"But," he asks earnestly. "What happens when you can't say what you want to say? Take sanctions, for example."
"We have to say that we cannot get these things (car parts, electrical components, books) because of the sanctions."
I gulp. This wasn't the question I was expecting to get asked here. I'm leading a media training workshop at an NGO in a Mutare township. The group's leaders have been told the local paper would be willing to take articles they've written on their projects (saves the paper sending out a reporter). They want to know how to write better.
I've come with a few hastily-crafted flip-sheets, emphasising things like clarity, short sentences, how important it is to know the point of your article before you sit down and write it, and how to use colour. Political niceties, though: that wasn't part of my brief.
"Well," I say. "Maybe in countries like Zimbabwe, there are things you can't say. But you can still stick to your truth." Truth, after all, is what we're all striving for: unless you write for the state, of course -- and that's who these poor guys will be selling to.
Another participant jumps in: "We can say there is no foreign currency to buy these things."
"Exactly. And you leave it at that." You hope you get intelligent readers (which, in a country with the second highest literacy rate in Africa, should be possible) who fill in the gaps themselves.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
misunderstanding
"Mai S --," she says. I stop in my tracks with dread. I know what is coming: my housekeeper wants more money. As do all the state utilities, my son's school, the council...
"Am I not working nicely for you?" she says. "I am working since end of 2005 for you, is it not true?"
"Yes," I say. She never steals, which most madams would count a huge plus. But it's more than that: I know she makes my life easy.
She takes a breath. "It's just...You give me no present and Mr B: he gives Ruth candles and mealie-meal. If he does not have time to go to shops, he gives Ruth and Farai some dollars extra. Every month."
Mr B is a top local official. He has -- or had -- a farm and a plot (not two farms, lest any man should wonder), a chicken-packing business, several houses and a generous millionaire (yes, really) brother in South Africa (who comes complete with 'plane)
"Mr B has more money than we do," I say. "We don't have much at the moment. That's why we couldn't have Tommy (the gardener) work for us any more, remember?"
"It's not a problem," she says (what, really?). "It's just I need to know if I am working nicely. The money is not a problem, Mai Sammy. It is not a problem."
Suddenly I realise just how wrong I was. She isn't actually asking for a raise (though I'm sure one would come in handy): she wants the simple satisfaction of knowing I like her, and like the job she does for me.
"Am I not working nicely for you?" she says. "I am working since end of 2005 for you, is it not true?"
"Yes," I say. She never steals, which most madams would count a huge plus. But it's more than that: I know she makes my life easy.
She takes a breath. "It's just...You give me no present and Mr B: he gives Ruth candles and mealie-meal. If he does not have time to go to shops, he gives Ruth and Farai some dollars extra. Every month."
Mr B is a top local official. He has -- or had -- a farm and a plot (not two farms, lest any man should wonder), a chicken-packing business, several houses and a generous millionaire (yes, really) brother in South Africa (who comes complete with 'plane)
"Mr B has more money than we do," I say. "We don't have much at the moment. That's why we couldn't have Tommy (the gardener) work for us any more, remember?"
"It's not a problem," she says (what, really?). "It's just I need to know if I am working nicely. The money is not a problem, Mai Sammy. It is not a problem."
Suddenly I realise just how wrong I was. She isn't actually asking for a raise (though I'm sure one would come in handy): she wants the simple satisfaction of knowing I like her, and like the job she does for me.
no pants on fridays
Officials in Zimbabwe have recently located a no-pants-on-Fridays sect.
The church is in the Mazowe district in central Zimbabwe. Members aren't bound by some of the traditional rules governing apostolic sects here: they're allowed to eat pork, they can smoke and drink and they don't have to wear white 'shepherd' robes.
They have a few curious practices, though. They believe their founder -- Emmanuel Mudiwya -- who died in 1989 was Jesus Christ; they embalm their dead, and male members aren't allowed to wear underwear from Thursday night to Friday night.
"They are a bit on the scary side, to be honest and we usually keep our distance from them," said a teacher from a school near the sect's farm.
The church is in the Mazowe district in central Zimbabwe. Members aren't bound by some of the traditional rules governing apostolic sects here: they're allowed to eat pork, they can smoke and drink and they don't have to wear white 'shepherd' robes.
