Harare, Zimbabwe — As the yellow sun came to life, Kutama village also awakened. The dominant cockerels perched on elevated ground, pronou...
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Harare, Zimbabwe — As the yellow sun came to life, Kutama village also awakened.
The dominant cockerels perched on elevated ground, pronounce the beginning of the day, another eventful day.
A middle-aged woman lugged a jug of water from the well towards her homestead. The weight dwarfed her effort. Before she enters the house, she offloaded the container aided by her angled right leg.
“Phew,” she moaned in reprieve.
She went down on all four limbs to resuscitate the fading ambers inside the thatched hut, feeding the fireplace with twigs, and there was a sudden glow, peering into the deserted yard. She planted a three-legged black pot on the fireplace, housing dried maize, which would constitute the afternoon meal.
“Phew,” she moaned in reprieve.
She went down on all four limbs to resuscitate the fading ambers inside the thatched hut, feeding the fireplace with twigs, and there was a sudden glow, peering into the deserted yard. She planted a three-legged black pot on the fireplace, housing dried maize, which would constitute the afternoon meal.
A few hours later, it will be ready, she knew. Outside, she strolled towards another hut, knocking softly at first, then pounced firmer after nobody answered.
“Wake up guys, its already sunup, you don’t want to be sleeping all day,” she cried. “There is plenty of work to be done around here.” At her command, yawning bodies emerged from the hut, rubbing their eyes, erasing the remnants of sleep.
“You are the man of the house now, young man. If you sleep all day, who will take care of the livestock and other chores around here.” The boy continued to scour his eyes, disregarding her mother’s probing.
“Wake up guys, its already sunup, you don’t want to be sleeping all day,” she cried. “There is plenty of work to be done around here.” At her command, yawning bodies emerged from the hut, rubbing their eyes, erasing the remnants of sleep.
“You are the man of the house now, young man. If you sleep all day, who will take care of the livestock and other chores around here.” The boy continued to scour his eyes, disregarding her mother’s probing.
He trudged towards the kitchen, and scooped a gourd of water, paced to the rubbish pit, and rinsed his face. He snapped a thin branch from the tree, munched its tip, and scrubbed his teeth, and wiped his face with his shirt.
At the chicken coop, he circled the parameter, searching for any surviving predator’s trail. Convinced with his examination, he undid the flap, and the restless birds fluttered in a flurry towards the garbage pit to scrap for fresh crumbs.
At the chicken coop, he circled the parameter, searching for any surviving predator’s trail. Convinced with his examination, he undid the flap, and the restless birds fluttered in a flurry towards the garbage pit to scrap for fresh crumbs.
From the kitchen, he emerged with a basin of feed that he scattered on the ground, igniting a wild pecking. At the end of these regular chores, he sat on the earthen stool while his mother poured porridge into a bowl.
“Take care of the livestock, you are the man of the house now,” her mother emphasized, as he ate.
“I will mother, but when is he coming back?”
“You mean your father. I am sure he will come back, he still loves you.” His head drooped, nodding glibly, marching stingily towards the kraal.
In the savannah grasslands, the budding greenery was beginning to overcome the effects of spring. Young cattle herders crackled their whips, driving livestock towards the grazing area. The boy directed his livestock, tooting in conformity with the blooming surroundings.
“Take care of the livestock, you are the man of the house now,” her mother emphasized, as he ate.
“I will mother, but when is he coming back?”
“You mean your father. I am sure he will come back, he still loves you.” His head drooped, nodding glibly, marching stingily towards the kraal.
In the savannah grasslands, the budding greenery was beginning to overcome the effects of spring. Young cattle herders crackled their whips, driving livestock towards the grazing area. The boy directed his livestock, tooting in conformity with the blooming surroundings.
By now, he knew every beast by name and they all heeded his instructions. His commands had become an instinct to their actions. He had actually named most if not all of them, so he knew them individually.
His unique whistling style had become a familiar lullaby to the herd. Over the years, he had tendered his father’s form of pride, observing them as they multiplied or perish.
