Happy Birthday

Let there be light
Let there be a musky night sky and a beautiful bright morning
Let there be firmament in the midst of the waters –let there be the Heavens and the Earth
Let the blue waters affectionately cuddle, and expose the golden beaches
Let the flowers illuminate the scenic terrains
Let the sunshine and the moonlight busk in glory and gleam through the seasons
Let the dolphins, the eels and all the creatures of the deep enjoy the company of the pearls
Let the birds chirp and the creatures creep
It was beautiful

Let there be a girl, a woman, phenomenal woman
Let her eyes sparkle
Let her smile gleam and make hearts melt
Let her body be a perfect craftwork
‘The swing of her hips, the curl of her lips, the stride of her step’
Let her be intelligent, cunning and acumen
Let her have a heart
Let her have grace
Let her be kind
Let her be passionate,
Let her be beautiful
Happy Birthday love

Car trouble

Monday, 14/12/09
I’m driving down Jason Moyo Avenue, Thursday after work. It is the peak hour and everyone is heading home after a busy working day. I’m quite happy because I replaced the shocks on my car just yesterday and it really feels stable. I stop by the robots and suddenly the most exasperating nightmare motorist’s nightmare hits me. The engine just goes silent and the car stops. I try to restarts but it just won’t budge. I could almost feel every nerve ending in my body converging for an outcry but I just kept my cool; amidst the other cars hooting behind me. Luckily I was with two of my friends, and they quickly got out and started pushing the car to the side.
I call my mechanic who gets to the spot in about 30 minutes and starts working on the car. He says it’s just a blown fuse and replaces it. I kick myself for being so ignorant about cars.
Friday the next day, I knock off work mid afternoon and I’m in the mood for a bit of shopping. I cruise through the streets of Harare, hit a few shops, buy some snickers and a DVD player. As I’m heading home the car suddenly gives up on me – again. Immediately, I channel all my anger to my mechanic. But I calmly pick my phone and call him. He gets there in about two hours time. It’s about 7pm when he starts working on the car. He can barely identify any problem, and after two fours hours of this and that, he notices a licking pipe in the fuel tank. He replaces the small pipe closes everything and bills me $50. I think it’s exorbitant but we had just spent so much time and I had no time to negotiate. I just drive off home.
The next morning is a friend’s wedding day. I’m supposed to pick up the groom and take him to the wedding reception. I manage to do that confidently. The wedding goes pretty fine until lunch time, when the couple is now supposed to go for photos. I transport the groom’s companions. And well for the third time the car gives up on me. I feel so embarrassed because this time I have some passengers who are crucial in a wedding – a once off special event. There is no time to be angry I just fell defeated. I hit the key and the car starts. At least it’s moving I tell myself. The whole journey the car is just starting and stopping. Despite the disappointments, the car accomplishes its mandated task.
I call the mechanic again. He comes to the church (wedding venue) and starts working on the car. He doesn’t have any explanations for why its behaving the way it is and just says he will do his best. I calmly agree and he gets to work. After about two hors he takes it for a test drive and comes back smiling. He starts explaining that the only problem was a dirty sensor that was now inactive. All he did was just clean it. He is confident that this time it will not break down. He charges me $30. I have spent so much on a car in a short space of time over minor issues that I start thinking the mechanic is milking me. I express my disappointments and concerns and he tries to console me by telling me that sometimes cars do these sort of things. I pay him and drive off partly disgruntled and partly satisfied.
Earlier on this year I could go on my business without even thinking of a vehicle. When I bought my car, I thought I would only use it when I needed to and it wouldn’t really affect my usual life. How wrong I was. I can barely cope without my car now. When it breaks down it’s like a lot of things stop working.
Ends

Love diary

My expedition in the quaking realm of love began in my wee years, when I first could tell apart a man from a woman. In the small township of Nkulumane in Bulawayo, where I grew up, lived a girl named Sithembile. Sithembile’s family and ours were neighbours. She was about six then, the same age as I was. She resembled to me an angel, an extraordinary creature of beauty. She was my first crush.

Somehow, one day I found myself behind a closed toilet door with Sithembile, experimenting with what we had heard brought about children like us into the world. Unfortunately, we were inexperienced and made a lot of noise trying to figure out what exactly to do that we got caught before we could actually do anything. That day is still vivid in my mind. I can almost still feel my mother lashing me on my buttocks for my antics.

This was just the beginning of my life’s trials at love. After Sithembile, I loathed the female species. Throughout my primary school years I never liked girls. They were to me these atypical creatures who were slow at athletics, cried before they were beaten in class, and whose ambitions centred on being drum-majorettes.

