Chronicle Editor
Methuseli Moyo
Obituary
Big Foster. FBI. Dr Swango. Chubby. Commander. Bhudi Vue. Bhudi Foster.
All these were names of the late journalist, friend and former workmate Foster Vulindlela Dongozi, who passed on in Harare last Wednesday at the age of 48, after more than a quarter of century service to the profession of journalism.
I had the privilege to share the Chronicle newsroom daily with Foster, for a good five years.
Having “known” Foster through his numerous by-lines in Chronicle while I was still an aspiring journalist, I got to know the real Foster Dongozi in May 1996 when I arrived at Chronicle as an intern from Harare Polytechnic’s Division of Mass Communication.
Quite an intimidating experience it felt, as journalists, then were demi-gods, especially those who worked for major news media like Chronicle. It was a “star-studded” but very lean news desk. There was Foster, Edwin Dube (late), Paul Nkala (late), Admore Tshuma, Arnold Mutemi, Tumeliso Makhurane, Hebert Mutugwi and Clayton Peel was the news editor. Costa Manzini, Gift Chaita (late) and Zibusiso Ndlovu (also late) were our photo journalists at the time.
After a brief orientation, Peel ushered me into the newsroom to introduce me to the rest of the team. Foster stood up, as if to showcase his imposing build and box-cut hairstyle.
“Woza lapha jaha. Get that cup and fetch me some drinking water,” he said, with the authority of a military general.
He insisted he wanted cold water and I must go into the corridor and look for a tap there that had refrigerated water.
My conclusion was that here is a bully. On the brief journey to bring him water, I must admit the thought of running from the place crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. And I never regretted working with Foster.
“Ngiyabonga mfana. Umfana ngonjalo ovumayo nxa obhudi bemthuma. Obhudi bazakufundisa umsebenzi mfana.
Discipline is key, and you seem to have it. A good boy never refuses when being sent by seniors. Ours is to teach you the job, yours is to listen,” he said as he took the cup of water, and turned to the Remington type writer that we used then, pounding it furiously and took out the folio (typed piece of paper) and handed over to Peel.
He later explained to me that what he had handed in was his dairy, a list of story ideas for the day.
“So what is your diary mfana?” he asked. I did not have any. Foster helped me to come up with my first ever newsroom diary. I remember how he laughed, exclaiming that he had “never laughed like this” when I suggested what I thought were news ideas. Later, I was to get used to the “I have never laughed this” slogan from him. That was how Foster expressed surprise, joy and comradeship.
Foster was a people’s friend, a people’s reporter, hence all those names you read about at the onset of this obituary.
He had no enemies, inside and outside the newsroom. He respected colleagues and authority alike. He was our big brother, and we called him Bhudi Foster or Bhudi Vue. Many a times the editors (and we had old school editors then), would come out of their offices to say “Quiet boys!”
Usually, it would be Big Foster bursting into laughter when we were sharing notes about the juicy stories and rumours of the day. Yet he remained a serious, focused and successful journalist, and later trade union leader as secretary general of the Zimbabwe Union of Journalists (Zuj), a position he held at the time of his death.
Those who followed news towards the turn of the millennium will remember the story of Dr Michael Swango, an American medical practitioner whose nefarious medical antics earned him notoriety and jail in the US, following an investigation by none other than the US’s Federal Bureau Investigations. Somehow, Foster picked up the story on international news, and later discovered that Dr Swango had once worked at the Lutheran Church-run Mnene Mission Hospital in Mberengwa.
Off he went and camped there, talking to doctors, nurses and locals about Dr Swango, until he consolidated a gem of a story on how Dr Swango had administered suspicious drugs on patients, some who died as a result. Foster went down to the hinterlands of Mberengwa to talk to survivors and victims of Dr Swango’s evil medicine. He even pin-pointed the graves.
And the stories started rolling in, and all of us were proud of Foster and our local paper that was making international news. News travels fast, and the FBI came down to Mberengwa and exhumed some of the bodies and tests were done as part of the probe against Dr Swango.
“Yindlikizane bafana (This is a major story), only me and only me can bring the FBI to Zimbabwe,” Big Foster would occasionally remind us, at times up to five times a day. Foster was proud of his work and confident of his ability in the newsroom.
“Mina I write international news, not those ‘he said, she said’ kind of stories. Those are for you bafana (juniors),” he would boast, laughing until he literally cried.
For days, weeks and months, Foster frequented Mberengwa as he uncovered more shenanigans by Dr Swango. As a result of his Dr Swango stories, we called Foster Dr Swango. And he liked it. But he was happiest when we called him FBI. I am reminded of one day when our assistant editor, Jonathan Maphenduka called out for Foster, and he was nowhere to be seen.
“Where has he gone to?” Maphenduka asked.
“He has gone to Mberengwa to make a follow up on Dr Swango stories,” one of us replied.
“The problem with Foster is that when he gets a good story he doesn’t want to leave it alone,” Maphenduka yelled.
