No money = no wife.
A. has three sons, all in their mid- to late-20s, all with university or poly degrees. One has a job with Customs and Immigration, another's been working at the Blair Research Station near Marondera as he completes his Masters, the third is waiting for his poly results (a paper he wrote has mysteriously disappeared, meaning he might have to sit -- and pay for -- it again). There are no fiancees or wives, not even a girlfriend. How can there be, when prospective in-laws expect lobola (bride price), lots of it and payable in foreign currency?
The sons are home again this weekend. Unaccompanied, of course.
"Other people complain about an empty nest," she says. "In my case, they're coming home to roost."
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
diary of a 30-something
Zimbabwe has its own Bridget Jones. She writes in the Manica Post newpaper every Friday. Unlike Helen Fielding, she doesn't sign her column. But this chocolate-loving 30-something's dilemmas are just as pressing.
Ms 30-something, a top-level executive who comes complete with secretary, is torn between two men: Mr IT, who works in the IT section of her company and Mr Old Mutare, who comes from Old Mutare*, is from an apparently politically-powerful family (government, possibly though it's never spelled out) and has money (and a farm). Lots of money. When he and Ms 30-something quarrel, he sends her a "roomful" of flowers. The memory of that has her a weeny-bit scornful when Mr IT -- to whom she finally succumbed a couple of weeks ago -- sends her a bouquet of flowers by dint of an apology. An apology what for, you may ask, only a fortnight into a relationship? Mr IT has made the mistake of refusing to eat chez Ms 30-something (he prefers restaurants every night, which she concedes could be a problem if she married him: how would they save?). He says it's because she might put mupfahwira (love potions) in his supper so he'll never leave.
Ms 30-something has her fair share of drama. She was in a car crash earlier this year, was horrified when taken to a rural hospital (where she was left groaning on a stretcher) and relieved when her church in Harare (Ms 30-something goes to one of the trendy new monied churches the well-connected love to be seen at) sends money for her to be transferred to the capital. She has a lesbian friend who's recently given up on women and is engaged to a man old enough to be her father, and she has a Small House friend. Small House is the mistress of a man with several wives already, but he pays her rent and hairdressing bill and gives her money for groceries. Small House -- who recently lost one of the twins she was carrying -- tells Ms 30-something the secret to keeping someone else's husband: "She tries her level best not to behave like a wife. She plays her cards right, depending on the situation. If he needs a listener, she listens: if he needs an encourager, she encourages, if he needs a nurse, a massage, a bath...whatever it is, she gives it freely, without complaining..."
*the eastern city of Mutare was "moved" over Christmas Pass at the turn of the last century. According to old accounts, houses were dismantled and transported by wagon across the mountain range. Hence Old Mutare (where there's a mission, a school and a university) and Mutare proper, today's diamond-riddled city.
Ms 30-something, a top-level executive who comes complete with secretary, is torn between two men: Mr IT, who works in the IT section of her company and Mr Old Mutare, who comes from Old Mutare*, is from an apparently politically-powerful family (government, possibly though it's never spelled out) and has money (and a farm). Lots of money. When he and Ms 30-something quarrel, he sends her a "roomful" of flowers. The memory of that has her a weeny-bit scornful when Mr IT -- to whom she finally succumbed a couple of weeks ago -- sends her a bouquet of flowers by dint of an apology. An apology what for, you may ask, only a fortnight into a relationship? Mr IT has made the mistake of refusing to eat chez Ms 30-something (he prefers restaurants every night, which she concedes could be a problem if she married him: how would they save?). He says it's because she might put mupfahwira (love potions) in his supper so he'll never leave.
Ms 30-something has her fair share of drama. She was in a car crash earlier this year, was horrified when taken to a rural hospital (where she was left groaning on a stretcher) and relieved when her church in Harare (Ms 30-something goes to one of the trendy new monied churches the well-connected love to be seen at) sends money for her to be transferred to the capital. She has a lesbian friend who's recently given up on women and is engaged to a man old enough to be her father, and she has a Small House friend. Small House is the mistress of a man with several wives already, but he pays her rent and hairdressing bill and gives her money for groceries. Small House -- who recently lost one of the twins she was carrying -- tells Ms 30-something the secret to keeping someone else's husband: "She tries her level best not to behave like a wife. She plays her cards right, depending on the situation. If he needs a listener, she listens: if he needs an encourager, she encourages, if he needs a nurse, a massage, a bath...whatever it is, she gives it freely, without complaining..."