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| Quotable Orator: Remembering Robert Mugabe |
During the drought years, he had shepherded the animals further into the mountains in search of virgin pastures to sustain the flock. When the paddocks dried, he witnessed animals succumbing to painful deaths one by one, with only cowhides and bones as an aching reminder.
Like most peasants, they relied on animal draught power for hard work. In times of lack, a beast or two were sacrificed for school fees. Or other urgent needs to sustain the family.
Along the way, the family bull promptly peeled from the herd, galloping towards the lush green of maize. The herder knew he had to act efficiently, or his family would face a stiff penalty from the village headman.
Along the way, the family bull promptly peeled from the herd, galloping towards the lush green of maize. The herder knew he had to act efficiently, or his family would face a stiff penalty from the village headman.
Ignoring the sharp barbs, he pursued the errant bull, via the thorny trails, which percolated his feet, but he continued his pursuit undeterred. As the bull attempted to invade the field, he raised his whip and with a single, ringing crack, utilizing his residue energy, he sent the animal into a panicky sprint, to reunite with the rest of the herd.
His daring run had saved his family from the full wrath of the village court. Back in the flock, the bull frothed, rowdy shaking his head in a show of defiance, aware he was spared punishment due to his elevated status.
His daring run had saved his family from the full wrath of the village court. Back in the flock, the bull frothed, rowdy shaking his head in a show of defiance, aware he was spared punishment due to his elevated status.
The spotless black bull had recently been accorded a spiritual status, he was now a symbol of protection for the clan. And it was to be addressed as a person, an ancestor. The bull was therefore spared from any work, his energy was conserved to engage in territorial and mating battles, only.
Under the hissing tree, the brave boy extracted spikes rooted under his feet. The procedure was delicate, but common which every herder had grown accustomed to daily. A section of his friends appreciated his heroics.
Under the hissing tree, the brave boy extracted spikes rooted under his feet. The procedure was delicate, but common which every herder had grown accustomed to daily. A section of his friends appreciated his heroics.
“The brave one has become haunted,” others mocked his antics when he ran after the bull. The comments agitated him, causing him to round his flock, and he steered to a separate grassland. Alone, he found comfort in his books.
Robert Gabriel Mugabe was held as a village hermit, his childhood associates confessed, who temporarily transformed into a hero, and later an unsettled villain during his finale. From a humble and often trying background, he was catapulted to world stages, becoming articulate and earning himself innumerable palms.
Robert Gabriel Mugabe was held as a village hermit, his childhood associates confessed, who temporarily transformed into a hero, and later an unsettled villain during his finale. From a humble and often trying background, he was catapulted to world stages, becoming articulate and earning himself innumerable palms.
When he addressed any audiences, people heeded. For his entire 96 years of existence, people often wondered if he ever had any regrets. Did he ever cry, even in secret? We deliberated how the loner became a hardliner, summoning harm to those who opposed his ideals.
Most records on Mugabe have been about his bravado, callousness, heroism and confrontation with his foes, mainly white folks. The late politician originated from a peasantry background, raised by his mother Bona after his father discarded the family.
Most records on Mugabe have been about his bravado, callousness, heroism and confrontation with his foes, mainly white folks. The late politician originated from a peasantry background, raised by his mother Bona after his father discarded the family.
His mother struggled to gather food for the family during the Rhodesian era, earning little from back-aching chores around the village plots to sustain the family. The effects of an absent father took a toll on the juvenile Mugabe, who elected to conceal his anger and sorrow in his books.
Reading became his foremost source of comfort and leisure as his family could not afford much from their measly earnings. For school, he was registered at the nearby Roman Catholic school, later receiving a teaching diploma. Teaching ran in the family, with his mother also in the same trade. His forays during the liberation war occupy the bulk of his history.
In 1980, we hailed Robert Mugabe’s inauguration as the first Prime Minister of an independent Zimbabwe. Rufaro Stadium, joy in the prevalent Shona language was the venue. Crowds had gathered from every city for the event.
