Someka

I knew him in the sunset of his life. He was a man of small stature, short, and with a beautiful youthful face of refined looks. He was soft spoken, humorous, and always relevant. I particularly liked the way he practised his religion –liberal and yet with deep commitment and devotion.

Born in 1938 to peasant parents, his fate was to be poor and uneducated, but as became common in his life, he defied the odds and set his life on a different course. He received an education at a church mission school, whilst working for the first black Dutch Reformed reverend, graduating with a then Standard 6 certificate. He worked in various jobs as a cleric, until eventually becoming a primary school teacher, and was to spend thirty-nine years in the profession he loved dearly. He married at the age of nineteen, growing old with his girl and remaining so evidently in love till the end.

So a year ago we shed many a tear for him and sang a song for his send off. His work colleagues talked about how he never missed a day of work, such was his devotion to a cause. His neighbours spoke of how he helped them plough their fields, how he gave food in times of drought, how he was always ready to assist, such was devotion to humanity. His church brethren said he literally built the church, so alive was his religion that he chose to preach with actions rather than words. His friends talked about how he inspired them to educate their children, he so believed in the power of an education, evident in his own struggle to obtain an education, getting a Cambridge Ordinary Level certificate at the tender age of 53. He inspired all his children, succeeding in producing a teacher, two engineers, a psychologist, and a medical practitioner.

But today we will not cry, we will celebrate his life. We sing and dance as we proudly remember the man that left us a good name, a name so recognizable and associated with honour in our home town. A name we will proudly carry into Africa and beyond, in the cooperate arena, in the business area. A name we will insist that our children carry well in their play, at school, at university, in their lives - a legacy we will endeavour to keep alive.

Today we unveil the way we summarised Someka’s life – no easy task, but we settled for:

Someka 1938 - 2007
A truly great and humble husband, father & grandfather
Who achieved his goals:
Your noble deeds will be remember for time immemorial
You left a legacy of love,
An inheritance of a good name
Your legacy will live on Wamambo
We celebrate a life well lived!


We loved him too, he was our father.

"A new beginning" or "The beginning of the end"?

As the sun begins to announce yet the end of another day, the women gather themselves.

“Mai Preshi we are leaving, hurry or you will have to run after us”, Mai Taku shouts to announce the departure of the convoy. The path from the compound to the river is at once alive with activity, shabbily dressed, bare-footed women walking in a single file, each labouring under the load of a baby strapped to her back, and balancing a bucket of dirty clothes, utensils, rags and whatever else might benefit from fresh waters. The older children run alongside their mothers, and so begin the twenty minute pilgrimage to Matonhodze River.

“Mai Vicky, I hear Baba Vicky arrived last night. Is he well?” Mai Rudo asks

“Ah! he is well. We didn’t sleep last night.”

This solicits a fit of laughter from the other ladies.

“Be careful now”, Mai Chenge quips in. “You will be pregnant again soon”. More laughter.

“Not possible”, Mai Vicky retorts “I am now on the pill.” More laughter.

“Yes, Baba Vicky has important news from the city. He says both Mugabe and Tsvangirai now rule the country. Tsvangirai is the Vice President,” Mai Vicky continues.

“Ah! That’s not possible, did the old man really agree to that? Does that mean it is no-longer dangerous to openly support MDC?” Mai Preshi asks.

“Yes, Baba Vicky says so. He says things will change, sugar, cooking oil, flour will be available again. There is going to be change.” Mai Vicky explains.

The exchange goes on for the rest of the trip to the river.

The river is welcoming; they undress and immerse themselves in its belly. Its fresh flowing waters offer relief to their sun-baked backs. The atmosphere is alive with roaring, loud and piercing laughter, as they make observations on whose behind is well fed and whose would benefit from the food supplements from World Food Programme. In this laughter they get the utensils and clothes washed; and children bathed. They pass on information on who is selling scarce basic commodities, and engage in the village gossip.

“Have you seen Ndana, mbuya Murimi’s eldest daughter?” Mai Josiah offers. “Oh! She can’t walk, she refuses to eat. The disease is advanced now. The hospital has sent her home. I don’t think she will make it to next month, even next week.”

“I hear her husband does not even come to see her anymore. He is already living with a young girl in Gweru.” Mai Kuda adds

“Ah, these men of ours, they are so shameless, they will bring another woman to your bed before they even bury you.” More laughter.

