Is fairness in the absence of rules possible?

Elliot Ziwira
It is not so much the tussling, enervating and yet immensely entertaining soccer games that have prompted this nostalgia, but rather the rules that applied.
In the absence of referees, these rules could only be implemented on the basis of respect.
The goal posts were mere stones which made it tasking for goals to be allowed. The other team could simply say “high” or “over-bar”; or “sticken” which was considered as hitting the imaginary woodwork.

Everything was assumed and yet had to be agreed on.
The games were devoid of permanent goal minders as anyone could simply say “change keeper”, and dive for the ball if the “actual” keeper was beaten clean, to deny an obvious goal.

Another interesting challenge was the lack of timelines on the changing of halves. It could only take a player’s fancy to say “change gate” and tap the ball into the goal mouth that a moment earlier he might have been defending.

One may ponder how playing such a game was even possible.
There were individuals who could influence decisions because of their brawn, intelligence or pugnacious nature.
The idea was that such individuals could not be in the same team.

Quarrels abounded, sometimes fierce ones, but the rules could always be implemented effectively if the teams were in equilibrium in terms of composition.
But there was another vital element that could bust everything – the owner of the ball. If he lacked skill and/or stamina, he was rarely selected by either side.
He also did not always bother himself that he was not playing as he always got a fee for “renting” out his ball.

If he felt that the game was becoming violently dispossessed or he simply felt he wanted to go home, he would grab his ball and go.
He could also do the same if in our frustration we hit the ball with reckless abandon into the thorny trees of the nearby Chembira Mountain, or forget to pay him his dues.
So in a way he played a crucial role in the games.

It is against this backdrop, that the socio-economic and socio-political games that pervade our lives today can be scrutinised.
In this labyrinth, how can we, who wallow in financial dire straits, buy our own balls so that we can play our own game?

We, whose voices are gagged, are small in stature or have no political muscle to determine outcomes, who will come to our defence in these enervating and frustrating economic and political games which has become the order of the day through corrupt tendencies?

Now that the muscles are determined by money and connections, and the ownership of the ball epitomised in the donor community and investors, in whose hands do we commit our hopes?

In this rat race, those who toil, sweat and weep are not rewarded. There are now monsters in our midst who masquerade as sacred cows; pillaging willy-nilly with no shame in tow.

As pointed out by Chenjerai Hove as cited by Veit-Wild (1993): “African writers have to perform the task of helping to awaken the consciences of the world to the plight of the powerless in a world where the muscle of arms rather than morality seem to determine the fate of life”.

Chinweizu et al (1985) also echo this rationale when they say, “The artist in the traditional milieu spoke for and on behalf of his community.”
Corruption in high places which is acrimonious and destructive cannot escape the blade of the artist’s guillotine.

The media, as the Fourth Estate, should also come to the defence of the truth.
William Shakespeare bemoans in “Hamlet” that: “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

As a scourge with the capacity to run down the country, corruption is condemned with the contempt it deserves in “Writing Still” (2003) edited by Irene Staunton, especially in Shimmer Chinodya’s “Queues”, Clement Chihota’s “The Kiss” and Brian Chikwava’s “Seventh Street Alchemy”.

In “The Kiss” Chihota lambasts the tendency by individuals to line their pockets at the expense of the nation using military or political muscles. It is the story of Hofisi; a shrewd and unscrupulous dealer who “sells anything” to make a quick buck.

To outmanoeuvre the security system at Harare International Airport, he uses his beautiful wife Majaira as a decoy to get a diamond from Mike, his counterpart from the DRC, through a kiss – a deep and passionate one.

When asked by his wife why he has to use her instead of any other woman, he tells her that even though “at least four immigration people are in on the deal”, he has to avoid taking chances because, “the diamond you are receiving has passed through the pockets of army generals and the briefcases of ministers of state … High up guys hate risks because they have a long way to fall in the event that something makes them slip” and he does “not want to be that something”.

Such avarice, which makes one throw caution to the wind and morality to the dogs, is as deplorable as it is destructive.
Although Hofisi inevitably loses his wife to Mike as a result of that passionate moment, he does not seem moved by it, which shows the extent of his moral bankruptcy and how low he has sunk.

The fact that he protects people in high places and does not want to expose them by being “that something” that derails their gravy train is tantamount to treason as he sides with the strong against the weak.

In “Seventh Street Alchemy”, Brian Chikwava takes a swipe at corruption in the police and other government departments like the Registrar General’s Office.
He explores the tribulations of a 50-year-old harlot, Fiso, who finds herself in the trade because of her lack of basic documents like a birth certificate and a national ID.
Like many of her ilk, her daughter Sue cannot acquire such documents. Such people are “officially never born and so will never die”.

This kind of stasis, which often is the bane of womanhood, is also explored in “A Tragedy of Lives” (2003) edited by Irene Staunton and Chiedza Musengezi.
Unable to acquire documentation properly, Fiso resorts to bribery. However, she fails to locate her contact, Mrs Shava, at their rendezvous as agreed and in her ire she confronts the Registrar-General and tells him about the rot in his fiefdom.

Instead of being humbled by her nerve, he calls the police to arrest her for public disorder.
She lashes out at him: “Your staff members all want bribes. I come to you and all you can do is getting rid of me! I suppose you want a bribe too?”
Upon arrest it becomes impossible to prosecute her because she does not “exist” as there are no records of her birth.

To solve the problem “the officer called the Registrar-General … offered to quickly process an ID, if it was in the interest of facilitating the course of justice”.
Chikwava pokes at the rot in the police as he examines how trivial issues are given prominence because of their lucrative nature.

He exposes this through two officers who cajole a “young musician to part with some of his dollars for having gone through red traffic lights”, ignoring a street urchin who is fatally hit by “an offending” motorist who hands over a “handful of notes to pacify” them and is let free.

When challenged by Anna to help the kid they say: “We are off duty now, madam, call Central Police Station.”
Though artists play their part in exposing corruption, every Zimbabwean should also play a part.

The world, like Shakespeare once said, “is a stage where every man must play a part”.
What part have you played as a citizen or what role do you see for yourself in the war against corruption, selfishness, individualism and deceit?
Let us all be challenged by Martin Luther King Jr who observed that: “The greatest tragedy of our time is not the few who have destroyed but the vast majority who have sat idly by.”