Dear Neh-Bih,
I write not to vindicate myself, but to allow you to be the judge. You were always the just one among us, guided by logic while I was led by emotion. No wonder we were nicknamed Logos and Pathos.
Society has officially labelled me mad after I attacked that Chinese man — viciously hitting, biting and kicking him.
The setting — a community meeting, whose agenda was expansion of mining activities and a donation of groceries.
That was when I made my decision.
Our graves have been desecrated. Our waters and rivers are contaminated. Our land, our beautiful land, ravaged and violated like our daughters — so barren now that nothing grows there anymore.
And after taking all of this, what do they offer in return? Two litres of cooking oil, a bag of mealie-meal and two kilogrammes of sugar. Groceries? In exchange for all we have lost? If that is all we get, then the whole thing must be stopped.
The news has not been kind to me. They call me a relevance-seeking feminist, heartbroken to the point of insanity. So forgive me for any outlandish statements I might make, or any undeserved insults I might hurl.
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It has been 24 hours under the influence of too many drugs. They think they can cage me, but I am already plotting my escape. The kind nurse — whose sister died last week in another mining disaster — is sympathetic toward my cause.
The men in suits had been looking for me for days before they finally apprehended me. I had been on a spree — holding solo protests, attacking any of those Chinese miners I saw. It started with the men digging behind our home.
Your favourite mango tree has not borne fruit in five years. Why? The never-ending, incessant dust from the mine clogs its leaves, preventing photosynthesis. No fruit for us.
I remember our December afternoons under that tree. After an exhilarating game of soccer or Mamtshayana at the local grounds, we would collapse beneath it, exhausted, dust covering us from the nose down.
We would devour its golden fruit, letting the yellow juice drip onto our fingers, licking our dusty hands so that not a single drop escaped. The children here will never know that feeling.
Three years after they started drilling, the cracks began to show. First, the cast walls. Then the glass cups and plates from the display. Then, our houses. Our homes started to crack. I involved the councillor, who brought in the Environmental Management Agency.
A report was made. The miners were vindicated. My parents’ house — the one built with professional bricks from Tom and Builders — was dismissed as being made of poor-quality materials. I was enraged.
The miners have not created much employment except for a few chosen men. I have been unemployed for five years since earning my degree in Mathematics. If they destroy my house, what will I have left to survive on?
The village next door is worse. Hwange, they call it. Their daughters have been ravaged, lured in with promises of two cents. And two cents is a fortune these days — it can buy a loaf of bread and a coke. For many of us, custodians of vast minerals, that is a luxury.
Do you remember the Penhalonga family? The one with seven sons and one daughter — Little Gloria — the one everyone believed would take over the world? Gloria is no longer little. At 16, she rules the night, selling remnants of her dreams to the highest bidder.
She had no other options after the accident. Twenty men died in a mine collapse. Seven of them are her brothers. Her old man could not take it. Now, he lives in a world of hallucinations where all his sons are still alive and his daughter is a pilot.
He even sees the airplane, dancing and running around him. Her mother, the matriarch, set herself on fire soon after receiving the news. Their house now stands abandoned — full of untold stories, imagined dreams never realised.
Uncle Martin died last week. The ground caved in while he walked. Another mining disaster no one will care about. It seems every week heralds a new kind of mining-induced pain.
This week, another worker shot dead. The shooter remains unnamed and free. The miner has a mine to run, after all. It is as if there is a dark code of conduct governing this sector, a different set of rules that do not answer to the supreme law we call a constitution, but to something else entirely.
But they are investors, we are told. Investors choosing to put money in a country no one outside our borders seems to care about. So, we must be grateful — bending our backs to learn their language while they ride those backs like ponies.
We remove taxes upon taxes, giving them endless tax holidays, yet they are never satisfied. Or is it us who feel we have not satisfied them? Like an insecure woman who, upon hearing of her husband’s mistress, starts to outperform her rival in the bedroom — real or imagined.
Ba Jose hanged himself last week. His wife had packed her bags, ready to leave with their two children. His crime? Failing to give her conjugal rights! But how could he? His miner boss kicked his genitals last month, rendering him incapable of making his wife happy.
She called a family meeting — neighbours included — to announce her decision. Soon after she left, Ba Jose hanged himself in the employee quarters.
I have tried to reason, but my emotions overwhelm me. But you, you will understand. Your family once fled the Congo for what seemed like paradise at the time. How much more must we lose before my country learns from yours — the curse of natural resources? Or, perhaps, the upliftments they can bring when done right, as the Batswana and the Royal Bafokeng have shown? Since our leaders refuse to learn, they must be stopped.
We have lost too much already.
Your loving friend,
Tatenda Kombora
