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.