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I have said in the past that I will not be apologetic that I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth. During those days, we wore the status of being privileged like a badge. But the oppressive system that we lived under made it possible for us to co-exist with the disadvantaged.
It was a blessing in that we had parents who made it their mission in life to uplift the downtrodden.
We were far from being the typical ‘born location’ by the strict sense of the term. Cloistered yet surrounded by abject poverty, our middle class parents made sure we had the best in life, at the same time teaching us why being charitable was next to godliness.
The poverty was never lost on our parents who never allowed that to cloud their sense of community and their appreciation of where they came from. In our innocence of childhood, we did not see the difference, yet it taught us to be humble and never act aloof.
So we grew up going to the same schools that the oppressors had condemned all Africans to attend. The white government’s segregated education system had its benefits though. Enough for children like us to get the right foundation for our future pursuits.
However, like I said, our parents used their privileged position to assist the struggle by whatever means they could.
My father opened a fish and chips shop in Tshabalala along with my uncle, the late Alfred Zwambila who ran a supermarket in the same complex. Our original shop koThikili in Mpopoma was on rented premises as well.
Dad also managed to open a liquor store near our rural home in Lower Gweru, at Maboleni and another shop in Chief Sogwala’s area where my grandmother’s people had been resettled. It is with proceeds from these businesses that he secretly supplied ZIPRA guerrillas with provisions and clothing.
Some of my uncles even joined the guerrilla forces in Zambia following the tradition of my great-great grandfather Maphazima Nkiwane, a celebrated warrior in King Lobengula’s army. One of them, Abraham ‘BraNki’ Nkiwane served with the late hero Dumiso Dabengwa. Their story is the subject of folklore and will need a whole article on its own.
Our privileged life in the townships did have its risks. We were bullied to no end and some of our classmates thought we were always dripping with money.
Apart from the occasional pilfering of sweets from my father’s shop, I can’t really say I had it that good. My mother was a down to earth nurse who treasured traditional values.
I was among the few kids that owned a bicycle at a very early age. So did a number of children at Mhlahlandlela. We mixed very freely with children from the poorer sections of the neighbourhood, most of whose parents worked for the railways. We competitively played soccer, a favoured sport that occupied most of our free time.
It wasn’t surprising because our parents became involved in the competitive game from the early sixties. Highlanders was the team of choice and my father was a top official for most of his adult life.
When he passed on in 2016, he had risen to the esteemed position of club patron. Little did we know that ‘Tshilamoya Bosso’ was a cover up for the banned political activities of the time. It was a tactic that worked well to throw the authorities off scent.
Outside of my father’s political shenanigans, I wasn’t your ordinary child. I began reading newspapers in Grade One, sharing the Chronicle with my father to catch up on news about my favourite team. I also adored the cartoon shows on television and comics. My drawing skills were the envy of my teachers at Masuku Primary.
I have previously shared, in this column, how I would be shunted from class to class around making drawings for the then popular radio lessons by Ms Childs (whom we called Miss Charles!). I also had a driving passion for aeroplanes. When asked by my teachers what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say, a pilot, without batting an eyelid.
My choice of career was a subject of much mirth with my classmates because those days it was unheard of. Most were content with becoming teachers, nurses or at best businessmen like my father.
What was amazing was that at no point in time did my parents think this was far-fetched. They fed and supported my dreams. They bought me books, model planes and drawing equipment. I shone in school, writing ‘star’ essays (compositions) that would be read out for the whole class. It really did lay the foundation of what I was to later become. It taught me that parents do well to encourage a child’s interests, rather than force theirs on them.
We also had to be careful about who we associated with. At one time, riots broke out and they were ruthlessly suppressed by the feared British South Africa Police. Members of the Special Branch would routinely pick up neighbours for ‘questioning.’ It was all part of the life then, an abnormal normal.
We had relatives going ‘overseas’ with alarming regularity, mostly to join the liberation struggle. And this was just the seventies. The next phase of my childhood is when the war heated up and my parents sent me to boarding school perhaps to protect me from the political pressure at home.
Online Reporter