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Remembering
a false dawn
Alex
Tawanda Magaisa
April 16,
2004
I remember the days
very well. We were young and impressionable but even the adults could
not resist the overwhelming joy. It was beautiful. Along with the 25th
of December, the 18th of April was one of the most important
dates on the calendar. We always looked forward to it. It was a day packed
with fun and happiness. The greatest get-together in the local communities.
No other event attracted so many people. Christmas meant spotting brand
new clothes, going to Church, eating lots of bread and Sun jam and, of
course, huge dishes of rice and chicken.
But the 18th
of April was equally special – yes, like Christmas it was another opportunity
to get new clothes. The uncles and aunts all came from the city with sweets,
biscuits and money for Coca-Cola and Fanta. It was even sweeter because
unlike Christmas, it was perfectly calendared during the dry season. For
us boys, it meant we did not have to endure such a lovely day herding
cattle and goats in the fields. So boys, girls, men, women, the old and
young - the whole community crawled, hopped and converged at Hwara for
the celebrations.
After the exertions
of the summer and harvesting periods, for many people it was a perfect
opportunity to relax and catch up on lost time. There, they would talk
about Murambiwa who had sadly passed away, about Machekecha, the notorious
witch who had been caught stark naked in Marowa’s yard, about Chagwiza
whose daughter had been impregnated by Givemore, Muromba’s son. And the
tales went on; "Did you hear about Hanyani’s rich harvest this year? They
say he has a charm that he uses. Did they not say he has invisible little
goblins that help him to weed his fields during the night? Do they not
say that is why his daughter will never get married because she is the
wife of the little goblins?". "The chief is not well, who will succeed
him?" "Chodokufa’s son had got a job in town – whose daughter is he going
to marry?" … And so on and so on. They would talk about the abundance
of the rains. "The ancestors are happy after years of bondage", someone
would venture to explain that phenomenon. It was a great rendezvous, for
anything and everything. Gossip was traded and all stories were dissected
and analysed until there was no more to talk about. It was a day that
everyone looked forward to. With the benefit of hindsight, it seems odd
that we all said we were going to "Independence" as if freedom
was only to be found at that venue.
There would be at
least two beasts up for slaughter and several goats and chickens added
for good measure. I remember an occasion when one old man called Chidoro
was so overwhelmed by the occasion that he donated an extra beast to celebrate
our nation’s birthday. Later on that week, after the euphoria, he realised
that was the only beast he had and he had given it away! Men would come
in early and slaughter the beasts and prepare the meat for the women who
in the true spirit of African socialism, got together and prepared the
food. We, the boys would run around and play games while the girls dutifully
helped with the chores. It was the perfect chance to sample the girls,
especially the ones that had just arrived from the city or boarding school.
They always looked so sophisticated and they were keen to show it. But
the older boys did not hesitate to attempt their luck anyway. There was
always something good about having a "city girl". Sometimes they would
send us, the younger ones, on short errands with a scribbled note or simply
a word to this or that girl and we were always eager to impress our bigger
brothers. Sometimes the older boys would fight over a girl or a gambling
or some such thing. We would gather and shout with joy but that was all
part of the happiness – part of coming together. Because it was also at
that point that the older boys from different villages would meet and
settle their scores. So if you were trying to date someone’s sister and
you escaped punishment some day, this was a day to be careful otherwise
the sister’s brothers would pounce on you while you were too drunk with
joy.
There was lots of
beer too. The elders gulped litres of opaque beer as if they would never
live to see another day. The young men too sneaked in, especially when
it was getting dark and drank mugs just to feel good. And even when the
elders noticed, who cared? Was this not the day of emancipation? Was it
not a day when all had to forget the rules and be happy? Just be happy
and forget all the troubles in our small world? After all this freedom
had been hard won.
And so we had lots
of tea – most of it so sweet they must have poured loads of sugar – as
if to make a practical demonstration of the sweet taste of independence
itself! There was lots of bread, jam and margarine. Indeed, for many villagers,
this was a day to look forward to for these were mere luxuries in their
own homes. Some unscrupulous women were known to hide jam and margarine
as booty to carry home!
The afternoon was
always the best part of the day – especially for us the young ones. It
was the time when sadza and meat were served. We would queue many times
until our tummies were complaining they could take no more. If one of
your villagers were serving, you would be very lucky. We ate, we grabbed
but it was all done in very good spirit. It was all very well. On one
occasion there was a brawl over left overs and people were grabbing meat
from the huge hot bowl. One man grabbed what he thought was a huge piece
of meat. He decided to suck the soup first before chewing it. Moments
later he was seen cursing everything around him when he discovered that
what he was holding was not a piece of meat but a dirty old woollen hat
that had apparently escaped someone’s head and found its way into the
bowl during the stampede! His story became legend and would be repeated
by many a story-teller. But we were all very happy. It was all part of
freedom. After that the elders went back to imbibing the beautiful waters
and then the politicians gathered all of us for the meeting. These were
more important men, we were told by the elders - they had important words
straight from the Big men in Harare.
After all, they said,
that is why we were gathered there and that is why the dear leader had
offered us free food. The Youth Brigades, yes, they were there back then,
would march in military formation. We admired their processions. We even
admired their uniforms. Oh, was it not our ambition to a "Youth"
when we grew a little older? We were young and impressionable. Then they
sang, the young men and women who were proud to be youths. Now, I think
some of them were hardly youthful at all! But that did not matter then.
