"Don't go into town. That's the consensus. They'll be driving people to the stadium," she says.
This is the other side of The President's Birthday: The Fear. The fear that makes so many stay at home this Saturday, including the elderly residents of a cluster village near the centre of this eastern city. They'll be closing the shops anyway, goes the whisper. Trucks swerve past, laden with chanting supporters. Buses -- dozens of buses -- pull into the stadium. The fresh produce market, normally dotted with huge baskets, pyramids of fruit laid out on plastics and tarpaulins and ancient zambias, has been razed to make a VIP carpark. Across the road the new Spar store makes a good vantage point.
By night, the curry takeout on the golf-course in the lushly-green Murambi suburb has run out of everything but pork-chops. The VIPs did not stay in the stadium to feast on the huge pots of sadza, then.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
a good wedding
"Was it a good wedding?" I ask. I've staggered out of the bedroom, baby in hand, to greet our guest. We were supposed to go to his daughter's wedding in December, but were out of the country. Secretly, we weren't quite sure we'd be able to afford to attend anyway. Guests have to dig deep in this place.
"Very good," he says. He ticks off on his fingers. "Two fridges, a stove, a deep freeze. Six microwaves."
"And lots of dinner services. The biggest one had 65 pieces. Oh -- and they got about 6,000 dollars."
"Very good," he says. He ticks off on his fingers. "Two fridges, a stove, a deep freeze. Six microwaves."
"And lots of dinner services. The biggest one had 65 pieces. Oh -- and they got about 6,000 dollars."
Monday, January 23, 2012
community
"Amai Tinashe?" The shelf-stacker (milk section) positively runs across the store. "It's your baby?" She stretches out her arms to hug me.
'The baby' is swaddled slug-like in fluffy blankets, Shona-style. She's not yet strapped on my back, though I haven't ruled out doing that completely. It's just I don't want to have to bounce her on my back in the middle of the night when she won't sleep.
"What did you call her?" And I tell her, slightly embarrassed we didn't use a Shona name again.
The vegetable weigh-er -- not my favourite one, who has a battered Old Testament that he reads between polishing tomatoes and parcelling out lychees -- breaks into a smile.
"It's a girl? I will be your son-in-law one day."
It rained this morning. I wondered whether it was wise to take the baby out. But it's five weeks since I set foot in a shop, and we only needed to go to two. Now, under the glaring fluorescent lights, I'm beginning to understand what community means. And how, half a world away from the community I grew up in, I have somehow tumbled into another one, just as warm, just as familiar.
"Like me," approves the till-supervisor. She has strolled over in her stilettos to take a look. "I have one girl, one boy. Now I am finished."
I am 'finished' too. At least that's what my husband says.
'The baby' is swaddled slug-like in fluffy blankets, Shona-style. She's not yet strapped on my back, though I haven't ruled out doing that completely. It's just I don't want to have to bounce her on my back in the middle of the night when she won't sleep.
"What did you call her?" And I tell her, slightly embarrassed we didn't use a Shona name again.
The vegetable weigh-er -- not my favourite one, who has a battered Old Testament that he reads between polishing tomatoes and parcelling out lychees -- breaks into a smile.
"It's a girl? I will be your son-in-law one day."
It rained this morning. I wondered whether it was wise to take the baby out. But it's five weeks since I set foot in a shop, and we only needed to go to two. Now, under the glaring fluorescent lights, I'm beginning to understand what community means. And how, half a world away from the community I grew up in, I have somehow tumbled into another one, just as warm, just as familiar.
"Like me," approves the till-supervisor. She has strolled over in her stilettos to take a look. "I have one girl, one boy. Now I am finished."
I am 'finished' too. At least that's what my husband says.
Friday, January 20, 2012
cheat
"L's having problems with her marriage," she says. "She found photos on his cellphone."
"Photos?" I went to L's hen party four years ago. She sat under a tablecloth -- well, it looked like a tablecloth -- with her feet poking out. Her sister-in-law, in a broderie-anglaise dress, looked on. Later, L's mother took us on a tour of her wedding presents, displaying with a flourish the a microwave, an oven, more kitchen appliances, a dinner service, linen, irons, toasters. I thought of the wedding presents I got -- a duvet cover, a vase, two cushions, some hand-woven table mats, nothing with a plug on -- and marvelled.
