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Sekai Nzenza
My cousin Piri wants to move out of the city and work on a farm. Recently she found out that some new farmers’ wives are too busy at the office and at church. They do not have time to go to the farms with their husbands. Or maybe these urban, mostly professional women cannot stand the smell of dust and cow dung.

Gone are the days when women lived on the land, waited for the rain and ate what they grew.
Since Piri is familiar with farm smells, if and when an opportunity arises, she is ready to move on to a farm and begin working. This idea is all new to me. And I thought I knew her well.

“I grew up close to the soil. I want to see maize seedlings break the red soil seeking the sun. I want to grow nyevhe, mowa, derere, tsunga, munyemba, muboora and all those vegetables we no longer see here in the village,” Piri declared.

It’s either her friend Chandi’s idea or someone else from the Apostolic church.
Lately, Piri has been spiritual. This has been going on for two weeks now. I give it three or four weeks maximum. It’s a phase.

When Piri made this announcement, we were back in the village last week. I was busy cleaning my mother’s granary, hozi or tsapi.
Ever since my mother died last year, we had not ventured in to clean it up. It felt like sacred space. Rats and other rodents had left droppings here and there.

The compartments where we used to store grain were very dark.
Piri sat on the big rock that we step on when climbing into the granary. She was unusually quiet while I sneezed and swept the dusty floor. Maybe she was praying or meditating, or perhaps remembering how much has changed ever since our family clan came here.
This is one of the last granaries left. It carries memories of the many harvests we deposited in here, mumatura.

My grandfather and his three brothers arrived here sometime in the late 1930s when they were moved from what became the Charter Estates to make room for British settler farmers.

This was reserved land for the Africans under the Native Administrator, Chief Svinurai and the kraal heads. It was all virgin land, untouched and mostly fertile along the Save and Chinyika rivers.

But my grandfathers hardly stayed here for long periods.
They left to work under the colonial chibaro or forced labour system in order to pay for the imposed hut, bicycle, cattle and dog taxes.
In the absence of the male elders, my grandmother, Mbuya VaMandirowesa, used to tell everyone in the whole village compound what to do. She was the farmer around here together with my mother and everyone else. As the custodians of culture, the women continued to lead the traditional ceremonies and celebrated harvests.

In those days, the granary, or hozi was the thatched house carefully balanced on four big rocks so the foundation did not touch the ground in order to avoid moisture.

Inside matura was the harvest of zviyo, millet, sorghum, maize, groundnuts and other varieties of crops and seeds.
I know this because I used to go into the compartment or dura to get the grain. It required skill to manoeuvre my small body into the dura and sit on top of the grain, then fill the basket, dish or bucket and then hand it over to someone.

We had enough maize to last until the next harvest. As for the rapoko, it would last for a good three years, depending on how much sadza was cooked and how much beer was brewed.

Mbuya VaMandirowesa locked her hozi and she carried the key around her neck on a piece of rag string, like a necklace.
It was not as if anyone would break into her hozi and steal anything. She just liked to be in control of all her precious belongings which could not be kept in the big round kitchen hut like the last pot of beer or her traditional medicines.

My mother’s hozi has been here for as long as I can remember. Although it was often full, like the other granaries around here, the elders always talked about the shortage of land. Already, there were conflicts over land between sons, grandsons and neighbors.
By the time the liberation war started, this land was already becoming very unproductive.

As children we made contour ridges, madhunduru, with hoes and shovels before going to school in order to stop soil erosion.
Some of my uncles moved away to buy land in the government designated African Purchase Areas, kumatenganyika. Vaitotenga nyika yavo.

We are the third generation born here and this land is exhausted. Over the years, we added more and more cow manure and commercial fertiliser, but the yield is very small compared to the labour involved.

Our granaries are now empty. In fact, most granaries have roofs that have fallen in and are being eaten by termites. This incredible African technology for storing grain is fast disappearing.

Since independence, some people have moved to the new resettlement areas where they grow tobacco, soya beans, sunflowers, cotton, maize and other crops.

Due to lack of money, technology and knowledge, their farming is nothing like what the large scale white farmer used to do. And yet they manage to be successful. During tobacco selling season, you see the new farmers buying cars, scotch carts and building materials. They are not hungry any more.

Some of my uncles and my mother did not leave the village even when land was available around Chivhu and Hwedza.
They stayed here in what is left of the village because they were too old to move. Besides, how could they leave all the graves of the ancestors unattended? Now that my mother is gone, we are still here, cleaning the granaries. But Piri is now driven to reconnect with the soil on a farm somewhere, growing tobacco for sale.

