Leonard Karikoga Zhakata: A philosopher with a guitar and a mic

Phenias Sadondo

When dad came back home, after a long and exhausting day at work, he mentioned – albeit in passing – the meetings that they had had at work. He did not want to divulge more because the outcome was depressing. This was clearly written on his face. Moreover, work was weighing him down. He had not been himself in the previous days. But there was something, more than just routine, which was affecting him. After all, his routine was cast in the stone. Wake up early, bath, carry his lunch pack – which mum would have prepared before dawn – and embark on the long march. Several miles and over an hour later, he would reach his destination. If it was Milimani Estate, then the walk would continue for a little longer. Always punctual, time-conscious and cognisant of his leadership roles and responsibilities at work, he would always be on time. Although distance would remain unchanged, his journey back home was not as strenuous – as the return journey effect would kick in.

He would make a few stopovers on the road, greeting the elders and patriarchs of the village, chatting with the neighbours about the weather, and even praying for the sick. His kinsmen knew his time of knocking off, so they would wait for him on the road, more like on the footpath. For someone who would spend a lot of time in the estates or at the factory or the Main office, these roadside conversations were really important for him to catch up with what would have transpired in his absence. He would be informed of pending cases at the headman’s court, padare rasabhuku. Sometimes he would be consulted on certain matters that needed a sober mind. Being teetotaller and always citing the Holy Scriptures, his advice and interventions were highly regarded.

These stopovers would sometimes make him get home after dark. He would get home to worried, anxious and sometimes even hungry faces. His mother, our now late grandmother, would have declared that there was not going to be supper until her son was back. Even if she had not made that pronouncement, there was no appetite for food. It was difficult to eat when were not sure where dad was after dark. That was how we did things. We moved together – leaving nobody behind. We broke bread and gave thanks together. Dinner was served when everyone was back or when we were sure that they were not coming back that day. The prepared food would be left untouched, unserved, in the pots by the fireplace. The moment he would walk into the house, we would all melt with joy. We would celebrate that dad was home and also that food would be finally served. But dad would sometimes decline food. “Don’t worry, I have had dinner already.” Some of our many relatives, who would have intercepted him and invited him for prayers, would also have prepared dinner for him. Yes, we had a lot of relatives.

Typical of our serene yet closely knit village, everyone was our relative. We shared totems with others whilst others were related to people we shared totems with. The village was full of uncles, aunties, nieces, nephews and all relations in the ‘big book of African relationships’. Everyone was connected to everyone, sometimes in more than one way. And these relations were always revised based on new information. They would go like you were my uncle before but now my daughter was married by a Save, so you are now my nephew. Such revisions were common. After the new information, all the kids would be summoned in the hut to be reintroduced to the ‘new’ relatives. Mum would place twigs on the open fire and blow on it before saying, “this one here is no longer your uncle, he is now your brother – his mother and I are sisters, we are both Dziva.” Sitting respectfully on the floor with legs folded, clapping hands, we would respond, “tafara kukuzivai babamudiki, ahh sorry mukoma”, more like ‘it’s nice to know you, again.’ This is someone we would have known for years but because of the new information, these reintroductions were befitting. Our ‘new’ relative would smile, “don’t worry vanin’ina, muchajaira henyu.” (Don’t worry my little brothers, you will soon be used to our new relationship). 

That’s how life rolled; blissful, chilled and unflustered. That’s also why when dad got back home in low spirits, I was worried.  Everyone was. When he casually mentioned the meetings, I did not know how to probe him to disclose more. I was just a kid. So I waited. Normally he would open up during dinner, if we were lucky. And we were lucky that day. The meeting was between GAPUZ – a workers’ union for those in agricultural sector – and the company bureaucrats regarding the minimum wage. The economy, although still standing, was crumbling. All indications were there. Twenty dollars was no longer the highest note we had, Dr Leonard Tsumba, then RBZ Governor, had introduced a $50 note. Hushed voices alleged that there was going to be another bout of currency changes in a few months. This bred anxiety and uncertainty in the already sneezing economy. Industry caught a cold as a result. Workers in the agricultural sector, which was the backbone of the economy, felt the pinch. ESAP, with its wave of retrenchments and pay cuts, did not make it any easier for them as it caused the economy to shrink. GAPUZ, an affiliate of ZCTU, mediated between the employer and the employees. Progress in these talks was slow, salary increments were not effected immediately yet prices were going up. Dad was worried and I understood him.  Everyone, even musicians, did.

