adminDavid Mungoshi Shelling the Nuts
Starting this week and for another fortnight, I shall be reflecting on the lives of children in our country. This I shall do by looking at life in the late 50s to about the late 60s this last century.
There is an extent to which I shall be arguing that children in Zimbabwe today are in some way the victims of stunted growth. This is because too many of their experiences are choreographed and, therefore, predictable. We were free to roam about and be creative and adventurous.
Having been born at a clinic in Bulawayo’s oldest township, Makokoba, and having cut my teeth regarding how to survive the times in wild urban settings, I was one of those referred to then by most “cultured” people in Bulawayo as “born-locations”. A born-location was someone without a proper rural background and, therefore, deemed to be ill-mannered and uncouth.
There was something that set the born-location children apart from their rural counterparts. They could, for example, tell the difference between a candle and candy. I make this observation in all seriousness.
There was once a businessman called Gibson. He built a shop and stocked it well with such novelties as most villagers then would never have seen before: sweets, biscuits, fizzy drinks, candles and matches. In those days anyone with matches practically was royalty.
Every morning, in the villages, those whose fires had died down overnight went to their neighbours for a few live charcoals to restart their fire.
This practice was known as “kugoka moto”. It is more than likely that this ritual around the need for a constant live fire in every home was the context for the Shona euphemism, “Mumba madzima moto — literally, the fire has gone out in that home. This expression became a metaphor for childlessness.
Anyway, back to Gibson and his store in the village. Gibson had a lorry and several rowdy workers rumoured that have come all the way from what later became the Republic of Malawi, people derisively known as maNyasarandi (Nyasalands). One of Gibson’s foreign workers could play an accordion and play it well enough to have the villagers dancing.
He was one of two musicians in the village who could play complicated Western instruments. The other one was a man called Clement, who not only played the guitar but also excelled on the autoharp. The autoharp is what Patrick Chakaipa in his novel “Gara Ndichauya” (Hang around, I’ll be back) calls the “wotapu”.
Now, it so happened that Gibson had his eye on a girl, who was easily the village queen in terms of her beauty and allure. This girl gave him the merry-go-round for years. In the end Gibson resorted to “musengabere” according to which a man can physically carry off a girl and marry her that way. What Gibson did was to send his accordion player to the girl’s home and in the minutes that followed the neighbours gathered to listen to the enthralling music.
Suddenly Gibson’s driver manoeuvred the lorry into the girl’s homestead. He drove around a bit until the lorry had made a U-turn and was facing the direction from which he had come. Several of Gibson’s workers suddenly jumped down from the lorry, whisked the girl off and hoisted her into the back of the lorry even as she kicked and screamed.
The lorry then sped off and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust. For years nobody knew where Gibson had taken the girl or what had happened to her. The riddle was solved years on when she came back to visit with several of her children.
Meanwhile, the store had remained locked and closed. The silent building generated a lot of curiosity among the village herdboys. This was quite apart from the pull of the mulberry tree that bore big juicy sweet mulberries. With time someone had successfully prised open a window and been able to go inside. The boy emerged with sweets, biscuits and a fizzy drink. Others did the same after him.
This went on for some time until whatever Gibson had abandoned became depleted. This is what caused the hilarious incident that has remained etched on MY mind since then. Two boys punched each other frantically to gain ascendancy and secure the treasure — a wax candle! The victor smiled a horrible blood-stained smile as he tore into the candle with his sharp teeth. When later I understood what had happened I was quite astounded by the fact that anyone could eat a candle. I sometimes wonder if I didn’t imagine it all.
Parents in our time generally left children to their own devices, especially in their free time. We occupied ourselves as best we could. Mzilikazi Village in Bulawayo was built in a peculiar way. The houses were arranged in formations known as squares and each square had a name: A-Square, B-Square and so on up to Z-Square.
The boys in these squares often played marathon football matches against each other at some school ground or other. The football matches went on for hours and were not refereed by anyone. We made up the rules as we went along. One rule was that if a striker shot at goal (usually made of two stones on the ground; two stones between which the keeper stood) and his shot rose into the air, all the keeper had to do was leap with his arms in the air as if to catch the ball. If he was unable to touch or catch the ball the rival team would shout lustily, “Higher”, which meant that the ball had gone over the bar so to speak. On days when we had these matches no one went back to his mother’s house for anything.
We drank a lot of water from the taps, but somehow never were hungry. Born-locations were very hardy that way. But of course not every child you saw was a born-location. Many came from proud and decent rural homes and backgrounds.
On some days we took our catapults and disappeared into the nearby bush thickets. If we left in the morning we would only be back late in the day. And no mother worried about our absence. It was understood that boys would be boys and would go off to make a nuisance of themselves somewhere away from home.
On these, our compulsive walkabouts, we ate whatever wild fruits were in season wherever we found them. This included fruit from the notorious lantana camara plant. Anything that the birds ate, we ate too.
There was hardly ever any talk about cut-throats (mabhinya) that would kidnap and kill children for ritual purposes. I do remember though a time when most children in my rural village would flee into the forest if they happened to be walking near a road and they heard a car coming.
The story was that some white people from the Belgian Congo could inject something into you that turned you into a pig. You would then become dinner for some white madam somewhere far away.
In the days that I speak of none of us could have known that there would be an ICT revolution in our lifetimes.
Hardly anyone had a wireless (radio), although in some lucky homes they had gramophones on which they played breakable vinyl records with expendable needles. When you wound the gramophone it did something to it and you could then play your music.
When the music played everyone was welcome and no one was turned away. It was on such occasions that I got to hear the music of Spokes Mashiyane and 16-year-old Lemmy Special Mabaso who wore a cap, toured England with the King Kong Show and played his penny whistle before Her Majesty the Queen of England.
During some public holidays we had the good fortune to watch visiting football teams playing the local Bulawayo pick known as the Red Army. The Salisbury (Harare today) was the Yellow Peril and the two were fierce rivals. Freddy Dusty King Gotora was recognised in his time as the best No. 8 on the continent. Rumour linked him to Dorothy Masuka the song- bird (now resident in South Africa and still making music into her 80s). It was said that when they went their separate ways Dorothy recorded a farewell song aimed at Dusty King. She called it “Sala lenhliziyo ebuhlungu” meaning “We leave you with your heartache”. It was all probably just idle township talk. There was no H-Metro then.
How the world has changed! It is very difficult nowadays to get children to leave the house and play outside. Most of them have become couch potatoes. They spend their time watching endless cartoons on television or by way of DVDs and laptops. Transformers and Mr Bean! And they are quite savvy on smartphones and computers. Imagination, improvisation and innovation are the greatest casualties.
David Mungoshi is a writer, editor and social commentator.
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