Why I began to hate Robert Mugabe

By Fanuel Nsingo

‘Imi vakuru machinja mwoyo seiko, nhasi uno?'(Lead vocals – Rodrick Chemudhara)

‘Imi vakuru machinja mwoyo seiko, nhasi uno?'(Backing vocals – Manyowa & Co.)’

‘Imari here yamave nayo imi kuzotifuratira?'(R. Chemudhara) …

‘Imi vakuru machinja mwoyo seiko, nhasi uno?'(Manyowa & Co.)’

‘Idhora here ramave naro imi kuzongochinja mwoyo?'(R. Chemudhara)

‘Imi vakuru machinja mwoyo seiko, nhasi uno?'(Manyowa & Co.)’

This is a sad song by the Tembo Brothers questioning the powers-that-be why they have neglected the poor and weak yet they keep promising the electorate heaven and earth.

As Rodrick Chemudhara hits the opening lyrics, Manyowa’s backing voice stands out from the other backing vocalists, ‘Imi vakuru machinja mwoyo seiko, nhasi uno?!

Manyowa’s pleading voice represents the many silent voices of poverty-stricken Zimbabweans. Manyowa’s voice is the voice of reason.

Just like other ageing Zimbabweans, you would think that Manyowa is an ugly man, yet it is poverty that exhibits itself on his defeated face.

Maybe one of the early hits of the Dendera Kings will prove my point, ‘Kunyangara chete kumeso nekuti ndachembera nehurombo…!’, which literally means that I may seem ugly but it is poverty which is causing me to age faster.

The wrinkles’ on the majority of elderly Zimbabweans are the wrinkles of poverty. They are historical lines on one’s face that detail many hardships and challenges one has experienced throughout their life as a Zimbabwean.

This quickly revives my memories of belonging to ZANU(PF) and struggling to survive at the same time. The trouble started in 1995 when I joined ZANU(PF), and I will always regret that day.

We were ordered by Didymus Mutasa to beat up any MDC supporters and would be afforded protection from prosecution by ‘the man himself.’

These are the exact words that Mutasa echoed each time our team was becoming weak in the knees, and his words obviously meant that Robert Mugabe would ensure our freedom as we willy-nilly continued to harass opposition supporters.

During the land grabs we ganged-up with war veterans and CIO agents and managed to chase almost every white farmer from their land. We were then told by the war vets to keep some grabbed farms for ourselves and our families, which I did without hesitation.

Many promises were made that ‘Mudhara,’ as Mugabe is called by all party loyalists, would reward us and ensure that our farms and plots are utilised to the maximum. We were promised fertilisers and seeds. There were also promises of regular money to assist us in our daily lives.

Many years afterwards, it began to dawn on me and other party thugs that ‘Mudhara’ had reneged on his promises. It was now clear that Mugabe and his ZANU(PF) had used us.

The pattern of events was easy to sum it all. During elections, party leaders would revive our marriage but as soon as it was over, it was back to being forgotten.

We only tasted meat during campaigns, cooked in drums, to prove that we are dogs and don’t deserve better. It bothers me that we did not notice these nitty-gritties since we were hungry without food in our homes.

At one such gathering in Rusape, we fought for food like baboons with the cooks and a certain well-known vagabond known as ‘Mukwasha’ suddenly dipped his arm into a drum full of meat and was badly burnt.

His name is a short form for ‘Muswerakuendamukuwashawezuva’ -which means the one who is always roaming around for no reason at all. Yet we were not deterred by Mukwasha’s antics with his unbathed arm, as we thought that he was attempting to cause us to abandon our delicacy and then have it all himself!

I also remember the other day we went to Chinhoyi to help Phillip Chiyangwa during his campaign. The man and his family ate the most expensive food whilst we were served from the drums, and rumours were that he drank the most expensive wine.

That was when I witnessed the great-divide between many Zimbabweans and ZANU (PF) leaders who keep calling themselves champions of the poor masses.