So it is, in my village, when the sun sets on old patriarchs, the women allow Matonhodze to carry the day’s dirt. They laugh at their men, at poverty, even at death – and they reminisce on the gone days, when they could afford tennis shoes. Today though, they allow themselves to hope, basing it on the important news from the city; and only time will tell, if this is indeed a new beginning or just the beginning of the end.

The moody bitch!

The beautiful people await on the flip side. We will hug, holding on for a lingering moment – as if to say ‘never leave again’. We will drive home in happy, gleeful and noisy chatter – she telling of Miss Desirè, friend Gabbie and the concert night, him admiring my diminishing frame, and me telling of the pea-brained bigots. We will laugh with abandoned care. We will dance to Savage Gardens and Tina Turner. We will whisper late into the night, we will make love, fly kites. We will feel vulnerable, safe, loved – we …………………….

“Welcome aboard ladies & gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice jolts me to my current reality. “It will be a long tiresome journey today, he continues, “We will do four airports in three countries, bear with us. Airport Two is as usual, for immigration controls and re-fueling, however there is no fuel at Airport Two, hence we will re-fuel at Airport Three. We expect the whole journey to take five hours. We apologise for the extended travel times, but do enjoy the flight.”

Airport Two is usually unnerving- identification travel documents are handed over to a unofficial looking character, clad in casual jeans and t-shirt, no uniform, no badge to identify him – what if he disappears with the crucial documents? Today I feel no separation anxiety though, this is the eighth time I have been through this ordeal, and history has shown me that my document will resurface and will have a neat stamp showing I am legal. The “unofficial” official is efficient today, and within half an hour we are back in the 30-seater machine, the green book safe in my bag.

There are no skyscrapers to announce Airport Three, the city below looks like a war zone, fragmentary buildings, haphazard structures, no planning, a sprawling shanty town– what do they do with all the copper revenue? The refuelling is without incidence, and within another half hour we are buckling up for take-off. We are on the long stretch home. I bury myself in Tim Butcher’s “Blood River –A Journey to Africa`s Broken Heart.”

I absorb Butcher’s haughtiness and ego as he plods through the Congo. The book portrays a stiff and detached English man, who makes no meaningful human contact and records the journey in a patronising and even dismissive tone. The only credit being the regurgitation of the ‘Scramble for Africa’ history!

A disappointing, if not annoying read, but it sets me thinking; The story of the Congo typifies Africa, pregnant with resources, with potential – yet always miscarrying, delivering malady, demise, penury, corruption and dictators - it’s evident from up here! I look down at orphaned Zambia, (the wrong patriarch answered the call home!), she hosts one of the richest copper deposits in the world, and yet there is little evidence in her skyline to suggest she is endowed with such wealth. I look down on dying Zimbabwe, she tells the story of patriarchs gone mad. The irrigated lands that defined the homeland and provided photogenic sceneries from the air, have disappeared, telling a desperate tale of displaced, dispossessed farmers, scattered professionals, a tale of a hungry and angry nation, a lost generation.

The pilot rescues me from these suicidal thoughts, that have in the past, threatened to have me complete the American Green Card Lottery form. He announces our descent into Airport Four. I look down to see skyscrapers, beaming lights, a brilliant, vibrant world class, African city - the city that plays host to the beautiful people; And I wonder, for a fleeting second –
"How much longer will he hold out, before he succumbs to Africa’s darkness, Africa’s curse?"
“Africa is a bitch,” I say “a moody bitch!”

Brilliant Nonsense & Voyeurism!

How I wish I could piously claim I fill my days with more worthy activities than following the life of a bunch of wannabes in the luxurious prison that is the Big Brother Africa 3 house. But alas, being a mere mortal, I know the cast by name and more.

I know that Ricco has lived in four countries on two continents; I know Morris is a photographer, a film maker in the making, and maybe Munya might want to remain on friendly terms with this director in-waiting, seeing that Munya has a passionate, consuming dream of gracing the big screen. Not a far fetched dream, if the fervour in his voice is anything to go by – of course he is a fine specimen too. Sheila was a TV journalist – what a fitting profession for a chatter box! I know Thami is a scholar of Chinese Mandarin – not a bad choice considering China’s growth and we may all have to track that way for jobs. Of course Thami would know- he is an Economics scholar too. I know Tawana is the opinionated, outspoken, goat farmer – a scientist, phew! young women are finally getting it! Of course the bold head is already a statement! Dare me ....................

