The big tree has fallen…

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

Where did the Sa in your name come from?

Where did the Sa in your surname come from?

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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