"Did you see what's happening in Tunisia?" he says. As in so many middle-class Shona homes, they have the widest flat-screen available plus the latest (purple) cellphones. The furniture is comfortably dingy in this 60-something lecturer's home. There are water patches on the ceiling. I have similar ones at my place.
"I was up on the roof trying to fix the leaks with wood," he says, shaking his head. Years ago, there would have been workmen to call in. Now we do our own DIY. "She (my wife) was inside, banging on the ceiling with a broom where the patches were."
Sky TV has rolling pictures of the Tunisian crisis. From my armchair, I can see tanks, wide white streets, people rioting. Outside are the green hills of Zimbabwe's east. The president was in town just last month for his ZANU-PF party's annual conference, vowing to defeat "illegal Western sanctions." Mugabe has been in power in Zimbabwe 30 years, seven longer than Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, the Tunisian leader. Both have glamourous, hated wives.
"Now the protesters are saying they want all the ruling party to go," says his wife, a teacher.
"But where's the continuity? It might be worse than before." She shakes her head. I'm struck, once again, by the great gulf between my Western reading of a situation and a local -- and most definitely pro-opposition -- one.
Showing posts with label crisis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crisis. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sunday, March 14, 2010
wait 'til the world cup
A lodge-owner's wife was on her own out at the lodge near Odzi, eastern Zimbabwe. Her husband was out playing bridge. There was a knock on the door late at night.
Two ZANU-PF officials were waiting. "We're having a rally," they said (Night-time rallies are called pungwes here). "We've come for our contribution."
She bristled but then thought better of retorting with sarcasm. She was on her own in the dark. She went to the pantry, pulled out a 2kg bag of sugar.
"That's not enough," the officials said. "Don't you produce coffee?"
"It's filter coffee," she told them. "Not instant. You won't like it." Most Shona rally-goers -- reluctant or otherwise -- are Daybreak drinkers. (Cardboard-packed Daybreak is a mix of instant coffee grounds and chicory)
"Give," they growled.
"You'll have to go down to the bar," she said. "Tendai'll help you."
Tendai sent the men packing. He has a brigadier-friend and is not afraid. But the next day, the lodge got a 'phone call.
"Your Tendai must be careful. Very careful," a voice said. The word on the ground is that ZANU-PF is waiting for the World Cup. They'll do nothing -- or nothing very much -- until the World Cup is over. Violence would only annoy South African President Jacob Zuma, who's anxious to get the Zimbabwe problem smoothed out of sight. But when the World Cup is finished, then -- so the whispers go -- then all hell will break loose.
Two ZANU-PF officials were waiting. "We're having a rally," they said (Night-time rallies are called pungwes here). "We've come for our contribution."
She bristled but then thought better of retorting with sarcasm. She was on her own in the dark. She went to the pantry, pulled out a 2kg bag of sugar.
"That's not enough," the officials said. "Don't you produce coffee?"
"It's filter coffee," she told them. "Not instant. You won't like it." Most Shona rally-goers -- reluctant or otherwise -- are Daybreak drinkers. (Cardboard-packed Daybreak is a mix of instant coffee grounds and chicory)
"Give," they growled.
"You'll have to go down to the bar," she said. "Tendai'll help you."
Tendai sent the men packing. He has a brigadier-friend and is not afraid. But the next day, the lodge got a 'phone call.
"Your Tendai must be careful. Very careful," a voice said. The word on the ground is that ZANU-PF is waiting for the World Cup. They'll do nothing -- or nothing very much -- until the World Cup is over. Violence would only annoy South African President Jacob Zuma, who's anxious to get the Zimbabwe problem smoothed out of sight. But when the World Cup is finished, then -- so the whispers go -- then all hell will break loose.
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?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
on the verandah
"Can you believe what we lived through?" he asks. "It doesn't seem possible, not now there's everything in the shops..."