The radio had many songs exposing the dire consequences of ESAP and the ensuing economic meltdown. Many musicians had their own ways of packing and disseminating the information but, it was Leonard Zhakata who brought a full package that resonated with many people. At just 26, a boy from Maungwe in Makoni District, had grown into a man. What he lacked in stature, he possessed in wisdom. After some hits at Maungwe Brothers, where he partnered with Thomas Makion, Leonard decided to go solo and introduced his arrival in earnest with Maruva Enyika which carried the hit song Mugove. Mugove, which became an instant hit and threatened to replace the national anthem, was an embodiment of people’s worries and fears. What we had no words to explain was perfectly explained in that song. What my father had failed to tell us, the song did. A heap of metaphors and riddles, Mugove was, ironically, easy for everyone to decipher. They just interpreted it according to their circumstances. There was no need for Zhakata to explain anything, the message was loud and clear in its encrypted form. He made it even more exciting by accompanying the song with flowing and melodious instruments, and a catchy chorus. A sing along chorus. What the lyrics missed, the guitars captured. It was a perfect song, perfect enough to capture all the emotions. At just 26, Zhakata graduated into a legend. The young and the old fell for his music. He became a messenger with a specific message. Playing on vinyl, on a battery powered gramophone with undistorted sound quality, Mugove would hit differently.

Whilst dancing and listening to the genuine grumbles, revellers hailed their newly found superstar’s philosophical prowess. Questions were asked on how exactly his compositions were done. There were no answers except that the man was immensely talented. But that answer was not good enough in the village which is why some would confidently claim that Zhakata dreamt all his songs. Some supernatural force was behind him. Maruva Enyika and Mugove in particular had the mojo for Zhakata as people started paying attention to his previous masterpieces like Shungu dzemoyo and Tungidza gwenya which he recorded with Maungwe Brothers.

As if Maruva Enyika was not good enough, Zhakata struck again the following year with Nhamo Dzenyika which carried gems like Upenyu Mutoro and the title track. In both songs, Zhakata spoke for the voiceless. He, like in Mugove, said what we all failed to say. He downloaded our wishes and aspirations from our minds and weaved them into melodies. The clarity and precision with which he did that were incredible. No wonder why some would break down whilst listening to his songs. At a place called Blue House Hotel at Zindi Township, in the picturesque Honde Valley – or more aptly Rambanai Hotel – I witnessed a man crying whilst listening to Upenyu Mutoro. “Tenzi weee, upenyu hunoramba zvandinoda asi mumaroto nemukuronga munobuda chivimbo chekuti ndichakunda. Mati shungu dzoperera mufungidziro here? Tenzi mukandikanganwa mungarwadzisa. Baba chichemo chondosiyawo kwamuri… Tenzii weee huyai mumire segwevedzi pakati pangu nekose kandinoda mogodyarazve nekudiridzira mhodzi yerudooo… Ini zvandikunda. Douyaiiii huyai mundivhikirirewo kune vaye vaye vakapikira daka risina chikonzero neni zvangu muranda, vanorweiko….” The song got too heavy for him. He shook his scud, took a sip from it, then he shook his head and danced a bit before leaning on the wall. His eyes swelled. He used the back of his bare palm to wipe off the waters of anguish before looking around to see if anyone was paying attention. Of course I was but I immediately sneaked away with a plastic bag loaded with some groceries. I was too young to be here but Zhakata’s voice on the big speakers had pulled me closer.

Just to confirm that he was not a one season wonder, Zhakata did not stop serenading us with his deep and thought-provoking yet danceable tunes. Nzombe Huru and Vagoni Vebasa came almost immediately. But perhaps it was in Ndingaita Sei? when he outdid himself. Laden with flowery, philosophical and metaphysical songs, the album is simply a jewel. It starts from the title which expresses the biggest philosophical questions; what are we supposed to be doing here and how should we conduct ourselves here? Ndinozivei Zvangu, summarises the intention of the album; to question and respond to questions. But both the questions and the answers are enigmatic, leaving an unrehearsed mind mystified and even more confused. 

As Zhakata’s star kept on growing and glowing, his enemies multiplied in an equal measure. Those who failed to decipher his lyrics misinterpreted everything. Figures and symbols – which were simply figures and symbols – were personified. His message was distorted and given an entirely different meaning. A media blackout ensued. Mubikira and Hodho albums were the first victims. Puzzled and disgruntled, Zhakata penned a few songs to question his torment. For instance Warrior, off the Hodho album, was an expression of his frustrations. He contemplated quitting and leaving it all. Unfortunately, these songs did not reach everyone because he was shutout on radio. It was common to hear people asking if Zhakata was still in the country and if he was still singing. However, his faithful fans lingered on. I remember my brother Victor waiting in a queue – together with other diehard followers in Mutare – to buy the Udza Vamwe/Spread the Message cassette. We thanked him profusely and rewarded his efforts by playing the cassette nonstop for days. The song ‘I Promise’ was the one we repeated often. He was telling us everything we wanted to know… “Gwayana riri kuitwa mutaranganya mbudzi yengozi…” His deep lyrics had earned him enemies in high places but he did not stop.

