Do you still remember all those years ago, when going into town seemed like going somewhere very special like heaven and your mother made you "dress up" for the trip or threatened that if you don't finish your food uyasala. And when in town, wailing for fresh chips from ko-Royal Sunflower and a coke?Sipping the 300 ml bottle of coke for ever ungafuni iphele?
Remember racing with old tyres or half bricks, to see who was the fastest. Today they are shoving bricks at each other. Playing soccer with ibhola lamaphepha (plastic/newspaper ball) and not smoking imbanje. Going to the shops to go play i-slug (table soccer) and not robbing defenceless women? And if you ran out of money, usually 10 cents, you then filed down two cents or hammered a one-cent coin flat to use instead and it always got stuck? And u-Davie wemagrosa would be out to get you and your tshomis. Those were the crimes then.
What about the fights? About you falling out with your buddies and because they threatened ukukubamba? NGIZAKUBAMBA (I will deal with you) meant that you had a hard time going to the shops unescorted. You were forced to go the long way round to avoid them but you never told umama or ubaba. It was the same with the end of the school term, as we approached the beginning of the holidays.
You had to be on your best behaviour to avoid someone saying -NGIZAVALA NGAWE! Running away was not an option because the whole school knew which fights were on the closing day bill. Not that some did not- leg it (run away) because kwabo kwagwala akulasililo. Disputes were settled by simply amabele enhlabathi. Having a weapon in school meant being caught with an Eversharp pen pea shooter or an eraser catapulted by a 30cm ruler and not i-Okapi (knife) of nowadays.
And then kwakulabo MATHANYELA, the Bulawayo City Council sweepers who hated being called that, kumbe oma-bhimu (Garbage collectors.) What about the work crews zako BCC ababepheka izitshwala zamagabha. And amongst them there was always a Phiri, Banda, Sibanda or Ndlovu. When you saw them riding along in their big BCC trucks or walking along the road in their navy overalls, you would shout, Sibanda! or Phiri! and wave in their direction and one of their number, a Sibanda or Phiri would respond in like manner waving frantically obviously very impressed at being recognised and you and your friends would laugh your lungs out.
I'm not finished just yet. Can you still taste and smell, eating raw jelly from the packet, ukukhuma itshukela, powdered milk, kumbe i-Milo? You would forget to wipe off the evidence and the usual katsi-katsi (hiding) would follow? What about ice-lollies made from cold drink in plastic holders in the freezer, eating Willard's Peanut Butter on the fattest slice of fresh Lobel’s bread? Eating guavas till your stomach hurt and being constipated for days after that. Lisa khumbula umabrosi, imango, ama-peaches lomumbu owosiweyo emgwaqweni? And you knew that come mumbu (maize) season you would have it for breakfast, lunch and supper including inopi, umxhanxa, inkobe lembambayila, of course.
Having relatives overseas or in South Africa was a very big deal. For relatives abroad, it was essential for the whole family to go to the airport and wave goodbye by the balcony. And when they came back, you expected them to bring you new shoes (which you wouldn't wear, coz you were saving them for Civics day) and Mars bars or Chappies.
Remember when, there were two types of takkies, o-Tommie and North Stars! And the only time you wore them at school, was on Civies, (from civilian clothes as opposed to uniform day.) Which for some reason we called CIVICS day. Do you remember when nearly everyone's mom was your mom and they could thuma (send) you to amagrosa (shops) and reward you with i-five cents for amatshaps (toffees.) There was no danger of you absconding because after all she was your mum anyway!
Friday, August 25
Thursday, August 17
Memories that last a lifetime
When I turned more years old last June, I really felt the weight of aging on my shoulders. I guess I have been trying to fight a losing battle in pretending to younger than I am. However, the death of my beloved grandmother two weeks ago at 95 has changed my thinking. I could well last as long so I have to enjoy every bit of it as I go along.
My grandmother was the most humorous person I know, after my mother that is. She had such a bag of tales. You can now guess where all this came from. I will really miss her. None the less, memories of days past are something to treasure, and I have decided to share this with you to jog those of us who grew up when stones were still soft and money was money.
“Thank God that I had such a wonderful childhood in such a beautifulcountry. Think back to the time, before the Internet or the ATM, before Play Station and DSTV, and CD's and DVD's and Bearer cheques. Way back,I'm talking about the time of umacatshelana (hide and seek) engadini... or ingqobe or umalalisa ngo come tenesi at the square. Games like Jim-Bass, u-tap tap, u-a-ra wuru, umatshayana, kick and run, stop sweetie-sweetie, and Christopher Columbus, and how everyone wanted to be the Soviet Union or the USA!
How about building a swing from a piece of rope tied to the protruding branch of a tree yompintshisi there were guarantees that the rope would withstand all the strain put on it the resultant broken limbs would earn one a thorough hiding?
