Do Zimbabweans have a penchant for international music?

So let's make a few things straight before meandering into this. I don't know much about how other countries react to international music. I have stayed for longer than 3 years in only two countries; Zimbabwe and South Africa. Both beautiful countries. Just a gentle reminder to would-be opposers of that notion, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Ask political economists, Zimbabwe is beautiful. Ask a political scientist, Zimbabwe is beautiful. We gave those guys so much to do in the past two decades, so yes Zimbabwe is beautiful to them. You can even ask a tourist. The Majestic Victoria Falls. Hwange National Park. Mana Pools. Matusadonha. My beloved Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe. The Great Zimbabwe itself. Indeed Zimbabwe is beautiful. Now ask a music fan... I have no idea what they'll tell you.

Do Music Genres Die?

Do genres of music die? Is Zimdancehall going to die? I have heard several people predicting the imminent death of Zimdancehall. I almost joined the bandwagon. But then stopped to think a bit. Probably music die. Genres die.

Think of Soukous. I love Sahlomon but... It's all gone now. Panzura of Ntombi Marhumbini and Gelly Mafura. It's all gone. Black Mambazo choral music. Beautiful but dying or is dead already? Country music! I don't know where it's going now if not to the graves. It seems music actually die.

Leonard Dembo's Twist In The Song

Listening to Leonard Dembo. An undisputed legend as far as Zimbabwean music is concerned. I might have erred there because, well I don't really know how to define Zimbabwean music. But that's for another day. Leonard was a genius. It's both his music and background that one can easily identify with. Maybe. Pardon my one-word sentences. They reflect, maybe badly, on my Dambudzo Marechera allegiances. Or do they? If so, it was unintentional. Back to Dembo, I was too young when he died young. I remember the day, probably the week, when he passed on. We had no radio for news. We used to rely on old newspapers and magazine pages - usually used to wrap soap - from the shops. Shops I said? Actually it was - and still it is - just one shop. Sorry, I digressed. I was talking about Dembo. The day he passed on, news traveled fast. Fast that even us, who used to rely on stale news and gossipers, got the news instantly. Everyone in our little village who could talk, talked about it. Both fact and fiction were offered. I remember consuming it all. It took me years to understand who he was. Still, I don't. I mean both the man and his works. 

The man and his words. His father passed on when he was still a little boy. His uncle took over custodianship of the children - Leonard and his siblings. Leonard's mother went back to her family. The family looked disintegrated. Leonard couldn't proceed with education. He dropped out of school. Calamity! Pause. Hope you read this paragraph with the song 'Babamunini'. If not, here's a little reminder. 'Babamunini hamungadaro, muchirega tine nhamo kubva zvakafa baba ka'. Mean something? It has to. 

Tell Mama I Tried

If I don't make it, tell my mama I tried. I tried to mount the mound which wasn't easy. On both ends they're expecting - one end expecting to welcome me and on the other end they are expecting me stay. It's hard to feed both expectations and stay nourished. For no one can successfully travel on two conflicting roads. It's hard to serve and accommodate two divergent masters without putting one on the altar to appease the other. But if I don't make it,tell mama I tried. Solutions aren't solutions until they're proven. Swimmers are giving hiking notes to hikers. Nomads are offering solutions to the ensconced. Those with full stomachs are giving advice on how to manage hunger. Those with no intentions to travel are asking for directions. Those with no intentions to serve are seeking for office. Going up and down in the name of the people without the people. Using the people as scapegoats... Mama I tried. It's cold there, it's hot here. The same water that has been deferred from here is causing floods there. The same sun that is burning there is rarely seen here. Adapting to ever-changing conditions is not for the fainthearted. Even the prepared sink... But the journey has to continue. The beginning has to end and the end has to end. The end has to mark another beginning. The dreamer has to act on the dreams to make them real. The thinker has to give life to the thoughts. The wordsmith has to weave words with limps so they can move and move the listeners. But if I don't make it, I have tried. Despite what make me shiver, despite what make me shiver like a reed in the river... I have tried to dance to the beat while listening to the words. Sometimes it's conflicting and I get conflicted. But one day the scapegoat will escape! Can it be contained forever? But will it cross to the other end?

Honde Valley Banana Farmers. Photo Credit: Doreen Hove, USAID

...And That's How Tinky Died

We all gathered around Tinky's first egg listening to Uncle Gilbert speaking in his hoarse voice, constantly spitting into the fire. Well, it wasn't really a fire but some flickering and dying embers. You know we don't make fires ourselves, we are much lower on the rung of life to even think about that. Previous co-occupants, for just one night, must have left their fire alive either out of utter carelessness or consideration for us because it was in winter. But I am sure it was as a result of the latter not the former because we don't need fire. We do just fine with our inbuilt temperature regulatory systems. Some of us need light but some don't, they roam around in the darkness. They still survive, grow and even reproduce in darkness. In any case, this fire wasn't to enhance our life.

