After my meeting with Simon, the previous week, I felt rejuvenated. There was something to look forward to.
Things were looking up. Once the container arrived from Israel, the days ahead promised to be busy as we had to market the new farm irrigation equipment to the farmers.
In the meantime, I continued to report for work at Amandwandwe Security. My workmates were equally depressed by the poor working conditions. The majority were neck-deep in debt due to the slave wages.
As it was a Saturday, I decided to pass through the marketplace before I went to see my friends.
I was hoping to see Mai Maidei who had already left home for the market and maybe I could borrow a dollar or two from her to start my weekend.
There was chaos when I reached the marketplace. All the vendors were being forced to attend a political rally at the nearby stadium.
“You will never do business here again if you don’t go to the rally,” I heard one guy shout to some of the vendors who were gathered together in confusion with their wares.
“We will shut this market for good,” he declared. The vendors were left with no other choice.
These exogenous factors had a huge bearing on their livelihoods.
Out of instinct, I quickly retreated and escaped before I was roped in for the rally.
I also met several people. Some were heading towards the venue of the rally and others seemed to be running away from it.
Those going to the rally were easily identifiable as they were in their colourful party regalia.
The elections were just around the corner and there was a flurry of last-minute rallies to sway the undecided voters.
With nothing to do at home, I passed through Baba VaTata's home. Fortunately he was home.
We decided to go to Zororo Bar.
“I thought you would be at the rally,” I said.
“I am done with rallies, I am just waiting for the day to arrive and I can cast my vote,” said Baba VaTata.
We found Fatso and Rasta already in the bar. There were several other people in the bar. I had thought most people would be at the rally.
Once Fatso and Rasta saw us, they moved to our table. Fatso ordered the first round of beer. It was quite a big surprise. It meant his car wash business was booming.
“There is no business today, I had to close shop. Some people came this morning saying everyone must go to the rally,” said Fatso.
“I saw it with my own eyes, people were being rounded up to attend the rally, all the vendors have shut their stalls at the marketplace,” I said in agreement.
“I just wish that the day of the elections should arrive. I am having problems at home,” said Rasta.
Rasta had been living with his parents all along. He had only moved to his own lodgings about two months ago.
“My landlord is giving me problems. He is saying that all his lodgers should vote for his party,” said Rasta.
We all laughed.
“How is that possible?” said Baba VaTata.
“This is not funny guys. He is saying that if his party loses, then it’s trouble for all of us,” said Rasta.
“And how will he know that you have voted otherwise? He can’t be serious,” said Fatso.
“Your vote is your secret,” said Baba VaTata.
While all this was going on, I was thinking to myself that our politics was too toxic. Half of my mind did not want to believe the story about Fatso and his landlord.
If there was a grain of truth in it, it meant that our country’s democracy still had a long way to go.
It was while we were having this conversation that Comrade Mobilizer hobbled to our table.
He was using his clutches. He winced. It seems like he was in pain. He had lost his other leg in battle at the height of the liberation war. We all waited until he had sat down. Baba VaTata summoned the barman.
“Give comrade the usual,” he said. I saw a thin smile flicker on Comrade Mobilizer's black gaunt face.
Once he had taken his first sip of the insipid beer, Baba VaTata asked, “ What do you think of next week's elections?”
Comrade Mobilizer leaned forward. It was as if he did not want other people to eavesdrop. “These days I don’t want to talk politics, but as for the elections, if they can heal the nation, if they can bring unity and development and bring the loser and winner together in a free and fair election, then our country can move forward,” he said. We were all quiet. And we all knew what was coming next.
“Take a look at my artificial leg. Do you think I wanted this? I am still waiting for a fair compensation for my wartime injuries,” he said. “I am lucky to be alive. Many comrades perished in the war. Has anyone ever thought about their families and their anguish?” That was deep.
Long after this encounter, my thoughts kept hovering over this discussion. The country deserved free and fair elections. Disputed elections are a blight to progress and development.
Onie Ndoro is a an IELTS tutor, ghostwriter and storyteller. For feedback: Twitter@Onie90396982/email:oniendoroh@gmail.com 0773007173