"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!