When diamonds were discovered in parts of Mutare, I decided to join the bandwagon in an attempt to engage in illegal dealing. But my attempts were short-lived as soldiers rounded us up and handcuffed us. We were then released after a thorough hiding.

My hopes did not die down as I soon met my former classmate, who had brought our local growth point to a standstill as he drank beer on a daily basis, since he was visiting from South Africa where he is a truck driver.

He wore expensive clothing and spent his money with the utmost extravagance. Most of the ladies stuck to him and kept fighting amongst themselves in order to fend off other potential competitors.

I then made up my mind to cross the borders to South Africa, ‘the land of hope,’ even without a passport, adamant that my return to my land of birth would bring everybody on their toes.

Memories of my classmate and his spendthrift kept flooding my mind, therefore I convinced my wife that I was going to Jozi, as we call it back home.

She pleaded with me not to try but her advice fell on deaf ears. She recounted many stories how such and such had been deported from South Africa only to return to Zimbabwe with nothing but I told her that my classmate was two years younger than me, therefore I should be doing better than him.

‘Mupfanha uyu!'(He’s a small boy) I thundered. ‘Ndaimurova kumombe uyu tichikura!'(I used to hit him whilst growing up as we herded cattle).

I then insulted my wife and threatened her with many serious consequences until she gave me the last money she had saved from the sale of two bags of maize some time ago.

I then caught up with two guys from a certain village who were going to South Africa through the bushes for the first time, just like myself.

We stayed in Beitbridge for at least two weeks ‘listening to the wind,’ as we gathered information how easily to cross over to ‘Israel’ – the promised land.

It was a good strategy to also discover the whereabouts of the ‘Amaguma-guma,’ the bush thugs that steal from those trying to illegally cross into South Africa through the bushes.

Many stories have been told that these thugs rape women and also beat up anybody that has no money on them.

One night we got wind that the western side was clear then we joined a group of other illegals on their way into South Africa. We walked through the bushes and navigated the night like hyenas.

But our high expectations suddenly came to a halt when we were suddenly surrounded by dangerous men brandishing very shiny butchers’ knives, catapults and knobkerries, just a few metres before the Limpopo river.

Our whole group scattered into different directions and I soon found myself back in Beitbridge, with scars all over my body from the pricking bushes as I was running for dear life.

When I came to my senses, I was shocked to realise that I was wearing one shoe, and the other foot was bleeding from thorns.

The next morning I bought a pair of Chinese slippers by the flea markets and took the first bus back to Harare, and upon reaching Harare I took the one heading straight to my homeland, Rusape.

Upon reaching our growth point, Tsanzaguru, I waited in the bushes till night-time, then I invisibly tip-toed my way back to my home.

My wife was shocked when I knocked at the door as she asked, ‘Ndiani mahusiku ano?'(Who is knocking this very night) and I responded, ‘Ndini baba VaNhamo!’ (It’s I, Nhamo’s father).

I was happy to be back home safe, forget my classmate, he can keep his South Africa. ZANU (PF) was the cause of all my struggles. I began to hate Robert Mugabe and stopped aiding his campaigns.

I secretly vowed to vote the opposition. In the next elections I would be voting for the MDC, although it remains a deep secret. Not even my wife would know of my intentions to free myself from poverty. Only the ballot was my last hope!

One day I was sitting outside my house playing the Tembo Brothers cassette when my full-time ZANU (PF) neighbour arrived, then I immediately pressed the ‘STOP’ button.

We talked a little while about the next scheduled party meeting. I told him I was not feeling well therefore he should apologise on my behalf. As soon as he left, I hit the ‘PLAY’ button.

‘Mazuva arikupera ayo! Ko zvapasiri kusara munya tichakokoteiko hama?!(Time is ticking away as we have become friends with poverty)

Hayaya, madhara eZANU aya! (These ZANU(PF) goons! I give up!)

Fanuel Nsingo is author of the ZimRadicals blog