A week before departure news of stand still fuel queues, kilometres long, caused some pause for thought. Would I be able to get from the airport let alone make it out to work in the high density suburbs of Harare? I pondered further into the year ahead and wondered if the Zimbabwean government and its free falling economy would allow me to contribute anything, and if, so for how long? As the week progressed a government instigated internet shutdown followed civil unrest, subsequent to its sudden threefold increase in fuel prices. Zimbabweans with means scurried to download VPNs. And when the internet resumed for general traffic, facebook and whatsapp remained blocked. But news of countless beatings and a dozen deaths, at the hands of the army meant tricked through. Chatting to Sarah, my Shona friend based in Florida, we sifted through various standpoints, Sarah concluded, “you know if it were me I wouldn’t be going, but it’s you”. Hmmm, taking into account the filter of distance (continents away in the safety of an Australia summer) and the burning desire to be in Zimbabwe to begin my year’s ‘sabbatical’, I had to get serious and weigh up my options. It was important to not merely pause, but stand still and truly listen to my intuition.
I stuck with the original plan.
There is just something about Zimbabwe, or maybe it’s deeper than the landscape and wildlife, waterfalls and highlands, maybe it’s Zimbabweans themselves. Despite the hardships — 90% unemployment, a dysfunctional health system where food, let alone most drugs, are absent in hospitals; a deteriorating education system that is no longer ‘free’, and an absence of hope for a government solution to their economic ruin, these people touch you (not in the negative South African use of the word where I think they use it to mean annoy or aggravate). After decades of political abuse by Mugabe, Zimbabweans now long for the ‘good old days’ of white rule. Some, like Loveness, do not believe their countrymen even capable of democratic governance. But gaze to Botswana and Namibia, I encourage. Another driver, Maggie, an accountant who must now ferry people around for a living, expressed a glimmer of hope when she talked of Ethiopia’s recent success with democracy. Maybe it’s just time for the old guard to go and younger generations bring in a 21st century solution?
Zimbabweans are now openly critical of the government, unlike 22 years ago. This openness a reflection of desperation rather than a mature political arena? When only last September people plainly asserted “we did not vote for this government” there seemed no hint of fear or retribution. Yet just over a year since a ‘soft coup’ toppled Mugabe, in an attempt to manage fuel shortages (cheaper in Zimbabwe than in the region_, President Mnangagwa increased the coat over night, the rationale — to ‘reduce demand’ by preventing resale in neighbouring countries. The impact was immediate and predictable, from increased kombi (commuter bus) fees, to the trickle down effect on the price of everyday commodities. I wonder if the government preys upon the pacifist Shona, the largest tribe in the country, assured of their unending patience? Within a couple of days of the price hikes the public took to the streets. Peaceful protests were hijacked by thugs (would I be confabulating to say the civil disturbance was constructed by the ruling ZANU-PF, or were these ‘thugs’ merely the disenfranchised seeing an opportunity)? Looting and ransacking an already tattered central business district, the army was rolled in to quell the unrest.
A week later I arrived and fuel was flowing, in the leafy northern suburbs at least. Bread, oil and flour were not always available. The currency was outrageously pegged at 1:1 Zimbabwean Bond to US$ but a black market softened that blow at least. A bag of muesli and packet of tea bags for ‘US$24’ was a startling awakening and it was clear there would be no frivolous spending, in the absence of black market ecocash I’d have to scout for luxury items like coffee and decent cheese. I was soon seriously considering buying a car — at US$100 per week to just travel to and from work let alone to a decent supermarket or have a social life, using local drivers was not going to be a long term solution.
Without transport I was a little house bound and other than conversations with my drivers to various networking meetings, I was sheltered from the goings on in the high density suburbs, or townships as they are known elsewhere. My Airbnb in Newlands was the oasis I’d known it to be, a luxuriant garden, spacious light home and inviting pool. The nearby golf course was a daily staple where I dragged Coco, a rotund dog, around. It was only at the nearby supermarket when off-duty soldiers wandered in and out that I wondered what was transpiring further afield. The political and civil uncertainty moulded my decision making regarding a car. I ultimately decided to rent a car from Brighton, my driver to and from the child care centre, our contract to be null and void if things go south and I need to get out.
