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

 

They Called It Academic Genocide 13: Grandpa Benjamin Fought Hitler

 Having thrown my books down, I felt a slight relief. The burden of the books and the folder was weighing me down. But the physical relief did not bring the desired emotional relief. If anything, I was troubled even more. What’s next? It was a question with no answers. I looked around and saw at least twenty troubled souls. The same question was engraved on their faces in symbols that I easily decoded. What’s next? To my left there was a female student, a USA. She was distressed and anxious. Her anxiety was literally audible. I quickly inspected her. Her face was stained by tears, her eyes red with anguish and her knees trembling. She had one shoe missing. It was probably stuck somewhere in the maize field. She seemed oblivious of the missing shoe as she was focused on her prayers. “Oh God, what is this? Oh God, what have I done?” She prayed fervently though very few words were coming out. The rest were just murmurs and indecipherable tongues. I felt pity for her. As if conscious of my eyes on her, and my own burdens, she whispered; “it shall be well.” I nodded in faith.

“Lie down!!! Pasi munhu wese!” One officer shouted. I was putting on a white tee. The soils were red and moist. I looked at the cop who had given the instruction, he was unbothered. We were on the ground in a few seconds. And the beating started. I was closing my eyes when I felt it. The assault stick. It crossed my back to the shoulder blade. I felt the swelling and a lump appeared immediately. I tried to reach it to, at least, scratch the itching. “Nooooo! Usabata usabata (Don’t touch it)” Another cop instructed me. I removed my hand and used it to cover my face. I was tensed, anticipating another hit. I waited and waited for what seemed like eternity. It never came. I could still hear sounds of others being beaten and ladies screaming. “We want to see your phones!” Another instruction was barked. I reached mine and exhibited it. “Take it back”. I obeyed. It wasn't sophisticated enough. Then they started examining phones with cameras. They went into the galleries, searching for videos and photos of that day’s events. In our group, no one had such media. 

As the cops were busy with their duties, my mind was busy. I looked at one cop and saw my grandfather whom I had, and will, never see. He was a cop too. In the pro-independence Zimbabwe, then Southern Rhodesia, my grandfather was a police officer. Perhaps not a full officer but just a black watch, bhurukwacha, for his race could not give him such privileges. He was black man in an unequal society. Irrespective of his inferior post in the force, grandma had proudly told us of Benjamin’s exploits. He was a loved and respected man. He was determined and committed. And yes, typical of those times, he was also a polygamist. Grandma Erinah was the first wife. Grandfather was enrolled into the forces, Reserve Forces from Africa, that went to fight in the Second World War. Grandma would say, sekuru wenyu akarwa hondo yaHitra (Your grandpa fought Hitler). We were so proud of him. He was one of the over a million forces from Africa who fought in WW2.. I wished I had met him even once. But it didn’t happen and will never happen in this lifetime. “We found him dead in Nyanga area.” Grandma would narrate. “What happened to him?” I would question. Was he shot? Who killed him? “Nothing was conclusive”, she would say before changing the topic. Granny was widowed at a very young. She had to bear it all alone, raising her kids alone. 

History lessons at school, especially the WW2 was sentimental. It reminded me of Grandfather Benjamin. I wanted to be like him, I would fantasise. I would visualise him in his khaki shorts, long socks and shining brown shoes. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to take his fancy metallic pen which was always displayed on his breast pocket. I looked at the cops again as they were still checking the phones. What would Benjamin do in situations like this? How would Benjamin do it? I felt tears again. These were nostalgia tears. Tears that were taking me to places I had never been to. Tears bringing faces and places. I was brought back to reality when the cop on the radio was ‘raising’ Harare Central Police. I picked from the conversation that they wanted to take us there. I felt disjointed and disoriented. 

They Called It Academic Genocide 12: There’s No Rebel In Me...

The few feet that Darlington was ahead with made a huge difference. He, followed by another guy, was the first to emerge from the field. I was close behind, a bit overwhelmed by a pile of books that I was holding but still fairly fast. Instincts had told us to leave the field immediately when we realised that everyone else was following us. We needed no Cutman to tell us that we were hiding in plain sight and that it was no longer safe. We ran diagonally across the yard towards the other end. A disturbed house helper, clad in her floral maid dress, froze whilst holding a dish, ready to throw away some water. Had she decided to do it, I might have received my second baptism. She opened her mouth as if intending to say something. But stopped. I felt pity for her. How was she going to account for the maize stalks that had been felled by dozens of students seeking refugee?