*the eastern city of Mutare was "moved" over Christmas Pass at the turn of the last century. According to old accounts, houses were dismantled and transported by wagon across the mountain range. Hence Old Mutare (where there's a mission, a school and a university) and Mutare proper, today's diamond-riddled city.
Friday, July 24, 2009
guessing
After eight years living here, I still find it impossible to gauge Zimbabweans' ages. The sister who takes blood from me tosses her ringlets as she writes my name on the test-tube. They're reddish-purple corkscrew ringlets, the sort you could thread your little finger through. It's an elegant wig, I realise (there's a tell-tale gape at the neckline)"Do you have children?" she says. "A boy." I've warned her I might faint. "I have two, a boy and a girl. But they were close together and the girl did whatever the boy did so it was like having two boys." We discuss night wakings, how if you've only had girls you'd never understand how exhausting it is having a boy. "How old are your children?" I ask as she corks up the tube. Her face is smooth, unlined, firm - she's not much older than me, surely. "Old," she laughs. "What, 8 and 9?" "No, 21 and 20," she says. I gasp. "But that means you are.." She laughs.
It works both ways. A few minutes later, hurrying from the vegetable shop with a sachet of cayenne pepper I hear a steady "Sss." And again. "Sss." Yes? "Please, come over here." I take a few steps towards a trio of well, what are they, youths? Not so long ago, this would have been an offer of sugar, US dollar change or diamonds. One of the youths steps towards me. He's wearing a cap and a white-striped polo shirt. Breathtakingly white. He probably is a diamond dealer, come to think of it. Definitely a dealer of some kind, anyway. "I just want to say," he says, staring into my face. ""that I think you're very beautiful." "Thankyou." I laugh. I've slipped to the wrong side of 35 now, if I'd started having babies at 16 I could probably be your mother. That's if you're as old as I think you are, which you probably aren't. I hold bag, laptop and pepper tight and turn to cross the road. His voice floats after me. "Please, are you married?" .
It works both ways. A few minutes later, hurrying from the vegetable shop with a sachet of cayenne pepper I hear a steady "Sss." And again. "Sss." Yes? "Please, come over here." I take a few steps towards a trio of well, what are they, youths? Not so long ago, this would have been an offer of sugar, US dollar change or diamonds. One of the youths steps towards me. He's wearing a cap and a white-striped polo shirt. Breathtakingly white. He probably is a diamond dealer, come to think of it. Definitely a dealer of some kind, anyway. "I just want to say," he says, staring into my face. ""that I think you're very beautiful." "Thankyou." I laugh. I've slipped to the wrong side of 35 now, if I'd started having babies at 16 I could probably be your mother. That's if you're as old as I think you are, which you probably aren't. I hold bag, laptop and pepper tight and turn to cross the road. His voice floats after me. "Please, are you married?" .
Sunday, July 19, 2009
power cut
Sixth hour of the power cut. The tractor battery linked to our inverter starts to screech. The charge is running low. Soon we will be in total darkness. Well, we do have three candles...The 'phone rings. It's Mrs H, my friend Siba's mother. Siba left for Zambia two years ago. Mrs H is not amused. "I haven't even seen Tapiwa." How old is the baby? "Eight months. Doesn't it bother Siba that her mother hasn't even seen her baby? If she's got a problem, she can tell us and we can send her 20 US." I fear 20 US won't be enough to get Siba here, partly because of the carload of groceries she'll be expected to arrive with. "T. talks to her from Bots. But I can't get through." Me neither but Mrs H is on a roll. "And it's cold and dark and the lodgers keep moving out without giving me notice and messing up my budget and I've got nothing for Tamara (the 6-year-old granddaughter who lives with her). What -- haven't you got power either?" No. We are on the same line. "I'm so bored," says Mrs H. "Haven't you got books you don't want, maybe magazines you've finished with?" I glance over to where my son is reading Zoric The Spaceman. OK, books I can do. Magazines too: I buy ancient copies from pavement vendors and store them in my husband's old school trunk. But the rest? "Paint," says Mrs H. "It all looks so dirty. Haven't you got some paint lying around? I want to paint the gate, and the garden wall.." "We haven't painted a thing for a good two years now and even then it was so expensive we only bought exactly what we needed. I'm sorry. "The bills," says Mrs H. "My rates are 800 US. I mean, who's got that kind of money...?"