Over the years, he has remained lively and consistent. Armed with a guitar – precisely, a sub-rhythm guitar, a beautiful vibrato, a mighty pen and a microphone, the ZORA maestro has continued to churn philosophy packed songs. Now 54, Zhakata has survived the unforgiving and tempting showbiz industry. This longevity is attributed to his self-discipline, self-respect and humility. He is considered by many, both in and out of the industry, as a yardstick of how one should conduct themselves. With an impeccable record and no known scandals, Zhakata is indeed a benchmark of morality who deserves his flowers in his lifetime. //

 

Phenias Sadondo is a Natural Scientist and Lecturer who can be contacted by email at: phineassadondo@gmail.com

 

Paul Mpofu Tribute: Kubudirira itsitsi dzeMusiki hameno...

Paul Mpofu: The lanky bassist and prolific composer with a prophetic message

Phenias Sadondo

In primary school we had fun. No, change that. In primary school we had everything. We had fun, we had pain. It was a little bit of everything, and now that was fun. I would walk, more like hike, a few kilometres from home every day. School started at 0715hrs meaning, I had to be up and running early. My mum, would wake up much earlier to do the preparations and wake us up to nice hot bathing water whilst she would be busy sorting out breakfast. It looked easy because of how she flawlessly executed all the tasks. She's a master of multitasking. After breakfast and final head to tall inspection, she would send us off and off we would go to St James Nyamhingura Primary School – then a fine school with impressive records. Oftentimes, my hair would be found wanting during the full body inspections. She would call for the comb again and do the needful. She would give me a choice, “either you do the hair properly next time or we cut it off using a scissors.” A scissors? I dreaded a scissors. The pain that it inflicted was unbearable. Escaping without wounds and exposed flesh was a miracle worth celebrating.

The walk to school was not a walk in the park. Descending would start immediately followed by the ascents. We would go down the steep slope and climb up the hill, typical of the undulating Eastern Highlands terrain. Either you're going up or down. In winter, the valley is brutal. Our little limps would be tortured and immobilised. You would find little kids trapped and screaming in the Nyawamba valley area. Some would continue and others would go back home. One day someone close to me turned right in front of me and went back home, sobbing. Barefooted and putting on just a light shirt and shorts, the cold whips were too painful for him. We were second graders then. Young, innocent and vulnerable. Literally vulnerable to the unforgiving cold. I understood him but I couldn't join him. School was a combo of fun and pain – an essential combo to me. I needed both to grow, if not physically – because it didn't actually happen – then mentally to complement my grandmother’s lessons. Mental growth happened both at school and at home.

At home, my grandmother would narrate harrowing war stories and how they survived the bush as refugees. She would talk about her sweetheart Benjamin, who fought Hitler in the Second World War. We never saw him, not even his photos. They, together with her ID documents, were destroyed when she fled to Mozambique during the peak of the liberation war - and got shelter at Doroi Refugee Camp - but she would tell us that we resembled him in many ways. On me, she picked a few attributes. Quiet. Introverted. Temper. She said that's who he was too. Armed with those stories, I got motivation to go on and be like him. He was a respected man in the society. This means I had to go to school every day, even in the punishing winter.

After a successful trip to the market, mum would then pick up a few warm clothes and some high-cut tennis shoes that we called tender-foot for us. At some point she bought gloves. Silver glittering gloves to keep the cold at bay. They were meant for Victor, my eldest brother. But I ended up with them. I can't remember how exactly it happened but they became mine. May be we had a deal. We used to have many deals. Roasting fresh mealies on an open fire, an exciting activity to some, was agonising to me. So I would strike a deal with my siblings with grandma being the guarantor-cum-witness of the agreement. Maybe we had a similar swap deal with the gloves. I would wear them to school, protecting my palms from the painful cold lashes. It was funny putting on silver, glittering gloves, to blend with a brownish - claret uniform. Each day was different though.

One day, whilst in 3rd grade, we assembled at the assembly point to do our daily rituals. Sing a song. March in a single file following the drumbeats. Assemble. Sing the national anthem whilst someone, always a tall and muscular guy, would be hoisting the flag up. Wait for the address from the teacher on duty and the school head and any other teachers with important announcements.

On that particular day we had visitors, two men who were standing next to the teachers. They observed our routine with keen interest. I noticed something; they were both visually impaired. But they looked perfectly fine, confident and highly alert. The teacher on duty gave his address. School duties were pronounced. We had no caretaker, so duties to clean the yard and the ablution facilities were heaved on us. After the allocation of duties, we were reminded of the need to be disciplined. To be good. To be punctual. Noise in the classes was denounced. To be good ambassadors of the school and the church, Anglican Church. Whips and sticks were always on standby to deal with the miscreants. A guy, always found on the wrong side of the law, was called in front. We were told that this time he was caught stealing some cucumbers somewhere in the village. He was flogged right in front of us. Now that was painful. Even our visitors felt for him.

