By Charles Matorera (above) It was late around eleven at night, and I was coming from the Corner Studio where I was busy trying to record my debut musical album.
I arrived at the taxi rank of Luveve and Gwabalanda. There was only one taxi loading, probably the last one. Like in Johannesburg, taxis in Bulawayo fill up from the back seat. It was an eighteen-seater Toyota Hiace because it sat four people in every row and two front passengers. The conductor who sat anywhere behind the front passenger seat was the nineteenth passenger, as it were.
The back seat was full, so was the second. I was the first to sit on the third seat from the back, which was also the third from the front seat.
I went and sat next to the far right window opposite the combi’s sliding door. Soon after I took my seat, in came two guys of about my age; mid twenties, both of them tall and slim with dreadlocks. They looked like brothers.
Something about them drew my attention. Was it their similarity in appearance? No, I quickly figured out that it was the odd smell of tobacco, they were smoking! I hate smoke as much as a Muslim is reputed to hate pork. I was angry, how could these guys come smoking in a confined place like a combi? I knew if I was in Harare I could have raised hell, but here I was in a new town where a strange language was spoken so I kept my cool and tried to inform them politely. I tried to muster my best Ndebele as I had learnt on the national radio. I said to the guy next to me who was now pulling the cigarette “
Eh mfowethu phela mina angizwani nogwayi” (My brother, I do not go along with smoke).
He quickly saw that I was a Shona, from such a little statement. I could see by the way his eyes brightened; then he blew all the smoke from his lungs to my face saying: “
Eh mkoma seyi phelile phela!” using the Shona word for big brother mockingly (It’s almost finished); showing me the cigarette which was only half finished.
With the cloud of smoke on my face I realized that he would blow smoke on my face until he finished it. I moved my right hand fast and pulled out the cigarette from his fingers and threw it out of the window very fast. He shouted angrily, informing his friend who was sitting next to him on the other side.
All this time, people were filing in and in no time the taxi was full and moving. We passed Jairos Jiri Centre of the Disabled whilst the two guys were trying to beating me and I was hitting the guy next to me with my left elbow. You know how crammed the full taxis of Africa are. There was not much space to fight anyone, but we were noisily pushing and pulling each other. A guy further from me was able to tower over his friend and beat me with sharp short claps on my forehead, swearing "You Shonas were killing us in the Gukurahundi war!" He was talking about a war which took place when I was six years old.
The taxi driver suddenly stopped the car and shouted: “
Ngubani uba ngumsindo?” (Who is making noise?).
The guys were quick as I was very slow to respond because I had to translate the message and then translate the answer before I answered.
Those other guys quickly said: “Ngulo umkhoba lo o’lahlile ugwayi bethu!" (It’s this possessed guy who throw away our cigarette) The other one shouted: "A full packet of ten cigarettes!" Before I even responded the driver shouted: “He must get out now!”
The conductor quickly opened the sliding door, vacating his sitting possession to give room to my exit. Those two guys were also supposed to get out, opening passage for my exit.
My mind was pondering my situation because here we were in an open space near a railway flyover between Nguboyenja and mMpopoma suburbs. The magnificent Bouborfields stadium looming to our North. The previous day, when my cousin Madlamini took me for an orientation journey she had specifically pointed out this open space as one of the very dangerous robbery spots, with some victims being found stabbed to death in the morning.
I was very weak, powerless and gripped with self-blame. I stood up slowly. Some people pushed me from behind, shouting: “It’s very late, we want to go and rest; get out!” But a woman sitting on the far right shouted in deep Ndebele: "How can you leave this guy here? He was fighting for the health of all of us!" Unfortunately she was the only person on my side, and being a woman none could listen to her.
The driver who was very big in structure and dark in complexion stared at me with a steady gaze; then I detected a tremor on his eyes. I looked at myself and realized that I was wearing a police T-shirt inside my bomber jacket. The badge of Zimbabwe Republic – Police (ZRP) was clearly emblazoned on my chest. I had forgotten that in the afternoon I had visited my old school mate who was now a police officer residing at Rose Camp, in downtown Bulawayo. He liked my blue and white rugby jersey which I brought from South Africa. He liked it because the Blue Bulls colours were the same as Zimbabwe’s Dynamos Football club, so we had exchanged and he gave me this marathon T-shirt of the police which bore regional marks of Matebeland North.
I quickly realised that I was supposed to be a police officer right now or face the merciless knife-wielding robbers out there. I shouted in a deep terrifying Shona voice: “Hoo nhai! This is what you are doing here in Bulawayo, tribalism? Now you are going to face hell. Driver, turn the vehicle back to the Charge Office." I commanded. “
No Shefu, isu tinoshanda zvakanaka namapolisa!” (We have a good working relationship with the police) said the driver. I was very much aware that the situation in Zimbabwe had deteriorated to the extent that it could even be dubbed a police state.
He shouted for the conductor to jump inside and in milliseconds the taxi was back on the road, but proceeding towards Luveve. “I was meaning those tsotsies that they must get out. In this taxi no police officer pays even if he is not in uniform”! The driver continued in accented Shona. He ordered his conductor to give me back my taxi fare.
Then someone from behind grabbed my shoulder and said: “Thank you guys, if it wasn’t for you Shona Police Officers we could all be dead here in Bulawayo. There is too much tribalism.” Then there were many voices agreeing also in Shona. "So where do you come from?" I asked him. "Masvingo sir, Chief Gutu area." he answered jovially. Then the other from the backseat shouted “I come from Rusape !” And there were others shouting Shona places: “MtDarwin, Mtoko, Guruve”
I was now angry. I asked loudly - for the whole combi to hear, saying: “Shonas, how many are you?” After a careful count, eleven were Shonas which means they were the majority even here. I said: "Now some of you back there, you were pushing me to get out. You are the majority here but you never tried to help me. Why can’t you stand up for what is right? You know that smoking in public, mostly in a public transport is not only a crime but a health hazard but you chose to be quiet and carry the story to other Shonas telling of how tribalism is still rife here in Bulawayo; but you have the power to help end it but you do not employ it. You are a disgrace to this country!"
I looked out of the window and realised that I had let my anger carry me again. The taxi was now passing a school in Lobengela West which was my geographical landmark. I told the driver to stop, he tried to insist that he would leave me at the door but I refused. Maybe if I was a real police officer I could have agreed. I thanked the Ndebele lady who tried to help me and went out of the combi planning to pack my bags and leave for Harare the following morning.
EpilogueThe following morning I sat with my aunt MaMoyo in her dining room. After listening to my story, she said: "Do you remember the old African proverb 'travelling is seeing'?" I nodded, "My nephew you will only know about other people when you go to their places. Ask yourself how many Ndebeles are treated like that in Shona speaking areas, or how many ugly names are given to people from Malawi in Harare? Think of the Vendas in Sotho areas, Kalangas in Tonga areas and so forth. The only people who are safe from tribal remarks are those who grow up in the same land where they were born and die there for they will be ignorant to other languages and cultures and they are usually the perpetrators of xenophobic crimes," I sat there in the old house pondering her powerful words. I decided against leaving Bulawayo; maybe I had to learn more about the local ways and customs. I watched my aunt's grandchildren who were preparing to go to school. They knew no other language other than Ndebele, no other city other than Bulawayo, I thought of the world waiting for them…
* Charles Matorera is a Free State based Zimbabwean writer