Morning coffee or an afternoon snack coincided with a lengthy chat between Patience, the maid at my Airbnb, and myself. Her daughter, Joyful, through my last visit, had managed to get voluntary work at the child care centre, her contributions to its office management much needed. This trip she joined my daily commute and the invigorating conversations Brighton, the driver. One day I had an appointment elsewhere so Joyful travelled independently.. I received a message from the director, Irene, of the child care centre mid morning, who casually commenting Joyful was not yet in. I replied, ‘She’s on her way’. By lunchtime Irene commented she had yet to ‘pitch up’. I found Patience and asked if everything was OK. Worried, Patience called Joyful. A hurried reply came to call her husband. She was at the Army Barracks, she had travelled without her ID. The next day Joyful told me of the ordeal. The Kombi she was travelling on was pulled over by the army. Joyful’s ID was at home in her other bag. In her morning rush, an incidental choice to grab another bag, defined her day. Questioning everyone on board, the soldiers taunted the commuters. As she spoke, her words still subdued and terror laden still, I could see and feel her trauma. “Ah Lisa, if it had been the police, a dollar here or there, it would have been over. But these guys…” She and most of the passengers were taken to an army barracks and held, mothers with children, young women on their way to work, men going about their day. There were no legitimate charges. No lawyers were contacted. She hauntingly told me that the men had been taken away, and made to roll on the ground “And I don’t know what else”. They challenged Joyful, “You are an illegal immigrant”, one of many charges plucked out of thin air, for the exacting purpose of intimidation. With limited battery life on her phone and shrinking airtime Joyful managed to contact her husband. Rushing to their home on the outskirts, he returned with the ID. But the army’s ruse was not so readily quashed. Hours later she was released.
I offered my seemingly tokenistic empathy.
Joyful continued. The previous week, after the brutal attacks on protesters, the army began to sweep through high density suburbs. People ran from a nearby suburb towards their area shouting dire warnings. Joyful, her husband and sister-in-law fled, leaving their son with Patience. The army barged into Patience’s home questioning her, “Where is the child’s mother?”
“Ahh down South (Africa)” Patience replied.
“Why is she there?” their incredulous response.
“Well there is nothing for her here.”
Undeterred “Where is the father?’ they demanded.
“Ahhh, you know these days, so often there is no father” Patience obtusely answered.
“We will search your house, if we find men’s clothing…..” the inference clear.
Searching Patience’s room no men’s clothes were found.
Joyful and her husband live in Patience’s home, in the next room hang his clothes. Fed up with their game of fear mongering, they left before moving onto the next room. A close call.
Joyful, her husband and sister-in-law, terrified, spent the night in a nearby maize field.
The eyes of this slight, intelligent, 26 year old were plagued by the events of the past weeks. “I did not sleep last night” she added. “I make sure I am home by 6 pm now”. This unofficial curfew perhaps an intended outcome? Patience, days later, told me of the gardener. If kept too late he had the added expense of getting a kombi into town to catch a safer kombi home, the walk to the normal bus stop, not far from the army barracks, was too risky, he was not looking for a beating.
A few weeks passed. Mnangagwa eventually returned to Zimbabwe woith protestations that the army’s heavy handedness would not go unanswered. The international community are strongly advising that soldiers must return to their barracks. But the promises of transparency and accountability were quickly dwarfed by news of rape — soldiers targeting areas where the opposition party had a good showing in last year’s stolen elections’ — the victims including women and babies.
Sadza (made from maize flour) and bread are key staples for Zimbabweans. I heard the other day that the price of flour has skyrocketed, the country’s wheat supplies having dwindled. The rains were OK this year, the streets of Harare, the outskirts of the golf course, any free land really, are a sea of green maize stalks. The god this deeply Christian country prays to is giving with one hand at least. And in this the Zimbabweans will, somehow, find some joy.
