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!