There are local ways of doing things that still bring tears to my eyes.
Mai Danai texts me on Saturday afternoon. "At clinic. Bn blessd wt a baby boy."
She's pale when I get there with my bars of Dove soap and a blue babygro. "It was awful," she whispers. Her satin nightie is askew. "Much, much worse than Danai. They wouldn't give me painkillers." (Did they even have them?). "At least with Danai I was on a drip at Baines (a private hospital in Harare). And the nurses here are so rude."
"My husband was outside the door, crying." We whisper in the gathering darkness, two mothers swapping birth stories, baby Tafara wrapped slug-like in a cot between us.
Mai D arrives, hobbling on her bad leg. In her 60s now, she has seen many babies born. She ululates when she opens the door to the two-bed ward.
"Tinotenda Jesu," she sings to the tune of Happy Birthday -- "Tinotenda (thankyou) Jesu, tinotenda Amen." Mai Danai joins in, mouthing the words softly. I have seen this happen before, when an elderly relative arrived at the bedside of Mai IsheAnesu. (Song finished, the relative presented peanuts "to make the milk come in").
Half-angrily, I find my eyes are swimming with tears.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
women's lib
"My husband doesn't like me to walk in the suburb," she says.
I've taken Mai Ruvimbo some No 7 Hand Saviour. (My sister sent it). "Imported hand cream?" she asks, pleased. Imported is the key word. In shortage-hit (until very recently) Zimbabwe, very few bother about buying local. Why, the further something's travelled to you, the better it is. Makes you look richer.
Mai Ruvimbo's husband works for ZESA, the state power utility. That doesn't stop her having power cuts (though ZESA pays her electricity bill, which is some small consolation). "What do you do when you've got no power?" she says. These days the cuts last up to 14 hours, three or four times a week.
"There's nothing to do but sleep," she says. "It's so boring."
"Come walk a bit with me," I say. Our dog is straining at the leash. Mai Ruvimbo looks worried.
"My husband doesn't like it." This is her MBA-ed husband. "He says,' You've got a big yard. What do you want to go out for?'"
I've taken Mai Ruvimbo some No 7 Hand Saviour. (My sister sent it). "Imported hand cream?" she asks, pleased. Imported is the key word. In shortage-hit (until very recently) Zimbabwe, very few bother about buying local. Why, the further something's travelled to you, the better it is. Makes you look richer.
Mai Ruvimbo's husband works for ZESA, the state power utility. That doesn't stop her having power cuts (though ZESA pays her electricity bill, which is some small consolation). "What do you do when you've got no power?" she says. These days the cuts last up to 14 hours, three or four times a week.
"There's nothing to do but sleep," she says. "It's so boring."
"Come walk a bit with me," I say. Our dog is straining at the leash. Mai Ruvimbo looks worried.
"My husband doesn't like it." This is her MBA-ed husband. "He says,' You've got a big yard. What do you want to go out for?'"
Friday, November 20, 2009
poison II
"It was to get the money," says Mai C, when I ask her who on earth would want to do a thing like that.
"They poisoned him to get the money. If he had enough to buy maize seed and drink beer, then they thought there was probably more. No-one has money for seed these days."
I check the price of a bag of Pannar maize seed: 23 US in the local TM supermarket. In the rural areas, where few are formally employed, just one Obama (slang for US dollar) is hard to come by. Twenty-three must represent a fortune.
"They poisoned him to get the money. If he had enough to buy maize seed and drink beer, then they thought there was probably more. No-one has money for seed these days."
I check the price of a bag of Pannar maize seed: 23 US in the local TM supermarket. In the rural areas, where few are formally employed, just one Obama (slang for US dollar) is hard to come by. Twenty-three must represent a fortune.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
poison
I count out malaria tablets quickly. She wants to take a kombi to Nyanga straight away.
When the 'phone call came, Mai Agnes dissolved into tears. I got the story little by little.
It's the youngest brother, Didymus. Twenty-nine years old, separated from his wife. He has three children. The eldest, Alice stays with him and the grandfather in the mountainous Nyanga district. One of the children had just sent them money to buy maize seed. The rains have started: there was no time to lose. Didymus went to the dealers in Ruchera. He bought the maize. There was a small amount of change. He decided he'd buy a scud of beer. A scud is the local measure, a carton-ful. He bought the beer, drank a bit, placed it on the bar. He went to the toilet.
