...Zimbabwe-style. Musician Dino Mudondo's been spilling the beans on his 'spiritual wedding' with local woman Cecilia Dapeta earlier this year. The pair went to a n'anga or prophet in Marirangwe. He got them to hold live pigeons ("just like the pigeons that never leave each other, we would never leave each other's side") and to catch and swallow -- while still alive, of course -- a fish apiece. The n'anga told the pair that swallowing the fish would ensure that their riches would multiply ("just like the countless eggs that fish lay").
After countless fights, Mudondo's just been slapped with a 14-month jail sentence for the physical abuse of Dapeta. She too got a suspended jail sentence.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
home
From my seat at the cafe, I hear the steady chink-chink of a coin against an enamel plate. A blind beggar sits by the pharmacy, shaking a battered Kango dish rhythmically. The number plate on the plush burgundy Toyota in the parking lot a few metres reads "CHIXIE." There were zebras in Plantation Drive this morning, making me late on the school run. Two of them, ambling along as if they owned the place.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
new neighbour
The house across the road has been empty for a couple of weeks. We thought we saw the owners moving mattresses and a stove out on a flat-bed truck. They did not come to say goodbye.
"I heard shouting late last night," our housekeeper says, wiping down the kitchen cupboards. "It was midnight. Screaming and screaming, like somebody had caught a tsotsi." Tsotsi means thief or criminal in the local Shona language.
I saw a small white sign on the gate opposite as I drove out this morning. ZRP, it says: Zimbabwe Republic Police.
"I heard shouting late last night," our housekeeper says, wiping down the kitchen cupboards. "It was midnight. Screaming and screaming, like somebody had caught a tsotsi." Tsotsi means thief or criminal in the local Shona language.
I saw a small white sign on the gate opposite as I drove out this morning. ZRP, it says: Zimbabwe Republic Police.
Monday, October 19, 2009
properly-dressed
It's not your normal way of selling a dress.
"I was looking out for you," Mai Musa says reproachfully. "Why didn't you come?"
I made the mistake a few weeks back of saying we didn't have a gardener. Mai Musa's sister's husband wants a job. She made me promise to go to ask my husband.
"I'm sorry, we just can't afford one at the moment," I admit. "My husband's doing the work in the yard now." Which is true: he wears an orange boiler suit brought out by my mother.
Disappointed, Mai Musa persuades me in to look at the new clothes in her shop. She is eyecatchingly dressed herself in a bright purple knee-length dress with a square neck and lots of buttons.
"I know you like dresses," she says. "What about these ones?" These ones are the maxi-dresses that have finally reached Zimbabwe. Mai Musa hurries past a sleeveless modele. "Not that one," she says. "I can't wear that one."
"Why?" (I thought it was me who was supposed to be looking).
"It's my father," she explains. "He's an apostolic. He won't let me wear anything that shows my shoulders. He doesn't like hair pieces either". She touches her ponytail of braids guiltily, shuffles through the rack until she picks out something suitably demure. Her father lives in Old Mutare, it turns out, so at least she gets some warning of his visits.
"I can do piecework at your place," she says eventually. "Even on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. These days, the money's not enough."
"I was looking out for you," Mai Musa says reproachfully. "Why didn't you come?"
I made the mistake a few weeks back of saying we didn't have a gardener. Mai Musa's sister's husband wants a job. She made me promise to go to ask my husband.
"I'm sorry, we just can't afford one at the moment," I admit. "My husband's doing the work in the yard now." Which is true: he wears an orange boiler suit brought out by my mother.
Disappointed, Mai Musa persuades me in to look at the new clothes in her shop. She is eyecatchingly dressed herself in a bright purple knee-length dress with a square neck and lots of buttons.
"I know you like dresses," she says. "What about these ones?" These ones are the maxi-dresses that have finally reached Zimbabwe. Mai Musa hurries past a sleeveless modele. "Not that one," she says. "I can't wear that one."
"Why?" (I thought it was me who was supposed to be looking).
"It's my father," she explains. "He's an apostolic. He won't let me wear anything that shows my shoulders. He doesn't like hair pieces either". She touches her ponytail of braids guiltily, shuffles through the rack until she picks out something suitably demure. Her father lives in Old Mutare, it turns out, so at least she gets some warning of his visits.
