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IT is Sunday afternoon and I am trying to write something good, interesting and inspiring for this column. But I am struggling to do so because in the next room, the noise of the blaring television and women’s laughter, chikwee, is interrupting my flow of thoughts.
You would think its a dozen women in there. But it’s only my cousin Piri and her friend Chandi.
They are watching Africa Magic on television. Why do they laugh so much? I stopped laughing like that, without any shred of restraint the way they do, a long time ago, when we lived in the village.

In those days, we used to laugh until we cried and the pain in the ribs was unbearable. When the story was funny, we begged the story teller to please stop for a moment; you are “killing” us with laughter. Kutiuraya nekuseka. It was that laughter from the underbelly. But we always knew that you do not just break into laughter anywhere, especially in the presence of adults or in front of vanyarikani, people you deeply respect. That was not done.

We were reprimanded for laughing loosely.  Sometimes Mbuya VaMandirowesa said, “Who is that laughing like a city girl who has lost self respect?” Or, “Who is laughing like donkeys having a wedding at the grinding mill?” Ndiyani  iyeye anonyemwenyeka semadhongi ari kuchata pachigayo? She wanted us to practice decency in laughing.

The laughing from Piri and Chandi gets worse. No decency at all.  I stop writing and go over to tell them that the reason why I spend so much time alone is because I want to think and write. My job is to remember events and write about them. Could they please turn the television and their village laughter down?

Piri is lying on the sofa, on her side, tooth pick in hand. She takes the whole three seat sofa. Relaxed. Beer on the coffee table, drinking straight from the can. She can afford to lie on the sofa like this because the mabhero business of selling second hand clothes from America is picking up again. It slowed down a bit during election time.

Recently they found new clientele among the Apostolic women who love clean white lingerie even if it has been used before by European women only. Chandi and Piri have become experts at bleaching everything that can be bleached to make it all white and very marketable. They take full bags to the bush where they meet Mapostori women before prayer.  It’s all very discreet.

“Can you please stop laughing so loud? I am trying to work,” I tell them.
Piri hears me but pays no attention. Instead, she shouts, in between bouts of laughter pointing to the television screen.
“Sis, come and look at this. Sit down for just two minutes.”

I sit next to her. Piri rewinds the scene. In the movie, there is a scene with an African guy struggling to kiss a young beautiful girl. The girl has natural hair plaited like horns sticking out of her head. They are in a village setting. Piri says the guy has just come back to the village from town. That explains his white suit, pink shirt and white pointed shoes.  He has brought new romantic touches learnt in town.
Each time the guy sticks his tongue out to kiss the girl, she turns away and covers her face, smiling.  She has never been kissed.

“The African must not kiss. He is no good at it. The woman too. She does not know where to put her tongue. Leave it to the Europeans,” Piri says laughing so loud.

Chandi echoes what Piri has just said and adds more, “Lovie, eat my tongue.  Hanzi ndidye lulimi dhiya. Munhu mutema ngaarege kukisa. Ndezvevarungu kani!” Chandi deliberately rolls off the sofa on to the ground, laughing so hard.  Then they both compose themselves and for a moment and we watch the next scene. The guy pulls the girl from behind the bush where she has gone to hide.  He holds her close and tries to look into her eyes and kiss her again. But she pulls away. He tries to force his mouth on hers and the girl makes a funny face, like she had almost eaten something not so nice.

Piri says she has yet to see a man who will look into your eyes and kiss you. “Murume kutarisa muziso chaimo and kiss you. Nhema chaidzo!” She laughs and holds on to her ribs.

I tell them to stop laughing for a while and listen to me.
“Ok, let us forget the man in this struggling kissing scenario. What about the woman? Can you ever look into a man’s eyes and kiss him?”
They both sit up and look at me like I am crazy or something.  Piri is the first to laugh, “What? A man’s eyes do not even see you. They see your body, chete chete.” Chandi agrees.  In between bouts of laughter, she says, “Just beat the drum and get to the music. Rova ngoma iwe, ndoda kutamba. Why would I want to look into his red eyes full of beer anyway? ” Chandi gets up and does a little dance, shaking her big bottom from side to side.

“Iwe, stop dancing. This is serious. We might get lessons from the Diaspora.  Show us how men overseas kiss,” Piri asks. As if I would show her how to kiss.

I tell them that I must get back to my work.  I leave them to the movie. But they do not stop.  They are clapping hands, rolling on the sofa, laughing and whispering things, possibly rude things, zvinonyadzisira chete.

Within minutes of leaving them, my phone rings. I had left it on the coffee table in front of the television.  Piri answers it. I do not know how many times I have told her not to touch my phone and answer it. What if it’s a business call and what if it’s from someone I do not want her to talk to? But she never pays attention.

“Hesi kani!  Kuno kuri bhoo zvekuti dhuu! Maelections went very well, very peaceful and we are back in business. ”
I soon gather that she is talking to my niece Shuvai, the one who lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.  The conversation from Piri is very predictable.

