Remembering the village legends and the laughter Children share a lighter moment in the village
Children share a lighter moment in the village

Children share a lighter moment in the village

David Mungoshi Shelling the Nuts
IT used to be that when you were walking around in the countryside you greeted everyone that you came across and asked after their health, particularly if you were the younger person.

There were none of those sultry looks that one gets these days.

The road or pathway was always wide open both metaphorically and in real terms.

How often these days does one come across young people and they just sulk and frown.

It is clear that they still have to master the lessons that life always teaches: things about law, custom and etiquette.

In my part of the world there used to be a man who was of spare height but was well-respected by all and sundry for his principles and what others called his antics.

God help you if you should meet at the river and you are unarmed.

In those days a real man always carried some kind of weapon, from a mere walking stick to a knobkerrie.

The story was told how on seeing what he called the excuse of a man crossing the river he waited for him to cross before viciously attacking him.

He always aimed at the knees to temporarily unsettle the victim and obviate any resistance that he might feel inclined to offer.

Once the startled victim regained his strength, the man made him carry him across the river on his back threatening him with unspecified mischief if he tried any funny tricks.

Once on dry ground he turned around to present his victim with the walking stick or knobkerrie, whatever the situation was.

“Today you start being a man and stop being a woman. Never again must you walk about unarmed. No real man lays himself to abuse and ridicule by walking around naked like that. If you have no weapon you’re naked,” the sermon would go.

This legendary man was one of the many rural people with a peculiarity of some sort. Such people added spice to life in the rural areas.

One such man was an incorrigible comic and trickster, often playing nasty practical jokes on hapless victims.

This man had an insatiable appetite for travelling and if you cared to listen he would regale you with tall tales about far-away places that you could only imagine.

An old bicycle was his means of transport to places where he did incredible things.

He must have eaten nzembe (the Namaqua dove) in his younger days.

Folklore has it that if you eat this bird you will have itching feet. Your fate then becomes that of moving from place to place endlessly, as if your very life depended on it.

One day he heard the kind of singing and wailing that can only mean one thing: a funeral! He made his way into the homestead and leaned his bicycle against a tree. Then he strode across the yard into the hut where the singing and wailing were coming from. In a loud and powerful voice, he demanded silence.

“Why are you crying?” he roared. “Who told you that this man is dead? Today, you people will see wonders. This man is not dead; he is sleeping. No one must cry,” he bellowed.

The mourners stopped their wailing and whimpering to listen to this man who spoke as if death was a fabrication.

“Everyone else out!” he barked.

“Only the close relatives of the sleeping man must stay here.”

Suddenly he stopped talking and made sure that his instruction was being carried out. Turning to the brother of the deceased the rascal spoke in a fearful voice and with a shaking finger, he pointed at the man.

“You,” he resumed, “on my way here I saw some mulberry trees. Bring me two thick sticks from there. Be quick! I haven’t got all day.”

There was dead silence in the hut and a buzz of excitement rippled through the groups of mourners outside the hut. Word went round that there was a great traditional healer from over the Munyati River who knew how to make dead men live again.

Silence descended upon the homestead as the man tasked with fetching the prestigious pair of sticks returned to the hut.

Receiving the sticks with both arms he raised them high like an offering and cast an intense look into the thatch. The man began muttering to himself. When he stopped there was a look of calm glee on his face. He put one stick on the earthen floor and tested the other by bending and unbending it. Then suddenly he tore the blanket off the corpse and bellowed in a deep voice.

“You sleeping here,” he said.

“It’s time to wake up. There are things to do and time waits for no man. Rise up and walk I say! If you don’t today you will know why the dog cannot smile although it snarls”

Suddenly, the man raised the stick above his head and began to strike the corpse. Gasps of shocked disbelief filled the room. The stick came down again and again until it began to look as if the corpse might bleed. With a huge sigh the man suddenly stopped the ritual.

“Right,” said the man. “The deed is done and a miracle is at hand. Please guard the sleeping man and make sure that nobody touches him or stares at him.

“I can’t be held responsible if someone misbehaves in my short absence and makes this sleeping man decide that sleep is sweeter than wakefulness. I am going to fetch something to make him sneeze. I saw it by the roadside on my way here.”

With these words he left the hut, strode over to his bicycle and rode away to fetch the herb. He never came back and the episode became one of his favourite tales whenever he and other villagers in his home area were sharing gourds of traditional brew.

One day I came across Mr Zvanetsa as I was making my way to the shops. He was sitting under the shade of a Msasa tree by the roadside, his inevitable bicycle lay on its side and he had rolled a long cigarette and was about to strike a match and light it when he saw me.

“Young man,” he said as he stood up to examine me.

“How many wild fruit trees in our forests do you know?”

It was a puzzling question and I had no idea where it was leading.

“I should be given a medal,” he said. “None of these VaHera people in this area knew any of these trees before my timely arrival in this land. I planted them and taught them how to eat the fruits.”

I looked at him to see if he was serious. There was no trace of mirth whatsoever on his face. His face was dead as a mask and he spoke as if what he had to say was a weighty matter of state.

On another occasion Zvanetsa refused to shake hands with anyone who could not pay him with a seventeen-penny coin.

No man should even dream of shaking his hand unless they could give him that rare coin, he said.

Life in the village would indeed be dull without some of the juicy characters that live there.

My father once begged me to be careful not to get too close to certain men that he said were part of a syndicate of tricksters. They made money through their wits and by exploiting the fears of the people.

There was division of labour and specialisation in their shady group.

One man specialised in planting strange illnesses on (kukanda zvitsinga) people. It was said that he could make a person’s foot go suddenly swollen.

If someone came along and recommended a traditional healer, the stricken man would do whatever it took to get rid of the pain.

Sure enough, a few days into the incident, a member of the syndicate would happen along. Seeing the agony of the victim, he immediately directed him to one of his friends.

“You can go there, or I can ask him to pay you a visit,” the “helpful” man would suggest.

My father claimed to have been one of the hapless victims of the notorious syndicate.

As soon as you paid them the fee one of their number removed the affliction from your sore foot.

Afterwards the gang met at the local bottle store to celebrate their success and to drink opaque beer from plastic containers.

The unforgettable image of a wandering old woman that people said was mad and how she carried huge loads of useless baggage on her head each day has stayed with me for years. At sunset, VaNdaiteyi always made a fire by the roadside and spent the night there. She was a wayfarer on life’s narrow roads.

David Mungoshi is a writer, social commentator, editor and retired teacher.

You Might Also Like

Comments