Village ghosts and the mind THE PHANTOM MENACE. . . Do ghosts really exist or they are just fantasies of the supernatural anchored in our imagination?
THE PHANTOM MENACE. . . Do ghosts really exist or they are just fantasies of the supernatural anchored in our imagination?

THE PHANTOM MENACE. . . Do ghosts really exist or they are just fantasies of the supernatural anchored in our imagination?

Sekai Nzenza On Wednesday
“I SAW a ghost,” said my cousin Piri as she climbed back into the car, frantically closing the door and telling me to drive off quickly. I obeyed the order and drove fast along the potholed road. It was on one of those dark overcast cold nights when the moon had gone to sleep and the stars were hidden

behind the clouds.

“Why did you not tell me that you stopped the car at the Chidhoma’s old ruins?” Piri asked, accusingly looking at me, forgetting that she had asked for a short break, as she often does when she drinks beer. Despite my complaints about her drinking beer in the car and the frequent short breaks, Piri would not give up drinking during the last 30 kilometres of the dirt road to the village. This time, she asked for a short break near Chidhoma’s old ruins.

Chidhoma! I shivered a little when Piri mentioned Chidhoma’s name.

Many years ago, there was a ghost called Chidhoma in the neighbouring village. When he was alive, Chidhoma was a big hairy giant with large hands and red eyes that sunk deeper inside his big head. His chest was wide and he had big muscles developed from digging up anthills and spreading termite soil on to people’s fields because they believed that anthill soil was like fertiliser to the maize fields.

Every year, my grandmother, Mbuya VaMandirowesa asked Chidhoma to dig the manure from the cattle pen and make small pyramids a few metres apart on a whole field. You could hear Chidhoma singing before sunrise, digging out the manure, then shovelling it out to make a big heap outside the cattle pen. After sunrise, as we walked to St Columbus School, I recall seeing Chidhoma’s shirtless massive body, his big hairy chest and bulging muscles. He paused and leaning against a shovel, he told us to hurry to school so that we could learn to speak English and become sweet and kind nurses.

We giggled and ran past him. When we came back at midday, Chidhoma had already finished digging all the cattle manure and was half way making small pyramids of it in the fields.

At lunch time Mbuya served Chidhoma millet sadza and a small piece of roast meat. That was all. Chidhoma washed his hands. He took tiny bites of the salted and heated dried piece of meat.

He rolled the morsel of sadza and threw it into his mouth. After his meal, Chidhoma drank two gourds of water then he sat under the mushuku tree behind Mbuya’s granary.

From where he sat, we could see him smoking something that carried a strong smell. Mbuya would then shout at him, telling him to move towards where the wind was blowing because the smell of his cigarette was too strong for our young chests. But Chidhoma did not go away. Instead, he laughed and said the smell of his strong herbs was healthy for the soul. Mbuya said it was the “herbal plant” that he grew in his garden throughout the year that gave him more energy to dig anthills and cattle manure.

At beer parties, Chidhoma was known for stopping fights between opponents. He did not physically fight with anyone. Maybe this was so because there was no one who could stand a fight with him except his brother-in-law Chauroko. These two did not see eye-to-eye.

When Chauroko arrived at a beer party, Chidhoma left. At times, it was Chauroko who left if he saw Chidhoma coming. As children, the cause of conflict between Chidhoma and Chauroko was never fully explained to us, but we knew about bad stories of violence that had happened between their families in the past.

One morning, when it had rained all night, we heard that Chidhoma had died in a fire while sleeping alone in his hut. His wife and children were away visiting relatives on Bristol Farm near Hwedza. The whole thatched roof had carved in and Chidhoma, the giant, died. Around the villages, it was whispered that Chauroko and his uncles were responsible for Chidhoma’s death.

A white policeman and the blackwatch, mubhurakwacha, came to make investigations. That was the time when the European Native Administrator ruled these Tribal Trust Lands with the help of native district officers; those ruthless tall black men in khaki uniforms and snake buckles on their brown belts.

