Things have gone so bad. We had several breakdowns of the dilapidated rural chicken bus. Three, if not four of them over a distance of just hundred and fifty kilometers. All of us, passengers, blamed it on the bus conductor and the driver. They too, blamed it on the bus operator.
'Look, we are just unfortunate poor people trying to earn a living from what an ailing engine brings home at the end of the day. All of you are shouting at us, why? We don't make or repair engines. Phone the owner of the bus on this number-0001046. I am tired of being shouted at day in day out. Surely one of these days I will just dump this pile of rotting metal in the forest,'� complained the driver as he sadly retired into the nearby bush. He was an old man who, for his age was supposed to have long retired. The bus had had its third breakdown.
'Why does it seem like everything in this country is going down to their knees? Not even a single section of any sector you think of seems to have hope. Why?'� complained one passenger who had hinted earlier that he wanted to get into Harare in time to catch the train to Bulawayo. He could not afford boarding another bus as the fares were killing. A train would not eat much into the little left in his pocket. He said he was on his way to South Africa to look for a job.
'Brother, these days if you just sit at home and hope that things will work out in your favour, you starve. This land has gradually ceased to be our home. A home is where you get water when you are thirst, you get food when you are hungry, you retire to some sound sleep when you are tired, you have company when you are lonely, and you get medicine when you are sick. What do we have in our home? There is no enough water for everyone to drink because the council has not enough money to import purifying chemicals. The most basic foodstuffs have now been pushed beyond the reach of many due to the ever-escalating prices. There are endless queues across the land. Queues for sugar, queues for mealie meal, queues for fuel and even queues at the cemetery to bury the dead.' He shook his head before he continued, 'Brother, people are suffering. Very few can now afford half a meal a day. It is painful to think of it. It pains me to'� to'�'� the man stopped for a moment, looked me straight into the eyes. His eyes immediately became watery with tears. Tears flooded my eyes too. The tears started trickling down his bearded cheeks.
I was more than touched. All this time I had not even cared to study the gentleman who had been talking to me. His sobbing touched me. I quickly studied him. He must have been in his early forties, of average built, but could have scored a significant percentage had he been send for an undernourishment test. His head was covered with very little dusty kinky hair. His face had a long thick beard. He wore a pair of home made sandals, a pair of faded jeans and a promotional tee-shirt from a local seed company.
'He must be a communal farmer'� I thought to myself.
He wiped off the tears using a piece of cloth that he pulled from the back pocket of his jeans. After clearing his throat he continued.
' I am coming from Mt Darwin, brother, where I had gone to bury my father. He died last week but one in a local hospital. For the two weeks that he had been admitted in the health home, he never got any proper medication, save when he had complained of a serious headache, that was the only time he got some pain killers,'� he stopped for a while and looked fixedly at the blank sky as if he was seeing some vision. He scratched the back of his neck, shook his head, then continued, 'Poor father, he died a very painful death. Nurses and doctors were on strike demanding 1000 percent salary increase. Up to this date we don't even know what killed my father. He never got diagnosed. When we were having papers processed to get him buried, one of the guys at the hospital just scribbled malaria as the cause of death. He was not a doctor, but a mere village guy employed as a mortuary attendant. Oh poor father, he died prematurely. It pains me day and night,'� the man shook his head again as if trying to shake off the thought from his mind.
' Guess what more painful experience followed this nightmare? Yesterday afternoon, when I was preparing to come to Harare, I heard my mother call my name, saying Nhamo come and see the papers from the hospital. I got a shock of my life when I read the letter. It had a breakdown of the payments to be settled soon, for food, bedding and medicine that my father allegedly got from the hospital,'� he sighed and then retiringly added, 'Its painful brother.'�
'Did he ever get the medicine and food?'� I chipped in for the first time.
'He never got food from them. We used to bring him sadza from home. Medicine, well, I suppose they meant the painkillers he got on the morning of the day he died. But that wouldn't cost a fortune. Would you call this a home, brother?'� asked Nhamo.
I felt very uneasy. These days you really have to be very careful of what you say. You don't know who the guy next to you is or where they work. Your mouth might land you into some serious trouble. I shifted on the rock where I was sitting, before answering his question.
'Of course I wouldn't expect a home of that sort. That would resemble a jail,'� I said, before posing another question. 'I eavesdropped on you earlier talking about going to South Africa. Is that where you live, or possibly work?'�
'I wouldn't be looking this scruffy, would I? Earning the powerful rand, would I put on this nyatera (home made sandals from used bus tyres)? Surely not. I have never been to that country before. I just want to go there and try my luck. I have two sons and three young brothers to pay school fees for. If I don't get something better paying soon, it means their academic life is doomed. I have to get myself a job in the plantations and estates there in South Africa. Guys who have been there say the owners of the estates pay handsomely in rands. If you bring the rands back home, convert them into zimdollars on the black market, you make a fortune. I want to go and try my luck,'� explained Nhamo.
