We both tried to lie flat on the ground and extend the rod to connect it onto a hook.
No luck after several attempts. So we just stood there, in the heat, waiting for a Good Samaritan or kombi driver to pass by and help us.

It was a blisteringly hot day. The kind of November heat that often comes before the rains. In the old days, the river would have been in floods by now. But there was no sign of rain. Climate change. In the distance we could see young boys swimming, their shiny naked bodies jumping in and out of the water before rolling in the sand. They were still enjoying the games of the dry season, paying little attention to drivers and passengers crossing the new Save River Bridge.

We sat quietly in the shade of a mutondo tree, Piri and I. The night before we were at my cousin’s all night funeral vigil. We were hot, thirsty and tired. Then Piri started to say that it was my fault for not getting a man to travel with us every time we travel to the village from Harare.

“Look Sis. You think you can do all this by yourself.  But you can’t. Now we are stuck in this heat. A man would have got this tyre out in no time,” she said, chewing the bark of a tree and spitting the brown juice out between her missing two front teeth. Not very lady like.

There are times when I do not enjoy Piri’s company.  Ignoring her, I looked way past the Mbire mountains, into the hazy distant horizon. At that particular moment I wished I had the company of someone rational, reasonable, patient and mechanical minded. Someone more supportive and caring. Maybe, a man.

Within half an hour a kombi driver and hwindi, the conductor stopped. Hwindi was tall and shirtless with a red and white bandana tied around his head. His six pack muscles were well defined. Who said handsome men cannot be found in Zimbabwe? Hwindi took the long metal rod, did some winding and the tyre dropped with a thud.

He dragged it out and kicked it. “No air. Hamuna mweya. Let’s go to Hwedza and you can get it fixed.” Once again I had made the wrong assumption that the spare tyre was fine before I left Harare. This was a borrowed car and I ought to have checked everything.

Hwindi threw the tyre on the roof and tied it with a rope. Piri and I squeezed into a tight space next to a young woman breast feeding on her lap. Next to her was a school girl, maybe her sister holding the twin of the one being breast fed. It had been a while since I got into a kombi.

After greetings, I asked the breastfeeding mother the names of the twins. “Blessing and Blessed. But people just call me Mai B to make it easier,” she said happily smiling and pushing her full breast inside her bra and pulling the other one out. I could feel the maternal feelings coming back.

“Did you know you were going to have twins?” I asked. “No. Kana. I went to the clinic when I felt the pain. The water broke soon as I walked in.  Blessing came out so quickly. Then the nurse put her hand inside because chevakuru, the uterus, had not come out. Suddenly she shouted, push! And out came another baby. We called him Blessed.” Some people in the kombi said, “Ah, what a miracle. You are blessed for sure!” We all smiled at the healthy babies.

Then hwindi  pointed to me and Piri.
“Ndivo vakadzi vacho vandanga ndichitaura ava. These are the women I was talking about,” Hwindi said, obviously continuing the conversation that had been going on before Piri and I got into the kombi. All the passengers looked at us and laughed, but not sarcastically or anything like that. Mai B said the men had been talking about the crisis faced by many single Zimbabwean women over 35. An increasing number of them were lonely, unmarried and childless.

When we were up to speed with the conversation, hwindi then went on to say the country was full of these new types of women, who claim not to want the help of men because they can afford to look after themselves. And yet, when they get into car trouble or other troubles, the first thing they do is to look for a man.

“Next time, sistas, I will ask you to apologise for all your sins before I can help you. You must accept that at the end of the day, every woman needs a man. You all need a good man like me. Age difference is not a problem. Yese inotambika,” he said, pointing to his chest.

Piri said it was not always possible to find a good man in Harare. But hwindi said that was not true. “Just go down towards Kaguvi Street or stop somewhere along Julius Nyerere Way and Robert Mugabe Road and see how many men are out there. Not just those selling airtime, nzungu, fake CDs or newspapers. Harare is full of men. Where are you looking and who exactly are you looking for? Apostle Peter? The problem is that women are so choosy these days.”

Right at the back, there was a man quietly reading a Bible. He looked like someone I went to school with in primary school, but I was not so sure. He wore a faded blue shirt with a torn collar, a brown leather jacket and a cap with Dynamos written on it.

The man stopped reading his Bible and as if he was preaching, he said, “Our women used to be good. But after independence they got messed up by the Beijing women’s forum many years ago. Since then, they have been busy trying to change men into what they want. They have no respect for culture and men. If you love them too much, they will break your heart.”

“Taurai zvenyu mukoma. Yes, speak my brother,” said the kombi driver, his eyes fixed on the tarred road heading for Chigwedere Township.

“Some of these women think they do not need us because they have a car, house and job that pays big money. They even get on the plane to go shopping in Dubai, China, Turkey and everywhere. But their money cannot buy a good man, a good marriage and give birth to children.”

