By Takura Zhangazha*
In 1998 I had to undertake a research project for a course
called Theory and Practice of Public Policy for my undergraduate studies. I had decided that I would do it on the
Bikita Rural District Council budgeting processes because since its my rural district I knew I would have the
relevant support from both my parents’ families for my basic necessities. I had also saved some money from what we
sort of still had in the form of government student payouts/grants to cover any
other ancillary costs.
In my over enthusiasm at a semblance of material independence
, I had boarded the wrong bus to Bikita. It
was a Mhunga transport services one. On the front it was labelled as travelling
to Gutu/Mupandawana and Nyika growth points with equal prominence. What I had not seen between the lines was the
fact that it was going to pass through Bhasera, then Mupamaonde on the
Masvingo-Mutare highway and finally to Nyika growth point.
So the bus arrived in Gutu and took a turn that I was not
familiar with on the Bhasera road. In
slight panic I asked the bus conductor how we were going to get to Nyika and he
laughed at me but also assured me that I need not worry and that I would arrive at
Nyika growth point by late afternoon. By
the time we got to Mupamaonde the surroundings were much more familiar and I
disembarked from the bus before it made its U-turn to Nyika. I then boarded a
kombi service run by a former Member of Parliament called Matimba that plied
the Masvingo-Birchenough bridge route and safely arrived at home a number of
hours later than anticipated.
In my satchel though I carried two specific novels besides
my hardcover note-writing books. These were Bessie Head’s, ‘A Question of Power’
and Steve Biko’s collection of essays titled ‘I Write What I Like’. I had carried these two books with me because
I knew with at least two weeks of seeking out research and no electricity at
home in Tamirepi village I would need to occupy time. And I thought it best to do so by
reading.
I had purchased the two books from Kingston’s bookstore with
University of Zimbabwe book prize vouchers.
And while in Bikita it rained the proverbial cats and dogs. So I was
stuck and my only solace was the fact that I could read Head’s ‘Sello’
character with curiosity and also dabble in a new consciousness via Biko’s
forthright black consciousness.
After at least two days of rain and reading, I again boarded
a Mhunga bus to Nyika growth-point and lo and behold my paternal uncle was on
the same bus to collect his teacher’s salary from the bank or building
society. I explained to him why I was home and he actively
encouraged that I at least read and pass my university courses and help others
in the family once I had done so.
At Nyika growth point, we parted ways for some hours. He went to the bank and I went to the satellite
office of the Bikita Rural District Council.
We met later for the last (you guessed it, Mhunga) bus service from Bulawayo on its way to Mutare and
given the fact that I had Biko’s book in hand he asked me what I was
reading. I explained that I was reading
for the fun of it on South African liberation politics and he said it’s a good
thing that I was seeking knowledge via reading books. Though he didn’t quite understand how it
would help with the research I was claiming to be undertaking. I dropped off at Mushuku bus top while he
went on to the Chibvumani drop off point.
And again I spent the next week compiling my research notes but also
reading Head and Biko.
I have been elaborate about this because the two books I
read in that period helped me combine idealism and reality. Both in a rural and black consciousness sense. And my bus ride conversations with my uncle
made more nuanced the perspectives from which to think about not only my then geographical
locality but also recognize the key historical challenges of Zimbabwe, global humanity
and future African generations (which I considered myself to be part of at that
time).
But all of this would never have crossed my mind if I did
not have those two books in my satchel. With
hindsight, it is clear to me that reading them, even under candlelight,
clarified my understanding of not only where I was, but also what I valued the
most about Zimbabwean society.
Admittedly Bessie Head was much more difficult to read and understand
than Biko but both gave searing insights into the African condition.
In contemporary Zimbabwe, books are now regrettably frowned upon. Particularly books written by African writers
that are not always focused on ‘poverty porn’.
Young people are encouraged to read those books that make them pass
exams or biographies of individuals that they will never mimic in real life
that became multi-billionaires (even after dropping out of tertiary
colleges).
Be that as it may, libraries, bookstores remain objective key
nodes of organic knowledge acquisition and dissemination. And we should always actively encourage young
Zimbabweans to be comfortable with reading a book. After all when they watch movies on streaming
platforms or dabble in social media a majority of what they consume always
comes from the written word. In the form of an essay, novel or script.
*Takura Zhangazha writes here in his personal capacity
(takura-zhangazha.blogspot.com)
Very interesting. And vivid reminders about home geography and people. Chibvumani(PamaMonya), Mushuku, Mupamaonde, Tamirepi village. Chief Budzi would have completed the picture. Google will now remember these names for years to come.
ReplyDeleteThen comes the teacher. I can only imagine one in your family, a doyen in educational terms.Thanks for making us remember this giant, a maverick, a comedian, a disciplinarian all rolled in one.
Permit me Shumba to post a small tribute on this great man, Teacher, on your blog and pass it on to all the Shumbas who share blood and title with this man. He taught many from from surrounding villages, many generations from our village passed through his able hands. He was fond of teasing us about our fathers' nicknames from the village, most often infront, if not the whole class or even at school assembly.
At assembly, we would literally hide ourselves behind other pupils to avoid connecting our faces with him. Teacher was nonetheless a fair man. He never hid his love and connection with his village compatriots. We were always the subject of his humour. Here and there, once we strayed, we would have our ears pinched by his notorious nails, all the while laughing and teasing at us. Sometimes we would be summoned to the office anticipating a thorough hiding only to be harangued and lectured
about discipline and the need to be exemplary and not to invite him to use the whip. We always left his office with faces down, remorseful but convinced that Teacher had a special soft spot for us. He loved us from the village and we reciprocated by doing exceedingly well academically, for him, we thought at him.
Becuase we came from the village that he frequently patronized,especially for the 'seven day waters of the 'wise kind', which he loved dearly, we always had nowhere to hide. Once we got sight of him or his bicycle, we would immediately hide in the shadows or disappear completely but unfortunately because he was a 'people's person', he would not leave until he had shaken every fellow elder's hand, joking uproaringly with everyone while sharing the waters . We couldn't hide forever, but once we appeared we knew it we would
be the subject of his savage humour at school the following week.
Sometimes we would not see him over the weekend, only for him to laugh at us at school about our swimming forays and how we basked in the sun with pale skins like frogs, all this in front of the whole class. We had a 'swimming pool' opened up by the road construction contractors as they mined for gravel by side of the road at Mutondo bus stop. Unbenown to us, and while lost in the adventures of uncaring adolescence, Teacher would pass through on his way to the township, park his bicycle and observe. His photogenic memory would record every move we made, the swimming chants we chanted, the nicknames we called each other and surreptiously disappear and continue with his journey to watering hole, but not before framing his script for the following Monday! "Ngwena ngwena woye!!!...," he would start after the ritual morning greetings in class,recounting the chants we often shouted without a care in the world while swimming, and before unrolling his script we would immediately know that Teacher recorded our secret forays over the weekend.
I could on and on Shumba, not to mention him frequently falling off his bicycle on his way home after taking one too many! He was our teacher, the one we loved and revered and the loved us back. I am 100% sure everybody who passed through his hands has a story of his/her own to tell. Most of us could not have been who we are today if this man had not touched our lives. Many many thanks to you vanaMatikaha for unleashing this gem into our lives. May his soul rest in eternal peace!