When the village was still the village

Isdore Guvamombe

Reflections

Back in the village, in the proverbial land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve, grandmother’s kitchen was big.

The roof, the roof, the roof! On the roof was soot. Some of the soot hung down in strings, like the locks of a Rasta man.

Soot hung all over and lay thick on most objects — pots, plates, cups and all. The soot had tainted even the normally glossy coats of the rats.

One such daring rat made darting runs between clay pots and water buckets, every evening.

A low fire always lit at the centre in the evening and as small boys, we religiously sat around it, never mind our ashen legs.

The haven behind the kitchen door was busy, with a scullery of things from broken unfired pots to pieces of metal. An old Adam Bede table was now rickety and had a hotchpotch of goods either on top or underneath.

More often than not, rats fought and quarrelled noisily among themselves.

This evening granny was working on the grinding stone.

Smoke filled the doorway and her face was wrinkled beyond imagination. A combination of old age, black dress and the smoke made her look perfectly otherworldly. The bloodshot eyes looked like two evil holes, from where rivulets of fluid ran down the flabby cheeks.

Her feet were cracked, her skin bone-dry and extremely dark. The hair was wiry. She was frail and spoke with a shrieking, but authoritative voice.

Soon the smoke had slightly subsided and we could see somewhat clearly inside the kitchen.

As usual, she approached the grinding stone with great trepidation and ground the nuts with much dexterity.

Once in a while, the whole family would abandon everything to kill a stray rat. Kicking around. Missing, cracking pots. Breaking clay pots. The night momentarily belonged to grandfather.

During granny’s spirited grinding a rat burst into the scene, obviously attracted by the smell of groundnuts, peanut butter or both. The smell!

The cunning rodent went up one leg of grandfather’s pair of overalls. Wearing no undergarment, the rat found an express highway up to his essentials and he jumped for dear life, hands clasped between his legs.

We laughed in muffed voices, but to granny and grandfather it was no laughing matter. We struggled to control our laughter, but granny was a master of changing things. The rat having been killed by squashing in grandfather’s overalls, she switched to our the most difficult subject, counting one to 10.

Three was the most difficult number.

At almost 80 years, granny had an ample bosom that stuck out defiantly against the four scores of years. She had seen 80 harvest seasons and most of us had seen less than five. Wow!

Suddenly granny picked on Mucha, for not sitting like a woman. Granny swung into surprising action, sitting with her legs apart, her wrap-round cloth pulled above her knees, its folds deliberately hanging loosely in front of her as she demonstrated the correct way to sit on a stool.

Thereafter, granny started her storytelling. She regaled this villager and his mates with her stories, which she told in her own inimitable ways, making us laugh until our side ribs cracked and ached.

So powerful was her storytelling that every day when we were away from her earshot, we tried to imitate the stories, without much success.

We never liked bathing.

We detested the scrubbing part of it, but if we were allowed to go to bed with our ashen grey shins and feet, we woke up clean and even smarter.

The blanket would have done the trick, especially the fact that three or four of us shared the same blanket and there was massive tugging during sleep.

The wee hours, the time elephants normally bathed, was especially very cold and pulling the blanket was an endless job. It needed muscle and the young and weak were always in trouble.

It was not uncommon to call granny to intervene. Do village elders not say one cannot ride a donkey and avoid its unpleasant farts?

The worst part of huddling together during sleep was when one of us wet the blankets. It normally happened when you were in deep slumber.

You would feel extraordinary warmth as the urine touched your body and then a sudden unpleasant cold.

Normally we would knee, kick, punch and elbow the perpetrator until granny intervened.

The other part was when one wanted to relieve himself outside, for, there was no en suite in the village.

Everyone was awakened, but the most pressed led the way and opened the door.

We would all line up and water the earth. Then streak back. Even if you did not want to relieve yourself, you were forced to escort others, since on your day you would certainly need them.

Meal times were dramatic. Food disappeared as soon as the plate was uncovered. It was a maggot-like operation. One had to be good, fast and smart.

We shared the same washing dish. We shared the same plate. The eldest started and it went on in line with seniority. The same applied in picking pieces of meat. The eldest went first.

But the eldest of us, Tapfuma, had developed much skill in which he would swoop meat with a morsel of sadza and on many occasions granny had to come to restore order. At times she would give her own piece to the youngest after Tapfuma played his trick. With time granny devised a method. She would put soup only in the plate then later follow with a spoon to give each one of us a piece of meat in the hand.

Tapfuma remonstrated, but granny would not give him an ear.

Granny never really beat up someone. She would threaten, but would hardly beat up someone. Her eyes normally gave warning.

This is when the village was still the village.