It's the hat I see first -- pink flowered, large-brimmed -- as I drive in the gate.
My husband is closing the gate behind me. As I unpack children, school bags, a tin of sausages, a laptop and a bottle of Avon foundation procured after lengthy and complicated negotiations (make-up for white skin in a country where whites make up less than 0.1 percent of the population is not readily available), I realise the hat has stopped to talk to my husband.
It's an angry conversation, though the anger is not directed at him.
"And you ain't seen nothing yet," she says loudly.
Zimbabwe's constitutional outreach programme started -- supposedly -- on June 23rd. Things aren't going well. The official Herald daily says merely that the process has got off to a "slow start", something to do with delegates not getting their supper. Reports from the former opposition MDC tell a different story. The MDC and its supporters want presidential terms restricted to 2 in the new constitution: the party's opponents are (predictably) determined not to let that happen. ZANU-PF has launched Operation Chimumumumu (Operation Shut Up/Dumb), forbidding all but selected and properly primed villagers to air their views to outreach officers. There are reports of MDC huts being burnt down. Today, 3 MDC supporters have been abducted in Marondera.
I watch the woman in the hat - she's a contact of the MDC MP who's frequently in our suburb -- make her angry way down the road and think of snatched conversations on road corners two years ago, when Zimbabwe's rumbling political crisis exploded into real violence.
Will it happen again?
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
like it and (l)ump it
Frustrated store-owners in Harare are taking concrete measures against shoplifters who tuck stolen goods between their thighs: constructing 'humps' at store exits to force the thieves to drop their loot. Shoplifting is a growing problem in Zimbabwe, where workers are struggling to survive high prices following the abolition of the local dollar in 2009. Thieves are moving in organised gangs of up to 10, reports the Herald daily: many of them are women wearing long skirts. They take advantage of crowded supermarket aisles to slip goods under their skirts, squeezing it between their legs. The humps -- sometimes no more than simple steps -- are being installed at entrance and exit points to stop women "engaging in the between-the-thighs form of pilfering," says the Herald. "The assumption is that there is no way a person can go over [the hump], lifting one leg and then the other, without letting go of the loot under the skirt."
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
rags to riches
The annual OK Grand Challenge is Zimbabwe's answer to Epsom: think excited crowds and oversized flowery hats for the ladies (Dorcas Zireva , wife of OK boss Willard, to made it into the Sunday Mail this year in her large pink creation) Shoppers at the OK chain win points for a couple of months before the race in June (in Mutare in May, I watched a whole village -- literally -- being brought to do their shopping at OK to get a chance of winning). They can bet on the day: shoppers also collect loyalty points towards a draw for a car -- a locally-assembled BT50 Mazda truck -- and a house. This year's event got huge coverage: on the day, roads were closed leading to the Borrowdale race-course and special buses were laid on.
The winner of the Mazda draw was a 28-year old man named Gift. His is a real rags-to-riches story. His surname is Madhumbu, which in Shona means rags. A person who dresses in madhumbu, explained the local Sunday Mail, is "a very poor person who in most cases is the laughing stock of his community." His life had taken the route mapped out by his name: he was a struggling motor mechanic who'd never amassed enough money to buy a car. He'd entered the OK Grand Challenge "many times" before but never won a thing.
Madhumbu was stunned when he heard he'd won.
"I was living a life of rags," he said. "But now it is a thing of the past."
The winner of the Mazda draw was a 28-year old man named Gift. His is a real rags-to-riches story. His surname is Madhumbu, which in Shona means rags. A person who dresses in madhumbu, explained the local Sunday Mail, is "a very poor person who in most cases is the laughing stock of his community." His life had taken the route mapped out by his name: he was a struggling motor mechanic who'd never amassed enough money to buy a car. He'd entered the OK Grand Challenge "many times" before but never won a thing.
Madhumbu was stunned when he heard he'd won.
"I was living a life of rags," he said. "But now it is a thing of the past."