About 50 metres behind, I heard some screeching car brakes. The car responded positively, coming to an instant halt. And the voice emerged, “Batai vanhu, batai vose…. Basa rakutinetsa” (Catch them all. They are bothering us). One angry cop barked whilst getting into the field. His instructions were followed by some piercing screams, confirming the operation had started. The girls screamed and yelled. I tried to run faster but the screams had disoriented me. Even so, I did not stop. Darlington got out of the field straight on to the road and continued running without looking back. The second guy did the same. I was the third to get out of the yard, a few metres behind. 

I looked left, ready to get on the road. As I was about to get on the road, I glimpsed something that made me dread with fear. I couldn’t ignore it. I sweated. Maybe I have been sweating, having been running for quite a long distance, but at that time I became conscious of my sweat. It was cold and swift. I did not need anyone to tell me that I was scared. My body did it for me. Adrenaline was released instantly. The Fight or Flight Hormone. But who was I going to fight? The gun-wielding cop? How was I going to fly away from the cocked gun which was pointed at me? This time adrenaline brought only fear. With just one instruction, I threw my books away and sat down. The matter had escalated beyond resistance. Beyond a few songs and dance at NC6. It had grown bigger than Geology and Ideology. With my face buried in my palms, I kept convincing myself that I was not a rebel. I remembered only one incident when I was mistakenly punished for being a rebel in an otherwise impeccable record.

Coming Soon! When the gods are sleeping...

When the gods are sleeping excerpts...

The Bully...

"Hello! What do you mean by drawings?" Still holding the phone, Hus looked exhausted. It was written all over his face. He wiped his face and pinched his nose. It was clear he was struggling to keep his eyes open. The caffeine dosage he had had was fading away, exposing him to his limitations.

"Drawings? I don't understand". Attempts to get finer details were failing. Whoever, or whatever, was on the other end of the line was not giving out the details as Hus would have loved. He tried to probe but was not given a satisfactory response. "Look, I don't know what you are talking about. Maybe you're calling a wrong number", he said preparing to drop the receiver back in its socket. But his hesitancy was clear.

He decided to give the caller a few seconds with some faint hope that they were going to intersect. He looked in the wall as if reading something. He could have been reading something, only if there was something to read there. But there was nothing. The walls were still fresh having been completed a few weeks earlier. His was face was still pale and irritated. He didn't know who the caller was and why he was calling. His suggestion that it might have been a wrong number was rebuffed. The caller appeared to know what he was doing and whom he was calling. But the caller's insistence for drawings had disturbed him.

His phone had rung several times with no end. At first, he decided to ignore the call and concentrate on what he was working on - giving instructions to the new and inexperienced guys who had joined the team. He obviously thought the call was going to terminate naturally or the caller was going to end it after finding there was no answer on the other end of the line. But when neither happened, he was shocked. "What technology is this?" He thought quietly whilst wiping his tiny forelimbs. Upon picking his equally small gadget, he blew its screen, displacing some dust that had taken residence on the immaculate glass - typical of a construction site. His attempts to read the name or number of the caller were obstructed by the combination of the bright sunlight and the gadget's generously pixeled screen. For a moment his eyes were blighted and he lost vision. In fact, he did not lose it. Through his closed eyes, he could see a combination of blue and black and red patterns which were neither familiar nor peculiar. He knew what he was supposed to do immediately. Half running, half walking, he left for his office - just a few strides away from the site, but it took him longer. Still, the phone was ringing.

His surprise turned into a shock when he checked his little watch fastened on his left forelimb. It's been 3 minutes since the phone had started ringing. And it was still ringing. He pulled a little chair meant for only him from behind the desk and sat down but did not relax. He attempted to read the number displayed on the screen but failed. He did not fail to read the number, he failed to comprehend it. "Is this even a phone number", he sighed heavily whilst still glued to the screen. Yes, there were numbers on the screen but they were not ordinary numbers. Hus was literate enough to deduce that. They were displayed in a conical shape resembling a pinecone. He knew pinecones very well, having gone up and down pine trees. Some were littered under the pine trees all over waiting for a perfect time to release their seeds. He checked the phone again to verify if he had seen properly. And yes, it was still there - a perfect pinecone. This was his first encounter with such a bizarre display of telephone numbers. He couldn't establish where they were starting or ending, all he could see was a pinecone with its shells in place. All made up of numbers, Arabic numbers as they are known. At long last, he decided to swipe on the screen to terminate the call. Instead, to his surprise, he noticed the seconds counting on the screen and there was a voice speaking. The screen still displayed a pinecone.

The voice on the phone was rushy and almost inaudible like someone speaking through a cloth. He failed to place it. "Hus..." The caller had started in almost a hushed voice. "Yes... Who is my guest?" Hus had responded, faking stability and strength. "You'll know Hus; you will know soon enough. But let's clarify a few things. I am not your guest. You are my guest. And it's a pleasure hav..."

