Coming Soon! When the gods are sleeping...

When the gods are sleeping excerpts...

The Bully...

"Hello! What do you mean by drawings?" Still holding the phone, Hus looked exhausted. It was written all over his face. He wiped his face and pinched his nose. It was clear he was struggling to keep his eyes open. The caffeine dosage he had had was fading away, exposing him to his limitations.

"Drawings? I don't understand". Attempts to get finer details were failing. Whoever, or whatever, was on the other end of the line was not giving out the details as Hus would have loved. He tried to probe but was not given a satisfactory response. "Look, I don't know what you are talking about. Maybe you're calling a wrong number", he said preparing to drop the receiver back in its socket. But his hesitancy was clear.

He decided to give the caller a few seconds with some faint hope that they were going to intersect. He looked in the wall as if reading something. He could have been reading something, only if there was something to read there. But there was nothing. The walls were still fresh having been completed a few weeks earlier. His was face was still pale and irritated. He didn't know who the caller was and why he was calling. His suggestion that it might have been a wrong number was rebuffed. The caller appeared to know what he was doing and whom he was calling. But the caller's insistence for drawings had disturbed him.

His phone had rung several times with no end. At first, he decided to ignore the call and concentrate on what he was working on - giving instructions to the new and inexperienced guys who had joined the team. He obviously thought the call was going to terminate naturally or the caller was going to end it after finding there was no answer on the other end of the line. But when neither happened, he was shocked. "What technology is this?" He thought quietly whilst wiping his tiny forelimbs. Upon picking his equally small gadget, he blew its screen, displacing some dust that had taken residence on the immaculate glass - typical of a construction site. His attempts to read the name or number of the caller were obstructed by the combination of the bright sunlight and the gadget's generously pixeled screen. For a moment his eyes were blighted and he lost vision. In fact, he did not lose it. Through his closed eyes, he could see a combination of blue and black and red patterns which were neither familiar nor peculiar. He knew what he was supposed to do immediately. Half running, half walking, he left for his office - just a few strides away from the site, but it took him longer. Still, the phone was ringing.

His surprise turned into a shock when he checked his little watch fastened on his left forelimb. It's been 3 minutes since the phone had started ringing. And it was still ringing. He pulled a little chair meant for only him from behind the desk and sat down but did not relax. He attempted to read the number displayed on the screen but failed. He did not fail to read the number, he failed to comprehend it. "Is this even a phone number", he sighed heavily whilst still glued to the screen. Yes, there were numbers on the screen but they were not ordinary numbers. Hus was literate enough to deduce that. They were displayed in a conical shape resembling a pinecone. He knew pinecones very well, having gone up and down pine trees. Some were littered under the pine trees all over waiting for a perfect time to release their seeds. He checked the phone again to verify if he had seen properly. And yes, it was still there - a perfect pinecone. This was his first encounter with such a bizarre display of telephone numbers. He couldn't establish where they were starting or ending, all he could see was a pinecone with its shells in place. All made up of numbers, Arabic numbers as they are known. At long last, he decided to swipe on the screen to terminate the call. Instead, to his surprise, he noticed the seconds counting on the screen and there was a voice speaking. The screen still displayed a pinecone.

The voice on the phone was rushy and almost inaudible like someone speaking through a cloth. He failed to place it. "Hus..." The caller had started in almost a hushed voice. "Yes... Who is my guest?" Hus had responded, faking stability and strength. "You'll know Hus; you will know soon enough. But let's clarify a few things. I am not your guest. You are my guest. And it's a pleasure hav..."

"Can you please speak loud; I can't hear you clearly". Hus interrupted the caller, albeit politely.

"Even if I speak like this... ", the voice spoke with a remarkable improvement in clarity, "... you will not place my voice... Face it, Hus, you don't know me. We have never met. You've never heard from me before..."

"It's not about that. I was straining my ears trying to listen. But now, it's much better. We can speak..." Hus feigned some confidence.

"Let's cut short the pleasantries. I know you're fine, so are your countless siblings and offspring. We know thousands are being born as we speak. Isn't it, Hus?"

"Stop insulting my family, please! Just say whatever you want or else I'll terminate this call and blacklist your number..." Hus made his frustrations known to whoever was on the other end.

"Hahaha Hus", the voice laughed annoyingly. "I know you even attempted terminating this call before answering it but did you succeed? Hus my boy! You are not in control, I am. You noticed how my number is displayed on your tiny phone? I bet that's your first time of seeing such number notation..." The voice said in a bragging tone.

"Alright, you won. Who are you and what do you want from me?" Hus had decided to play along with the hope that the caller was going to volunteer his identity but that was not to be.

"That's my boy... Now listen carefully. Who am I? Forget that question because you won't get answers for it... Let's talk about what I want..."

There was some silence as Hus was digesting what was just said. He then decided to record the call for future reference, he told himself. He breathed heavily before saying," Yes... “

“I know what you are doing Hus... You're recording this call. But it doesn't matter because when we are done with this call, there won't be any playback or anything. It will be gone, everything! Just thought I should save you from a potential heart attack..."

"Whatever you want, say it! “

“Getting some guts now, huh? Tell you what? I love it!!“Hus could hear the caller laughing and hitting what sounded like a desk.

Then suddenly the voice spoke again," Hus I know you're at a new construction site, doing another structure. Brilliant! I envy your hard work. I wish my kith and kin could do the same. You work ethic is amazing. I see you every day. In fact, I watch you."

"Thank you for the compliments but is that why you called? I have so many tasks waiting for me onsite..."