Finally, the headmaster – Mr Norman Dangare - was called. He gave his speech in big exotic words. I remember hearing words like school dues. And to me it sounded like school juzi - school jersey. It's not a surprise that I took a different message home. My brother Charles came later and told mum and dad about the school fees announcement that was made by the headmaster. I, on the other hand, had told them about the school jerseys that we were all supposed to be wearing. They were confused because we all had jerseys. “Have they changed the colours?” I don't know, I responded whilst kicking my plastic ball away - to escape further probing questions. Obviously, they had more questions.

After the headmaster's address, the big announcement was made. Our visitors were introduced to us as, well, simply visitors. They smiled contagiously whilst taking over the stage. Not really a stage but just some space in front of everyone. “I am Adala Bongo!” one of them announced and the other was like, “And I am Bongo Adala!” They smiled again. We laughed. That's exactly what Adala Bongo and Bongo Adala wanted. Our laughter was their fuel. They started singing; Sirivhiya dzorera wanga wajaira kudya mari yeropa!

Whatever that meant, whoever that Sirivhiya – Silvia – was, which ever bloody money it was; we didn't care. We just enjoyed the music from the two comedians. Buoyed by our applause, they continued. Music. Comedy. And a bit more music. They had a few minutes to convince us that they were worth our attention. In fact, this was just a teaser. The real deal was coming later in the week and we were supposed to pay for it. "Go ask your parents for only 10 cents for admission. It's going to be lit with Adala Bongo and Bongo Adala!" they announced in concordial agreement. We couldn't wait for Friday. But before disappearing, Adala Bongo and his partner had a final act for us. A final teaser. It was a Jiti song!

Their final song was a rendition of the song Murambinda which was composed, arranged and recorded by Paul Mpofu and his Zambuko Band. In the song Mpofu, who exhibited his poetic prowess, is pleading with and threatening his rival to never attempt snatching his wife because he had brought her from a very distant place. He had noticed how his rival was now frequenting his home donning attractive and expensive clothes. Mpofu sang;

"Ndakabva naye kure kure kwaMurambinda kuuya Harare ndichiti ndamuona. Ndichiti ndamuona amai wevana. Iwe shamwari yangu wanyanya kuchiva. Zuva rega rega unouya wakapfeka zvipfeko zvakanaka kuti uonekere... Mira ndikuyambire iwe shamwari yangu... Wangu ukamuzembera tinoburana"

We knew this song. Years later, I watched the video in which Paul is filmed 'ferrying his wife from Murambinda to Harare' on a bicycle. Bongo Adala and Adala Bongo improvised on the lyrics. They made it catchy and we sang along. As we were sinking in joy, fun, happiness and excitement, they stopped. "Thank you, we will see you on Friday. Bring your 10 cents to enjoy this and much much more.” They bowed out.

Of course, they left the stage but not without leaving an impression. The Murambinda tune stayed with me, so did the lyrics.

"Paurosi uripo here, Paidamoyo wangu ndafunga ndimubereke. Mukoma Bongo muripo here… Bva chiuya ndikubereke…”

Many years later, I started uncovering the rubble searching for the gem that Paurosi was. A lanky crooner with outstanding guitar strumming skills. He mastered his bass guitar in an amazing way. Holding it close to his knees in an unusual manner, he would strum whilst singing. He would not pause to sing, the bass guitar would not stop. That was rare yet pure talent. Accompanying the well-arranged instruments and the crazy bass lines were thought-provoking lyrics. Lyrics that got one into thinking. Although the flow of the instruments would make one dance wildly, the lyrics would make one to pause and ponder. Witty and informative, Mpofu's lyrics were way ahead of his time. They reflected his mind which was sharp and prophetic.

As if Murambinda was not a hit enough, Mpofu had other songs like Ndakuvara Musoro. And indeed, the song is packed with metaphors and riddles which need to be cracked. It's the cracking part which is perplexing. In the video, Mpofu - who doesn't stop hitting his guitar, looks deep in thought and, perhaps worried. It's a deep song. It's too heavy and overwhelming for him. He had a message to deliver and he delivered it in an extraordinary way.

