Be Good

Mtaname! Why waste time trying to look good? Just be good. How you look means nothing if that's not what you are. Lies are hard to sustain. They peel off like wax when a little heat is applied. They are washed away like polish under hot water. Be good! Not for rewards, not for profit. Be good because you owe it to humanity, to people. Be good to that gogo who used to weed the road to and from school. Your first teacher who taught you to write your name for the first name. Remember her patience when she was holding your hand and helping you shape each letter. Did you ever think you were going to write a verse back then? And yet you made it! Be good! Remember the random guy who showed you the road when you were lost. You couldn't see further than your eyes. Map or compass, you had neither. You had no idea of where you were. The road to looked like the road from - just the same. As you were walking, you noticed nothing familiar. And he pooped up. He held your hand and wiped your blurred eyes. You saw pointers. Eureka!!! Be good. The neighbour who lent you his kid's bike. He'd let his children sacrifice for you what he would have sacrificed for them. A piece of a cake. A couple of sweets. A chocolate bar. Bicycle riding time. A soccer ball. A tennis racket. A baseball bat. He would tell them to share as a precondition for getting more. Be good! At the vegetable market, the seller would give you more than the value of your money. She wasn't doing it for profit but for humanity. She was playing her part in ensuring vegetables are never in short supply. She smiled all the time even when no one visited her stall. So be good too and be a good reader. Be you not him or her. Remember peas in the same pod are not always the same. One is darker, the other is lighter. One is fertile, the other is sterile. One has been burrowed by the weevil whilst the other is still sealed. One has nothing inside whilst the other is full. Pray, Mungu Nisaidie! She taught me right

Heal The Land

Mtaname! No matter how beautiful a roof is, as long as it's not anchored by a strong foundation it shall not stand the test of time. It shall not last the distance for it is the foundation that anchors the structure. One day we marvelled at neat and trendy buildings, the next we collected rubble and rubbish for disposal. Broken ceilings. Smashed tiles. Shattered glasses. Fragmented frames and trusses... We picked it all for dumping. In a flash, it's all flushed away. The foundation failed and all crumpled. Designers, architects, engineers all watched in tears as their sweat is giving in to the test - answering to the call of calamity. My Mother Told Me... I haven't seen it all but what I have seen, I make you see it. What I have heard, I pass it on. You cannot stand on nothing. Not even the world's strongest man can do that. My Mother Told Me... I have seen ponds glittering and shining. Water and life, they had it al. The tadpoles flipped without pause. Fish swam and swallowed. Bugs and beetles scurried for cover. From a vantage point, kingfisher observed every movement with keen interest. Under the smiling sun, riverine plants shone as they cast their roots deep in the pond - supping gallons out. But I saw the water subsiding and depleting as no one was recharging that which was being lost. The clear and sparkling precious liquid was running out as the weather was changing. The smiling plants frowned and withered. The tadpole paused in the mud. The fish blinked and floated lifelessly. The kingfisher took off with nothing on its beak. Those who had gathered to witness documented it all and left. Nothing survives in isolation. My Mother Told Me... I have seen fireflies taking turns to produce a beautiful pattern at night. But I have seen candleholders fighting to extinguish each other's candles. Yes, they all triumphed in walking in darkness - bumping into each and colliding with walls. Their journey to Norway ended nowhere. I have heard insects producing a beautiful rhythm of chirping sounds. But I have heard humans fighting to drown each other's voices. They succeeded in quietening each other. In the end, I heard the sounds of silence. Listen to silence as it roams up and down blowing its sonorous and deafening trumpet. Silence that divides and polarise. Silence that creates hatred and suspicion. Silence that compartmentalised and isolated. Him and her lost trust. Him and them broke up. Them and her walk in silence, suspecting each other. His calls are terminated without answer. Her desperate texts are trashed before being opened. The dusty road to their little village is forbidden. The mysterious and beautiful misty mountains that hedged their hamlet are disdained and ignored. When they pitch to market the fruits of their hard labour, they are ridiculed and insulted in silence. They cry silently wondering. Do they know? Will they ever know? What you partake graciously might be distasted by another. My Mother Told Me... Mend the torn fabric, we have nothing else to put on. Cleanse the bittered water, we have no other well to drink from. Don't let your brother drink the poisoned chalice, you have no other brother to look up to. Quell the tension and annul the malice. She was right.

