Roots, Nostalgia and Sundry

Let me begin by apologising for the personal nature of my post.

This Easter I went back to where it all began, or to be precise one of the places where it all began. Unlike Coldplay I was not travelling at the speed of sound, that aspect was handled by a Volkswagen Golf. "Das Auto" they say or the people's car. I went to spend part of my Easter at a farm in Kayuni which is ten kilometres from Monze town as you approach Monze from Lusaka.

      Das Auto

It is at this farm where Harry Mapulanga Hamusute is buried and it was my intention to visit his grave. This same Harry happens to be my father who died in 1989 at the not so old age of 35, if the records I have are anything to go by. I have a very foggy recollection of him and to be honest would not even recognise him if he resurrected today. Equally foggy are my memories of the funeral processions or my mother for that matter who two years later followed Harry and was buried with her people in Kampilu in Lundazi.

Deprived of both parents, I grew up under the stewardship of my father's elder brother at this very farm. When I reached school going age, I would alternate between going to school and herding cattle. Surprisingly I enjoyed both activities although I only excelled at one...school work. Herding cattle never really came naturally to me and try as I might the other kids always performed better than me. Come to think of it, it was not the herding of cattle per se as an activity that I never excelled at, it was the activities that came with being in the bush the whole day tending to cattle. Activities such as wrestling with the other kids, hunting birds and small rodents, swimming (to this day I can't swim and have finally given up trying to learn).

My father had earmarked the farm as a place where he could retire to in his old age. In readiness for that he had built a small structure there. However illness would accelerate his plans and force him into early retirement. It was without warning that we swapped the urban life for village life. Young as I was, I was aware that we had moved from the lights and television of urban living for some coarse village life. Harry tried to make the transition as smooth as possible, despite his illness. Buying a generator, building or rather attempting to build a reasonably bigger house and sinking a borehole within the yard's vicinity. His house still lies only three quarters finished to this day. Whoever remained in charge of his estate has never attempted to finish it despite Harry having bought enough building material.It goes without saying that the remaining building material has seen far too many a rainy season and has since disintegrated although if one looked critically they would see a piece of tile here, asbestos there and some blocks. His Elder brother, who we all call "father" took over then and remains on the farm to this day.

                        Getting re-acquainted

I suppose I never really belonged there, because just as I was about to go into grade five, my aunt came for me and took me to live with her in Chongwe. The rest as they say is history.

Over the years I have had pilgrimages to Kayuni and it has not escaped me how slowly but surely the place has deteriorated, from a thriving farming community with commercial size pieces of land to a land so bereft of life and vibrancy you would have a hard time reconciling it with its illustrious past. The farm next to ours belongs to Mr Namangala, who has since passed on and left it to his family. His too is the same tale of dilapidation that spans almost all the farms in Kayuni. The cattle economy crumbled ages ago when the government stopped supporting the communal deep-tank. Since then wave after wave of cattle disease has wiped out huge numbers of cattle.

Just like the place, the people that inhabit it are shells of their former selves. My father's elder brother known for his hot temper in his hey days sits staring into space, every once so often shaking his head. He reminds me of Ngotho in Ngugi Wa Thiongo's "Weep not Child" whose desscription to the effect that "if a child slapped him, he would gladly submit" fits on him. I ask him to tell me more about my father. All he says is that my father was just like me. He was educated and had began travelling the world before he met his untimely demise. He stands up, humming some unrecognizable tune walks gingerly into the house and comes back with a picture frame. He points to a bearded man seating at a table with a number of white people and says "that is your father when he was in Switzerland". To be honest it sounds as if he is saying "Swaziland" but I think he means "Switzerland" because of the number of white people present at the table.

This despair in people's eyes greatly bothers me. On Saturday we went to church. When I saw the people starring at my car, I immediately realised that it was a bad idea to have driven to church. But then the church is over a kilometre from the farm. I met people I once herded cattle with, now married with children and almost always they asked me for money or jobs. Not that that was bothering in the least, I often get it in Lusaka as well, it was the sheer lack of life in their eyes that I found disturbing.

In the evening we sat down to talk. 

"The crop this year will fail again", he paused. "Things used to be different just a few years ago. I only have two oxen. I can't wait to go and rest with the rest of my brothers". He uttered the last statement almost ruefully.

I sat listening not knowing what to say or even how to say it.

 Perpetual neglect by successive governments had deprived the country of a vibrant farming community, plunging many into despair. Many able bodied young men,  frustrated with farming now illegally sell diesel at the roadside. They wait for Truckers who, looking to make a quick buck, siphon some of the diesel from their tanks and sell it to roadside diesel dealers. There is no life in farming anymore. If it is not the rains that fail, then distribution of inputs by government is delayed and in most years both these factors connive to devastating effect.

On the Late Great Dennis Liwewe

The eulogies have been flowing thick and fast. I should probably add mine. If there was ever a way of watching football on a radio set, then it could only be done through Mr Liwewe's commentary. Those strokes that his words painted of a football pitch and the action that went on can only be the product of genuine passion and genius. For many, me included, he was the only voice we knew in football.

Rest in Peace Mr Liwewe.