They Called It Academic Genocide Part 9: Zimbabwe Footers Association (ZIFA)

The cars which were being destroyed were the same cars which were taking us to campus every morning and back. With taxis and kombi fares skyrocketing, responding to the over 500 million per cent inflation rate, ‘lifts’ were the only option for most of us. Lifts were private vehicles that we begged for discounted fares. In fact, lifts were actually not the only option for some of us. Walking - footing - was the other option. We called it ZIFA; Zimbabwe Footers Association. There was no pride nor honour in being a ZIFA member. No need for subscriptions or membership fees. Just walking to and from campus was enough. So yes, I was a member of ZIFA as well during that time. I knew my roads pretty well, just like fellow ZIFA members and associates. One condition for selecting roads was to choose routes seldom plied by kombis and public transport. This was done for two reasons; to keep ZIFA membership a secret to fellow students and avoid being bothered by touts and kombi drivers. Because I stayed in Greenwood Park, Fife Avenue and 10^th Street - about 8km from the university, the most convenient road was Fifth Street. It was secluded and isolated enough. It was supposed to be. That particular road passed behind the Zimbabwe House which is the residential side of the State House. The security along that road was indicative of that functionality. Even though the President was staying at his private residence in Borrowdale Brooke, the Blue Roof, security details continued to man the area with verve and vigour.

The presence of armed security details made it a very difficult choice for the ZIFA members. There were lots of dos and don’ts and behavioural expectations. For example, you were supposed to just walk looking in front and not looking everywhere. There were no time restrictions along Fifth Street as opposed to Seventh Street aka Borrowdale Road, however, the road was dangerous to use between 6am and 6pm every day. Failure to abide by these restrictions and expectations would attract unnecessary attention from the AK47 wielding soldiers. You were also not supposed to stop. That was a no, no exceptions. I remember the day I was nearly forced to stop on my way from campus. I had my drinking water, borehole water, in a 500ml plastic bottle when I met a gentleman who was coming from the CBD direction. He stopped and asked me for water. I shushed him and handed him the bottle, he was very grateful. But before consuming, he asked if it was safe to drink. I understood him because the nation was reeling from a serious cholera outbreak that had claimed many lives and was still prevailing. Harare, in particular, Budiriro, Glen View(s), Mabvuku and Chitungwiza suburbs were ravaged, typical of the epicentre. But the whole country was under siege from the communicable disease. I told him it was borehole water and dismissed him. He wanted to drink and hand back the drinking bottle but I told him no need. He could not understand so I whispered; “We are not allowed to stop here”. Lucky him, he was going the other direction, towards Alexandra Park. Meanwhile, one soldier literally jumped off the pine tree and landed in a neat flower bed, destroying a few in the process. He did not bother enumerating the damages. He ran on the freshly irrigated and manicured lawn towards me.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 8: The Centre No Longer Holding

I had known Cutman for some time and had found him as a very likeable and jovial individual. But there was one trait about him that I didn’t know; bravery. He surprised me when he took over leadership of this protest and defined its course. I could only smile in admiration. He reminded me of the inscription on the t-shirt that I had consciously worn on that day. It was a simple plain white written in black: Born to Rule. Gen 1:28. This was the theme at our church the previous year. ‘Born to rule’, I repeated quietly as Cutman was shaping the path. The mob was roaring in agreement, literally eating from Cutman’s palms. “Aluta Continua!!!” he repeated as if to confirm if the first response he had received was genuine or not. And there he got, another thunderous response. If ever he was in doubt, there was no need anymore. We were all in agreement and had given him the mandate to carry the staff and point where he wanted us to go. “Town, town, town!!!” A few voices shouted. I dreaded with fear. Staging a demonstration in Mt Pleasant was one thing, taking that same demonstration to town was an entirely different thing. State security apparatus were not going to just watch us getting in town. They were going to violently crash this. And funny as it was, they were empowered by the law to do so in what lawyers and human rights activists called ‘rule by law’. 

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 7: Munatarisa Pasi!!

On our way to NC6, near the Bursar’s Department, we heard a certain lady screaming. On enquiring what was going on, I was literally shocked. Her hand was firmly gripped by a certain man who was seated on the driver seat in a car. He was swearing and shouting all forms of expletives, and promising to beat her up. Nobody knew what was going on. But that didn’t stop the students from surrounding the car and threatening to burn it. The police responded swiftly by spraying teargas. I felt irritation in my eyes and my running nose struggled to handle it.

As tears were streaming down my cheeks and my chest responding to the contaminated air, I couldn’t find the way. I sneezed in vain. The warm tears continued to flow, reminding me of our round hut in the village. My grandmother would shove in some firewood on the fire, triggering embers and smoke. My eyes would turn red and swell before releasing some tears. “Muri kuchemei bambo?” (Why are you crying my boy?) My concerned grandma would ask, trying to correct whatever would have upset me. Only seeing some blurry and hazy images, I would respond sounding as fine as I could be. “Chiutsi Nhewa, handisi kuchema”. (I am not crying Nhewa (her totem), it’s the smoke). I would say to make grandma relax but alas, she would not be eased. “Mirai nditsvage huni dzakaoma. Zvino zvadzakanaiwa manje. Garai nechekudoor uku, kuri nani”. (The firewood is wet but let me search for dry wood. Meanwhile, you can sit near the door where there is better air circulation). “Bambo Finiyasi nechiutsi havazwananiba”, she would announce to whoever will be in the kitchen with a lovely smile, hiding many decades of pain and hardships. Strong and sweet woman!

