Isdore Guvamombe Reflections
Back in the village, in the land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve, the moons of waiting for Independence were over. Zimbabwe had crawled out of the liberation eggshell and was beginning to find its firm footing. Happiness dawned on many taut village faces, once masks of apprehension. Smiles kissed, oiled and soothed lips that once quivered nervously in silent supplication. Rhodesia was gone.

Granny’s kitchen was big.

A low fire always lit at the centre in the evening and we always sat around it.

The haven behind the kitchen door was busy, with a scullery of things from broken unfired pots to pieces of metal. An old Adam Bede table was now rickety and had a hotchpotch of goods either on top or underneath. More often than not, rats fought and quarrelled among themselves.

This evening granny was working on the grinding stone.

As usual, she approached the grinding stone with great trepidation and ground nuts with much dexterity.

Once in a while, the whole family would abandon everything to kill one stray rat. Kicking around. Missing, cracking pots. Breaking clay pots. The night momentarily belonged to grandfather.

During granny’s spirited grinding a rat appeared, obviously attracted by the smell of groundnuts.

The cunning rodent went up one leg of grandfather’s pair of overalls. Wearing no undergarment, the rat found an express highway up to his essentials and he jumped for dear life, hands clasped between his legs.

We laughed in muffed voices but to granny and grandfather it was no laughing matter. We struggled to control our laughter but granny was a master of changing things. The rat having been killed by squashing in grandfather’s overalls, she switched to our then most difficult subject, counting one to 10.

Three was the most difficult number.

At 60 years, granny had an ample bosom that stuck out defiantly against the three scores of years. She had seen 60 harvest seasons and most of us had seen less than five. Wow!

Suddenly granny picked on Mucha, for not sitting like a woman. Granny swung into surprising action, sitting with her legs apart, her wrap-round cloth pulled above her knees, its folds deliberately hanging loosely in front of her as she demonstrated the correct way to sit on a stool.

Thereafter granny started her storytelling. She regaled this villager and his mates with her stories, which she told in her own inimitable ways, making us laugh until our side ribs cracked and ached.

So powerful was her storytelling that everyday when we were away from her earshot, we tried to imitate the stories, without much success.

This night was very special.

Everyone was going to the village centre to celebrate Independence under the full moon.

Normally children were barred from going out but this very, very, special night was different.

It was a free-for-all.

On our way to the centre we met other families.

All roads led to the centre where a huge old tree superintended over proceedings.

Granny started a conversation with one village woman about replacing an old insignia written “SIPOLILO” that had survived termite attacks for years, which would soon be replaced by one new one written “GURUVE”.

Things had changed dramatically, she said.

At the village centre people sang and danced to a cross-rhythm of a heartthrob of drums. Spirit medium possessed by a lineage of ancestors joined and danced to a popular song, “VaMugabe ndimambo, shumba inogara yoga musango . . . Eyee ndimambo, shumba inogara yoga musango . . .”

They danced in rings with villagers.

Karitundundu, the senior medium, now old and shrivelled sat authoritatively on a stool watching proceedings. There he was, snuffing his nostrils, flanked by his lieutenants Dandajena and Gumboremvura.

Suddenly one possessed medium somersaulted and landed in front of drummers, sending the cross rhythm of drums into an abrupt end.

Shaking in every limb and singing in a shriek of a voice, the medium stood up, danced around waving his cow tail.

Then the voice changed in tempo, crescendo and intonation into guttural noises. Karitundundu raised his hand to signal cessation of proceedings.

A hush fell on the crowd, who stared in amazement. All children including this villager were chased away. Everyone who had not gone past puberty was chased away.

It was time to discuss the future of a new Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe had come and there would be no going back to Rhodesia.

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