Thursday, July 16, 2009
chivhu
The public swimming bath is on the edge of Chivhu, encircled by a crumbling white wall. It looks like a cemetery, especially with the pavement gravestone sellers who've set up shop outside the ornate gate. But if you crane your neck, you can just catch the flash of the blue walls inside. My mother-in-law remembers this place as Enkeldoorn, once an Afrikaaner farming stronghold. If you look in the 'phone book now -- the 2002 phone book, that is, no-one seems to have a newer one -- there are still lots of Afrikaans names in Chivhu. Few, if any, will be left. Max, a black mechanic, stops to chat through the passenger window. "Where are you from?" he wants to know. "What do you do?" "I used to be a farmer," my 70-something father-in-law says. "But then the government took my farm." "Look," says Max. He has, no doubt, looked at my mother-in-law's Pajero, the boxes of sandwiches and the bulging bags in the back. "Count your blessings. I was in UK with some of those white farmers. They were working in factories, working in Tescos." My father-in-law is silent. His own future looks uncertain: the rented house they were staying in has been sold from under their feet but he cannot leave his office job for another town or country: who else would employ a pensioner? "You will get all those things back," says Max. "If not your farm, then a business, something even more profitable." "You're right," says my father-in-law firmly. As we drive off and the border-bound trucks swish past us, there's a fresh breath of hope in the car. "Well, he was positive, wasn't he?" says my mother-in-law.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
sour taste
"But you said you were foreigners," the woman at the toll gate protests.
A breeze whips across the tufts of grey grass like hair. It is not a difficult climb up to the grave: an elderly Mrs Prescott laboured up here the day Rhodes was buried, he reminds me.
The moss has turned yellow and papery on the slabs of stone. High up now in the afternoon light, the balancing rocks look other-worldly. It's not hard to imagine throngs of people toiling their way up to bury the man. Not far from him lies Jameson, then, on an outcrop, Coghlan. "It's a kind of Heroes Acre* for colonials," he says grimly.
The children chase a giant blue-headed lizard. "What's that box?" asks Bella. At the edge of the ledge is a memorial to the Allan Wilson Patrol of 1893. There's a carved frieze of the men round the edges. "To Brave Men," it reads. "That's where they've put the two brave men," says tow-haired Hunty, whose ancestor Huntsman W was an early settler.
"Don't run," we call after them.
I break off a piece of Resurrection Plant. If you sink one of these dark dried twigs in water, it turns green. My father-in-law turns to his cousin on the way down. "How much did they make you pay for this?"
"55 US," she says. "10 each for adults." We confront the woman at the gate. You pay one fee to get into the Matopos National Park, extra to visit Rhodes Grave. Foreigners pay 5 times the price of locals. We produce our Zimbabwean identity cards. "But you said you were foreigners," the woman protests. Why on earth would we do that, we ask. A riot policeman in a faded uniform appears. "Look in the receipt book," he says. We do -- and see we've been carefully entered in blue biro as Zimbabweans. So where's our change? "You can't have the money," the pair say in unison.
"It'll look like there's been fraud."
* Heroes Acre: burial ground in Harare where black fighters from the war for independence are buried (almost all ZANU-PF)
A breeze whips across the tufts of grey grass like hair. It is not a difficult climb up to the grave: an elderly Mrs Prescott laboured up here the day Rhodes was buried, he reminds me.
