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David Mungoshi Shelling The Nuts
I live in a small town nicknamed the city of progress. My gate is just a few feet from the edge of a very busy dual carriageway. Follow the road one way and you end up in Polokwane somewhere, or in Gauteng.
The other way you go to King Kalu’s world across the mighty Zambezi. Football fans in Zimbabwe have a kind of fixation with Kalusha Bwalya, although it’s really quite long ago since that header of his at Rufaro. The guy had never scored with a header before and he went and did exactly that against our dream team when it mattered so much to both sides. The long and short of it is we missed qualifying for a first ever appearance at The Africa Cup of Nations. Anyway, that is a digression; back to my story.
It goes without saying that from the vantage point of my gate I see all sorts of vehicles pass by on a daily basis. I wouldn’t be surprised if people start wondering how on earth anyone living next to an international highway can manage a decent night’s sleep. What with all the roaring and the loud change-downs that seem to have been designed to offend law-abiding citizens. Happily for some of us, the Russian formalists were right in saying that those who live near the sea no longer hear the waves.
Simple extrapolation tells us that those who live near busy highways no longer hear the multiplicity of vehicles going by. Not too far from my suburban residence runs a railway line that always comes alive in the small hours of every morning. And whenever I hear that lonesome train whistle blow I can’t help humming words from Frank Ifield’s “Wayward Wind”:
Oh I met him there in a border town
He vowed we’d never part
Though he tried his best to settle down
I’m now alone with a broken heart
And the wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And he was born the next of kin
The next of kin to the wayward wind
And I can’t help feeling I should strike out in any direction and see where the road or railway takes me. Our own Lovemore Majaivana sings, “Dabuka mhlaba, ngibone okungale” (o world, if only you could split in half and let me see what’s on the other side). Perhaps that is why the first nation people of Australia have had it in their culture for centuries to go walkabout.
It can’t be just a coincidence that Frank Ifield was an Australian pop star! Like him I get that feeling of wanting to walk away every time that shrill locomotive whistle blows in the dead of night, or when one of those tired buses with misaligned wheels goes by. I always feel like stopping the bus wherever it is going and jumping on board to live again.
Make no mistake, there’s a lot of life on these rural buses. There’s an exciting world aboard every rickety, creaky old bus practically anywhere in this world, I dare say. I got reminded of this the other day as I was reading “Jamaican Bus Ride”, a poem by ASJ Tessimond. The opening lines of the poem are a vista of some of the ubiquitous things we experience regularly.
The live fowl squatting on the grapefruit and the bananas in the basket of the copper-coloured lady is gloomy but resigned.
The four very large baskets on the floor are in everybody’s way, as the conductor points out loudly, often, but in vain.
Try boarding the earliest commuter buses any early morning, perhaps just after the break of day and you will see the enterprising market women with all sorts of paraphernalia. They are even more heavily-laden on the way back from market. Each woman has these incredibly huge baskets with lots of tomatoes and lots of other things besides: mangoes when in season and wild mazhanje or green maize and fresh groundnuts.
Tessimond goes on to say: Two quadroon dandies are disputing who is standing on whose feet.
Another familiar scene? Yes, of course! It always seems that a fight might break out any time between bus aisle belligerents. Ben Hanson, a friend, writer and teacher from Jamaica once told me a story about an occurrence aboard a bus in Kingston Jamaica. I wish you could have heard him tell it in that musical Jamaican tone.
Anyway, the bus was full as usual and an old lady stood in the aisle obviously uncomfortable. Next to her was this considerate young man who offered his seat to her. She thanked him and made to sit down. But before she could do that she was shoved aside by this hulk of a man, muscle-bound and ferocious.
The young gentleman was not amused. He told the huge fellow in no uncertain terms to vacate the seat and let the old woman rest her legs. The bulky man threatened the young gentlemen with all sorts of mischief if he didn’t shut up.
“Jesus!” cried the incensed young gentlemen. “Let’s get it on. Let’s do it man. I’d much rather feel it than jes’ hear about it”.
His hard stare must have convinced the modern Goliath to let things be.
With the Heroes holidays at hand the roads would have been quite busy in those days, way back then. Everybody with a job in town and a wife in the rural areas looked forward to that sweet visit home.
You saved for the trip months ahead and got on board with your treasure trove of roast chicken, opaque beer and some lagers and you joined your drinking pals somewhere at the back of the bus where you could drink, shout, sing, smoke and dance all the way to your destination.
I have been on many buses in my time and seen a man book a seat and never sit on it. So much happiness and so much camaraderie! The men sang, Zvinhu zvese ndezvaMai Ngoni (Everything belongs to Ngoni’s mother) lustily.
On the highway the bus seemed to crawl along, but as soon at it touched the dust road something propelled it forward and the frenzy increased. Men shouted at the driver to hurry up and get them home before their children retired for the night. And the beer flowed and the roast chicken was shared.
Each clique had its turn at music and the dance floor. Inevitably, someone stepped on another’s toes and a confrontation would flare up. On one such trip there was a man in a tweed suit and a skull cap as we called it. He had these big watery eyes and this deep voice. You got the impression that he would stand no nonsense from anyone. Suddenly he roared at the top of his voice to someone called George.
“George,” he begged, “Let me kill this idiot, if you don’t mind.”
Imagine my consternation when I saw this outwardly intimidating man cow down when his antagonist made as if to walk towards him. He kept calling George; George who never responded. Perhaps there was no George on the bus after all.
Suddenly he sat down and furiously began to sniff a rich dark brown snuff from his left palm, one nostril at a time. Almost immediately afterwards, the phenomenal sneezes began as did his satisfied cough. When the drama was over, he jumped up and broke into song: Zvinhu zvese ndezvaMai Ngoni, zvinhu zvese ndezvaMai Ngoni!
Believe it or not, when the man was through with his antics he brought out a small plastic pack from deep inside an inner pocket of his jacket after which he bared its contents for all to see. There must have been at least half a kilogramme of uncooked beef there. Without warning he bit into the raw meat and began to chew quickly and hungrily like a dog.
When he was through he took a huge gulp from a container (chigubhu) with opaque beer and said that was what he would do to anyone who tried to be funny with him. You don’t get such free and spontaneous entertainment on a luxury coach.
On board a luxury coach everyone is quiet and civilised. There’s no singing or dancing, and there’s no drinking either. You can’t even smoke! The bus stops at appointed places only, usually where passengers can buy French fries or pizza and freshen up in the rest rooms.
There are no stories to tell here and you all do monosyllabic conversations in monotones. Some wear headphones and keep nodding mechanically to something that only they can hear. Loud conversations are out of the question. A luxury coach is like a library.
David Mungoshi is the author of “The Fading Sun”, the 2010 NAMA winner for Outstanding Fiction. The book is now an A-Level Literature set book.
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