Posts
Phenias Sadondo
When
dad came back home, after a long and exhausting day at work, he mentioned –
albeit in passing – the meetings that they had had at work. He did not want to
divulge more because the outcome was depressing. This was clearly written on
his face. Moreover, work was weighing him down. He had not been himself in the
previous days. But there was something, more than just routine, which was
affecting him. After all, his routine was cast in the stone. Wake up early,
bath, carry his lunch pack – which mum would have prepared before dawn – and
embark on the long march. Several miles and over an hour later, he would reach
his destination. If it was Milimani Estate, then the walk would continue for a
little longer. Always punctual, time-conscious and cognisant of his leadership
roles and responsibilities at work, he would always be on time. Although
distance would remain unchanged, his journey back home was not as strenuous –
as the return journey effect would
kick in.
He
would make a few stopovers on the road, greeting the elders and patriarchs of
the village, chatting with the neighbours about the weather, and even praying
for the sick. His kinsmen knew his time of knocking off, so they would wait for
him on the road, more like on the footpath. For someone who would spend a lot
of time in the estates or at the factory or the Main office, these roadside
conversations were really important for him to catch up with what would have
transpired in his absence. He would be informed of pending cases at the
headman’s court, padare rasabhuku.
Sometimes he would be consulted on certain matters that needed a sober mind.
Being teetotaller and always citing the Holy Scriptures, his advice and
interventions were highly regarded.
These
stopovers would sometimes make him get home after dark. He would get home to
worried, anxious and sometimes even hungry faces. His mother, our now late
grandmother, would have declared that there was not going to be supper until
her son was back. Even if she had not made that pronouncement, there was no
appetite for food. It was difficult to eat when were not sure where dad was
after dark. That was how we did things. We moved together – leaving nobody
behind. We broke bread and gave thanks together. Dinner was served when everyone
was back or when we were sure that they were not coming back that day. The
prepared food would be left untouched, unserved, in the pots by the fireplace. The
moment he would walk into the house, we would all melt with joy. We would
celebrate that dad was home and also that food would be finally served. But dad
would sometimes decline food. “Don’t worry, I have had dinner already.” Some of
our many relatives, who would have intercepted him and invited him for prayers,
would also have prepared dinner for him. Yes, we had a lot of relatives.
Typical
of our serene yet closely knit village, everyone was our relative. We shared
totems with others whilst others were related to people we shared totems with.
The village was full of uncles, aunties, nieces, nephews and all relations in
the ‘big book of African relationships’. Everyone was connected to everyone,
sometimes in more than one way. And these relations were always revised based
on new information. They would go like you were my uncle before but now my
daughter was married by a Save, so
you are now my nephew. Such revisions
were common. After the new information, all the kids would be summoned in the
hut to be reintroduced to the ‘new’ relatives. Mum would place twigs on the
open fire and blow on it before saying, “this one here is no longer your uncle,
he is now your brother – his mother and I are sisters, we are both Dziva.” Sitting respectfully on the
floor with legs folded, clapping hands, we would respond, “tafara kukuzivai babamudiki, ahh sorry mukoma”, more like ‘it’s
nice to know you, again.’ This is someone we would have known for years but because
of the new information, these reintroductions were befitting. Our ‘new’
relative would smile, “don’t worry vanin’ina,
muchajaira henyu.” (Don’t worry my
little brothers, you will soon be used to our new relationship).
That’s
how life rolled; blissful, chilled and unflustered. That’s also why when dad
got back home in low spirits, I was worried.
Everyone was. When he casually mentioned the meetings, I did not know
how to probe him to disclose more. I was just a kid. So I waited. Normally he
would open up during dinner, if we were lucky. And we were lucky that day. The
meeting was between GAPUZ – a workers’ union for those in agricultural sector –
and the company bureaucrats regarding the minimum wage. The economy, although
still standing, was crumbling. All indications were there. Twenty dollars was
no longer the highest note we had, Dr Leonard Tsumba, then RBZ Governor, had
introduced a $50 note. Hushed voices alleged that there was going to be another
bout of currency changes in a few months. This bred anxiety and uncertainty in
the already sneezing economy. Industry caught a cold as a result. Workers in
the agricultural sector, which was the backbone of the economy, felt the pinch.
ESAP, with its wave of retrenchments and pay cuts, did not make it any easier for
them as it caused the economy to shrink. GAPUZ, an affiliate of ZCTU, mediated
between the employer and the employees. Progress in these talks was slow,
salary increments were not effected immediately yet prices were going up. Dad
was worried and I understood him. Everyone,
even musicians, did.
The
radio had many songs exposing the dire consequences of ESAP and the ensuing
economic meltdown. Many musicians had their own ways of packing and
disseminating the information but, it was Leonard Zhakata who brought a full
package that resonated with many people. At just 26, a boy from Maungwe in
Makoni District, had grown into a man. What he lacked in stature, he possessed
in wisdom. After some hits at Maungwe Brothers, where he partnered with Thomas
Makion, Leonard decided to go solo and introduced his arrival in earnest with Maruva Enyika which carried the hit song
Mugove. Mugove, which became an instant hit and threatened to replace the
national anthem, was an embodiment of people’s worries and fears. What we had
no words to explain was perfectly explained in that song. What my father had
failed to tell us, the song did. A heap of metaphors and riddles, Mugove was, ironically, easy for
everyone to decipher. They just interpreted it according to their
circumstances. There was no need for Zhakata to explain anything, the message
was loud and clear in its encrypted form. He made it even more exciting by
accompanying the song with flowing and melodious instruments, and a catchy
chorus. A sing along chorus. What the lyrics missed, the guitars captured. It
was a perfect song, perfect enough to capture all the emotions. At just 26,
Zhakata graduated into a legend. The young and the old fell for his music. He
became a messenger with a specific message. Playing on vinyl, on a battery
powered gramophone with undistorted sound quality, Mugove would hit differently.
