"Mum, Audrey has eaten the squirrel," he says.
We have black squirrels in our garden. To be honest, I don't like seeing them there. The cats try to kill them and they're mamba-prey (ie mamba-magnets). I'd rather the squirrels were in somebody else's avocado tree.
My son learns a lot from his Shona friends. Vocabulary, for example. Audrey, Sam and I went walking last night as the power cut deepened. The moon was rising, oversized in a blue-satin sky as only an African moon can be.
"Look, Mai Sammy," Audrey said. "It's mwedzi." One more word to chalk up, for me and for Sam.
He picks up good manners too. Audrey and he collect firewood for me, late in the afternoon when the sun has dried the branches. "She'll make a good daughter-in-law," Mai Bruce laughs. Shona culture advises that couples marry vematongo (from the same 'ruins', the same place). How does that work when you both come from the same geographical area but you're black and white, I wonder?
Another thing he's picking up is what Audrey calls Shona medicine. This morning Sam took me to see a tiny weed with a pink stalk. "You use it when you have a sore eye," he said, showing me the milky sap that prickled from where he'd pulled it off at ground-level. "Gogo (granny) uses it," Audrey said proudly.
Feeling virtuous I led her to our aloe vera. I've used the jelly-like sap on burns before. "This is a good plant too, isn't it, Audrey?" She sniffed. "For chicks, yes," she said. She meant the feathered kind: huku.
He's learning good things, then. Still, squirrel and sadza for supper makes me feel rather squeamish.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
local shopping basket
Supa is in the supermarket. He sweeps in just ahead of me.
In fact, he stands aside very politely to let me get a basket. He has a big, burly man beside him in a leather jacket -- a bodyguard? Or just a friend?
Supa is Supa Mandiwanzira, the head of the local Affirmative Action Group (AAG).* He's an ex news anchor on the state ZBC News Hour (News Horror, as a Shona journalist we knew used to call it). I guess he left because of pay. The car in the supermarket is gleaming black BMW something-or-other. Nearly minibus sized.
I bet he didn't fill out a parking ticket.
Supa is causing a stir in the aisles of Spar. I manage to get one behind him at the checkout. He flirts with the cashier (who's reduced to giggles), catches my eye too. I engage in a scientific study of his purchases as I clutch my purchases of smelly butcher's offcuts (for the dog) and a pack of apples. Booze, basically. Lots of cans of Hunter's cider (now that's not local) and at least four bottles of what looks like brandy, the imported kind. And mineral water, imported too (now who has the money to buy that?). There are a couple of packets of Lobel's Strawberry Creams. At least they're local. He opens a wallet, wadded with cash (dollars and rands), hands over a 100 dollar note (there's almost no change). I can just see his ID card. He is polite, jovial. The security guards chat with him.
"That was Mr Supa Mandiwanzira," breathes the cashier when it's my turn to pay.
He's obviously a hero.
* I hear him on ZBC Saturday morning, urging white and foreign companies to comply with recently-gazetted indigenisation laws. The former opposition MDC is trying to get the laws toned down to make them more investor-friend (one suggestion is to let third or four generation white Zimbabweans be considered indigenous): Mugabe (and Supa's) ZANU-PF is adamant the law stands.
In fact, he stands aside very politely to let me get a basket. He has a big, burly man beside him in a leather jacket -- a bodyguard? Or just a friend?
Supa is Supa Mandiwanzira, the head of the local Affirmative Action Group (AAG).* He's an ex news anchor on the state ZBC News Hour (News Horror, as a Shona journalist we knew used to call it). I guess he left because of pay. The car in the supermarket is gleaming black BMW something-or-other. Nearly minibus sized.
I bet he didn't fill out a parking ticket.
Supa is causing a stir in the aisles of Spar. I manage to get one behind him at the checkout. He flirts with the cashier (who's reduced to giggles), catches my eye too. I engage in a scientific study of his purchases as I clutch my purchases of smelly butcher's offcuts (for the dog) and a pack of apples. Booze, basically. Lots of cans of Hunter's cider (now that's not local) and at least four bottles of what looks like brandy, the imported kind. And mineral water, imported too (now who has the money to buy that?). There are a couple of packets of Lobel's Strawberry Creams. At least they're local. He opens a wallet, wadded with cash (dollars and rands), hands over a 100 dollar note (there's almost no change). I can just see his ID card. He is polite, jovial. The security guards chat with him.
"That was Mr Supa Mandiwanzira," breathes the cashier when it's my turn to pay.