"You see why I love you guys? Anyway, Hus, I need some drawings of what you guys are constructing... I need those ones!"

Hus had tried to think of what was meant by drawings. He couldn't figure it out. Was it a code? He thought whilst pushing his mind to think. But he couldn't trigger it to think about drawings. He had never worked with them. Neither his father nor grandfather nor great grandfather, all of whom he had seen, had introduced him to 'drawings'. When he was old enough, he left the mansion his father had built, wandering to the east. He found friends and decided to build their own mansion, with a different design. They all agreed on what they were going to do but he was sure there were no drawings nor was there any need for them.

"Hus, don't think too hard boy!" He was interrupted. "What you're building right now, I want drawings for it. We want to do the same thing here... We know it is a self-reliant structure; no need for energy from outside, inbuilt thermoregulation and heating and cooking systems, eco-friendly and sustainable, zero waste, hundred per cent biodegradable, no recalcitrant and synthetic materials on that structure... I want its drawings and BOQ Hus, am serious", the voice spoke, this time sounding serious and genuine.

Then something dawned on Hus. He moved his mandibles in a smiling gesture and stretched all other appendages of his, making a faint noise. "Are you human?" Hus requested to know. "I said what I am doesn't matter". "With all respect, it matters, Sir. Now listen, we don't do drawings, we just build. We follow whatever is coded in our DNA. We work as a unit, as a team with no conflicts. We don't fight our own nor burn each other like you humans. We live in peace and dream together. Even if we had drawings, you were still going to fail to reproduce it because you're so divided. You were given dominion on earth but you abuse everything and everyone. I am sorry human, you're the author of your own demise, and you're dragging everyone with you. You're polluting waters and the air and heating the globe and contaminating the soil and now you want to build like us so you build anthills like us, and run away from the problems you have caused? No human, stay there and face it." Hus felt proud, having released all his bitterness about humans. He just remembered something to say again,"... Why can't you get inspiration from that pinecone? Huh? You only know of... Hello! Hello? Helloooo?" The line was dead. He checked on the screen, the pinecone was gone. The line was disengaged. He sighed and wiped some sweat. "Will he call again?", he asked no one and expected no one to respond. As he walked out of his office back to the site, he was welcomed by a deafening applause. Everyone, every ant, in the compound was waiting for him. They applauded him for standing up to humans and condemn their bullish deeds, confirming they had been eavesdropping his conversation. It didn't matter to him though. He grinned and waved whilst his thorax was pouncing with excitement. "Let's just get back to work...", he announced!

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 11: I Know You, Who Are You?

After receiving instructions and commands from their superiors, the cops drove back. But we didn’t see them coming. The demo had reached its crescendo, sort of. Whilst I was consumed by my thoughts and regrets, I was awakened by the UBAs who were shouting, ‘Borne Marche! Borne Marche!!!’ They wanted to direct the entire group to Borne Marche Supermarket. Borne Marche was one of the few licenced FOLIWARS in the country and did not suffer major shortages as a result. They were officially trading in US dollars. Some guys, radicals and extremists, did not need a second invite to go to Borne Marche for obvious reasons which can be summed by just one word: food! Yes, food! Everyone was starving. 

They started singing and marching down Quorn Avenue, towards Pendennis. I joined albeit with some serious reservations and contestations in my mind. But it was no longer helpful.

Along the way we, Darlington, Aleck and I, encountered some ladies who were looking very tired and complaining of blisters. We didn’t know how to help them. We tried jogging next to them, encouraging and motivating them to pick pace. They couldn’t catch up. I could read their faces; they did not want to be part of this. But they were now. We slowed down a little for their sake. It did not help.

A few moments later we heard some sounds of an approaching vehicle. I tried to increase speed but my shoes weighed me down. I turned just to have a glimpse of the coming vehicle. My heart stopped for a moment before pouncing heavily. The little oxygen that I was inhaling was overwhelmed by the vast amount of adrenaline that my glands released in a blink. Panting, perspiring and draining, I instantly felt tired, weak and drenched. To worsen it, we couldn’t keep as one unit. And the 'power in unity' was torn. Our group was split, shredding the plan to go to Borne Marche. I was part of the smaller group which went eastwards along St Kilda Road. I couldn’t find Aleck. Thinking of Aleck, also known in some of our circles as Hophni, made me stagger and wobble a bit. Aleck was nicknamed Hophni by some guys at Christian Union (CU), particularly Tawedzegwa Hove and Tomuwonga Daniel Wenjere. Since we were always together for CU services, they called Hophni and Phinehas - the sons of Eli – based on I Samuel 12: 12 – 36. We accepted the names but not the deeds.

This was not the first but second time of us being chased together. The first time was about 5 years back when we were walking from school. We were doing our final O’level year then. As was our religion, we were discussing Mathematics, Physics and Accounts. We were also criticising the structure of O’level Shona curriculum. We felt it was too overwhelming. It needed, like English, to be split into two subjects; Shona Language and Shona Literature (Nganonyorwa) instead of heaping everything together, we reasoned. But that didn’t relieve us from Mabvumira eNhetembo, Inongova Njake Njake, Mapatya, Kutonhodzwa kwaChauruka and Nyambo dzeJoni. The pressure came in throbs like pain. I was doing 11 subjects and Aleck was doing just 1 subject less. He had quit his 11^th subject, Building Studies, the previous year after a not so pleasant encounter with the then subject teacher. He wasn’t alone. Although the majority of those who ‘dropped’ Building Studies opted for Agriculture, Aleck could not be convinced. As he would say, it is like jumping from the frying pan into the fire. He reckoned the Agriculture teacher was worse and yes, he was not wrong in that assertion. 

