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Shurugwi is the place where a Chipinge man, Chibonore, reportedly stopped an advancing train with just one of his fingers

David Mungoshi Shelling the Nuts
Dear Reader
This is a letter to you that I am writing because I want to get all personal, kind of, this week. If like me, your imagination sometimes runs riot all over the place, you cannot have failed to get excited about the alternative science that the gurus who control and decide what science is and what is not reject.

What I find strange is the way in which these very same sceptics will go to some new-fangled miracle-base assembly of worshippers, close their eyes, raise their arms towards heaven and in all seriousness shout, “I receive!”

When I was reading Theology at university, our New Testament lecturer was at pains to distinguish organic illnesses from psychosomatic illnesses. The former tend to be physiological illnesses while the latter are generally psychological. The lecturer said any miracles of an organic type would have to in some cases subvert the laws of the universe, and as we all know, nature abhors such things.

That is why vacuums can only be artificial. And our people know that. Think of the proverb that goes, “Vanofa vachizvarwa vamwe (They die even as others are born).” And then these learned people will tell you that there is no such thing as alternative science!

I am in a reminiscing mood today, recalling all the village talk I ever heard growing up, and the juicy little tales that my uncle Ginger would liberally tell me when the weeding was tough after a spate of rains. Uncle Ginger was a naughty fellow, who left his mother’s hut quite early on in life and went out to try his luck in the wide world beckoning to him from miles of emptiness along highways that led to distant horizons.

You know how sometimes traditional healers will ask their patients to bring black chickens as part of the rituals and the treatment, and just how “holy” these chickens are. They are just supposed to wander around like lost spirits and anyone foolish enough to want to touch these chickens would suffer the consequences.

Whatever was ailing the person who had brought that chicken would be transferred to the person with the itching fingers and the insatiable appetite for chicken. Well, my uncle Ginger and a close friend of his known as Tabhariko did not live by the rules. Every weekend for them was chicken meals. They took a stroll down ailing paths that wound into the bush and helped themselves to the sacred chickens.

Back at the house, they slaughtered the chicken and detoxified it of evil spirits with smoke from concoctions that only Tabhariko knew about. After that, the chicken was as good as any other chicken. Uncle Ginger had this naughty glint in his eyes whenever he narrated the juicy titbits from his life in a small mining town.

It was Uncle Ginger who first told me about the unbelievable antics of a Chipinge man popularly known as Chibonore, who did things that are scientifically not possible, well according to the conventional guys anyway.

Chibonore did things in sleepy Shurugwi town that not even Houdini would have thought possible. The town’s soccer players believed Chibonore could swing a game in their favour by just being there, so they always sought him out before travelling to a game at a venue outside Shurugwi. Chibonore liked his beer, so they knew where to find him. And with their truck idling outside, someone went inside the beer garden to ask Chibonore to come with them. The answer was always “yes”, but the man would remain glued to his seat, imbibing and savouring his beer.

The team would drive away to Gweru or Kwekwe or some other such place. Hours later, they would arrive at their venue, and yes, you guessed it! Chibonore would be there before them! No one ever knew what form of locomotion he had used.

Dear Reader, you haven’t heard anything yet. This Chibonore was something else. He is still a legend in scenic Shurugwi close to a century later. Uncle Ginger swore that he had witnessed everything I am going to tell you now. Imagine a hot Saturday afternoon. Imagine also that the muchongoyo dancers are entertaining the crowds with their acrobatic dances. Above all, as the heat of the dance increases, imagine Chibonore in the thick of things. He is the star attraction. Everyone is hoping for something spectacular from him and he does not disappoint. As the song and the dance reach their crescendo, the ground opens up where Chibonore is dancing and he sinks rhythmically into the ground and is soon covered up. The song goes on and the dancers never stop. Eventually the ground cracks open very slowly and Chibonore’s head comes into view until slowly his whole body is in view again and the ground closes up, leaving no sign of the drama the crowd has just witnessed.

Wonder of wonders! Grass and weeds have sprouted all over the bare parts of his body. The song and the dance pick up again and as he celebrates his feat, the grass and the weeds fall off and he is his clean self again. Lest you think that would be the end of the show, Chibonore would not yet be done!

Taking a small axe, he chopped at his knee even as the crowd gasped. But instead of blood gushing out, a beehive soon came into view and the bees went in and out of it. Then came the amazing part. From inside his knee, he brought out honeycombs oozing with sweet honey and gave them out to people to try and the people swore that the honey was first grade material.

Well, what do you say to that? Eat your heart out. While the conventional science gurus clamoured for clinical trials, things went on regardless. Many years later I found myself teaching at a school in Shurugwi town, the one that Simon Chimbetu and his younger brother Naison sang about in their hit song “Mai VaJulie”, that took the country by storm and announced the arrival of The Marxist Brothers.

In case you didn’t know, there used to be a passenger train on the Gweru to Shurugwi route. On an appointed day, Chibonore would do another of his fantastic feats. The whites would be perched atop the hill overlooking the railway line in the outskirts of Railway Block (one of the chrome mining compounds) ready with their cameras.

On either side of the track, crowds would be waiting and watching, waiting to see the impossible. Soon they could hear the whistle of the train blow as it made its way into Shurugwi town. Then with hardly any room left for the train driver to adjust speed, Chibonore would step out deftly onto the track and stop the advancing train with just one of his fingers.

The wheels of the engine and the coaches would roll in one place until he decided to release them. All around, the cameras would be clicking and everyone would go back to their different chores happy that they had witnessed the spectacle. If you go to Shurugwi town today, there might just be some people still around who remember the days of Chibonore with nostalgia and I am sure they would confirm these things.

Personally, I had the man’s exploits corroborated by my father-in-law, who in the days of Chibonore, was employed at Wanderer Mine on the outskirts of Shurugwi town. And I also had the good fortune recently to talk to an old timer who knew what I was talking about and we compared notes.

Friends I tell you, the frontiers of knowledge are still to be breached. There is just so much that we do not know and that out of ignorance we dismiss outright, much to our own detriment. It is good to know that there is some movement on these things. The concept of indigenous knowledge, while still to gain true mainstream status, is no longer scoffed at.

Shurugwi town had other dance groups with dancers who could do scary things like cutting out their tongues as the dance peaked. After a while, they stuck their tongues back on and all would be well. Some crushed their genitals with huge stones and never cried out in pain or suffer any damage.

I think we are now on the same page with this alternative science thing. I am convinced though, that there is quite a lot out there that still has to be told. If I can get the sponsorship one of these days, I would love to fly to Abidjan in the Ivory Coast and witness the famous rituals of the Abidjis. These people disembowel themselves without the aid of surgeons and dance around with their intestines in their palms. When the dance is over, the push their insides back in and the skin closes. No scars, nothing!

Sincerely
D. Mungoshi
David Mungoshi is a writer and social commentator.