Sometimes victory doesn't taste like victory...

Sometimes victory doesn't taste like victory... It tastes metallic like blood. Having been beaten several times on the jaws and the lips, winning, at last, does taste like blood. Sometimes victory doesn't look victory. It looks swollen like a battered face. But it's still victory, isn't it? Victory sometimes doesn't walk upright, it moves slowly like a crippled and limping man. Yes, it's still victory but hard-won victory. It looks tired and wasted. It is emaciated and bony. After years of deprivation and starvation, victory will arrive when the body has deteriorated. Sometimes, victory doesn't smell sweetly like a scented flower. It has a stench smell of sweat and tears. A repelling smell that not many are keen to be associated with it. An odour that is offensive to some. After years of recurring droughts and deferred rains, it smells like wet soil. Indulging perfume to farmers. Sometimes victory doesn't fly faster and high like a Boeing. It just moves slowly and reluctantly like a tractor on freshly tilled earth. Sometimes victory doesn't look like cushions, it looks like a big crashing hammer that grinds and crashes. It looks like huge and tough granite rocks that hide small gems. It looks like a hard helmet, metal top safety shoes, and shiny overalls... After years of sleepless nights and restless days, victory sometimes looks like a small piece of paper emboldening everything. A very small paper not befitting the books read and knowledge internalised. Having gone thirsty for days, victory looks like a glass of water, not a reservoir. Sometimes victory doesn't feel like a warm jacuzzi. It feels like ice and snow after skating and skiing. But victory is still victory. Victory sometimes doesn't look like millions of descendants who will fill the earth, instead, it looks like just one son of the promise. Victory doesn't look like a smile, it sounds like piercing labour cries. Labour cries that aren't important. Nobody listens to them. They watch in anticipation as you're wriggling in agony. They are expectant as you're pained. Out of your pain comes everyone's gain. Sometimes it doesn't look like a thousand miles. It just looks like a span. Add more spans on the initial span and see victory. Wipe the bloodied nose and smell victory. Remove the blinkers, see and appreciate victory in its many forms and formats.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 3

On April 21^st I went to school not sure of what was going to happen. The university had been open for two weeks - a very long time. Lectures had started. In Organic Chemistry, they had already done a practical. So, I had to negotiate with the tutors to be allowed to do the practical and thanks to my distinction in Analytical Chemistry the previous semester, they allowed me. “You said you are Phenias?” One of the tutors quizzed with evidence of doubt on her face. “Yes ma’am”, I responded as politely as I could be. She gave a hand signal to the tutor who seemed busy. “Here is the Phenias we were talking about.” I was astonished but succeeded in hiding it. “Oh my God, I didn’t know he was this small, I mean young,” the other tutor quipped trying to hide from her actual message. I knew what she meant and it wasn't the first time that people have passed such comments, and it was by no means the last. They both agreed to my request to do the practical which others had done in my absence the previous week. Wednesday 23^rd April was set as the date for such. Contrary to my fears, I was not alone in the lab. There were others doing the same practical - outside the schedule, again. That’s how the semester started in 2008, probably a reflection of how the year was going to proceed. Although I hadn’t paid the required $3 billion for tuition, I continued attending classes. The hitch was that I wasn’t registered yet which meant I could not write exams. Meanwhile, late the registration fee was accumulating. ‘Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn, yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds!’ I garnered strength to soldier on and continue attending lectures...