Reading became his foremost source of comfort and leisure as his family could not afford much from their measly earnings. For school, he was registered at the nearby Roman Catholic school, later receiving a teaching diploma. Teaching ran in the family, with his mother also in the same trade. His forays during the liberation war occupy the bulk of his history.
In 1980, we hailed Robert Mugabe’s inauguration as the first Prime Minister of an independent Zimbabwe. Rufaro Stadium, joy in the prevalent Shona language was the venue. Crowds had gathered from every city for the event.
And more followed the proceedings from nearby, sagging treetops. The mood was rapturous, the purpose was mutual. The Union Jack was lowered, replaced by the Zimbabwean flag.
The multicolored congregation and every facet were well represented by the new floating flag. Black represented us the majority, red for the fallen comrades, yellow for the minerals. Green stood for the vegetation, and white stood for peace. I was aged two then, rested on my father’s broad shoulders.
The multicolored congregation and every facet were well represented by the new floating flag. Black represented us the majority, red for the fallen comrades, yellow for the minerals. Green stood for the vegetation, and white stood for peace. I was aged two then, rested on my father’s broad shoulders.
We all predicted a novel Zimbabwe. Like the decorated flag, it was a country for all, where everyone was represented, equally. Races blended freely. Liquor flowed in tandem with the unfolding triumphant mood.
Bob Marley recited a rendition for us: “Africans are liberated, Zimbabwe.” Liberation had indeed come to anchor on our shores.
Mugabe beseeched eloquently then. “Stay with us, please remain in this country and constitute a nation based on national unity.”
Mugabe beseeched eloquently then. “Stay with us, please remain in this country and constitute a nation based on national unity.”
The war was not about skin color, it was about equitable distribution of resources. Everyone applauded. I am not certain how I reacted, but I am certain, I reciprocated the existing temperate. Like father like son, I presume.
Our new leader had a vision for the nation and was affixed to its revival and growth. At least, we were not destined to be a failed, pariah state statistic, similar to our neighbors who had discarded their former settlers. The bespectacled past guerilla spoke like a true leader, overlooking race nor color.
I began school in 1985. It was free. It was exciting. My aunt availed stickers of Mugabe, young and energetic, and pregnant with promise. I proudly plastered them on my brown school pack, ruler and even school books.
I began school in 1985. It was free. It was exciting. My aunt availed stickers of Mugabe, young and energetic, and pregnant with promise. I proudly plastered them on my brown school pack, ruler and even school books.
He was everyone’s hero then and he radiated promises for a better nation, in sync with his 1962 vision: “Africa must revert to what it was before the imperialists divided it. These are artificial divisions which we, in our pan-African concept, will seek to remove.”
As school children, we were impatient to be chosen to attend the 21st February movement to celebrate Mugabe’s birthdate. It was a moment for a feast, to be merry, and became a yearly holiday. Mugabe’s name became sacred, elevated, as places, streets were retitled after him.
As school children, we were impatient to be chosen to attend the 21st February movement to celebrate Mugabe’s birthdate. It was a moment for a feast, to be merry, and became a yearly holiday. Mugabe’s name became sacred, elevated, as places, streets were retitled after him.
Nobody mentioned any other party other than the ruling party, it was a taboo. My parents were invited to a jacket and tie fetes to conclude his excellence’s birthday at exclusive hotels. On offer were cognacs, imported winery, and lobster dishes.
Every April 18, our Independence Day, we assembled in respective party districts, provinces to observe the day, led by the ruling party. Each family contributed to the cause financially, materially. Or otherwise.
Spurs of confrontation were ignited later in the early 1980s. There were pockets of rebellion around the second city. Dissidents, they were branded. Dissidents we called them. And dissidents had to die, Mugabe persuaded us. — Kalahari Review
Spurs of confrontation were ignited later in the early 1980s. There were pockets of rebellion around the second city. Dissidents, they were branded. Dissidents we called them. And dissidents had to die, Mugabe persuaded us. — Kalahari Review
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