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Isdore Guvamombe-Saturday Lounge Reflections

Under the blistering heat, a huge tree stood stubbornly superimposing by the bank of Dande River. 

Dande itself, was regarded as the river of life, for, it provided water for every chore, throughout the year. 

Only in late October did its flow break, leaving poodles and huge pools separated by shrivels of sand and a scullery of stones, polished smooth by years of being run over by flowing water.

As young boys, the dry season was our time for play and mischief-making. It was freelancing time. 

We spent most of our time hunting for birds, hares, digging for mice and dragnet fishing.

We stole mosquito nets and used them as fishing nets. 

Each day almost always ended in our swimming escapades. In the village, there were separate paces where men and women bathed to maintain decency and privacy. 

Here, this villager uses the word privacy loosely, for, in the village it was group privacy. Women bathed in groups and so did men and boys. 

Rarely did women, especially, go to the river in singles because of the war and at times rapists. Besides, the riverine vegetation was always too thick and scary.

Once in a while lions were spotted, and almost every day, creepy-crawlers were common site.

Then there was an old man called Pondo Mbiri (two pounds). At 75 years old, was known to stalk women and peep through the riverine foliage to watch them bath. He would later describe women’s bodies with precision when drunk, obviously selling out his antics.

A skin-head who laughed with a deep groggy voice, often escorted by a scenic smile that exposed his tobacco-stained teeth, we never really got to understand what Pondo Mbiri benefited from peeping at bathing women. The village was agog with his stories but no one dared him, for, he was feared as a wizard too.

He was quite a rum.

Men liked and hated him too. 

They liked him for his sex-enhancing concoctions but hated him for stalking their women. 

At beer drinking binges things really never got exciting until Pondo arrived with his pouch and spiced the drags. It gave him an advantage of getting better shares of the drink. 

Pondo Mbiri disguised his riverine stalking antics by posing as a fisherman. Each time he carried with him two fishing lines but he caught no fish. His wife was old but very caring. 

One morning I was sent by grandpa for a pouch of snuff and found his wife, peeling off round nuts for him while he simply ate.

 Love! 

This village boy was very fascinated. 

After two handfuls of peeled round nuts, he stood up slowly, carefully and tentatively and reached for his huge bag, disfigured and discoloured by years of use. 

 Meanwhile, the wife never stopped peeling off the round nuts for him. He munched and munched, his huge jaws pulling the skin of his chin up and down. 

The scars on the side chin spoke on nothing but long years of shaving beard. He shaved with a broken bottle glass, not razor blade. 

Even when shaving his head, his wife used broken bottles too. There was a particular bottle for Olivine cooking oil. 

It was thin and easy to break and also easy to use in shaving. Many people sent their children to him for a clean shave.

Inside his house, I looked at him carefully and wondered what made an old man like him a peeping tom. 

After serving me I took the pouch to grandpa and handed over to him graciously like a soldier who has just completed a special assignment. 

‘What did you find him doing?’’ asked grandpa, snuffing, and frowning to push the snuff up his nostrils.

‘’He was eating round nuts and his wife was peeling them off for him,’’ I replied.

‘’Typical of him,’’ grandpa responded ‘’and from there he will go to the river to prey on bathing women. Stupid old man!’’ 

 That afternoon the six of us young boys caught up with Pondo as we affectionately called him while he walked to the river with his two fishing lines. He walked almost on his side like a crab and he had a slight stop too. 

He had no shoes. His feet were cracked and left peculiar skid marks on the footpath, that would make tyre manufactures green with envy. 

We laughed at his stature, his slouching walk and his skid marks on peeved voices. We were laughing at the same time trying to keep our voices low. 

He never seemed to notice our antics and walked unperturbed.

Soon we parted ways as he took the northern riverine and we opted for the southern.

Dande River served the village from many points. The footpaths that spread to its banks like the arms of octopus were enough testimony.

We got to the huge wild fruit tree where we competed with birds. 

We had two advantages, we hunted for both the fruits and the birds, for, each boy had a catapult. 

On the tree fish eagles performed a piecing evocative duet, atop almost sending us scampering for cover. 

I looked up and at a glance, saw the eagles’ distinctive, black white and chestnut feather patterns, gleaming boldly in the sunset hue as they tossed their heads backwards and forth.

Then they took off, probably disturbed by our presence. 

On the foot of the tree was Gwatura, a huge pool that never tried. Its water was bluish green, its colour informed by the shades of the riverine trees. 

It was so deep we never really discovered its real depth.

But it had its gurgling shallows too. Here every village boy learnt to swim. When you graduated you would plunge from up a tree branch and each splash was a marvel, we counted the wash and swash ripple from the azure coves to find the best swimmer.

We took turns, again and again and again and again. Again and again! 

At sunset it was time to go home. We put on our clothes and rushed home to pen our cattle and goats.

Late in the evening, the village was agog, with the news that Pondo has not returned home. His wife, a frail old woman had knocked door after, informing people about her missing husband.

A search party started but it was dark, too dark for many to see beyond their nose.

The search was abandoned for early morning. Apparently we, the young boys were the last ones to see Pondo but we had very little detail about what happened after we parted with him.

The villagers foraged the banks of the river, turning to each bush and cave, turning to each pool, turning to little everything else, searching for every one of his peculiar footprint skid marks. There was nothing. For hours on end the villagers searched.

Village elders with cotton tuft hair, started formulating theories. As a fisherman, he must have been attacked by crocodiles, although there was no known existence of them in Dande River, except one or two belonging to witches and wizards. Those were spotted once or twice a year. He might have fallen into the river and drowned. But all those theories were being discounted, for, he was a good swimmer, he was brave and of a sound mind.

In the village, lived a widow, who called herself a ‘Return Soldier’ as she came back to the village after her divorce. She was in her late 60s and feared for her foul language, liberal thoughts and carefree attitude. 

During the search party, she insisted he was alive and kicking somewhere. She was certain, he would simply not die, so simply.

Eventually, the search was abandoned. Villagers resigned to fate.

But on the third day, something happened in the village. Katonje, a man from another village, who dated the ‘Return Soldier’ and always sneaked into her house at night and out in the wee hours, said he was denied access to her house for the first time in a year.

He was aptly named Katonje because he was born prematurely and spent most of his time under a traditional cotton incubator.

Katonje was sure, there has been a man in the house for three days. He was sure he had heard a groggy voice speak lowly. The village search party resumed and went to confront the ‘Return Soldier’.

Pondo was found alive and kicking, enjoying the comfort of the ‘Return Soldier’. It was grand spectacle. He had eloped!