In one of the lines he said, "Uturu wepfungwa dzangu inhaka kuvarombo.” May be he was saying, if you decipher this then you shall make it. May be he was simply saying his duty – as a messenger – was to deliver the message in its raw form, if you refine it then good for you. "Kuzvibatsira ndoedza nemoyo wose... Kubudirira itsitsi dzeMusiki hameno... Kukuvara musoro ndakuvara..." This is deep. 'I do what I do, I do what I can do, and I do what I must do. I control what I can control. I leave the rest to God.' That's like what Paul is saying. And that's something to live with. We do our best and control what we can!

Then he had another song, Gura Nzira in which a trusted ‘driver’ is failing to deliver. People followed him thinking they would reach their destination on time but Gura Nzira has missed the road and does not seem bothered. Now in the middle of nowhere, far from the intended destination, people are starving and despairing. Toddlers are eating wild berries to survive the punishing hunger. They are lost and can't even figure out where the ‘driver’ is taking them. “Nanhasi tichiri musango... Gura Nzira wakanangepiko?” They thought they were going to Guruve but no, not anymore.

Other songs by Mpofu include Nanga nanga neni when he was, like Mario Balotelli, asking ‘why always me.’ In Mapepa enyika, Mpofu is chronicling his ‘hustling’ journey and his perseverance in the midst of some discouragements. He was doing it to make clean money. He did not mind sleeping in the cold or being drenched by some rains whilst entertaining some revellers – he was using his talent to make money.

Paul breathed his last in February 2000 having been around for about 52 years. He worked with Cephas Mashakada and coined the name Muddy Face before going solo. In his solo career, he released hits and gems which have outlived him. When Zimbabwe’s music history is told, Paul will certainly have slot devoted to his contributions. His song writing skills and guitar expertise will definitely be stimuli to generations to come. His lyrics are a marvel to poets. He lit the path that we are all following. We hope to make it. We wish to make it. Kubudirira itsitsi dzeMusiki hameno....

Continue to rest in peace Mhofu Yemukono.//

Phenias Sadondo is a Natural Scientist who loves and appreciates African music. He is reachable on phineassadondo@gmail.com or +263775875605.

 

Then we went for a party. Part 1

 Then we went for a party. My brother and I were our father's guests. Having sweated and worked for the whole year with a little relief, the company - Eastern Highlands Plantations PL - hosted a party for them. All departments from all estates were invited. Each employee was to bring two guests. When dad broke the news, he was a little subdued. Not really enthusiastic about the party. He neither drinks nor smokes. So after going through my school report and feeling satisfied that I had done well, he chose me to accompany him and my eldest brother. It was such a relief from herding goats and other chores at home. The day just couldn't come early enough. But then it eventually did. 

I put on a white shirt, neatly pressed white shirt and a dark green trousers - with six pleats. Oh yes, that made them 12!! And a turn up. This was 1997 and this was trending. So, I was on point. Mama had picked it at the market in Mutare. It was for special events. And yes, this one was a very special event. I mean, what else defeats a party? Dad was putting on a black trousers, with just two pleats apiece, and a white shirt. My brother was equally dressed to impress. 

Satisfied that we were ready for the day, we left. I skipped breakfast. I needed to be as hungry as I could be ahead of the party. We headed for the Main Office - the venue for the party. Excitement was all over me. I didn't know what to expect. The walk was long. After many ups and downs, hills and slopes, we finally crossed Nyawamba. The dam upstream was still in its infancy. Flow rate of this once mighty river was quite indicative. 

A few moons before, I had learnt to swim in this river, just a few metres from the footbridge that we used to access St James Nyamhingura Primary School on the other side of the river. Dzivasango, a place where I had showcased my raw football skills, was upstream. The day I learnt how to swim was fun...

 To be continued... 

#TosanganaKwaHonde. #ThisIsHondeValley #Memories. #HondeValleyZimbabwe #HondeValley

The big tree has fallen…

In the middle of the lecture, he would adjust his trousers – always upwards, above the waist. He would then make a few twists and turns on his necktie and then clear his throat. Then, you would know he has something to say, something important. Something that was always a digression, some departure point. “Sakai papa tinogona kunge tiri muno tichifundisana nezvevhu nezvinowanika mariri asi patinobuda panze apo, towana ivhu racho raenda, zvinozobatsirei manje?” He would look disturbed and concerned. He would look at everyone with examining eyes as if inspecting whether the message would have been nailed home. We were used to this and we knew exactly the message he would be hammering home. Just a few years after the Land Reform Programme, nobody would miss the nuances and the insinuations in his messages. That was the beginning of a very long lecture not just about Soil Microbiology and Biotechnology, but about life, the land question, poverty, the liberation struggle and Zimbabwe. He would lose track of time. Urged by our curiosity, he would go on and on until another lecturer shows up. “What time is it now?” “Prof, we are one hour past our lecture!” As the class rep, I would respond. “Oh my goodness, next time please remind me when my time is up!” “No problem Sir”, I would say but almost hundred percent sure that it would not work. Exactly the same thing would happen again on a different day.