Whilst
dancing and listening to the genuine grumbles, revellers hailed their newly
found superstar’s philosophical prowess. Questions were asked on how exactly
his compositions were done. There were no answers except that the man was
immensely talented. But that answer was not good enough in the village which is
why some would confidently claim that Zhakata dreamt all his songs. Some
supernatural force was behind him. Maruva
Enyika and Mugove in particular had
the mojo for Zhakata as people started paying attention to his previous
masterpieces like Shungu dzemoyo and Tungidza gwenya which he recorded with
Maungwe Brothers.
As
if Maruva Enyika was not good enough,
Zhakata struck again the following year with Nhamo Dzenyika which carried gems like Upenyu Mutoro and the title track. In both songs, Zhakata spoke for
the voiceless. He, like in Mugove, said
what we all failed to say. He downloaded our wishes and aspirations from our
minds and weaved them into melodies. The clarity and precision with which he
did that were incredible. No wonder why some would break down whilst listening
to his songs. At a place called Blue House Hotel at Zindi Township, in the
picturesque Honde Valley – or more aptly Rambanai Hotel – I witnessed a man
crying whilst listening to Upenyu Mutoro.
“Tenzi weee, upenyu hunoramba zvandinoda
asi mumaroto nemukuronga munobuda chivimbo chekuti ndichakunda. Mati shungu
dzoperera mufungidziro here? Tenzi mukandikanganwa mungarwadzisa. Baba chichemo
chondosiyawo kwamuri… Tenzii weee huyai mumire segwevedzi pakati pangu nekose
kandinoda mogodyarazve nekudiridzira mhodzi yerudooo… Ini zvandikunda.
Douyaiiii huyai mundivhikirirewo kune vaye vaye vakapikira daka risina
chikonzero neni zvangu muranda, vanorweiko….” The song got too heavy for
him. He shook his scud, took a sip from it, then he shook his head and danced a
bit before leaning on the wall. His eyes swelled. He used the back of his bare
palm to wipe off the waters of anguish before looking around to see if anyone
was paying attention. Of course I was but I immediately sneaked away with a
plastic bag loaded with some groceries. I was too young to be here but
Zhakata’s voice on the big speakers had pulled me closer.
Just
to confirm that he was not a one season wonder, Zhakata did not stop serenading
us with his deep and thought-provoking yet danceable tunes. Nzombe Huru and Vagoni Vebasa came almost immediately. But perhaps it was in Ndingaita Sei? when he outdid himself. Laden
with flowery, philosophical and metaphysical songs, the album is simply a jewel.
It starts from the title which expresses the biggest philosophical questions;
what are we supposed to be doing here and how should we conduct ourselves here?
Ndinozivei Zvangu, summarises the intention
of the album; to question and respond to questions. But both the questions and
the answers are enigmatic, leaving an unrehearsed mind mystified and even more confused.
As
Zhakata’s star kept on growing and glowing, his enemies multiplied in an equal
measure. Those who failed to decipher his lyrics misinterpreted everything.
Figures and symbols – which were simply figures and symbols – were personified.
His message was distorted and given an entirely different meaning. A media
blackout ensued. Mubikira and Hodho albums were the first victims. Puzzled
and disgruntled, Zhakata penned a few songs to question his torment. For
instance Warrior, off the Hodho album, was an expression of his frustrations.
He contemplated quitting and leaving it all. Unfortunately, these songs did not
reach everyone because he was shutout on radio. It was common to hear people
asking if Zhakata was still in the country and if he was still singing.
However, his faithful fans lingered on. I remember my brother Victor waiting in
a queue – together with other diehard followers in Mutare – to buy the Udza
Vamwe/Spread the Message cassette. We thanked him profusely and rewarded his
efforts by playing the cassette nonstop for days. The song ‘I Promise’ was the
one we repeated often. He was telling us everything we wanted to know… “Gwayana riri kuitwa mutaranganya mbudzi
yengozi…” His deep lyrics had earned him enemies in high places but he did
not stop.
Over
the years, he has remained lively and consistent. Armed with a guitar –
precisely, a sub-rhythm guitar, a beautiful vibrato, a mighty pen and a
microphone, the ZORA maestro has continued to churn philosophy packed songs. Now
54, Zhakata has survived the unforgiving and tempting showbiz industry. This
longevity is attributed to his self-discipline, self-respect and humility. He
is considered by many, both in and out of the industry, as a yardstick of how one
should conduct themselves. With an impeccable record and no known scandals,
Zhakata is indeed a benchmark of morality who deserves his flowers in his
lifetime. //
Phenias
Sadondo is a Natural Scientist and Lecturer who can be contacted by email at: phineassadondo@gmail.com
