Bulawayo,‘KoNtuthu ziyathunqa’ — a Ndebele phrase for ‘place that continually exudes smoke’, was named after it’s historically large industrial base. It is also known as the ‘City of Kings’ (founded by the Ndebele king, Lobhengula). The Ndebele people made a great trek from Zululand and the internet also claims the name as an isiNdebele word ‘KoBulawayo’ meaning ‘a place where he is being killed’. This name conjures up Gukurahundi — a shona phrase for ‘the early rain which washes away the chaff before the spring rains’. In the 1980s (post independence) Mugabe’s North-Korean-trained Fifth Brigade executed an estimated 20,000 Matabeleland civilians. Whatever it’s origins, Bulawayo is my destination as we drive out of Vic Falls, past the Ndebele influenced restaurant ‘In-da-belly’ (cute!), down the A8 alongside the Vic Falls International Airport — bigger and better than the Bulawayo airport. I see a BA flight and ponder, some people must visit the falls, then head to Botswana, Zambia, SA, Namibia — bypassing the real Zimbabwe completely. Modern Victoria Falls has a new face. Now middle class Africans mingle and explore with Europeans and Chinese, a far cry from my visits 25 years ago when only whites and europeans clicked away, washed down the rapids and danced til dawn. Chris, ever the businessman half jokingly sees business potentials along the path — a ‘Chicken Inn’ perhaps. But someone with connections has beat him to it, there’s a guy who sits with an esky selling drinks and ices. Decades ago, post Independence, NGOs flooded Zimbabwe with ‘aid’ and advice. Little is left, from the poorer health services and education, to the art and craft industry. The craft that had been influenced by development workers familiar with Western tastes is replaced by sculptures and cloth that sit for months and months, a mass production that misses the mark.
Further down the A8 I see adolescents playing soccer on a sandy dirt pitch, while others spend Sunday afternoon walking and talking, little else to do. The rural electrification programme stagnate, many are literally kept in the dark. I was told 25 years ago that, culturally, tribal leaders look after their own first. The Shona have been pretty much in charge for 30 years, the Matabeleland provinces are still waiting.
We speed by baobab trees. I saw their relatives in Madagascar years ago, a dwarf ‘tree of life’ (named so coz it stores water in its trunk?). Six types are native to Madagascar, two to mainland Africa and the Arabian Peninsula, and one is native to Australia. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one in Oz so they remain exotic to me, scattered over the landscape amongst the scrub, alongside dry river beds that await the rains predicted to come in weeks.
After take away sadza in front of the telly I sleep at Chris and Yunike’s immaculate 1950s (I think, not 1920s?) home. I take some snap shots of the beautifully tiled bathroom and toilet complete with ashtrays by the bath and toilet.The parquetry floor has been replaced with tiles. While more practical, a little cooler (even colder for the 6 weeks of winter), they must be profoundly easier on the maid’s back. She no longer has to polish the floor on bended knee with cobra and a rag, wiping away the story of the day, creating a clean slate for the next.
After a late breakfast Yunike ferries me to Burnside where Mr. & Mrs. Masiyandima, Sarah and Chris’ folks, await. Its name comes from the Scottish word for stream (burn), after the River Matsheumhlophe. Originally a farming area, then a white suburb, the exodus of the 2000s has changed the landscape. A multiracial area, alongside Hillside (which looks pretty affluent to my eyes, by Bulawayo — not Harare — standards), it has a golf course, horse agistment, a few lodges and conference venues and an abandoned National Trust park (a succulent garden eked out of the granite boulders now forlorn and decaying). The suburb is a patchwork of neatly sewn gardens and well maintained houses alongside others that at first glance seem abandoned. It is only a chair or some clothes flapping on a line that hint of inhabitance. Later in Harare I see the same in affluent suburbs and wonder — the current owners either have no funds to maintain their homes or no interest. Had these houses been sold for a song in the exodus, taken by force, or lived in by relatives while the absent owners work in the diaspora? The roads are neglected, as is the case in much of the country. In 1992 Zimbabwe had world class roads, water and universal education. While education enrolments remain high, completion rates are challenged by economic hardship and secondary school engagement drops from the primary level of 94% to just 47%. Supposedly only 6% access tertiary education. But like Australia, universities are popping up around the country and Zim faces the challenge I saw in Sri Lanka 15 years ago — of increasingly educated youth with no employment. In Sri Lanka this resulted in a high suicide rate. The Shona are not an aggressive race, always described as calmer than their Zulu related Ndebele comrades. But I wonder how things will play out here.
Mrs. Masiyandima, Amai Lawrence (women take on the name of their firstborn), ambuya (grandmother) or ‘gogo’-the affectionate appellation, and Mr. Masiyandima — sekuru (grandfather) are sitting by the front door on plastic chairs, enjoying some warmth after the burst of cold weather. Gogo has her bible on her lap, sekuru listens to the radio from the car. As I disembark Gogo slowly rises from her chair and at 79, despite arthritis, stands tall. Our hug is strong and heartfelt. The maid, Sisi Ina takes the bags to ‘my’ room — the same room Sarah and I shared 6 years ago, as Yunike, Gogo, Sekuru and I retire to the lounge room. African tastes in furniture remind me of Franco Cozzo furniture at home, heavy, dark and sometimes ornate in that gaudy way. After a brief chat the formal greetings are made, so different from our blunt ‘get to the point’ Australian way. As always, Gogo and I talk about all the family — hers and mine, the hardships of Zimbabwe, the ubiquitous deaths (though with retroviral medication the AIDS scourge that began in the 1990s has lessened) and unlike 21 years ago when I had had little experience of death this time we talk of my parents passing. “Life is never the same after” Gogo, a deeply Catholic woman and elder in her church, consoles.
A little after three an eight year old boy walks down the drive, greeted by Vicious the dog, and after casual greetings, is formally introduced to me. Tanatswa. I ask what his name means but he doesn’t know. Gogo tells him “It means we are of good people”. “And your surname?” (something Sarah and I had never spoken of). Gogo, who married into the family, informs me “It means we have left the plot, or in other words, we are lazy”. I laughed, certainly not relevant to her, sekuru, Sarah or Chris. Tanatswa is the youngest of her grandchildren (she has a few great grandchild already). Gogo has brought up at least seven of her grandkids. Absent fathers send money from SA while she and sekuru drive their development. A retired school teacher of nearly 50 years, Gogo demands Tanatswa show his homework, do the corrections and if there doesn’t seem to be enough homework he is given more (he needs additional practice at division and multiplication). But he is a bright boy, with a good eye. He draws well and (after a brief lesson with my camera) takes some decent photos. But its apparent that he will be a handful, already an independent thinker, automatic respect for his elders seems watered down. When I first met the family 25 years ago they lived in the high density suburb (township) of Luveve and Gogo was bringing up her second eldest’s 2 boys. It was a small home, well kept and in a bustling neighbourhood. Gogo told me of the tears she shed when they first moved to Burnside — a bigger home with more land to till for food, greater amenities, but far from the community that she had lived in for decades. She has entrenched herself in her new parish but the days in Burnside are distant from any community. At least she has Sisi the maid with whom she shares innocent gossip, jokes, and love. And I can see Sisi attending to Gogo in a loving manner. I am glad.
Gogo wakes early each day, as she alway has. With the help of a gardener Chris sends a few days week, and sisi, the fallowed land is tilled, awaiting the rains to then plant maize for mealie meal (Gogo’s mealie meal is the best I’ve tasted), tomatoes, tsunga, broad beans, and some flowers for pleasure. The garden of this Burnside plot has slowly shrunk as more and more land gives over to work for the family. Remains of the broad beans hang sparsely over the wire fence, some leaves still hold life while others are shrivelled but the seeds of last year will give new life soon. This effort is required to feed the family, Gogo and Sekuru are on pensions that in a cashless society are negligible in value. Recently Gogo added hares but none have been killed for food. I’m not sure, by the way Gogo or Tanatswa talk, that they’ll ever make the stewing pot. Gogo and Sekuru typically breakfast about 10 am and have a good meal at night. One Zero One. Last year the rain were good but the water table has dropped and the bore did not provide sufficient water. Most places are having to drill deeper and deeper to get their drinking, cooking and washing water, city supplies no longer safe. The bulk of the population in places like Zim are vulnerable to the weather in a way we never really experience in our cities. Here no amenities are taken for granted. Last trip the issue was the inconsistency of electricity supply, it typically cut out at 9 in the morning not to be reinstated til 10 pm but this was completely random — wealthy people had generators. At Burnside cooking was done on a fire outside and we all went to bed early. Last December before the good rains, the electricity was supplied on a rota system so could at least families could predict the load shedding. Gogo now has three geysers in the house but the cost of heating water is prohibitive so the family take cold showers. If it was the typical October heat maybe I’d brave a cold shower? But it isn’t, so I am more than happy to be the murungu (white person) asking Sisi to heat a large kettle of hot water daily for my wash! Electricity is now prepaid so when the power cuts out the next morning it takes me a little while to realize this isn’t load shedding. We head into town to pay, get the code, return home and plug the numbers in. To cut costs, Sisi still does most of the cooking on a fire outside, the stove used to warm food only. Even with these cost saving efforts the monthly bill of $30 for electricity and $10 for firewood is considerable. In contrast to these limitations, and Chris’s suburb where I was given further lessons in African patience, Burnside has great internet speed. So once the monthly top up comes online I link in to Facebook and emails. Just a little different to 25 years ago when I waited for the Thursday Qantas flight to being letters from home!