Sunday, June 13, 2010
interviewing in a bikini
"You've been to Hot Springs?" queries the policeman at the roadblock just by the Chimanimani turnoff. "For leisure purposes?" He looks suspicious.
Yes, we assure him, for leisure purposes. My wet plait and the child in the back convince him. He waves us on.
Now I'm beginning to wonder if I was wrong. Honestly and truly, we did go to Hot Springs -- a rustic resort (if you can call it that -- Doris Lessing in "African Laughter" says it's ruined and that book was published back in 1993) on the edge of the Chiadzwa diamond fields -- for leisure purposes. It was a Saturday afternoon, mid-winter, and the idea of swimming in a naturally hot pool was tempting. So that's what we did: took a picnic, bundled up the child, filled a couple of thermoses, and stayed an hour-and-a half. Hot Springs has just been controversially "sold" by the Chimanimani Rural District Council for 60,000 US to a company to house mainly South African workers on the diamond fields, but it is still open for day-trippers. It was a dreamy afternoon, mostly spent lolling in the hot water under a mopani tree.
Maybe though I think now, I should have been a bit more diligent, more of a newshound. There was a group of four (fairly loutish, half-drunk) Afrikaans males also in the pool. I should have probed, asked them what was going on.
The thing is, I was wearing a bikini. Can one interview in a bikini? Especially when you're interviewing undercover, which necessarily entails a bit of banter. My husband was a couple of metres away. He understands the work drive -- he does it himself -- but this was a wee bit delicate. "Thanks for bringing your wife," they'd shouted to him. "Don't you want to come to watch the rugby with her?" After that, could I really have swam over to them, smiled innocently and started chatting?
Maybe. I just couldn't. So that's my defence. No interviews in a bikini. You have to draw the (bikini) line somewhere. Next time I'll wear a one-piece and shorts.
Yes, we assure him, for leisure purposes. My wet plait and the child in the back convince him. He waves us on.
Now I'm beginning to wonder if I was wrong. Honestly and truly, we did go to Hot Springs -- a rustic resort (if you can call it that -- Doris Lessing in "African Laughter" says it's ruined and that book was published back in 1993) on the edge of the Chiadzwa diamond fields -- for leisure purposes. It was a Saturday afternoon, mid-winter, and the idea of swimming in a naturally hot pool was tempting. So that's what we did: took a picnic, bundled up the child, filled a couple of thermoses, and stayed an hour-and-a half. Hot Springs has just been controversially "sold" by the Chimanimani Rural District Council for 60,000 US to a company to house mainly South African workers on the diamond fields, but it is still open for day-trippers. It was a dreamy afternoon, mostly spent lolling in the hot water under a mopani tree.
Maybe though I think now, I should have been a bit more diligent, more of a newshound. There was a group of four (fairly loutish, half-drunk) Afrikaans males also in the pool. I should have probed, asked them what was going on.
The thing is, I was wearing a bikini. Can one interview in a bikini? Especially when you're interviewing undercover, which necessarily entails a bit of banter. My husband was a couple of metres away. He understands the work drive -- he does it himself -- but this was a wee bit delicate. "Thanks for bringing your wife," they'd shouted to him. "Don't you want to come to watch the rugby with her?" After that, could I really have swam over to them, smiled innocently and started chatting?
Maybe. I just couldn't. So that's my defence. No interviews in a bikini. You have to draw the (bikini) line somewhere. Next time I'll wear a one-piece and shorts.
BBC vs CNN
Zimbabweans are good at acronyms. They have a high IQ, they say (I - queue, get it?).
News-related acronyms are popular. Not long ago, Zimbabweans admitted ruefully that many of their absent relatives were BBC workers (British Backside Cleaners). The latest acronym I've just seen is a CNN relationship - Condom Not Needed.*
(*of course, generally it is, says the Manica Post's Blabbermouth columnist)
News-related acronyms are popular. Not long ago, Zimbabweans admitted ruefully that many of their absent relatives were BBC workers (British Backside Cleaners). The latest acronym I've just seen is a CNN relationship - Condom Not Needed.*
(*of course, generally it is, says the Manica Post's Blabbermouth columnist)
Friday, June 11, 2010
stories
My son's very good at keeping a secret, one of his Shona teachers says.