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 2

Although our reaction was laughing, the reality was pain. I could feel that deep pinching pain in my chest. I could feel it in the deepest where I couldn’t reach nor scratch. It was there, lingering and strolling. That pain which makes people laugh instead of crying. We had gone through a lot already and we thought it was gone with 2008. But alas. We were just coming from a disturbed semester in 2008. These exams which we were now poised to write in February 2009 were supposed to have been written in December 2008. But we could not sit for them because a lot happened. In addition, the fees that we paid then was wiped by inflation that the university could not afford the exam material and everything else required. Then, the semester was extended by a few more weeks after Christmas and exams were subsequently deferred. When the university closed, I didn’t spend a night in Harare. Instead, I booked a train back home, Mutare. The train was the most affordable mode of transport and the least convenient and comfortable. The journey, in the crowded, hot and foul-smelling train, would start at 2130hrs and end at 0600hrs, that’s if everything had gone according to the schedule. But nothing was going according to schedule in Zimbabwe then. For example, we had scheduled elections that year, but results were released in a manner that followed no schedule. One night I slept at the train station in Mutare when the scheduled Harare bound train never took off. Imagine having bidden farewell to everyone and promised to call the following morning only to spend the whole night just a few kilometres from home, sleeping on a very uncomfortable seat – head rested in palms and back leaned forward. In December 2008, I travelled home by train, again, as it had become my religion. Religion influenced and shaped not by beliefs but by the laws of economics. 

The Sole Witness

"Help me!! Help me! Somebody help me pleaseeeee!!!" Her startling voice awakened me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I sometimes dream but mainly about preying without being preyed upon. It's mostly about food. Thank goodness, I didn't have to worry much about that since I moved in with Nelly. She was a very passionate and tenacious woman with an exceptional work ethic. I watched her everyday leaving for work early in the morning and coming back late in the evening. Sometimes she would go without having breakfast, not even a cup of her favourite coffee. But she would make sure my breakfast is well served, warm as it was supposed to be. This royal treatment made me appreciate Nelly even more.

Vernonanthura phosphorica 'Invading Zimbabwe from the East'

Sometime in April 2017, I was in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe, in Chipinge where some of the biggest tea estates and macadamia plantations are located. I was surprised to note that there is the plant which doesn't look native which is spreading and invading almost everywhere. So I asked around at one of the estates, Clearwater Estate. One senior manager told me that the plant is believed to have been introduced by people who wanted to attract pollinators to their macadamia plants owing to its bright flowers. I tried looking around for the name but in vain. They suspected it has originated from China. That's all I got then.

A few months later, I went to Chimanimani about 60 km from Chipinge but still in the Eastern Highlands. The same plant has invaded, again. This time was flowering. And yes, the flowering season is synchronised to the macadamia flowering season, somehow giving credence to the suggested reason for the initial introduction. I asked around again. This time they said the plant literally 'arrived with Cyclone Elin of 2000'. The locals in the area call it 'ChimuCyclone' - The Cyclone Plant. But others concur with their Chipinge counterparts that the plant was brought by some beekeepers to attract bees and boost their apiculture business. 

Do Zimbabweans have a penchant for international music?

So let's make a few things straight before meandering into this. I don't know much about how other countries react to international music. I have stayed for longer than 3 years in only two countries; Zimbabwe and South Africa. Both beautiful countries. Just a gentle reminder to would-be opposers of that notion, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Ask political economists, Zimbabwe is beautiful. Ask a political scientist, Zimbabwe is beautiful. We gave those guys so much to do in the past two decades, so yes Zimbabwe is beautiful to them. You can even ask a tourist. The Majestic Victoria Falls. Hwange National Park. Mana Pools. Matusadonha. My beloved Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe. The Great Zimbabwe itself. Indeed Zimbabwe is beautiful. Now ask a music fan... I have no idea what they'll tell you.

Do Music Genres Die?

Do genres of music die? Is Zimdancehall going to die? I have heard several people predicting the imminent death of Zimdancehall. I almost joined the bandwagon. But then stopped to think a bit. Probably music die. Genres die.

Think of Soukous. I love Sahlomon but... It's all gone now. Panzura of Ntombi Marhumbini and Gelly Mafura. It's all gone. Black Mambazo choral music. Beautiful but dying or is dead already? Country music! I don't know where it's going now if not to the graves. It seems music actually die.

