Sometimes victory doesn't taste like victory...

Sometimes victory doesn't taste like victory... It tastes metallic like blood. Having been beaten several times on the jaws and the lips, winning, at last, does taste like blood. Sometimes victory doesn't look victory. It looks swollen like a battered face. But it's still victory, isn't it? Victory sometimes doesn't walk upright, it moves slowly like a crippled and limping man. Yes, it's still victory but hard-won victory. It looks tired and wasted. It is emaciated and bony. After years of deprivation and starvation, victory will arrive when the body has deteriorated. Sometimes, victory doesn't smell sweetly like a scented flower. It has a stench smell of sweat and tears. A repelling smell that not many are keen to be associated with it. An odour that is offensive to some. After years of recurring droughts and deferred rains, it smells like wet soil. Indulging perfume to farmers. Sometimes victory doesn't fly faster and high like a Boeing. It just moves slowly and reluctantly like a tractor on freshly tilled earth. Sometimes victory doesn't look like cushions, it looks like a big crashing hammer that grinds and crashes. It looks like huge and tough granite rocks that hide small gems. It looks like a hard helmet, metal top safety shoes, and shiny overalls... After years of sleepless nights and restless days, victory sometimes looks like a small piece of paper emboldening everything. A very small paper not befitting the books read and knowledge internalised. Having gone thirsty for days, victory looks like a glass of water, not a reservoir. Sometimes victory doesn't feel like a warm jacuzzi. It feels like ice and snow after skating and skiing. But victory is still victory. Victory sometimes doesn't look like millions of descendants who will fill the earth, instead, it looks like just one son of the promise. Victory doesn't look like a smile, it sounds like piercing labour cries. Labour cries that aren't important. Nobody listens to them. They watch in anticipation as you're wriggling in agony. They are expectant as you're pained. Out of your pain comes everyone's gain. Sometimes it doesn't look like a thousand miles. It just looks like a span. Add more spans on the initial span and see victory. Wipe the bloodied nose and smell victory. Remove the blinkers, see and appreciate victory in its many forms and formats.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 3

On April 21^st I went to school not sure of what was going to happen. The university had been open for two weeks - a very long time. Lectures had started. In Organic Chemistry, they had already done a practical. So, I had to negotiate with the tutors to be allowed to do the practical and thanks to my distinction in Analytical Chemistry the previous semester, they allowed me. “You said you are Phenias?” One of the tutors quizzed with evidence of doubt on her face. “Yes ma’am”, I responded as politely as I could be. She gave a hand signal to the tutor who seemed busy. “Here is the Phenias we were talking about.” I was astonished but succeeded in hiding it. “Oh my God, I didn’t know he was this small, I mean young,” the other tutor quipped trying to hide from her actual message. I knew what she meant and it wasn't the first time that people have passed such comments, and it was by no means the last. They both agreed to my request to do the practical which others had done in my absence the previous week. Wednesday 23^rd April was set as the date for such. Contrary to my fears, I was not alone in the lab. There were others doing the same practical - outside the schedule, again. That’s how the semester started in 2008, probably a reflection of how the year was going to proceed. Although I hadn’t paid the required $3 billion for tuition, I continued attending classes. The hitch was that I wasn’t registered yet which meant I could not write exams. Meanwhile, late the registration fee was accumulating. ‘Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn, yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds!’ I garnered strength to soldier on and continue attending lectures...

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 2

Although our reaction was laughing, the reality was pain. I could feel that deep pinching pain in my chest. I could feel it in the deepest where I couldn’t reach nor scratch. It was there, lingering and strolling. That pain which makes people laugh instead of crying. We had gone through a lot already and we thought it was gone with 2008. But alas. We were just coming from a disturbed semester in 2008. These exams which we were now poised to write in February 2009 were supposed to have been written in December 2008. But we could not sit for them because a lot happened. In addition, the fees that we paid then was wiped by inflation that the university could not afford the exam material and everything else required. Then, the semester was extended by a few more weeks after Christmas and exams were subsequently deferred. When the university closed, I didn’t spend a night in Harare. Instead, I booked a train back home, Mutare. The train was the most affordable mode of transport and the least convenient and comfortable. The journey, in the crowded, hot and foul-smelling train, would start at 2130hrs and end at 0600hrs, that’s if everything had gone according to the schedule. But nothing was going according to schedule in Zimbabwe then. For example, we had scheduled elections that year, but results were released in a manner that followed no schedule. One night I slept at the train station in Mutare when the scheduled Harare bound train never took off. Imagine having bidden farewell to everyone and promised to call the following morning only to spend the whole night just a few kilometres from home, sleeping on a very uncomfortable seat – head rested in palms and back leaned forward. In December 2008, I travelled home by train, again, as it had become my religion. Religion influenced and shaped not by beliefs but by the laws of economics. 

The Sole Witness

"Help me!! Help me! Somebody help me pleaseeeee!!!" Her startling voice awakened me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I sometimes dream but mainly about preying without being preyed upon. It's mostly about food. Thank goodness, I didn't have to worry much about that since I moved in with Nelly. She was a very passionate and tenacious woman with an exceptional work ethic. I watched her everyday leaving for work early in the morning and coming back late in the evening. Sometimes she would go without having breakfast, not even a cup of her favourite coffee. But she would make sure my breakfast is well served, warm as it was supposed to be. This royal treatment made me appreciate Nelly even more.

Vernonanthura phosphorica 'Invading Zimbabwe from the East'

Sometime in April 2017, I was in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe, in Chipinge where some of the biggest tea estates and macadamia plantations are located. I was surprised to note that there is the plant which doesn't look native which is spreading and invading almost everywhere. So I asked around at one of the estates, Clearwater Estate. One senior manager told me that the plant is believed to have been introduced by people who wanted to attract pollinators to their macadamia plants owing to its bright flowers. I tried looking around for the name but in vain. They suspected it has originated from China. That's all I got then.

A few months later, I went to Chimanimani about 60 km from Chipinge but still in the Eastern Highlands. The same plant has invaded, again. This time was flowering. And yes, the flowering season is synchronised to the macadamia flowering season, somehow giving credence to the suggested reason for the initial introduction. I asked around again. This time they said the plant literally 'arrived with Cyclone Elin of 2000'. The locals in the area call it 'ChimuCyclone' - The Cyclone Plant. But others concur with their Chipinge counterparts that the plant was brought by some beekeepers to attract bees and boost their apiculture business. 

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.