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Having contemplated writing a blog to reflect on the just ended elections, writer Bongani Kumbula instead finds himself looking back at friends he has lost along the way, their life and times and how they may have also looked back at casting their vote.
On this fine day as I sit and procrastinate on writing my long overdue analysis of the Zimbabwe election, I find myself thinking about the dead. Specifically my peers from my schooling years who passed away. They did not make it. Some died before Facebook gave us pages to visit. Virtual tombstones for us to pay our respects.
A clown such as I is no good ambassador to play speaker for the dead but let me attempt. I remember Phule and his brother who passed away when the gas was left on at home.
I had some stupid issue with the brother whose name fails me. Something minor resulted in a duel being arranged for the following afternoon at the bottom fields where we kids fought back in the day. Anyway, he died and I avoided a butt-kicking meant for that afternoon. A butt kicking I wish he had lived to give because my mouth and I sometimes deserve it.
I remember Hussein from the high school days of the good sandwiches. A fixture in the Indian corner behind the tuck-shop, we occupied the bench around the corner. Quiet, dignified and always willing to share munchies with a hungry boarder.
He went to bed and didn’t wake up. The chaos of the next morning when friends shared the sad news, only to have the headmaster name some other dead student, only to retract and say ‘twas indeed Hussein. We missed the funeral because they would not allow the hostel boys to go; the injustice of being a child of the system. I remember him. I remember I learnt that Muslims bury within 24 hours (because of that ordeal).
I remember school rides with Milhouse and his family. I remember an unsolicited education in rock and roll from hands down the best drummer I ever met. Jimmy Page, Kurt Cobain, System of a Down and other screamers who would make Chester proud were the tune his life moved to.
A daily fixture that’s become a memory of a time when Fizz Bombs stained teeth, Ozzy banged fists on tables, DeVas went on a rampage and I managed to read the “Order of the Phoenix” in 3 days in true geek fashion.
I remember that senior who looked like a junior who had a senior tie.
A senior tie was everything (in high school); a form of pension for years spent toiling and navigating the hallowed hallways of 1 000 testosterone filled youths. It meant good seats at assembly, better toilets, minions, you were basically a made-man in this little school mafia of life.
He had it, small as me but he had it. Now when I say small I mean unusually small. Rat was the urban dictionary definition of it as I was often called and reminded.
I wondered if this guy was a boy genius to be able to hang with the giants and be considered an equal.
He would disappear and then reappear after extended periods of absence. Years later, one assembly, he got up on stage and spoke. In a place that prided itself on academic achievement and sporting excellence this guy just got up and spoke.
It went something like:
“Hi, my name is (fill in the blanks because my memory fails me). You guys might be wondering who I am and why I get to talk to you. I was born with a heart that is too big for me. Doctors said I wouldn’t make it to first grade but I am still here. I often have to go to hospital which is why I haven’t graduated but I just wanted to thank you all for being my friends and family. I love my time with you and am proud to be a part of you . . . ”
It went something like that. I am a terrible witness, but by the gods did I not cry like a baby hearing this man’s story? He died a few months later but I remember him. I remember his story.
I remember Allenass snoring in the corner of the dormitory. I kept a water bottle and spare pillow to throw at him when it became too much. I remember how we were part of the drama club, debating club and public speaking, the only way for boarders to get to interact with girls.
I remember high school socials, Jay Z’s Black Album on loop, bunking hostel for discount movies at Eastgate (shopping mall), I remember my high school friend in all his glory.
I mourn for all they could have been.
Even Bougie aka giver of the sore kidneys, I forget why we fought (I remember but it was rather silly) I remember the sound of his laughter. I remember each and every one of you (otherwise I would have removed you during my yearly purges).
I acknowledge that most of you have become digital representations of the people I knew and hung out with but I remember you.
I remember many more but lose my train of thought.
I sit here dodging my long post about the elections thinking about those that do not get to vote any longer. I think about how I procrastinate my life away and how others who are no longer here would be doing.
Online Reporter