The abducted Nigerian girls - they are everywhere around us........

 About 16 years ago, when I still lived in Harare, one of my favourite hangouts was The Book Cafe, Harare - in Fife Avenue. I loved the vibe in the café - I watched talented artists, the likes of the late Chiwoniso Maraire perform live; I listened to “would be”  authors launch their first works  - I sipped on many a cup of coffee and made friends. I held very academic discussions with the like- minded artists of Harare. Whilst I enjoyed the artistic work on display at Book Café, I particularly liked going to the Book Café because most of  these events were night events – It gave me a sense of freedom, finally a grown woman, I could choose when I left my lodgings and more importantly when I could return. So on many of these Book Café nights I returned home well past my parents’ curfew time! Never mind the fact that my parents lived in a different city and to make it worse  it was a costly exercise – I had no car;  And many a night had to hire a taxi home – Save for a few nights when I would have a Mr Potential drop me off at Mai Munyoro’s house – where I rented two rooms.

One night the Book Café hosted a discussion around Women’s rights. It was a very engaging and enlightening discussion with other  liberated women – yet I felt very hollow inside as I negotiated my way back to my two rooms after the discussion. Something about the discussion bothered me – and finally it hit me like a big AHA moment!  I did not like sitting around and discussing women’s rights with already “liberated women”. The very fact that we could be in the Book Café at 21h00 seeping on brandy and coke must surely mean we had our rights intact. The women that needed to hear our conversations were not in the bar at this time of the night. They were stuck somewhere in Chendambuya, nursing their 7^th pregnancy in 10 years. They were stuck somewhere in Filabusi, undergoing a beating from a drunken husband. They were somewhere in Second Street, half naked – selling their soul to the highest bidder. The woman that needed to participate in this conversation was somewhere in Mabvuku – utterly hopeless, no O’ Level, trapped in poverty  - And I made a vow – I would not be participating in Book Café discussions again. I would dedicate, my evenings my life, to rescuing one girl at a time.

Each one, Teach one! Good night Africa - Let us find the abducted Nigerian girls  - one girl at a time. They are everywhere around us.

The big "white" wedding...............

It was an uncertain year - life as I knew it was rolling to an end. There was a general global down-turn in the market place; and my country's economy in particular, was in turmoil owing to suspect fiscal policies. My own life seemed to be mirroring this general sorry state of affairs - with college days coming to an end; And having inherited no connections or developed credible networks, I was worried about my future beyond Mount Pleasant. Going back to the dusty streets of a high density neighbourhood was not an option. To further complicate my small life, I was also beginning to second guess my commitment to a tall, handsome

young man - whom I had exclusively dated during my college days.

So that winter our relationship buckled under my insecurities; And I walked away from the four year deal, which had naively been negotiated to culminate into a big "white" wedding, accompanied by a bigger honeymoon to consummate the rest of our lives. Time to reflect and needing space were cited as reasons. There were tears, accusations of betrayal and at times harsh words were exchanged; But the decision had been made – I swam to the “single and available” shore once again.

I was solidly single - roaming free, leading a care-free life and should have been happy – but the silence was deafening. So I sent a request to the universe – for a tall, dark, handsome stranger, who would give me a big white wedding and take me to Fiji for a honeymoon – and a host of other qualities. It was  a long list. The preacher man had said to be specific in our requests.

The rest of that year was however busy, there were projects to conclude, examinations to pass, jobs to find and relocations to consider – so that filled the silence and the year went by.  I received some applications, entertained a few – but none matched the long profile.

Then he quietly worked his way into my life. He was handsome but short – and so could not have been the answer to my request. I relaxed in his presence, coining the phrase “friend” to describe our casual chats. I even confided in him about potentials who were chasing me; or I was chasing.

One evening, after a particularly bruising encounter with a“Mr Potential”, I broke down and cried, prompting him to say “You don’t know how much you are worth”. I could hardly sleep that night – as I pondered over that statement. What worth was he talking about – of course I knew my value – or did I? If I knew my value would I mourn over men who wouldn’t show up for appointments? Would I cry over men who resented my independence; Would I cry over men whose fidelity was questionable – would I, would I?  And I had an “Aha moment” that night………….. God was still in the business of answering prayers, and He definitely did not think tall was what I needed.

