Zimpapers Logo

said, pointing to Reuben’s house and his wife’s kitchen hut.
A big anthill was growing inside the hut.
It started right in the middle of the fireplace where Mai Tinashe, Reuben’s wife, used to cook before she migrated to Australia 10 years ago.
Very soon, it was going to reach the grass ceiling thatch and the roof would then cave in, as they do in many deserted huts.
“Nzanga bhwowa, village compounds, are like mushrooms, they disappear,” she said.
I could feel the sadness in her voice.
I walked right behind tete as she spoke, throwing her hands here and there in anger.
We went past one abandoned or deserted house after the other. Empty and silent homes.
Other huts had roofs that had already fallen and there were old rags, toys and saucepans scattered about.
Further down past the old compound where I was born were some unfinished brick houses belonging to cousins who went away to South Africa and did not come back to finish them.
The way she walked, talked and cast a disapproving eye everywhere reminded me so much of Mbuya VaMandirowesa, my grandmother.
Although tete was well over 70 years old now, we still called her Tete Verina.
Many years ago, when the village was one huge compound, tete married a very quiet, big giant of a man from across the Chinyika River.
She used to cross the river and come back to solve a village problem between her brothers and their wives or between her nephews, nieces and their respective partners.
Whenever there was a misunderstanding or a conflict in the village, my mother would say, “Go and call your aunt, tete vako. When she speaks, all these men listen.”
And so tete left whatever she was doing and came to scold, beat or provide counselling to resolve a conflict.
These days, with most of our fathers and uncles gone, tete was our father now. She was quick to remind us that she stood exactly where my father, my uncles and grandfathers stood.
“Pavamire, ndipo pandimire,” she declared.
And we listened and obeyed her.
After the unveiling of Reuben’s father’s grave, we all sat around the fire in the evening sunset, drinking mahewu and beer while roasting meat.
It was not often that we got together like this.
Reuben lived in Australia with his wife, Mai Tinashe, and their three children.
Timoti, Reuben’s younger brother, lived in the UK.
Piri, the one who was married to Misheki before they went separate ways, was also here and so was my brother Sidney, the teacher.
It was a lively conversation.
We all laughed when Reuben talked about his work in a nursing home in Australia. Then for a while we talked about our experiences of racism in the Diaspora and how back here in Zimbabwe we still do not mix very much with white people.
Our history of colonial dispossession, war and land issues has not given us time to bridge the social distance gap. When Tete Verina joined us around the fire, and we all respectfully took turns to say, “How was your day? Pachipamwe tete, we are still together, tete.”
Rueben quickly offered her his chair.
Then Piri asked Reuben to repeat his story about the little old lady in an Australian nursing home who refused to be bathed by Reuben because he was black man.
“Help, sister, there is a black man in my room!” the woman had screamed.
She had never been that close to a black man before.
Piri has this habit of laughing at an old joke when that joke had already passed.
We tried to stop Piri from going over the story again. Reuben also said no, that story was over.
Besides, it was not a funny story any way. That Reuben, a former high school teacher with a degree in English Literature, was called nigger by an old white woman in a nursing home was not a joke.
We only laughed when Reuben told us the story because we sometimes do not know how to respond to tragic and uncomfortable situations that we cannot change.
Laughing at oneself in a difficult and painful situation is a coping mechanism in us.
But Piri could be insensitive. She repeated the story in her own words, adding a bit of spice here and there.
“So, tete, can you believe that overseas, kumhiri kwavari ava, life can be so difficult? Vanonyepa! They lie!” Piri said laughing.
But tete did not join in the laughter.
Instead, her eyes seemed to burrow through Reuben.
She asked if what Piri said was true.
Reuben said yes.
Then he explained that he did such kind of jobs because overseas, degrees we have here do not always work over there.
So one does whatever job that gives you money.
“Unototamba rwuri kurira! You dance whatever song is playing!” Piri said laughing again.
Reuben ignored her and explained to tete that he took any job in order help support the family while he was studying to be a social worker. He had since qualified and his job now involved helping African youths from as far as Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia and Zimbabwe to cope with life in a foreign country.
Then Reuben’s face beamed with excitement as he described the new house he now owned in Australia. He said the combined income with his wife helped them to get a loan, buy land and get builders to build a new house.
They moved in a year ago and the house was big and everything in it was completely new, from carpets, flat-screen television sets, dining-room tables, fridges and everything.
“Unlike here, we took a loan that we are going to pay off in 25 years. If we had stayed here, we would never have dreamt of living in such a big mansion only 40km from Melbourne, a very big city near the sea.”