I winced at the mention of the term 'black market'. Authorities were working day and night to destroy this illegal market, but surprisingly it was booming. So many things, foodstuffs, fuel and foreign currency were being traded easily on such market. Prices were either three or four times more than the government gazetted ones.
The hooter of the bus was blown. All the people who had been sitting in the shade of trees rushed for their places in the bus. Nhamo and I also ran for our seats.
As the bus mourned and groaned on the road to Harare, Nhamo and I talked about a lot of issues. Just after Mazoe Citrus Estate, our attention was drawn by newly resettled farmers who busied on building their pole and dagger homes.
'Did you ever think of trying your hands on farming?'� I asked Nhamo.
'Farming needs money brother. You really need to have a very healthy bank account to successfully venture into the industry. People like myself, Nhamo, whose name is a real summary of what I am, are too cheap to stand the heat in the game. When the wind of change swept through our agric sector, it left me with sixty acres of fertile land,'� he shifted in his seat before repeating the statement, 'Sixty acres brother of very good soil.'�
'So why run away to South Africa when you have such a rich resource. Go back home, utilize the land and you will be a different man tomorrow,'� I said, now getting excited with the dialogue.
'Rich resource? Ehe-e, my friend, life is not as simple as you think,'� answered Nhamo. His face was becoming more pale and grayish.
'Why?'� I asked, whilst handing a ticket to the ticket checker who was now collecting all tickets.
'My friends and I were removed from the piece of land because we did not possess the appropriate papers. It was all talk about signed papers and papers. There were clean guys from the city who were made to take the land. They had almost everything, signed papers, tractors, inputs and the funds'� explained the poor man.
'You must have been very sad and angry,'� I sympathetically said.
He lifted his shoulders and widely opened his bloodshot eyes before he answered.
'I was at that time, but now judging from the ever increasing of agricultural inputs, I consoled myself with the thought that maybe I was going to run away from the land. Where would I get $180,000.00 to buy just one bag of fertilizer, let alone more thousands of dollars for a bag of maize seed? Where would I get such big monies? Let those with money do the farming,'� resignedly said Nhamo.
The bus jerked and the engine heaved as the driver struggled to pull it to a halt. There was a police roadblock ahead. A policeman clad in the traffic police gear was standing right in the middle of the road waving the driver to pull out. When the bus had stopped, one of the three cops manning the roadblock got onto the bus and started studying the passengers. He seemed like counting all of us using his eyes.
'Can I see your road permit and driver's license please,'� said the policeman.
He studied it for a while then got down with the documents saying;
'Your permit has expired, the bus is overloaded and one of the headlamp is not working. Come and pay a fine for all that,'� he said in a hoarse voice.
The driver winked at the conductor who then pulled a wad of notes from his bag, jumped off the bus and followed the policeman. They went to a patrol vehicle that was parked a few metres behind the bus. Due to the darkness that was getting the better of the day, we could not clearly see what was happening. We only heard the clapping of hands and the jovial exchange of laughter followed by that cop's hoarse voice saying,
'Sharp ka young man. Next time sort your things. Have a safe journey'�
'Thanks Mudhara!'� answered the bus conductor breaking into a walking run.
'Zvaita driver, lets go,'� he said banging the bus door.
Off we went on with our seemingly endless journey.
At the time the conductor talked to the police, a guy with a brown lab-court, holding a clipboard climbed on top of the bus to check if there were no bags of maize being ferried to the city. It was now Illegal to carry more than three 50kgs bags of maize into the city without proper clearance letter from the grain authorities. Any such stuff would be seized.
'But why do they give us land and later not allow us to carry our produce to our kids and relatives in the city? Surely why should I buy expensive mealie meal in town when I had a bumper harvest back in the rural areas. Does it make sense?'� Nhamo said when the grain inspector left the bus to inspect the contents of a Mercedes Benz that had pulled down in front of the bus.
'There is too much black market activities in the city. Some people are taking advantage of the shortages of mealie meal and hence overcharging a bucket of maize. The inspectors want to make sure that does not continue,'� I explained.
Nhamo nodded and folded his hands and kept quite.
The glittering lights of the sunshine city of Harare started showing on the horizons like a galaxy of stars. Time must have been around six in the evening. The silence and brightness of the city talked of a pleasant life. Looking at the city from a distance, one would think all was well, but did elders not say all that glitters is not gold?
We passed through suburbs with beautiful houses on very spacious yards surrounded by excellent durallwalls. It seemed like there were intercoms and bright neon lights at every gate-sliding electric gates. Exotic flowers and trees gave the place a somewhat exotic look. This is where rich guys splash their money and lead superfluous lives. The latest of the posh cars would be seen driving into these palaces. This is real living not mere existence that some of us do, I silently thought to myself.
'Harare, guta guru (Harare the big city)'� said Nhamo, pulling a deep breathe. His fingers busied on rolling a cigar using a piece of an old Daily News paper.