The moss has turned yellow and papery on the slabs of stone. High up now in the afternoon light, the balancing rocks look other-worldly. It's not hard to imagine throngs of people toiling their way up to bury the man. Not far from him lies Jameson, then, on an outcrop, Coghlan. "It's a kind of Heroes Acre* for colonials," he says grimly.
The children chase a giant blue-headed lizard. "What's that box?" asks Bella. At the edge of the ledge is a memorial to the Allan Wilson Patrol of 1893. There's a carved frieze of the men round the edges. "To Brave Men," it reads. "That's where they've put the two brave men," says tow-haired Hunty, whose ancestor Huntsman W was an early settler.
"Don't run," we call after them.
I break off a piece of Resurrection Plant. If you sink one of these dark dried twigs in water, it turns green. My father-in-law turns to his cousin on the way down. "How much did they make you pay for this?"
"55 US," she says. "10 each for adults." We confront the woman at the gate. You pay one fee to get into the Matopos National Park, extra to visit Rhodes Grave. Foreigners pay 5 times the price of locals. We produce our Zimbabwean identity cards. "But you said you were foreigners," the woman protests. Why on earth would we do that, we ask. A riot policeman in a faded uniform appears. "Look in the receipt book," he says. We do -- and see we've been carefully entered in blue biro as Zimbabweans. So where's our change? "You can't have the money," the pair say in unison.
"It'll look like there's been fraud."
* Heroes Acre: burial ground in Harare where black fighters from the war for independence are buried (almost all ZANU-PF)
fuel
Fuel shortages irritate me, but not in the same way they irritate my husband's family. I will let the gauge sink down to empty and then happily drive for what I estimate to be another 50 kilometres with the red light flashing before reluctantly consigning the car to the yard. This horrifies my mother-in-law, who makes a habit of stopping "to top up" at every garage she passes. Those blackboard signs in Zimbabwean garage forecourts that say Petrol: No. Diesel: No are the stuff of her nightmares. I thought it was just one of those: we-do-it-like-this-and-you-do-it-like-that things until a weekend with the extended family in Bulawayo. "We always keep the tank full," says my father-in-law's cousin thoughtfully. "Always have done. It's from the war days.
"You had to be ready to leave at a moment's notice."
"You had to be ready to leave at a moment's notice."
Thursday, July 9, 2009
dusk
Dusk. I drive carefully. I need to get home before dark. A girl walks along the side of the road in an orange velours tracksuit. The street leading up to the house looks as if it's been shelled. There are craters like fishponds, only deeper. The lights are on in Mr Gigi's garage-turned-hair-salon. He's 90-something. Still cutting. Inside the house, it's dark. Only the television glows bright red. Probably Zimbabwe's popular soap Studio 263 is showing. Or is that later in the evening? I rattle the padlock against the locked gate. "I didn't even have enough money to buy Kim a drink for school," she says. "Those boys, they don't send us anything."
abandoned
"Don't ask," says Mai C, shaking her head. I thought maybe their mother was back because Yolanda, (8, 9?) has a dress on. When I look closely though, I see that it's an ancient dress.The lilac is faded, the frills torn. Yolanda used to be a bookworm, grabbing my old Woman and Home magazines and tucking herself away in a corner to read them. Now she drops her head when you speak to her, refuses to answer.
Yolanda's mum left six weeks ago. She left the children -- Yolanda, Igno and two-year-old Polite -- in the care of an 11-year old brother. For food, she left half a bucket of maize. The brother slipped across the border to Mozambique to try to buy cheap dried kapenta fish. I don't know if he's still doing that. Now the children rely on charity -- donations of beans, cooking oil, rice, salt. There's been no word of the children's mother since, though Mai C says she's heard (through a complicated network of contacts) that the woman has been seen. "In Marange," she says. "Digging for diamonds."
Yolanda's mum left six weeks ago. She left the children -- Yolanda, Igno and two-year-old Polite -- in the care of an 11-year old brother. For food, she left half a bucket of maize. The brother slipped across the border to Mozambique to try to buy cheap dried kapenta fish. I don't know if he's still doing that. Now the children rely on charity -- donations of beans, cooking oil, rice, salt. There's been no word of the children's mother since, though Mai C says she's heard (through a complicated network of contacts) that the woman has been seen. "In Marange," she says. "Digging for diamonds."
