Online Reporter
Manje soo
Mai Juju
THERE was a time when Harare’s central business district literally meant business — the sight of suits, briefcases and faint smell of ambition. But today the only thing you smell is roasted maize.
It is not just maize.
It is tomatoes, craftly arranged like the balancing rocks of Epworth; second-hand shirts flapping in the breeze and a battalion of vendors who have an incurable revulsion for dustbins. And Geo Pomona, the company that has been contracted to scrub the capital city, seems to have had enough.
Last week, its chief executive officer, Delish Nguwaya, had to plead with Parliament for “decisive action” to be taken against illegal vendors.
His frustration is understandable. While they have bought those swanky mechanical street sweepers — the kind of gizmos that we used to gawk at with glee in other countries — and employed a battalion of workers to make sure the capital is spick and span every morning, this has rarely been the case. After every cleaning exercise, the maize roasters routinely return to redeclare their independence.
So, at the end of the day, all that work goes to waste (no pun intended). Ge ge ge.
City of Harare has turned our once glamorous city into a pigsty. There is nothing as ironic as seeing a municipal police officer queuing to buy roasted maize from illegal street vendors early in the morning. Yet it is happening.
Zvadhakwa! But do not blame the vendor just yet.
An alien culture of general uncleanliness is now the norm.
You might not be aware of the great skip bin challenge.
Every suburb has one.
The bin is right there, mouth gaping open, yet locals will approach it, pause for dramatic effect and then lovingly deposit their trash on the ground next to it. Not inside. Never inside.
They consider the ground to be close enough.
Then there is the kombi express. You have not lived until you have seen a man stick his head out of a moving commuter omnibus travelling at 100 kilometres per hour, locate a banana peel and throw it into the wind like he is throwing a wedding bouquet.
In our neighbourhoods, we still have those curious neighbours who ignore those weekly waste collection trucks, only to dump their garbage in storm drains or contrived “private landfills”. We will complain about the dirty city while personally ensuring the dirt stays fresh. And let us not even talk about the national clean-up day. Remember it? First Friday of every month? Supposedly a sacred ritual of brooms and black bags.
These days, the only thing being swept on that Friday is the memory of the policy itself.
Schools ignore it. Offices pretend it is a myth.
Apparently, the best efforts of the authorities to promote a culture of cleanliness has not been met with the alacrity and enthusiasm they expected. Here is the real problem: You cannot arrest your way out of a culture of dirt. You need a soul transplant.
You need pulpits, pews and podiums.
We need priests and pastors to declare that dropping a chip packet is a cardinal sin.
We need schools to teach that a clean Zimbabwe starts with your own desk.
We need colleges to shame litterers like they shame people who talk during lectures.
Until then, Harare will remain a beautiful bride dressed by Geo Pomona every morning, only for the maize-roasting army to cover her in husks and plastic by lunchtime.
The by-laws exist.
The will does not.
Yes, Parliament now says it will work with Geo Pomona to strengthen laws. Lovely.
But while they debate, somewhere in town, a vendor is lighting another fire.
Ndikoko!
