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Do village elders not complement him by saying hoes digging the same pit cannot avoid knocking against each other?
Several years ago, in the village a muzhanje tree stood distinctively and unmistakably at one of the homesteads, overlooking the tarred highway to Harare. The common, deciduous woodland tree stood superimposingly astute, five to six metres high, on the gravelly soils.

Many villagers admired the huge tree that had stood the test of time, although in winter, its frost-tender leaves could not survive frost hollows. Yet, to some extent, large curved, coarse leaves that artistically grouped near the tips of the branches provided protection for its young shoots. The bark was rough and dark grey.

Around June and July the tree bore round and rusty yellow fruit whose hard and rough skin surrounded, sweet edible flesh coating several large seeds. Village children always nibbled the delicious fruits. Post mendicancy women made pleasant wine after allowing the fruits to ferment in water, for a day or two.

Spirit mediums Karitundundundu, Gumboremvura, Gwenzi Chirambakudomwa, Nyamapfeni, Dumburechuma, Svembere, Chingowo, Chidyamawuyu and Mutota, among others, who doubled up as traditional healers often used the tree roots for medicinal purposes.

Liquid obtained from soaking the tree roots in water for about 15 minutes was used to cure indigestion and was said to be especially effective in relieving the very acute pains which apparently followed a gluttonous meal of maize, pumpkins and groundnuts.

The tree offered a huge shed too. It was the legend of the village.
At the homestead lived a young woman, whose husband lived and worked in Harare. She was beautiful. Her face was smooth like a seed of wheat. Her chocolate skin and distinctive dimples made her look out of this world.

She was a paragon of beauty, probably the best product of nature, the village had.
She left many a man drooling. She was tall and awkwardly beautiful. When she walked, it was obvious she was conscious that walking was not just lifting one leg and then the other, but that there was a style synonymous with her. She always came to church a bit late and drew the attention of the congregants. Her detractors said she was like a road, pretty but crooked.

Each Sunday she never missed the Catholic church service. The black priest, affectionately known to villagers as Fata form Father (despite having no real children), was very close to her. He hailed from the same village she grew up before getting married and moving to stay in this part of the world. The village!

By virtue of coming from the same village, they were, therefore, brother and sister, in terms of Shona cultural registers. The woman’s husband approved of her sisterly and neighbourly relationship since the priest, on many occasions drove her to town to see her husband on Fridays and Saturdays only to return together for Sunday service. In the city, the husband had two bedrooms and Fata often slept in the spare bedroom.

It was a respectful relationship, after all, do Catholic priests not take vows of celibacy?
Using his influence, Fata had found the young woman a temporary teaching job at the nearest school. On many occasions he drove to the school to pick her up. On Fridays, Fata made it a point that she went to her husband, consciously or sub-consciously ensuring she enjoyed her conjugal rights with her husband.

On many occasions Fata left the mission to visit the woman. It was not a secret. Catholic villagers trooped to the homestead and took advantage of Fata’s visit for short prayers. Do village elders not say where a woman rules the roost, streams run uphill?

Soon the frequency of Fata’s visits increased. On a good day he slept at the homestead blessing the woman and the home. His was a strong sweet prayer. In the village walls have ears. In an effort to avoid attracting attention at night, Fata would switch off his lights when approaching the homestead, turn and park in the yard unnoticed.

He made sure he did not step on the fallen off, brittle dry leaves that formed a cracking carpet, that always betrayed movement. At 4am Fata would take off to the mission.
One wintry evening, in the stealth of the night village men, the very close relatives of the woman’s husband eavesdropped on the prayer and hey it was sweet and out of this world.

They called it 10 out of 10. Explosive! They decided to participate the next time Fata came at night.
Three days later, the village woke up to a scene that deserved a movie script. Fata and the woman sat at the centre of the homestead, naked. Villagers surrounded them. They were paraded in their birth suits, for they had been caught dead asleep after the act, naked. Love is like tea, it tests best when hot, so the villagers say.

Apparently the villagers had used the herdboy to cut a duplicate key. Fata and the woman were caught in deep slumber, naked and wasted by the act. They were shocked to be awakened by village men. They had their hands and legs tied.

There, Fata sat, displayed before villagers, elders and spirit mediums. An elderly woman pleaded with the men to allow her just to cover Fata’s waist, with her wrapping cloth. They could not hear of it. They wanted the husband to come and see for himself. By mid morning the spectacle continued. Being along the highway, buses stopped by, motorists stopped by, pedestrians stopped by.
It was a spectacle.

To Fata, the streams were running uphill. His eyes turned blood shot. The eyes sank deeper and deeper into their sockets with shame and disbelief. His skull became numb. He looked around but he seemed not to see anything. Was he acting a dream? By mid-morning, senior priests had failed to negotiate his release. More and more people poured to see the spectacle.

The senior priest could not take his car even, for, the villager had deflated the four wheels.
Eventually, the woman’s husband arrived. His first move was to chase away everyone, including journalists who had gathered. He even stoned journalist’s cars. But everyone wanted to see his reaction and action. They still came back.

He demanded payment from the church but declared he still loved his wife. To date, he still has his wife, more than a decade after the prayer that never was!
The village soothsayer tells this villager that the wise create proverbs for fools to learn, not to repeat. Celibacy, celibacy, celibacy, does a single bracelet jingle? Do men who catch their women cheating really divorce them?

Given an option do dogs prefer bones to meat?