Even so, when I was in Grade Seven one girl turned the tides of my judgments around. Her name was Nonzipho. Nonzi, as we affectionately called her, was elegant, smart and charming. She was light in complexion, tall, fair, and smiled like a model. She was different from other girls; in short she was my new world.

I was however lousy in dealing with my emotions that everyone soon knew about my crush before I could even make a move. I was called by my teacher and intensely interrogated about my intentions. I became a laughing stock as everything became public and Nonzi was revered. Resultantly, I hated her until I left primary school.

My secondary education was as dry as the Sahara as far as relationships were concerned. My parents posted me to a Boys’ school and I rotted there. Periodically though, our school would organize trips to our sister school and we would catch glimpses of what we desired to be chasing on a daily basis. At one instant, a girl named Rejoice from our sister school had a serious crush on me and did not hide her feelings from me, even though she was two streams older than me. On one of our trips to their school she led me to the back of the classrooms and started conversing intimately. Naively, I did not even make a move. It was not until after I had returned to my school that I realized I had missed my opportunity for a first kiss. Rejoice never replied any of my mails after that incidence.

Ultimately, what I may call my breakthrough came when I was now doing my A’ level. I opted out of the boys’ school to a co-ed school. This did not augur well with my mother and we had a fierce altercation over my decision. I was nonetheless determined to get my way; I would not age without a girlfriend. I had to be exposed to the real world.

This is where I met Bongi, my first love. She was like the Lamborghini of cars, like the Gucci of clothing; simply what I thought had been God-sent and tailor made for a brother like me. We hit it off like the school had been our playground. We were the talk of the school; the ideal teenage couple. This was love.
Sadly, after more than a year together, our relationship started wobbling. It seemed as if I was losing grip of the newly found love. And indeed, I was. Someone scooped Bongi off her feet and she dumped me still believing we had something special. Nothing could describe the hurt in my heart at that time. I was angry, frustrated, robbed, empty, and bitter. I was left void like a kid who had just had his lollipop jerked from his mouth by a bully. This was my first heartbreak.

Scarred like a wounded bull, I went to college with the mentality that all girls were the same; none legitimate. I approached several of them but never really zeroed in on one. I became the hunter and they the hunted. I was the mac-daddy. Deep inside though, I still yearned for that one true love. She never came.

At one time I had a fling with this girl who was cheating on her long term boyfriend. I knew she was cheating; I was her comfort shoulder when she was stressed. We would cuddle up, kiss, and fondle like we were lovers. The thrill of not being attached was what kept us going. Physical contacts however often lead to emotional ties. The wussy character in me overcame the strong macho personality I had developed and in no time I was telling her how much I loved her and spoiling her with gifts. Our fling did not last more than a month thereafter.

With a long string of heartbreaks, I resorted to abstaining from girls. The peer pressure from friends to try other shots at love was strong, but a scarred child will always hesitate to go near a fire again. I knew the pleasures of being in a relationship, but also I needed to recuperate before I could get on the love boat again. I hoped the next relationship would be the special one….

Ends.

Could ‘bride price’ be facing extinction

The issue of payment of bride price is fast emerging to be one of the most controversial in the context of Gender Based Violence. Participants at the National Policy Dialogue organized by Southern African HIV and AIDS Dissemination Services (SAfAIDS) in Harare titled “Harmonizing traditional laws and practices and general laws that address women issues, Gender Based Violence and HIV and AIDS” highlighted that bride price could be done away with as it discriminates against girls and women.

Women in particular raised concerns that the payment of bride price is becoming highly commercialized, with girls being viewed as assets that can be traded for economic gains. This scenario is inflamed in the Zimbabwean context where the hyperinflationary environment is rendering most forms of livelihood unviable, leaving the majority with very few to no options at all for sustenance. Parents were castigated for now looking forward to marrying off their children to ameliorate themselves from the scorches of the harsh economy.

With an estimated inflation rate of over 253 million percent in Zimbabwe, most families are charging bride price exorbitantly in foreign currency as the local currency is quickly eroded. Some are even charging in valuable assets like vehicles. A custom that once brought pride to the bride now leaves her feeling void and used a circumstance that has led to a number of premature break-ups of intended marriages.

“In the Ndebele culture, bride price was paid by the husband’s family to signal that the bride does not belong to the husband but to the family,” said Phathisa Nyathi, a renowned traditionalist and historian.

“As a result, if the husband started battering the wife, his own relatives had a basis for intervening. They would cite that they also had a stake in the paying of the bride price hence the husband had no right to batter their daughter in law”, he added.