"You know, in the war, the soldiers (she means the Rhodesian army, white and black) used to come to the villages. They'd find the kids playing outside on their own."
"Has anyone got a story?" they'd ask.
"And the brightest ones would say: Yes, yes, I've got a story. The comrades (black freedom fighters) came last night and my mother cooked a chicken and we fed the comrades and then they went."
The soldiers would gently ask more questions, all the while telling the kids "what good stories they had," she remembers. Then, of course, vengeance would come.
The teacher's story makes me feel sad. I've just taught Creative Writing at a school with kids my child's age and seen how they fall over each other to be the first to tell their "story."
Sad too, because my child's grandfather was a soldier in the Rhodesian army.
"You know, in the war, the soldiers (she means the Rhodesian army, white and black) used to come to the villages. They'd find the kids playing outside on their own."
"Has anyone got a story?" they'd ask.
"And the brightest ones would say: Yes, yes, I've got a story. The comrades (black freedom fighters) came last night and my mother cooked a chicken and we fed the comrades and then they went."
The soldiers would gently ask more questions, all the while telling the kids "what good stories they had," she remembers. Then, of course, vengeance would come.
The teacher's story makes me feel sad. I've just taught Creative Writing at a school with kids my child's age and seen how they fall over each other to be the first to tell their "story."
Sad too, because my child's grandfather was a soldier in the Rhodesian army.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
teenage mum
"I've got some depressing news," Shingie's mother says. She is shorter than me, half my size. I feel like a giant. "Shingie's pregnant."
She has to repeat it. "Shingie is pregnant." Not Shingie. I have a photograph of her in her school sports gear, navy-blue and white. She's standing with eight or nine team-mates, against a stunning red poinsettia bush. Shingie is the smiling girl, not a stunner, not plain either. She has two sisters. Chenge isn't married yet: J has two children, F and N. F showed me her 12 US dollar phone yesterday. Mummy sent it for her 9th birthday, she told me proudly (What about brain tumours? I wanted to say but stopped myself just in time).
How old is Shingie? 15, 16 maybe? Her mother took her out of boarding school only last year. Baring, near the Old Mutare Mission on the way to Africa University, where Ndabaningi Sithole was buried. Shamie hated it there. Her mother insisted she stay though. Was she trying to avoid this sort of thing happening? Then the money ran out and Shingie had to come home. Her father doesn't live with them. I met him once, downtown in Mutare. He had some kind of grain-selling place. Shingie's mother insists she is a Ms.
She looks up at me, her braids laced with grey. Mai Bruce always teases her about that grey. I wonder how she reacted to Shingie's news. Did she shout, scream, threaten to throw her out?
"I was shocked, mostly," she says.
We do not voice the unvoiceable, the 1,300 who die of AIDS here every week. But the question hovers.
She has to repeat it. "Shingie is pregnant." Not Shingie. I have a photograph of her in her school sports gear, navy-blue and white. She's standing with eight or nine team-mates, against a stunning red poinsettia bush. Shingie is the smiling girl, not a stunner, not plain either. She has two sisters. Chenge isn't married yet: J has two children, F and N. F showed me her 12 US dollar phone yesterday. Mummy sent it for her 9th birthday, she told me proudly (What about brain tumours? I wanted to say but stopped myself just in time).
How old is Shingie? 15, 16 maybe? Her mother took her out of boarding school only last year. Baring, near the Old Mutare Mission on the way to Africa University, where Ndabaningi Sithole was buried. Shamie hated it there. Her mother insisted she stay though. Was she trying to avoid this sort of thing happening? Then the money ran out and Shingie had to come home. Her father doesn't live with them. I met him once, downtown in Mutare. He had some kind of grain-selling place. Shingie's mother insists she is a Ms.