He's obviously a hero.
* I hear him on ZBC Saturday morning, urging white and foreign companies to comply with recently-gazetted indigenisation laws. The former opposition MDC is trying to get the laws toned down to make them more investor-friend (one suggestion is to let third or four generation white Zimbabweans be considered indigenous): Mugabe (and Supa's) ZANU-PF is adamant the law stands.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
token of appreciation
"You'll have to pay him for the months in between," Mr B says.
We've had the union on the 'phone. A gardener who disappeared after payday last August has resurfaced. He wants a payout: 630 US at the very least. Notwithstanding the fact that he was absent without a medical certificate for more than five days (more than five months, more like). According to the National Employment Code of Conduct Regulations 2006 (I have a copy), that's grounds for dismissal.
Fed up of threatening 'phone calls from the union -- and no, it's not the straw-hatted Joseph Chinotimba-led one -- I've trekked to the government's Labour Relations office, behind the supermarket. Mr B is the resident Labour Officer, the secretary tells me. I follow him down a school corridor.
What? I'm aghast. "But he ran away!"
Mr B taps his pencil. He is wearing a smart olive suit -- not local -- and looks to be in his early 20s. "You should have come here first, to tell me," he says.
Outside the window - it's one that opens top-to-bottom, uncannily like a college at Cambridge where I had tutorials in a different life -- a girl passes, calls at him through the glass. His wife? She has already texted to check on him once. (He told me) We weren't underpaying our worker. In fact, Mr B says, what we were paying was -- is still -- a "very generous salary."
"You were kind," he says. "And that is weak."
"What about a dismissal package?" (I can see I'll have to fork out something, whether or not I'm in the right.)
Mr B concedes that as we hadn't employed the worker for a full five years, no package is mandatory. "But really," he says, "you have to be kind." (What? I thought you'd just said that because I was kind, I was weak?). One month's money for every year worked. And re-employ the worker. He will draft a contract for us. A three-month one. "This time you can stop his work without any problems," he says.
"But -- " he looks at me -- "you understand this contract, I will be doing it out of office hours. In my spare time." I understand. All too well. "You mean I must pay you a token of appreciation?"
We've had the union on the 'phone. A gardener who disappeared after payday last August has resurfaced. He wants a payout: 630 US at the very least. Notwithstanding the fact that he was absent without a medical certificate for more than five days (more than five months, more like). According to the National Employment Code of Conduct Regulations 2006 (I have a copy), that's grounds for dismissal.
Fed up of threatening 'phone calls from the union -- and no, it's not the straw-hatted Joseph Chinotimba-led one -- I've trekked to the government's Labour Relations office, behind the supermarket. Mr B is the resident Labour Officer, the secretary tells me. I follow him down a school corridor.
What? I'm aghast. "But he ran away!"
Mr B taps his pencil. He is wearing a smart olive suit -- not local -- and looks to be in his early 20s. "You should have come here first, to tell me," he says.
Outside the window - it's one that opens top-to-bottom, uncannily like a college at Cambridge where I had tutorials in a different life -- a girl passes, calls at him through the glass. His wife? She has already texted to check on him once. (He told me) We weren't underpaying our worker. In fact, Mr B says, what we were paying was -- is still -- a "very generous salary."
"You were kind," he says. "And that is weak."
"What about a dismissal package?" (I can see I'll have to fork out something, whether or not I'm in the right.)
Mr B concedes that as we hadn't employed the worker for a full five years, no package is mandatory. "But really," he says, "you have to be kind." (What? I thought you'd just said that because I was kind, I was weak?). One month's money for every year worked. And re-employ the worker. He will draft a contract for us. A three-month one. "This time you can stop his work without any problems," he says.
"But -- " he looks at me -- "you understand this contract, I will be doing it out of office hours. In my spare time." I understand. All too well. "You mean I must pay you a token of appreciation?"
Monday, April 12, 2010
lodge
"It's such a shame," she sighs. "The place is ruined."
They lived in the manager's house at a well-known hotel on the Mozambican border. Lived, that is, until the owners mysteriously fled to Spain and the hotel changed hands. They -- they're close relatives of mine by marriage -- were told that "an Asian" had bought the place.
The story seemed to stick. The new owner ordered all pork out of the hotel freezers. The bar was no longer to sell alcohol, workers were told. The workers predicted a grim future: the hotel was a popular drinking spot for locals (read diamond dealers) from the nearby city of Mutare.
Then the Castles reappeared. GG (the bank chief) had bought the place, the whisper went. For 2 million US. A new sign went up outside. My relatives were told to pack their bags.