They have a few curious practices, though. They believe their founder -- Emmanuel Mudiwya -- who died in 1989 was Jesus Christ; they embalm their dead, and male members aren't allowed to wear underwear from Thursday night to Friday night.
"They are a bit on the scary side, to be honest and we usually keep our distance from them," said a teacher from a school near the sect's farm.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
plantpots
"The police raided the place three or four times," says a B-and-B owner in the eastern city of Mutare. "They never found a thing."
She had diamond dealers staying with her at the height of the rush in 2008.
"The police looked in all the obvious places: toilet cistern, under the mattress. They turned the place upside down."
Two or three hours after the police had gone, the dealers' colleagues (shamwaris, she calls them, friends in the local Shona language) would knock at the door.
"We've just come to pick up something," they'd say.
She watched. The dealers went straight to the plant pots outside the B and B rooms -- the sort every white Zimbabwean keeps, with geraniums and pansies and roses in -- and began to dig with their hands. The diamonds had been hidden in the soil.
"Of course, if they were staying at number 22, they'd hide the stones in the pots outside number 24. Just to be on the safe side. But the police never guessed," she says.
We wonder -- all of us gathered round the table in this plush eatery, a day after Mugabe's government announced it'll take over white-owned businesses -- if there are any diamonds still left in her flowerpots, any stones the shamwaris missed.
Who knows when we'll need them.
She had diamond dealers staying with her at the height of the rush in 2008.
"The police looked in all the obvious places: toilet cistern, under the mattress. They turned the place upside down."
Two or three hours after the police had gone, the dealers' colleagues (shamwaris, she calls them, friends in the local Shona language) would knock at the door.
"We've just come to pick up something," they'd say.
She watched. The dealers went straight to the plant pots outside the B and B rooms -- the sort every white Zimbabwean keeps, with geraniums and pansies and roses in -- and began to dig with their hands. The diamonds had been hidden in the soil.
"Of course, if they were staying at number 22, they'd hide the stones in the pots outside number 24. Just to be on the safe side. But the police never guessed," she says.
We wonder -- all of us gathered round the table in this plush eatery, a day after Mugabe's government announced it'll take over white-owned businesses -- if there are any diamonds still left in her flowerpots, any stones the shamwaris missed.
Who knows when we'll need them.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
party
"Are you having a party?" the cashier asks.
I'm doing an early-morning dash through TM stores. I've got 20 US to spend on sweets, crisps and cool drink for a once-a-year bash on Saturday for ten kids. My trolley's a good third full of junk food (for the only time in the year).
"Yes," I say. "My son turned six."
There are two youths behind me in the queue, waiting to pay for their sadza-and-stew packed in polystyrene boxes.
"Can we come to the party?" one of them says.
"Sorry," I laugh.
"It's because we're black," he retorts. He pulls his cheek.
"No," I say. "There are black kids coming actually."
"Can my child come then?"
"I'm sorry," I say. "My child doesn't know your child. He's inviting his friends." Shona birthday parties tend to involve the street, the neighbours and the neighbours' friends, though not in the high-income suburbs. Those Shona parties, like white-hosted parties, are invitation-only.
"I know you whites," argues the man. "It's because we're black. You don't want us."
"My child may be white but he has a Shona name," I say. It's not often I come across open animosity these days but incidents like this remind me how deep racial distrust goes, on both sides.
"So, and what does Tinashe mean?" I tell him.
The youths walk off, muttering under their breath. Later, driving home in the car, I wonder what sparked this incident off. Was it the sight of my shopping trolley, with its 20 US worth of sweets? Most probably. Dissatisfaction's gaining ground these days, with low salaries unable to keep pace with high prices. A civil servants' strike is in its third day. It may be poorly followed -- one teacher I spoke to said she couldn't strike because she was effectively being paid 'by the parents' in the form of top-up incentives -- but there's no doubting the disappointment. Legal watchdog Veritas says Zimbabweans blame the unity government: the pro-Mugabe Herald newspaper says they blame...Morgan Tsvangirai, of course
I'm doing an early-morning dash through TM stores. I've got 20 US to spend on sweets, crisps and cool drink for a once-a-year bash on Saturday for ten kids. My trolley's a good third full of junk food (for the only time in the year).
