really necessary.
Last Sunday, we sat under a hissing tree or call it muchakata in Shona or umkhuna in Ndebele, drinking, talking and drinking.
Arguing, even!
This villager chugged his cokes while elders guzzled home-brewed beer.
The tree was large, evergreen, spreading and typi­cally mushroom-shaped and this villager estimated the height at 12 metres or so. The shed was cool. The bark was dark grey and branches had white insignificant flowers, epitomised by short rusty coloured furry heads. 
The drinking continued. Passing on the calabash from one bearded mouth to another, the elders told story after story, from whose wife was cheating with who, local politics, the coming rainy season, up to women. Yes, women, women, women!
The group grew bigger and there was a moment of silence when spirit medium Karitundundu arrived.
We all stood up and offered him the best seat — a stone polished smooth by long years of use — then we sat down with him.   
Enough respect.
His throat was dry so he was given a sip of the succu­lent beer. His lips were cracked and so were his feet. After a deep gulp, he used the back of his hand to mop up drags from his thick lips and untrimmed beard.
He was young age wise and bearded and dressed in long black cloth, draped across his right shoulder and reaching his feet. He had his ritual axe and knobkerry, insignia for a chief spirit, mhondoro.
His wisdom, depth of character, composure and respect fascinated this villager.
As the calabash contin­ued doing the rounds, again and again, the alcohol tinged their brains, loosening the protocol a bit, but still within bounds.
Beer poured. This time around a huge clay pot came, carried by a muzukuru, the main officiant. It was froth­ing and seething.
This was special village beer, brewed from chakata, the fruits from the hissing tree by women way into their mendicancy. The chakata fruit is yellow flesh and delicious when ripe. The flesh is eaten. This brew was from old fruits preserved from last season. It is some­times made into porridge or refreshing non-alcoholic drink or highly esteemed syrup.
The mixture of the intoxicating beer is never divulged to young brewers.
Suddenly, Makesure, a young man from the village who grew up affectionately known as Mhekiya, joined the drinking binge. He greeted everyone as per proto­col, but with some funny American accent. It was just a few weeks since he arrived from overseas where he had gone alone, leaving his wife in the village.
This villager learnt he had been at some university in the United States for more than three years pursuing a Masters Degree. Upon his arrival at the beer-drinking spree, everything changed.
He spoke fast. His tongue was sharp and sleek. He knew everything in the wide world. In between his korekore dialect he threw in complex English words and each time he threw such a word, the elders would ask for an explanation.
The spirit medium of Karitundundu looked at him, in amusement but never spoke. On the three occasions he used the word “lugubrious” to describe the sad faces he found in the villages when he came back. 
Minutes later Mhekiya managed to smuggle in the topic of world politics. That made the village elders look stupid. He spoke of the American constitution, life in Britain, flying long journeys in the planes and the niceties of Eurocentric things.
He spoke about tubes, underground trains, gay mar­riages, women’s rights and skyscrappers. He spoke about washing machines, sauna and so on. The vil­lagers wondered what that knowledge benefited him? 
They listened, nodded and listened as he rumbled on and on. Then he decided to touch on Africa. He talked about the Arab Spring, Hosni Mubarak, Muammar Gaddafi then crossed the seas to Syria, Israel and Iran.
They all looked at him. One village elder almost missed his mouth with the calabash staring into the face of the young man.
Then, one old man, Kuipakunoyamura (shortened to Mudhara Kuipa) decided to drop a bombshell: “Do you know Tunduhwe?”
“Who is Tunduhwe?” asked Mhekiya.
Silence. Throat clearing. Casting of eyes around the group. Silence. Silence!
“Mudhara Kuipa, who is Tunduhwe?”
Kuipa clears the throat: “You know things that are not very important to your personal life. Tunduhwe is the one who bedded your wife in your absence. The last child is not yours. Ask the whole village!” Silence! Silence! Silence!
“You mean Tunduhwe the dip attendant? That f****** idiot! I will kill him. T-u-n-d-u-h-w-e!” he passed out. He fainted.
There was commotion. Women who had been sitting by the reed mats under the eaves of the grass thatched roofs, rushed to the scene.
It was spectacle. The medium of Karitundundu instructed that Mhekiya be taken to a shed under another tree. Women poured a bucket of water on him.
Beer drinking continued as if nothing had happened. There was a low pitched discussion on why a man should know with precision, details about things that happen in far away countries without knowing what happens in his own house.
There was discussion on bookish knowledge outside social knowledge. Beer poured again. This time around the smallest of the clay pots came, as a sign of closing the drinking spree. In the Korekore dialect villagers call it mhisikamatako, mopping up.
One-by-one, villagers left for their respective homes. Some staggered, some missed the paths criss-crossing the verges of the roads. Everyone knew where home was and partook journeys amid drunken singing.
Do village elders not say blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused?

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