She looks up at me, her braids laced with grey. Mai Bruce always teases her about that grey. I wonder how she reacted to Shingie's news. Did she shout, scream, threaten to throw her out?
"I was shocked, mostly," she says.
We do not voice the unvoiceable, the 1,300 who die of AIDS here every week. But the question hovers.
Monday, June 7, 2010
pink hair
Pink Hair No 6 (7?) I saw this Saturday at Hot Springs resort. She looked like the others...sort of, well, badger-y, one local puts it.
There is a New Hairdresser in town. Which means we murungu (white) madams now have the princely choice of two (three if you count Earl but he's mainly for the kids and the wash-and-set generation). New Hairdresser's advent -- "from Jo'burg," the whispers go, "she had her own salon there" -- has caused no little consternation. First, if you go to New Hairdresser, will Long Established Old Hairdresser find out? And if Long Established Old finds out and is (as is likely) aggrieved, will you be able to go back to her if, heaven forbid, New Hairdresser should leave? Old Hairdresser has been in town for more than a decade: at present she's located on the near-deserted first floor of a department store, her salon complete with huge posters of pageboy cuts and perms straight from the 1980s. She knows everything about everybody. When her son announced his split from his wife, locals whispered the ex would never be able to get her hair done again, not in this town at least: Old Hairdresser would slit her throat.
The problem with Old, though, the madams whisper, is that she uses The Cap to do highlights, a close-fitting plastic thing with holes in to let her hook through strands of your hair. It's an instrument of mediaeval torture if ever there was one: you may come out of the salon with highlights but you'll also come out minus half a head of hair.
Chiefly because of The Cap, the madams have migrated. New Hairdresser can do foils, they tell each other. New Hairdresser operates from her home in the grassy suburbs (Her husband, it's rumoured, works in the diamond fields not far from Hot Springs). New Hairdresser cuts a shiny, shapely bob but she has one weakness - a predilection for pink stripes. She adds them to every other white madam's hair-do: does she ask them first, I wonder? Pink is her personal signature. It's also the best way she's got to thumb her nose at Old.
*And no, I do not have pink stripes. My husband cuts my hair.
There is a New Hairdresser in town. Which means we murungu (white) madams now have the princely choice of two (three if you count Earl but he's mainly for the kids and the wash-and-set generation). New Hairdresser's advent -- "from Jo'burg," the whispers go, "she had her own salon there" -- has caused no little consternation. First, if you go to New Hairdresser, will Long Established Old Hairdresser find out? And if Long Established Old finds out and is (as is likely) aggrieved, will you be able to go back to her if, heaven forbid, New Hairdresser should leave? Old Hairdresser has been in town for more than a decade: at present she's located on the near-deserted first floor of a department store, her salon complete with huge posters of pageboy cuts and perms straight from the 1980s. She knows everything about everybody. When her son announced his split from his wife, locals whispered the ex would never be able to get her hair done again, not in this town at least: Old Hairdresser would slit her throat.
The problem with Old, though, the madams whisper, is that she uses The Cap to do highlights, a close-fitting plastic thing with holes in to let her hook through strands of your hair. It's an instrument of mediaeval torture if ever there was one: you may come out of the salon with highlights but you'll also come out minus half a head of hair.
Chiefly because of The Cap, the madams have migrated. New Hairdresser can do foils, they tell each other. New Hairdresser operates from her home in the grassy suburbs (Her husband, it's rumoured, works in the diamond fields not far from Hot Springs). New Hairdresser cuts a shiny, shapely bob but she has one weakness - a predilection for pink stripes. She adds them to every other white madam's hair-do: does she ask them first, I wonder? Pink is her personal signature. It's also the best way she's got to thumb her nose at Old.
*And no, I do not have pink stripes. My husband cuts my hair.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)