Indeed Foster was a greyhound. He would chase a story until he got it. That was his “problem”, or rather his trademark. He had the patience of a sniper waiting for his target. And that made him win awards for his “Foster only” stories. The trend in a daily paper usually is to graze over stories and leave others to make follow-ups, but Foster would stay on an issue until it was covered to the logical end.
I am reminded of his story about cyanide-tainted effluent that spilt from How Mine dump dams sometime around 1998/99. Foster loved the environment. Daily he went there to report on the disaster, and how it posed danger to communities, animals, birds and vegetation further downstream.
He put the mine under unimaginable pressure, until corrective action was taken. If my memory serves me right, Foster won an award for that story. Like Maphenduka said, Foster did not leave the story alone until the issue was addressed.
Enough about Foster the journalist. Bhudi Vue was a people’s person, an entertainer. He loved cracking jokes, and he in turn cracked his ribs laughing at others’ jokes. He was every driver and every photographer’s favourite reporter to go out with on assignment.
That is how news teams were routinely composed then. One day it happened Foster and I shared a pick-up truck to travel to our beats. The driver was Ms Oppah Banda. Big Foster was big, and I am not small either. And he sat in the middle. When I complained that he was squashing me, he took his other leg over the gear stick and put it on Ms Banda’s side.
“Hawu Foster, how do I drive now?” a perplexed MaBanda said.
“Khetha i-gear stick oyifunayo,” was the reply from Foster, bursting into laughter and shedding the customary tears.
MaBanda and I joined in the laughter. That was how life was with Chubby. He and the late Edwin Dube used to call each other Chubby, because of their huge bodies and not-so-impressive dress code.
“Mina into zefashion angiphiwanga Methu Methu,” he would say. That was how he always called me, always. Foster loved everyone. Tumeliso Makhurane was Tume Tume. Paul Nkala was Bra Paulie. Admore Tshuma was Jenalisto.
Arnold Mutemi was Set. Lovemore Dube was Bhudi Love. Everybody who worked with Foster in the Chronicle newsroom earned a nick name from him. When the late Makuwerere Bwititi came to succeed Peel as news editor, Foster was quick to give him a “local” name, christening him “Gwekwerere,” apparently after a traffic police officer who went by that surname.
“Wena awuboni ukuthi Makuwere lokuthi Gwekwerere yinto one, futhi bonke bayahlupha,” he would say.
Even bigger bosses were not spared by Foster. Maphenduka was called Winston Rodney aka Maharahara, maybe because of his dressing. The other assistant editor, David Ncube (late) was christened Isiqholo seZhwane, yet the guy heralded from Manicaland. He was called “Isiqholo” because of his assertiveness and “stubbornness”. Ncube was a no-nonsense boss who when he walked into the newsroom all would observe silence and order until he disappeared.
But Chubby would whisper “Isiqholo” as Ncube sauntered towards the exit, and we would work hard to bottle up the giggling. Foster provided the tonic that we needed in the tough world of the newsroom at the time, when things were analogue, cumbersome, tiring and fatiguing.
Foster was a humble but proud guy. He called himself the “best journalist ever on earth; the world’s most beautiful man.” He needed no one to tell him that he was handsome or beautiful as he preferred to say. He had a huge but interesting sense of self-importance.
One long day, when we waited for “Isiqholo” to clear our stories so that we could go home, Foster was called to his office and after some “roasting” there, he emerged, smiling and said;
“Guys listen attentively. This is very important. It is very sad but I have to announce it. Please lingakhali. I know it’s painful but lizibambe njengamadoda,” he said, with the seriousness of someone about to announce the death of a close relative.
“Kuyini Foster (What is it),” we asked, anxiously.
“Sengihamba majaha. I am going home. I know how it is like when the person you love most leaves you,” he broke the “sad news”, and broke into his trademark laughter and disappeared downstairs. I presume he went to the bar or a shebeen that operated illegally at James Court, on Herbert Chitepo and 9th Avenue.
Foster loved his beer. And that was his blemish that I know of. But he remained with a big heart for humanity. He loved stories on disadvantaged members of the community such as people living with disabilities, albinism and other conditions. The Chronicle building was inaccessible mainly to people moving with aid of wheelchairs and we had to go downstairs to interview them to listen to their stories.
Foster was always willing. That earned him a good relationship with rights lobbyists such as former Bulawayo mayor and Zanu-PF Politburo member Joshua Malinga, Alexander Phiri and Crispen Manyuke, who were prominent actors in the disability rights movements.
Foster was more than a journalist. He was an environmentalist. He was an advocate for rights of the disabled people.
He was an entertainer, an all-weather friend. A real gentle giant, for lack of a new terminology. May the spirit of Foster Dongozi, Chubby, FBI, Dr Swango, the “world’s best journalist”, “the world’s most beautiful man”, rest in peace. Methu Methu shall always remember you. Till we meet again.
Online Reporter