Instead of saying congratulations, tete shook her head with sadness and said, “Baba we Nhuka! Inga zvakaoma. Worumbidza imba yekure iyo yako yapera kuno nemuchenje? Kumusha here ikoko? My father the eland! It’s hard. You praise the faraway house while the one here is being eaten by termites? Is that place home?”
Then tete took a deep breath, sat upright in the chair and pushed the log some more in the fire.
She clapped her hands to draw our attention, cleared her throat twice. With a high-pitched angry voice, she began scolding us all for not only deserting the village but also for killing it slowly.
She began with Babamunini Nyika and how he left the village, went to Malawi for more than 30 years, only to come back empty-handed. Then she moved on to Babamunini Matthias, who left the village during the war and settled in the plains of the Zambezi Valley, under the foothills of Mavhuradonha Mountains.
“The war was the war. We all suffered. But in the end, the country was won. And did Matthias come back to rebuild his home? No.
“He stayed there, in that land of Makorekore, way past Dande, where he grew cotton. Do you eat cotton? Nyika went there, got malaria and Matthias buried him. Matthias is now dead, too. Who will go there to put stones on their graves? That village will die, too.”
There was nothing new in tete’s speech, except her anger. She was talking with her head scarf pulled to one side. Every now and then, she stopped to push snuff in her nose, the way mbuya used to do.
“Musha ndiwe, mwanakomana, the village homestead belongs to, son,” she said.
From the time we were little, boys were always told they owned the village. Sometimes Mbuya VaMandirowesa used to call the boys by totem, treating them like they were big men already. When my brother Charles was upset, mbuya lovingly and gently said to him, “Come here, my husband.
“What is the matter, my Great Big Eland, Mhofu yeMukono? What is the matter, father of my heart? Let it be. Ngaisiye matambo. You are the elder of the village, muridzi wemusha.”
And Charles would be so proud.
He could see himself grown up and owning the whole village. To us girls, mbuya joked and addressed us as “Wadawatora,” meaning whoever wants to take us into marriage could do so.
The village was not for girls.
When Tete Verina had calmed down, Reuben told her that she had spoken too soon. Before he returned to Australia, he was going to ask Piri to stay home and look after the whole homestead, including getting rid of the anthills on the fireplace in his wife’s kitchen hut.
“Stay home, Sisi, and look after this place, find a man and we will look after both of you,” Reuben said.
But Piri would hear none of it.
“Who said I want to live here all my life? Kusafunda chete, ndaiendawo mhiri ini. I am just not educated, otherwise I would be overseas too. In fact, I can clean the old ladies’ bottoms better than you Bhudhi Reuben,” said Piri.
But Reuben told her that she was better off staying back here, working in the garden and raising the chickens. He would make sure that she was well provided for.
Piri said no, the village was not for her. She had tried marriage twice and village poverty forced her and Misheki, her second husband, to move to the city.
Over there in Harare, she could sell Zed, the illegal alcohol, and make ends meet.
Misheki simply could not cope.
He came back and was busy thatching people’s houses and cutting down trees to build garden fences.
“Bhudhi Reuben, listen. I am not removing anthills in anyone’s kitchen. Your wife is not dead. Haana kufa. Even if she was dead, I would not touch that kitchen. Only her relatives can do that. I also want to go kumhiri, overseas. Get me a ticket to Ositiraria or to Britain and I will go there and make money.
“I can do the job in the nursing home better than you. I can break the English, but they will understand me when I call them darling, sweetie, lovey and all those nothing words. I will pay you back the money for your ticket.”
Piri’s position was clear. As far as she was concerned, the village was dying. An anthill will grow in an empty house that is not lived in for a long time. There are many anthills growing in our empty houses throughout the country.
The owners of the kitchen huts and other village houses have either dead, moved to the new resettlement areas, gone to the city or migrated overseas.
Sometimes you see a nice Western-style house, red roof, painted outside, with good windows, curtains and everything, next to a kitchen, hut with a closed door.
Not too far from the home are two graves, most likely belonging to husband and wife.
When the picture is like that, you know HIV and Aids passed by. Where did the children go? Someone, an aunt or a sister, brother or cousin might have taken them.
Inside the kitchen hut, you will find everything still, the way the wife left it on the day she died.
Maybe she went to heaven. We do not know. But what we see are her earthly belongings, her painted clay pots, the cooking utensils, bread bin, dinner set, plates, cups, teapot, tray, spoons and wooden sticks.
The dish cloths and doilies eaten away by termites are still there. Waiting.  Because culture says only her close relatives like sisters or nieces can take her belongings, the goods stay put until the relatives come.
Quite often, due to cost and distance or the absence of the right person to collect her personal goods, the kitchen hut roof will fall and forever bury this once treasured woman’s pride. 
This village has been closed.
Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and works as a development consultant.