Next, we stayed briefly at an uncle’s house. Fifteen occupants altogether, four rooms, one toilet. Towards year end, we headed for Kuwadzana...
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Next, we stayed briefly at an uncle’s house. Fifteen occupants altogether, four rooms, one toilet. Towards year end, we headed for Kuwadzana (living in harmony), a new suburb, previously a farm.
Red brick houses built for multinational employees, rose from the red soils that once nurtured potatoes. New residents left behind their legacies, associates, erasing their memories, and together, we started afresh. New friendships, new adventures and new battles.
At my new primary school, I encountered Clive, a heavily built, formidable fighter. Like me, or even slightly better, he fought like a bulldog. For that, he was the champion of the class, until I showed up, possibly to end his uninterrupted, undefeated reign.
One breaktime, we confronted each other. Cheerleaders forming an imaginary boxing ring. First, he threw a punch, I ducked. I kicked, he dived. The same tedious routine went on, until everyone got bored. From that day, after the fight, we became close friends, until this day.
Soccer on open, red soil fields, was a must daily socialisation. Everyone wanted to be Pele, the Brazilian. Everyone dribbled when it was easier to score. At the ground, we played better teams, placing five cent coin bets, a decent amount for our ages.
Soccer on open, red soil fields, was a must daily socialisation. Everyone wanted to be Pele, the Brazilian. Everyone dribbled when it was easier to score. At the ground, we played better teams, placing five cent coin bets, a decent amount for our ages.
My team comprised my elder brother, two other friends, and myself, the youngest, as the goalie aka Andoni “Zubi” Zubizarreta, the Italian legend. If we won, which we rarely did, we bought sweets. We never lost heart — we always came back to play.
Besides soccer on the dusty fields, I joined the boys’ scouts in town, went for camps, competed with other races. To fit in, I spoke broken English, using vocabulary from books, newspapers and TV.
Our five-roomed house was in the last row. At the back was a vast, virgin grassland woodlot, where we sneaked out to hunt for small game, with timid neighbourhood mongrels. In groups, we fished, plunged in muddy rivers. Back home, I encountered my mother’s wrath.
Our five-roomed house was in the last row. At the back was a vast, virgin grassland woodlot, where we sneaked out to hunt for small game, with timid neighbourhood mongrels. In groups, we fished, plunged in muddy rivers. Back home, I encountered my mother’s wrath.
“Repeat after me, that this is the last time you are ever going to swim, or fish in that filthy river again.” I only agreed to calm her. A few days later, Clive signaled me with our secret whistling code, ready for another dive into the river. I gladly obliged.
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| Childhood Memoir: The Writer and Clive Nhauriro at Kuwadzana 6, Primary School |
Until we left, suburb had no electricity. Owning a radio or television was a family achievement, a status symbol. Actually, part of our routine as youngsters included searching for houses with TV sets, powered by generators to watch American WWEF wrestling. Our locality had less than three families with generators.
Out of those three, only one family welcomed us. Seated on the cement floor, we watched Zeus versus Hulk Hogan. Kamala “The Ugandan Giant”, barefoot in a loincloth. Or The Ultimate Warrior, pounding his chest like a cockerel, perched on the ringside ropes.
Some weekends, at the community hall, we watched the kung fu connoisseur, Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, or Jean Claude van Damme, dishing his sublime kicks. Every generation has its slang, fashion and music that it identifies with. Kriss Kross, where one wore clothes backward, was one. Shabba Ranks came with a loud bang, with the suggestive Bedroom Bully, which our parents distasted.
Growing up, our home was always stocked with things to read, from the world atlas, folklore, such as Aladdin and The Forty Thieves, to old encyclopedias my mother got from work. There were also vernacular novels, which my aunt borrowed from her friends.
Some weekends, at the community hall, we watched the kung fu connoisseur, Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, or Jean Claude van Damme, dishing his sublime kicks. Every generation has its slang, fashion and music that it identifies with. Kriss Kross, where one wore clothes backward, was one. Shabba Ranks came with a loud bang, with the suggestive Bedroom Bully, which our parents distasted.