Maths to us was a language that we spoke and consumed anytime. We would stop walking, scribble in the sand, do the workings and get the answer before resuming the walk. Sometimes we would remain in class after classes to finish off a few Maths problems. We were so ahead with the syllabus that with a year to go before final exams, we were ready for them. The goal was no longer about getting good grades in the subject but getting everything correct. 

One day as we were walking from school, having stayed behind for about an hour, we saw a group of students ahead of us. Although we were too far to hear them, we noticed they were having some real fun. And we picked pace. We loved to laugh and did not want to miss this one. Away from books, homework and punishing school schedules, we were a jovial lot. We would crack jokes and make people laugh. Moses Chekwa, our very good friend, used to fall victim of our jokes. He did not know when to stop laughing and often got in trouble when teachers found him laughing, alone. We would just look into our books and continue reading as the teachers would be chiding Moses.

As we got closer to the group, we detected Mr Moyoweshumba, the slender and tall man from the community. We started laughing before even establishing what was going on. Mr Moyoweshumba was nicknamed Perewa, the nickname that he spurned because it literally translated to a weightless person. We knew, from our Physics, that it was not possible for someone to be without mass but that was not the point. We were not mocking his stature but his words. We did not understand why Perewa was not a comedian because he had all the attributes and features of a comedian. A few weeks back I had told Aleck a joke about Perewa. In fact, we had shared so many jokes from him. One day as he was passing at our home, he greeted everyone in his usual way. “Marara ere apo tete ma Jussy marara here tete ma Justen” (Good morning auntie, the mother of Justin). He called from the road. “Good morning shumba, how are you this morning”, Tete Mai Justin responded. “Zviri papi tete, handisi right. Ndiri kubira mhiri uko kwandakaroora uko kwaMandibatsira uko kunovataurira kuti nemwana wawo hatisi kuzwanaba kumba uko tete”. (I am going to my in-laws to tell them that we are having disputes at home with their daughter, my wife). “Zvino maona zvaita here sekuru kuti muende murimi. Madii kutuma munyai ikoko?” (It’s not culturally proper for you to go alone. Why can’t you send a go-between?), Baba Justin chipped in whilst standing at the kitchen window. “Ehe mukwasha ndanga ndatozvionawo ndega kuti hazviitiba saka hakusiko kwandiri kuendaba. Ndiri kuenda kwaSabhuku Mushunje kwandakacheka uswa uko ndikanzi ndizotore bucket remagwere andiri kubva ndapfuura ndichigayisa paGreen” (I have also seen that it is not proper. In fact, I am not even going there. I am going to Village head Mushunje’s homestead where I cut some grass and got paid in maize grains. I will pass through the grinding meal at the township), Perewa responded innocently and we exploded in laughter. What a man! 

The other day he asked for time at our neighbour’s house. “Dii dzawe nguvai?” (What time is it?), he asked. “It’s now 3 minutes before 10”, our neighbour, who was a primary school teacher, answered “Saka 10 dzachaya here” (So is it after 10 already?), Perewa probed. We looked at each other readying to burst out but he was not done yet. “No, it is not after 10 yet”, the teacher responded. “Saka better nekuti ndiri kuda kuenda mhiri uko kwandakaita basa saka ndakanzi ndizotore mari yacho nhasi na10.” (That’s better because I am supposed to be somewhere before 10 to collect my dues for the work I did for them). Where he was supposed to be by 10am was over 10km away but here he was relieved that he would get there before 10, precisely in 3 minutes. He went on to chat for over 30 minutes. That was Perewa. That’s the reason we laughed when we saw him with school kids ahead. They were laughing also because they had plenty of stories about him.

When we got to where the group was, struggling to control ourselves, we found ourselves laughing helplessly like everyone else. We then passed without saying a word. Little did we know that Perewa was not amused. We were not surprised though. The other group of students was going its own way, different from the one we were taking with Aleck. Coincidentally, Perewa was going our way and he decided to release all his anger on us. He started shouting at us, threatening to beat us. When he realised that we were not feeling threatened, he started throwing stones at us. At that instant, we understood the gravity of the matter. We wanted to reason with him and explain to him that we were not actually laughing but laughing at some funny things about him. He did not understand. Anyway, we did not expect him to. 

We stopped talking and started running, fleeing from Perewa, the weightless man. He was in hot pursuit and there was nowhere to hide. “Ndakuzivai mirai henyu vakomana. Ndakuzivai mese” (I know both of you boys, stop!), he was shouting. I wanted to ask Aleck to stop so we could negotiate with the man because, according to his words, he had positively identified us. But before doing so, and after being missed by a wheezing stone, I heard Perewa shouting again, “Ndakuzivai. Ndoda kutaura kumba kwenyu. Mumbori vana wepiko, Mumbori vana ani?” (I know you, I will report you to your parents. Who are you by the way?). Oops! I nearly laughed. We ran faster. As we were running we found a walking trail and followed it into a ditch and hid there. He couldn’t find us as he ran past. We stayed in the ditch for some minutes until when were convinced that he was gone. I know you, who are you? That sustained our laughs for months and years.

Now I was being chased with Aleck again although the setting and circumstances were different. It was also not just the two of us but a couple of hundreds of students. Unlike in the previous chase when we were laughing and making jokes, this time we were silent and mum. But our silence was making ear-splitting and highly sonorous noises up and down the streets. The pursuer was not Perewa but armed and geared police. I looked around for Clifford but couldn’t find him. He had sunk in the bigger crowd going the opposite direction, westwards. Darlington was still with me, a few yards ahead. Because I didn’t want to go to Borne Marche, I felt relieved. But the newly found relief was to be short-lived.

