Sekai Nzenza on Wednesday
“Don’t you think it is strange that black and white people in Zimbabwe do not mix socially?” asked Doug, who was visiting from Australia. Doug is my friend Alison’s boyfriend. Alison and I went to university in Australia together many years ago. We have been close friends ever since. Alison met Doug earlier last year in a yoga class. Since they both share the passion to travel, they decided to travel through Southern Africa for a few weeks, beginning and ending their trip in Zimbabwe.

I took them to the village at the beginning of their trip. During that village visit, they had embarrassed everyone when they stood in the village courtyard and kissed each other publicly, totally oblivious to our presence. They did not know that back in the village, kissing openly on the mouth like that was such a European thing.

We do not kiss in public. My cousin Piri said I should tell Doug and Alison to go to bed right away because such display of passion was reserved for the bedroom.

I explained that Doug and Alison were so happy to be in a village in Zimbabwe. It was in the dry season and there was bright moonlight. The cool breeze and the natural sounds must have brought feelings of love and desire. “Who would believe that we are in Zimbabwe?” Doug had asked, breathless from the kiss. We all mumbled something in reply, pretending the embarrassing kiss had not happened.

Now these two lovers were back in Zimbabwe and we were going to dinner at a quiet restaurant in Mt Pleasant, Harare. Apart from Doug and Alison, there was my cousin Reuben, the one who lives in Australia.

He came back home over Christmas.

Reuben has known Alison and her family for a long time. Back in Australia, Alison is like family and Reuben’s children joke and call her Tete, meaning aunt.

Soon as we walked into the restaurant, we casually noticed that the diners were all white. There were a few quick looks from them and possible expressions of surprise. Then they turned to their food or drink. The waiters were all black men. There was not a single welcoming smile.

A couple of them greeted us like we had been involved in a fight with them earlier in the day. It was a cold “Good evening,” then we were handed the menu.

“Why are we here?” asked Reuben as we were led to our table. He knew very well that we had gone around Harare looking for a good restaurant and the only one that was open and close by was in Mt Pleasant.

We could have taken our guests to Mereki for an open air barbecue and a black Zimbabwean experience. But not today. Sometimes, it is nice to have candle-lit dinner and conversation away from the noisy Mereki places.

It was my first time to this hidden restaurant, surrounded by several beautiful trees, palms and other nice smelling flowers. It really was like another world. We sat in a corner close to other diners. Apart from Reuben, myself and the waiters, there were no other Africans.

The furniture was old style, like we had gone back to the 1950’s. The light was dim and there was a small vase with freshly cut carnations next to a slow burning candle.

Frank Sinatra was playing in the background, bringing back memories of old black and white romantic movies.

“Think about what I said though,” Doug said, flipping through the wine list. The waiter stood impassively next to us. I felt that discomfort that you sense when you know that this guy has either had a bad day or he simply was not in the mood to serve you. I asked him if he had a good day. “Maswera sei?” He forced a smile and replied, “Taswera kana maswerawo.” Then there was silence.

Doug ordered an expensive bottle of red wine because he wanted to thank us for the village hospitality we had given him at the beginning of their Southern Africa trip.

“I have never been to a place where the racial divisions are so blatantly obvious,” said Doug. He was not letting go of his subject. He turned to me and asked, “What do you think? Is it just me or is there a racial problem in Zimbabwe?” This was not the first time that I had been asked this question before. I always try and avoid the answer or the subject of race altogether. I prefer to tell only good stories about Zimbabwe.

As a Zimbabwean, you must always defend Zimbabwe all the time because the country gets such bad press in the Western media. So why add more to the negative perceptions of Zimbabwe? But visitors who come here want to bring up this subject of racial difference. I felt the urge to turn the question around and say to Doug, “Hey mate, how often do you dine with Aboriginal people in Australia?” But I did not do that. This was not a contest about which race mixes better with the other in what country. Besides, we were at dinner and polite conversation was in order.

“Well, I think Doug has a point though,” said Reuben. “I have never been anywhere close to dining or having a drink with a white Zimbabwean.”

“And whose fault is that?” I said, desperate to avoid the subject, like we all do, when sensitive issues like race come up. Reuben then decided to present the history of Zimbabwe, saying this beautiful country of ours had a history of colonialism, forced labour, racism, a liberation war, independence and land reform. I tried to make the conversation lighter and told them we really should not spend so much time talking about our traumatic past at the dinner table because that brings bad memories. Some past experiences must be buried. I decided to go to the ladies room, hoping the subject of racial mixing will be gone by the time I returned.

There were two other white ladies in the ladies toilet waiting for their turn. We looked at each other. I smiled. And they smiled too. We stood there in silence. Sometimes memories and flashbacks are inevitable. They can be triggered by one small incident, picture or event. I stood there, next to my fellow white Zimbabweans and this memory reared its head again. Some years ago, long before independence, my mother and I were walking through the Harare Gardens when it was still called Salisbury gardens. We were coming from Andrew Fleming Hospital before its name was changed to Parirenyatwa Hospital. My mother’s niece, Sis Violet worked at the hospital as a nurse or ‘pinkie’. The Andrew Fleming was a hospital for white people only. Black nurses and doctors and black patients were not allowed to there. Harare Hospital of PaGomo was the hospital for Africans. Here white doctors could work and teach Africans about Western medicine.

Only coloured people or those of mixed black and white parentage could work as nurse aids. Sis Violet did not have a single aorta of white or European blood in her but she got employment as a person of mixed race at Andrew Fleming Hospital. She faked a new racial identity and called herself name of Violet Petersen so she could get a job. She did not try very hard to be a coloured or MuKaradhi because she was naturally very light skinned. Not only that, she lived in Arcadia among people of mostly mixed race. She straightened her hair with rollers every night, to keep it straight and wavy.

I cannot recall why we went to visit my cousin Sis Violet but what I still remember most vividly is the incident in which way my mother and I stopped to use the toilets in Salisbury gardens. On the toilet wall it was clearly written, “Madams Only” and the other one was written. “Nannies Only.” My mother went into the nanny toilet because she was familiar with it. After all, she often travelled this route often when she went to borrow money to supplement our school fees from Sis Violet.

Before I could do anything in the Europeans only toilet, a white lady with a baby in a pram walked in. Although my memory of the event is blurred somewhat, I recall the fear of being confronted. The yelling and screaming, telling me that this was no place for African people and I should learn to read the sign on the door. I ran out. My mother grabbed my hand and we walked thought the gardens quietly, fearing arrest. Only when we were right down towards Amato and Sons, the big shop owned by an Indian family along Julius Nyerere way when it was called Jameson Avenue, did my mother start laughing about what had happened. In those days, during the liberation war, you could feel the racial tensions in this country.

When I came back from the ladies room, the conversation still focused on the same subject. “Such mixing will take years. Maybe the next generation,” I said, sipping the nice wine from South Africa. I told them that we have already come a long way in getting to know and to understand the white world. There was a time before independence, when most of us who were born in the village had never seen a white person.

When the unsmiling waiter came, he brought us our order of pork chops, chicken curry, lamb shanks with mashed potatoes and rump steak. “When did this country become independent? Almost 35 years? And how many tables can you see with black and white people dining together? Apart from us, there is none. This is weird,” said Doug. “For how long are you black and white Zimbabweans going to live separate lives in this beautiful country?”

Our elderly waiter stood there with the bill, listening and not smiling. I had seen that look before, some time soon after independence. Maybe this brother of mine resented serving fellow Africans.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is an independent writer and cultural critic.

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