adminFrom Brian Sheriff in HIROSHIMA, Japan
I usually took a week long break from service to do my final training for a 20 mile road race that was held in the first weekend of December in Harare. At the time I was stationed at the Chikurubi Headquarters of the ZRP Support Unit.
And on the other side of the fence, on a hill top, sat the Chikurubi Medium and Maximum Security Prisons. I often ran through the prison complex — at least twice a week. And, ironically, I have to admit that it still stands as the best training course I have ever had.
Besides the fact that the road was super soft, under the feet, as they graded it everyday (for obvious reasons) and with perfect undulation for a maximum effect on strengthening the body, the prisoners never failed to cheer when I ran past.
I’d come through the medium security section first. And, as if on cue, the prisoner who seemed to be on the watch for me would sound the alarm. “Sheriff’s coming!!”
A crescendo of, “Sheriff! Sheriff!” would send the birds fluttering out of the trees.
Magpies, kites, ravens would fill the air with shrieks, shrills, and caws. Prisoners working in the open yard would run up to the fence and wave . . . grinning like they were cheering on an escaping fellow prisoner.
And those outside the fence would drop their work tools and clap their hands.
Even the shot gun toting guard would smile and wave too.
And I’d be sweating . . .
“What if one of them or all of them decide to make a run for it?” I’d be wondering.
“What if they decide to grab me and hold me hostage?”
But my fears were unwarranted for those petty criminal ragamuffins seemed to take genuine pleasure in my passing through their place of incarceration.
By golly they knew my name! And how they came to know my name has always puzzled me.
But not as much as the surprise I got that December mid-morning when I took an unplanned left turn only to realise that I had entered a place whose very existence I was still unaware of.
The Chikurubi Women’s Prison!
“Oh, oh . . . I’ve passed the gate . . .” I believe I sheepishly said to the gang of prison guards slouching around what looked like a water bouser in the yard.
“Heeeey. Welcome!” one of them said, a female guard it was. And she was grinning from ear to ear.
I spun around on the spot and headed straight back where I’d come from.
High tailing it I set my mental GPS for the men’s prison, the maximum security prison . . . I’d be safer among manhood’s worst kind I clearly understood.
Past the maximum security complex I turned for home, sweating with every step I took, and not an exercise induced sweat but a “Goodness- me-that-was-a-close-call” sweat.
Didn’t tell a soul about my brush with infamy when I got back to base. Just went on about my business for a week or so making sure that my training programme would definitely exclude the prison grounds for sometime to come if not for ever.
Then one evening, still in December, my teammates decide to do a team run around the base.
And just like the twice bitten fool I was I let my guard down . . . Well it had been sometime since we’d last trained together. A painful jealousy thing . . .
I took the bait and decided that running as a team would be a pleasant change for me too.
And into a beautifully soothing light headwind we set off into the evening sun.
Not too sure now but we had to be about 10 of us. And the mood was convivial.
Very uplifting.
Heading towards the city suburb of Greendale, of US anthrax letters fame, we jogged.
And not too long after we were suddenly off the road and running through the prison cornfield. For those of you unfamiliar with the commercial corn crop in Zimbabwe it towers over the tallest sportsman anywhere in the world.
And we were at the bottom in terms of height in the sportsman category so you can imagine what we could or could not see ahead, behind or around us.
The field was miles long. And we went up and down and up and down . . . playing follow the leader.
We ran through the corn with but one intention only — to get the heck out of the corn!
And then there it was. The end of the corn . . . we had made it.
Looking like a bunch of alien creatures, covered in corn pollen, stuck to our sweaty bodies, yellow and orange gooey looking creatures, we laughed so much that we failed to see where we had landed.
“Sheriif! Sheriff!”
“Brian Sheriff! Brian!” they were screaming! The lady prisoners — can I say lady for a woman of ill-repute? — they were out in the yard for their evening walk.
“Sheriff! Woooo . . . Sheriff”.
Farai Kamucheka, my teammate, burst out laughing. He tripped and fell. Still laughing he got up and tried his best to stay upright.
He sank to his kness, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“I heard the female prisoners have declared you their idol,” he coughed out.
“One of the guards told us last week that since your mini adventure through their complex a week ago there’s been nothing but joy in the entire prison — guards an’ all.”
“What? You know about my accident?” I shot out.
“Who doesn’t? The entire regiment knows about your hero status across the fence . . . you’re the envy of every man in uniform mate.”
It was horrible . . . even the guards were sending imitation smooches to me.
The rest of the team were in a daze. Some where trying to head back into the corn. Others were trying to get a glimpse of the lady villians.
After all, nobody can attest to ever having stumbled into a yard full of Ma Bakers.
So I thought, “Why not make the most of it lad? After all the good justice of the peace didn’t place them at the end of that horrendous cornfield run for nothing. So do the right thing and get the hell outta there!”
I shouted, “Last man up the hill’s a monkey’s uncle!” and bolted towards the maximum security prison with Farai (Kamucheka) by my side screaming, “You’re heading to the killers! They’re killers up there!”
“Better dead than sorry!” I rebutted him and shifted into top gear.
And of course past the killer’s place of residence the only calls we heard were, “Losers! You can’t catch Sheriff . . . Go Sheriff!
To which I responded, “Love you men . . . keep up the good work and see you when you get out!”
Of cause that made Farai collapse again. “When who get’s out? These guys are now part of the brickwork . . . ”
But that didn’t matter to me. They were my loyal fans.
Evil or super evil . . . they were still to be appreciated. And to this very day I still hear their sincerely warm cheers in my heart.
Brian Sheriff is a former star Zimbabwean middle and long-distance runner who is now based in Hiroshima, Japan.
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