There was no big “white” wedding, no Fiji –  just a low key family affair where money, cattle and some gifts  exchanged  hands; And on some forgettable date we alerted the state, who obliged by giving us a certificate.

It has been eleven years – a short eleven years – we have moved houses a remarkable seven times, moving countries in the process. We have cooperated in the creation of a beautiful human being – we have lost a father, we have graduated, we have laughed, we have grown  – Norway replaced Fiji, BUT he still owes me a big “white” wedding!

French, Friends and Other Lessons

I awake to the sound of the city’s traffic. Its early hours of December 5th 2008, and scores of cars are zooming past Citoyënne Mobutu Avenue – I observe an assortment of vehicles large shiny American model SUVs, battered Japanese mini-buses, ram-shackles – I even spot a Hummer or two. Thirty minutes go by, but I continue standing at the bedroom window of a friend’s apartment – watching the world below me. Events of the last 48 hours have left me jobless and exhausted – so I am grateful to be rushing nowhere.
I see people purposefully walking up the street. I notice mothers hugging small girls as they drop them off at the school across the street. I watch this exchange for a while, and suddenly nostalgia and longing for my own girls descend upon me. Those hugs summarize a mothers’ dreams and desires for their daughter – and if I were to have a conversation with mine right now – I would offload lessons from the past 11 months, and so here goes:

World Citizenship
Learn another language. Learn to speak Portuguese, French, Spanish, Mandarin or whatever else you choose! It will never be a wasted effort. Language will enable you to navigate the world, visit exotic places and take up your place as a citizen of the world. (I wish I could go back to 1989 – I would take Ms Evans’s French lessons seriously – seriously I would); And besides a Spanish son-in-law sounds exotic!

The Common Touch
Always remember that anyone and everyone you encounter - the potter, the security guard in the parking lot, the waiter, the cleaner, the king of the castle – everyone is looking for validation ( I borrowed that from my friend Oprah Winfrey); - they want to know that they matter. Find a way to forge relationships with common folk and kings alike. Be interested in who they are as a human being – ask after their children, their fields, their dogs, their yacht – know their name. Better still if you speak their language - you will touch their heart and be unforgettable.
This does not mean everyone will warm up to you – that’s to be expected, it is the way of the world. Some will question your motives, whilst others will mistrust your colour – yet do not let such rejection blind you to what beauty there is in relating intimately to people. Let it be said of you “She can walk with Kings without losing the common touch!”

The odds are in your favour
If you never take any of my ramblings seriously, this is one point I could pay you to be attentive – it’s that important. Get an education! Girl, I cannot emphasize that enough – get an education. Get a college degree – in whatever, but get an education! (But just so you know – I prayed for an Atomic Physicist!) An education will afford you independence, you will pay your own way, you will travel. You will sit in bars with educated blocks – and in the process, better your prospects of marrying well – get an education! You have inherited decent genes – your fathers’ brains, your mothers’ tenacity – the odds are in your favour.

Boundaries
You are, no doubt, a pretty being – a combination of your looks, your wit, your humour – your sharp brain, will no doubt attract a lot of admirers, friends, suitors – it’s a fact of your life. But you my girl you want to preserve your sanity, your soul, your beauty – set boundaries.
You want to have a fun life ( after all this is it – no rehearsals) – so dance, party – if you will – but remember to pay your own way, and keep your clothes on – class ain’t cheap!
So my dear, honour your life with boundaries that show you are your father’s daughter (he is a good man!); boundaries that incorporate my ramblings, boundaries that honour the religion of your grandfather.

Resident Bastards
Guaranteed, every station in life has its resident bastards. They are the liars, the bigots, the racists, the chauvinistic pigs – that you are sure to encounter. They come in the person of your school teacher, that refuses to see your potential, the college boy that wants to outstrip you of your dignity by claiming “If you love me you will……..”. You will encounter the bastard in your boss who has issues with the combination of your colour, gender and brains. Your job dear girl, is to identify and demystify these lowly un-evolved beings at each station of your life; And find a way to outwit them. Remember your father’s teaching – You are a smart, talented, gifted and beautiful child of God and no bastard can change that.


Friends
Lastly my dear girl, when life hits you below the loins (as it sure will); the world market plays up and your contract comes to a premature end – you want to have an Ida who will give you keys to her apartment, so you do not end up in the streets of a foreign land. You get it – you want to make real friends wherever you go!

A bientôt!

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!