Mai B said it was all true. “These single women should at least have a baby if they cannot find a man.  Nothing wrong with that. Chibereko hachidi husimbe kudaro. The uterus should not be allowed to entertain such laziness,” she said, handing me one of the babies to hold, Blessed or Blessing.

Hwindi then said that for a very long time now he has been urging  single women to come to him at anytime. “Do not die childless because you cannot go out with hwindi. Take me. You can afford to look after me and our baby as well. And I am happy to work alongside the garden boy as long as I get to work in the house as well,” Hwindi winked at us laughing.

“These so called educated or moneyed women are difficult to please. They do not want to be second wives either,” said the kombi driver.

“They read books and they watch so many romantic movies. They want romance. They do not know that romance haina mwana. ”

There was raucous laughter throughout the packed kombi. Then Piri quickly said, “You should not get surprised when women, both educated and uneducated like me run away from you.

One, you do not have book education. Two, you do not have a job with money. Three, you do not wash properly or use deodorants. Ziya, varume ziya, matiuraya.(Sweat, men, sweat, you are killing us) Four, hamuzive romance yacho, you do not know how to do romance,” Piri counted her fingers on each point.

Mai B asked what romance was. Hwindi said despite his deep knowledge of romance, he was not going to abuse his position in the kombi business by explaining what romance was to a young mother of twin boys, let alone another man’s wife. Piri whispered to Mai B that romance often started with a hug and a kiss.

Tongue to tongue. Then it moved on to sweet nothings and so on and so on. Mai B listened, then she shifted the baby from one breast to the other. She smiled with shy embarrassment, shook her head said, “Inga zvine basa. Sounds like a big job.”

Hwindi then said romance was actually not the problem at all. Anyone can learn how to be romantic. Single women wanted money, status, education, good looks, car, house and good character. All this in one man. That was not possible. Women were expecting too much from men.

“If I find a good woman who is down to earth, the way my mother was, I will learn to love again,” the man in the brown leather jacket said, closing his Bible. I could see Piri looking at him with interest. She tried to wink at him, but I think he ignored her. He was looking at me. Hwindi caught the brown jacket man’s eye and winked at me twice. “The country is full of women with chitsinha by choice,” Hwindi joked.

Back in the old days, if you got to the age of 25 without a man, then people said you suffered from chitsinha, the bad spirit that stopped you from attracting men for courtship and marriage. The elders brewed beer, kwaitobikwa doro to ask the ancestors to help you find a husband.

That is what happened to Miriro wekwaMhandu. She was tall, strong and quite masculine. Whenever she was approached by a man expressing his love for her, she responded in such a rough manner just to put the man off. Most men gave up trying immediately. Those whose feelings were hurt often mocked her and called her a man. But Miriro did not care. The elders brewed beer to cleanse her of the manly shavi spirit.

When she turned 30, we heard that she married a very hard working farmer in Buhera. One night, when the husband was just about to get into bed, Miriro suddenly sat up and looked at him as if he was a stranger.  In a deep male voice, she said, “Ko mumwe murume anodei pane mumwe murume? What does a man want from another man?”

Miriro’s husband packed her bags and took her back to her village. Upon arrival, he went to Miriro’s aunt and said, “Your blanket is too big for me to cover myself. Jira iguru.” Miriro’s people understood that the man no longer wanted Miriro as his wife. The male shavi had finally revealed himself. They gave the man his bride price back. Miriro settled back in the village.

I saw Miriro the other day at a funeral near Chisangano School. We all know her story. We accept her as she is. She is well into her late fifties now, a well respected village elder, she is both the father and mother of her late sister’s children and grandchildren.  If she did not come back home when the marriage ended, her whole village would have been deserted and eaten by anthills, like some of the villages around us.  Miriro is the pillar keeping her village compound alive.

There is no easy answer to why some women are single past the age of 35. One reason is lack of compatibility with whoever is around. In most cases, the timing to find a man for marriage is just not right. For some women, careers come first. Then those careers become too demanding, leaving no room to find a husband, settle down and have children. But for others, finding a good husband is a question of random circumstances. We never know when the right man (or woman for that matter) will arrive. But we live in hope.

We should accept the differences between us and not judge people on the basis of their marital status. If we happen to have a life partner, well and good. If he or she is not perfect, no one is perfect. At the same time, marriage and children is not for everyone. Our journeys in life are different. Takarongerwa zvakasiyana. Celebrate who you are.

For Piri, she once met Misheki on a bus to the village. She thought he was Mr Right and they were very happy.

Later on, poverty kicked in too hard and they went separate ways. Life is like that. And yet, Piri did not give up hope. Before we got off the kombi in Hwedza, she managed to get the phone number of the kombi driver, hwindi and the man in the brown leather jacket. “Never stop looking,” she said, “one of them could be  the good man we are all looking for.” 

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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