As it is there are huge disparities between the tradition of bride price and the current scenario where women appear to be sold off into marriage.

Consequently, bride price is seen as fuelling discrimination and gender based violence as its allotment can somehow be viewed as inequitable and the custom may result in husbands claiming ownership over their wives’ bodies. Traditionally, the mother of the bride is allocated one beast from those that are charged, and some other items like clothes and groceries. The father, in addition to the clothing, normally gets up to eight cattle depending on how many the family would have charged. This was perceived as inequitable division of the bride price.

“These are some of the gaps that need to be addressed in drafting new policy documents. A scenario where the bride price is shared equally would be more equitable from a gender perspective,” said Emilia Muchawa, Executive Director of the Zimbabwe Women’s Lawyers Association (ZWLA).

This view is however controversial as some women still uphold this allotment and view it as equitable. The beast that is allocated to the mother is hers to keep. The other beasts allocated to the father can however be shared amongst the bride’s brothers and/or uncles or be slaughtered for meat altogether. In this light, some women feel that they are given their due respect through this customary allotment. Furthermore some families do not recognize payment of bride price unless the bride’s mother’s beast is paid.

Although some women’s activists call for the scrambling of bride price, many women would not want their daughters to be married off without the payment of bride price.

Evidently the custom of paying the bride price still holds great value in Zimbabwe and in many parts of sub-Saharan Africa. It is a symbol of cultural identity. It initiates family relations and formalizes the transition from courtship to marriage. In this way also, the bride’s family feels honored to see the commitment of the groom to marrying their daughter.

Overall, the issue of bride price payment remains inconclusive. Although it was highlighted at the National Policy Dialogue workshop that it may be necessary to make the payment of bride price optional, it is very unlikely that many people will accept such a transformation to the custom which lies as the epicenter of most African marriages.

An analysis of the purposes of these time-honored customs is necessary before any amendments are made to traditional laws. Likewise, the objectives of the payment of bride price need to be revisited in order to bridge the gaps that exist in liberating women from gender based discrimination.

A stitch in time saves nine

It is this craze you have

The addiction that sticks like a bad stain

The habit you hate but cannot stop

The experiment that turns into a routine

 

You know it is bad

You know it is ungodly

You know it is shameful

You know you cannot afford to be caught at it

But somehow you are constantly drawn towards it

 

You have repented a million times

Made a thousand promises that this time will be the last

Even confessed it at your most intimate prayer to God

But the habit inexorably hogs you into a vortex of more want

 

What is going to become of me, you ask

Am I normal, you ponder

Will I ever stop, you deliberate

Will I ever forget, you ruminate

 

Conviction is not easy

No amount of motivation will move your heart against your will

Do not only make a decision

Take the action

A stitch in time saves nine

In His palms, your freedom awaits

Ends

Ignorance or reluctance: Cholera deaths

My brother recently called me to cancel an appointment we had. He was supposed to have visited me that night. His voice was hoarse in that call and I could pick up residues of pain in his tone as he crackled to give his apology that he was not going to honor our appointment because had had to attend a funeral. One of his friends had died of a sudden Cholera attack in Glen-Norah, a high density suburb in the city of Harare. Under normal circumstances I could have lashed at him for cancelling our appointment, but I could not help but console him sincerely, as I could almost see viscous tears drop from his eyes from the our side of the phone.

Still echoing the hurt in my brother’s voice, I made my way into the streets of Harare along 4^th Avenue on my way to the bus terminus to catch public transport home. I stopped by some foreign currency street dealers to change 100rands to get some Zim dollar for bus fare. As we traded, I noticed a lady sited by the roadside selling some “mazhanje” (small brownish wild fruits). She was also eating some as she sold them.

I do not usually start conversation with people easily but after the way my day had just gone I was propelled to ask the lady that whether her “mazhanje” weren’t part of the agents spreading Cholera in the streets. She looked at me square in the eyes and said that what the Press was feeding with lies Cholera.

“People are not dying because of Cholera”, she said. “If it is one’s time to die they will die. Even you can die as you are standing there if it is your day has come. If you do not die from stroke you can get hit by a car.” She added.

Before I could answer back the foreign currency dealer handed me nine million dollars, the street equivalent of 100rands on that day. The previous day one could fetch 7.5million dollars for the same amount. If it was not for that I did not have any bus fare I could have waited until the next day to change my 100rands. It probably would have fetched 11million dollars or so.

I turned to the lady and asked if she had any water to wash the “mazhanjes” before she sold them or ate them herself. She confidently answered that her fruits were not dirty. She said that she had purchased them in the afternoon, picking one and throwing it into her mouth. She noisily munched as if to convince me that they were cholera free.