S looks away. "Photos of parts of his girlfriend's body. And Mummy --" S still says Mummy, even though she is in her 30s and Mummy is nearly 60 -- "Mummy is so mad, she won't talk to us, she doesn't want to see us."
"Last week I 'phoned L. I said: 'Do you want me to come?" She said: 'What for?' Can you imagine, my sister saying that?"
We sip our mango juice, look out on the swimming pool. The air is heavy and hot. Three-year-old Tapiwa looks at the baby nursing, pulls at her mother's shirt. S pushes her away. "No, you're a big girl now Tapie."
"The thing is, we told her. Mai L said, so did I. We knew he had another wife when she married him. We said: 'L, isn't he too old for you?' But she said: 'No, we love each other. He's on separation from his wife.'"
Turns out He, L's husband the banker from Bluffhill, has three wives. Five children, two with L. "He told her to move out today. Said she must find a house for 200 dollars rent for her and the kids." 200 dollars rent will get her a room in the townships, not in Bluffhill. Rents in upmarket suburbs like that start at 1,000 - 1,500 dollars now - as surely the banker must know. Harare rents are on a par with Maputo these days. Higher even.
"She wants to go back to Mutare. She says she'll start up her beauty business." Ah yes -- I remember L's beauty business. She gave me a facial once, on a doctor's bed on a breezy verandah. But L won't come home on her own.
A modern woman -- once she won a beauty pageant -- she wants her in-laws to suffer the humiliation of having to escort her home, the unwanted bride, the one they couldn't get their son to treat right.
"Photos?" I went to L's hen party four years ago. She sat under a tablecloth -- well, it looked like a tablecloth -- with her feet poking out. Her sister-in-law, in a broderie-anglaise dress, looked on. Later, L's mother took us on a tour of her wedding presents, displaying with a flourish the a microwave, an oven, more kitchen appliances, a dinner service, linen, irons, toasters. I thought of the wedding presents I got -- a duvet cover, a vase, two cushions, some hand-woven table mats, nothing with a plug on -- and marvelled.
S looks away. "Photos of parts of his girlfriend's body. And Mummy --" S still says Mummy, even though she is in her 30s and Mummy is nearly 60 -- "Mummy is so mad, she won't talk to us, she doesn't want to see us."
"Last week I 'phoned L. I said: 'Do you want me to come?" She said: 'What for?' Can you imagine, my sister saying that?"
We sip our mango juice, look out on the swimming pool. The air is heavy and hot. Three-year-old Tapiwa looks at the baby nursing, pulls at her mother's shirt. S pushes her away. "No, you're a big girl now Tapie."
"The thing is, we told her. Mai L said, so did I. We knew he had another wife when she married him. We said: 'L, isn't he too old for you?' But she said: 'No, we love each other. He's on separation from his wife.'"
Turns out He, L's husband the banker from Bluffhill, has three wives. Five children, two with L. "He told her to move out today. Said she must find a house for 200 dollars rent for her and the kids." 200 dollars rent will get her a room in the townships, not in Bluffhill. Rents in upmarket suburbs like that start at 1,000 - 1,500 dollars now - as surely the banker must know. Harare rents are on a par with Maputo these days. Higher even.
"She wants to go back to Mutare. She says she'll start up her beauty business." Ah yes -- I remember L's beauty business. She gave me a facial once, on a doctor's bed on a breezy verandah. But L won't come home on her own.
A modern woman -- once she won a beauty pageant -- she wants her in-laws to suffer the humiliation of having to escort her home, the unwanted bride, the one they couldn't get their son to treat right.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
moral fibre
"Are you still there?" she hisses as we near the gate.
She's called in, her braids freshly done, to drop off some cupcakes in honour of the addition to our family. Four beaded chocolate creations, trussed up in blue serviettes. I'm touched -- and struck again by the permeability of culture, of how cupcakes are no Shona tradition. And yet they are. Now.
"It's a lack of moral fibre we've got." There's a second before I realise what she's talking about.
"The MDC." She shakes her head. "That Morgan and his women. There'll be more too, crawling out of the woodwork."