Dear Mr. Donald Trump

On any other day, I wouldn't have written this. Instead, I would be observing and watching the race from a distance albeit closely like I have always done.

However, this is not a normal day neither is the November 8th election. When America sneezes, the world catches a cold, goes the saying. I don't know if you know about it but this side we are fully aware of it. Whether deliberately or unintentionally, America influences all facets of our life here. Music. Grammar. Television programs. Films and movies, even the animated ones. Dressing. And now even accent. It's all American. People's intelligence is measured and subsequently judged by how close their accent is to the 'American accent'. Obviously very few pass the bar, but we are all trying...

Dear The Roadside Mango Tree

I know it's offseason, the time you never expect any appreciation. But I have decided to write because that's the time you're busy setting your flowers, and the bees are buzzing in full support. This is winter when you get cold lashes to test your character if you survive this, as you have always, there's the wind coming your way. It shall blow from all directions, splitting and sweeping. Your offspring shall be tried and tempted while waiting for spring; the fainthearted shall fall. But despair not for what's genuinely yours shall hang on, journeying on to fruition.

Many years ago, we saw you sprouting from nowhere, hiding between ordinary and strange bushes to evade predation. Nobody owned you; we all thought you were going to die. If not of herbivory, because our goats foraged right next to you every day, then of thirst. Nobody bothered watering you, leaving your fate in the hands of your creator. Your doomsday was drawn in our minds. When I looked at you growing, I saw nothing but just a little tree trying to defeat destiny. How could you grow right on the wayside where you were susceptible to being trampled? I felt pity; I doubted if you were ever going to make it. Let me admit, I underrated your power of endurance. I misunderstood the resilience that you showed in silence. When your leaves left you, you grieved in silence. When your roots were too short to reach the water-rich zone, you pushed further down, in silence. I never heard you complaining and I mistook that for lack of confidence though I had no evidence to support it.

Dear The Past

As you might be aware, I have moved on. In case you didn't know, take this correspondence as a formal termination of the relationship that we have had. Yes, we broke bread and partook from the same glass. But that was then. Staying together henceforth would give me a false sense of security. Look, the bread is since gone, and the glass is broken. Although we have beautiful stories and memories to tell, they are not helping anymore since they are just but stories. Memories of good times bring tears not good times.

Yes, I have erred and trespassed back then. I was tried and convicted. Because I am stuck in you, with you, my sentence is not coming to an end. Is it a life sentence? When am I going to be pardoned and left to pick the pieces of whatever is left and mend them? Is it a crime that our paths once crossed? Each time I attempt to move forward, you either trip me to fall and start all over or you persuade me to start all over again. You keep on reminding me of the petty things that I did. You keep on bringing it back to obstruct me from moving forward. For how long am I going to be a prisoner, your prisoner? For how long am I going to be blackmailed? Not this time again. I am moving on.

Dear Wakanda

You know everyone is talking about us, me and you and everyone else here. They just can't stop talking and envying us. Ours is a story of progress and development. A story of prosperity and innovation. A story of protection and care. A vibrant story of Vibranium. It feels so good when they are talking about us like this - when they've got good and positive things to say. The past weeks I've been in euphoria. This is us, this is our story I would say whenever I hear your name. We all thank the Black Panther for that alternative voice. Our story has been told differently this time around.

But the excitement of the past weeks is finally dying down - the flame is almost gone, just left with some glowing embers in charcoal dust. Now is time to reflect and let reality sink in again. In fact, we don't have Vibranium here. That's the truth! But we have tungsten and bauxite in Sierra Leone. Both tungsten and bauxite are on-demand world over. But a whopping 7682.00 Sierra Leonean Leones are equivalent to just 1 US dollar. How does this work?

Dear Ma - I am Still Standing (Same Old, Same Old)

It's been a long run ma. No time for crawling, just running. Running in the heat, running in the rain. No rehearsals, no practice. No running shoes. No pathways. I have been running in the bushes, in the bundu, in the floods - barefooted. But I am still standing.

I have adopted a little corner on the street where I can see a little clearer now. You remember that street? A lot has changed around it, but it is still the same. Same old, same old. Still unpaved, still dusty and even still potholed. We look at it every day and hope… They say dreams come true.

You might have heard of the new changes taking place around here. Again, it’s the same old, same old. You have seen this before. One guy putting the horse before the cart and another cutting the branch he is sitting on. Drearily predictable and familiar. They keep promising that the cut tree will shoot again. But they are mum on the fate of the guy. And ma, that season is upon us again. The season of endless pledges from those vying for office and hunting for power. They flatter and make us blush. For a moment we forget that the same hymn had been cited many times before. No one actually sang it though. And no one is even now.

But don’t worry Ma, I am still standing.

Your Son, Phenias F. Sadondo (Written on 17 October 2017 and first appeared here Dear Ma