admindisabled or sick, they worked in the fields during their stay or performed whatever task was required in the village compound.
We never asked how long they were going to stay.
Often, Mbuya VaMandirowesa begged them to stay longer and rebuild a kraal for the cattle, fence the garden, shell nuts or polish hut floors with mud or cow-dung.
The visitors left after completing the work or when their desire for our company had been exhausted, chishuwo chavo nesu chapera.
Throughout the year, we looked beyond the footpath leading to the village compound, hoping to spot visiting relatives from afar.
Once we identified the visitors, we ran like the wind to welcome them shouting, “Welcome! Mawuya! Titambire!”
Visiting relatives always arrived unannounced. We fell into their arms and hugged them so hard.
Panting with joy, we led them to mbuya’s house for the greetings. News spread throughout the compound about the arrival of the visitors.
A goat or a chicken was offered to them live so they could assess its fatness. Then it was killed to celebrate the visit.
The following morning, the visitors got up early with us to work in the fields and perform whatever task was required by mbuya or my mother.
The longer they stayed, the more work they did. One or two more chickens were killed.
In those days, we ate meat only on special occasions, when there was a good hunt, or when a visitor came.
Most times, we ate sadza with various vegetables.
We desperately wanted any one of our relatives to visit us because a visitor meant a chicken or a goat would die.
When my father came back from Salisbury at Easter, Rhodes and Founders Day and at Christmas, we ate chicken almost every day.
He was like a very special visitor. We sat on the floor eating necks, feet and other less significant chicken cuts while my father enjoyed the drumsticks, the whole chicken’s back and the wings.
Those parts of the chicken belonged to my father only. In his absence, the parts were shared by mbuya, Sekuru Dickson or any one of the senior uncles.
During the harvest season, at least four wives of my mother’s nephews, varoora vekumusha kwaamai, walked about 40 kilometres from Bako village.
On arrival, they drank sweet tea and corn bread, chimondimwii. Then they went straight to the field to help harvest nuts or cut rapoko.
They stayed until all the hard work was complete.
Then they went back to their village, carrying a basket of my mother’s latest harvest so they could use the sample seeds for their next planting season.
In the dry season, muchirimo, Mbuya VaMandirowesa’s brother Chief Kwenda came for the bira, the celebration of ancestors.
A whole beast was killed and they played drums, danced, sang and ate lots of meat. When the chief left, he was accompanied by my cousins on the journey to Domboremavara, back to his village, carrying some dried meat with him.
During school holidays, we would spend a lot of time in my mother’s village. Over there, we were looked after very well, taichengetwa. Mbuya VaHarugovanwi said
we were her special visitors. We helped her in the fields and she fed us chicken and dried meat.
These days some of us live in the city and we have relatives less fortunate than we are materially.
We love our village relatives because we are family.
In my case, I am pretty sure that my village relatives love me too otherwise they would not be sending several “call me back” messages before turning up unannounced at my place.
Few weeks ago, my cousin Boniface came from Muzarabani to visit my mother when she came out of hospital. Of course, he was most welcome to stay.
It is good to have relatives around when there is an illness in the family.
I did not ask him how long he was staying. It is not polite to ask what day a relative would be leaving because doing that means you are chasing him away.
A visitor leaves when he is ready to go. That is what Mbuya VaMandirowesa always said.
And I was not going to transgress that rule. I came from a good family. Ndiri munhu akabva kuvanhu.
Even when my mother had moved to my sister’s place and the reason for Cousin Boniface’s presence was no longer there, I did not ask Cousin Boniface to leave. He seemed comfortable staying.
He did not do much all day other than watch television, leaving empty bottles of beer on the floor for someone else to pick up after him.
After three weeks, Cousin Boniface was joined by my other cousin Piri from Mbare. Piri refused to go back to the village when her husband Misheck asked her to return. She preferred to sell Zed, the illegal highly intoxicating alcohol.
She was very happy to find Boniface already at my place because they would keep each other company.
Piri said she was going to stay with me because there was more room at my place than in Mbare where she shared one room with another cousin.
Apart from coming to spend time with me, she also wanted to explore possibilities of selling Zed to the locals because in Mbare she has been arrested twice.
She needed to change venue. I welcomed her, since one does not chase one’s relatives away.
After all, they are blood and our culture says whatever food you have, you must share it with your relatives because a stranger is forgetful, chawawana idya nehama nekuti mutorwa ane hanganwa.
I was also aware that there was always the risk that if you somehow force relatives to leave before they are ready, they were likely to go back to the village and spread news about how badly they were treated.
They were quite capable of damaging your good relative reputation both in the city and in the village overnight.
They would describe in detail, (with some exaggeration) how they were told to get their Mbare bags or Monarch suitcases and sent away to the kombi with nothing but the transport fare and maybe a dollar for a coke and a bun on the way.
These relatives wallow in self pity and commiserate on how less fortunate they were.
Not once will they mention that during their stay in your house they stood under the hot shower for a whole thirty minutes, enjoying Zesa’s priviledges, ate meat everyday, added six teaspoonfuls of sugar to one cup of tea and ate half a loaf of bread with one inch of butter and half an inch of Sun jam every morning.
After breakfast they basked in the sun, pamushana, waiting for the next meal while advising on the role of house maids and garden boys as if they once hired one
back in the village.
The other day, I wished Piri would disappear so I could freely welcome three visiting English work friends on a short work visit to Zimbabwe.
It was their first visit to Africa and they really wanted to meet as many African people from various backgrounds as possible.
Piri and Boniface were there, grinning and smiling without understanding a single word.
I asked them to take a walk to the shops and buy airtime, since there really was nothing for them to do at home.
But my English friends were really interested in Piri and Boniface.
They had so many questions and comments to make.
How did Piri loose her front teeth? Why is she not married? How many children did she have?
And your other cousin, what is his name again?
Boniface? What a nice name. Zimbabweans have got beautiful names.
I was desperate for Piri, especially to disappear, but she was enjoying the attention.
“Sis, these white friends of yours are good. Varungu venyu ava vari right zvekuti. They are good people. Vanhu chaivo,” she said, making herself comfortable between the two English men and helping herself to a bottle of wine without asking.
After the visitors left, I gathered the courage to tell them that there really wasn’t much work to do around my house.
There was no field to work on.
Was it possible, by any chance, that both Piri and Boniface might consider leaving and find something to do elsewhere?
Piri said I had been slow in bringing up the subject of work because between the two of them, my two cousins had already decided to partner in a joint venture into flea market business.
All Piri wanted to do was to borrow my passport so she could cross the border into Mozambique to buy second clothes for the flea market.
While she was away, Boniface was going to look for the right market to set up a stall, either in Mupedzanhamo, Avondale or Sam Levy’s Village.
There was money to be made in flea markets, they said. After six months or possibly less, they would have made enough money to pay for their own accommodation elsewhere.
But for the moment, they planned to stay with me.
Piri then added that she would not just turn up at anyone else’s urban house like that.
“But imi sisi mune tsiye nyoro. You have a soft heart unlike some family members who do not want visitors once they move to the city.
“Throwing away relatives brings bad luck. Hama hairaswe. Unoita munyama,” she said.
Boniface has since left of his own accord. Hopefully, I will not see him coming back too soon.
But Piri is still around, showering for long periods and eating meat everyday.
She says she will only leave when her desire to spent time with me has been exhausted, kana chishuwo neni chapera. I am in a dilemma.
Soon, I might have to transgress the rule and find a diplomatic way to tell Piri to leave because village hospitality is hard to maintain in the city.
- Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and is a consultant and director of The Simukai Development Project.
Online Reporter