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Sekai Nzenza On Wednesday

Out of five of my aunts, vana mainini vangu, the uncles singled out Mainini Mildred because she is the only one who has not turned away from our traditions and still honours the ancestors.

When we arrived at my mother’s maiden village late afternoon on Monday, we found our uncles gathered under a tree with a bottle of duty-free whisky and home-brewed beer.

It was a holiday to celebrate Heroes and Defence Forces Day.

“We, the children of the Eland, have arrived in the birth place of our mother. We request to greet you great Buffaloes, you are indeed, our mothers,” I announced, clapping my hands to my mother’s brothers and nephews.

After the formal greetings, my brother Sidney said we had driven many kilometres from our village across the mountains to bring an announcement to our mother’s people.

The uncles put down their mugs of whisky and there was immediate silence.

My brother then spoke in very low tones to Sekuru Simba, the youngest of the uncles who kept on nodding his head while everyone watched.

Then Sekuru Simba clapped his hands silently and addressing his older brother Sekuru Batsirai, he said, “The children of the Eland are here. They have come to announce that they want to bring back the spirit of their mother back from the jungle.”

Then the same words were carried and repeated to all the uncles sitting on chairs and stools according to hierarchy of age until the message reached Sekuru Chipunza, the oldest among my mother’s brothers and nephews.

When we were growing up and visiting this place, we did not see Sekuru Chipunza because he worked in a police band during the Rhodesian colonial times.

When the war for independence started, Sekuru Chipunza did not come home at all.

In those days, those who worked in the army or the police force stayed away from meeting the liberation fighters back here in the village.

After independence, Sekuru retired and came home with his police band medals and hung them in his room.

Now he was the village elder and headman.

Sekuru Chipunza resembled my mother more than all the uncles.

Back in our paternal village, my mother was a daughter-in-law or muroora.

She used to kneel down to serve her husband, the men and older women of my father’s home.

But when she came back here to her maiden home, my mother was the elder commanding respect and power over the entire family in consultation with the men of the Buffalo Nyati family.

Here, my mother used to be the man, the tete or aunt.

This is the village where my mother and her twin brother were born in 1928; a few years after her people migrated from somewhere near Rusape, kwaMakoni when their land was taken to make room for the British farmers.

In those days, the Shona people killed twins because a twin was a bad omen.

Back then, the mother of twins was given a choice as was the custom.

“Which one of your children shall we keep?” the midwives asked VaZviyo, my mother’s mother on the day my mother and her twin were born.

In that dark little hut, surrounded by the women, VaZviyo looked at her two newborn babies.

She must have turned away.

For how does a mother make such a choice? It was not a choice.

My maternal grandmother obeyed custom and she let go of one child.

The boy. I recall asking my mother how the baby was killed.

She said the midwife or nyamukuta, put ashes in the baby’s mouth and suffocated him.

Then she placed him in a big clay pot and took him to the river where the baby boy was drowned.

His name was not mentioned beyond the whispers inside the hut.

While her twin brother’s little body was squashed in clay pot and silently sank to the bottom of the river, my mother lived for 84 years.

She raised 11 children.

After many years working in the fields and making pottery to sell and educate her children, my mother finally departed this world in the early hours of July 15 2012. I watched her go.

We sent a message carrying the words of mourning or mhere to her people.

The mourning message was accompanied by some money. All her people from the Buffalo Nyati clan descended on our village to mourn her.

My mother was no longer ours.

It is tradition that when a woman dies, her spirit goes back to her people to be the ancestor.

We celebrated my mother’s departure with mourning, dance, drum and song following the rituals as guided by the Buffalo Nyati people.

After the burial, my mother’s relatives distributed all her clothes, pots and utensils.

Then the uncles went around all the rooms to inspect my mother’s estate.

It was not much.

There were beds, wardrobes, sofas, clay pots, ploughs, hoes, grain, cows, goats and chickens. They pointed to a few things they wanted, including one goat and one cow.

Three years later, we were now gathered to announce that we are ready for the ceremony to bring our mother’s spirit home, kurova guva.

Although we claim to be Christians, we have not forgotten that the tradition of ancestral reverence stays with us.

It is part of who we are because we are defined as nephews, nieces, uncles, aunts, and brothers-in-law — sekuru, muzukuru, mainini, maiguru, muroora, babamunini, tete, mwanasikana, mwanakomana, mukuwasha and so many other names.

Each one of those names are not easily translated into English and they are accompanied by a specific role in relation to the other.

But the rising wave of Christianity in its many forms continues to erode these identities.

We thank God that my mother was not such a great Anglican nor did she turn away from the rituals of our traditions.

If she had done that, we would not have gathered in her village as we did.

The thread that connects us to her people would have weakened.

At her funeral, my uncles might have said, it’s over; she has gone to join Jesus and the angels.

But that did not happen because my mother was not a strong Christian.

I looked at my uncles and I could see the strong resemblance to my mother.

These tall handsome men who belong to the Buffalo totem remain connected to my family in the present and the future life after death.

My cousin Jericho held his Samsung and shouted out the dates to plan the steps of the kurova guva ceremony.

One of my aunts or mother’s sister or niece was going to take a significant role in the preparation of the ceremony.

The uncles debated on which one of the aunts was still free of Christianity to be able to carry out the ancestral ceremony.

They said, Mainini Raiza, who used to be so close to our mother, had since joined the Apostolic church and will not be seen anywhere near a kurova guva ceremony.

Mainini Seviria had joined the End Time Message and two other aunts were with various evangelical churches sprouting around the country wearing uniforms.

Out of five of my aunts, vana mainini vangu, the uncles singled out Mainini Mildred because she is the only one who has not turned away from our traditions and still honours the ancestors.

Mainini Mildred would travel from her village in Buhera to spend three weeks in our village.

It was going to be a long process following the traditions of the ancestors in performing the ceremony.

With our bother Sydney’s help, Mainini Mildred will take out red sorghum or millet from our mother’s granary.

The millet will be soaked in water for two days.

Then it will be taken out when it’s germinating.

It would be spread out on a flat rock to dry, then ground into flour for the beer making ceremony.

A week later, the women from my mother’s village, varoora or my uncles’ wives would travel to our village and prepare the seven day brew.

The ceremony to bring back my mother’s spirit to her people will then begin on the day when the beer is warm and the beast has been slaughtered.

There will be no church service or any prayers because on that day there is no space for Jesus or the Holy Spirit when we bring the ancestors’ spirit back home from the jungle, kubva musango.

With mbira, hosho, drums and singing, we shall welcome the spirit of my mother, the She-Buffalo.

The ceremony will include several rituals to be performed by my uncles.

They will follow the traditions of the elders, as it has been handed down to them through generations from the time before the white man and Christianity came.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic