly imported Chinese ammunition, a supine state press, a marauding militia, comical spokespersons, a lame-duck South African President, designer clothes and 400 motor vehicles driven by medical doctors will not help. A fatal disease may have been contracted.

Liberation movements have shown consistently that they cannot easily change from the autocratic military movements to democratic parties demanded of modern governments. This is why I prophesy that whatever happens, Zanu PF has contracted a disease that will claim its life. Kenneth Kaunda’s UNIP has virtually disappeared in Zambia. It has about 2 seats in the current Parliament. Kaunda will outlive it. Kamuzu Banda’s Malawi Congress Party is dying in Malawi. Jomo Kenyatta and Daniel arap Moi’s KANU is dying in Kenya.

Chama Chama Pinduzi of Tanzania has survived because it has managed to change. When Julius Nyerere threw in the towel on his own terms, Ali Hassan Mwinyi took up the mantle, followed by Benjamin Mkapa and now Julius Kikwete. In Mozambique, they are on their second President since the death of Samora Machel in 1986. On Seretse Khama’s death, Siketumile Masire took over in Botswana. He was succeeded by Festus Mogae. Mogae has just stepped down one and half years before the end of his second term, to allow Iain Khama the chance to prove that he can lead the Tswana.

Zanu PF has no succession plan. Like an old fractured horse, it may need to be put down. Rumours abound amongst its zealots indicate that they want a rerun after taking some contraception. They may dispense with the need for morning-after pills this time. It is said that after some 18 months, someone will take over from Mugabe.
However, they may have already contracted the fatal disease. Like its sister change-resistant liberation movements across the continent, Zanu PF detests democracy, the intelligent and the young. The next crop of “leaders” by age is Bright Matonga, Patrick Zhuwawo and Saviour Kasukuwere. They make me laugh. Not-so-Bright Matonga makes people who watch him on international television news channels laugh at me as a Zimbabwean.

When rumours of alternative candidates to Mugabe were spreading last year, Oppah Zvipange Charm Muchinguri, the Zanu PF’s Women’s League leader, threatened to strip naked if anyone dares challenge Mugabe. She was walloped in the parliamentary elections on March 29. Makoni’s late challenge cost us a strip show. His upmarket Harare underwear business would have benefited from this enterprise. And people say he has business acumen! You would have thought Muchinguri, who witnessed the death of the legendary Josiah Tongogara had learnt some principle. No, it’s all profanity.

In order to defeat the fatal disease, anti-retrovirals may have to be taken by Zanu PF. But with its tendency to postpone bitter medicines, they may be given too late to the patient. By the time Gono buys the foreign currency at Harare’s 4th Street mobile alternative exchange bureaus necessary to import the anti-retrovirals, they may indeed be more dangerous to the body than remedial.

As the dead cockerel Party walks up the banks of the mythical River Styx on its way to Judgment, it may be faced with the true revolutionaries who once doubted Mugabe’s leadership waiting to ask a few questions? “Jonathan who?” “Gideon who?”

Why did we reduce this “glorious revolution to a feudal agrarian enterprise?” “Is this what we fought for?”

Someone will have a sobering thought and say, “Firstly, he should not have polled. And the morning-after pills came too late”. A High Court judge will say it was not an urgent matter.

Any girl will tell you, you do not need morning-after pills if you have behaved responsibly. As the late musician Paul “Dr Love” Matavire put it, majichimbo-chimbo anofara musi wafa kondo ziso! Prey celebrates the demise of its predator.

Happy Independence Day!


Tererai Mafukidze is a Zimbabwean lawyer based in Johannesburg. He can be contacted on tereraim@gmail.com.