She went back to the hotel this week, walked down the dried mud path to the house she and her husband lived in for seven years after they lost their farm. In six months the place is unrecognisable. The grass is knee-high. The wooden struts holding up the walk-round verandah have disappeared. Baboons have pulled out thatch from the roof by the fistful, leaving gaping holes for the late rains to fall inside.
"Don't even walk round the front," said next-door's cook, who'd followed her down. "You'll be too upset."
She filled a plastic bag with grapefruit and limes from the (now unfertilised and untended) orchard and slipped away.
They lived in the manager's house at a well-known hotel on the Mozambican border. Lived, that is, until the owners mysteriously fled to Spain and the hotel changed hands. They -- they're close relatives of mine by marriage -- were told that "an Asian" had bought the place.
The story seemed to stick. The new owner ordered all pork out of the hotel freezers. The bar was no longer to sell alcohol, workers were told. The workers predicted a grim future: the hotel was a popular drinking spot for locals (read diamond dealers) from the nearby city of Mutare.
Then the Castles reappeared. GG (the bank chief) had bought the place, the whisper went. For 2 million US. A new sign went up outside. My relatives were told to pack their bags.
She went back to the hotel this week, walked down the dried mud path to the house she and her husband lived in for seven years after they lost their farm. In six months the place is unrecognisable. The grass is knee-high. The wooden struts holding up the walk-round verandah have disappeared. Baboons have pulled out thatch from the roof by the fistful, leaving gaping holes for the late rains to fall inside.
"Don't even walk round the front," said next-door's cook, who'd followed her down. "You'll be too upset."
She filled a plastic bag with grapefruit and limes from the (now unfertilised and untended) orchard and slipped away.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
exhibition
There are muddied (or are they bloodied?) toothpaste tubes, suspended on pieces of cotton against a swirling river scene.
"What do you think of this picture?" a gallery-goer asks.
"Erm....well, the colours are strong," I say. Actually, the picture -- titled Flesh and Souls -- is disturbing in a Dantean kind of way (which it's probably meant to be). The toothpaste tubes are suicides, I think. Is this supposed to be a reflection of Zimbabwe's plight?
I'm at the opening of an exhibition at the National Gallery (and no, it's not one of two exhibitions shut down by police in Harare and Bulawayo last week). Over samoosas, I meet the provincial director of Zimbabwe's National Arts Council.
"You see, the reason why I'm so pleased with this exhibition is that we went out to the people to get these exhibits," he says.
"It's not like HIFA," the annual Harare International Festival of the Arts. HIFA is a glitzy well-run show with international artistes, musicians, actors and -- so disgruntled locals say -- not many Zimbabweans.
"Our artists actually have to apply to be in HIFA," says the NAC man. "But WE go out to find the artists. Some of them are from really remote places."
It sounds like a reasonable argument, albeit one I've heard before from government people. The thing is though, the gallery's directors have just admitted privately that they couldn't find any new paintings for this exhibition. No-one in the rural areas "has money for paint," I've been told.
So the director -- young, dynamic Elizabeth -- had to 'phone Harare and get paintings hurriedly couriered up to Mutare. So much for fostering local talent.
"What do you think of this picture?" a gallery-goer asks.
"Erm....well, the colours are strong," I say. Actually, the picture -- titled Flesh and Souls -- is disturbing in a Dantean kind of way (which it's probably meant to be). The toothpaste tubes are suicides, I think. Is this supposed to be a reflection of Zimbabwe's plight?
I'm at the opening of an exhibition at the National Gallery (and no, it's not one of two exhibitions shut down by police in Harare and Bulawayo last week). Over samoosas, I meet the provincial director of Zimbabwe's National Arts Council.
"You see, the reason why I'm so pleased with this exhibition is that we went out to the people to get these exhibits," he says.
"It's not like HIFA," the annual Harare International Festival of the Arts. HIFA is a glitzy well-run show with international artistes, musicians, actors and -- so disgruntled locals say -- not many Zimbabweans.
"Our artists actually have to apply to be in HIFA," says the NAC man. "But WE go out to find the artists. Some of them are from really remote places."
It sounds like a reasonable argument, albeit one I've heard before from government people. The thing is though, the gallery's directors have just admitted privately that they couldn't find any new paintings for this exhibition. No-one in the rural areas "has money for paint," I've been told.
