Ken Mufuka: It is not well with Diasporans!

By Professor Ken Mufuka

No, it is not about material goods. We have everything we ever dreamt of materially. I look outside my window, and I can see four cars and yet only two Diasporans live here.

I have been asked many times what my first impression about the United States was, and my answer comes readily. I stayed in Texas for a year. It was the first time I saw, “all you can eat, one price.”

Yet, this week in particular, I felt that all was not well with Diasporans. In such times, when my spirit is troubled, I try to telephone Fabian Mabaya in Masvingo, just to hear his voice. Two incidences troubled my soul to no end. I could not sleep for three days, and my inquiries were directed at two specific names.

When I finally got through to one of them, I asked, “Sekuru, is your health alright. I am worried. I have been trying to get hold of you for three days.” He replied with a question. “Do you remember your little mainini, Cheni? We buried her two days ago.”

After a day, a friend in Scotland telephoned to say that she had finally traced the name I had given her. My longtime friend of 30 years was in mourning. His daughter had been shot dead at a club in London.

It never rains in the Congo, it pours. My little Uncle, Mukorekore, whom I sponsored through college at Lander University, was in a state of distress. A brilliant student, his professors were certain he would go places. Indeed, at 25, he landed himself a job in the banking world. Surely, he was somebody.

So what in the world could go wrong? I will tell you and I think that this is the gist of my letter from America. During a period of marital turbulence, his American in-laws had descended on his house, “loaded his wife and son into a limousine,” dispatched the furniture, cut of the lights, and went away without saying a word.

I think religious people call this disease absentia communis (the absence of belonging) when one is surrounded by folks whom one considered neighbours and kindred, only to find out that there is no kindred spirit between you and them.

Where is Bishop Chikosi when I need him, because I am approached by young men seeking direction? What shall I say? Here is a young man who walked on water, and believed that he was one of them, at least that he had been accepted in Samaria, only to realise, in his hour of most need, that he was not one of them.

There are two issues here, but I will not delay.

Marriage of convenience

After graduating with the baccalaureate degree, Zimbabwean students often find themselves in the netherworld, between the devil and the deep sea. They cannot go home to Zimbabwe. Their sponsorship has come to an end. ICE (Immigration Enforcement) wants them physically out of the US within 365 days of graduation.

The student is utterly left alone. The sponsor is through with him/her. One way out is a marriage of convenience. Ambitious students may proceed for medical training. Any field in that area will take a minimum of four years, and one needs a reliable financial surrogate.

“If you want to speak to Tafa, you must speak through me,” a Zimbabwean mother was crying on my shoulder. In order to witness her son’s graduation, she received a ticket from her son’s surrogate, all arrangements and transfers were made.

With a month to go before her return, this woman had quietly excused herself and was staying with me in South Carolina.

“My son is completely under the control of that (bad word). I cannot sit down to converse with him without her budging in and demanding to know what we are talking about. And he is like clay in her fingers.”

Where are you Bishop Chikosi when I need you? I think this is what is called a “Faustian grip.” The German Dr Faust accepted the devil’s elixir of perpetual youth. The fine print said that Lucifer, otherwise known as the devil, would come at midnight to take possession of Dr Faust’s heart.

My associate in Scotland says that Zimbabwean men, who had distinguished themselves at home, find themselves in this Faustian grip when they arrive in Britain.

Without a job, their movements are monitored by a telephone system called “pairing.” The woman monitors movements and telephone calls he makes and even snoops into WhatsApp conversations.

A former banker finds himself assuming the role of cook, nursemaid to their little children, and worse than death, feeling less than a man. His children boss him around, even saying, “Daddy, you are stupid.”

Rest

These problems are not necessarily racial. I remember my great aunt, Mai Tavarwisa, a drama queen. If she experienced marital turbulence at her house, of which she was the supreme provocateur, my mother would say, “Come to my house and rest. Some fresh air will do you some good.”

When she was retired, she would stay at my mother’s house for stretches of up to a month. Though I am supposed to counsel those who seek my help, I too, sometimes feel spiritually drained. With deteriorating economic conditions at home, we, Diasporans feel the excruciating pain of absentia communis.

(Writer acknowledges assistance from Tecla Wight of Scotland.) You can reach Professor Ken Mufuka on [email protected]. This article was originally published in the Financial Gazette