After a few strides along St Kilda, hell broke loose. A bakkie full of cops was closely following us, rather chasing us. We increased our pace. Darlington and I were slightly ahead of the group, with Darlington leading the pack and I was just behind him, a few strides behind. We were chatting and talking, trying to empty our fears. Although we didn’t know what to do or where to go, everyone followed us because we were in front. The dilemma of being in front, I thought. Some people were leaders not because of merit but because they were in front, I refined my thoughts whilst keeping pace with Darlington. We got to an exquisite place called Groombridge Manor and to the left side of that place there was a property which was yet to be fenced or enclosed. It was one of the very few houses in Mt Pleasant with neither precast wall nor just a fence. Without giving a second thought, we entered the yard hoping to be concealed by the senescing maize crop in that property. And we were wrong. As we entered the yard in a string like line, the cops saw the very last person getting in and they knew we were all in that field. They guarded all the open ends of the yard before dispatching a crew to drive us out.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 10: The Night Walker

I maintained my position and enhanced a grip on my books. Two of them were borrowed from the main university library. I was also lent another at the departmental library by the ever reliable Mr Chitopo, dhodha rekanyi. But this particular one was not with me on the day. Instead, I had loaned it to a friend, Oliver Mutasa. It was a common practice, borrow to lend. It just was a reflection of how closely knit we were as a cohort. I had no doubt that Oliver might have passed on the book to another mate. It didn’t matter at all. What mattered was to secure the ones which were on my hands. 

I tried to push out all the fear by just focusing on other things. Things that existed or were yet to exist. Call it daydreaming if it fits the definition. The evergreen bushes and mini rainforests back home, in the beautiful Honde Valley… The mountains that seemed like they were growing taller every day… The marvelled Mtarazi Falls that left an everlasting mark in the hearts of visitors and viewers? The breath-taking tea estates? The melodious Robin-chat (Mariro) which had assumed the responsibility of being the alarm for the entire village? The majestic and fast flowing Pungwe river? The popping banana fields in the undulating and fertile terrain of the valley? The legend of the sacred Chirikutsi Falls which was passed on orally from one generation to another. From grandparents to young and expectant grandchildren...

Gogo Nhewa would narrate the goldenrod story to us with all the passion and care any parent would have, perhaps to dissuade us from being hooked by the glitter which was not gold. “At Chirikutsi Falls”, Gogo Nhewa would say, “there is a very attractive and shining goldenrod which many people have attempted to take away for many years. No one has succeeded because the rod is not real. It is spiritual. Whoever tries to take it away is taken away by the spirit of Chirikutsi.” I could not understand. “You mean gold mbuya (granny)?” “Yes, gold but when you are about to touch it, the rod sinks and you sink too. That will be the end…” Granny spoke in riddles and enigmas, itself a reflection of the wisdom hidden in her grey hairs. She would then divert, “ When you grow up, you should work hard vanangu (my children), don’t go for fast riches like the Chirikutsi goldenrod. Many perished there.” She would then beckon at the moon, “ehh, gore rino hakuna mvuraba” (We are having a drought this year). Surprised, we would ask her almost simultaneously, “Why?” “Because there is no water on the moon”, she would say. “How do you see the water on the moon?” “It’s easy. It forms a huge pool or ring around the moon. If you can’t see it, then the season will be dry. If it is too big, then the season will be too wet and there will be floods. Maize grain will rot in the fields due to excessive rains”, she would explain. I strained my eyes, trying to see what she was seeing but could only see the moon and plenty of stars. Then I would start counting the stars but she would rebuke me instantly. "Stop counting the stars, you'll go mad." Her eyes were still shining, piercing and investigative making a perfect match with her infectious smile. We never thought something bad would happen to them. Something that would lead to her demise. 

I looked in the February sky on that day, no moonlight but just sunlight. Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “is it going to rain this year or gore rino hakuna mvura?” A couple of police trucks drove eastwards, past the university along Mt Pleasant Drive. I saw the bakkies full of armed cops. Helmets, shields and assault rubbers were more apparent. I thought maybe Constable Masamvu was in one of them. Meanwhile, the UBAs and USAs did not stop singing and dancing. Some songs were denigrating passersby and officers of the law. 

Thinking of Constable Masamvu made me smile and relax a bit. Not that we were friends or 'knew each other'. In fact, even if he was in one of the vehicles I was not going to recognise him unless he was to be introduced by name. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t recognise me as well. We had met once, in the night, at Fife Avenue Shops, a couple of months back. I was doing one of my routine night walking from Greenwood Pak – 10^th Street and Fife Avenue – to Mason Court, 2^nd Street and Selous Avenue. I stayed, rather I slept, in a cottage at Mason Court and dined in Greenwood Park those days, that was before I moved to Greenwood Park. My daily schedule was simple yet intricate to execute. I would get to Mason Court from the university, drop off my bag and take a shower. I would then leave all my valuables, including any ID documents. The only thing I would take was a red pen. Depending on the weather, I would put on a jacket and walk all the way to Greenwood Park - usually after 1700hrs - where some young and curious minds were waiting for me to do some extra lessons and work on their assignments. They were at different academic levels, making the lessons difficult to structure and sequence. After their homework and a lot of motivational talks, I would then have dinner and begin the walk back to the cottage. This was usually after 2100hrs. My route was usually predictable. I would walk through the Greenwood Park, then it was shabby and unkempt, cross Seventh Street – which will be quiet and abandoned after 6pm due to time restrictions at the State House. I would walk past Fife Avenue Shopping Centre into Fourth Street then get into Herbert Chitepo before connecting to Third Street at Dominican Convent. Selous Avenue would then take me to Mason Court.