Phew! So much for someone who in some circles claims they don’t watch TV, let alone reality nonsense!

Entertainment or psychology experiment? Unethical? Sadistic? Callous? Immoral? Whatever! That debate has raged on for a long time, and I opted out of the Psychology major – so am ill qualified to add to it!

However what I know for sure (Thanks Oprah for the catchy phrase!), yes, what I know for sure is:

Some Endemol shareholder is and has been laughing all the way to their banker for many a season;And
I have spent many a sleepless night, and wasted air time discussing the strategies, the gossip, with learned colleagues, who ironically do not own TVs and prefer to spend their evenings adding to their intellect, reading economic magazines, BUT they know who Big Brother sent to the sin – bin! Truth is stranger than fiction – isn’t it!

But one detail, from me though - I swear, I don’t do shower hour, and know nothing of sleeping arrangements - that would make me a voyeur - wouldn’t it?! Brilliant Nonsense!

Of Infidels & Weeping

Books were an intimate part of my formative years. My father, an immensely intelligent but uneducated visionary placed a high value in education and reading in general. He made sure we were surrounded by books- an amazing thing considering where I grew up.

Enid Blyton's Famous Five and Secret Seven series transported me from our four-roomed township dwelling to a world of adventures, castles, moors – a beautiful experience that cemented my love for the written word. I devoured great literary works by Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Charlotte Bronte, Thomas Hardy. I discovered Alice Walker, Maya Angelou (my absolute favourite!), Tsitsi Dangarembwa, Charles Mungoshi, Wole Soyinka – and hundreds more. In later years I stumbled on pop psychology, and have paid my dues to the Dr Phils and Eckhart Tolles of this world. Honestly, if someone could pay me for every page I have ever read – I could decently retire on the French Riviera.

But, (yes I know, Ms Meyer said not to start a sentence with "but"), but, once in a while you come across a book that completely captivates the essence of your being; A book that persuades you to slow down, to stop, to think, re-examine - A book that challenges your status quo – and Ayaan Hirsi Ali `s “Infidel - My Life” has been such a book for me.

"Infidel -My Life" is by no means the greatest of literary works (Of course I should know – I have had an illustrious reading career!), but the story is riveting, captivating, heart breaking. It tells of a girl’s journey from a third-world, poverty stricken up-bringing, a world of abuse, of arranged marriages to a world of asylum seeking, college and degrees, a world of Dutch politics, of film making, of writing - It is a remarkable tale of struggle, survival and making it against the odds, by an ordinary (or is it extraordinary!), intelligent, courageous, beautiful woman!

When I could eventually put it down, after relentlessly working through the 368 pages in nineteen hours – I cried – no, more aptly, I wept. I wept for myself, for my daughters, for my sisters – I wept for all of us beautiful people, who read many a great book, remain unmoved, unchanged, lead mediocre lives, hide behind our upbringing, behind inactivity, procrastination – more excuses – never conquering our small worlds. I wept.

The Market Place

My colleagues have warned me against making this trip.

"These people are hostile towards foreigners, you must be careful," they counsel.

"But they are white," I reason, "what do they know about being black in a foreign African country?"

I exchange a few greetings along the way. "Bonjour madam," someone calls out every few metres.
"Jambo Sana," I respond. Ah! Africa, warms my heart, always friendly.

Then I get to the market place, loud rhumba music welcomes me. The market is crowded and noisy, I can hardly hear myself think – but then I suppose I didn’t come to the market to think. “I must just flow with the rhythm of the place, and be fully present, focus, focus," – I remind myself.

I walk from stall to stall, admiring the kikwembes – African print cloth, buying a few, conversing in a concocted mixture of Swahili and French. I meet Francina, she speaks English, and has a bubbly, likeable personality. She is selling pots, kikwembes, shoes, - everything. She is married, has children, she tells me.
"I am married too," I volunteer. "I was tired of the corporate life, the meetings, being stuck in traffic, and I needed to liberate my soul, that`s why I am here," I want to tell her.
Instead I settle for, "I am here for a short while, will be going home soon."
She looks young, beautiful- in her 20s, I conclude. She tells me her husband has travelled to buy stock for the "shop" "he always does, at least once a month," she says. I buy a kikwembe from her, more out of obligation than need. She appreciates my purchase "Do come back my friend," she shouts as I move to the next stall.
"I will be back," I promise.

I stop at a few more stalls, exchange friendly chatter, buy a beautiful purple dress, laugh some more, even promise my hand in marriage to an enchanted young man. I look at my watch- the market has completely absorbed me, It has been two hours since I arrived.