So the director -- young, dynamic Elizabeth -- had to 'phone Harare and get paintings hurriedly couriered up to Mutare. So much for fostering local talent.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Shona lessons
"What you have to know is: Shona isn't about Robert Mugabe," the teacher says. "It's about Zimbabwe, where we all live."
We're sitting in a parents' meeting by candlelight (thanks to yet another power cut). My son's Shona teacher is angry: white parents aren't pushing their kids to do their Shona homework.
Zimbabwe's indigenous languages are a compulsory part of the school curriculum here. All well and good, you'd think: I'm keen for my child to improve his grasp of a second language as soon as possible. The problem is that Zimbabwe's chequered history of white-black relations weighs heavily. Not every white parent wants their child to learn Shona, it turns out.
"I tell them: speak with your maid, play with Shona kids. You need to practise," says the teacher. "But I get all sorts of answers: 'I'm not allowed' or 'the maid's not allowed to speak Shona to me' or "I'm not allowed to play with the children on my street. Black kids are well-behaved, you know. Most of them, at least."
"I love my language," she says passionately. "I want your kids to like it too." I look at her in the dim light: bright, young, articulate, well-educated (probably better so than many of the parents present). Zimbabwe didn't go through apartheid but some of the provisions of the former minority regime came pretty close to it: we have black friends who weren't allowed to live in the "good" suburbs 'til 1980. I know of three Shona families who bought classy homes in one low-density area in Mutare immediately after independence was declared on April 18th. They'd saved the cash, been itching to move for years.
Memories of the-whites-who-wouldn't-mix die hard. It must seem sometimes that many of them still won't.
We're sitting in a parents' meeting by candlelight (thanks to yet another power cut). My son's Shona teacher is angry: white parents aren't pushing their kids to do their Shona homework.
Zimbabwe's indigenous languages are a compulsory part of the school curriculum here. All well and good, you'd think: I'm keen for my child to improve his grasp of a second language as soon as possible. The problem is that Zimbabwe's chequered history of white-black relations weighs heavily. Not every white parent wants their child to learn Shona, it turns out.
"I tell them: speak with your maid, play with Shona kids. You need to practise," says the teacher. "But I get all sorts of answers: 'I'm not allowed' or 'the maid's not allowed to speak Shona to me' or "I'm not allowed to play with the children on my street. Black kids are well-behaved, you know. Most of them, at least."
"I love my language," she says passionately. "I want your kids to like it too." I look at her in the dim light: bright, young, articulate, well-educated (probably better so than many of the parents present). Zimbabwe didn't go through apartheid but some of the provisions of the former minority regime came pretty close to it: we have black friends who weren't allowed to live in the "good" suburbs 'til 1980. I know of three Shona families who bought classy homes in one low-density area in Mutare immediately after independence was declared on April 18th. They'd saved the cash, been itching to move for years.
Memories of the-whites-who-wouldn't-mix die hard. It must seem sometimes that many of them still won't.
zwangendaba
"Can you spell that? -" The doctor's receptionist obliged. " Z-W-A-N-G-E-N-D-A-B-A. There. Do you need me to repeat it?".
After nine years in southern Africa, I pride myself on being able to spell a lot of local names, both in Shona and Ndebele. I read them in the paper every day, for one thing. But Zwangendaba, my newish doctor's first name: that was one name I hadn't come across. I'd seen the initial Z on his gold-embossed plate and presumed it was Biblical (especially as he doubles up as a pastor): Zaccheus, maybe, or Zephaniah.
Turns out I should have heard of Zwangendaba. He was a famous African king who broke away from the rule of the Zulu king Shaka and (starting in the 1820s) led his people on a 20-year long migration from Swaziland to what's now Tanzania. His people were the Jere tribe.
Back on the Africa desk 10 years ago we had a Lusaka correspondent named Jere: Dickson is now Zambia's presidential spokesman.
After nine years in southern Africa, I pride myself on being able to spell a lot of local names, both in Shona and Ndebele. I read them in the paper every day, for one thing. But Zwangendaba, my newish doctor's first name: that was one name I hadn't come across. I'd seen the initial Z on his gold-embossed plate and presumed it was Biblical (especially as he doubles up as a pastor): Zaccheus, maybe, or Zephaniah.
Turns out I should have heard of Zwangendaba. He was a famous African king who broke away from the rule of the Zulu king Shaka and (starting in the 1820s) led his people on a 20-year long migration from Swaziland to what's now Tanzania. His people were the Jere tribe.
Back on the Africa desk 10 years ago we had a Lusaka correspondent named Jere: Dickson is now Zambia's presidential spokesman.
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