The day I met Constable Masamvu was the same as any other day that I had followed this routine except that I was now donning a warm jacket having dared to go without one. He was in the company of two other cops at Five Avenue Shops near OK. As usual, I walked confidently past with my hands in the borrowed jacket's pockets, for warmth. I passed them with no incidents but a few moments later I heard a call. I stopped. They came to me. “Uri kubvepi this time” (Where are you coming from at this hour?), one officer asked. “From Greenwood Park,” I responded, still my hands were tucked in the pockets and had no intentions whatsoever to remove them. “For what at this time?” The officer quizzed me. “What time is it?” I asked. And it was a very genuine and honest question. “Hausi kutoziva time?” (You are not even aware of what time it is?), another officer chipped in. I did not respond. “What’s your name and where is your ID?” the first officer asked. “Open your pockets, what’s in there?” “Just a pen…” I took it out and exhibited it for them to inspect it, and even appropriate it as evidence if it was necessary. “A pen? Is that all you have with you?” The officer was literally shocked. “Yes, just a pen”.

Nothing but a pen...

“What do you do?”. I answered everything and explained that I was a student but also teaching my aunt’s kids. I told them where I stayed and even offered to go with them if they wanted to confirm and check my ID. Of course, I made the offer as a polite way of asking for a security escort home. That day I had stayed till way after 2200hrs and walking alone in town was dangerous due to thieves, some even armed. In fact, that was the reason why the cops were doing patrols. The way I was using was one of the designated red spots. The first officer who had gone silent then suddenly spoke, startling me. “You said your name is Phenias?” “Yes,” I confirmed. “Oh! Funny because my dad is Phenias as well.” “Oh really? Interesting… We are very few out there so it feels good to know I have namesakes.” I smiled, borrowing notes from the Stockholm Syndrome. “Yeah, his name is Phenias Masamvu”. “Huh? You mean Comrade Kapisa? He is your dad?” I was surprised. “Yes, he is Kapisa. How do you know him?” If I was surprised, then he was shocked. “I know him. He is currently the Deputy Head at St James Nyamhingura  Primary (in Honde Valley). He was at Sahumani Primary (in Honde Valley again) for many years. He fought in the liberation war where his Guerre du nom was Comrade Kapisa Moto”. I said confidently, holding my red pen in my hands. “I am his son”, the officer said and went on to introduce himself properly. “Hope we will meet again. I am always on this road this time every day.” I said. “Be careful though, there are lots of bad people these days”, he advised me before we parted. Maybe a pen is mightier than a gun, after all, I thought as I was picking pace, disappearing in the shadows of the trees on Fife Avenues' shoulders.

“Be careful, there lots of bad people these days.” Constable Masamvu’s words stayed with me every time I was trekking along Fife Avenue to the other side. And it didn’t take long for his predictive words to come to pass. It was another seemingly normal day when I got home, emptied my pockets, except for the pen, and started the walk to Greenwood Park. After the business of the day, rather night, I walked back. I got in and out of Greenwood Park with no incidents. However, as I was getting into Third Street from Herbert Chitepo, four guys, dressed in trainers and tracksuits stopped me. My heart pounded. I felt it, they were not good. Was there anywhere to, I would have attempted to run. But there was nowhere to go. On one end, the left side was the huge wall of Dominican Convent and on the right-hand side was a couple of properties including offices and a lodge. However, all were closed, gates shut, doors locked and inside lights switched off. I was forced to stop, to be motionless. They approached and rounded me on all ends except the island along Third Street which had barriers which were enough high enough to stop me from escaping. “Ndeipi, inguvai?” (Hullo! What’s the time?). The one who looked like the leader broke the ice. “Oh time, manje ini handina kana watch but pandasimuka it was around half past nine” (Oops, I don’t have a watch but when I left it was about half-past nine). I responded, feigning confidence and coolness. “Uri kubva kupi?” he asked me whilst inspecting me. He was the only one speaking. The rest were watching me, following whatever gestures I was making. “I am coming from work. I am a gardener in Highlands”. I lied. “You don’t even have a phone for time?” Finally, another voice spoke. “No, I don’t have. I opened my pockets and turned them inside out after taking out everything that was in them. 

The phone or wallet with money is what they wanted but the pen was everything that I had. “Nothing except this”, I said showing them the pen. “Alright. Let’s go boys”, the leader said as he was leading them in the opposite direction from where they had told me they were going. He was convinced that I was telling the truth. The fourth guy, however, did not move. He looked at me for seconds. He didn't believe what I had told them. I expected him to hit me or slap me or do anything to me, given the way he was looking at me. After what seemed like an eternity, he swore despicable and contemptible words before running after his gang. I sighed and struggled to walk away, weak-kneed and tight-lipped. When I gathered strength to share with some people at Mason Court, I was told that I had just had an encounter with a very notorious and infamous gang terrorising people in town  and Avenues areas, and I was lucky to escape without being harmed. They were known as 'Boys remaSneaker'. “Be careful, there are lots of bad people these days”. I thought about Constable Masamvu and his dad, Phenias - Cde Kapisa Moto. I thought it was time to make some adjustments to the night walking. But there was still time for one more incident before the resolution was effected…

From the archives. February 2009. 

