Musekiwa was buried. But all the elders knew that Musekiwa had attempted to trespass into his father’s field well before his father died.

That happened when Musekiwa was already an adult and married.
In those days, Musekiwa behaved badly. He stole cows, beat up his wife, humiliated her in public and fought people at beer parties. Musekiwa, his father, brothers, uncles and nephews were like that.

They could beat up women.
They were known for their jealousy, kuchengera.
It was a rule in the Chitehwe family that when women were sitting cross-legged in public, they should not reveal their heels at all times.  Maybe there was something in the pinkness of the heel that caused pleasant discomfort among the Chitehwe men. My grandmother, Mbuya VaMandirowesa said such men  had a streak of anger running  through them.

“Kune varume vane mweya,” she said. Mbuya pointed out to us the kind of families whose blood and our blood did not agree. The Chitehwe men were some of them.
Yet women loved them, even though they knew about this anger streak.  Love is like that, it makes little sense when it arrives. When my aunt Tete Verina was ready for marriage, she looked no further than Musekiwa Chitehwe.

In those days, Musekiwa was a dip tank attendant, mudhibhisi.  Not many could write like him. His hand writing could be seen in all the cattle registration books.  He wore heavy tanned knee-high boots and a khaki jacket with epaulettes, a bush hat upturned on the left side. The uniform made him look so scary and handsome at the same time. Musekiwa stood out among men.  Mbuya strongly opposed the possibility of marriage between Tete Verina and Musekiwa.

“One day you will thank me. This man will not change.  Ishiri ine muririro wayo,” Mbuya told Tete Verina.  For a while, Tete was heartbroken. Then she met the quiet giant across the river and married him. Unlike Musekiwa, the giant hardly raised his voice in anger to Tete in public. That was many years ago before we were born.

And yet such behaviour from Musekiwa was not surprising.  In every district, you would find one or two families with sons like Musekiwa, men who cared less about what the world thought about them. Men who beat their wives. Men who held little respect for the women, who cooked for them, slept with them and gave birth to their children.

But now, Musekiwa, the man nobody dared to challenge during his days as dip attendant was gone. Our old mudhibhisi was dead. We were gathered to witness the distribution of his clothes, kugovewa kwenhumbi dzake. We all sat on our wrap-around cloths under the mango trees, men on one side and all the women on the other. Musekiwa his uncles and nephews pulled all his clothes out of the kitchen hut and the bedroom for distribution to his close relatives.

Musekiwa was the last of the men to die in this village compound.  His wife and three sons and two of their wives were gone.  This place is almost in ruins. And yet it used to be sacred. Pano paiyera. Only the hut that Musekiwa died in is still standing and the grass thatched square bedroom that his wife deserted many years before she died. What used to be a huge compound full of life, laughter, songs, drums, harvests, people, goats, sheep, chickens, ducks, guinea fowls and activities was no more. There were a few huts with roofs fallen in, granaries falling to the side, cow dung from roaming cows everywhere, mulberries falling to the ground with no one to eat them. Peaches rotting.  Lemon tree burdened with big flesh lemons hanging down to the ground.

We used to sneak in and steal these fruits when we were young and played with Musekiwa’s children. This village compound extended all the way to Jairosi’s big thatched houses and granaries. Among them used to be another smaller bedroom with a corrugated iron roof built for Tenzeni, Jairosi’s beloved second wife.

Tenzeni  wekwaMurevaneimwe was a promised wife to Jairosi the village kraal head.  Akazvarirwa at the age of 10. Her family was very poor. Every dry season, they went begging for food, vaipemha. During the year of the drought, Murevaneimwe approached Jairosi and offered him his daughter in marriage.

“But she is too young,” Jairosi said. Murevaneimwe insisted, “You will watch her grow up to be your wife. Girls, unlike boys, do not take long to grow. Take her.”  Then Jairosi paid several cows for his promised bride. But she stayed in her village. Sometimes she met Musekiwa, Jairosi’s oldest son, during village moonlight dances and also in the valley while herding cattle. There were children and they played together.

Tenzeni went to school as far as Sub Standard A and B. Then her father said that was enough. It was time to go to her husband’s village. She did, at age 12 or 13.  Few years later, she had four children. When they were old enough to look after themselves, she started going to beer parties, kundari, like all the other women in the village who were past child-bearing age. She was ageing well, short, fat and light skinned in complexion. Men admired her on the dance floor during bira and other ceremonies.

Late one night, Musekiwa and Tenzeni were coming back from a beer party. They stopped near the gardens by Chinyika River.  Referring to his father, Musekiwa told Tenzeni that the lion no longer had any teeth. Tenzeni said that was not entirely true because the lion still managed to take a bite every now and then.

“Sei mapudzi achiwira kune vasina hari?  Why is it that good pumpkins always grow in a family without clay pots?”  Musekiwa joked in drunken exasperation.

“Show respect to your father and wait until such time when you can inherit me as wife. Inga zvinobvumirwa wani. It is allowed,” she said walking ahead of him along the narrow footpath in the dark.

But Musekiwa pulled her back and he would not let her go. He still wanted to trespass into his father’s field. Kurima munda wababa.

There was a struggle, nothing too aggressive. Her dress was torn.  Then Musekiwa accidentally ripped the string of beads she wore around her waistline, chuma chavo. They were scattered, right there on the footpath.  It was too dark for her to pick them all up. So she went home like that, torn dress and missing three rows of her colorful beads.  What Musekiwa did was not done.

