Time was not on my side. I was getting desperate. The sky looked bleak. The dark low- hanging clouds looked fluffy and pregnant with rain. In the distance, I heard a loud bang, then silence. The next bang which was much louder than the previous bang made me jump out of my skin. All the birds suddenly flew away from the tree tops in fright. A dozen or so fish eagles, common in the savanna took flight and disappeared in the darkening sky. The African grey hornbill is also a familiar sight in the savanna grassland.
There was not even a soul in sight. My uncle Hofisi had summoned me over a family matter. He once worked for Mr Donahue, an Irishman who had bestowed him the fun name of Office but we all called him Hofisi. Mr Donahue had lost a son who was an apprentice when on 6 June 1972 at Hwange 2 colliery methane gas exploded followed by a cold dust explosion that claimed the lives of 472 miners who were trapped inside the shaft. Uncle Hofisi was the last born in my mother’s family. I had last visited the village in my teens when I was not impressionable enough.
I had passed by two villages which all looked the same to me. Few of the houses had corrugated zinc sheets and all of them suffered from neglect. I only observed this as I hurried past. What preoccupied my mind was to reach my destination before it was too dark. The heavens were about to open up and I could not afford being caught in the open.
Suddenly, an orange streak flashed flashed in the sky, and the next moment, thunder struck and rumbled off the Wedza Mountains.
It was just at that moment, I saw a bald-headed man heading my way. He had a crude stick and looked like a sherpherd although I did not see any cattle or goats around. When I gave him the name of my uncle, he said my uncle lived in the next village and it was not far away, much to my relief.
Sometimes you can smell poverty a mile away and he looked like he wanted to beg for something and so to save him the trouble, I took a fizzy drink from my backpack , which was too sweet for my health. I also gave him a bun. The manufacturers of the carbonated drink must be prosecuted, too much fructose corn, sugar, caffeine and phosphoric acid in their drinks. More of poisoning than feeding the nation.
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I could see in his eyes that the man was grateful but he was either too hungry or too dumb to say anything.
I trudged on with a sense of urgency. I glanced at the darkening sky, a large oval raindrop hit my left cheek, then another one. I was in trouble. A streak of lightning struck the sky and through a chink of light I saw a mud and dagga hut several metres away. In that crazy moment. the heavens opened up and in a few seconds I was drenched to the skin. A bolt of lightning struck a large msasa tree nearby and propelled my legs faster towards the mud and dagga hut.
I don’t remember knocking, rather I pushed the moth-eaten door with unnecessary force and stood dripping water by the entrance and some of the rain splashed inside before I closed the door. There was a smell of decay and death despite the blazing fire in the fireplace. A woman who looked very sick lay on a reed mat and tried to raise her head. A girl who had her back to me, turned her head around. She was around twenty years of age and her stunning beauty stood in sharp contrast to the humble surroundings.
“Is this John my son? Thank you for coming, I can now die in peace,” said the sick woman. The girl shook her head from side to side. I was confused. The sick woman had mistaken me for someone before she breathed her last. I later learnt that her son had left for the dazzling lights of Harare several years ago. Stories over the years filtered that he was doing well but he had completely abandoned his mother and never came back to take care of her.. This is a story for another day.
All I can say is aptly described by the African saying,, “raising a child means that in your old age, the child will also take care of you.” The concept of old people’s homes is alien in our culture, what is more gratifying in old age is the the love and presence of your children and grandchildren in the twilight years.
- Onie Ndoro X@Onie90396982