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 9: Zimbabwe Footers Association (ZIFA)

The cars which were being destroyed were the same cars which were taking us to campus every morning and back. With taxis and kombi fares skyrocketing, responding to the over 500 million per cent inflation rate, ‘lifts’ were the only option for most of us. Lifts were private vehicles that we begged for discounted fares. In fact, lifts were actually not the only option for some of us. Walking - footing - was the other option. We called it ZIFA; Zimbabwe Footers Association. There was no pride nor honour in being a ZIFA member. No need for subscriptions or membership fees. Just walking to and from campus was enough. So yes, I was a member of ZIFA as well during that time. I knew my roads pretty well, just like fellow ZIFA members and associates. One condition for selecting roads was to choose routes seldom plied by kombis and public transport. This was done for two reasons; to keep ZIFA membership a secret to fellow students and avoid being bothered by touts and kombi drivers. Because I stayed in Greenwood Park, Fife Avenue and 10^th Street - about 8km from the university, the most convenient road was Fifth Street. It was secluded and isolated enough. It was supposed to be. That particular road passed behind the Zimbabwe House which is the residential side of the State House. The security along that road was indicative of that functionality. Even though the President was staying at his private residence in Borrowdale Brooke, the Blue Roof, security details continued to man the area with verve and vigour.

The presence of armed security details made it a very difficult choice for the ZIFA members. There were lots of dos and don’ts and behavioural expectations. For example, you were supposed to just walk looking in front and not looking everywhere. There were no time restrictions along Fifth Street as opposed to Seventh Street aka Borrowdale Road, however, the road was dangerous to use between 6am and 6pm every day. Failure to abide by these restrictions and expectations would attract unnecessary attention from the AK47 wielding soldiers. You were also not supposed to stop. That was a no, no exceptions. I remember the day I was nearly forced to stop on my way from campus. I had my drinking water, borehole water, in a 500ml plastic bottle when I met a gentleman who was coming from the CBD direction. He stopped and asked me for water. I shushed him and handed him the bottle, he was very grateful. But before consuming, he asked if it was safe to drink. I understood him because the nation was reeling from a serious cholera outbreak that had claimed many lives and was still prevailing. Harare, in particular, Budiriro, Glen View(s), Mabvuku and Chitungwiza suburbs were ravaged, typical of the epicentre. But the whole country was under siege from the communicable disease. I told him it was borehole water and dismissed him. He wanted to drink and hand back the drinking bottle but I told him no need. He could not understand so I whispered; “We are not allowed to stop here”. Lucky him, he was going the other direction, towards Alexandra Park. Meanwhile, one soldier literally jumped off the pine tree and landed in a neat flower bed, destroying a few in the process. He did not bother enumerating the damages. He ran on the freshly irrigated and manicured lawn towards me.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 8: The Centre No Longer Holding

I had known Cutman for some time and had found him as a very likeable and jovial individual. But there was one trait about him that I didn’t know; bravery. He surprised me when he took over leadership of this protest and defined its course. I could only smile in admiration. He reminded me of the inscription on the t-shirt that I had consciously worn on that day. It was a simple plain white written in black: Born to Rule. Gen 1:28. This was the theme at our church the previous year. ‘Born to rule’, I repeated quietly as Cutman was shaping the path. The mob was roaring in agreement, literally eating from Cutman’s palms. “Aluta Continua!!!” he repeated as if to confirm if the first response he had received was genuine or not. And there he got, another thunderous response. If ever he was in doubt, there was no need anymore. We were all in agreement and had given him the mandate to carry the staff and point where he wanted us to go. “Town, town, town!!!” A few voices shouted. I dreaded with fear. Staging a demonstration in Mt Pleasant was one thing, taking that same demonstration to town was an entirely different thing. State security apparatus were not going to just watch us getting in town. They were going to violently crash this. And funny as it was, they were empowered by the law to do so in what lawyers and human rights activists called ‘rule by law’. 

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 7: Munatarisa Pasi!!

On our way to NC6, near the Bursar’s Department, we heard a certain lady screaming. On enquiring what was going on, I was literally shocked. Her hand was firmly gripped by a certain man who was seated on the driver seat in a car. He was swearing and shouting all forms of expletives, and promising to beat her up. Nobody knew what was going on. But that didn’t stop the students from surrounding the car and threatening to burn it. The police responded swiftly by spraying teargas. I felt irritation in my eyes and my running nose struggled to handle it.

As tears were streaming down my cheeks and my chest responding to the contaminated air, I couldn’t find the way. I sneezed in vain. The warm tears continued to flow, reminding me of our round hut in the village. My grandmother would shove in some firewood on the fire, triggering embers and smoke. My eyes would turn red and swell before releasing some tears. “Muri kuchemei bambo?” (Why are you crying my boy?) My concerned grandma would ask, trying to correct whatever would have upset me. Only seeing some blurry and hazy images, I would respond sounding as fine as I could be. “Chiutsi Nhewa, handisi kuchema”. (I am not crying Nhewa (her totem), it’s the smoke). I would say to make grandma relax but alas, she would not be eased. “Mirai nditsvage huni dzakaoma. Zvino zvadzakanaiwa manje. Garai nechekudoor uku, kuri nani”. (The firewood is wet but let me search for dry wood. Meanwhile, you can sit near the door where there is better air circulation). “Bambo Finiyasi nechiutsi havazwananiba”, she would announce to whoever will be in the kitchen with a lovely smile, hiding many decades of pain and hardships. Strong and sweet woman!

Dear Mr. Donald Trump

On any other day, I wouldn't have written this. Instead, I would be observing and watching the race from a distance albeit closely like I have always done.

