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Sekai Nzenza
The idea of romance, like it used to happen back in the village, was no longer the same. In the old days, a guy chased a girl, kupfimba, for a while, before she said yes. These days, it seemed pregnancy happened first, and then maybe, love followed later. Couples are often tiedtogether by pregnancy, lobola and tradition. Where was the room and the time for love?Our niece Shamiso left her husband’s village after 10 days. She took the overnight Kombi from Bocha, way past Buhera, and arrived at Mbare market in the morning. Shamiso’s husband Philemon called his grandmother, Mbuya Chiseko, to ask why his wife had left the village without his permission. After all, he had paid the bride price for her, meaning she should take orders from him alone or his grandmother for as long as she lived in his village. Mbuya Chiseko said Shamiso left because she was unwell. When a pregnant woman, especially a very young and inexperienced one, says she is sick, then she must be allowed to go to a clinic or a hospital. Down in Bocha, the clinic was very far. Besides, there was nothing at the clinic except panadols, a few bandages and black liquid medicine for infected wounds.
Mbuya Chiseko said Shamiso was a very nice girl with hunhu, respect. But there was only one problem: Shamiso’s phone.

“That machine is good for communicating the death of someone far. Apart from that, it is nothing but a gossip machine,” said Mbuya Chiseko.

Because Shamiso did not want to part with her phone, she often left the village to walk right across the hills to the shops where there was someone with a solar phone charger. Shamiso paid 5 Rand to charge the phone and she waited a few hours for her turn since there was only one adaptor and there were several phones to be charged at any given time.

While Shamiso waited for her phone, Mbuya Chiseko needed help to cook, fetch water, look for firewood, grind and pound and also feed the two orphaned grand children belonging to Philemon’s older sister who had died from Tuberculosis the year before.

“When Shamiso comes back, tell her to leave the gossip machine behind. We have two or three phones in the village already,” Mbuya Chiseko told Philemon.

As the aunts, vana tete, Piri and I had given Shamiso good advice. Back in our village, before we took her to Buhera, we told her that as a new muroora or the daughter-in-law, she was expected to show hard work, generosity, care, respect, laughter and humility at all times.

She must be the first one to rise before sunset, work all day and only resting to eat. Then she must be the last one to go to bed. That is the work of a muroora.

But we did not tell her to stay away from texting, reading messages on WhatsApp, Facebook, playing games and listening to music on the phone.

We gathered for a meeting to discuss Shamiso’s return at my place. On one sofa, was my cousin Piri and on the other sofas, was our nephew in law Philemon.

On the same sofa but sitting on the far right side, leaving space in the middle, was Shamiso. She was now eight months pregnant, looking pretty but frail and even much younger than her 19 years.

Her hair was nicely plaited in the old style pattern using thread. Her face looked much darker and her skin a little pale. She looked skinny, weak, dehydrated and perhaps a little anaemic.

I wondered if she had been tested for HIV. In her age group, the risk was high. Despite all the talk at the Simukai Project about protection against HIV, sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy, Shamiso still went ahead with no condoms.

Being so small in body and new to the city, was she capable of asking Philemon to go for a test before they had sex?

Either one of them could have been HIV positive. At least, these days, the clinics test every pregnant woman to prevent mother to child transmission. If the mother is positive, they start treatment right away.

I sat on an armchair next to Piri, looking at Philemon and Shamiso. Here was a young couple, expecting their first child.

I thought, if these two really loved each other, love will conquer all problems. Even if Philemon lived in Harare selling airtime, windscreen wipers and other gadgets, he would still dream and miss his beloved Shamiso, tending the village homestead along with his grandmother.

“Do you two love each other?” I asked, ready to give my own piece of advice on the power of love and how they should persevere. Piri gave me a look that said my question was unnecessary.

But she was wrong. Her own love affairs had failed badly. What did she know about love? Love was the only thing that could keep this relationship going. I ignored Piri and asked the question again.

Shamiso shrugged her shoulders, picked at the hem of her black and blue maternity dress and said nothing. I turned my question to Philemon. He gave me this beautiful warm smile and said, “Tete, I love Shamiso. How can I not love a woman who is carrying my child? I have already paid lobola for her. My grandmother and everyone welcomed her into the family. So why would I not love her?”

“You love her because you made her pregnant,” Piri said casually. “What else can you do?” It sounded unfair. But Piri then explained that the idea of romance, like it used to happen back in the village, was no longer the same. In the old days, a guy chased a girl, kupfimba, for a while, before she said yes.

These days, it seemed pregnancy happened first, and then maybe, love followed later. Couples are often tied together by pregnancy, lobola and tradition. Where was the room and the time for love?

Shamiso said she wanted to know where and how that love was going to grow given that she was meant to be in Bocha while Philemon lived in town. She looked into Philemon’s eyes and asked, “If you really loved me, why would you let me stay with Mbuya in Bocha, especially in the rainy season? Over there, I work like a donkey. What kind of love is that?” Philemon looked puzzled and perhaps a little nervous and unsure.

He turned to Piri and I. With a tone of sadness or begging, he said, “I love my wife. I just want her to go back to Mbuya Chiseko and I will be with her at Christmas.” But Shamiso said she would not go back unless he went there with her, “Ngazvikone zvekuroorwa kwacho”, she said. Let the marriage end. She would rather return home to her maiden village. Her mother will look after her and together, they will focus on the pregnancy.

We then asked if Shamiso preferred that Philemon stopped work altogether and they go back home to his village and work on the land? To our surprise, Shamiso nodded her head. Piri and I looked at each other. Is this love? “What will you eat, if Philemon comes back to the village?” Piri asked.

“In the village, we shall work in the fields together and eat what everyone eats,” said Shamiso, with a sudden tone of confidence in her voice.

Philemon said nothing. He scratched his head several times, tapped his knee, looked at his phone two or three times, and then he got up.
He clapped his hands in respect to us and said he was going to think about the situation. In the meantime, could we look after his wife for him? We let him go.

Shamiso walked with him to the Kombi stop. She came back and sat on the sofa quietly patting her big abdomen.

Piri shook her head and laughed. Then she said to Shamiso, “So you think that boy will stop selling air time and settle back in the village with you? You want test to your romance in the village?”

Shamiso nodded. And Piri said we should be realistic. Philemon may not come back if he finds another young woman prepared to live in the village with his grandmother.

Because of poverty, a village romance was dead. We sat there, looking at each other. Then Shamiso said, “Tete, forget romance. Tell me why a young pregnant girl should be forced to stay in a strange village where there are no hospitals? And why should she live without her husband?”

• Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and works as a development consultant.