Back to Index

The Siege (A sixty minute day)
Nyevero Muza
Extracted from Pambazuka News : Issue 285
January 11, 2007

http://www.pambazuka.org/en/category/comment/39144

Nyevero Muza relives the siege. "It was Kumarukesheni where the siege had assumed a brutal appearance. Those who had, when the times were still good, spread spurious roots into land they did not own and called that land equally pretentious names, or those who owned land by wartime credentials, were unceremoniously uprooted and their settlements instantly razed to the ground by ravenous fires or front-end loaders."

As they poured into the school's well-manicured grounds in their crispy winter uniforms, the children were blissfully unaware of the future that myself and others of my generation, as parents were conjuring up for them. In the sky a thick blanket hung, still smelling of years gone up in smoke.

The feeling of anxiety was unmistakeable, in spite of the laughter and chatter of a schoolyard. The siege was getting more pronounced by the day; seizing all those who tried to escape and throwing them right back into the centre. I turned my back on the school and commanded the car to join the slow, procession of other cars that unerringly and dutifully transported people from homes to their jobs in the offices and factories of Harare.

I inched forward until I discovered the cause of the agonisingly slow speed of traffic. An accident! A Nissan Sunny had smashed into the back of a VW. The owners, still unable to believe their joint lack of luck so early in the morning, were negotiating a truce at the side of the road. The police had been notified but having been informed that no one was injured, would probably turn up years later, panting from cycling Chinese-made "mountain bikes" to remove cobwebs from the scene of the accident and open a docket for yet another case of "driving without due care.

As I manoeuvred past the scene, taking care not to run over bits of broken glass and twisted metal on the tarmac, I promised myself that I should never have to find myself entangled in such a situation so early in the morning.

Further down, a snaking queue of motor vehicles of all shapes and sizes, now close to 2 kilometres long and still growing, was forming itself on the side of the road. The forlorn looks on the faces of the owners of the cars or their agents said that they were not looking forward to whatever they had joined the queue for. I traced the queue until it veered to my right and found its way into the police station where it disintegrated into several other smaller queues. The motorists were waiting their turn to be subjected to thinly veiled arrogance disguised as traffic policemen, which one had to contend with before having their car cleared. Those who knew someone or could pay the required amount of money did not have to deal with the queue; the policemen simply came to them.

As I eased the car into the road that would soon swallow me and throw me up right in the middle of the city centre, I saw people waiting alongside the road for anything with four wheels to rescue them from the tyranny of waiting, roadside dust and early morning sun. They thumbed for lifts, stretching their hands right into the road. I didn't stop; they stared at me open-mouthed, unable to comprehend why a lone motorist should choose to abandon them like that. Didn't I know that they had money to pay me for my troubles? Didn't I know that they had jobs to go to too, and bosses to contend with when they eventually arrived late for work, as they were bound to? Didn't I know that they too had, like me, families to feed?

On the other side of the road, women from the market waited with their prized assorted wares - tomatoes, shrivelled vegetables, onions, avocado pears, maputi - which they hoped to sell at a profit at small stalls back in the kumarukesheni and eke out an honest living for their families. Soon an old battered Peugeot 504 would pull up and inexplicably gobble all of them and their wares and take them back to a more familiar environment.

It was Kumarukesheni where the siege had assumed a brutal appearance. Those who had, when the times were still good, spread spurious roots into land they did not own and called that land equally pretentious names, or those who owned land by wartime credentials, were unceremoniously uprooted and their settlements instantly razed to the ground by ravenous fires or front-end loaders. Now these people carried their battered egos, some in their hands, some in hired trucks and yet others in ubiquitous pushcarts as they receded to the barrenness of rural homes to stare defeat in the face and face an uncertain future.

And there were the policemen keeping peace. Every tenth person you saw was one.

I expected getting into the city centre to provide some sense of relief for my harangued nerves, but the city itself was a sorry sight. It had been relieved of what the owners of the country - the murambas3 of this world called tsvina4: flea-market operators, black market foreign currency dealers, drug peddlers, flower vendors, street kids, prostitutes and common criminals all in one fell swoop.

Flea markets that had once been teeming with all manner of life were now deserted, empty shells that told a story. Hopes and dreams had been ambushed by a merciless clean up exercise and hounded to the periphery of possibility.

The erstwhile sellers of everything from cellular phones, cellular phone pouches, chargers, imitation trainers and oversized FUBU jeans had since retreated to nondescript corners to ponder their next move. What had once been flea markets were now flee markets, patronised by imperious policemen with jackboots, bloodshot eyes and uncompromising baton sticks. They had an attitude and knew how to use it. They turned everything upside down in search of foreign currency but found none.

Now all was quiet and all form of life was gone. The streets were empty, if not for the march of nine-to-fivers, who approached their sweatshops with a sense of trepidation.

I parked the car in the basement, amongst the neat rows of other cars whose owners were still lucky to have fuel, now a precious commodity that sent big men from pillar to post, from Q to Q at the behest of an SMS or a quick telephone call. My own car was fast running out of fuel and there was no telling which Q it was leading me to.

At the foyer, there was an impatient mass of people whose attention was intently focused on the only elevator that was still working - the other three had been cannibalised for spare parts to keep the one elevator going. When the elevator eventually turned up, the mass of people jostled to get inside, just as they did with the ETs.7 As the elevator door closed, it shrieked in despair.

I opened the door to the office to find that only one person had arrived. The rest were probably still stuck in some Q somewhere, wishing they would never have to go anywhere if it took so much trouble. As I sat at my desk at 0830hrs to tackle my share of the day, I could see the sun setting. The only light I could see was somewhere far away, beckoning frantically for someone to see it.

*Nyevero Muza is a Harare based writer and poet.

* Please send comments to editor@pambazuka.org or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

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.

TOP