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No matter how far away one goes away from Zimbabwe, one day the longing for home will get stronger

Dr Sekai Nzenza
And so people stayed close to home and married among themselves, carefully respecting totem differences. In those days, we did not marry people with the same totem. It was taboo, zvaiyera.
We did not marry people from as far away as Malawi either because we did not know enough about their culture or language. We even made up stories and myths about others who spoke different languages.

When colonialism demanded that men leave home to go and work as far as Salisbury or even cross the Limpopo into South Africa, the women waited and one day, most of the men returned home.

Others stayed, married beautiful Zulu and Xhosa women and never returned home. We grew up with the fear of leaving the village and getting lost forever, kutya kurova.

By the time I was a teenager, I hoped that one day, I could simply cross the river, find a village sweetheart, get married, have babies and settle down to grow sweet potatoes.

That did not happen.
Some of us who kept on studying left the village and later on, left Zimbabwe. For years, I was among those who comfortably created another Zimbabwe elsewhere, cooked sadza on Christmas day and celebrated being Zimbabwean away from Zimbabwe in places where our mothers had never been.

“Come on folks, is there anyone left back in Zimbabwe?” joked a guest called Brett during our family Christmas celebration in Australia. Everyone, meaning my sisters, cousins, nephews, nieces and other migrants to Australia gathered in the outskirts of Melbourne at my cousin Reuben and his wife Mai Tinashe’s grand, beautiful house.

Reuben and Mai Tinashe were hosting the Christmas day lunch, dinner and possibly breakfast as well for those who were going to invite themselves to stay the night.

We all stood around a whole lamb that was roasting and turning slowly on a spit. Fat dripped on the hot ambers.
There were close to 50 of us adults and among the crowd were various professions including doctors, nurses, geologists, scientists, accountants, lawyers, engineers, nurse aids, students, waiters and others. They had taken time off to enjoy a Zimbabwean Christmas, the way it used to be like back home. Except, there was more meat here.

Reuben carved the lamb and placed juicy smoked pieces on a big tray for us to help ourselves. Beer and wine flowed. Music by Leonard Zhakata blurred in the background, reminding us of out home far across the seas.

Brett, a tall Australian, grey-haired and possibly in his late 50s, smiled at us and said, “As a white man, I have never been to a place where my race is out numbered like this.”

He was a new boyfriend to one of the Zimbabwean women in the kitchen where most of the ladies were gathered, helping Mai Tinashe with sadza and vegetable cooking.

We all laughed and told Brett that he was now experiencing what it was like to belong to a minority race. “Wherever we go outside Africa, we are a minority,” said Reuben, carving a big chunk of meat.

“Eeka, you are a minority, because my brother, you are away from home,” said my nephew Simba, the accountant.
He is 27, works for a bank and is starting his Masters in Business Administration in February. His Australian girlfriend looked small and beautiful as she took his arm and placed it on her shoulders, then snuggled warmly into his big arms.

“What makes you guys come here?” asked Brett again, looking at Simba.
“Education, opportunities, good life, lifestyle and romance of course,” Simba said kissing his girlfriend’s blonde hair.
“Will you stay here or go back to Zimbabwe when the situation gets better?” Brett asked.

“Better? For me it’s better and maybe for others it is not. I am ready to pack my bags and go,” Reuben said, with much emphasis on the “go”. In the past few months, he has been arguing with Mai Tinashe over going back to Zimbabwe. He is ready to return. She is not. She says she never will.

Before they moved to Australia, Rueben was a high school English teacher and Mai Tinashe was a nurse. Since Australia was desperate for qualified nurses, it was not hard for her to migrate as a skilled professional.

Reuben could not find work teaching so he did a Diploma in Social work. He has a good job in a government department. But Reuben is bored and restless.

Back in the kitchen, I joined my fellow Zimbabwean Diaspora women. Standing in the middle of her kitchen, apron tied over her narrow jean skirt tightly complimenting her huge bottom, red flat slippers with shiny sparkles, red blouse with more silver and gold trinkets, a Father Christmas hat over her long weave, with nice long nails painted red, Mai Tinashe looked good. And happy.

She leaned against the granite table and smiled, looking at the people enjoying Christmas in her house. Several bottles of spirits were on the table, waiting to be consumed later.

The women were in various parts of the kitchen and living room talking, laughing, vachirova chikwee. They all wanted to know why I did not bring my cousin Piri to Australia. I told them what they already knew.

To bring someone like Piri to Australia or to any other Western country requires a visa and money.
Mai Tinashe, slightly drunk and merry, shouted that she could have paid for Piri’s ticket but then, what immigration officer would allow a woman like Piri to get a visa?

Piri fitted the high-risk image of those visa applicants who pretend to be tourists but have no interest whatsoever of seeing the sea, the kangaroos or galleries.

“Tete Piri will come here for work, get paid and then find the nearest pub to experiment with new beers,” Mai Tinashe said.
It was unfair to speak of Piri like that. But knowing Piri, Mai Tinashe was probably right.

“Haa, you do not want Tete Piri here, I tell you. She will start managing me and my husband. Let her stay back there.” Mai Tinashe said. Then she tapped me on the shoulder and asked why, given the lifestyle that she now enjoys, she would go back to Zimbabwe.

Then she went over to the kitchen sink, opened the tap and said, “Look, I have water 24/7.” She switched the lights on and off and said, “Look, I have magetsi 24/7. This place is home for me and my children. Reuben can do whatever he so wishes.”

One elderly woman, possibly someone’s visiting mother, said everything has its own time.
“You do not want to be an old lady in a foreign country.”

“I do not mind that. At least here there would be medication, a good wheelchair, diapers and the nurses even take you sight-seeing,” Mai Tinashe said and went back to stirring her sadza pot.

Then there was an argument, with others saying that we are in a global world now and must accept change. What does it matter where we finally choose to call home? We are increasingly marrying across cultures and finding better lifestyles elsewhere. Why return home?

That whole business of marrying among ourselves or going to places where your mother is not there belongs to the past, someone said.
And yet, while we may enjoy the meat, the beer and the wine, we know for sure that one day, the longing for home will get stronger.

Zimbabweans roasting meat in faraway places will still dream of home. Much as we might wander in places where our mothers have never been, the ancestors’ voices still visit our memories. Every so often, we hear them loud and clear saying, ziva kwawakabva. Know where you came from.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and works as a development consultant.