 

 

A few days ago, whilst scrolling on Twitter checking news, I was welcomed by a breaking news on ZBC handle. “Professor Sheunesu Mpepereki has died…” My heart skipped a beat and I shivered a bit. Although I had no reason whatsoever to question the authenticity of the news, I just wished it was not true. I checked with a few colleagues and old classmates who confirmed that indeed the old tree had fallen. I didn’t know what to do but just reflect on the times our paths crossed. I was young, permeable and receptive and he was much older and assertive.  We met at the University of Zimbabwe. He was the master, I was the student. Perhaps, a good student to him. We were pre-warned of his no nonsense approach. Having been moulded by Anglicans and Catholics at mission schools, nonsense was not part of me. I had gone through Sister Emildah Manhuwa, Headmaster Norman Dangare, Mr Mwaradzika, among other no nonsense teachers who had prepared me for anything. I was ready for Professor Sheunesu. He walked in with an older folder containing old slides (notes) from old times. They spoke more about his journey than about Microbiology. “I am Mpepereki”. We wanted to say, we already know you Sir. Of course we didn’t. Professor Mpepereki was one of the lecturers teaching us Special Topics. He was teaching Biotechnology. Although we covered all the basics, his emphasis was on Rhizobium Inoculation. The process of introducing the appropriate Rhizobium bacteria to the soil in numbers sufficient to ensure successful nodulation. Professor Mpepereki had done many researches on the subject and had seen the successful implementation of this technology in soya beans farming. He was a pioneer of modern day soya beans farming in Zimbabwe. Whilst lecturing, he would take us down the memory lane, speaking about everything and anything. He later taught us Soil Microbiology and Biochemistry and other extracurricula subjects. Everyone loved him.

However, there are some people who never knew him as a scientist. They knew him as a philosopher, a historian, a politician. His appearances on ZBC TV on programs like Zvavanhu and articles on The Patriot fuelled these assumptions. One day he appeared on TV with his usual team, then he was with Vimbai Chivaura and Chinondidyachii Mararike, who are both late. During introductions, they were proud about their Shona names. I then made a quick comment when Professor Mpepereki introduced himself. “He is my professor”. Nobody believed it. They thought he was an anthropologist. Such was the versatility of the man. He could be anything that he wanted to be.

Beyond the classroom and the lectures, I have memories of how the late professor assisted me on a personal level. I had applied for a Master of Science degree at the University of Cape Town. One day I received an email acknowledging my application and at the same time, informing me that my application was incomplete. They needed at least two reference letters. I had listed Professor Mpepereki as one of the three referees on my CV. I called all the three referees and told them about it. I remember calling Professor Mpepereki after 5pm. He was already home in Glen Lorne. “You know I am already home. And from home I cannot access UZ emails. Let me drive back to campus and work on this now”. I thought maybe he was only going to do it the following day. At exactly 2150 hrs, I received an SMS on my phone. It was from Prof Mpepereki. “I have sent your reference letter to UCT. All the best. I am going home now. Prof SM”. I was really surprised. He did this for me? I responded to him expressing my gratitude. The following morning UCT confirmed receipt of the reference letter. Then throughout my MSc journey, Prof would email enquiring about my health, my research, my plans and many other things. When I travelled home, I visited him at his offices at the University of Zimbabwe. We spent hours just chatting. Our bond kept on getting stronger and stronger that I would make unannounced visits at his office. The secretary would just let me in.

Professor Mpepereki had a favourite saying. He would always say; poverty is a market.  He would then explain that Africa’s poverty is a market to other people. They capitalise on that and make more money whilst Africa will be exploited. He would always recommend his students to read John Perkins’ “Confessions of an Economic Hitman”. We all knew where his political inclinations lied but he never coerced anyone to follow him. If anything, he gave reasons for his beliefs. Besides being a university professor, a researcher and a farmer, Professor Mpepereki was also a Board member for CMED. He also served as the Board Chairperson for the Environmental Management Agency (EMA). On research front, the Professor believed in researches that answer everyday questions. Researches that bring solutions to everyday problems. Whilst defending their researches, dissertations and theses, students knew that, as long as he was available, he would ask questions. His questions were mainly meant to understand the intended beneficiaries of the research. He would raise his hand, and ask; “Saka shamwari, chinhu ichi wagadzirira ani? Chinobatsirei kuvanhu vari kwaMuzarabani uko?” To him research was not research unless it could solve real problems. Rest in peace Professor!

 

 

Where did the Sa in your name come from?

Where did the Sa in your surname come from?