However, this is not a normal day neither is the November 8th election. When America sneezes, the world catches a cold, goes the saying. I don't know if you know about it but this side we are fully aware of it. Whether deliberately or unintentionally, America influences all facets of our life here. Music. Grammar. Television programs. Films and movies, even the animated ones. Dressing. And now even accent. It's all American. People's intelligence is measured and subsequently judged by how close their accent is to the 'American accent'. Obviously very few pass the bar, but we are all trying...

Dear The Roadside Mango Tree

I know it's offseason, the time you never expect any appreciation. But I have decided to write because that's the time you're busy setting your flowers, and the bees are buzzing in full support. This is winter when you get cold lashes to test your character if you survive this, as you have always, there's the wind coming your way. It shall blow from all directions, splitting and sweeping. Your offspring shall be tried and tempted while waiting for spring; the fainthearted shall fall. But despair not for what's genuinely yours shall hang on, journeying on to fruition.

Many years ago, we saw you sprouting from nowhere, hiding between ordinary and strange bushes to evade predation. Nobody owned you; we all thought you were going to die. If not of herbivory, because our goats foraged right next to you every day, then of thirst. Nobody bothered watering you, leaving your fate in the hands of your creator. Your doomsday was drawn in our minds. When I looked at you growing, I saw nothing but just a little tree trying to defeat destiny. How could you grow right on the wayside where you were susceptible to being trampled? I felt pity; I doubted if you were ever going to make it. Let me admit, I underrated your power of endurance. I misunderstood the resilience that you showed in silence. When your leaves left you, you grieved in silence. When your roots were too short to reach the water-rich zone, you pushed further down, in silence. I never heard you complaining and I mistook that for lack of confidence though I had no evidence to support it.

Dear The Past

As you might be aware, I have moved on. In case you didn't know, take this correspondence as a formal termination of the relationship that we have had. Yes, we broke bread and partook from the same glass. But that was then. Staying together henceforth would give me a false sense of security. Look, the bread is since gone, and the glass is broken. Although we have beautiful stories and memories to tell, they are not helping anymore since they are just but stories. Memories of good times bring tears not good times.

Yes, I have erred and trespassed back then. I was tried and convicted. Because I am stuck in you, with you, my sentence is not coming to an end. Is it a life sentence? When am I going to be pardoned and left to pick the pieces of whatever is left and mend them? Is it a crime that our paths once crossed? Each time I attempt to move forward, you either trip me to fall and start all over or you persuade me to start all over again. You keep on reminding me of the petty things that I did. You keep on bringing it back to obstruct me from moving forward. For how long am I going to be a prisoner, your prisoner? For how long am I going to be blackmailed? Not this time again. I am moving on.

Dear Wakanda

You know everyone is talking about us, me and you and everyone else here. They just can't stop talking and envying us. Ours is a story of progress and development. A story of prosperity and innovation. A story of protection and care. A vibrant story of Vibranium. It feels so good when they are talking about us like this - when they've got good and positive things to say. The past weeks I've been in euphoria. This is us, this is our story I would say whenever I hear your name. We all thank the Black Panther for that alternative voice. Our story has been told differently this time around.

But the excitement of the past weeks is finally dying down - the flame is almost gone, just left with some glowing embers in charcoal dust. Now is time to reflect and let reality sink in again. In fact, we don't have Vibranium here. That's the truth! But we have tungsten and bauxite in Sierra Leone. Both tungsten and bauxite are on-demand world over. But a whopping 7682.00 Sierra Leonean Leones are equivalent to just 1 US dollar. How does this work?

Dear Ma - I am Still Standing (Same Old, Same Old)

It's been a long run ma. No time for crawling, just running. Running in the heat, running in the rain. No rehearsals, no practice. No running shoes. No pathways. I have been running in the bushes, in the bundu, in the floods - barefooted. But I am still standing.

I have adopted a little corner on the street where I can see a little clearer now. You remember that street? A lot has changed around it, but it is still the same. Same old, same old. Still unpaved, still dusty and even still potholed. We look at it every day and hope… They say dreams come true.

You might have heard of the new changes taking place around here. Again, it’s the same old, same old. You have seen this before. One guy putting the horse before the cart and another cutting the branch he is sitting on. Drearily predictable and familiar. They keep promising that the cut tree will shoot again. But they are mum on the fate of the guy. And ma, that season is upon us again. The season of endless pledges from those vying for office and hunting for power. They flatter and make us blush. For a moment we forget that the same hymn had been cited many times before. No one actually sang it though. And no one is even now.

But don’t worry Ma, I am still standing.

Your Son, Phenias F. Sadondo (Written on 17 October 2017 and first appeared here Dear Ma

Dear Kirsty Coventry

Years back I heard of you. They said you're a very special swimmer, the queen of waters. It sounded very special to me, a swimmer too, albeit an amateur one. My swimming was out of necessity. With no special skills, no special clothing, no googles; my swimming was for two reasons. To cool my body in the scorching summer sun or to cross the river to and from school or shops. It was very special in its own way. Holding clothes in one hand and splitting the waters with another, gulping the muddy waters a couple of times before finally crossing with reddened eyes and a shaking body. Fighting drowning, fighting germs unconsciously, fighting logs, fighting aquatic species - from ordinary fish to dangerous snakes. That's all I knew about swimming.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 6

Now the Dean started with a question that was not welcomed by many. He asked, “What’s your problem?”. We found it sarcastic and ironic. So he couldn’t see? He couldn’t read? Notices that fees have been hiked, and was going to be paid in foreign currency - greenbacks, were now plastered everywhere at the university including the Dean’s Complex. Does he need someone to remind him that, I wondered in silence. Before I could find the most appropriate words to politely condemn him in my mind, I found myself subconsciously running together with everyone else. I was in the middle of everyone and couldn’t see what was going on. I could have cursed my vertical restrictions but I took solace in my functional instincts. I don’t really have to see it, I just need to feel and sense it. I comforted myself. I ran in the direction the mob was taking. My instincts told me there was an intruder. Our gathering was unsanctioned by the police according to the provisions of POSA.