At this juncture I gave her a bit of advice. I told her to get some water for her fruits to avoid spreading any diseases or catching them herself.

Big mistake!

She sharply told me to leave if I did not want to buy and shouted that I wanted to be smart for nothing.

I conceded defeat. Not wanting to be embarrassed in front of the crowds I gathered my tail in between my thighs and proceed to the terminus.

But it hurt so much that Zimbabwe is riding on one of its worst ever cholera outbreaks with more than 300 officially reported deaths and more than a thousand more predictive to be unreported nationwide. Hospitals now resemble sewage works. To rub on to the thorn, nurses opt to stay-away not necessarily because of the meager wages which can barely meet their monthly bus fares, but because of the shortages of materials in the hospitals. Even gloves are out of stock. With this scenario, with philanthropic organizations like UNICEF have initiated massive awareness campaigns, one cannot afford to keep a blunt eye on the scourge, let alone promote it.

Vendors should desist from putting money over their customers’ health. Some of their customers are school children as young as six, who may not fully understand cholera and its signs and symptoms. If we cannot prevent the spread of cholera for our sakes, at least let us do it for the vulnerable young children.

Blame of the outbreak can be put upon the government for its failure over the past eight years to maintain water and sewage systems; run an effective health system; and be more organized administratively; but let this not be the cancer to learned self helplessness. As a rule of thumb, people must Wash their hands before eating, Wash or pearl fruits before eating, Cook food adequately and eat it hot/warm and Clean toilets every day.

Loss of life to Cholera is avoidable and it is not necessary that we wait until we lose a loved one so as to start to acting. I did not know my brother’s friend before his death, but I could sense our phone conversation his pain, frustration and anger of the loss of his friend. Death to Cholera can be so abrupt. A day or two can be the difference between life and death.

Ends

Of soaps, women and men

What is it with soaps that men cannot stand, but that women crave? Generations, The Young and the Restless, Isidingo, Desperate Housewives, Studio 263…. the list goes on. I embarked on a journey to carry out a cocas top notch research to unearth the old age mystery of these biosocial discrepancies amongst these two sexes.

My first port of call was the office. Using my highly technical journalistic skills I approached a typical man, Phineas, an accountant and a bachelor.

“Soaps should be taken off the air. Whenever women come to my house and get hold of the remote, the first thing they want to do is search for a soap opera. It should be taken off the air. If it is supper time, you do not get served until the soap has ended.”

Phineas did not mince his words at all.

Thereafter a lady bought into the issue. This became easy for me. There was no need to use my exceedingly specialized information extraction tools to wheedle out the much sought after enigma. Rotina, a psychology graduate had this to say;

“All men do not like soaps I don’t know why. Tell me the secret. Why don’t men want to watch soaps?”

Masimba – a writer, cum poet, cum reporter had the answer before she could even finish talking.

“The pictures are too bright they hurt your eyes. The stories are too slow, too predictable. If you watch one you have watched all of them”

The facts were now coming out. At least on the man’s side, the time old secrets that had been kept so well hidden through generations, preserved by our grandfathers, were finally being unsealed. Before I could blink, Leonard another gentlemen, a Sociology student at the Women’s University (oh yes it is not a typing error, at the Women’s University) belted out;

“When you are following a soap opera you can leave a character hiding behind a door, and when you come back after six months you will still find that same character hiding behind the door.”

That was just to put the nail to the coffin.

But the women’s side had not yet come out clean. The secrets were still yet to be unearthed. This left me no choice but to move up one more level, employing my scientific aerodynamic journalistic skills to open the women’s Pandora’s Box on soaps.

Alice, an agronomist and former School Head, shed a more mature light to the whole perspective.

“Soaps depict the true day to day lifestyle of people and the challenges they go through. Most men live pseudo lives pretending as if everything is alright all the time. Women on other hand come out more open.” She said.

“Take for example in this era of HIV and AIDS, the women disclose their statuses more often than men do. Men would rather die silently. Soaps therefore bring some of these issues in the open and men become intimidated. Women on the other hand are consoled.”

She left me smiling shyly as if someone had just removed my trouser in public. Somehow I felt there was some element of truth in what she said.

Michelle, Masimba’s wife couldn’t agree more. She said soaps resemble our daily lives. People can relate to them more than they can with movies. She also had a role model from her favorite soap, Generations.

“Garabo is a strong character, a career woman who knows what she wants, she inspires me a lot.”