We watched them as they did their processions, enjoyed the songs of liberation
that they belted out with so much pride. Yes, it was the spirit of the
time. After a long and bitter war in which the people had triumphed, who
could blame them? Old men and women would rise up to perform traditional
dances with so much zeal it was clear freedom itself had injected some
fresh energy into those tired and old legs. The young men performed dances,
sang all the way imitating the "comrades" that had fought the
liberation struggle. They all had names, these youths – Comrade Bazooka,
Comrade Mabhunhumuchapera, Comrade Hondo – were we not all comrades then?
For months before they would have carved out gun-shaped objects. Which,
on the day they held and posed as "comrades". One day an overzealous youth
almost caused a disaster when he brought a real hand grenade which he
had picked up in the fields while herding cattle – a remnant of the bloody
struggle. Only Chirere, an alert veteran of the war saved the day when
he realised the foolish fellow almost causing it to detonate in front
of the crowd! The Hero-comrade became a greater hero still!
So the meeting came
and the leaders began their long speeches. Each one stood up and gave
a long preamble saluting all the big comrades in Harare – they shouted
as if the Big men in Harare would hear them – then they would castigate
zvimbgasungata, makoronyera and everything that was anti-the Party.
We all raised our hands and voices in a chorus as we repeated the speaker’s
pronouncements with even greater vigour and noise. The women ululated
so loudly and beautifully even the birds must have envied their skill.
If the whole country was doing the same I am sure Harare must have heard
us. They talked about the sacrifices of the war, the god-like status of
the dear leader who had "singlehandedly" delivered us from the
evil of the white man. They joyously shouted about the future. Indeed
did we not all see the beautiful, green and great future that lay ahead?
This was our Moses, one elderly man of the collar had said of our dear
leader. He selected his words with extreme care and spoke slowly but surely
with the conviction and eagerness of one converted late in life. He was
very persuasive. You could tell from his voice, crackling with emotion,
that he believed his every word. And that he wanted us to believe him.
Indeed we believed him. On one occasion he even insinuated that our dear
leader was the second Son of Man. Was this not a man of God speaking?
He could not be wrong. We all nodded in unison. We were the flock. He
was our Moses who had that stick to command the flood to pave the way
to our prosperity. Happiness lay ahead and we must continue the sacrifice.
We nodded with joyous belief. This was the way – we were being delivered.
But little did we know that as we celebrated deliriously some of our countrymen
in the south and west were having a hard time at the hands of the very
people that we were saluting. But we saluted anyway, while Matatebeleland
wept and suffered. Were there no dissidents threatening our country there?
That is what they told us and we were too happy to care.
So the speeches went
on until we were tired of listening. Each speaker seemed to be so keen
to outperform the previous one. The show was more spectacular on occasions
when there was a "distinguished" guest from Harare, a representative
of the dear leader. The speakers performed with extra vigour and they
intoxicated the guest with praise for the leader. The villagers made sure
to donate a beast or two to the dear leader on every occasion – as appreciation.
They promised that they would build schools, bridges and dams all over
the place. In later years, it was as if they never changed the script,
for they kept on repeating the same promises. But still we cheered on
when they made those promises. And they churned out the 5-year development
plans and I remember each year was named the year of so and so … They
would later repeat it on radio "This is the year of reconstruction
…this is the year of national development…" … and so on, rubbish, it never
came to pass. I wonder why they stopped that trick. Perhaps they knew
we were tired.
And when darkness
fell we would all be dismissed. It was at that time that the party cards
were sold and I am sure the officials simply pocketed the money that was
paid for the pieces of paper. It was of course compulsory to buy the party
card. Who are you to refuse to buy the card remusangano? And we
still think corruption began yesterday. But we were too smug to care.
We lived for the moment and the moment was full of meat, beer and things
that satisfied the stomach. That was all that mattered. We were too irresponsible
to think about the future. We still are.
Sometimes the meetings
would drag on well after sunset courtesy of the overzealous village orators,
all eager to impress. When darkness fell, the headmasters of local schools
would generously light up the place with their battered vehicles. At the
end young men would help to push-start the ramshackles to life. But even
then, I remember that boys and girls were extremely fascinated by the
sight of the automobile and they would take the opportunity to get close
to them – even touch them. The headmasters, who jealously protected their
battered machines on other occasions even allowed the boys a rare liberty
to touch them on this day. After all, was this not the day when freedom
was born?
Today, it is almost
24 years since that day when we were supposed to be free. Are those events
now not mere distant memories of a bygone era? What happened to the dream?
Did we celebrate false freedom? Who betrayed the people’s dream? The people
don’t come together any more. There is nothing to eat. The young men and
women that entertained us then are now terrorising the poor villagers.
The children of today may never see days like the ones we witnessed back
then. There is no more money to buy new clothes for Christmas, let alone
for Independence Day. That special day is now just another ordinary day
that comes and goes without ceremony. We do not go to "Independence" anymore
… Independence ran away from us. The uncles and aunts don’t come from
the city anymore – they are either languishing in the villages with everyone
else or it is too expensive to travel to the village. The joy of yesterday
is no more. Was it a false dawn? Only the misery and terror of today.
Tomorrow looks dull and bleak. Unless. Unless. Unless we achieve independence
again. This story, the story of Zimbabwe, would be so good if it were
not so sad. Maybe it was just a false dawn.
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