Online Reporter
Tawanda Mupatsi
CHILDHOOD exuberance often led us into the oddest corners of the community, drawn by a restless hunger for hidden thrills tucked away from adult eyes. We were forever chasing excitement, even when it meant venturing into places we probably shouldn’t have, guided more by imagination than caution.
From the mischievous, daring act of swimming in dirty, deep waters that wound their way nearby, to stealing mangoes, berries and guavas from neighbouring orchards with the deliberate intention of provoking rage from both the property owners and their vigilant dogs, our days were filled with reckless delight. Danger, to us, was simply another ingredient in the fun.
On those few days when we were momentarily good boys and girls, usually following a series of stern parental rebukes, we inevitably found ourselves gravitating towards the scrap yard. It was an unlikely refuge, but one that never failed to pull us in with its mystery.
From there, we would scrounge for wires, fragments of metal bars and bottle tops, fashioning improvised toys from what others had long discarded. One man’s waste became the raw material for our creativity, our hands busy turning scraps into treasures.
One day, a friend announced what he proudly declared ‘a good find’ from one of the towering piles of rubbish. It was an old television with a wooden exterior, battered and lifeless, but perfect, we thought, as a prop in a game we called Mambwe (A Shona word meaning-playing house).
Without paying attention to detail, we carried the heavy load home, our excitement overpowering any sense of caution. Upon arrival, curiosity took full command and we crowded around the object of our discovery, eager to breathe life into it.
Some suggested it could be used as a table, others thought it wiser to turn it into a stool, playfully pushing each other aside and taking turns to sit on top of it. Laughter filled the air as we experimented, each suggestion dismissed or embraced with childish authority.
Finally, we all agreed that the broken-down gadget would remain a television prop in our game. Bricks were gathered and carefully stacked, one on top of the other, with an almost solemn precision.
Later, we placed the television atop the elevated platform we had built. Quietly, in our humble dozen, we sat down facing the broken screen, shepherding our minds into imaginary worlds where programmes played and stories unfolded at our command.
Then, in an instant, an air of fear and great panic gripped us. Pandemonium took over without warning and, one by one, we vanished from the scene like morning mist pierced by the sun’s first rays. We took off at speeds befitting an Olympic contest.
What had happened that day? We shall return to that shortly; for now, let us go back to the scrap yard. In all our youthful escapades to that place, it was always evident that it exuded a profound message, one I could not properly decipher then. Years later, reflection has brought clarity: the scrap yard may well be an allegory of human experience in the face of trauma, rejection and pain.
Some items there were once useful pieces of machinery, faithfully lightening the burden of labour in artisans’ hands. With only a few scratches, unoiled parts or missing bolts and screws, there was often no patience to understand their malfunctions. A hasty verdict would be passed, qualifying them for the scrap yard.
Now, amid the choking fumes of burning rubber, disused metal sheets and the hollow shells of abandoned apparatus, they lie buried, out of sight and far from rescue. With each passing day, their silent lament pours over the years of unflinching service, rewarded not with care but with betrayal and neglect.
Some are broken-down vehicles, towed there by owners who promised an imminent return that never came. In the bruising heat of summer, through the biting cold of winter and the unforgiving lashes of rain, they have waited in vain, facing the road.
Memories of better days prick their hearts as they recall being jewels of admiration, slicing through city highways in spirited races. Now parked in silence, they surrender to uncut grass draping their fading exteriors, reduced to shelters for rodents and cats.
At times, hope stirs again at the sound of approaching footsteps, only for it to be crushed by opportunistic hands dismantling their remaining parts for the market. Piece by piece, they are stripped of what little remains.
Some in the scrap yard are effective tools without flaw or blemish, once valued in their former roles. Through proximity to factory waste, they were accidentally bundled with unwanted matter and sentenced to rest among the rusty rejects.
They long to find their way home, yearning for another chance to feel the warm, familiar hands of their handlers — hands that once cleaned, polished and retired them to a safe toolbox. But home is now a thousand miles away, and the void left behind has already been filled by another.
Others are old picture frames and broken chairs. For countless years, they crowned different homes, held memories close and rocked dreamers as they chased cherished desires. With time, they gathered wisdom, quietly guiding generations to safety as vessels of history.
Now, covered in soot and dust, they have been dumped and forgotten. In loneliness, they gaze helplessly at the starry skies above, their stories unheard.
As we move through the corridors of time towards the future of Africa and its people, may all those broken by the ills of life find rejuvenation. May those burdened by trauma, betrayal and unfulfilled promises find rest. And for those whose search for reconciliation feels like striking a brick wall, may light guide their steps towards spaces of new purpose and meaning.
The realisation that we belong to a broader family must stir us to help one another find rest from the world’s accumulated wounds. Healing, after all, is seldom solitary.
Perhaps you still recall that story of how my childhood companions and I fled the scene after discovering that broken television set from the scrap yard. What prompted the sudden drama? The long and short of it is that things did not unfold as expected.
When we peered through the fractured screen, we were met with a shocking sight: a live snake coiled inside the television, hissing, seemingly ready to strike. From that day onwards, we learnt a lesson that has lingered ever since — not everything found at the scrap yard should be brought home without careful inspection.
Food for thought.
derick.khumalo