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source of many rivers and streams, that chatter and serpentine in all directions.
It is from there that many rivers issued out in ancient times, flowing to the west and east past flat valleys and rugged terrain and of course, over gleaming stones that eventually got polished smooth by running water.
The rains and water gave life to many, hence the lush greenery associated with the geomorphologic splendour that Chimanimani is. Banana groves, luxuriant water reeds, water cabbages, lilies and thickets of riverine vegetation accompany the rivers until it empty their contents into major rivers and indeed into the seas.
Chimanimani is certainly different from the land of milk, honey and dust, Guruve, where this villager was sired and bred. It is nowhere nearer the scorching hit of Dande. Two weeks ago, Chimanimani played host to its annual festival of the arts, where villagers came in droves, barefooted or in booted feet, if that English exists: mothers spent nights dancing to the music with their children clad on their backs: guzzlers imbibed as if there was no tomorrow. The tired ones slept on the dance floor and the more innovative ones, brought their blanket and slept on the floor when nature dictated.
The festival of the arts attracted many Zimbabweans in their broad totality, from as far afield as Harare, Mutare and Masvingo, among other places. This villager who was on tour of duty, will forever remember the Chimanimani Festival of the Arts for the callous murder of young socialite, Malvern Jena Makuve. The 28-year-old man was shot and killed near the Himalaya Turn-Off while on his way to the festival in what police and friends suspect was the work of women who are terrorising and sexually abusing men countrywide to collect semen. Police evidence seems to point at that.
Maluva or Baba Tino, as he was affectionately known in the social circles in Harare, Murambinda, Rusape and Mutare was found dead in his car with a bullet wound on the left side of the shoulder near the 46km peg along the Mutare-Masvingo Highway.
The scene of his death was a spitting distance from the Wengezi where in a few minutes, he was supposed to turn to Chimanimani. His journey was cut about 100 km before Chimanimani or just an hour away from his friends. His friends, including this villager, had long awaited him in Chimanimani, the whole Friday night of August 12 and were in constant communication with him until around 10pm, when his phone suddenly went off air.
In the last call he made to a close friend, he is said to have been unusually very low, and only said “Sizabonana” before hanging up. As the night wore on and the musicians strummed their guitars, his friends, including this villager, debated what the words meant and the fact that he never spoke Ndebele at any stage of his life. He never attempted speaking Ndebele for all the years this villager has known him and for all the years the core-group of friend had known him.
This villager’s Ndebele speaking friends say, the word bade farewell. So that might have been his way of bidding farewell to his friends, while his friends had no clue on what was happening to him. Unbeknown to the friends, Maluva had been shot dead and a bullet lodged into his lungs. He was found lying in the vehicle, leaning on the passenger seat, with car keys tucked in his waist belt. Blood soaked his passenger seat, to which he leaned.
Passers-by saw Maluva’s car, a red BMW, off the road and leaning to a small tree, suggesting that he might have been abused while the car was still in motion or the accident was stage-managed. At first people thought it was a mere accident. Maluva is suspected to have given a lift to some ladies, who later turned against him and tried to extract semen from him. Sources close to police investigations say they found two unused condoms, a cloth with smelly stuff and semen on his body while the zip on his trousers was open.
He had been sitting behind the wheel, with his trousers thigh-low. He was “sperming”, too.
“A bandage sprinkled with an unknown choking chemical was also discovered in the vehicle,” the police source said. “We suspect that he hit the tree, while struggling with his assailants.”
Passers-by informed the police who later discovered that Maluva had been murdered and also robbed of his shoes, cellphone and wallet. To date, no arrests have been made and investigations are still in progress.
Six days later on August 18, this villager was part of the funeral wake that buried Maluva at his father’s farm in Zviyambe, Wedza. During body viewing, as he lay motionless in the white casket, bruised on the face this villager was sure that his ego had been murdered and bruised too.
This villager urged him to rise and fight. Fight, fight and fight to the bitter end until, at least, the culprit or culprits are brought to book. Maluva was visionary and very vibrant. He loved people, he loved work and wherever he got, he immediately made an impact. Everyone liked him. He was smart and astute, easier to like than hate. He was a bundle or energy, a good cook, braai master and car washer, despite being decently employed by Medicines Sans Frontier.
If you spent a night somewhere, he would be the first one to wake up and wash all the cars – three or four of them – cook or braai, before you all woke up. When he arrived at a place, even at a village, he would join the old people and drink with them, at least a sip of anything. At rural growth points, he would join in the bar, dance a bit and move people, before getting down to his own business.
This is an innocent life lost. His life must never have come to such a abrupt end through a grisly murder.
While at his funeral, every testimony pointed to a socialite and hard worker. At 28, he had built a house in Rusape and a huge farmhouse in Zviyambe, Wedza and bought several cars. He never liked rubbing his shoulders with people engaged in shoddy deals.
Back in the village, the village soothsayer, that ageless fountain of wisdom and morality says Maluva will revenge and one day, the culprit should confess for the world to see.
“No person dies in such circumstances and evidence is concealed for good. One day, just one day, the culprits will be caught. Munhu haarovi. Ropa remunhu rarirovi. I said one day and just one day,” says the soothsayer.
Cases of women sexually abusing men are on the increase countrywide and police have so far not yet arrested any suspect to ascertain the motives behind.
In July, a 21-year-old Mutare student was sexually abused at knife and gunpoint by one of the three women who had offered him a lift to the city from Nyazura. The student also lost his Nokia 2380 cell phone and US$11 to the three women who were driving in a silver Toyota Corolla. A 19-year-old man from Muzarabani in Mashonaland Central was reportedly sexually abused by two unknown women before they robbed him of his cellphone, clothes and academic certificates after which they tied him to a tree.
The man was a carpenter who had just arrived in Beitbridge from Muzarabani following an invitation from a friend who had promised to offer him a job in the border town. Four women reportedly sexually abused a Goromonzi man at Juru Growth Point after forcing him to swallow some unknown pills at gunpoint before extracting his semen, which they placed in a container. They did not become intimate with their victim. Other cases reported so far have been in Mashonaland West, Chitungwiza, Masvingo, Bulawayo and Mashonaland Central provinces. The big question remains: What society is this one in which women rape men. Of course, this villager is aware that women’s groups have questioned the lingua franca of rape. That is besides the point.
The point is that in this society, where the majority do not own cars, yet they travel, it is becoming more and more difficult to assist genuine travellers.
In this society it is also fast becoming difficult to respect and sympathise with our womenkind, let alone accept to be assisted by them. So what society is this one? Is this the Zimbabwe we want? At what stage are we, as a nation going to be able to get to the bottom of this matter? Who is safe and who is not.
When the stories started appearing in our national newspapers, they sounded stranger than fiction but more were to come and now we have a serious problem in our hands. From mere abuse – not that abuse is in itself a small matter – to murder. What nation are we building? May Maluva’s soul rest in peace – that is if he affords to – given what they did to him.
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