I walk slowly back to the camp, admiring the sunset in the distant horizon. "I love this place," I say to myself. "I love the people, the languages, the lush green vegetation- and I enjoyed the market place." But I feel sad, depressed, "Why should I be?" I admonish myself.
"Its been a good day, a wonderful day. I laughed, flirted and even made friends – I should be in a jovial mood."


The foul mood persists right past dinner. Surely it can’t be the poverty I witnessed. I have seen similar gut wrenching poverty so typical of Africa, before. I distract myself by flipping through television channels, drink some more coffee – no, it does not help, I am unsettled. The picture of young, scantily clad children running down the street is deeply engraved in my mind. Who are they? What are their hopes, their aspirations? Will they have dinner tonight?

I think of Francina, in hers 20s, in her stall, walking the dirt road back to her home, tending to her three toddlers, making dinner, rushing to her stall in the crispy morning breeze – waiting for her husband. No facebook, no manicures –
"Ah! the randomness of it all," – I resign myself, and swiftly fall asleep. "I could have been born here!"

Red shoes and hindsight

The 90`s would have been a decade of gaieties, celebrating thin waists, smaller behinds, beautiful, youthful faces that could be worn in public with no air-brushing. I would have known that the boobs would sag, weight gain would mark the passage of time, that stretch marks would herald motherhood and concealers would become a permanent feature of one’s wardrobe. If I knew then, my teens would have been one long dance, completely secure in my own skin.

I would have known that life is not necessarily a competition, showing up, taking part, doing my best would carry the day. I would have known that college is a time of exploration, discovery, of experimentation. I would have sat in the student bar, sipped a beer, a coffee, had fantastic, stimulating scholarly conversations with those intelligent, charming minds; And still not flunked out.

I would not have waited up for Mr Dodgy’s phone calls that never arrived. I would have known that I would not live to be an old maid so didn’t need the twenty seven cats. I would have known that I would convince one to walk down the aisle and so would not have worried about the ones that got away.

I would have known that after a night of mourning, morning does arrive and tears do dry.

I would not have been insecure about my shoes or lack thereof, I would have known that fortunes do change, and one day I would own a pair of red shoes, red shoes, yes, red shoes – unbelievable!

Of green books and blog names

“I’m starting a blog, baby”, I say to her.
“What will you write about?” she asks.
“Anything, everything, nothing – I will write from the heart”.
“What will you call the blog?”

“Musings of a Stateless International Traveller.”

“But you are not stateless”, she protests. “You still have your “green book” from the homeland, you have held on to your metal ID, your birth certificate, your marriage certificate. You have documents to prove you are not stateless. I mean you still celebrate when the nation wins four Olympic medals from one athlete. You were on your feet, rooting for one Brian Dzingai in the 200m men final, even if you knew his chances were limited against that lightning bolt, that is Usain Bolt. Really you are not stateless.”

“What is the meaning of stateless?” I shoot back. “Are you saying I am not a dislocated civilian, a displaced person? Haven’t I been denationalized, dispossessed – how else do you explain my bringing up offspring in a land with no aunties, grannies or cousins. How?”

“Ok! Even if we could agree on your statelessness, I am not sure you do qualify as an International Traveller either. I mean how many countries have you done? If you have done 10% of the world, I will give it to you.”

Ok! How many countries are there in the world? 192,193, 194 or 195 (Damn! Why the confusion, I thought the boundaries were well established. Anyway, it seems the status of Taiwan, Palestine, Greenland, Western Sahara (where is that???), and the Vatican, as countries is open to interpretation. I settle for 195, turns out I have only done 4.6% of the world.

“So, Ok, you clever bastard, I can’t prove I am stateless, and as per your definition am no traveller either. So I drop the name!! I will call it “Tales from this end - fending for the offspring in the Diaspora.”

“Really! You have an obsession with the diaspora. Are you gonna let that define every aspect of your life?”

“Doesn’t it already? But ok forget it. I will call it “Life and times of a mad Zimbabwean girl.”

“Yah! Right, sounds really original!”

Ok! Ok! I know, I know – “And Still We Dance” that’s what I will call it. Yes, we continue to dance, we choose to dance the tide, no sitting it out – shall we dance, Babs.”

“Ok, Just one more question.”

“Will you be anonymous?”

“Its too late isn’t it? I have already told you the name.”