“When will you come home for a visit? Are you still with the big black American guy and if so, when is he coming here to pay lobola for you?”

Chandi then grabs the phone from Shuvai and introduces herself.
“Hello muzukuru who lives far away. I am your new tete Chandisaita. Call me Chandi. I would like to come to America and learn how to kiss men.”

Piri and Chandi both laugh into the phone.  I attempt to grab it but Piri will not give it back. Not yet.  Piri says she has one more business conversation with Shuvai.

“Listen muzukuru. Jokes aside. Come back here and we will help you start a business to sell the same clothes you and your American friends have donated to Africa. But before you come, tell your American friends that we like their clothes and shoes.  Zvine chibhanzi. Tell them not to send women’s shorts. They do not sell well. And also, tell them no swimming costumes. Africans do not swim. We want more costumes and hats to wear to church. OK?”

I grab my phone.
“Next time Shuvai wants to talk to you, she will call you,” I tell them.
Then I literally run away with my phone while Chandi shouts, “Do not forget to text some lessons on how to kiss the American way! Ha haa haaa!” More chikwee, like they are at a growth point in the village.
“Hey Shuvai, what’s up? Ndeipi?”  I ask my niece.

She says life in Obama’s country is nothing but work and more work, bills and more bills. Shuvai has an American accent acquired through working as a customer service for Verizon phone service. She had to practice the accent so American customers can understand her.
“Iii tete, it’s been a long time since I heard people laughing like Tete Piri and her friend. You know, that hearty laugh from the belly, the way it used to be in the village. We used to laugh until our ribs ached.  Remember Zungunde?”

Then Shuvai starts laughing, telling me about Zungunde and his song, called Kwave kutamba kwava Zungunde.
I remembered Zungunde, the comedian and village trickster. Back in the village, when you saw Zungunde coming towards you, you started laughing.

He had that effect on people of all ages. Zungunde was not even his real name but that was the name village women gave him because he sang and danced to, Kwave kutamba kwava Zungunde.  He made everyone laugh with his jokes and stories until ribs ached and we cried with laughter.  Kuchema misodzi yekuseka.

Sometimes when we saw Zungunde coming, my mother and all the younger women married into our family, varoora, would tell us to leave immediately because in no time at all, Zungunde engaged in sexual banter that made them laugh so much.

He was the family nephew, muzukuru and therefore allowed to say what he liked to the wives of his uncles. It did not matter if they were going to church, at the village spring well, weeding the fields, brewing beer or plaiting their hair, Zungunde made them laugh.

During a village beer party, we waited on the outskirts of the village compound watching the elders; men and women drink beer, sing, dance, play the drum and mbira.  Echoes of laughter could be heard through the hills when they got really happy.  In those days, the women who were past child bearing age drank and danced alongside men. There was much laughter, chikwee.  We were not allowed near them when Zungunde was ready to dance for his uncle’s wives, vakadzi vana sekuru vake.

One day, some of us, Piri included, hid behind the anthill not too far from a beer party. We heard the women asking Zungunde to do his dance, kwave kutamba kwava Zungunde.

In the golden sunset, we saw Zungunde gather medium size and small stones. He placed them in a wrap around cloth and tied the cloth around his waist, with the stones hanging quite loosely on his front, like a big pouch of something.

He then started dancing slowly and swinging his bag of stones from one side to the other, then thrusting backwards and forwards going towards the women, dancing and singing, “Kwave kutamba kwava Zungunde. Ndikuza . . . ndikuzache. Ndiku za. . .” There were hysterics of laughter from both men and women. What Zungunde said was not meant for the ears of the young. But we heard it all and held our stifled laughs then ran away before getting caught. Later on, we would make stone pouches with the bottom part of our dresses and imitate Zungunde’s dance, gyrating the waists and doing pelvic thrusts like he did.

Shuvai says she must come back home for a while and laugh.
“Here tete, we have not time to laugh. When we do, it’s just from the lips or the teeth only.”  I say good bye to her. “How is she?” Piri asks.
I tell Piri and Chandi that Shuvai says she has forgotten how to laugh.  They both look at each other.
“How does one forget how to laugh?”

They ask. For once, they are not laughing any more.  I try and explain how our lives have changed over time and how we laugh at different things.

Our changes in lifestyle and the problems of translating jokes from English to Shona bring less laughter to our lungs. Also, humour changes and varies across cultures over time.  They listen for a while and then quickly lose interest in my little speech.
Soon as I leave them, chikwee starts again. Somehow, I envy them because they have kept their humour despite so many changes in our lives. Back in the village, varoora and people like Zungunde who used to make us laugh are gone.

Most of those who remain have become too religious to tell good and bad jokes. As for me, I hardly ever laugh to the point of getting pain in the ribs as I used to do.

Was it the tone of serious and polite etiquette that came with Christianity and civilised English manners that has stifled my laughter?
Perhaps. I sit down to write that we should return more to laughter. Laughter was, and still is, a necessary playful element of life.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and works as a development consultant.