"I can do piecework at your place," she says eventually. "Even on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. These days, the money's not enough."
small change
The deal is for 300 million US dollars -- and they're negotiating it right next to us as a waitress hands out Fanta.
"That was Vice President Msika's* son," says the 30-something Shona man proudly. Earlier he told the adolescent busy fixing his wife's laptop that he'd lived in 'Ukay' for 20 years where he'd been a professional boxer. He returned to Zimbabwe three years ago. "Now I sell fuel," he tells the spikey-haired teen.
His wife returns with the associates. They sit on puffy leather chairs. There are flies on the tables.
"That was Vice President Msika's son," the Shona man repeats. "Douglas. Not the other one Joel. He's a bit stupid. He's just given us an order for three million."
The ageing white man -- Portuguese? Spanish? -- appears unimpressed. He's irritated by the heat, the flies. He flicks open his cellphone, shouts in broken English.
"Look, yesterday you tell me 46 cents a litre. Now you tell me 56. I want your boss. This not how you do business." He turns to his neighbour. "10 cents extra a litre - that's two million."
"They don't play games," insists the Shona guy to no-one in particular. His wife, freshly-coiffed, says she has a friend at Noczim, the state fuel procurer. She's on a cellphone too, asking about fuel prices in Bulawayo. "The Msikas are a good family, a strong family..."
"I call you tomorrow," the patriarch says.
* VP Msika died earlier this year. Businessman Billy Rautenbauch was specially thanked by the Msika family in the official Herald newspaper last week for help offered during their 'time of loss.'
"That was Vice President Msika's* son," says the 30-something Shona man proudly. Earlier he told the adolescent busy fixing his wife's laptop that he'd lived in 'Ukay' for 20 years where he'd been a professional boxer. He returned to Zimbabwe three years ago. "Now I sell fuel," he tells the spikey-haired teen.
His wife returns with the associates. They sit on puffy leather chairs. There are flies on the tables.
"That was Vice President Msika's son," the Shona man repeats. "Douglas. Not the other one Joel. He's a bit stupid. He's just given us an order for three million."
The ageing white man -- Portuguese? Spanish? -- appears unimpressed. He's irritated by the heat, the flies. He flicks open his cellphone, shouts in broken English.
"Look, yesterday you tell me 46 cents a litre. Now you tell me 56. I want your boss. This not how you do business." He turns to his neighbour. "10 cents extra a litre - that's two million."
"They don't play games," insists the Shona guy to no-one in particular. His wife, freshly-coiffed, says she has a friend at Noczim, the state fuel procurer. She's on a cellphone too, asking about fuel prices in Bulawayo. "The Msikas are a good family, a strong family..."
"I call you tomorrow," the patriarch says.
* VP Msika died earlier this year. Businessman Billy Rautenbauch was specially thanked by the Msika family in the official Herald newspaper last week for help offered during their 'time of loss.'
Sunday, October 18, 2009
the smartie run
South African toyshop chain Aladdin's Cave has opened a branch in a plush shopping mall in Harare.
"Don't tell my husband," says a white resident. "I don't want to miss out on the smartie run."
The smartie run is a girls-only shopping trip to Jo'burg, a hurtle through the border in a 4 x 4 supposedly to stock up on the necessities of life that haven't been on sale in Zimbabwe for a good few years. But things are changing. You can buy Estee Lauder in Sam Levy's Shopping Village now -- at a price, of course.
"My husband says you can get all you need in Harare now," says another.
"Don't tell my husband," says a white resident. "I don't want to miss out on the smartie run."
The smartie run is a girls-only shopping trip to Jo'burg, a hurtle through the border in a 4 x 4 supposedly to stock up on the necessities of life that haven't been on sale in Zimbabwe for a good few years. But things are changing. You can buy Estee Lauder in Sam Levy's Shopping Village now -- at a price, of course.
"My husband says you can get all you need in Harare now," says another.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
happy
Clothes shop Alcatraz is jammed with new imports from Dubai, Singapore and Malaysia: Britney T-shirts, black tops with a seqinned British queen on (surely not PC), spikey-heeled fake suede boots (what -- for Summer?). Not so long ago, in the depths of Zimbabwe's economic crisis, places like these were empty, echoing hangars. I browse through the rails, prick up my ears when I hear a familiar song.