"That...", Uncle Gilbert pointed at a freshly laid egg in the centre, "...is the beginning of life. Today is a day of celebration but we need to be careful and not over celebrate because Tinky has covered only a span of a mile. It's still an egg, still early days in the journey of life..." I searched for Tinky to see how she was reacting to her achievement. She wasn't in the house, the big house in which all of us resided. But her mom, who was my mom also, was present. I asked her of Tinky's whereabouts. "Outside, hunting", she whispered so as not to interrupt Uncle Gilbert. Interrupting Uncle Gilbert, the eldest member of our clan, was a punishable offence. Dink, my twin brother, was banished after appearing to be undermining our revered uncle's wisdom. I have never seen him again ever since. Rumours and gossip in the compound had it that he had travelled many days to another mountain on the other side of the valley. But others said he was killed by some unidentified assailants. I tried as hard to push Dink out of my mind and refocus my wandering thoughts on Tinky. Tinky was outside, hunting? It unsettled me. Nothing was wrong with that because we are mostly lone rangers. What was odd though was that Tinky was supposed to be present to consume the wisdom that Uncle Gilbert was belting about life. After all, it was her or rather her eggs, her progeny to be, who were at the centre of today's presentation by our esteemed uncle.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 1

February 3rd, 2009 was a Tuesday but felt like a misplaced Monday. When I reluctantly woke up in the morning all looked good except that lingering feeling. I pushed the curtain to one side, searching for the sun. It wasn’t there yet but all the indications were there, it was going to be a good day. But no, the feeling was there too. I tried to push it away whilst reaching for the door. My bed was scruff, I reckoned. Books, notepads, pens, sheets, blankets… But can you really blame me? With exams scheduled to start in just under two weeks and assignments pressing hard? I sighed, trying to gather the guts and strength to open the door and start the day, a new day. I was feeling a little weak and very reluctant. Is it because I had gone a little too far with studying the previous night or perhaps, I knew exactly what was going to happen? The golden sun rays were already smiling at me. I smiled back and attempted to wave but I couldn’t. Nobody would have understood that gesture. Waving at the sun?

A Bronze Medal

So now I have a very beautiful Bronze Medal to hang somewhere as a souvenir. It’s a pity that this medal will be lonely in the frame. But I will keep it safe and dangling, maybe I will be motivated to add another. Or maybe I will just look back and enjoy the memories. Either way, yesterday was a memorable day in many ways. It reaffirmed that sometimes the barriers we fear are non-existent in reality. The limits that deter us are just us. They are in our minds. Yes, yesterday didn’t just start yesterday.

It started with just a casual talk during lunch some days back. A very respectable person asked if I was running in the Marathon. I was astounded but couldn’t show it. Running? Me? Never! I tried to remember the last time that I had participated in athletics. I traced every step that I have taken to be here but couldn’t see where I found bliss in running. I mean I spent my secondary and high school days running away from running, like literally. I would run faster than everyone just to escape running. At some point, I celebrated an injury that claimed my toenail. Although the pain was unbearable, the relief from running was warm and wonderful. I would attend classes with my right shoe in the bag and tears streaming but my mind was very settled. At least there would be no running for that entire year. Looking back, I will just say, ‘forgive me for I knew not what I was doing’.

A Day In The Shoes Of A Soccer Referee

Okay, so I used to play soccer. Yep! Just playing for fun on the untarred roads of Sakubva Mutare and dusty grounds in Honde Valley. It was one of those. In places bereft of entertainment, soccer was an easy route. Oh yes, we had plenty of water bodies too... So yeah, after playing the aptly constructed plastic-rugs ball, we would take a dive into the fast flowing rivers. The ball itself would get us in trouble mainly because it was made of packaging materials meant for something else. Storing grain. Keeping seeds. Carrying vegetables from the garden etc. Furthermore, on the scale of tradeoffs, playing the ball meant that something was going to be sacrificed. For instance, fetching water from the well or herding the goats or even hiking for firewood. But we would find a way of striking a balance somehow. A balance which was never balanced. We were young with not so much sense for time management.

After successfully smuggling a few plastics out of the house, my brother Charles would exercise his expertise. He would mould and tie them into a fine soccer ball that we would hit and kick all day long. Hitting it on the wall. Sometimes we would take it to the 'ground' where we would play 1-aside, 2-aside, 5-aside - whatever number - soccer. Sometimes there was an odd number of players making it 'difficult' to make two teams. But this was the easiest of all our problems. We would simply ask that 'extra' guy to play for both teams. Yes, he would swap sides at 'halftime'. Usually, this position was reserved for the worst player. We would refer to him as 'Jekakwose' - a 

double-edged sword. Maintaining neutrality as a Jekakwose was really difficult. The guy, who was awful in one team, will change completely in the second half - creating and scoring goals sometimes. That drastic change in form was influenced mainly by family ties and friendships.