When Tenzeni got home that night, Jairosi was wide awake on the sleeping mat next to the fire. Most times, when she came home a little drunk and merry Jairosi was sound asleep. He was old. His eye sight was poor due to old age and a nasty virulent cancer,  nhuta, that was eating his face.

Occasionally, Jairosi went to sleep with his senior wife, Mai Musekiwa.  But these days he preferred Tenzeni’s company because she was young, warm and more caring.  Besides, Mai Musekiwa drank more than Tenzeni.  After a few gourds of beer, she was abusive and arrogant.  Jairosi was now too old to argue with her, let alone lift a finger to beat her, the way he used to do.

Jairosi asked about the torn dress. Tenzeni told him the truth. He ordered her to give him respect by taking the dress to Musekiwa as evidence of what had happened. Early in the following morning, Tenzeni went to pick up the beads from the footpath. She took the torn dress and beads to Musekiwa and presented them to him in front of his wife. Musekiwa took the dress, put it in a suitcase in the bedroom. In protest, his wife said she would never sleep in that bedroom again as long as that dress was there. Musekiwa ignored the protest.  Years later, when his wife died her family demanded compensation for his lack of respect to her over the torn dress. He paid them a cow in apology.

They made a pyramid out of Musekiwa’s old clothes.  One big dip tank attendant’s coat was thrown on top, including the boots. One by one, the smoky old and dirty clothes were distributed to relatives. Then Musekiwa’s nephew, muzukuru wake, asked if there were any other clothes that had not been accounted for. There was silence. He asked the same question again. Then the oldest among Tenzeni’s nieces stood up, also called Tenzeni after her aunt.

Tenzeni junior was dressed in a blue costume with silver buttons at the front, short blonde wig and small high heeled blue shoes. She had red nail polish on and red lipstick. Her blue eye shadow matched her dress and shoes. Someone whispered that she was a successful cross border trader and she owned a few kombis in town. “Ingwere yakazvimiririra,” they said.

Tenzeni junior clapped her hands and made a courtesy to the men and the women in respect.  Then she began by apologising for her aunt Tenzeni’s absence.

“She would have been here. But, as you all know,   she now lives with her older daughter in the resettlement areas near Featherstone.  Tete suffers from backache and sore legs. But I want to remind you that my tete’s memory is still sharp. I have a message from her. She said, when they distribute Musekiwa’s clothes, pakugovewa kwenhumbi dzake, she wants the return of her blue terylene dress. It is in VaMusekiwa’s bedroom, in an old suitcase, where it has been since the day after it was torn more than 40 years ago. Vakairamwa.  She also wants her beads back. They were torn on the night they walked home together. I do not speak of something the elders here do not know about. On behalf of my aunt, we have a grievance. Ndakamirira tete vangu, tine chigumbu.”
Then she slowly sat down on her wrap-around cloth.

There was a lot of whispering and among both men and women. One woman said, “Ehihe, zviito zvinokutevera muguva. Your bad habits will follow you to the grave.”  Another one said, “Musekiwa raive bhinya. Musekiwa was an animal.” Another conversation about domestic violence was going between Tenzeni junior, her sisters and friends. They looked different from most women around here. Well dressed. An older woman’s voice rose above all the others.

“In the old days, we thought Musekiwa had no school and that is why he abused women. But these days, you hear of educated men, respectable men, beating us their wives and girlfriends.  In town, it is worse.  If you no longer love her, why not just leave her alone. Mupe gupuro aende.  Ukamuuraya, mhuri yese inopera nechakapedza mbudzi!” the old mbuya said. We all nodded in agreement.

Another muzukuru disappeared into the bedroom. He came back with an old sack. Inside was a blue polyester dress. Mouldy but still intact. Torn around the shoulder.  There is something to be said about thick polyester.

Then Musekiwa’s family met under a tree for a whole hour to discuss Tenzeni’s grievance. We all waited. They called Tenzeni junior, her sisters and the elders from her family. Another hour went by. Then we saw them shake hands, coming back to us. Restitution for abusing his father’s wife was going to be paid in the form of two cows, accompanied by a goat, yemuperekedzo.

“Mhosva haiwori,” said Tete Verina, meaning a crime will never get forgotten. She sat in the middle of us all. “Musekiwa, mwana waChitehwe knew his crime. All these years, he knew. His father Jairosi died with a grievance over what happened. Before he died, Musekiwa paid for some his mistakes.” Everyone agreed. They said it was punishment for old sins, for a man to die alone in his hut like that.

Then Musekiwa’s s older nephew stood up again and addressed everyone.   “Sekuru Musekiwa vakakanganisa. What sekuru did was wrong. When an axe cuts a tree, it quickly forgets. But the tree does not forget.  But, as people, we have memory. To our in laws, look at the beasts. Two cows and one goat. They stand here before you as symbols of our apology. Forgive us. A mother, a woman must not be beaten or abused. Ingozi.”  The women ululated. Tenzeni junior accepted the torn dress.

Then she did a little dance. Some varoora, danced too and mocked Musekiwa’s name. “Musekiwa you were a beast. An animal who wanted to take his father’s wife by force. Zimumhu repi rinotora mukadzi wababa vari vapenyu! Vakadzi vainge vapera munyika? Why did you not chase after other women?”

It was their platform to speak and shame the dead as well as the living. That way, they said cruelty to women was not be repeated.

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

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