"Yes," I say. "My son turned six."
There are two youths behind me in the queue, waiting to pay for their sadza-and-stew packed in polystyrene boxes.
"Can we come to the party?" one of them says.
"Sorry," I laugh.
"It's because we're black," he retorts. He pulls his cheek.
"No," I say. "There are black kids coming actually."
"Can my child come then?"
"I'm sorry," I say. "My child doesn't know your child. He's inviting his friends." Shona birthday parties tend to involve the street, the neighbours and the neighbours' friends, though not in the high-income suburbs. Those Shona parties, like white-hosted parties, are invitation-only.
"I know you whites," argues the man. "It's because we're black. You don't want us."
"My child may be white but he has a Shona name," I say. It's not often I come across open animosity these days but incidents like this remind me how deep racial distrust goes, on both sides.
"So, and what does Tinashe mean?" I tell him.
The youths walk off, muttering under their breath. Later, driving home in the car, I wonder what sparked this incident off. Was it the sight of my shopping trolley, with its 20 US worth of sweets? Most probably. Dissatisfaction's gaining ground these days, with low salaries unable to keep pace with high prices. A civil servants' strike is in its third day. It may be poorly followed -- one teacher I spoke to said she couldn't strike because she was effectively being paid 'by the parents' in the form of top-up incentives -- but there's no doubting the disappointment. Legal watchdog Veritas says Zimbabweans blame the unity government: the pro-Mugabe Herald newspaper says they blame...Morgan Tsvangirai, of course
another explanation
This time to do with snakes and witches.
An 18-year old witch was arrested in the communal lands near Mutare. She confessed that she worked for her uncle, who kept a python and a spitting cobra. They travelled on the back of the python whenever they needed to, she said.
The judge -- a traditional chief -- was not amused. He said that it was because of the snakes -- especially the spitting cobra -- that there was no rain.
There may be a logical explanation to this. We killed (or rather my mother-in-law's gardener did) a spitting cobra in the garden last week. Grey, not too long: first we thought it might be a male boomslung. But then we saw the black strip under its neck. It bulged in the middle, obviously from the frog my six-year-old had also had his eye on.
What did she get out of being a witch? Apart from free transport, possibly. Actually what the girl wanted was NOT to be a witch. She was confessing because her baby boy had died. She thought witchcraft was to blame.
An 18-year old witch was arrested in the communal lands near Mutare. She confessed that she worked for her uncle, who kept a python and a spitting cobra. They travelled on the back of the python whenever they needed to, she said.
The judge -- a traditional chief -- was not amused. He said that it was because of the snakes -- especially the spitting cobra -- that there was no rain.
There may be a logical explanation to this. We killed (or rather my mother-in-law's gardener did) a spitting cobra in the garden last week. Grey, not too long: first we thought it might be a male boomslung. But then we saw the black strip under its neck. It bulged in the middle, obviously from the frog my six-year-old had also had his eye on.
What did she get out of being a witch? Apart from free transport, possibly. Actually what the girl wanted was NOT to be a witch. She was confessing because her baby boy had died. She thought witchcraft was to blame.
Monday, February 1, 2010
no rain
Forget El Nino, global warming, regional weather patterns. The reason why there's no rain in much of Zimbabwe is, locals say, because of the blood spilt in the Chiadzwa diamond fields. Up to 200 illegal panners were killed in late 2008 when police and soldiers moved into the rich seam. There have been sporadic killings ever since.
The ancestors are holding back the rain in anger, says my son's Shona teacher.
There's another explanation, according to the local Manica Post newspaper. Twenty-five members of an Apostolic sect danced naked on Zimunya Mountain. The guilty were brought to court (presumably clothed). "If you look up to the sky it is clear: there are no rains, it is because of people like you," court assessor Benny Madanhire told the group.
They said they were just taking a bath.
The ancestors are holding back the rain in anger, says my son's Shona teacher.
There's another explanation, according to the local Manica Post newspaper. Twenty-five members of an Apostolic sect danced naked on Zimunya Mountain. The guilty were brought to court (presumably clothed). "If you look up to the sky it is clear: there are no rains, it is because of people like you," court assessor Benny Madanhire told the group.
They said they were just taking a bath.
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