Mbuya VaMandirowesa’s maiden village, kwaKwenda, came unannounced and stayed to help us with whatever work was going on in the season. 
A goat or a chicken was killed to celebrate the visit.

But when a nephew or muzukuru came alone to visit, we knew the visit was to do with something very official.
Muzukuru did not announce the purpose of his journey until the right moment when the elders were gathered together, usually in a circle in Mbuya’s kitchen hut.

Muzukuru spoke to the junior elder first, with everyone listening. Then the junior one passed on the message, step-by-step according to the hierarchy of birth or relationship until it got to Mbuya.

The message could have been as simple as inviting Mbuya for a ceremony back in her village.
But traditional protocol had to be followed.

The following day, Mbuya left with Muzukuru, accompanied by one of us grandchildren.
It was a slow process of communication, full of dignity and respect. Besides, there was no hurry. 
But we longed to see a phone.

On days when we went to Muzorori & Sons Store to buy sugar and soap, my sister Charity and I stayed there for a very long time. We waited for Mr Muzorori’s phone to ring. We looked at it, shiny and black, carrying people’s voices from far away.

Primrose, Mr Muzorori’s beautiful daughter, would go in and out of the counter eating sweets, also waiting for the phone to ring so she could call her father.
When her father was not in the shop, Primrose picked the phone and pretended to speak in English into it. We were envious of her.
Most times, the phone did not ring at all.

Then when it rang, we jumped from whatever we were doing on the store verandah and came in.
Proudly, Primrose would say, “Party line. That is not our ring tone.” She said, picking it up meant you would hear everything being said. 
There was a certain ring tone that told Mr Muzorori it was his call.  The mission school, the hospital and Mr Jack’s store had their own ring tones.

When Muzorori & Sons Store’s ring tone came, we called the others and waited near the counter listening to Mr Muzorori talking on the phone.
He held the black phone and shouted into the round shaped mouthpiece while the other end of the phone was stuck on to his ear.
One time he spoke in English, saying “Yes, sah” and nodding all the time.

Primrose whispered that he was talking to the District Commissioner in Enkeldoorn or in Hwedza because he was good friends with both of them.
Another time Primrose said Mr Muzorori was talking to the Prime Minister, Mr Ian Douglas Smith himself, because Mrs Janet Smith was coming to the Hwedza Country Show.
Her visit was to choose the best home craft winner of doilies among the women and the best pumpkin grower from the Tribal Trust Lands.

Back home, we told our father about Mr Muzorori’s phone calls. My father said Ian Douglas Smith or his wife Janet would not call Mr Muzorori.
However, it might have been possible, that the District Commissioner called Mr Muzorori to get some news.

There was talk of war going on somewhere in the north so chances were the District Commissioner wanted to know if there was anyone talking about politics down here in the Tribal Trust Lands.

Winding the clock forward. 
The war ended and independence came. 
Many people left the country and are living and working in the Diaspora. Communication is easy now. 
My cousin Reuben, the one who lives in Australia, is back home for the second time in less than a year.

So on Sunday afternoon we were all home in Harare.
He sat there on the couch watching Manchester United and an Italian team play soccer.
Depending on whether Manchester was winning or losing, he either shouted a swear word or he got up and punched a black power salute in the air saying, “Yes!”
Then he would sit down again and check his phones.

Every now and then, he picked up a black Blackberry phone and sent a message. Then he picked up another silver one, an iPhone, and sent another message.
On his lap was his iPad, a book-like computer, and on the coffee table was his computer. His video camera and recorder sat on the mantelpiece.

Piri sat on a sofa with a can of beer and a mug on the coffee table next to Reuben’s phones, computer, wallet, sun glasses and his bottle of beer.
It was cold and we had the fire going.

I was cooking pasta with plenty of garlic, tomatoes, chilli, basil, little anchovy fillets and extra virgin oil. 
This dish is usually for me and those who can handle the chilli. Piri does not eat anything without meat unless she is in the village where meat is very scarce. 
Since sunrise, Piri had been cooking ox feet, trotters or mazondo, on the fire outside.

Next to the pot with mazondo, she had a three-legged pot full of ox-tail, simmering slowly. 
Both dishes take forever to cook. Reuben said he had been dreaming about these dishes slowly cooked over an open fire the way it was in the village. 
Piri was going to cook sadza later on.

