The rustic cluster of villages in the land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve was dwarfed by a chain of wild, jungle-draped peaks towering high above the eastern horizon: the remote and mysterious Matuzviadonha Mountains, bastardised by Europeans as Matusadona.
One-by-one kitchen became alive with smoke spewing from old grass thatch and mixing to become one with the mist. Slowly the village came alive shaking off the lethargy of sleep. Ghostly figures of women made their way to Dande River to fetch water, unperturbed by the wafting mist.
It was a few years into Zimbabwe’s independence.
Almost every family had tea with fat cooks (balls of flour dropped into boiling cooking oil).
It was the trend. It was fashionable. Affordable too! Conventional loaves of bread were a luxury, mainly affordable to teachers.
Many a village elder bragged of visiting teacher so-and-so, and drinking tea with buttered bread. This is why today there is frenzy about Zora butter!
Democracy was in its infancy in Zimbabwe for Rhodesia never made villagers test and taste democratic processes.
Voting had largely been a delicacy preserved for the white race. It had been taboo for majority blacks. One would only dream about voting some day, when Zimbabwe became free. Now Zimbabwe was free.
This day, the village was about to go through an exciting voting process. Since voting had largely been a preserve for white Rhodesia, in Zimbabwe it had brought excitement. Everything was now being voted for.
Almost every village argument would end up with a vote. Each time villagers disagreed on an issue, it ended up with a vote. Voting and democracy became catch words. Voting for anything was democracy. Voting, voting . . . voting!
Even cattle herders voted for turns to restrain the lead cow. This villager is not sure if women in polygamous marriages did not vote for conjugal rights duties.
Given the mantra, it was possible.
This day villagers would vote for their representative into the provincial leadership. Two men, Pondo Mbiri and Chipinduramhuka Chatibwege were contesting the position. Campaign had reached fever pitch in Nhamoyebonde Village and beyond. Pondo who was a  popular iron smith, was educated. He could write and read articulately.
His contribution to the struggle was undoubted. On many occasions he had helped liberation fighters cross the flooded Dande River.
On many occasions he had dodged bullets and carried food to the mountains for the fighters.
Every villager spoke glowingly about him. He was of moderate body built, with a funny Adam’s Apple that moved up and down as he talked. He was authoritative and respectful. Respected even! His grey hair was regarded a sign of unending wisdom.
His competitor Chatibwege, had a Vhitori accent as he came originally from Masvingo called Fort Victoria by Europeans in Rhodesia. Those days it had just been named Nyanda, a name it carried before finally being renamed Masvingo.
Chatibwege often spoke glowingly about his totem. During his campaigns he would recite: “I am Chasura, (the farting one) Chatibwege . . . kunovava . . . vanonzikwa nevari Shabhani . . .” Men, women and children laughed alike. If you dared listen, you would crack your rib cage with laughter. His legs were rickety and one could see a landscape through the gap between his legs. Worse still, he walked as if his feet were quarrelling. Never mind he was an orator. But he was largely taken more seriously in far away places than in the neighbourhood.
He was also known for tricking virgins and deflowering them, before dumping them. He also never missed single mothers. He was the village rum!
The sun never stopped rising and villagers started trickling to the open ground for the long awaited election. Both men had made their promises.
At the periphery of the open space close to the riverbank was a huge Mugogoma Tree. Atop the tree, two fish eagles perched, their distinctive black, white and chestnut feather patterns, gleaming boldly in the morning sun. Suddenly the birds tossed back their heads in a piecing, evocative duet. The ancestors, the autochthons of the land had spoken!    
The spirit mediums Karitundundu, Gwati and Chirambakudomwa graced the occasion, clad in all black, an axe in one hand and a snuff pouch in the other.        
After all and sundry had gathered. A Land Rover  rattled to a halt and election officers alighted. There was singing, dance, sloganeering. Singing, singing, singing  . . . dancing . . . gyration, gyration. Singing . . . singing! Sloganeering, sloganeering, sloganeering and singing. Dust, dust, dust, dust, then quiet, quiet, quiet. Quiet!  Sloganeering . . . then introduction . . . introduction and introduction! Singing again, clapping, dancing, sloganeering. Then, quiet. Serious business! Voting.
The grudge between Chatibwege and Pondo was known in Nhamoyenonde Village and beyond. It was the battle of the titans.
When voting time came, Pondo stuck to his promise. He had since the beginning of the campaign insisted that he would win the election, even in absentia. Voting those days was by way of standing behind the person you liked and officials would do head count. They called it Bereka Mwana! (strap your baby on the back).
Pondo stood, slowly tentatively but surely. Stuck his walking stick on the ground and made it wear his jacket. Those who wanted him would stand behind the jacket. He left for nearest bar, a spitting distance away. There he started guzzling a Shake Shake as opaque beer was known then. Little had he gulped half the one litre container did a boy came running and calling him back. People had humiliated Chatibwege by leaving him standing alone, while they made a serpentine line behind his jacket.
Chatibwege had stood side by side with the jacket, but when he looked back, there were more people behind the jacket that behind him. That was voting. It was democracy! Not Eurocentric. The people had             spoken.  
Today when we vote by secret ballot we should not forget that democracy has evolved! It has come a long way. Do village elders not say, by continuously trying, the baby monkey eventually learns to jump from one tree branch to another without falling to the ground?

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