El Nino effect in pictures

The way I now anticipate rains like a farmer!  To think that at some point when I was still dating, I hated it when it rained.  Then it would become difficult to justify walking out into the rain “to see a friend”. My strict parents would say, “What friend would ask you to go out when it’s pouring like this?”

Never in my life have I been this hot. There was a day when I walked to the shops and felt as if my shoes were melting on my feet. Last year I had a bumper harvest of sorts from my little garden. This year the same garden has been a sorry sightL. The dams are an even sorrier sight. I managed to take a few hurried photos of dams and rivers in Swaziland, Mozambique and Zimbabwe.  How we will get through the year with so little water available is actually quite a scary prospect. Trees and grass are growing where dams used to exist. We just have to keep praying for the best. 

Save River in Mozambique

What used to be a river on the Chivhu-Beitbridge Road, Zimbabwe

Critically low water levels in Rusape Dam, Zimbabwe. All those rocks used to be submerged at some point

That whole area my family is walking on was the centre of the Rusape dam

All the four pictures above represent my "bumper harvest" from my garden last year. J

We enjoyed many meals like this one a lot last year, the green is pumpkin leaves, a family favourite

How the garden looked this year :'(

This was all we harvested this year

Filth never looked so good!

Let me give you the low down on acrylic nails. Don’t be fooled by these beauties. They look good enough to eat, but they must rank among the worst habitats for germs. They are quite inconvenient too! You can hardly perform even the simplest chores with these nails. I’ve had people get really frustrated with me at till points as I try to pick a coin from the shelf. It’s a real chore! I also used to struggle with typing on my touchscreen phone until I saw another woman with her own set of bright-coloured artificial nails using her knuckles. Brilliant!

I don’t think acrylic nails are meant for people like myself – people who do their own household errands like change diapers, apply bum cream, apply floor polish, do laundry by hand, bake scones (an absolute nightmare!). Things get inside the fake nails and you’re always digging them out. It’s real hard labour.

I visited my parents during the festive season and there was no electricity. I  had just got my nails done in order to look good at Christmas. We had to cook outside on the fire. The nails were not happy, neither was I. They started breaking and discoloured. I ended up regretting getting them done because I don’t know how to remove them at home. I would have had to go to a salon to get that done. Needless to say, I won’t be getting them done anytime soon. They are a lovely beauty accessory, but they are just not meant for me. Maybe they are for the likes of Beyoncé, Rihanna, and Oprah Winfrey who don’t necessarily need to lift a finger to perform manual labour around the home. If I have to attend an important function, I might have them done but would need to have them removed shortly afterwards to avoid inconvenience. That, however, would not make sense because I pay about R150 to get them done, and I sit for not less than one-ahd-half hours while I'm at it. All that only to go back again to pay to have them removed? What a waste of money in these times of drought and many people are starving. 

The grave issue surrounding repatriation

Because of the current fiscal crisis in Zimbabwe, millions of people have moved to greener pastures all over the globe. Those who have migrated to other countries have done a great job keeping the wolf from their families’ doors by sending back money for sustenance. Many of these people, particularly those in the West, spend many years without coming back home because it’s probably too expensive for them to do so, or they haven’t regularized their papers to enable them to be accepted back after the visit to Zimbabwe. I know people who left for the UK decades ago and have never come back home, not even for their parents’ funerals. They start their own families with people their parents have never met or might never meet, and just connect with their families over the phone and via social media. I’m not very far from home but my visits there are very few and far between, and when I make them, they are very frenzied because there are many people to see in so little time. I can’t begin to imagine how it must be to never visit your birth country.

Like everybody else, people in the diaspora die. I’ve witnessed many very sad events when families just wake up to the news that one of their own has died in the UK. People get into a tailspin wondering where to start, where to get money to repatriate the body of their loved one. Culturally, people believe everyone should be buried close to their ancestors, and anyone buried in foreign lands is deemed to have been “thrown away”. Should calamity strike the family at some point after the foreign burial, they start fearing that it’s the deceased’s spirit which is anguished for not being buried in the land of their fathers.   Some have been lucky to have their deceased relatives’ friends and colleagues fundraise for repatriation. Others sadly just grieve at home and have to contend with pictures of the funeral sent by well-wishers.

I don’t really think where someone is buried has bearing on life afterwards. It’s not like they are bringing you to sit at the dinner table with them. They are still going to throw you away. I do understand, however, that after not seeing a family member for decades, then you’re told they have passed, you might want to see their remains, hold a vigil for them, sing and dance the whole night, witness their burial with your own two eyes, and be able to visit the grave to place flowers before you can get closure. It’s particularly harder for the older generation. They will hold family meetings and declare that there’s no way their child will be buried in a foreign land. Then they chill and wait for others to cough up because all they have is their wish for their child to come home, no two cents to rub together whatsoever.