Tuku Tribute: Todii?

This past week was a very difficult one for Zimbabwe, Africa and the world at large. The world-renowned Afro-Jazz Icon, Oliver ‘Samanyanga’ Mtukudzi, also known as Tuku, died after a long battle with diabetes. Tuku had been in and out of the hospital in the past months. The worst came on January 23^rd, 2019 when he eventually succumbed to the disease. Judging from stories that were reported in the local press, the beloved Tuku was losing the battle. Newspapers reported about cancelled and rescheduled shows, postponed engagements and the fight for survival in Tuku’s last days. And then the inevitable happened.

I struggled to accept the news as they were filtering in. One Twitter user and editor of Harare’s popular tabloid posted a very short yet strange tweet on his timeline. ‘I hope it’s not true’, that’s all he said. I was clueless, just like most of his followers. But I realised, as I was scrolling down the comments, that some seemed aware of what it was all about. Whilst most comments were trying to push the journalist to give details, a few were already sending in their condolences. One follower was very brazen, ‘Yeah, Tuku is no more…’, he posted. I searched on Twitter again and found one ‘ghost’ account which had posted about the news. They tagged various news houses in Zimbabwe. My heart skipped a beat and I hoped it was not true. Since about 2012, fake news about Tuku’s death had been spread leading to Tuku to jokingly say, "Kana ndafa ndichavafonera". (When I am dead, I will call to inform them). I did a quick Google search, Newsday had a developing story; Breaking News: Oliver Mtukudzi dies. I had no reason not to believe Newsday but I found the urge to doubt it given that they quoted anonymous sources. Those were just wishes but deep down I felt it too. Mdhara was gone. A few hours later, it was all over the internet and press.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 5

Someone in the crowd suggested we go to the Dean’s Complex. We did. I estimated the number of people to be somewhere between 800 and 1000. When I saw Darlington Zaranyika, whom we also called Dalas, in the crowd, I felt yet another bout of relief. Darlington and I had been friends for over four years. I vividly recalled the first day we met for the first time. What a confident lad, I thought as he was quizzing me about where I was coming from, what I was studying and my O level grades. This was my first A level day. He was studying commercials and I was doing sciences but Mathematics was our umbilical cord. Even if there was no such connection, Darlington appeared like someone I could trust and hang around with. Our first conversation was quickly aborted when a Senior Master, Mr Sanyamandwe, appeared on the window. He quickly glanced at everyone before setting his inquisitive eyes on us, Darlington and myself. I felt uneasy but Darlington didn’t appear bothered at all. Perhaps because he had been at this school for a much longer period than me. In contrast, this was my very first day. “You two are making noise. You…,” the unimpressed teacher pointed at Darlington, “sit properly”. Darlington’s chair was turned around so he could speak to me. He was also sitting on the wrong side of the chair. His chest was leaned on the back of the chair and his arms embracing it. I looked at Darlington praying he would comply. He did, I sighed. The tall teacher, wearing a heavy white beard and an afro, walked away convinced he had instilled some discipline in our little and 'receptive' heads. Little did he know the compliance was not to last. Almost immediately, Darlington repeated his stance. 

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 4

I wanted to leave immediately but I couldn’t. Curiosity urged me to stay a little longer and watch. Watch? I was equally affected by this. How could I just watch a stone that was about to strike me? Just to borrow from Dambudzo Marechera… The student who had gathered the courage to address everyone else wasn’t discouraged by cautions about the Great Hall being locked. He quickly improvised. A few moments later, he was now on the small wall surrounding the Great Hall. “Ahoy UBA!!! Ahoy USA!!”. UBA and USA are monikers used by university students in Zimbabwe referring to university male students and female students respectively, standing for University Bachelors Association and University Spinsters Association. “Ahoy!!!!”, both UBAs and USAs responded to the war cry as started by the brave man who had gathered the courage to address everyone. Although this was my very first time of physically witnessing this, I wasn’t oblivious of the course it was taking and the consequences. With the Public Order and Security Act (POSA) intact, this thing was likely going to be violently crushed by the security forces. I contemplated leaving again, but once again curiosity forced me to stay. I looked around, some UBAs and USAs were still undecided, just like me. But because this was affecting all of us, they were gathering some courage. Meanwhile, the man addressing us never got discouraged.

Back then

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are demonstrating against the 400.00 US dollars that we have been asked to pay before exams”. He erased all my doubts. This was a demo, I confirmed whilst securing my shoelaces preparing to run away. With my shoes done, and my belt tightened, I decided to wait for a few moments and listen a little more. And then a battle started in my mind… If I leave, will I not be betraying the cause? Am I not affected by this decree just like everyone else? Do I have the capacity to pay? Who is earning that much in US dollars? Yes, in January - the previous month - that year, the Acting Finance Minister had officialised the use of multicurrency in the country. But even government workers were earning just $100.00 which was coming in the form of grocery vouchers and redeemable fuel coupons. I had no capacity to pay what was needed, let alone in under two weeks. After a few moments of reflection, I decided to stay.