When he came back, he took up his scud. The beer had a strange taste.
"Barman" -- this is Mai Agnes speaking and she's echoing what her sister Letizia told her who's echoing what her father's friend who was drinking at the same bar told her -- "barman, did somebody put something in this scud while I went outside?"
"I saw nothing," said the barman.
Didymus took another drink, started to complain of stomach pains. A few seconds later he collapsed on the floor. His father's friend took him to Ruchera clinic, and from there to Nyanga hospital.
A doctor there told them he'd been poisoned with temic. You die if you drop a few grains of temic -- sold here with a purple label as rat poison -- into your boot: it enters your body through your pores. Didymus had swallowed it. "There's nothing I can do," the doctor said.
When the 'phone call came, Mai Agnes dissolved into tears. I got the story little by little.
It's the youngest brother, Didymus. Twenty-nine years old, separated from his wife. He has three children. The eldest, Alice stays with him and the grandfather in the mountainous Nyanga district. One of the children had just sent them money to buy maize seed. The rains have started: there was no time to lose. Didymus went to the dealers in Ruchera. He bought the maize. There was a small amount of change. He decided he'd buy a scud of beer. A scud is the local measure, a carton-ful. He bought the beer, drank a bit, placed it on the bar. He went to the toilet.
When he came back, he took up his scud. The beer had a strange taste.
"Barman" -- this is Mai Agnes speaking and she's echoing what her sister Letizia told her who's echoing what her father's friend who was drinking at the same bar told her -- "barman, did somebody put something in this scud while I went outside?"
"I saw nothing," said the barman.
Didymus took another drink, started to complain of stomach pains. A few seconds later he collapsed on the floor. His father's friend took him to Ruchera clinic, and from there to Nyanga hospital.
A doctor there told them he'd been poisoned with temic. You die if you drop a few grains of temic -- sold here with a purple label as rat poison -- into your boot: it enters your body through your pores. Didymus had swallowed it. "There's nothing I can do," the doctor said.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
assignment
"What do we do if we don't get the story?" he asks.
We're on a shaded verandah just over the border in Mozambique. Red hibiscus flowers bloom in boxes. Next to us, four men idle the afternoon away over bottles of the local Manica beer. They're not playing cards and they have expensive Blackberries. I have my suspicions.
"Wait."
So we order: sandes de ovo (egg sandwiches), tonic water. Coffee, the continental kind served in tiny white expresso cups. Another tonic water. And another. It is hot, so hot I think I could sleep. Inside, three waitresses chat. A group of stiletto-ed women arrive for lunch, then disappear.
The men do not seem to want to move. On the steep incline beyond the cafe, I count the cars, large ones: Toyota Hilux. Toyota-something else. A money changer flaps a wad of notes.
I notice the sign on the wall: Jardin. Beer garden. Could deals be happening there? Are we in the wrong place -- too obvious, too foreign? He goes to look.
On my own now, I watch one of the men out of the corner of my eye. His face is vaguely familiar. As he stretches out his hand, I ssee the stone behind it. "You want?" his friend whispers.
We're on a shaded verandah just over the border in Mozambique. Red hibiscus flowers bloom in boxes. Next to us, four men idle the afternoon away over bottles of the local Manica beer. They're not playing cards and they have expensive Blackberries. I have my suspicions.
"Wait."
So we order: sandes de ovo (egg sandwiches), tonic water. Coffee, the continental kind served in tiny white expresso cups. Another tonic water. And another. It is hot, so hot I think I could sleep. Inside, three waitresses chat. A group of stiletto-ed women arrive for lunch, then disappear.
The men do not seem to want to move. On the steep incline beyond the cafe, I count the cars, large ones: Toyota Hilux. Toyota-something else. A money changer flaps a wad of notes.
I notice the sign on the wall: Jardin. Beer garden. Could deals be happening there? Are we in the wrong place -- too obvious, too foreign? He goes to look.
On my own now, I watch one of the men out of the corner of my eye. His face is vaguely familiar. As he stretches out his hand, I ssee the stone behind it. "You want?" his friend whispers.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
chicken
"I am going to do something very big for you," she says, disappearing behind the sofa. There is no power at Mai D's house. There was none at ours yesterday. Her arthritis is worse.