Some of my friends in the diaspora told me that they don’t mind being buried where they are, and think all the money spent on repatriation is a waste. Unfortunately they haven’t expressed their sentiments to their families, who will insist on bringing them home. I think the decision to be buried abroad should be communicated well in advance so that people can explain themselves to their families, and people can make peace with it. It can be infuriating for the extended family when meetings are held following a death, whatsapp groups are formed with their names forcibly added,  and coercion is used to make people contribute for the transportation of the deceased’s remains. In their off-shoot clusters people will jabber about how the deceased used to be a picture of success on Facebook, going to holidays and stuff, and even bought iPhones and cars and built houses for his parents. Why didn’t he have the presence of mind to invest in a repatriation policy?

Among the most difficult things to discuss in life are funeral plans. We do not like to harbour morbid thoughts. We have so much to live for – our jobs, families, friends, and life in general. Thinking or talking about our mortality is like throwing a wet blanket on a roaring fire. Some people are only concerned with immediate consumption and believing “tomorrow will take care of itself,” which couldn’t be further from the truth. Tomorrow never takes care of itself, you have to take care of it. But we all know that death is certain and we should make plans for it while we still can.

Avoiding certain conversations usually results in people being caught flat-footed and struggling with issues that would have been very easy to handle had they been managed appropriately. We need to talk to our families about where want to be buried or if we choose cremation, what would we want done with the ashes, what do we want done on our memorial services, things like that. It won’t be an easy conversation because the red flag always goes up in people’s heads when you start discussing details of your funeral. They associate that with suicidal tendencies.

Repatriating a body, especially one of an uninsured person can be a long and wearisome experience, particularly for those already reeling from the loss. It is fraught with a lot of paperwork, expenses and bureaucratic procedures that will send one into a tizzy. If you are in the diaspora, have that conversation with your family.

Below is what my friends think about repatriation:

Patricia*(UK)

I choose to be buried here where my kids are and will visit me daily if they wish to.

Martha* (UK)

I don’t want my body back to Zimbabwe. I’d rather the money be used on my child to pay school fees. I will be dead so no big deal. If my siblings have the money, they can repatriate. I feel it’s a waste. It’s better to use the money to travel to England, be on a plane for some of them for the first time and do the funeral. I’d rather get life, than funeral assurance. Families just need to be told that it costs an arm and a leg to repatriate a body from abroad. Even if you tell them your wish, people will just disregard it when you die.

Harriet*(US)

We buried my dad here, partly because our whole family was here and we thought it was better to bury him where we would be able to visit his grave easily, but partly because repatriation was $10 000 and we had just arrived here and didn’t have the money. My relatives were not ok with our decision but they were not willing to come up with the money which we asked them to do.  When I was in Uganda I always told my family, “Don’t go to the expense of taking my body to Zimbabwe. Cremate me and take the ashes.” 

*names changed

My father's grapevine

My father's grape vine

When I went to Zimbabwe for the holidays, I had a list of things I planned enjoying upon hitting home soil. I looked forward to enjoying peanut butter from Zimbabwe, especially the homemade stuff. You will never get anything better anywhere else. I also wanted my kids to enjoy the popular cereal, Cerevita, which I think should be ranked among the best cereals in the world. Matemba and mufushwa* were also up there on my wish list. But more than anything else, I hoped the grapes in my father’s little vineyard would be ripe in time for my visit.  

A plate of sadza, covo and matemba

That little vineyard was always his pride and joy, and he jealously protected it as he did us, his kids, and his dogs. We were not allowed anywhere near the grapes until they had become dark purple, or nearly black. If anyone stole a bunch, my father would know. It was as if he had counted all the clusters and knew them by name. No-one could come between my father and his grapes. It was always a sad day if a visitor came and headed straight for the grapes and started plucking the few ripe ones when we hadn’t had a taste of them because my father would say, “Imbomirai anyatsoti tsvaa!” (Wait till they become quite dark).

When he felt the time was right, it would usually be an afternoon during the weekend, he would take a dish and pick the grapes himself and place them on the table. We would all swarm up to the table and savour the bitter sweet dark grapes that we would have spent our whole lives waiting for. There are grapes in Swaziland, all varieties, but I just could not wait to get my hands on my father’s. They have their own unique taste, and I guess I just wanted to eat them because having to wait for them so many times made them really special.

