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If you are a regular village boy who remembers his roots you know exactly what to take with you and you know the little things that they all treasure out there, like snuff and cigarettes.

David Mungoshi Shelling the Nuts
I was in the village spending time with the family, always a very rejuvenating experience this. On arrival there you’re always made to feel welcome and the smiles are many and come easily. Even when toothless people smile you feel the warmth. You are, after all the son or brother from the city or from outside our borders, the one who brings the goodies.

Small country children with distended stomachs and curious eyes gaze at you with deep wonder and admiration, perhaps hoping to be like you one day. And if you are a regular village boy who remembers his roots you know exactly what to take with you and you know the little things that they all treasure out there.

Snuff for the old lady who lives alone in a ramshackle whose crumbling walls always threaten to fall, but somehow never seem to do. She cups her palms to produce that deep clap that says, “Thank you”. Her smile says it all. You have made her day. She sniffs the snuff, takes a pinch and feeds it into a dilated nostril. A mighty sneeze follows and there are watery tears in her eyes: the seal of approval. You are like the son she never had.

For the old man who likes to greet you in Afrikaans you have a pack of 10 cigarettes and a box of matches to go with it. Today he will feel like a town fellow once again. And aaah, there’s that meticulous uncle of yours who likes a clean-shaven face and smart well-combed hair.

Each time you give him a pack of six blades and a small container of hair cream he smiles like a young man out courting. The wonder of it all is that he has never married and is what the villagers call tsvimborume (a male knobkerrie) or senior bachelor. He too likes to flaunt a smoke or two with his occasional filter-tipped cigarettes made from the country’s unique blend of Virginia tobacco.

The man can be quite frivolous at times. One thing for sure is that many of the unattached women in the village and some widows worship the ground that he walks on. The uncle is a scoundrel of sorts, but who cares? You reserve the bottle of whiskey for your old man and when you hand it to him he sings the praises of the clan and pours a tot or two into a small enamel mug.

He closes his eyes and gulps the whiskey down in one mouthful. The burning sensation in his chest brings him to life and the inevitable customary belch follows and for him it is like old times again. He chastises you for taking too long to visit. But both of you know that all is well that ends well.

For your dear mother there is an apron, a new pair of brown canvas tennis shoes and the inevitable doek. She will walk on air when she fetches the water from the well and she will say proudly to the other women at the well that her son is home. The news is meant for the village girls to make them eat their hearts out. Over and above all this, the groceries! People are going to have exotic meals during your stay.

And the little children will mill around you for buns, biscuits, sweets and sweet Mazoe orange juice, the country’s premier fruit juice. That is what used to happen in my time as a young man. Things are different now. Many people are driven by greed and avarice and are happiest when they exclude others.

The virtues of sharing are lost to them and they wear status like a badge of distinction. A few days into my customary stay in the village, a few years ago I got wind of the approaching demise of one of our nephews and it made me very sad. The man was an absolute joy because of his many antics.

He could laugh the dry wry laugh of an oracle or ancient spirit and had a permanently curious and amused expression on his wrinkled face. Rusheni was his name and he prided himself on owning an ancient home-made rifle passed down the line from his great grandfather until it reached him. He is one of those to whom I paid homage with a little something across the years. Rusheni could pour a beer down his throat with ease and speed like the best of them and still be able to stagger home in the dark.

On such occasions, usually dark nights, he never veered off the road. Everyone knew when Rusheni was on his drunken way home because he would yodel home at the top of his voice all along the dust road to his farm gate. Sometimes he could be heard yelling and swearing at some invisible foes that only he could see. There was a spot along the road that every so often after a beer drink in some remote place, he always had to walk past in the late evening.

He always told people that no matter how drunk he was the Holy Spirit always possessed him at this point. He said there was a permanent evil lurking there and the Holy Spirit always came to his rescue. If you were awake you could hear him appealing in a huge loud voice to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to help him get home.

Thinking about these things made me nostalgic and sad, especially when I learned that his health was fading fast. I decided that I would visit his homestead and see him one last time with the usual goodies. Something told me he was not going to make it and that people might soon do an all-night vigil at his home.

My wife and I arrived at Rusheni’s place just as the sun was beginning to sink into the horizon in the far distance. Rusheni’s long-suffering wife whose health was also plummeting recognised me and gave a frail smile as she stretched out an emaciated hand in greeting. I reciprocated the greeting with some trepidation. The woman looked like she might give up the ghost any time. This was a huge surprise to me because no one was talking about her illness. It seemed to me then that it was always the fate of women to suffer boldly and labour on regardless. Thank heaven for the women in our lives. Without them what would hapless males do?

Rusheni’s wife was quick on the uptake. She said she knew that we wanted to see her ailing husband. That was what she called him. She called out to him in a surprisingly strong voice and he responded from somewhere inside the depths of the three-roomed structure that was their palace of many years. Normally, Rusheni would have come out with a raucous laugh and shaken my hand with gusto before asking me what I had brought for him. On this day, however, he waddled out onto the veranda and appeared to struggle with his bearings before making his way painfully towards us in his wife’s smoky kitchen.

My eyes began to well. This was not what I had expected. Clearly the man already had a leg in the next world. I could hear my wife sniffling and sighing. She had always liked this muzukuru of ours. When finally he made it into the hut and manoeuvred himself into an aged stool I could see that he no longer had any real interest in anything, not even the tobacco pouch I had brought for his pipe.

When I asked him what the matter was I was glad that his colourful turn of phrase had not deserted him. His reply was simple and terse: brother of my mother, death has come. I almost made a sign of the cross. As my wife began to sing a hymn about humans being visitors on earth there was suddenly this all-pervading other world smell. It was a smell difficult to understand and one which stupefied you with its intensity and its insistence. Indeed death had come.

Since Rusheni left the world and was followed by the woman he had grown old with, things have never been the same. Visits to the village these days leave me hungry in every way. The easy cooing of the doves is gone, as is the sound of cows lowing in the vleis.

The wetlands have dried up and no rice grows there anymore. Our world makes us begin to feel the lights in our hearts blink to signify that it is closing time. Somehow we know we should get our bags packed and put our things in order. Most things are by invitation only, life included, and when the party is over we all go home to our different fates.

• David Mungoshi is a writer, social commentator, retired teacher and editor.