The wily guise of child sexual abuse (Part 5)

Dr Josephine Shambare
Correspondent

I was never really good at sport since my primary schooling days and neither did I quite enjoy any except swimming. On the contrary, I enjoyed ballroom dancing (rumveyesano) — waltz, tango and quick-step. I found quick-step the most enjoyable for its relatively faster pace punctuated with fascinating variations especially at turnings. It was quite exhilarating and an art to master the steps.

I marvel in nostalgia how in one of the ballroom dance competitions, my partner who was tall and sturdy; with his chest out, head high, and an air of pride, ‘navigated’ me gracefully on the dance floor, to the excitement and admiration of other school pupils. We scooped the first prize of a parker pen each in the quick-step category to which we felt very honoured.

I loved my parker pen dearly, stashed it away, and occasionally cast a glance at it for almost a year; and finally losing it before I ever wrote with it.

Ballroom dance made me appreciate music of my time by Dobby Gray, Dolly Parton, Bee Gees, Abba, Bob Marley and many more. Across the Limpopo river were the Hurricanes with their sweet voices to which we sang along to their songs ‘Say it’ and ‘The Rain Maker’.

On the local scene, were Gideon Neganje and the Pied Pipers, Jordan Chataika, the Gospel musician; and Manu Kambani who mesmerised his fans with his magical guitar skills; among others.

I also enjoyed ‘free jive’ to which I would really loosen up and feel the music seeping through. The song ‘Get ready’ became a ‘signature’ song for closing our dance sessions.

It played for twenty-one and half minutes (if my memory serves me well); to which we would jive in a frenzy. Most of us maintained ‘song books’ that we treasured so much and happily exchanged to copy lyrics on new releases. In some songs, the lyrics were incomplete or adulterated such that we ended up singing in vernacular or just mumbled. It was all fun.

As Form four examinations beckoned, there was less of sport and club activities. Every student slid into the examination mood and engaged in serious study (kudhoma).

Students isolated themselves into serene spots for day study. We still had the night study but when the bedtime bell rang and the dormitory lights officially switched off, we mischievously continued our studies with small torches under the blanket cover. Study time never seemed enough.

One day I could not find my notebook for my favourite subject Geography. Suddenly, during one of the tea breaks, Josphat (not his real name), a boy in our class, went up to the chalk board and wrote: ‘Bhuku rako rakanga rafa ramuka. Rakanga rarasika rawanikwa’ (Your book that had died has arisen. It had been lost and has been found). I immediately knew it was him who had stolen it to benefit from my good and well written notes; and approached him in private. He apologised and returned the notebook.

I forgave him and did not bear him any grudge simply because he was a funny character that always entertained the class.

During study breaks, we also found time to apply for jobs, courses and Form five places within the country and outside. Out of ignorance and lack of proper career guidance, I found myself applying to the Salisbury (now Harare) Meteorological Centre for the post of a meteorologist. I was under the delusion that I qualified because I was good at Geography. I got a prompt reply that said: “We do not offer such posts to Africans”. So, the job was a preserve for the whites? Really? They were that blunt? Such was discrimination hurled in my face. I was deeply hurt and sobbed.

After our Form four examinations, we exchanged addresses and fondly bade each other farewell. It was in the midst of the armed struggle, that I headed back to my rural home Chiweshe then divided into cantonments with high fences to ensure that locals did not have access to freedom fighters or vice versa. These cantonments were termed ‘keeps’ and there were twenty-one (21) of them.

My family stayed in make-shift structures in ‘keep 21’ after having been displaced from our home. The white District administrator and the police reservists administered over the ‘keeps’ like demi-gods. Letters and messages were broadcast over the Public Address system. On leaving the ‘keep’, every personal belonging was thoroughly searched to ensure that there was nothing intended for magandanga (freedom fighters) especially food and letters.

Nominal roll boards bearing every ‘keep’ dweller’s personal details (except for children and babies) stood by the gates. Every resident had a four-sided wooden cube with a spike (chipikiri), bearing the details of one’s name, village, village head and national registration number. The cube would be spiked on the board against one’s name on the way out and collected on the way in. The gate guard would know who was in the ‘keep’ or outside by merely glancing at the board. If one forgot to fetch the spike by curfew time on the way in, the immediate assumption was that he/she was still outside the ‘keep’ strategising with the freedom fighters.

This would lead to severe punishment by the authorities in the form of doing their laundry, or any other chore they found suitable. Despite the harassment, ill-treatment and strict control; locals still devised ways to meet with the freedom fighters. The Rhodesian soldiers would react viciously whilst people celebrated in hushed voices. For fear of possible abuse by the Police reservists who seemed to have a penchant for local women and girls, my cousin Muriel (not her real name) rescued me to the city; which was quite a relief.

Dr Josephine Shambare writes on social issues for entertainment and awareness, in her own capacity. Excerpts are taken from her unpublished autobiography; and PhD thesis: ‘The Enigma of Child Sexual Abuse in the Zimbabwean context: Beyond Statistics’