The rainy season in the village

Isdore Guvamombe Reflections
Back in the village in the land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve, looking at a king’s mouth one would never think he ever suckled from his mother. And, yet everyone went through the mill of growing up.

This villager, now a respected wordsmith, went through the mill of growing up, like any other boy in yonder Guruve. It was our first year in primary school at Chimufombo.

Chimufombo was a primary school that had defied the war of liberation and remained somehow functional, while the rest had closed down.

This villager and his uncle stayed across Mupinge River at Farm 29 Nyakapupu, then called Nyakapupu Small-Scale Commercial Farming area. There, black farmers deemed to have the high expertise in agriculture were sold land by the Rhodesian regime. The blacks were deemed second tier to white commercial farmers. The farms were sometimes called Purchase Areas, compared to the villages that were called Tribal Trust Lands or Reserves. Chimufombo was on the TTL just across the Mupinge River.

Between Mupinge and the school was a stream called Chapfeni, named after numerous baboons that frolicked its riverine vegetation. Chapfeni hardly had flowing water. It was mainly a serpent of sand. It would flow soon after a downpour and immediately spew its contents into Mupinge.

The farm we stayed at belonged to my grandfather on my mother’s side, Sekuru Masakara. He was a great philosopher and we liked him for his proverbs, depth of character and knowledge of his environment, and farming too.

We, however, hated him for his work rate. During the farming season, he woke us up at 3am, yoked the oxen and started ploughing under moonlight or using special lamps. The oxen were not driven by their names at night, he declared, to avoid waking up neighbours, he was in direct competition with. Grandpa liked shocking his neighbours who would find his fields tilled by the morning. He liked this villager for his ability to lead the cattle during ploughing. There was an ox called Hwerifrayi, I guess from fly wheel and another called Dharapoti, I think from Delport Rd in Harare. These are just guesses but I am sure something inspired the names.

Hwerifrayi was cheeky and had sharp curvular horns that had gored many, especially when it got tired. Grandpa liked me for remaining forever alert and vigilant while leading the oxen. It was tough to be watching over the horns, watching over possible stepping on dangerous snakes and stumps and at the same time following the furrow at night, with a lamp in one hand and a twitch on the other. The danger was mainly when turning at the end of the furrow.

We started school in January at the peak of the farming season. We went into the fields at 3am then knocked off at the ring of the school morning bell. We called it the Kaziwai Maria Bell for it signalled the missionary sunrise prayer.

Each school day had one routine. From the fields it was straight to a quick bath, dressing up and packing our porridge and milk bottles or mahewu, whatever grandmother decided. But milk was in abundance. We milked many cows. There were bananas too, because grandpa had a huge thriving plantation. The choice was varied. Then off we ran to school. We were always late at assembly and the headmaster Mr Musonza understood us. He knew our plight.

Grandpa was worried about the flooding of the river. At first he crossed us in the morning and crossed us in the afternoon. But as workload increased it became impossible for him to help us cross. Therefore, he pegged the safe water level by cutting a patch of bark of a riverine tree. The mark! If we found water higher than that mark we were then supposed to wait for him or shout for help and not cross on our own.

The other rule was to remove shoes when crossing the river to avoid slipping. We were also supposed to remove our uniform to avoid drenching them. It was a delicate balance crossing one hand on grandpa and another holding on to precious uniforms. We had no shoes so the slippery part was no issue of consequence.

We religiously followed his instructions and the system worked until we became confident of ourselves. One afternoon there was a light drizzle and the water level did not rise too high. It was slightly below the mark. We decided to cross. But we had become much cleverer than grandpa. Why would we cross with our uniforms in our hands and struggle for balance? Why?

We devised a method.

We wrapped stones in the clothes and tied them. The trick was to throw the clothes across the river leveraging their weight with the stones. Then cross freely. For fun, we agreed to throw the clothes simultaneously, so, we counted one . . . two . . . three, throw!

Eeish! None of us managed to throw hard enough to cross. They dropped into the river and we watched in anguish as the current dragged them downstream into more dangerous area. In seconds our uniforms were gone.

With no underwear, we laboured to get home, ducking women fetching firewood. We got to the cattle pens and shouted for help. Instead of grandpa coming to the rescue, it was grandmother. We had small tree branches to cover our essentials. She laughed her lungs out and called for grandpa as we slouched into the home, trying to hide our nudity. Grandpa did not take it lightly. Granny had sold her groundnuts from the previous harvest to at least buy us uniforms.

We were beaten silly. Mupinge River!