Growing up, our home was always stocked with things to read, from the world atlas, folklore, such as Aladdin and The Forty Thieves, to old encyclopedias my mother got from work. There were also vernacular novels, which my aunt borrowed from her friends.
Every day, without fail, father brought The Herald, the leading state daily, then. After unloading his idling green Peugeot 404. I flipped to the sports page, then the cartoon section. Politics then was not my ideal topic, too young to comprehend why grownups contested for positions.
Each month, my mother received her regular subscriptions of Living and Loving and Garden and Home via the post. By the time she got home, often after six in the evening, I had read them all, and neatly sealed them.
Two days before my first grade seven examination, also a week before I turned twelve, in October 1991, my father was in a car accident. It was a Saturday, when he went for our nephew’s marriage ceremony.
In the ICU, he spoke to my mother for the last time. “Go home and be with the children, I will be fine. Come back and visit me tomorrow morning.” That night, when mother left, father died from heart complications. I was too young to visit him. I never said goodbye.
In the ICU, he spoke to my mother for the last time. “Go home and be with the children, I will be fine. Come back and visit me tomorrow morning.” That night, when mother left, father died from heart complications. I was too young to visit him. I never said goodbye.
That day, I lost every will to live. He was the only man I was closer to, travelling for fishing, or to watch the Harare derby soccer match pitting Dynamos, his favourite team against Caps United.
I glanced at him, quivering like a reed in a flooded river, puffing at his cigarette like his lungs depended on it when Edward “Madhobha” Katsvere missed a sitter. Or when the opponents, courtesy of Joel “Jubilee” Shambo launched a counter attack towards Leon Tawatawa’s goal at the city end, at Rufaro stadium. Like his wallet, I always stayed closer.
While he was laid buried, I wrote my first English examination. The essay topic I chose was: The day I will never forget. He was the protagonist. In Wedza, the village he grew up in, and shaped his life, grandpa spoke his final, parting words.
While he was laid buried, I wrote my first English examination. The essay topic I chose was: The day I will never forget. He was the protagonist. In Wedza, the village he grew up in, and shaped his life, grandpa spoke his final, parting words.
“We ask you of our ancestors in the spirit realm, who have gone before us to receive your grandson Peter, who has followed you.” Men clapped, women ululated, my mother sobbed louder than before, as the rocky earth swallowed him, forever. “He was one of us, please receive him and take care of him, so that he becomes part of you,” grandpa concluded.
In late January 1992, after collecting the exam results, my mother and I walked past a huge sign written: Sandringham High: Hard work yields good results. This was my school for the next four years. Two senior boys, one of them called Fife, were summoned to carry my luggage to the Form three dormitory. I was two weeks late, and the junior section was already full. Among senior students, I foresaw more bullying.
In late January 1992, after collecting the exam results, my mother and I walked past a huge sign written: Sandringham High: Hard work yields good results. This was my school for the next four years. Two senior boys, one of them called Fife, were summoned to carry my luggage to the Form three dormitory. I was two weeks late, and the junior section was already full. Among senior students, I foresaw more bullying.
Learnmore, a macular prefect assured me, “Don’t worry young man, no one will harm you as long as I am here.” True to his promise, I was more secure than my counterparts. Suddenly, everything changed, names changed. Undiluted drink became ‘dye’. A rare dinner of rice and chicken was called ‘Christmas’, a time for celebration. Black Suit, Zinjathropus, Jongwe (The cockerel), Ganshat, are some iconic nicknames, I still recall.
Immediately after the evening study, before our scheduled nine evening bedtime, Brother Victor rounded all new converts for the bible study. Some backslided after a few services, slid under bunkbeds, or vanished into the toilet.
Immediately after the evening study, before our scheduled nine evening bedtime, Brother Victor rounded all new converts for the bible study. Some backslided after a few services, slid under bunkbeds, or vanished into the toilet.
