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Sekai Nzenza Correspondent
We are walking around the fields with my cousin Piri. Surrounding us are small healthy plants of germinating maize, each with four or five leaves. It was not like this four weeks ago when we stood in this same place, with my friend Bhiya, my cousin Piri and brother Sidney. In my hand, I had held the shrivelled remains of maize seed that we planted before the first rains came early four weeks ago.

We had done dry planting, meaning we sowed maize seeds in the deep red soil before the first rains came. These rains came and the kids danced around saying: “Mvura ngainaye tidye mapudzi” (Let it rain, so we can eat pumpkins.) We were happy. God and the ancestors had not forgotten to send us rain at the right time.

It rained on and off for two days. Then it left. When we walked around the field to examine the plants, it was clear that the seeds that had germinated were wilting and dying.

We looked to the east and saw dark gray clouds circling and partially covering the sun. Will the clouds bring us rain? How long the moisture in the soil will remain if it didn’t rain, we speculated, gently kicking the drying, crumbling sods.

And then the sun broke through, the wind dropped away and the merciless baking heat resumed.

We stood there, in the blistering sun, feeling a teasing wind bringing clouds from the east, casting shadows that moved fast over the rows of turned red earth. We had no choice but to discuss the best time to replant the maize and how much it was going to cost.

We then went home and sat under the mango tree to think and secretly pray for rain.

“I will check the weather forecast on the internet because it will tell us exactly when it will rain,” I told them. Piri snorted and said weather forecasts do not tell the truth. If the weatherman was reliable, why did he not tell us to stop planting because the rain would only come for two days then disappear?

She then started imitating the weather forecasts she had seen on television. “Partly cloudy in the east, moving to the west, then light showers towards evening,” Piri said, laughing. “Only the ancestors and God can make it rain,” she said. “We must do a real mukwerera.”

We had already reminded ourselves about mukwerera, the ancestral ceremony to ask for rain. Because of the coming of so many churches many of us have forgotten or do not want to know about mukwerera, the ceremony to ask for rain from God, Mwari Musiki, Nyadenga, God in the Highest. Back in the old days, when we lived here in the village, mukwerera was a ritual that bound us together as a people.

A few days later, a real mukwerera was done at Chishanga, along the Save river and across from the Mbire mountains. I was not there. But Piri went. She said, down in the Save valley, you can still find old people whose minds have not been influenced too much by Christianity and Western lifestyle, chiKristu nechirungu.

Mbuya VaMarunjeya, the old midwife who used to live here when we were growing up, is now living along the river. She led the mukwerera ceremony because she is old and she no longer sleeps with men. Only women past childbearing age, carrying the wisdom and memory that comes with age, could lead the sacred ceremony around the muchakata tree.

Soon after that mukwerera, Piri and the others replanted and we waited for rain in hope.

Two days later, God and the ancestors heard us.

Thick black clouds gathered around the mountains. Then it rained for days. The ground was totally soaked. Frogs sang loudly. Rivers flooded. The seeds we had replanted enjoyed the moisture around them.

Within days, we saw the green shoots of maize come out again.

Soon, the weeds will compete with the maize and we will start weeding.

In the hills, mazhanje trees are heavy with fruit. You will find tsvanzva, the olive like green fruit that turns to bright red when ripe. Next to it, you may also find matupfu, with no English translation. Ishwa, the tasty termites will soon come out of the anthills.

Down in the valley, big and juicy maroro will be hiding under the bushes.

The village is full of life. And laughter.

“This time of the year, when everything is so green and Christmas is coming tomorrow, I feel so happy, like I am in love,” said Piri, hands on waistline, jean skirt tight around her bottom. She stood there in the field, with this outfit that was totally unsuited for the fields.

But we were not planning to do any weeding or any field work. After all, Christmas was around the corner and for the next few days, the chickens will be killed and fried. A goat or two might also be roasted as well. And maybe, with the feeling of festive season in the air, and the cool rain falling on the maize, Piri will find love.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is an independent writer and cultural critic.