But for the moment, she wanted to talk to Reuben about a few village tasks that needed his attention now that he was back in Zimbabwe.
Apart from my brother Sidney, Reuben is next in line on the village male hierarchy. So it was good that he was back to take over some of the responsibilities.
Since he left last year, promising our aunt, Tete Verina, to remove the anthills growing in his old house, nothing has happened.

In fact, the thatched roof has caved in. 
“Bhudhi, when we get to the village, you will see that the anthill grew so tall and reached roof level. You would not want Tete Verina to come back and see it looking like that,” Piri said.

Reuben turned to her briefly and said, “Hoo? I will see to it when I get kumusha kwacho. Why else do you think I am here?”
Then he changed the channel because Manchester was losing to the Italians.  He switched to cricket, West Indies versus South Africa.

“Bhudhi, we need to talk about the anthill in the village. You must go down to Buhera and see Tete Verina because she says there are some ancestral issues requiring your attention,” Piri said.

Reuben quickly responded saying that he would not have time to go all the way to Buhera. He was going to call Tete Verina. Piri said Tete did not own a phone.
“If she does not have a phone, the shopkeeper, teacher, policeman or someone nearby is bound to have one. Why else do we have phones if we cannot  use them to save time and money?” he asked.

“As for the anthill, I am here until after the elections. There is plenty of time to get termite poison and pay a few guys to cut the grass and put a new roof on. No big deal, as long as there is cash.”

Every few minutes, Reuben picked on his phones  and sent a message or there was a sound to say he had received a message. Piri shifted impatiently from her couch, realising that it was pointless to continue the conversation with someone whose attention was taken by surrounding technological gadgets.

“Bhudhi, when you return to Australia, do not forget to leave one phone for me,” Piri said, pouring herself a beer in a mug. Reuben turned to her, one hand holding a phone and the other a television remote.

“What?” he asked. Piri repeated her request. Reuben laughed and said his phones were very expensive, requiring a lot of technological knowledge to operate them.
“Technology or no technology, I am not stupid. Handisi zidofo ini. All I am saying is that you do not need two phones and all these machines,” Piri said.

Then Reuben stood up and addressing Piri like he was a schoolteacher, he said all his gadgets were important for communication. He picked up his iPad and said it did everything from taking pictures, videos and music. Then he took his iPhone 5 and said it was the latest in communication and the Smartphone next to it was already too old.
“This world is about social networking. I need all two phones. I am trying to keep up with technology.”

“And where does that journey end?” Piri asked.
“As long as it takes. Technology is fun, Sis. I can communicate with anyone around the world right now. I have here Facebook, Skype, WhatsApp, Viber and Twitter and I can do emails or simply call. How good is that?” Reuben said, smiling. Piri was not interested. All she wanted was one of his phones because the Chinese-made phone she bought for only US$30 downtown at the Gulf was likely to last a year of even less.

Piri picked up Reuben’s  two phones and compared them. One was vibrating and another was flashing a message. “So, Sis, if a man is surrounded by so many gadgets, where does he get the time to talk to his wife and children? Does he even care about the business of the village? These machines are killing real communication. Nyaya chaidzo,” she said, pushing them away.

Piri dished out the sadza with the ox-tail first.
Reuben kept on watching television and for a moment he did not touch any of his gadgets. He ate quickly, as if he was late for something. With the ox-tail done, he asked for a plate of trotters and Piri presented it to him. Just before attacking that plate, someone called him on Skype.  “I have to take this one,” he said and quickly wiped his greasy and sticky hands on  the dish towel. He  disappeared outside for a very long time.

By the time he came back, mazondo were dead cold. “Sis, where is the microwave?” he asked. 
Piri said there was none. Then she added that there was no generator either. But there was solar power which was useless for cooking because Sis, (meaning me) wanted to save the environment. But I quickly defended myself saying I did not have a microwave by choice because I did not believe food cooked in a microwave was tasty enough.

Reuben then placed mazondo in a saucepan and  switched on the stove. “Hakuna magetsi,” Piri said laughing. “You mean there is no electricity?” Reuben asked.  Piri told him that the power had gone when he was on the phone.

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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