At the prayer meeting, behind the White House, the white-washed junior dormitory, Brother Brian, the leader erupted into a marathon, mass prayer. It was a blend of alien tongues and declarations.
As first timers, we watched in curiosity. Then a musical interlude. Now, we all joined in worship songs. That was comforting and inclusive. Mosquitos, meanwhile, made regular interjections from the nearby sewage pond.
Finally, the word: a short preaching, just in time before the makeshift gong, a ploughing disc sounded. Soon after, the brawny boarding master emerged, patrolling. “Switch off the lights, its after nine in the evening.”
From the school library, manned by sweet old Mrs. Paterson, an expatriate, known for her stern gaze reserved for noise makers, I was hooked to pacesetters: Dead Man Don’t Talk and Child of War. I was spellbound by Dambudzo Marechera’s House of Hunger and his defiant lifestyle. Charles Mungoshi’s Coming of the Dry Season, Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarebga soon followed.
From the school library, manned by sweet old Mrs. Paterson, an expatriate, known for her stern gaze reserved for noise makers, I was hooked to pacesetters: Dead Man Don’t Talk and Child of War. I was spellbound by Dambudzo Marechera’s House of Hunger and his defiant lifestyle. Charles Mungoshi’s Coming of the Dry Season, Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarebga soon followed.
Emerson, may his dear soul rest eternally, our own Fyodor Dostoevsky, a stream ahead, and Percy, initiated me to Charles Dickens, Jane Eyre, among other western classics. Since childhood, I have been captivated by history, storytelling, and the lives of dictators.
But when I was put into a non-history class, I was taken aback. I always wanted to keep things, know the family history, and visit new places. To this day, I have kept photos of my childhood, friends and family, newspaper clippings, dating back to 1997. I am not sure why, but I just did it. In class I was not a brainy student, nor a sports fanatic, I was somewhere in between, with erratic stints in the football and athletics relay team.
But when I was put into a non-history class, I was taken aback. I always wanted to keep things, know the family history, and visit new places. To this day, I have kept photos of my childhood, friends and family, newspaper clippings, dating back to 1997. I am not sure why, but I just did it. In class I was not a brainy student, nor a sports fanatic, I was somewhere in between, with erratic stints in the football and athletics relay team.
Against our sister school, we fought running battles, and football matches became a battlefield. “You must always win with dignity and lose with dignity, “our headmaster always cautioned. No one cared, we wanted to win everything, at all cost. Same with our opponents.
After one school holiday, an expatriate teacher brought letters of German pen pals. I wrote back to Anke, from Frankfurt, my chosen pen friend. She replied in a month’s time. We kept exchanging letters, postcards, gifts, and sometimes phone calls. Over time, we lost contact, but social media reunited us. The last time, on Facebook, she told me she was a doctor, happily married. I was happy for her.
After one school holiday, an expatriate teacher brought letters of German pen pals. I wrote back to Anke, from Frankfurt, my chosen pen friend. She replied in a month’s time. We kept exchanging letters, postcards, gifts, and sometimes phone calls. Over time, we lost contact, but social media reunited us. The last time, on Facebook, she told me she was a doctor, happily married. I was happy for her.
Again, I have kept her photos, and a Germany to English dictionary she sent me. On Friday nights, for entertainment, there was a film, disco under floodlights, another form of censorship, which seniors detested. Sometimes, nothing at all. Bored, our idle wicked minds kicked in. In the night, when the guard was afar, we stole the church drum.
Gathered under the colourful blooming bougainvillea, sharing drinks. Sam, the drummer, meanwhile caressed the animal skin drum, in response, it tom-tommed deep into the night. We called it Woza (come) Friday, a weekend celebration. We all sang, clapped, chanted, until the resident master pitched up. We dispersed.
If there is one thing that I got used to at a tender age was moving again, and again. I was not sure when, or where, though I was certain it was coming and why. In late 1993, I sat in the back of a loaded lorry, with my brothers, carrying our household property. This time, we headed back to our original suburb, six years after departure.
