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Elliot Ziwira Senior Writer
Five bell sounds reverberated in our experiences in the ‘hood. The bells shaped our dreams, and their echoes still linger on in my mind as I stroll along memory lane.

These were the bells of the milkman, “baker” (bread delivery man), ice cream man, bottle collector and the postman.

Although the sounds evoked different feelings and responses, they equally impacted on our ghetto experiences. We instinctively knew by their appealing and timely sounds which bell to respond to not so much psychologically, for they affected us in the same way, but physically.

The bells! Dear God, the bells!

Of all the bell sounds, however, it was the postman’s that had the effect of overriding all the other jingles.

The postman was the man about town, the carrier of tidings; both good and bad.

Gosh, how we cared little about the other side of news, especially when the postman also delivered telegrams.

It was not uncommon to hear the “crrrrring crrrring” sound of the postman’s bell, and immediately afterwards hear an ear-piercing wail of agony.

Then, the neighbourhood would be plunged into mourning; the Grim Reaper would have paid his ever unwelcome visit. The postman, oh gosh; it was his way to deliver the message of death in the ‘hood, and glad tidings at the same time.

Nonetheless we eagerly and impatiently waited for his soothing and equally heart-piercing bell whose clinking is the gist of this instalment.

No matter whose letter it was, we would gladly and proudly sprint to the gate the moment we picked the postman’s jingle getting closer to our gates.

As the Motherland joins the rest of the globe in commemorating World Post Day today, gentle reader it would be worthwhile for us to forget all about social media platforms, like Facebook, WhatsApp, Instagram and Twitter for now, and reflect on the missives that shaped our dreams.

The Day, celebrated on October 9, since 1939, recognises the importance of the postal services in bringing people closer across the world.

October 9 is the anniversary of the Universal Postal Union (UPU), started in Switzerland in 1874. The communications revolution spearheaded by the UPU made it possible for global citizens to efficiently share their stories through letters, although postal systems have been operational for centuries.

From the messenger on horseback, to the postman on a bicycle and now on a motorbike, letters have conveyed messages across generations globally.

In a world where the only letters now in vogue are formal ones (mostly cold and enervating to the soul), which rarely find space in our letterboxes, what with the Internet that has replaced our dear postman, there is no better way now of expressing genuine feelings and evoking the same in our loved ones as did the letter.

Patience, sentiment, emotion, hope, love, compassion, intimacy; were all the trademarks of the informal letter.

Hey, do you remember how it used to be dear! Your first missive as we called them.

Those salutations; Dearest, Beloved, Honey bunch, My Chocolate, Mudiwa Wangu, Ruva remoyo Wangu! Do you recall them; the complementary clauses; Forever Yours, Tormented Admirer, Cheerio Babe! And the sweet, sweet addresses and inscriptions on the envelopes.

This technology has robbed us of novel, profound and compassionate expressions.

All those virtual friends running into thousands, pretending to know us, and even share with us tears in our moments of sorrow and grief, with their unoriginal messages of comfort, cannot replace our friends of yore, who could take their time to express emotion in indelible ink.

How much we cherished the letters! We could read them over and over again and each time we read them the same emotions were evoked anew.

Dreams were shared, fears drenched, expectations whetted, patience tested, hope revived and sorrows given vents of escape; all through words, carefully chosen, because of their permanence, and sent miles yonder in their physical form, carrying the original scent of the writer.

The scents were unmistakeable and the handwritings were goldenly original.

Now all that is replaced by emotionless, fake and shallow expressions, which put walls between hearts, as messages no longer carry the originality and compassion they used to have.

Everything is lost on the artificiality of social media friends and lovers, who, not only recycle emotions, but mount their high horses as they remain glued to their gadgets pretending to be living in their own worlds, and shedding crocodile tears for our grief.

But the letter brought us closer, intimately, socially and spiritually, for we lived in a world that cared more about relations and what the written word meant in such a universe.

But, do you also remember the mix-ups of the missives dear: when the letter meant for Beautiful Lin, of the sweet musical voice and flawless beauty, ended up in an envelope addressed to Sweet Becky, of the sumptuously voluminous body, inquiring how she might be “pulling the wagons of life”, or that meant for Dearie Ruvimbo, of the dreamy eyes and cascading curves.

And the three letters expressing different explosives of emotion and passion ended up tussling their way out in the Postmaster-General’s spaces with their burdens meant for expressions of the hereafter beckoning.

You may also still recall that day when Beautiful Lin’s missive ended up in Dear Father’s envelope, and vice versa and you were in boarding school or that day, when cupid was really in your abode, and you wrote three missives to beauties at the same school (same address), and curiously your handwriting sold you out.

Then you waited, and waited, for it was the waiting part of it that was as unbearable as it was therapeutic; and no reply came.

Then finally as Leonard Dembo’s “Sharai” played out in your head, especially the opening lines from the postman: “Tsamba yako chikomana iyi”, as the crooner reflects on who the hand behind the letter could be, you heard the familiar bell, finally.

Then the music in your heard replayed New Black Montana’s lines “Akandinyorera tsamba yainaka/Achindiyemera nezverudo”, as you opened the first of the responses.

Then reality dawned, and my dear, that is when you realised what they meant with the line, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, and that trouble could really be mean.

As Gregory “The Cool Ruler” Isaacs’ “Objection Overruled” echoed in your head:

Please give me a chance

So I can make my confession

Or do I was wrong?

Won’t you please overrule your objection

And give me one chance

So that I can make things up with you

I must apologise

Cause I’m so sorry to treat you so cruel

Or do I was wrong?

Seem I was only playing a fool, so

Just one more chance

So we can talk this thing over

One more chance

Cause I don’t wanna end as the loser . . .

 

You heard Kiprich compellingly imploring in the song “The Letter”:

(Chorus)

Mi have a pen and mi have some paypa

Right yah now mi ago write couple letta

Yea mi love how technology greata

But it a mash up mi flu, chuh

(Verse 1)

Dear Keisha how are you doing

I have to write this letta caws my phone is ruin. . .

And your lyricism came back to be put to the test one more time, for words were our strength, real words. Ah dear missive, how we miss you!