A holiday in the bull’s eye of poverty

Back in the village, in the land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve – if you like – respect for family hierarchy is sacrosanct. There, the elders insist on following protocol. Long back this villager’s father taught at Chitima Primary School in the remotest part of Mbire District and befriended one villager, Mutorododo. Where they clicked this villager really did not understand. It was a matter for the adults. But one thing for sure was that there were a lot of gifts that exchanged hands.

This villager’s father often gave Mutorododo old clothes and shoes while Mutorododo normally brought wild fruits, vegetables and little nothing else. But they understood each other and clicked well. Mutorododo found it hard to pronounce the word headmaster, he always said Dhumasta. He called it that way with astounding confidence. Dhumasta!

Another common factor was that, being in Rhodesia, tea and buttered bread was largely a preserve of teachers. More often than not, Mutorododo appeared just before the school’s tea break or lunch. He would wait for it. He never said no to food.

At times he would come along with his wife Chihera. They were visibly a poor couple given the way they dressed and even gulped tea and munched bread. If there were signs of meat in the next meal, he would wait and tell story after story until meal time arrived. During the long wait Mutorododo would systematically preen his goatee beard, fidget and talk much about nothing.

It was his art. High sounding stories signifying nothing!  With time one or two of his children would visit our school home and one holiday my father decided – despite protest from my mother – to send me to Mutorododo’s home for the excursion. As usual my father won the battle and said he wanted this villager  to learn the other side of life.  He was right.

At the homestead, there were four more boys, two of them older than this villager and two younger. The problem was when eating. These boys behaved like maggots. Normally food disappeared as soon as the plate arrived. This villager had been used to side plates and personal plates but there was none. It was all in one plate of sadza and one plate of relish.

For sixth days our relish was an assortment of bush and conventional vegetables, boiled without cooking oil.  There was also wild okra, found on the banks of Angwa River. The okra was it two types, one derived from a tree leaf and another from a tuber. They both tasted awkward and strange.

For those days this villager ate in order to survive. Taste was a luxury. Taste buds were not important. It was the stomach. Stomach!
Angwa River slithered past Chitima Primary School and on its banks, wild animals roamed wild and free. The villagers had to go to the river to fetch water, bath or do laundry in groups, to reduce the risk of being attacked by the wild animals.

Buffalo herds were plenty and the worst scenario was when a villager came across a bachelor buffalo bull. It was terrible and a sure case of fighting for survival. With buffaloes, one did not need to provoke them. Any contact is a fight for life. Danger!

But you see, in the village, buffalo was good meat, yet at times, the hunter became the hunted. Such is God’s grandeur! Mutorododo hunted with wire snares and one day he caught a buffalo which he shared with 12 other villagers. Those days it was hunting and not poaching. There, hunting is not a sport. In a sport, both sides should know they’re in the game. It was for the pot.

In the village providence was always on the side of the big numbers. Hunting and fishing involved killing animals with devices (such as snares and home-made guns) for which the animals had not evolved natural defences. In the village no animal on earth has adequate defence against a human armed with a gun, a bow and arrow, a trap that can maim, a snare that can strangle, or a fishing lure designed for the sole purpose of fooling fish into thinking they have found something to eat.

Hunters were powerful and respected personalities in their communities. They were believed to have some supernatural powers. They often had great stories to tell that emphasized their achievements and their hunting skills. Mutorododo was one of them. People often praised them and celebrated their exploits.

This was especially true when they come home with big animals like and buffalo. So there was celebration in the village. The first day there was plenty of meat but Mutorododo’s wife exercised caution, knowing that the next hunt could be many, many, weeks away. In the family there was protocol on picking up the meat, during meals.

Moffat was the eldest. He often picked the meat first, followed by Misheck and this villager was the third in hierarchy, because the villager was a day younger than Misheck. Then came Julius. Rogers was always the last.

Naturally everyone wanted the best piece of meat. Moffat had the luxury to delay picking up the meat. He would use his morsel of sadza to stir around the plate and scout for the best piece. Rodgers was the least fortunate, among us. This villager even felt pity for him. He always got the worst.

It was protocol. His fate had been decided in the womb. There were no elections to win or lose, unless the elections were held in the womb.

But this day, the young man had something up his sleeve. Suddenly Rogers picked up the best piece of the day and immediately spat on it. Once he spat his saliva on it, no one would want it. It was so fast. Moffat was equally fast with a slap and the piece of meat fell to the ground and so did the morsel of sadza.

Rogers picked yet another good piece and spat on it. Thereafter he stood up and ran. Moffat gave chase. Slap. Kick . . . knee . . . kick . . . knee . . .  knee! Kick, slap . . . slap . . . slap. Kick . . . kick . . . kick. Kick! Fight. Drama!

Meanwhile, we picked the last pieces from the plate in haste and munched. Moffat came for us. We scampered to safety but he picked on Misheck who still had a piece of meat in the mouth. Misheck took to his heels into the kitchen where Mutorododo and his wife, intervened.

The fight was far from being over. Silly! Mutorododo, picked as axe and went after Moffat. Hungry, beaten to the meat and tears rolling down the cheeks, Moffat bolted in the direction of Angwa River, with Mutorododo in hot pursuit.

They then disappeared into the riverine vegetation, leaving a trail of dust. This villager immediately left the homestead for the school, without bidding farewell. Meat! Poverty!