fat cat

Power -- or the lack of it -- gets everyone talking. This week I've read several good pieces on the cuts. (Which is saying something: load-shedding's been happening since 2001, so finding something new to say about it is no mean achievement). One letter-writer to the Manica Post blamed the cuts for the resurgence of diarrhoea and kwashiorkor in the townships: he said the lack of power meant housewives could neither cook healthy meals nor heat water for bathing and washing. A blogger said his TV had become "like a carpet", something to sweep and dust rather than something to watch. I particularly liked Nevanji Madanhire's defence of Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority (ZESA) chief Ben Rafemoyo. Writing in the Zimbabwe Independent, Madanhire blamed the cuts for his pet's sudden weight gain: his cat, he said (and many Shona people are still wary of cats) "is getting fat on sour milk."

turning the tables

By the way," I ask. "Was it you who wrote that article in The Zimbabwean on Sunday?"

I've 'phoned a well-known political analyst for his comments on this week's party congress. A lecturer at the main University of Zimbabwe, he's the commentator EVERYONE calls since Professor Masipula Sithole died. I've spoken to him often, but am almost certain he doesn't have a clue who I am.

He gives me the soundbites -- he's good at them, he knows what's required -- and then we chat for a few moments.

"Yes it was," he says, surprised.

"I enjoyed it," I say. It was a small piece, on disciplining kids. "I have my own child and it made me think."

"Precisely," he says. (I guess he means that's what it was meant to do). He chuckles with pleasure. "That's great. Thankyou for saying that. Thankyou. Darling."

rain

"It's raining," I say. Actually, it's pouring. The rain was leaking through the roof of my car.

"So?" The cashier looks at my suedge wedges. "Are you going to the fields?"

Only if you're going to weed with your badza like a good Shona mother do you have a license to complain, apparently. Otherwise...

thief

Monday morning, 10 am. Three men are running down the road. One's shouting: "Mbava, mbava!" Thief, thief. Inside, Mai Agnes shakes her head. "It's because it's near Christmas." Robberies and break-ins surge towards Christmas. Five minutes pass. Then there's the sound of screaming. Through the bushes, we can see flashes of colour. People have gathered. I can see an arm being raised. Up, down. Instant justice isn't something you see being meted out too often in Zimbabwe's low-density suburbs. In the townships though, it's common. When you have a police force deployed to deal mainly with 'political' crimes -- read clampdown on the (now former) opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) -- few bother to report petty crime. In fact, when a neighbour rang to call the police to report a burglary, the police said they'd have to come to fetch them from the police station. While the neighbour was out picking up an officer, the house was broken into again. Police report done, the neighbour had to once again leave the house to ferry the policeman back to the station. You've guessed it: the burglars struck for the third time. The sound's coming nearer the house. "I want to know how you broke into my house," shouts a guy in a white T-shirt and a cap. Another man has a stick. The burglar is being dragged past our house, slapped round the head and round the chest. He's tottering, hardly able to walk. His shirt's been ripped off. Housewives, maids and gardeners have gathered under the fig-tree. "It's like sharia," mutters my husband. I see an armed security guard from the VIP who lives on the corner. "They're beating a thief. Shall I call the police?" I gabble. He laughs at me.