She's referring to the Morgan marriage scandal that broke while I was out of the country. State media announced he'd got married, paid 40,000 US lobola (bride price), that his new wife -- a wealthy businesswoman of 39, with close ties to ZANU-PF- had gone to his rural home to perform the cultural rites a new wife must. More salacious online sources claimed she was pregnant with his twins. After his spokesman denied any marriage had taken place, Tsvangirai then admitted it had -- but now he was to divorce the woman.
"He's not wise," she says. "What is he -- nearly 60? But he still thinks he's a young man. They're all the same, these people. If you give a man a mattress, he will change."
"I was with these people from the start, through the trade unions," she says. "And I look at them and think I may have wasted all that time. What do I do? I've got to --"
"You got to see it through," I finish for her. It's a bad habit I have, of finishing other people's sentences if they seem to have come to a grinding halt. I think it's because I want to encourage them to go on.
"No," she says. "But there is one thing: he may not be wise but he is brave. I'll give him that."
She tosses her braids, gets back into her car. "They're (the cupcakes) are from Sheena's, if they're no good!"
She's called in, her braids freshly done, to drop off some cupcakes in honour of the addition to our family. Four beaded chocolate creations, trussed up in blue serviettes. I'm touched -- and struck again by the permeability of culture, of how cupcakes are no Shona tradition. And yet they are. Now.
"It's a lack of moral fibre we've got." There's a second before I realise what she's talking about.
"The MDC." She shakes her head. "That Morgan and his women. There'll be more too, crawling out of the woodwork."
She's referring to the Morgan marriage scandal that broke while I was out of the country. State media announced he'd got married, paid 40,000 US lobola (bride price), that his new wife -- a wealthy businesswoman of 39, with close ties to ZANU-PF- had gone to his rural home to perform the cultural rites a new wife must. More salacious online sources claimed she was pregnant with his twins. After his spokesman denied any marriage had taken place, Tsvangirai then admitted it had -- but now he was to divorce the woman.
"He's not wise," she says. "What is he -- nearly 60? But he still thinks he's a young man. They're all the same, these people. If you give a man a mattress, he will change."
"I was with these people from the start, through the trade unions," she says. "And I look at them and think I may have wasted all that time. What do I do? I've got to --"
"You got to see it through," I finish for her. It's a bad habit I have, of finishing other people's sentences if they seem to have come to a grinding halt. I think it's because I want to encourage them to go on.
"No," she says. "But there is one thing: he may not be wise but he is brave. I'll give him that."
She tosses her braids, gets back into her car. "They're (the cupcakes) are from Sheena's, if they're no good!"
Thursday, September 22, 2011
things I still can't understand
It is a smallish bird, bigger than a canary, smaller than a thrush. A bulbul, I think. And somehow it's on the floor of the doctor's surgery, on its back, and people are laughing.
I'm trying to work this out. I think that the bird "belongs" to the maid of the woman who's wearing stilettos and a cordoroy suit and studying a file on "International Best Practice in Labour Relations" (I read it over her shoulder). The maid took the bird out of her handbag, and gave it to the toddler ("Chichi", the pair keep calling her). The toddler is fed up -- I am too, I've been waiting for two hours -- and the bird is hurt in some way. To begin with, I think it may be some kind of a pet. But as I reassess the sitation, horrified, not knowing what to do, I think that what's more likely is that the maid has found/trapped the bird and plans to eat it tonight.
The child squeezes the bird. The receptionist comes out from behind her desk to see what the squawking is, joins in the laughter.
Chichi runs outside with the bird and when she comes back, it's nowhere to be seen. Then the maid zips up her handbag. There are tiny little downy feathers on the waiting room floor.
I give the wailing child a plastic pink pocket mirror I got as change in a zhing-zhong shop (Better she plays with that, why on earth didn't I give it her before?) and stare out of the window. There are things here I still can't understand.
I'm trying to work this out. I think that the bird "belongs" to the maid of the woman who's wearing stilettos and a cordoroy suit and studying a file on "International Best Practice in Labour Relations" (I read it over her shoulder). The maid took the bird out of her handbag, and gave it to the toddler ("Chichi", the pair keep calling her). The toddler is fed up -- I am too, I've been waiting for two hours -- and the bird is hurt in some way. To begin with, I think it may be some kind of a pet. But as I reassess the sitation, horrified, not knowing what to do, I think that what's more likely is that the maid has found/trapped the bird and plans to eat it tonight.