Leonard Dembo's Twist In The Song

Listening to Leonard Dembo. An undisputed legend as far as Zimbabwean music is concerned. I might have erred there because, well I don't really know how to define Zimbabwean music. But that's for another day. Leonard was a genius. It's both his music and background that one can easily identify with. Maybe. Pardon my one-word sentences. They reflect, maybe badly, on my Dambudzo Marechera allegiances. Or do they? If so, it was unintentional. Back to Dembo, I was too young when he died young. I remember the day, probably the week, when he passed on. We had no radio for news. We used to rely on old newspapers and magazine pages - usually used to wrap soap - from the shops. Shops I said? Actually it was - and still it is - just one shop. Sorry, I digressed. I was talking about Dembo. The day he passed on, news traveled fast. Fast that even us, who used to rely on stale news and gossipers, got the news instantly. Everyone in our little village who could talk, talked about it. Both fact and fiction were offered. I remember consuming it all. It took me years to understand who he was. Still, I don't. I mean both the man and his works. 

The man and his words. His father passed on when he was still a little boy. His uncle took over custodianship of the children - Leonard and his siblings. Leonard's mother went back to her family. The family looked disintegrated. Leonard couldn't proceed with education. He dropped out of school. Calamity! Pause. Hope you read this paragraph with the song 'Babamunini'. If not, here's a little reminder. 'Babamunini hamungadaro, muchirega tine nhamo kubva zvakafa baba ka'. Mean something? It has to. 

Tell Mama I Tried

If I don't make it, tell my mama I tried. I tried to mount the mound which wasn't easy. On both ends they're expecting - one end expecting to welcome me and on the other end they are expecting me stay. It's hard to feed both expectations and stay nourished. For no one can successfully travel on two conflicting roads. It's hard to serve and accommodate two divergent masters without putting one on the altar to appease the other. But if I don't make it,tell mama I tried. Solutions aren't solutions until they're proven. Swimmers are giving hiking notes to hikers. Nomads are offering solutions to the ensconced. Those with full stomachs are giving advice on how to manage hunger. Those with no intentions to travel are asking for directions. Those with no intentions to serve are seeking for office. Going up and down in the name of the people without the people. Using the people as scapegoats... Mama I tried. It's cold there, it's hot here. The same water that has been deferred from here is causing floods there. The same sun that is burning there is rarely seen here. Adapting to ever-changing conditions is not for the fainthearted. Even the prepared sink... But the journey has to continue. The beginning has to end and the end has to end. The end has to mark another beginning. The dreamer has to act on the dreams to make them real. The thinker has to give life to the thoughts. The wordsmith has to weave words with limps so they can move and move the listeners. But if I don't make it, I have tried. Despite what make me shiver, despite what make me shiver like a reed in the river... I have tried to dance to the beat while listening to the words. Sometimes it's conflicting and I get conflicted. But one day the scapegoat will escape! Can it be contained forever? But will it cross to the other end?

Honde Valley Banana Farmers. Photo Credit: Doreen Hove, USAID

...And That's How Tinky Died

We all gathered around Tinky's first egg listening to Uncle Gilbert speaking in his hoarse voice, constantly spitting into the fire. Well, it wasn't really a fire but some flickering and dying embers. You know we don't make fires ourselves, we are much lower on the rung of life to even think about that. Previous co-occupants, for just one night, must have left their fire alive either out of utter carelessness or consideration for us because it was in winter. But I am sure it was as a result of the latter not the former because we don't need fire. We do just fine with our inbuilt temperature regulatory systems. Some of us need light but some don't, they roam around in the darkness. They still survive, grow and even reproduce in darkness. In any case, this fire wasn't to enhance our life.

"That...", Uncle Gilbert pointed at a freshly laid egg in the centre, "...is the beginning of life. Today is a day of celebration but we need to be careful and not over celebrate because Tinky has covered only a span of a mile. It's still an egg, still early days in the journey of life..." I searched for Tinky to see how she was reacting to her achievement. She wasn't in the house, the big house in which all of us resided. But her mom, who was my mom also, was present. I asked her of Tinky's whereabouts. "Outside, hunting", she whispered so as not to interrupt Uncle Gilbert. Interrupting Uncle Gilbert, the eldest member of our clan, was a punishable offence. Dink, my twin brother, was banished after appearing to be undermining our revered uncle's wisdom. I have never seen him again ever since. Rumours and gossip in the compound had it that he had travelled many days to another mountain on the other side of the valley. But others said he was killed by some unidentified assailants. I tried as hard to push Dink out of my mind and refocus my wandering thoughts on Tinky. Tinky was outside, hunting? It unsettled me. Nothing was wrong with that because we are mostly lone rangers. What was odd though was that Tinky was supposed to be present to consume the wisdom that Uncle Gilbert was belting about life. After all, it was her or rather her eggs, her progeny to be, who were at the centre of today's presentation by our esteemed uncle.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 1