Monday, July 6, 2009
cold
"I don't even have a thermos," Sister Basope says.
There's no heating in the pediatric ward. The iron cots are squashed up at one end. The president, in his black suit, glowers down at us from the far wall.
Sister Basope tries. When I ask how she is, she replies: "I'm blessed." I watch as she takes the mother of Ruwarashe, an 11-year old Downs Syndrome child into a side room after the consultation. She reads to her from Rhapsody of Realities, a popular Bible-study course often quoted in the state-run Herald newspaper.
But as we leave to go, she calls after us: "Can I have a job sweeping your office?"
There's no heating in the pediatric ward. The iron cots are squashed up at one end. The president, in his black suit, glowers down at us from the far wall.
Sister Basope tries. When I ask how she is, she replies: "I'm blessed." I watch as she takes the mother of Ruwarashe, an 11-year old Downs Syndrome child into a side room after the consultation. She reads to her from Rhapsody of Realities, a popular Bible-study course often quoted in the state-run Herald newspaper.
But as we leave to go, she calls after us: "Can I have a job sweeping your office?"
rootless
"The thing is," she says, "we just don't belong."
Eastern Zimbabwe in the winter. It's drizzled all day. The mountains at the top of the road are covered in mist. We could be in England. "But I don't have the right to live in England. We're fourth generation pioneers."
To prove it, there's a framed pioneers certificate on the wall, along with the china plates and the black-and-white photo of her grandmother with bouffant hair and a ruffled full-length white dress. "She came up in the 1890s. She and her father stayed at Khama's kraal. He missed the slaughter at Fort Vic by a whisker: his wagon wheel broke loose or something. She didn't see another white man until she was 6."
What do you do when you've lived all your life in a country -- and your parents and their parents before you -- but you're told you don't belong? When your race is regularly vilified in the state media? "We're made to feel not welcome here, aren't we?" What are roots and does it matter if yours have been cut from underneath you?
She looks round the tiny two-roomed cottage, stuffed with heavy old mahoghany and teak furniture from the farmhouse and, after that, the Spanish-style villa with pool in a good suburb. "This is where I'll end my days, I suppose."
Eastern Zimbabwe in the winter. It's drizzled all day. The mountains at the top of the road are covered in mist. We could be in England. "But I don't have the right to live in England. We're fourth generation pioneers."
To prove it, there's a framed pioneers certificate on the wall, along with the china plates and the black-and-white photo of her grandmother with bouffant hair and a ruffled full-length white dress. "She came up in the 1890s. She and her father stayed at Khama's kraal. He missed the slaughter at Fort Vic by a whisker: his wagon wheel broke loose or something. She didn't see another white man until she was 6."
What do you do when you've lived all your life in a country -- and your parents and their parents before you -- but you're told you don't belong? When your race is regularly vilified in the state media? "We're made to feel not welcome here, aren't we?" What are roots and does it matter if yours have been cut from underneath you?
She looks round the tiny two-roomed cottage, stuffed with heavy old mahoghany and teak furniture from the farmhouse and, after that, the Spanish-style villa with pool in a good suburb. "This is where I'll end my days, I suppose."
Friday, July 3, 2009
intercepted
...on a torn-out piece of exercise book:
To the highly-motivated --
Firstly and far most I would like to thank the Lord for giving me the opportunity to drop you one mail, saying how is school?
Back to me everything is moving in the right direction. except the fact that it's very cold these days. I wish I had enough money to by more blankets, tracksuits. More news in the next mail
Yours in love T. Nahvo.
(on the other side) My friend, please don't play around with useful papers.
To the highly-motivated --
Firstly and far most I would like to thank the Lord for giving me the opportunity to drop you one mail, saying how is school?
Back to me everything is moving in the right direction. except the fact that it's very cold these days. I wish I had enough money to by more blankets, tracksuits. More news in the next mail
Yours in love T. Nahvo.