I kept sweeping and rearranging the clay pots, tsero, hari, zvitirobho, mapadza and other old remnants in the granary.
Then Piri suddenly clapped her hands and said, “Prophet Marakiya is gifted. In his prophesy last week, he saw me standing next to a granary, a real hozi like this one.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Piri keeps on drawing me into this latest spiritual journey of hers. A week or so ago, Piri called to say that she was going to the ancient rocks of Domboshava with a group of Apostolic Faith worshippers.

“But, you are not a member of them?” I said. Over the phone, she gave me a little sermon about how God welcomes anyone at any time, especially in the sacred caves where our ancestors used to worship.

Only a couple of weeks ago, we were at a village bira to honour the ancestral spirits by offering beer to quench their thirst. And now here was Piri saying she was fasting, looking all holy and spiritual. I did not believe a word she said.

She was not going to get to Domboshava. I could see her getting off paMverechena, a lively place on the way to Domboshava.
Piri has never been known to go past the sound of music, the smell of roasting meat and cold beer. She would get off the Kombi for a beer or two and that would be the end of the spiritual journey.

But I was wrong. Piri was serious about getting what she wanted from God. Because you have to fast, Piri stopped eating and drinking at 5pm on a Friday.

Then she joined one Apostolic group on the journey to Domboshava for the all night prayer in front of a big log fire, zoto.
Piri said the Prophet Marakia called her specifically from the group of women. He talked to God as he laid his hands on her covered head.

The prophet said he could see a big hozi full of grain. Piri should leave whatever business she was in and become a farmer, the Prophet said. Hozi means wealthy, land and fertility.
“Do you really believe that?” I asked.

“Faith chete Sis. You need faith. I will go to masowe one more time. Then I will join an already established farmer. All over Zimbabwe, there are plenty of these new farmers travelling from the city to the farm every weekend and sometimes during the week. Their wives are busy at the office, the gym, at church and having coffee. You cannot expect them to be tobacco  farmers.

“And yet, tobacco is the future. We fought for the land. Now we have it. Why not use it properly?” she said.
I tried to explain to her that farming was not that easy. It needs inputs and skill.

I urged her to spend time with some of our cousins and in laws with farms and see how hard they work. Farming is not for the faint hearted.
But Piri was not listening.

Ever since she left the village, Piri has never been interested in commercial farming, let alone the peasant type rural farming that we grew up with. But now, she thinks she can grow tobacco and become a successful farmer.

“Sis, tobacco has money. Varungu used to make money from the soil. So can we. Last year, Brazil had bad tobacco and Zimbabwe had the best. We have the climate and the best soil for it. You do not mix Zimbabwean tobacco with any other tobacco. You can smoke a whole cigarette and finish it without having to light it again. Inhengo yemudzanga wakazvimiririra wega,”

She sounded even better than the tobacco salesperson.
“Since when did you start smoking?” I asked.

“You know very well that I do not smoke. Even some of us who did not go to school can do farming. You do not need to read a book to understand what needs to be done,” Piri said.

“When our grandmothers used to fill granaries with maize, millet, sorghum, millet and ground nuts, did they go to school? I will grow tobacco before the end of the year. This is commercial farming with technology. All you need is your strength and a passion for the soil. Ivhu iri nderedu, ngarishandiswe,” she said.

“Gone are the days when rural women did back breaking work to get a few bags of maize or groundnuts while our fathers were doing the same on the white man’s farm for a few pennies. Let the educated women like you stay in the city while husbands are doing everything alone on the farms. I need a job as the madam on a farm. I can manage the home, the workers, tobacco, barley, soya beans and everything  else.”

I shook my head and said that does not work.
“You are not a farmer. Leave it to those who can do it well. What about the farmer’s wife? Will she let you get into her kitchen and touch her plates. And knowing you, will you leave the farmer alone?”
She gave me that smile to say, you know me well.

“Sis, most of these farmers’ wives grew up in the village, just like you and me. They saw the hardships of weeding, sowing, harvesting, ploughing and all that. They work all day in the office, why should they get their nails dirty? They should give me a job to do the dirty work for them,” Piri said.

Our lives have changed from storing food in the hozi to growing tobacco for export.
The men are more than happy to take off the suit and tie, smell the cow dung and get on to the business of farming. But most women are not.
While we were not looking, a gender shift has happened. Still, we should celebrate our spiritual connection to the soil even though we can’t all be farmers.

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