R is a local bank manager. At the height of inflation last year, his monthly salary came to trillions of Zimbabwe dollars. Converted into US, it came to somewhere between 5 and 7.
"We had a bottlestore," he says. "At the bank, I could arrange transfers (most people weren't allowed to make them anymore). I'd buy from Delta, sell for cash -- and change every cent into Zimbabwe dollars."
We're sitting on the verandah in the dusk, a plate of shortbread on the table. The smell of the yesterday-today-and-tomorrow bush floats from the side.
"Remember the money burning?" he says. Enterprising youths would arrange transfers as the Zimbabwe dollar lost value by the hour. "You'd see your money dissolve before your eyes."
We talk about the diamond craze. (Which isn't over: a dealer died this month when he jumped off a moving truck to avoid a police roadblock. Nurses found 1,100 US in his clothes, photocopied the notes with the connivance of a police officer and tried to pass them off as real). He tells a story I haven't heard. "You know that bus-stop near the ZESA offices, the ones by Jairos Jiri?" It's where everyone waits for inter-city transport. "A bus came up, empty apart from a soldier. He was sitting at the front. His gun was under his seat. Everyone was pleased to get transport, they crowded in. But when the doors were shut, the soldier got up."
"Now we're all going to Chiadzwa to fill up the holes you dug," he announced, gun at the ready.
"Most of those people, they'd never been near Chiadzwa. They were businesspeople, people going back to their families in Harare. But they drove to Chiadzwa and they had to work there for two days, filling up pits."
One of the kids empties a whole tin of marbles on the stone floor. From inside, I can hear the soft murmur of National Geographic. We have power tonight, supper waiting. Good things, normal things.
"You know what, though?" he says slowly. "It made us resilient. It made me realise what I could do. It made me more of a man."
ENDS
R is a local bank manager. At the height of inflation last year, his monthly salary came to trillions of Zimbabwe dollars. Converted into US, it came to somewhere between 5 and 7.
"We had a bottlestore," he says. "At the bank, I could arrange transfers (most people weren't allowed to make them anymore). I'd buy from Delta, sell for cash -- and change every cent into Zimbabwe dollars."
We're sitting on the verandah in the dusk, a plate of shortbread on the table. The smell of the yesterday-today-and-tomorrow bush floats from the side.
"Remember the money burning?" he says. Enterprising youths would arrange transfers as the Zimbabwe dollar lost value by the hour. "You'd see your money dissolve before your eyes."
We talk about the diamond craze. (Which isn't over: a dealer died this month when he jumped off a moving truck to avoid a police roadblock. Nurses found 1,100 US in his clothes, photocopied the notes with the connivance of a police officer and tried to pass them off as real). He tells a story I haven't heard. "You know that bus-stop near the ZESA offices, the ones by Jairos Jiri?" It's where everyone waits for inter-city transport. "A bus came up, empty apart from a soldier. He was sitting at the front. His gun was under his seat. Everyone was pleased to get transport, they crowded in. But when the doors were shut, the soldier got up."
"Now we're all going to Chiadzwa to fill up the holes you dug," he announced, gun at the ready.
"Most of those people, they'd never been near Chiadzwa. They were businesspeople, people going back to their families in Harare. But they drove to Chiadzwa and they had to work there for two days, filling up pits."
One of the kids empties a whole tin of marbles on the stone floor. From inside, I can hear the soft murmur of National Geographic. We have power tonight, supper waiting. Good things, normal things.
"You know what, though?" he says slowly. "It made us resilient. It made me realise what I could do. It made me more of a man."
ENDS
Sunday, December 7, 2008
implosion
We saw the wedding procession as we turned up our road. A stream of ribbon-bedecked BMWs, Pajeros, bakkies with guests crammed into the backs. Pink and white balloons floated on the bonnets. Through a passenger window, I caught a glimpse of the groom and his attendants, smiling in black suits. DJ and dance music boomed through our suburb all afternoon, shattering a quiet Saturday. Zimbabwe implodes?
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