I once had an interesting exchange with my then Form 1 Agriculture Teacher, whom we called Fungi because of the way he used to pronounce fungi (the plural of fungus). “Inini murume mukuru they still call me by my first name yet iwewe just a small boy wakutonzi Sa...”, he chastised me in a lighthearted manner. We laughed, the whole class joined. But he had a point. Sa..., a prefix of respect common in Manicaland, particularly in Honde Valley, is prefixed on my surname. Whilst others have to earn it, I earned it at birth. It's something I would take for granted. But then later on I started quizzing where this came from. Where did this Sa come from? This might have bothered many people with similar names.  

One popular explanation was presented: it's a bastardisation of Sir. They said back in the day, most people from Manicaland worked in hotels and as gardeners where the use of the title Sir was prevalent as a sign of respect to their bosses. Wasu, someone from Manicaland, was intrigued by the noble title and the Queen's language in general that he took both home. In addition to constructing Shona-English hybrid sentences – like ndingoku cutter nge razor blade – he started using the Sir (Sa) title on his name to be even more sophisticated. This reminds me of the days I was at the University of Cape Town. After busy day which ended very late, two of my classmates took me to the train station where I was to board the evening train from Rondebosch to Simon’s Town. Whilst in the car, seated comfortably though a bit worried about the time that I was travelling given the stories we have heard in the Metro trains, my phone rang. I immediately answered. The caller was speaking in Shona, and I thought I was speaking in Shona too. When I terminated the call, after a few minutes, one friend asked; “What language where you speaking Phenias?” “My mother tongue, Shona”, I responded. The other one, a Brit, chipped in, “That’s a very interesting language because it sounded like 80% English to me”. “Well, I am from the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe, so…”, I then explained what it meant. We all laughed. Sorry, I digressed a bit. So when Wasu found that Sir can be adopted, he did exactly that. An ordinary Gambe became SaGambe (Sagambe). Maringa fancied himself as Samaringa. A Humani decided to go with Sir Humani (Sahumani), something that Manga and Humbe and Mbawa and Mbona and Dondo copied. The list is endless. So exciting was the new normal that even the registrar's office started documenting it as such. The prefix became part of the legal name. Just like Sir Ferguson or Sir Elton John, an ordinary Wasu became knighted, albeit without the Queen's blessings. But is this how Sa became part of our names? I tried searching a bit deeper. The hotels and Sir theory is widely accepted.

However, I found something interesting. They say in the Chimanyika dialect the prefix "SA" refers to "the guardian of" or "the keeper of" or someone particularly associated with a certain thing. For example, Sadondo is the custodian of the Dondo (bush or forest). 

SOUL JAH LOVE: THE VOICE THAT RESONATED WITH ‘EM ALL

 

I had travelled from Cape Town to Harare, seeking for a hideout from the gruesome months that I had endured at the University of Cape Town. Whilst the vice was still on me and very much inescapable, I had been given a little relief when the examiners were going through my thesis. I took the opportunity to travel back home and rest a bit. Although naturally I should have travelled directly to Mutare and my beloved and exquisite Honde Valley - to breathe the fresh mountain air - I, instead, made a stopover in Harare to catch-up with friends. It had been a long 16 months after all.

A good friend, Jonathan Nyakotyo, was staying in the Avenues area. The somewhat notorious Avenues, along Herbert Chitepo near Enterprise Road, just a stone's throw away from the Portuguese Restaurant. Typical of someone recharging, I would spent most of my time indoors. The balcony would give me the ideal panoramic view, an unmerited favour for someone's with vertical restrictions. From car crushes at the intersection of Herbert Chitepo and Enterprise Road - when the traffic lights malfunctioned, to vendors selling everything. Some wore reflective vests with names of the airtime they were selling whilst others had miniskirts and tight shorts meant to showcase their trade. At the balcony, I would see it all. From coercion to canvassing to persuasion. Cars would stop and pick. Others would stop and drop. Some would be stationary for hours with dark tints forbidding some preying eyes from seeing beyond the glasses. Sisters would accompany their guests out of their apartments or escort them in. Such was the vantage of the balcony.

Then one day whilst scanning my environs from the elevated balcony - as it had become a routine, something caught my attention. Not something I was seeing but something I was hearing. I never really concentrated on listening to anything from the balcony. But that day was different. There was something booming from the speakers at the Portuguese Restaurant. There was always something playing. Old classics. RnB. Reggae. Blues. Sungura. And many more. But nothing caught my attention the same way. 'Ndomutenda Changara, Mwari baba ndovakaita agouya pedyo neni'. Who's this guy? There was no one to ask because I was home alone. All I did was to standstill and stretch my ears a bit. 'Ndini uya uya wamaigara muchingotuka nemashoko'. I had many questions. I wouldn't call myself a Zimdancehall devotee but I had heard a fair share of that genre's previous offerings headed by the Ninja President, Winky D. We played Location and Musarova Big Man. Killer T announced his arrival with Makarova Gunners and Vanobosher MaSuspect. King Labash was fading. Chillspot was rising. King Shady and Makorokoza paMusawu, outta Gazaland, was also engraving his name. It was a genre on the rise, even elders were now paying attention.