(on the other side) My friend, please don't play around with useful papers.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
zilla
She was a bit worse for wear, he says.
My father-in-law talks very little about the war. When Ian Smith declared independence, there were UDI parties and chants of 'good old Smithy'. He and a friend refused to celebrate. But they couldn't refuse to fight. Six weeks on, six off for more than eight years. A few gapped it. My mother-in-law's friend's ex-husband drove to the airport the day he was supposed to report for duty, hopped onto a flight and 'phoned her from England. But he was running more from debts (and excess children) than from the call-up.
Zilla was memorable in more ways than one. She was a stripper, brought in to entertain the forces. She made a trip to Chiredzi once. "Hey Zilla, you've got a hole in your pulling-socks," a rowdy member of the audience shouted. Zilla drew herself up to her full height. "So? Don't you know there's a war on?"
My father-in-law talks very little about the war. When Ian Smith declared independence, there were UDI parties and chants of 'good old Smithy'. He and a friend refused to celebrate. But they couldn't refuse to fight. Six weeks on, six off for more than eight years. A few gapped it. My mother-in-law's friend's ex-husband drove to the airport the day he was supposed to report for duty, hopped onto a flight and 'phoned her from England. But he was running more from debts (and excess children) than from the call-up.
Zilla was memorable in more ways than one. She was a stripper, brought in to entertain the forces. She made a trip to Chiredzi once. "Hey Zilla, you've got a hole in your pulling-socks," a rowdy member of the audience shouted. Zilla drew herself up to her full height. "So? Don't you know there's a war on?"
embarrassed
"I'm embarrassed to ask," Mrs D says. "But I've asked A. so many times. Do you think I could borrow 5 dollars? That's all I need.
"I'll get Mai J to replace it when she comes," she says. I'm embarrassed too. Because this time I can truthfully say I don't have a cent. We haven't been able to lay our hands on a cent (a rand, a penny) for eight days now. We haven't bought bread, 'phone cards or even desperately-needed newspapers. Trying to finish a diamond piece on Friday, I spy a new diamond headline in a state weekly and have to lurk by the newspaper pile on the pavement to skim the piece.
A friend takes pity on us on Monday, arriving with a parcel of dry groceries and two Buddie cards. We start weighing up petrol use. If I go to the court hearing this morning, will there be fuel for the school run tomorrow? How long will the car run on empty? At 11 pm I realise I have nothing for a school lunchbox. I comb through cookery books looking for a biscuit recipe that doesn't require eggs. Lunch is now baked rice, roast pumpkin and avocado -- if there's power to cook. Yesterday's blackout lasted 15 hours. I grate green soap to use to wash...everything. Then we get a promise. This afternoon, our supplier says. He should have "supplies" by then. Our hopes rise. "Sorry," reads the text message. "I haven't received any payments yet. I'll let you know when I'm ready."
I'm still not sure Mrs D believed me.
"I'll get Mai J to replace it when she comes," she says. I'm embarrassed too. Because this time I can truthfully say I don't have a cent. We haven't been able to lay our hands on a cent (a rand, a penny) for eight days now. We haven't bought bread, 'phone cards or even desperately-needed newspapers. Trying to finish a diamond piece on Friday, I spy a new diamond headline in a state weekly and have to lurk by the newspaper pile on the pavement to skim the piece.
A friend takes pity on us on Monday, arriving with a parcel of dry groceries and two Buddie cards. We start weighing up petrol use. If I go to the court hearing this morning, will there be fuel for the school run tomorrow? How long will the car run on empty? At 11 pm I realise I have nothing for a school lunchbox. I comb through cookery books looking for a biscuit recipe that doesn't require eggs. Lunch is now baked rice, roast pumpkin and avocado -- if there's power to cook. Yesterday's blackout lasted 15 hours. I grate green soap to use to wash...everything. Then we get a promise. This afternoon, our supplier says. He should have "supplies" by then. Our hopes rise. "Sorry," reads the text message. "I haven't received any payments yet. I'll let you know when I'm ready."
I'm still not sure Mrs D believed me.
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