The child squeezes the bird. The receptionist comes out from behind her desk to see what the squawking is, joins in the laughter.
Chichi runs outside with the bird and when she comes back, it's nowhere to be seen. Then the maid zips up her handbag. There are tiny little downy feathers on the waiting room floor.
I give the wailing child a plastic pink pocket mirror I got as change in a zhing-zhong shop (Better she plays with that, why on earth didn't I give it her before?) and stare out of the window. There are things here I still can't understand.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
peculiar state
"That's another one in there," the pharmacy assistant says, pointing to my bump. I nod. She laughs, delighted. Her colleague looks at me over the nail polish, bends her head to one side quizzically: "Am I seeing right?" she says.
In OK stores, I hear someone calling my name. It's Mai Silitshena with B. "You are growing BIG," she says with relish. Her son, a teenager now, smiles embarrassed.
Actually, I'm not that big, not for seven months and a bit. But here in Zimbabwe, the expectant mamas contest appears to be among who can get the biggest, plumpest and roundest, fastest. Not, as in the West, who can claim the enviable: "Your bump's looking so neat." Not having seen me pregnant before, Tadiwa told me -- what, six weeks ago?: "You're as big as a house, Mai S", before telling me of her pregnancy diet (2 doughnuts per day, eaten on the trot). I had to swallow a plaintive: "Surely not. Aren't I quite little?"
Mai Silitshena fumbles in her handbag, pulls out a 5 US dollar note. "Here," she says triumphantly. "Buy something for the baby."
"No," I start to say, and then I hug her.
"It comes from the bottom of my heart," she adds.
I've been thinking about a phrase I found in an expat's account of her pregnancy in France: "that peculiar state of grace that pregnancy brings." That's what I've known here, half a world away for the tarte tatin of Normandy. While the anti-white rhetoric mounts due to the indigenisation drive and neighbours whisper of yet another armed attack and how so-and-so was abused at a traffic block (because he was white) and how somebody has hastened to Harare to finally get himself a gun, I think of the people I see each day and the friendship on their faces as they look at me. Of Sekai, whose name means laughter -- and no, she "doesn't have children yet" -- who rushes to push my trolley for me in the supermarket and urges me to consider Tawananyasha (We have found Grace) as a first name. Of the newspaper vendor whose name I do not know, who calls out from above the muffled bundle of her own baby (on the streets all day): "But are you pregnant?" and smiles indulgently.
I feel...privileged.
In OK stores, I hear someone calling my name. It's Mai Silitshena with B. "You are growing BIG," she says with relish. Her son, a teenager now, smiles embarrassed.
Actually, I'm not that big, not for seven months and a bit. But here in Zimbabwe, the expectant mamas contest appears to be among who can get the biggest, plumpest and roundest, fastest. Not, as in the West, who can claim the enviable: "Your bump's looking so neat." Not having seen me pregnant before, Tadiwa told me -- what, six weeks ago?: "You're as big as a house, Mai S", before telling me of her pregnancy diet (2 doughnuts per day, eaten on the trot). I had to swallow a plaintive: "Surely not. Aren't I quite little?"
Mai Silitshena fumbles in her handbag, pulls out a 5 US dollar note. "Here," she says triumphantly. "Buy something for the baby."
"No," I start to say, and then I hug her.
"It comes from the bottom of my heart," she adds.
I've been thinking about a phrase I found in an expat's account of her pregnancy in France: "that peculiar state of grace that pregnancy brings." That's what I've known here, half a world away for the tarte tatin of Normandy. While the anti-white rhetoric mounts due to the indigenisation drive and neighbours whisper of yet another armed attack and how so-and-so was abused at a traffic block (because he was white) and how somebody has hastened to Harare to finally get himself a gun, I think of the people I see each day and the friendship on their faces as they look at me. Of Sekai, whose name means laughter -- and no, she "doesn't have children yet" -- who rushes to push my trolley for me in the supermarket and urges me to consider Tawananyasha (We have found Grace) as a first name. Of the newspaper vendor whose name I do not know, who calls out from above the muffled bundle of her own baby (on the streets all day): "But are you pregnant?" and smiles indulgently.
I feel...privileged.
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