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Khuphuka Nasingeni
Growing up in a traditional society where age was celebrated with as much vigour as the vilification of the aged, we not only had remnants of belief in all sorts of dark practices rub onto us, but also expected and wondered how that herbal warfare was going to be waged against us, and in what form.
My friend uMzo has been unbelievably quiet nowadays since our access to beverages has gone beyond being seasonal. It is near criminal for micro-economic vicissitude to subject to grown men like us to dry throats for such prolonged periods.
The drying of throats invariably sucks life out of wisdom springs and the enlightened and animated discussions of the good old days have given way to eulogies about our various budgets and how relationships are being sustained by extra forces in the face of a glut of challenges.
Men used to worry quite a lot whenever a lizard missing a tail was seen sauntering within the home environs, as there was a belief, that still wona��t go away by the way, that housewives used the tails to cast a spell on their husbands not to stray from the home, hence mimicking the behaviour of a lizard around the house.
We have heard tales of women mixing herbs prescribed by mostly male traditional healers, with certain fluids of theirs and preparing food in the same pot as their undergarments so that they achieve the zwana mina effect.
A discussion on korobela took centre stage this week at my favourite spot after a radio programme earlier in the week where a woman confessed to have administered the treatment to her abusive husband.
Forget the Domestic Violence Act . . . that is very progressive legislation but our women rarely want their neighbours to know that they have been turned into punch bags by their men. The law does not deal with your better half discreetly, it hangs the dirty linen for everyone to see.
The voices rose and reached a crescendo with some men so agitated it was my prayer that they did not wake up their wives for korobela vetting at midnight when they got home.
From the discussion at the bar, it appeared that trends had moved and men were left behind, still stuck (symbolically) to the lizard tails when the remote control practitioners had moved to floor polish and applicators.
According to this woman in the radio programme, having been married for 21 years, the bliss of the former years gave way to a violent phase where her husband constantly pummelled her.
She was not about to run to the courts, having sought treatment from the clinics and lied about her injuries several times. When she got a major thumping at harvest time last year she declared that enough was enough and with her sister as advisor, set out to a�?tame the bulla�? (her own words).
The discussion at my usual hangout was prompted by this confession that the practitioner, from some white garment sect, used undergarments of both parties and mutton cloth tied together for use in shining the floor for a prescribed period until the cloths were thoroughly dyed in dirt.
These were burnt, mixed with some cocktails and the ashes added to cow heels (Daddya��s favourite) in spice fashion and the man of the house praised the woman for her splendid cooking on the day, on which interestingly, they had the meal together as per practitionera��s instructions!
Just as in legal systems, when a case fails at a lower court, it is taken to a higher court. When these took long to take effect, the woman went a notch higher and sought help from another godobori and the results manifested in three days!
The guy became unbelievably loving and very generous with his finances. The woman was impressed. However, some side effects spoilt their sex life leading to the discovery of the whole scandal!
It appears there is a skorobho korobela on the market, so please take stock of all skorobhos at home and should any go missing that should be cause for concern. And also, make it a point to check on all your undies, and even the loose threads could provide clues of tampering!
When I left the bar, quite a sizeable number of drinkers, who were relatively sober, whether on account of the strained finances or sobering discussion, were determined to make sporadic visits to the prophetic gatherings for check-ups just in case they ingested iskorobho.
There is even a song rocking the charts with the title Chikorobho, and my hope is that it will not spawn skorobho fashion hence camouflage some partnersa�� not-so-pious intentions.
UMzo swore that he would ban black floor polish at his home as it could be loaded with suspicious additives. My mind refuses to link any of these shenanigans to the delicious Independence Day meal that my better half prepared for me . . . could it be ngidlile bakithi?
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