As the sun dips towards the west the heat begins to leave the day, atypical for October. I doff my fleece jacket, hiking boots and thermals! And Sekuru, reminding me of dad, sits from about 4 pm beginning the round of news broadcasts. Zim is ahead of Australia in that the evening news is signed for the Deaf community. In the old days, in the wet season, the newspapers had lightning strike and drowning tolls, a bit like our road toll. Today the news has Dam watch. The broadcaster informs us of the prediction for a good wet season. It is only days later that I realise I was watching ZBC — the government mouth piece. But the rains do come on cue in my second week so hopefully it will be a bumper season. The Shona accent drags me back to 25 years ago when on arrival I was intolerant and judgmental of the Shona english. After four years it seeped into my heart and despite some of the communication clashes it causes, I listen with fondness. The adverts promote tolerance for albinos, the news tells of the successful anti poaching campaigns in Hwange, resulting in over population. There is news of the President, and not much else.
The next day we head to town to shop. First stop is to get airtime — internet is a prized resource, sold and bought in a variety of combinations. I get an econet account so I can use whatsapp and messenger but foolishly do not set up an ecocash account, confident I can ‘swipe’ with my international cards when needed. Pensioners are taken to the front of the line so Gogo (and I) get are first to reach the attendant who sets up my bundle and changes my setting as she checks her own news feed and accounts. We then go to buy food. Gogo umms and ahhs over the price of chicken and walks away. “I’m paying” I say, the relief on her face is visceral. We do a ‘big’ shop. I spoil myself with some fresh milk…I’d worked out the problem with coffee in Africa was the reliance on UHT milk. I get one good cup of coffee before it’s gone. I remember last time Sarah and I bought fruit…it was gone within 1/2 hr — treats that were very readily devoured. As we drive in the CBD it is clear that Bulawayo has had no money spent on its development, in fact what hits me more is the degradation. Gogo is concerned about tribalism, feeling the lack of development by the Shona in Matebeleland puts them, Shona, as targets in any future conflict. I ask Chris the next day. The younger generation do not seem to feel tribalism will be a source of trouble. I hear other perspectives regarding the lack of development, that the Ndebele will avoid employing Shona, preferring their own even if the skills are lesser, anything to keep the Shona out. Complex.
As we leave the city we pass by a pharmacy to get a second quote on Gogo’s heart medication. She has gone without for a week, not wanting to bother the son who sends the stipend for his children, not wanting to bother the daughter in the US who supports them, nor the son here who does so much. She has asked others but as in every family there are those that can and those that won’t.
Tanatswa has had the day off school with a stomach upset. By the time we return from town he is up and well. In his very confident eight yer old way he tells me he will join me on my walk. We wander for an hour sharing knowledge. I learn that the Zimbabwean flag’s colours are after the Flame Lily. I hear Shona words, slowly the familiarity seeps in but in my attempts to retrieve words, even greetings, Spanish comes to the fore. Later as the sun goes down he has quickly taken on my basic photography lesson and snaps a few good shots of a bird, the moon and the painting of an angel. He is cheeky with a beautiful face and flawless skin.
As my visit to Byo comes to an end, Gogo and I grab last moments, talk of family, life and other things. We hug goodbye. “I will see you again and you will be healthy” is my farewell, my wish, my hope. With sadness I get into the car and wave farewell. Sarai zvakanaka Gogo. Stay well grandmother.
