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.