adminweeks, months and sometimes for years.
But when something totally unjust continued to cause her too much grief and anger was beginning to boil inside her like a volcano, then she was expected to erupt.
The rules of eruption were unwritten but well known. An angry woman must rise at dawn, climb an anthill, lift her skirts right up above the knees and reveal her legs for the in-laws and everyone to see. Once she is up there, she makes her grievance known through anger shouting, bopoto. Naked legs on top of an anthill accompanied by an angry high-pitched voice demanded immediate attention from the village elders.
I saw my mother stage a bopoto once many years ago. Two years prior to my mother’s performance, my grandfather Sekuru Dickson had simply taken away my mother’s groundnut field and given it to Mbuya Mabwe, his youngest and beloved fourth wife.
This incident happened in the late 1970s at a time when the extended family was getting bigger and there was a severe shortage of land. There was no additional land other than what had been allocated to Sekuru Dickson and his three brothers since their relocation from Charter Estate.
They came here to make room for British settler farmers after the Second World War. We all lived close together; our huts were like mushrooms, on the banks of the river. A ground nut field was everything to a woman. Like a good daughter-in-law, my mother knelt down in front of sekuru and politely addressed him by our totem, Mhofu (Eland). She then asked him to give her back the groundnut field, because without it, she was not a wife or a mother.
Sekuru reminded my mother that he was the sabhuku, village kraal head, and therefore free to give and take land as he wished. “When you came here from your maiden village, you did not arrive carrying a piece of land on your back. You do not own a field here,” Sekuru said.
For two whole seasons my mother watched Sekuru Dhikisoni and Mbuya Mabwe plant groundnut seed, weed and harvest many bags of nuts from her field. Throughout the dry season, Mbuya Mabwe made peanut butter from the harvest. My mother watched and said nothing. But inside her, the anger volcano was simmering.
Then one day at dawn, just before the rains came, we were woken up by my mother’s loud angry voice. She stood on top of the anthill behind Sekuru’s hut with her skirts raised above her knees, clearly showing her brown thighs. Inside the hut, Sekuru slept with Mbuya Mabwe. Mbuya VaMandirowesa, my grandmother and Sekuru’s first wife, and all the uncles and aunts heard the shout and came out of their respective huts. They gathered around the anthill and waited.
My mother did not see them because anger had possessed her. Hot lava from inside her angry volcano flowed down the anthill.
“When I married and came to live here among my husband’s people, you gave him land and he gave me a piece from that land so I can grow my groundnuts. My granary has been empty of groundnuts for two seasons. I beg for peanut butter from other women as if I do not have hands to till the land and grow my own nuts. I am a mother and a wife just like your wives. I want respect. The nuts I grow are not for me alone. They feed your grandchildren. Baba, what you did to me is an injustice, makanditadzira. I want my ground nut field back today!”
My mother’s voice rose higher and higher and she raised her skirts up even more. The morning rays could be seen through her bare brown legs. Mbuya VaMandirowesa said this bopoto had gone on for too long. “Zvakwana. We have seen enough of the woman’s nakedness. It must stop now,” Mbuya said.
She banged hard on Sekuru and Mbuya Mabwe’s hut and shouted: “Mhofu, do you not hear this bopoto? Come out and see your muroora’s naked thighs. The nakedness of your daughter-in-law is the same as that of your daughter. It must be avoided. When a fire starts on the mountain, do you think it will simply subside by itself? You must put the woman’s fire out and bring her down from the anthill.
Her anger will burn us all if you keep lying there. Shall we wear the pants for you? Come out and behave like an elder.”
Sekuru came out pulling his old khaki trousers up. He took a glimpse at my mother’s thighs, winced and quickly turned away in embarrassment. Then he crouched at the bottom of the anthill with his head bowed down.
Sekuru clapped his hands and spoke in a slow deep voice, “Mai Munyengetero, my son David’s wife, muroora, give me your ears. Indeed, we know that you are Nyati, the she Buffalo. The buffalo is angry and we hear the noise. Ngaisiye matambo. Let this matter rest. Mistakes are made by people, and not by animals. I am a human being. I made a mistake. Let us sit down and talk.” My mother stopped shouting. Her sharp angry eyes stared at him. For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then she slowly lowered her skirts and walked down the anthill. Suddenly people clapped loudly and others sighed in relief. They said the anger of a woman was dangerous. Once a woman climbs the anthill and she stands there threatening to strip off completely, only the peace token of a cow would make her cover herself and come down. A woman, especially a mother, should never be treated badly. If such a woman was to die still carrying anger, her ghost would come back and wipe out the whole village.
Mbuya VaMandirowesa took my mother’s hand and led her to her hut.
All the elders gathered in there to discuss the land matter. Sekuru apologised and paid for his mistake with a heifer. By midday, my mother was happily ploughing her groundnut field.
Most conflicts between people were skillfully handled by the elders within the village compound. A small domestic dispute between couples was resolved within the confines of the hut without anyone hearing anything at all. If a husband assaulted his wife, then Mbuya VaMandirowesa and all the grandmothers got together to scold and beat him up.
There was no swearing or shouting in anger among the children throughout the whole village compound. There was all the freedom to do that down in the valley where we grazed the cattle. When I went to boarding school I missed out on the opportunity to master the nasty Shona swear words girls my age learnt while herding cattle.
They carried the same vocabulary into adulthood and marriage. Sometimes when they are really angry, they use the bad herd boy, kumombe words during a domestic argument. Such language has the effect to shut the husband up from speaking completely though it does not make a good recipe for marital harmony.
Because I lacked strong Shona words to express myself when angry, I tried to learn powerful swear words in English when I moved to Australia. I was in a good place to learn. Australians are champions at swearing. One day when we were not busy in the old people’s home where I worked, a colleague called her boyfriend to discuss a domestic matter.
Her intention was to give him what Australians call a blast or an earful. So she picked up the phone and rang him. Within seconds, my workmate had the angriest face I ever saw. She shouted and swore at her boyfriend.
I cannot write here the swear words I heard coming out of the mouth of this beautiful woman. If Miss Hutchinson, the missionary who taught me how to speak English heard those swear words, she would have fainted. The language was way too colourful for an ordinary ear. The very next day, I saw the boyfriend dropping my workmate. They were kissing, laughing and hugging each other. I looked at them and thought, what was the point of staging a phone bopoto like that and uttering such strange profane and uncivilised words to each other if they you were going to be best lovers again the very next day? I realised that some swear words should never be taken seriously. So I gave up on learning the language of anger in English.
It was meaningless. Besides, most of the swear words did not exist in the English dictionary. The emotion and language of anger is deeply rooted in past experience and it comes to us naturally. A village bopoto did not have any swear words yet it was meaningful in delivering the message.
This practice worked for women because people understood what it meant and the woman was given the respect due to her by the community. The other day I climbed the anthill where my mother stood to stage the bopoto. Surrounding the anthill are the ruins of the old village compound. Mbuya VaMandirowesa, Sekuru Dickson and Mbuya VaMabwe are all dead now. Over the years, some of
us have all moved away to set up new homes elsewhere.
Most of my cousins and their wives are living on former white owned farms in Chivhu, the old Charter Estate. Over there, they have plenty of land and most of it has good soil for growing groundnuts.
For the cousins who have moved to the city, their voices of domestic anger simmer, suppressed behind modern suburban security fences. Like me, sometimes my cousins just want to lift their skirts a little and reclaim the freedom of speech once provided by the anthill.
- Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and is a consultant and director of The Simukai Development Project.
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