'I bought this paper on the first day that my father fell sick. People from our place don't like the newspaper at all. They say it's a mouthpiece of the opposition. They say the paper is bent on destroying the country by inciting violence and lawlessness as it is alleged to publish lies. I don't think the allegations hold water, because some of what the paper publishes I am told happens. Do you, yourself read this paper? Asked Nhamo lifting the rolled cigar with two hands.
'I read any piece of printed matter. The judgement of what is true of false lies in my head. Its always fair to get what different schools of thought say about any subject,' I answered.
'I agree with you brother. Though I have not much money on me, tomorrow I will buy a copy of this paper and read what they are saying these days,'� said Nhamo, seemingly oblivious of the task ahead of him.
I did not pass a comment, nor could I tell Nhamo that the paper he was talking about was now out of print, due to a pending court case. A mention of that would spark another debate. I was now tired and all I needed was a rest. By that time, the sick bus had got to Mbare Msika- the biggest long distance bus termini in the country.
The area looked like the world's oldest shantytown. Crowded plastic-walled dwellings surrounded the market. These makeshift-like structures occupied probably ninety five percent of the tiny yards. The place was densely occupied with people of all age groups. It seemed like half the people who thronged the market were selling something. The wares being sold ranged from sweets, roasted mealie cobs, pens, vhuka vhuka (African traditional aphrodisiac), small pockets of mealie meal and many others. The entire place had a jumble of noises from vendors shouting out their wares, bus engines being raved, to the perennial blaring of bus hooters.
'Do you know your way to the railway station in town?'� I asked Nhamo when we had alighted the bus.
'I don't have the slightest of idea. Is it a walking distance from here?'� said Nhamo as he lit his cigar.
'Its not far shamwari (friend). Come I will show you the way'�'� said a drunken voice from behind us. A slim dread locked young man with a cap pulled right down to his noses, stood behind us.
'Get lost, we don't need your help. Get lost right now or else'�'� I quickly cut him short.
'Talk to others nicely man. Why do you talk like somebody in the toilet he-e?'� hit back the young man as he dashed away among the milling crowd.
'Beware of thieves. Keep a tight grip to your beg and always put on a confident face. I will lead you to the railway station. Now, come after me.'� I cautioned Nhamo and then led the way to where city-bound commuter omnibus were boarded.
The night in the city was full of activity. We met many people from different walks of life. City whores now littered the streets, dressed in belt-size mini-skirts. Most of then had glowing lips and whitewashed faces from over worn make-up. The smell of powerful imported perfume heavily dangled in the air at most shady street corners and alleys.
'Brother, do you have sweeties to brighten your Saturday evenings? Promise me just $10,000.00 and I will go and open the pleasure of the world for you. Just $10,000.00 brother I will make you float in the sky and forget about this country's problems,'� said one girl of medium height at a dimly lit street corner as she trailed behind us like a beggar-kid.
She was generously given in terms of hips and buttocks. The young girl must have been around sixteen years of age. Much of her body was barely covered, maybe to make potential customers see what stuff she was made up of. It reminded me of the stories I heard about the red-light districts in some countries, where naked women are displayed like items on sale, for those men who wanted to make a quick kick. I also thought of biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah and my whole body shuddered.
'We don't need your services. We have wives at home,'� I said dismissing her.
'What wives if they just lie in bed like logs? Just say you are penniless!!'� shouted the young girl as she returned to her dark corner.
'Leave those poor filthy chaps from the rural areas, they don't have money!'� one the whores who had stayed behind jeered at us. They laughed and clapped their hands.
We walked for a while in silence. We met more whores, both old and young. For those coming to this side of the city for the first time, they would probably think that almost every woman had turned to this cheap old profession. It was a horrible sight.
'Has life grown this bad too in the city? Are these people not afraid of the menacing AIDS dieses? Brother, am I dreaming or what?'� came the question from Nhamo. He really looked shocked.
'Move on and leave this city madness alone. We are living through a tough time where people sacrifice their dear life for a morsel of food. Life has lost meaning and value this part of the world. What you are seeing is just tip of the iceberg. Hunger has forced people to do dangerous things, all I a bid to survive. Lets move on faster lest you miss the train,'� I said pulling Nhamo by the hand.
'I hope this madness has not got to South Africa. This is no good way of living. Something has to be done soon or else this country is never going anywhere. All systems are down,'� cried Nhamo shaking his head.
'The police sometimes raid all people who just loiter around and make them pay a fine. It's only that the people are very daring. This dirt way of living is now like blood and oxygen to them,'� I explained.
'Surely the police must never tire of doing the clean-up exercise, because this is really bad,'� complained Nhamo. He seemed to have slowed down his pace.
'Lets move Nhamo, let's move. When the time is ripe people will stop this madness and focus on real bread and butter issues. Don't worry the time will come. Time has the answer to all the questions in your head. Now lets move,'� I said as if to finalise the whole conversation. I was tired. I was hungry. I was angry about the hopelessness of the world around me.


Maxwell Mutami 2005

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