"There." She comes back clutching something loosely-covered in a plastic bag. It is fat and disturbingly fleshy. A frozen baby?
"A chicken," she says triumphantly. "I told you." I am embarrassed. My gift of bread and jam cannot match a chicken, not in these harsh times. But she insists.
"How?" I say. She begged Mai C for 2 US this morning to buy Brufen -- the local equivalent of Ibuprofen -- for the pain. "It's from that boy. He 'phoned a lady in Damgamvura (township), told her to bring his mother six chickens."
"But you mustn't tell the others. That time I bring bananas for your boy, Mai Simba saw. She said: "Are you selling those bananas?" She shakes her head. "They will all want some."
I nod dutifully. "Sometimes those boys are good," she says proudly. "They will care for their mother. But if those muroora (daughter-in-laws) get involved, I have to zip my mouth."
"There." She comes back clutching something loosely-covered in a plastic bag. It is fat and disturbingly fleshy. A frozen baby?
"A chicken," she says triumphantly. "I told you." I am embarrassed. My gift of bread and jam cannot match a chicken, not in these harsh times. But she insists.
"How?" I say. She begged Mai C for 2 US this morning to buy Brufen -- the local equivalent of Ibuprofen -- for the pain. "It's from that boy. He 'phoned a lady in Damgamvura (township), told her to bring his mother six chickens."
"But you mustn't tell the others. That time I bring bananas for your boy, Mai Simba saw. She said: "Are you selling those bananas?" She shakes her head. "They will all want some."
I nod dutifully. "Sometimes those boys are good," she says proudly. "They will care for their mother. But if those muroora (daughter-in-laws) get involved, I have to zip my mouth."
Monday, November 2, 2009
snatched by baboons
Saturday's state funeral had tongues wagging in Zimbabwe. In the middle of a power-sharing crisis, Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai chose not to attend. It was hardly surprising: President Robert Mugabe used his graveside oration to blast Tsvangirai as he used to at almost all state funerals before the unity government was formed. State reporters were sent Tsvangirai-sniffing and found him playing golf at Ruwa Country Club. "PM plays golf as nation mourns," read the headline on the official Sunday Mail.
The man being buried was a little-known senator, Misheck Chando. He was a member of ZANU-PF, of course: one of the MDC's gripes is that the national burial ground is now nothing more than a graveyard for ZANY-PF. He was killed -- wouldn't you know it -- in a car crash. It turns out Chando very nearly didn't make it to national hero status and not for the normal reasons (wrong party): in 1944, at the age of three, he was abducted by baboons. His parents were working in their fields in Murehwa. The toddler was set on the ground. A troop of baboons dashed out from the bush and snatched the child. The parents were too far away to save him, although they tried. Villagers mounted search parties in the nearby mountains. They searched for four days. At one point, they found a child's footsteps next to the tracks of adult baboons. Eventually, they conceded defeat and arranged a funeral at the family homestead. It wasn't until the fifth day since the boy had gone missing that a villagers out looking for firewood came upon the child, calmly seated in the middle of a circle of baboons. The man managed to scare the animals away and rescue the child. Village elders had to "erase" the funeral by throwing sorghum into a fire and celebrations were held instead.
To this day, no-one really knows what the boy Chando ate for five days or how he survived.
The man being buried was a little-known senator, Misheck Chando. He was a member of ZANU-PF, of course: one of the MDC's gripes is that the national burial ground is now nothing more than a graveyard for ZANY-PF. He was killed -- wouldn't you know it -- in a car crash. It turns out Chando very nearly didn't make it to national hero status and not for the normal reasons (wrong party): in 1944, at the age of three, he was abducted by baboons. His parents were working in their fields in Murehwa. The toddler was set on the ground. A troop of baboons dashed out from the bush and snatched the child. The parents were too far away to save him, although they tried. Villagers mounted search parties in the nearby mountains. They searched for four days. At one point, they found a child's footsteps next to the tracks of adult baboons. Eventually, they conceded defeat and arranged a funeral at the family homestead. It wasn't until the fifth day since the boy had gone missing that a villagers out looking for firewood came upon the child, calmly seated in the middle of a circle of baboons. The man managed to scare the animals away and rescue the child. Village elders had to "erase" the funeral by throwing sorghum into a fire and celebrations were held instead.
To this day, no-one really knows what the boy Chando ate for five days or how he survived.
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