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Poets' diaries: Freedom Nyamubaya
Poetry
International Web
March 9-15, 2004
http://international.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=380&x=1
Lions, puff-adders and traffic congestion: in yet another astonishing
diary from Zimbabwe, poet and former freedom fighter Freedom Nyamubaya
describes life on her small game farm in Mhangura, and a sudden
death in Harare. “I park in Harare Street and one after another
these guys come advertising coffins and undertaking prices. The
cheapest coffin is Z$ 90,000 and the most expensive at $1,200,000.
Thank God we are not buying the coffin. There is a big business
in death now and people fight for customers like any other industry.”
Monday, March 9
I wake up and open windows. Pacing up and down, naked, trying to think
of what to put on, I look at myself in the mirror and smile. Today
is dipping day and I have to be there to see the cattle. I finally
settle for my khaki trousers and shirt and leave for the dipping place.
Yesterday, being Sunday, I spent the afternoon in Mhangura trying
to catch up with gossip on what’s new and hot in the newspapers. Of
course I did not find anything interesting in the official pravda.
One of the cattleman approaches me and tells me that one heifer had
been caught and killed by a lion just a hundred metres from my house,
the calf had escaped unhurt. He had followed the spoor and counted
five different prints of suckling cubs. This, on one of our main roads
to all the fields and paddocks. The guy expect me to ask him to go
and hunt for the lion since it would surely come back to finish the
carcass. I am happy that I have six confirmed lions on the farm but
angry that one of my good heifers was killed.
I decide to skin the beast and tell the foreman to tell people that
there is a meat in exchange for a weeding programme for those who
need meat. The response was good. Five hectares cleared in two weeks.
I rush back to the house to phone my friend and ask her to get me
buyers for the other half of the heifer, only to find that the phone
is also out of order. I spend the day making beef biltong and then
disappear to bed.
Tuesday, March 10
I wake up at 5:00 a.m. but don’t want to. I must take my son Naishe
to school after exit weekend. I force myself to remember last night’s
dream and its eating into my time because I am just seated on the
edge of the bed, looking at myself in the mirror, horrified that I
look more aged than I felt and thought. Naishe is already awake and
dreading coming out of the blankets. He is particular about time to
school and I have to go and bath. His school is about 100km from the
farm and he is a weekly boarder.
The road to the school has 30 kilometres of bad gravel and there is
often no conversation between the two of us on this stretch. I ask
him to sleep a bit and he agrees. In Mhangura I give Mrs Gombe a lift
to Chinhoyi. I can sense that Naishe is awake and tense because he
thinks we are getting late. Naishe asks me a few questions before
approaching the school, obviously not wanting to part with mum, and
I try to be nice as an angel to avoid having tears in his eyes. I
miss him too but the schools near the farm are in such bad shape that
I feel that the chances of him passing are much less.
8:10 a.m
I am at T.M. The doors of the shop are open, but the guy says we are
still closed to customers. The notice on the door says 8:00 a.m. –
6:00 p.m. I feel that its still too early to educate anyone about
notices, so I decide to go to O.K. Mrs Gombe wants to go to Jaggers
(Chinhoyi) to order goods for her shop in Mhangura, so I drop her
off.
I go to see the District Administrator without appointment and he
agrees to talk to me. I introduce myself since he has just been appointed.
I tell him about my fears over the uncontrolled use of cotton pesticides
since the land reform programme, and the effect on game in the area.
The use of dogs, spears, snares and the threat that they are causing
to the surrounding game farms. The DA agrees to come out and see for
himself next week. Of course, I never trust a politician but I am
happy that I told him about all this. Driving home always feels good,
but I miss my son, so I talk to myself.
I miss Sadza and am happy that I am home early, so that I can give
myself a good plateful. Then, I decide to take a shower. It has just
stopped raining. The sun is giving some good evening rays through
the bathroom window, so I open it and find a two-foot puff-adder basking
in the sun. I continue with my bath since the tub is far away from
the snake. I will make sure I don’t splash water that far. I want
to write a poem about the way the snake’s eyes are fixed on me. I
start to laugh out loud about what I would do if it starts chasing
me while I am standing naked. My heart starts to beat fast when I
think about what anybody might say if they walked in and found me
laughing and talking with a snake. A ‘witch’ straight away.
Wednesday, March 11
The house is quiet, outside, chicken and goats are making disorderly
sounds. I am lazy and will stay in bed till nine. I call the housekeeper
and tell her to tell anyone looking for me that I am sick and in bed.
Somebody outside is demanding that I wake up because they came from
far. Its one of the ex-combatants with two youths asking for donations
for a function. I act seriously sick and sit in the sitting room in
a morning gown. I know if I look well, he will not leave because he
likes to talk. I promise to do something and ask to be excused and
they leave. I cannot go back to sleep but head for the sunflower field.
I count ten impalas grazing among my sunflowers and creep slowly towards
them to get a good look before they see me and run away. I sit on
a rock in the grass. It’s only four young bulls and six females. Then
the direction of the wind changes and they smell danger and start
to leave slowly. Nearly a quarter of the crop has been grazed. I can
see kudu, sable, impala and bushbuck spores everywhere.
