daniel chigunwe
Isdore Guvamombe
Saturday Lounge Reflections
As the night grew older, the cross rhythm of mbira sounds and clapping hands grew louder and louder, the singing blending melodiously with the sacredness of the event. The night continued slipping away, wrapped in the event.
Frothing beer, snuff and sweat brought a gothic fragrance. Calabashes of beer did the rounds. People snuffed, drank, sang and danced.
The night in Musana was still young and the shrine stood on the foot of the hill on the outskirts of the neatly kept homestead, as an emphatic symbol of spiritualism.
Its stonework superstructure and grass thatch spoke of everything spiritually traditional. The shrine stood defiantly and it seemed the moon was scared of facing it this particular night.
Light twinkled from the homestead spread below and wide.
Shoes scattered by a corner pole by the flower garden, were a sign that the owners had entered the sacred shrine, for, no one entered the shrine in shoes. It is a taboo. Disrespectful!
Inside the sacred shrine, a selected few in line with Covid-19 containment restrictions – men sat on mats on one side, while women sat on the other side – their legs stretched before them.
Once inside, women walked on their knees from the door to their sitting place, forth and back, a sure sign of their judicial respect for the occult. Each woman had a wrap cloth around her waist.
As the night grew older, the cross rhythm of mbira sounds and clapping hands grew louder and louder, the singing blending melodiously with the sacredness of the event. The night continued slipping away, wrapped in the event.
Frothing beer, snuff and sweat brought a gothic fragrance. Calabashes of beer did the rounds. People snuffed, drank, sang and danced.
On the stroke of midnight, at the cock’s craw the medium of Bvumavaranda went into a trance. A low-pitched voice called everyone to order and the music and dancing, ground to a rattling halt.
A huge man, with shakers (hosho), made it a point, he shook them to finality. Silence!
Men and women went on their fours, led by the main officiant but still managed to clap. How amazing? The main officiant led the greetings to the oracle.
Clap, clap, clap. Clap! Greetings. Clap, clap, clap. Answer. Clap, clap, clap extended greetings. Clap, clap, clap and clap. elaborate answer. Clap, clap, clap. Clap!
The main female officiant sprang to life singing, an affable war cry Pasi Pane Mhanda (there is war on earth):
The lyrics were accompanied by war dance, centred on foot thud after another, in steady steps. The combination was a typical war cry. The floor reverberated.
“Bvumavaranda mukono!
Oooh aheha haaha, pasi pane mhanda
Ahe, ahe, ahe, ahe… oooh aheheyee, Pasi pane mhanda
Ndeha ndeha ndeha, ndeha oooh aheyeyeye, haha haha pasi pane mhanda
Ndeha ndeha ndeha, oooh aheyeyeye, haha pasi pane mhanda
Bvumavaranda mukonoooo!
Eeeh aheha haha, Pasi pane mhanda
Ndeha, ndeha, ndeha…oooh aheha haha Pasi pane mhanda…”.
The song set the tone and the pace. It was the dawn of a new year. Welcome to 2022, the year of bringing back lost pride.
After the song everyone went on the fours again and it was time for the autochthone.
The spirit spoke softly but in measured tones, amid clapping and ululating. The voice was male, deep and vibrant, intoning deliberately to make a point. The intonation left one with a chill, awkwardness and yet made clear statements.
The spirit spoke of the fortunes of the new year.
The year that I supposed to change the fortunes of the country in terms of recovering a hodgepodge of important paraphernalia, stolen from the country. At this stage, this villager will not go deeper, for detractors of the process, have long earlobes.
It spoke at great length on the need to preserve culture, to leave in peace and harmony, to maintain family unity and ties. It spoke about managing relations.
Calabashes of anointed beer started doing the rounds. This villager enjoyed the deep sip from an ancient cup, recovered by Bvumavaranda from yonder Egypt after millions of years.
It was good useful ancient paraphernalia.
The spirit then went back to the world of oddities promising to come back before day break.
The singing commenced, this time around it was song after song and deft footwork. It was the Mbira players strumming the pieces of metal to near red-hot. A few slept. Many stood, danced and sang.
Before day break, the time elephants normally visit the river to bath and drink, the spirit was back.
The sun was about to rise. The eastern horizon silhouetted and softly aglow. This could be seen when one congregant opened the shrine door.
The same greetings ritual was followed. This time around short but elaborate. The clapping was less organised for, many were now sloshed. It was still orderly.
This was healing session. One by one, we made a beeline to the medium and there we got our anointed snuff. Sitting next to me was humba. In the spiritual realm, we call each other by our totems. Humba (the pig) is a war veteran, short, skinny and strong. Very resilient. Equally respectful.
From him I got a carefully made reed pouch to put snuff. He had no one, not two not three but maybe five of them. He had a big one too.
He got his first share of the snuff as we all did. But soon Humba went back for another and another. I understood him. Snuff is soothing. Snuff is life-saving. Snuff is life itself, especially when it came from Bvumavaranda, the spirit that has unveiled many mysteries.
By sunrise the spirit had bade farewell and gone to the world yonder.
It was the first traditional binge for 2022. The predictions and prophesies will soon unfold. The mystery will unfold and Bvumavaranda will protect his legions.
Online Reporter