In 2001, it was the same story of waiting for the grapes until anyatsoti tsvaa! They would usually be the right colour (in my father’s eyes) around late mid-February depending on how good the rains were, I guess. Unfortunately one of my favourite uncles, Aggrey, died at Rusape Hospital on the 20^th of January. As is custom in the township, people flocked to our house to convey their condolences. The women traditionally sit inside the house where they sit on the floor, sing and chat in hushed tones. The men take the couches out of the house and find a shade to place them and they sit and chat as well. In this instance, they chose to see under the grape vine. So they sat, chatted, and devoured grapes. We went to Dowa for the funeral, and upon returning, discovered there was nothing to show that grapes ever grew on that vine. We were extremely sad – for the loss of our uncle and the disappearance of the grapes. We felt robbed. We were angry with our father and his adherence to dark grapes. We could have just enjoyed them even when they were semi-dark.

The grapes my father sent me 

Going back to when I visited home in 2015, sadly the grapes were still quite raw and green. A few times I saw my husband and my sister’s husband lurking under the grape tree, picking a few ripe ones and ruefully thought my father was growing soft. That was not allowed in our time and I didn’t even attempt to follow in their footsteps. I obeyed the rules. We left Rusape when the grapes were still green and I felt like there was a void in my heart. After many years away from home I was going to go without eating THE GRAPESL. While we were in Harare, my father called one morning and said he had sent something with the conductor of a kombi written ‘Sister Chido’ at the back and he also texted his number. (Public transport operators have become the chosen mode of sending money and packages across towns In Zimbabwe. Not only is this method quicker, it is also more reliable than the postal service which was always fraught with strikes, and in many cases, missing packages.)  We found the conductor and he gave us a shoe box wrapped in an OK carrier bag. With keen fingers, I unwrapped the gift, and lo and behold – dark grapes. I mentally punched the air with my fist and said, “This is what I’m talking about. This is coming home!”J

I’m sure my father had registered my sadness at going away without eating his grapes, even though I had not vocalized it. For him it was a small gesture, but for me it became a treasured memory, and that’s why it has found space on this page.

*Mufushwa is dried vegetables. They could be kale, cabbage, cowpeas leaves and other wild varieties. I prefer the wild ones and cowpeas leaves, which I boil and mix with peanut butter. Yum yum! 

Guests from hell

When I was still quite young, below 10, my father’s distant relative visited us from the rural areas with his wife and five undisciplined children. The husband and wife both were said to have some level of mental illness and lived in abject poverty. They were dressed in very dirty and tattered clothes and made a real spectacle as they walked down the road and descended on our house. Our house wasn’t very big, so when the seven of them came, we became quite a crowd. His children were all over the show clamoring, literally climbing walls, and everything you can expect from unruly children. He said he had just decided to visit my father because he missed him. Heartwarming as it was, we were all at the verge of tearing our hair out as the visitor and his family stole the show.

My father was quite frustrated and asked him, “Why do you move around with your whole family like this? He responded, “Sekuru, nzou hairemerwi nemusinga wayo.” (translated literally it means the elephant is not burdened by its own tusks, meaning one does not find it challenging to deal with their naturally given responsibilities. One should be equal to one's responsibilities**.)

In the townships, neighbours see everything. Our neighbour from across the road came from town with terrible news. She had just seen our guest and his family sitting in a restaurant in town enjoying refreshments. No guessing where they obtained the money for those refreshments! “I think they’re coming back, ”the neighbour said. We all wanted to faint. Sure enough, towards sunset, our street was treated to another spectacle as the guest and his family sashayed back to our house. History from the previous night repeated itself.

The next day, my father took him and his family to the bus, paid the fare himself, and did not leave until the bus departed.

Over the years, I’ve also had a fair share of guests from hell, guests who make you feel too scared to get out of bed or come back home from work because they would have just taken over, like the camel in *this story. I once hosted a bully who would demand a specific blanket I was using saying that’s the one she wanted to use. She would also come to the kitchen as I was dishing. I used to dish directly onto the plates, not in a bowl for everyone to serve themselves. She would come and her eyes would dart around the plates before settling on one. She would stretch her hand and point towards the chosen one. “I want that one!” she would declare. She also became best friends with my helper, and every time I turned my back, they would burst out laughing.

I also hosted another who would turn down the food we offered, waltz into the kitchen and start preparing her favourite dishes without even asking. We would just sit there like spectators and watched her do her thing like she owned the place.

My late brother-in-law was an amazing guest. He would wake up, do his bed, clean his room, and he would sometimes even wash his plate after eating if the dishes had already been done.

It’s difficult to start dishing out dos and don’ts when guests arrive because you may end up coming across as uptight and people might end up feeling very uncomfortable. I’ve been hosted in places where I was really distressed by the treatment I got or the general atmosphere, and would hate for anyone that visits me to feel that way. At the same time, I would not want the guests to be way so comfortable that I become uncomfortable on my own turf. I don’t think I’m a fussy hostess, but here is what I expect of my guests:

• Observe meal times. After preparing meals, I want to rest, not have to wait on someone who decides to have their own timetable.
• If you are not allergic to what’s on the table, please just eat it. Don’t get all uppity on me and cook separate meals because I budget for the month and your preferences might set me off. There are exceptions to this rule, though. there are people that have free reign of my house and can request what they would like me to cook for them because they also spoil me when I visit them.
• If you have your own special food that you would like to eat, not because you are allergic to mine, by all means you can buy and cook it or if you can’t, just ask. I would gladly help.
• Relax. Don’t be rigid. If you have to go out early, let me know the night before so that I can wake up aware that there is an early meal to prepare. I don’t want to suddenly have to run around as if there is an emergency when you knew all along that you had an early day.
• Do your own bed.
• If you are a woman, please help out with the cleaning, cooking, serving, anything. Don’t just sit and prattle away while I work like a flogged horse. 

Below are some of my friends’ stories about some obnoxious habits their guests exhibited. All names have been changed, just in case the guests come across this post and decide to pay them another visit!

Georgina

I dislike visitors who don’t clean up after toilet or bathing, don’t spread their beds and ask me or the helper too many questions, e.g. how much was the table, ndidzo nguva dzinodzoka baba vepano? (Goodness! Is this the time your husband comes back home?)

Monica

They had stinking shoes and general bad odour, such that it was hard even to use the bathroom after them. They had bad habits in as far as personal hygiene was concerned. I couldn’t solve it because they missed vital lessons growing up. Too bad!

Thando

I hosted my aunt’s daughter who wanted to be treated like a queen even when she didn’t contribute anything in the house. She was selective on everything from bathing soap to lotion to food to TV channels, and would mercilessly raid the fridge. For instance id buy fruits and juices which were supposed to last for a certain period but you would just helplessly watch her consume things at an alarming pace. She was also a student on attachment who would expect you to transport her to work. She later went to South Africa for a post grad and also butted heads with my sister who was now looking after her. Her behaviour was a huge embarrassment with my brother-in-law. When she started working, they never saw her money and she expected them to cater for her every need including buying her bath foam and special hair shampoo as her skin was ‘sensitive to soaps. She would wash dishes wearing industrial gloves.

 Fay

I had one who started arranging her cosmetics in my bathroom – a lipstick here, the eyeliner there…  I simply took a plastic, put all her things, gave her and said, “Here are you things. Don’t leave them in the bathroom.” She would leave the comb with hair on it in the bathroom. I simply threw the comb in the bin. I don’t like to be stressed under my own roof so I do what makes me happy.

Cleo

We tell our guests the house rules as soon as they arrive. I only make breakfast for my husband. If the guest wants to go out between the time hubby eats and our own breakfast time, then he prepares his own food. I once had serious problems with visitors who didn’t want to respect our residential complex rules and made lots of noise. Another was storing dangerous stuff in the garage. He would go out and steal diesel by draining it from haulage trucks, and he would keep it in the garage. I threatened to report him and he stopped. One of our other rules is that married people are not allowed to bring friends of the opposite sex. If they are not married, we don’t want them bringing different boys or girls home.

Miriam                                                                   

I found work for my friend and helped her relocate to stay with me. I hosted her for one month and she didn’t cook or do house chores. I used to do her laundry when I was doing mine, but she would only take hers only when doing laundry and would use my washing powder. I did her laundry because we were using the same basket so I thought it impolite to do mine only. I saw that she didn’t want to move out, so when there emerged a vacant house nearby I quickly told her and pushed her to move.

I think the best way to deal with difficult guests it to be open about how you do things from the beginning. But sometimes we want to be the perfect hostesses and forget that we are actually stifling our own happiness and comfort all in the name of accommodating people who are just being selfish.

Mary

I once hosted a cousin and everyday he would bring his own guest for dinner. You can imagine the inconvenience of having to put an extra plate. So at times he would finish work late and I would put his plate of food in the microwave and tell him your food is in the microwave. It’s so irritating to serve food twice.

Sue
If I host i will tell the guest to feel free in my kitchen for self-service. I don't want to feel inconvenienced, unless if the person is challenged somehow. I don't have time. 

Julia

They come as guests and end up wanting to compare how you do your stuff in your house with how they know. It was my honourable mother-in-law. It was the worst nightmare of the month. She would criticize even her beloved son. As far as she was concerned, my helper was eating too much food, watching TV too much and was not respecting me, I was too friendly with her, my husband, her son was not man enough to put order in the house…Finally it got to the top of my head and I stood my ground and told the son to discipline his mom. She never had the ear to listen so I ended up just ignoring her snide remarks and we ended up understanding each other.

The advice I would give is don’t even change your system. The guests have to adapt. It’s your house and your rules.

**Obtained from this page