"Can you please speak loud; I can't hear you clearly". Hus interrupted the caller, albeit politely.

"Even if I speak like this... ", the voice spoke with a remarkable improvement in clarity, "... you will not place my voice... Face it, Hus, you don't know me. We have never met. You've never heard from me before..."

"It's not about that. I was straining my ears trying to listen. But now, it's much better. We can speak..." Hus feigned some confidence.

"Let's cut short the pleasantries. I know you're fine, so are your countless siblings and offspring. We know thousands are being born as we speak. Isn't it, Hus?"

"Stop insulting my family, please! Just say whatever you want or else I'll terminate this call and blacklist your number..." Hus made his frustrations known to whoever was on the other end.

"Hahaha Hus", the voice laughed annoyingly. "I know you even attempted terminating this call before answering it but did you succeed? Hus my boy! You are not in control, I am. You noticed how my number is displayed on your tiny phone? I bet that's your first time of seeing such number notation..." The voice said in a bragging tone.

"Alright, you won. Who are you and what do you want from me?" Hus had decided to play along with the hope that the caller was going to volunteer his identity but that was not to be.

"That's my boy... Now listen carefully. Who am I? Forget that question because you won't get answers for it... Let's talk about what I want..."

There was some silence as Hus was digesting what was just said. He then decided to record the call for future reference, he told himself. He breathed heavily before saying," Yes... “

“I know what you are doing Hus... You're recording this call. But it doesn't matter because when we are done with this call, there won't be any playback or anything. It will be gone, everything! Just thought I should save you from a potential heart attack..."

"Whatever you want, say it! “

“Getting some guts now, huh? Tell you what? I love it!!“Hus could hear the caller laughing and hitting what sounded like a desk.

Then suddenly the voice spoke again," Hus I know you're at a new construction site, doing another structure. Brilliant! I envy your hard work. I wish my kith and kin could do the same. You work ethic is amazing. I see you every day. In fact, I watch you."

"Thank you for the compliments but is that why you called? I have so many tasks waiting for me onsite..."

"You see why I love you guys? Anyway, Hus, I need some drawings of what you guys are constructing... I need those ones!"

Hus had tried to think of what was meant by drawings. He couldn't figure it out. Was it a code? He thought whilst pushing his mind to think. But he couldn't trigger it to think about drawings. He had never worked with them. Neither his father nor grandfather nor great grandfather, all of whom he had seen, had introduced him to 'drawings'. When he was old enough, he left the mansion his father had built, wandering to the east. He found friends and decided to build their own mansion, with a different design. They all agreed on what they were going to do but he was sure there were no drawings nor was there any need for them.

"Hus, don't think too hard boy!" He was interrupted. "What you're building right now, I want drawings for it. We want to do the same thing here... We know it is a self-reliant structure; no need for energy from outside, inbuilt thermoregulation and heating and cooking systems, eco-friendly and sustainable, zero waste, hundred per cent biodegradable, no recalcitrant and synthetic materials on that structure... I want its drawings and BOQ Hus, am serious", the voice spoke, this time sounding serious and genuine.

Then something dawned on Hus. He moved his mandibles in a smiling gesture and stretched all other appendages of his, making a faint noise. "Are you human?" Hus requested to know. "I said what I am doesn't matter". "With all respect, it matters, Sir. Now listen, we don't do drawings, we just build. We follow whatever is coded in our DNA. We work as a unit, as a team with no conflicts. We don't fight our own nor burn each other like you humans. We live in peace and dream together. Even if we had drawings, you were still going to fail to reproduce it because you're so divided. You were given dominion on earth but you abuse everything and everyone. I am sorry human, you're the author of your own demise, and you're dragging everyone with you. You're polluting waters and the air and heating the globe and contaminating the soil and now you want to build like us so you build anthills like us, and run away from the problems you have caused? No human, stay there and face it." Hus felt proud, having released all his bitterness about humans. He just remembered something to say again,"... Why can't you get inspiration from that pinecone? Huh? You only know of... Hello! Hello? Helloooo?" The line was dead. He checked on the screen, the pinecone was gone. The line was disengaged. He sighed and wiped some sweat. "Will he call again?", he asked no one and expected no one to respond. As he walked out of his office back to the site, he was welcomed by a deafening applause. Everyone, every ant, in the compound was waiting for him. They applauded him for standing up to humans and condemn their bullish deeds, confirming they had been eavesdropping his conversation. It didn't matter to him though. He grinned and waved whilst his thorax was pouncing with excitement. "Let's just get back to work...", he announced!

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.

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.