'Ndini uya uya, ndini uya uya...' The song kept on going. I tried to place it to familiar voices but couldn't. Perhaps because I had lost touch to some developments due to the overwhelming load that I was carrying. I barely had time to breath. The song was repeated several times that day. Later in the day when everyone was back home, I asked. "Oh, that one was done by Soul Jah Love. Akapenga manje". I was answered. That's the day Soul Jah Love was born to me. His lyrics got to me and got me thinking. His story telling skills were exceptional. Something told me he was narrating his sad life story but somehow managed to do it in a way that kept people on the dance floor. That's talent! He reminded me of Dambudzo Marechera's House Hunger - a book in which he hid his life story. He hid it in plain sight and laid it bare for exploratory eyes and inquisitive minds to find it by connecting the dots. The question though is whether you connect backwards or forward.

Soul Jah Love became a voice of reason. Year after year, hit after hit, his voice resonated with the youth, the downtrodden, and the disempowered. He gave hope to the written off. In Pamamonya ipapo, he injected hope to those despairing. Ndongomirawo Pamamonya ipapo, he chanted. The message was, you too can do it - no matter who you are or where you are from. That was the message people were yearning for. And the timing was perfect too. Preachers took the message to the pulpit. Choirs made renditions. Motivational speakers borrowed the lyrics. Poets and wordsmiths weaved verses. The whole nation was inspired. It became a national anthem. An anthem of collective aspirations and hope. Across the social strata and political divide, Soul Jah Love penetrated. From Borrowdale to Sakubva, Glen Lorne to Rimuka to Makokoba, from Chirundu to Dulibadzimu, Soul Jah Love brought all of them together. There he was, Mwana waStembeni, standing firm and dictating things in a manner that related to them all.

Riding on those well-crafted songs, Soul Jah Love became a household name. Whilst some concentrated on this private life and condemned the messenger, the majority focused on the message he churned. They identified with his pain. He became an embodiment of the struggles many people are facing. Having endured life of being homeless in the streets of Harare, with no one willing to take him in, most understood why his life was as controversial as it was. They knew he was not perfect and did not expect him to be. After all, nobody is. Those who took time in his shoes understood him better.

But behind the energetic, charming and talented vocalist Soul Jah Love, there was a vulnerable and scared Saul Musaka who was diagnosed with diabetes as a kid. There was a Saul Musaka who endured the pain of losing his parents at a very young age who would later pay tribute to his mother in 'Dai Hupenyu Hwaitengwa'. There was a destitute Saul Musaka who stayed in the streets of Harare as a young boy, partaking from the waste receptacles and sleeping in the drains covering his diabetes trodden body with nothing. He felt the unfairness of life as he swapped one street for another, owning no possessions. There was a tormented soul which found solace in music, singing for himself before being discovered by Changara who made him sing for the world. When the world was smiling at him and rewarding him for his efforts, Saul bought a residential stand and built a house. For someone who had been homeless, his priorities were perfect. But the joy did not last. Authorities said it was built on illegal land and demolished it. Saul had to summon Soul Jah Love to console him once more. He penned Pazai - a song that's like saying do it, it matters no more, I am used to pain, I have been beaten and crushed many times before. Saul found love and got married. But it didn't last, and diabetes stood in the way between him and childbearing. Again a battered Saul had to run to Soul Jah Love for comfort as he composed songs about his battles. ‘Zvikuru zviri pandiri’, he capped it.

In the early hours of February 17th, the news started filtering in that Saul Musaka had died. After a long and brave fight, he lost the battle to diabetes. He will be remembered for many things but most importantly, he will be remembered for being a voice that resonated with many people. He will be remembered for standing strong, and even dancing and smiling, when behind the scenes, he was fighting numerous demons. Some damning and career threatening headlines were done about him. But he would let his music to do the responding. He wouldn't write the songs. He would just get in the studio and start singing because his life had many songs. He would just pick the relevant one and start chanting with his voice doing the transitions and the changeovers.

Whilst Saul Musaka has rested. Soul Jah Love lives on. His songs and lyrics are safe in the hearts of many. His tenacity and bravery in the midst of adversity is a source of inspiration to the young and the old alike. Rest in peace Saul Musaka. Long live Soul Jah Love.

Phenias Sadondo is a Natural Scientist, Speaker and Author who can be contacted by email: phineassadondo@gmail.com