February 3rd, 2009 was a Tuesday but felt like a misplaced Monday. When I reluctantly woke up in the morning all looked good except that lingering feeling. I pushed the curtain to one side, searching for the sun. It wasn’t there yet but all the indications were there, it was going to be a good day. But no, the feeling was there too. I tried to push it away whilst reaching for the door. My bed was scruff, I reckoned. Books, notepads, pens, sheets, blankets… But can you really blame me? With exams scheduled to start in just under two weeks and assignments pressing hard? I sighed, trying to gather the guts and strength to open the door and start the day, a new day. I was feeling a little weak and very reluctant. Is it because I had gone a little too far with studying the previous night or perhaps, I knew exactly what was going to happen? The golden sun rays were already smiling at me. I smiled back and attempted to wave but I couldn’t. Nobody would have understood that gesture. Waving at the sun?

A Bronze Medal

So now I have a very beautiful Bronze Medal to hang somewhere as a souvenir. It’s a pity that this medal will be lonely in the frame. But I will keep it safe and dangling, maybe I will be motivated to add another. Or maybe I will just look back and enjoy the memories. Either way, yesterday was a memorable day in many ways. It reaffirmed that sometimes the barriers we fear are non-existent in reality. The limits that deter us are just us. They are in our minds. Yes, yesterday didn’t just start yesterday.

It started with just a casual talk during lunch some days back. A very respectable person asked if I was running in the Marathon. I was astounded but couldn’t show it. Running? Me? Never! I tried to remember the last time that I had participated in athletics. I traced every step that I have taken to be here but couldn’t see where I found bliss in running. I mean I spent my secondary and high school days running away from running, like literally. I would run faster than everyone just to escape running. At some point, I celebrated an injury that claimed my toenail. Although the pain was unbearable, the relief from running was warm and wonderful. I would attend classes with my right shoe in the bag and tears streaming but my mind was very settled. At least there would be no running for that entire year. Looking back, I will just say, ‘forgive me for I knew not what I was doing’.

A Day In The Shoes Of A Soccer Referee

Okay, so I used to play soccer. Yep! Just playing for fun on the untarred roads of Sakubva Mutare and dusty grounds in Honde Valley. It was one of those. In places bereft of entertainment, soccer was an easy route. Oh yes, we had plenty of water bodies too... So yeah, after playing the aptly constructed plastic-rugs ball, we would take a dive into the fast flowing rivers. The ball itself would get us in trouble mainly because it was made of packaging materials meant for something else. Storing grain. Keeping seeds. Carrying vegetables from the garden etc. Furthermore, on the scale of tradeoffs, playing the ball meant that something was going to be sacrificed. For instance, fetching water from the well or herding the goats or even hiking for firewood. But we would find a way of striking a balance somehow. A balance which was never balanced. We were young with not so much sense for time management.

After successfully smuggling a few plastics out of the house, my brother Charles would exercise his expertise. He would mould and tie them into a fine soccer ball that we would hit and kick all day long. Hitting it on the wall. Sometimes we would take it to the 'ground' where we would play 1-aside, 2-aside, 5-aside - whatever number - soccer. Sometimes there was an odd number of players making it 'difficult' to make two teams. But this was the easiest of all our problems. We would simply ask that 'extra' guy to play for both teams. Yes, he would swap sides at 'halftime'. Usually, this position was reserved for the worst player. We would refer to him as 'Jekakwose' - a 

double-edged sword. Maintaining neutrality as a Jekakwose was really difficult. The guy, who was awful in one team, will change completely in the second half - creating and scoring goals sometimes. That drastic change in form was influenced mainly by family ties and friendships.