Gathered under the colourful blooming bougainvillea, sharing drinks. Sam, the drummer, meanwhile caressed the animal skin drum, in response, it tom-tommed deep into the night. We called it Woza (come) Friday, a weekend celebration. We all sang, clapped, chanted, until the resident master pitched up. We dispersed.
If there is one thing that I got used to at a tender age was moving again, and again. I was not sure when, or where, though I was certain it was coming and why. In late 1993, I sat in the back of a loaded lorry, with my brothers, carrying our household property. This time, we headed back to our original suburb, six years after departure.
On arrival, I went to Thomas’ home. He was surprised to see me again. “Derick is that you, or I am seeing a ghost. You have not changed a bit in all these years. I thought we would never meet again. What brings you here?” We sat on a granite outcrop outside his home. “I am back for good.” We smiled.
Next, we visited Edward, to rekindle our lost friendships, revisiting our past. A lot had changed, many people had moved out, too. The passageways we once exploited to escape our parents’ anger were now occupied by new homes.
Next, we visited Edward, to rekindle our lost friendships, revisiting our past. A lot had changed, many people had moved out, too. The passageways we once exploited to escape our parents’ anger were now occupied by new homes.
There, we exhibited and polished our amateur hunting instincts, the laughter, the prey we snatched from traps belonging to a rivalry gang. We had our own unofficial embargos, but never told our parents, it was a sign of weakness. We fought until it was lifted. Later, we enforced our counterretaliation. Fortunately, they never lasted forever.
My love for writing grew stronger in high school. Each day, the school bought two copies of the daily newspaper, and deposited them into the library. The whole school, including staff, took turns to read the newspaper. It was a long wait but worth it, when my turn finally came. We once launched a Writing Club, myself as the secretary.
My love for writing grew stronger in high school. Each day, the school bought two copies of the daily newspaper, and deposited them into the library. The whole school, including staff, took turns to read the newspaper. It was a long wait but worth it, when my turn finally came. We once launched a Writing Club, myself as the secretary.
Together, we scribbled some drafts and sent them to the patron. The feedback was positive. She directed us to the computer teacher, who said, “You cannot use the computers to type your documents because you are not trained. You have to wait for someone to do it for you.” For almost a week, we waited patiently for his response. Each time, we got the same dismissive response. Two weeks onwards, our club failed before it took off.
After high school, I wanted to become a writer, yet my mother couldn’t afford it. A relative proposed I join the army. Another suggested a teacher training. None excited me. Still, I sent out some pieces. After countless attempts, my first newspaper article on unemployment was published in April 1999. It gave me the urge to study journalism.
After high school, I wanted to become a writer, yet my mother couldn’t afford it. A relative proposed I join the army. Another suggested a teacher training. None excited me. Still, I sent out some pieces. After countless attempts, my first newspaper article on unemployment was published in April 1999. It gave me the urge to study journalism.
Instead, a cousin organised a clerical job at a construction company, on a biweekly wage. After three years, I left to study journalism, infuriating my boss. “You know, we gave you a chance to become someone else in life. I don’t know much about journalism, but I think you might be making a big mistake.”
Unbeknown to him, I fancied myself as a full-time writer, a journalist, a published author. I imagined myself getting a byline in international publications. I yearned to be Africa’s Charles Dickens. I felt Chinua Achebe’s Nigerian magic in my veins. All this kept me dreaming.
Four decades on, there is something about those coins that keeps coming back to me. Why? I now know that those piled coins were a form of sacrifice. Someone wanted to cast away their financial misfortune. To do so, they were advised to part with money. It was not clearer to any of us then.
Four decades on, there is something about those coins that keeps coming back to me. Why? I now know that those piled coins were a form of sacrifice. Someone wanted to cast away their financial misfortune. To do so, they were advised to part with money. It was not clearer to any of us then.
Whenever I meet Edward, I always ask him, “Do you still remember that day we picked up coins, and I bit your finger?” Each time he laughs dismissively, “It’s been a long time, many things happened. I don’t even remember.” Edward doesn’t recall. I still do.
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