Zimpapers Logo

Dr Sekai Nzenza On Wednesday
A WOMAN in our village wants a gupuro from her husband because he has been away for five years. Her name is Mai Jasi. She says she wants to be free to meet other men before she gets too old. This is not a secret because Mai Jasi brought her grievance to Sabhuku, the village head last Friday afternoon. My cousin Piri and I were back there in the village at Sabhuku’s house for another unrelated matter, when this case about gupuro or the traditional divorce method came up. We sat among the women while my other cousin Reuben joined the men.

Mai Jasi says she wants the freedom to find new love. Village gossip says something is going on between her and another man who lives about 5 or so kilometres away. Unless you can prove anything, this could be just nothing but village gossip.

Jasi lives in Harare with another woman. He has not been seen back here in the village for five years. Mai Jasi waits here and cares for her four teenage children on her own.

People around the village have been saying, ah, mukadzi waJasi haana murume, meaning, Jasi is no longer the husband to his wife because he is never here. But the fact that Mai Jasi still lives in Jasi’s village, means she is still Jasi’s wife. Back in the old days, long before independence, we knew of men who left their wives and went to work in Johannesburg. They did not write letters. They were gone for many years. And yet, their wives waited until the husbands returned.

Once you are married and cattle have been paid for your lobola, you cannot claim to be single. You belong to your husband and his family. If the man does not want you any more, then he should come home and give you gupuro, or token to say the marriage is over. You then take the gupuro to your parents and tell them that your marriage is over.

“With this token, I renounce you as my wife. Go back to your people and tell them this union is over,” a man would tell his wife. Gupuro was given in the form of three fireplace stones that balanced the clay pot when cooking or a penny.

The penny had a hole in the middle. But a man did not divorce his wife simply because he no longer loved her. No! It was not like that at all.

A woman was divorced because she was a witch or she was infertile. In some cases, the problem of infertility was resolved if the woman’s niece or young sister came to join her as second wife.

If there was no sister or niece, then the unfortunate woman came back to her maiden home.

In our village, women with no children often ended up in the big cities looking for love, companionship or financial survival. After a while, some settled down in one relationship. They later came back to the village when they got old.

But if a woman is given a gupuro for witchcraft, then she could not be replaced by a niece or a young sister. The husband took her back to her people and demanded his lobola or bride price, arguing that the woman had failed to deliver children to his clan or she had proved to be a destroyer of life by being a witch. The man would simply turn up with a munyai, go-between or another relative and formally say, “Gumbeze renyu rakurisa. Taritadza.” He used a metaphor to say that the woman was a very heavy blanket that was too big to cover anyone on the marital bed.

“What if Mai Jasi got pregnant for someone else?” Reuben asked. People looked at him and laughed. Someone commended that women know what to do when that happens. Another jokingly said we should not be surprised to see Mai Jasi make a quick visit to Harare to ensure that some form of intimacy happens between her and Jasi so she can say Jasi is the father.

Then Sabhuku said, “Gomba harina mwana,” By this, he meant, the lover does not have a child. He was referring to an old saying from the elders. They knew that it was possible for a child to be conceived in secret between a married woman and her lover.

That child could not be claimed by the lover at all because doing so would cause too much conflict between families.

Besides, a man could never prove that the child born to his wife is his child.

Such knowledge was the privilege of women only.

But sometimes the child’s looks gave away the whole story. But nobody said anything. It was an open secret.

“So, if Jasi does not love his wife any more, why does he not simply give her gupuro?” asked Reuben.

“Haa iwe, gupuro is not that easy,” said Jemba, walking over to the open fire and lighting his newspaper rolled tobacco. “Mai Jasi should just take it easy and stay here.”

“I do not want to go anywhere. I just want gupuro so I can be free,” said Mai Jasi.

“Freedom inodiwa. Muchiri chibhebhi. Uye muviri wenyu uchiri kuswinyaswinya,” said Jemba, suggesting that Mai Jasi still has warm blood and therefore not too old to desire a man or to have a relationship. Other people agreed with Jemba. They said Mai Jasi should be forgiven if she chooses to have an affair. There was much discussion and laughter as people teased Mai Jasi.

Sabhuku then ruled that someone must go to Harare and tell Jasi that his wife should be free to find herself a friend because Jasi was to blame for neglecting his wife. People clapped hands and applauded Sabhuku’s ruling. Such advice is new in this village. This could never have been allowed in my grandmother’s days. A woman simply waited for her husband to come back home.

“But, who is going to tell Jasi that if he no long loves his wife he should come home and give her gupuro?” Piri asked. We all looked at each other. Then Sabhuku said it should really be Piri who can take that message to Jasi back in Harare. Piri agreed.

On Monday, Piri met Jasi at Mbare market, near the place where they sell live chickens. They sat on empty beer crates and talked. I left them to talk while I bought cheap organic bananas and avocados from the eastern highlands fruit and basket sellers. After more than 30 minutes, Jasi and Piri arrived at a decision.

“Tete, ini handidzokiko kumusha iye zvino. Kana pane muzukuru anoda mukadzi wangu, ngaatore mbuya vake. Zvakaipei izvozvo?” said Jasi laughing. He looked a lot younger than Mai Jasi, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. He said he was not coming back to the village as yet. If any of his nephews were interested in his wife, they could have her.

Jasi then explained that he was in a relationship with a very kind woman who loved him. Not only was she kind, but she had a house and enough money to look after him.

We then said Jasi should give his wife a gupuro so she could be free to move on. But Jasi shook his head and said his wife was not a witch nor was she infertile. She had given him four beautiful children. There were no grounds for a gupuro. A woman should just stay at home and wait for her husband to come back.

“When Harare spits me out, I will return to the village. Why give a woman gupuro when you know that one day she will look after you in old age?” Jasi said.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic.