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! 

Anecdotes about township life

Recently some loved ones lost a sister, who was just discovered lying dead in her apartment. She had not complained of an ailment and didn’t do drugs or anything like that. The family was very distressed over what could have happened to her and pinned their hopes on results from the post mortem. Unfortunately the post mortem results were inconclusive, so the family will always wonder what happened to their loved one…

Commenting on this, one of my friends said, “That’s the UK for you, most anti-social country I have ever seen. And if you don’t network, might be a year or more before anyone even notices you are dead. If you are a casual worker, no one will raise the alarm that you’re missing. They will just think you got another job.” That is really quite sad. I was raised in a high density suburb, and a thing like that would never happen. Neighbours are always a stone’s throw away and always keep an eye on the goings-on next door. In my post All about my recent visit to Zimbabwe, I mentioned how communal life is in the area that I was raised. Neighbours actually talk to each other. You don’t get out of your gate and not meet one of the neighbours. If you are sick, they will know about it, because they will ask if you’re OK.

Children playing on the street in Rusape, Zimbabwe

Everybody knows everyone, including their occupation and denomination. Sometimes your occupation would be used as a surname. When I was a child, I remember there was Mbuya Ruredzo Mustawara (Gran Ruredzo the Watchtower. She was actually Jehovah’s Witness but people had their own way of addressing her.) Then there was Smart Mbavha (Smart the thief), and Lizzy Muhure (Lizzy the prostitute). There were times when we got first-time visitors. All they needed to do was get off the bus, approach the nearest vendor and ask if they knew were my family lived. They would immediately be pointed in the right direction. Try doing that at Bree or Manzini rank and you will immediately become laughing stock. Life in “the suburbs” is hostile.  I got new neighbours about five months ago and I don’t even know their faces. I just know their car, which I see driving past my house every day.

My friend Erica said she missed people just rocking up on your doorstep without making appointments, which is almost unheard of now among people of my generation. They expect their parents to let them know in advance that they plan to visit. A mere neighbour doesn’t stand a chance.

There was never a lack of entertainment in the township. News spread like veld fire in the township. It would get really hectic if the news wasn’t so positive for your family, because it spread faster than the funeral ones. If your child got arrested or pregnant, or if your husband was sleeping with some known prostitute, everyone would know. There were many occasions when our parents had to chase us into the house when a prostitute or mistress tore down the street in her birthday suit after being caught in the act by a livid wife who had just arrived from the rural areas. There were also fights between husbands and their wives. I remember our neighbours who always fought and before long the husband would run down the street like a bat out of hell, with the wife in hot pursuit.

Now everyone wants to move away from the high density suburbs because they think staying there is a sign that you have failed in life, you have stagnated. Townships, especially in Zimbabwe, are now associated with filth – inappropriate refuse disposal, rivulets of raw sewage, outbreaks of diarrhoea, noise, and overpopulation.  Back then, things were more orderly and cleaner.

Life was so much safer back then. Now you have to keep your eyes on your child because there sex predators always lurking in the shadows. My husband mentioned how we didn’t really need TV because children could play on the streets until they were dog-tired. Then in the evening they would sleep better than the kids we are raising now. Mine sometimes only fall asleep at 2330 hours!
This is what Ngoni, my friend, had to say about township life: I miss the Ubuntu, the camaraderie and the unity of people. Everyone knows each other, and when you've been away for long and go back home, the whole neighbourhood comes to see you. they want to see how you have changed, what you  would have brought, etc, but in all that curiosity and gossip they do do care about each other."
And care they do! When someone from the neighbourhood dies or loses a loved one, there are women who go around collecting mealie meal and monetary offerings to take to the grieving family. 

I could go on and on about the happenings in the townships and never finish the half of it. Life was good during my time there, and one would certainly not die all alone without anyone noticing for days.