"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands," the assistant sings.
Another joins her. They loll underneath the clothes, singing loudly above the roar of the generator. "If you really want to show it, if you're happy and you know it, clap your hands." And the next verse, the Shona ex-Sunday school version: "If you're happy and you know it, say Amen..."
How long since I heard that song sung here in Zimbabwe?
"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands," the assistant sings.
Another joins her. They loll underneath the clothes, singing loudly above the roar of the generator. "If you really want to show it, if you're happy and you know it, clap your hands." And the next verse, the Shona ex-Sunday school version: "If you're happy and you know it, say Amen..."
How long since I heard that song sung here in Zimbabwe?
Monday, October 12, 2009
topical
"Life is not good to me," she says.
Mai Agnes' grand-daughter was staying at the weekend. She sleeps in the same bed as her grandmother. But sometimes the eight-year-old has an 'accident.'
"She did wee-wee in the bed. So I take the foam rubber outside my house to dry." The house is on a former white-owned farm, which now 'belongs' to a pro-ZANU-PF bishop. There was talk of demolishing the workers' houses a couple of years back. So far, it hasn't happened.
"Then we take some buckets to fetch water. I leave my mattress there, some few minutes only. But when we got back, it was gone."
She asked her neighbour, Mai Ngoni if she'd seen anything. Nothing. They conclude that someone had been watching her from the bush, rolled up the foam rubber mattress and disappeared. She vents her exasperation on the child.
"I told her: you did wee-wee on the bed and now the mattress is gone."
..........
Local remedies for bed-wetting are bananas or a spoonful of honey before bed. Mai Adam used to ban Mishi from drinks after 5. Mai Tadiwa used to get her up every two hours in the night (but she carried on bed-wetting till she was 12, she says. To make it worse, she shared a bed with her two sisters.)
..........
Police in the eastern city of Mutare have arrested a 37-year-old highschool teacher who beat his three sons with an electric cable for wetting the bed.
Teachers at one of the boys' schools in Sakubva township noticed the child had trouble sitting down.
The boys, ages 4, 9 and 11, were taken to Mutare Central Police Station. They had been beaten across the back. Some of the wounds had gone septic.
"The father was arrested and he admitted beating the children, saying they were bedwetting," said Police Superintendent Alfred Kasingarirwi.
"It is shocking that a father could ill-treat his children like that."
The children's mother died in 2005. They were cared for by their grandmother until 2008, when the father took custody of them.
............
"That man should look at himself," says E. "He was doing the same thing when he was a child."
Mai Agnes' grand-daughter was staying at the weekend. She sleeps in the same bed as her grandmother. But sometimes the eight-year-old has an 'accident.'
"She did wee-wee in the bed. So I take the foam rubber outside my house to dry." The house is on a former white-owned farm, which now 'belongs' to a pro-ZANU-PF bishop. There was talk of demolishing the workers' houses a couple of years back. So far, it hasn't happened.
"Then we take some buckets to fetch water. I leave my mattress there, some few minutes only. But when we got back, it was gone."
She asked her neighbour, Mai Ngoni if she'd seen anything. Nothing. They conclude that someone had been watching her from the bush, rolled up the foam rubber mattress and disappeared. She vents her exasperation on the child.
"I told her: you did wee-wee on the bed and now the mattress is gone."
..........
Local remedies for bed-wetting are bananas or a spoonful of honey before bed. Mai Adam used to ban Mishi from drinks after 5. Mai Tadiwa used to get her up every two hours in the night (but she carried on bed-wetting till she was 12, she says. To make it worse, she shared a bed with her two sisters.)
..........
Police in the eastern city of Mutare have arrested a 37-year-old highschool teacher who beat his three sons with an electric cable for wetting the bed.
Teachers at one of the boys' schools in Sakubva township noticed the child had trouble sitting down.
The boys, ages 4, 9 and 11, were taken to Mutare Central Police Station. They had been beaten across the back. Some of the wounds had gone septic.
"The father was arrested and he admitted beating the children, saying they were bedwetting," said Police Superintendent Alfred Kasingarirwi.
"It is shocking that a father could ill-treat his children like that."
The children's mother died in 2005. They were cared for by their grandmother until 2008, when the father took custody of them.
............
"That man should look at himself," says E. "He was doing the same thing when he was a child."
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