I must say Alice’s perspective was the opposite of what my cousin brother, Sindiso, thought. He sees soaps as irrelevant and fake. He says they are ethereal with some story lines, particularly relationships, being too detached from reality. Most of these men, it dawned to me, do not even know the story lines to these soaps. How then can they be intimidated by what they do not know?

Lydia, a young bombshell and sociologist by profession had this to say.

“Talk of Samuel the barman from Generations, oh he is so cute. There is so much emotion in soaps that is why I watch them.”

It was time for me to make a conclusion on this issue and submit the findings of my study to the expectant world.

There were four key facts which emerged and they could be summed up in the words – monotonous, emotion, attachment and intimidation. Women are for emotion and attachment. Most men run when they hear those words. Women are more patient beings they can tolerate 100 episodes of a story line. Men would rather watch a game of soccer. When it reveals what they do in private men (and women) may become intimidated. Need I say more? The mystery is partially solved…

Brand New Sneakers

Harare, 19/09/08 Late Thursday afternoon, I decide to buy myself some sneakers. It really is more of a commitment than a decision. Prices are sky-rocketing in Zimbabwe and sneakers are beyond the reach of many. I’m forced to purchase frankly because I no longer own a single pair in my locker. Wearing shoes daily is also becoming very uncomfortable with these high temperatures. And I also need to make my return to basketball after more than two years off the court.

Having done a bit of window shopping and price comparing, I finally find a pair I think is reasonably priced. Purchases in the shops have seized to be largely based on personal choice but more on pricing. This shop is selling Nikees for Z$25,000 the equivalent of US$62; Better than some shops which go up to $Z55,000 (higher than US$100).

At the shop, I approach this nice looking young lady attendant for the price and ask if they have a size 11. Her answers are satisfactory to me. I swear this is not because of her looks. Seeing that I only have Z$500 in my pocket and some US dollars, I ask her for the US dollar price. Apparently, almost all the shops price their products in Zim dollars with skeleton US dollar prices. Unfortunately for me, she says they only charge in Zim dollars. Her answer is followed by a smile which quickly neutralizes my disappointment as I then have to take to the streets to change my US dollars to Zim dollars. Although this is illegal, I really have no choice. Banks, the formal channels, offer less than a tenth of what is offered on the streets and they transfer the money into one’s account as there are serious cash shortages.

So there I am along Kwamwe Nkurume and 5^th Street, the habour of forex dealers, Zhet masters or Cash Barons as they are affectionately known. I pick out two brothers from the numerous groups of youths and ask for the rate.

‘’Ma green i3.8 mdara” meaning the US dollar is trading at one is to Z$380 to the Zim dollar.

I negotiate up to Z$400. One of the guys says they only have cash for US$40. I want to change US$65. He tells me to wait and quickly disappears into the crowds of dealers. I pace slowly towards the direction he ran to. He re-emerges holding a bunch of fresh Z$1000 notes.

I hold my breath a bit in awe.

‘’Only yesterday did the Reserve Bank Governor release the new Z$1000 notes and an individual is only allowed to withdraw just one note of that value a day, so where did he get all that money,’’ I think aloud.

‘’…but these occurrences have become common in Harare, corruption is the order of the day.’’ I conclude.

After transacting, the unthinkable happens. The brother who had disappeared and appeared, asks me.

‘’Weren’t you at the UZ?’’

I take a good look at him and suddenly my mind is taken back to the basketball court. I used to play half-court with this brother on Friday afternoons at the University of Zimbabwe (UZ) and he was one of the faithful supporters of our college team. I commanded a regular jersey. We exchange hearty greetings and pretend as if we did not transact any money.

I proceed to the shop to purchase my Nikees. But I start to ponder again.

‘’What is a University graduate doing in the streets, trading in illegal dealings? A University of Zimbabwe graduate for that matter. The most prestigious University in the country. At one time Zimbabwe’s education system was rated number one in Africa and highly ranked in the world. Is this the depth of educational degradation in our nation? How deep will Zimbabwe sink?’’

With unemployment rates at 80%, and the majority of the employed living below the poverty datum line Zimbabweans are fleeing the country and/or engaging in self help entrepreneurial projects; legal and illegal to sustain themselves and fend for their families. This really is not the direction we wish to take as Zimbabweans. Every day we pray for a better tomorrow where the skilled will be recognized, the disadvantaged empowered, and most importantly our pride restored.

After all is said and done, I go home a disappointed man. My beloved Nikees failed to fit. The size 11s I was told are the US size 11s. They are smaller in size than the UK size 11s which we normally use. Now I have to wake up early in the morning and hunt for another sneaker before my money loses value, or go back to Kwame Nkurume and 5^th street to bid back my foreign currency.

Ends