We saw the white policeman’s car drive on our fields, crushing some of my mother’s groundnuts. He arrested a couple of people including Chauroko. They took them to Enkeldoorn (Chivhu) and beat them up thoroughly for them to confess. But they did not. The other two came back home nursing sore bottoms and Chauroko stayed there for a few more months. Then he came back and nothing was said about the death of Chidhoma.

Mbuya said, “Why spend time scratching heads trying to solve a murder mystery when the murdered victim’s spirit could easily do that himself? Just let it be, time will tell, rega zvakadaro, nguva ichakwana. One day, Chidhoma will speak and point at those responsible for his death.”

Months later, when we saw the big light that carried Chidhoma’s ghost move around the anthills near Chidhoma’s old house, over the hills, past the dip tank and then back to the place where he was buried, we knew Chidhoma was seeking justice. Then the liberation war came and Chauroko and some of his family members died during the war. People said that was Chidhoma seeking justice. After the war, we did not see Chidhoma’s ghost at all.

In those days, we heard of ghosts in town too. Those who went to Salisbury came back to tell us the story of Mary, the ghost who terrorised men in bars around Highfield and Mbare.

Mary was a beautiful woman who left her village in Murehwa when her marriage had produced no children. Because infertility was always blamed on women, Mary went to Salisbury to look for work in the 1950’s. Tragically, Mary was murdered by someone unknown and her spirit never returned to be reconciled with her ancestors. She became an angry ghost.

At night, Mary’s ghost dressed nicely and walked into a bar. Men flocked around her and only the lucky one could take her home to his flat in Magaba or a small rented room because in those days, many African men did not have houses. They came to work for a while then returned to their wives and children in the village.

Mary would entertain the man who took her home. When her time to leave was up, she played some magical ghost tricks on the man so that he could not remember what happened. In the morning, the man would find himself on a grave in Harare’s cemetery without his jacket or money.

Mary’s ghost was famous. Her story made its way to the village. We played a game in which we sang a song to say we want to see Mary. “Tinoda kuona Mary, Mary, Mary. Tinoda kuona Mary, Mary. . . ” Then others responded by saying, Mary has gone to the shops or Mary is cooking. Then the singers kept on asking for Mary and on the third or fourth chorus, those responding suddenly looked scary and said, “Mary akafa! Mary chipoko!” Meaning Mary died and Mary is a ghost! Then we would all run away, shrieking with fear and laughter. Mary was so real in our imagination.

My niece Shamiso sat in the back, holding baby Prince, listening, as I recounted Chidhoma and Mary’s ghost stories. I could see tears pouring out of her eyes. She was not crying. But ghost stories can bring unexplained tears. She had her own ghost story to tell.

Shamiso said there was a young man who got off the bus from Harare at midnight one day. The distance from his bus stop to his village was very long and he had to follow a tiny winding narrow path through a very thick forest.

When his eyes got accustomed to the darkness, he increased his pace, thinking he should conquer the distance and cross the rivers in no time. Then he suddenly saw a little old man walking slowly in front of him. He got closer to the old man and said, “Ah, Sekuru, I am so happy to have your company. I was so scared of walking in this forest on my own.”

Then the old man replied, “ Me too; when I was alive, I used to be so scared of this forest as well.”

The young man collapsed, for he had confronted the ghost of an old man walking.

We laughed at Shamiso’s ghost story, even though, we felt for the young man whose fate we did not know.

When Piri had calmed down from seeing Chidhoma’s ghost, she picked up the big bottle of beer that had fallen and split beer all over the floor and placed it between her legs.

“This business of drinking, gives you false courage. If I had known that you stopped at Chidhoma’s ruins, I would have preferred to hang on a bit longer. Next time, please tell me where we would be going before I take a short break to relieve myself,” said Piri, looking annoyed, as if it was my fault that she should drink then ask for short breaks so often.

Even after all the years since we left the village, Chidhoma’s ghost, whether real or imagined, still remains.

Do ghosts really exist or they are fantasies of the supernatural in our imagination?

Only God, or perhaps the Devil, knows.

  • Dr Sekai Nzenza is an independent writer and cultural critic

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