After lunch, I put on some music from Mozambique (Gorovani) and read
the newspapers that I bought yesterday. A memorial service for a good
friend of mine is in the funeral notices. Maybe I could have done
something to save her, but it’s too late. I take pen and paper and
try to describe what kind of a person she was because many people
didn’t know her. Life can be meaningless – that lady! reduced to a
piece of poem. I can feel my tears coming and decide to rest on the
couch. I read the newspaper till late and decide to take any early
bath and have another good sleep.
Thursday, March 12
I wake up around six and brush my teeth. A guy is waiting for me outside
when everyone else has gone to work. “I want to borrow money because
I want to go and pay lobola,” he says. I look at him slowly from top
to bottom. I think he is about 18 years old. I tell him to wait until
he has grown up and he just laughs. I promise to give him money at
the end of the month, but worry why he has to marry at such a young
age.
I am spending the whole day in the fields supervising because tomorrow,
Friday, I will go and pick up my son and that’s a whole day gone.
In the evening, I sit on the couch and listen to the 8:00 p.m. news,
it’s the same old anti-corruption rhetoric and I shut it off and start
to read a story in Kwaedza, a vernacular Zimpaper product.
A story about a man who had intercourse with his two daughters and
daughter-in-law using juju: it’s ‘sick’ and mind-provoking. Went to
my bedroom and put on mbira music and start dancing, naked again,
in front of the mirror. I am in bed after an hour of hectic dancing.
Friday, March 13
The housekeeper has the weekend off and she is going to Harare. I
drop her in Chinhoyi, so she can catch a lift. I am a little late,
so rush to pick up Naishe and get there just in time. I get back to
Chinhoyi and my cellphone starts to work. The network doesn’t reach
the farm. My sister’s daughter phones to tell me of my brother’s daughter’s
death in Harare.
It is raining at a funeral in a house in Mabvuku. People inside are
singing hymns and everything is interrupted when I walk in. My sisters,
brothers, nieces, mothers, and so on, all start to cry loudly. I had
just bought TB concoctions for the deceased, which she never took
because they had not reached her. My sister-in-law creates a space
for me to sit down as I greet everyone. I have no tears.
The house is full of weeping and wailing women; most of the men have
gone to sleep. The women are singing, cooking, and crying, a few men
sit and talk. The room is hot and stuffy and outside its raining.
Many of the people sleep, so I sneak off to my car to rest for the
night.
Saturday, March 14
I volunteered to use my car to go and obtain burial documents and
bookings for a grave. Harare is polluted and traffic-congested. I
miss the fresh air of the farm, but it’s a funeral. I am dressed in
a long red skirt and a duku, with black tennis shoes but I did not
take a bath. I am feeling horrible but acting fine. I park in Harare
Street and one after another these guys come advertising coffins and
undertaking prices. The cheapest coffin is Z$ 90,000 and the most
expensive at $1,200,000. Thank God we are not buying the coffin. There
is a big business in death now and people fight for customers like
any other industry.
Back in Mabvuku people are waiting for the deceased’s father. I am
hungry but cannot eat because the food is cold and I will have terrible
heartburn if I eat. I take a boiled green mealie from next door. My
cousin comes and sits in the car with me looking very depressed that
the proceedings are taking so long. I leave to take a bath at my friend’s
house in town. I get to the flat and join their lunch. I eat and sleep
on the couch until late afternoon. I bath and sing. The song is a
church song I heard at the wake last night. I decide to go out for
a drink with my friend before going back to the wake. At the Book
Café my mind temporarily forgets about the weeping and wailing. At
midnight I drop my friend home and proceed back to Mabvuku. Everyone
is sleeping. Its raining heavily. I sleep in my car alone.
Sunday, March 15
I ferry my sisters to the graveyard. I see a long queue of people
from the apostolic faith dressed in white leading the proceedings.
It’s as if they are going to heaven. They do not read from the bible,
instead all of them pray at the same time, making discord. I look
around and see a few of us with our eyes open. Their eyes gaze in
disbelief that someone with HIV/AIDS could be cured by pure water,
a piece of stone, an all-night prayer as described by one of the priests.
The church has taken over the burial ceremony and relatives cannot
do a thing. The church dictates 3 April as the memorial day. I am
thinking about my son and the long drive back to Mhangura. I give
a lift to two of my nieces and we leave immediately. I drop my nieces
and proceed to Chinhoyi.
It’s late and I cannot go on to Mhangura with my son since he has
to go to school. Instead, I book a room at Caves Motel and my son
looks happy. I order supper in our room and my son and I watch some
documentary about fish. I put the T.V. off at 8:30 p.m. so that my
son sleeps early in preparation for tomorrow. I open the TV again
and tuck myself to bed.
Freedom Nyamubaya page on PIW
Editor’s notes:
Lobola: brideprice
Puff-adder: a very poisonous snake, and very dangerous because they
are lazy and slow-moving and will not get out of the way, like most
snakes.
Traditionally, when someone dies there is a wake which lasts until
the body is buried. People, especially the women, are supposed to
stay up all night singing, sometimes sewing the shroud.
Please credit www.kubatana.net if you make use of material from this website.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License unless stated otherwise.
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