And what about the times when you were lucky enough to go to the Centenary Park to each candy floss (utshinda) and riding the miniature Choo-choo train. Watching the peacocks parading their glamorous plumage and how about the Fountain with its constant shower of water spray which you awaited and relished fiendishly when it sprinkled you with its cold, albeit refreshing freshness or its changing colours at night. How about the Trade fair that my then 4 year old sister called in Fair fair! You lived for that.
What about the dreaded bath times? Taking a bath at 4:00pm, then having tea eka 4 lembambayila from Lower Gwelo in your pyjamas-if you had these-more like izigqoko eziclean. And you knew that nxa usugezile, no more playing outside. Closing the windows at 5 ukuti singalunywa yimosquito, while waiting for TV 1 to start and watching the Muppets, o-Flintstone and hey-hey-hey Fat Albert, Voltron, Care Bears, Button moon, hen it was time for Star Trek, Hawaii 5-0 or Kojak.
When the weather report started, you were sent to bed, after the parents hadinsisted you observe great silence during the news. Strictly no noise, okunye was because isikhiwa sasibeqa abadala and you did not want to be blamed for the old man not getting the news fully. How about their own periodic exclamations of, hmmm uyatshinga uSmith..., uzondile uThatcher..., asazi sizabona ngakho...
School holidays meant ekhaya or ama extra lessons. Few days before schoolstarted again you would plead with your parents to get you new socks because all the ones you have had izikhala. At Christmas, it was a time for negotiation. Ufuna izigqoko zeKrismas or ufuna i-uniform? But most times, of course, you got both. Oh, our loving parents, how they managed you can never say.
The night before the first day of school you couldn't get to sleep. Shoes werepolished until you could see your name in large capitals, uniform pressed and new stationery (that your parents got from work!) First thing in the morning, you would get your lunch box with isinkwa, and cool drink. Who would forget the smell of Mazoe Orange juice? With Dandy bubble gum going for a cent, ice-cream from the Dairiboard happy chappie on the corner with hislittle cart. Yes, running to the corner to buy ama rama, amaputi, ama pennycool kumbe ichongo, all for not more than a dollar? Do you remember?”
My grandmother was the most humorous person I know, after my mother that is. She had such a bag of tales. You can now guess where all this came from. I will really miss her. None the less, memories of days past are something to treasure, and I have decided to share this with you to jog those of us who grew up when stones were still soft and money was money.
“Thank God that I had such a wonderful childhood in such a beautifulcountry. Think back to the time, before the Internet or the ATM, before Play Station and DSTV, and CD's and DVD's and Bearer cheques. Way back,I'm talking about the time of umacatshelana (hide and seek) engadini... or ingqobe or umalalisa ngo come tenesi at the square. Games like Jim-Bass, u-tap tap, u-a-ra wuru, umatshayana, kick and run, stop sweetie-sweetie, and Christopher Columbus, and how everyone wanted to be the Soviet Union or the USA!
How about building a swing from a piece of rope tied to the protruding branch of a tree yompintshisi there were guarantees that the rope would withstand all the strain put on it the resultant broken limbs would earn one a thorough hiding?
And what about the times when you were lucky enough to go to the Centenary Park to each candy floss (utshinda) and riding the miniature Choo-choo train. Watching the peacocks parading their glamorous plumage and how about the Fountain with its constant shower of water spray which you awaited and relished fiendishly when it sprinkled you with its cold, albeit refreshing freshness or its changing colours at night. How about the Trade fair that my then 4 year old sister called in Fair fair! You lived for that.
What about the dreaded bath times? Taking a bath at 4:00pm, then having tea eka 4 lembambayila from Lower Gwelo in your pyjamas-if you had these-more like izigqoko eziclean. And you knew that nxa usugezile, no more playing outside. Closing the windows at 5 ukuti singalunywa yimosquito, while waiting for TV 1 to start and watching the Muppets, o-Flintstone and hey-hey-hey Fat Albert, Voltron, Care Bears, Button moon, hen it was time for Star Trek, Hawaii 5-0 or Kojak.
When the weather report started, you were sent to bed, after the parents hadinsisted you observe great silence during the news. Strictly no noise, okunye was because isikhiwa sasibeqa abadala and you did not want to be blamed for the old man not getting the news fully. How about their own periodic exclamations of, hmmm uyatshinga uSmith..., uzondile uThatcher..., asazi sizabona ngakho...
School holidays meant ekhaya or ama extra lessons. Few days before schoolstarted again you would plead with your parents to get you new socks because all the ones you have had izikhala. At Christmas, it was a time for negotiation. Ufuna izigqoko zeKrismas or ufuna i-uniform? But most times, of course, you got both. Oh, our loving parents, how they managed you can never say.
The night before the first day of school you couldn't get to sleep. Shoes werepolished until you could see your name in large capitals, uniform pressed and new stationery (that your parents got from work!) First thing in the morning, you would get your lunch box with isinkwa, and cool drink. Who would forget the smell of Mazoe Orange juice? With Dandy bubble gum going for a cent, ice-cream from the Dairiboard happy chappie on the corner with hislittle cart. Yes, running to the corner to buy ama rama, amaputi, ama pennycool kumbe ichongo, all for not more than a dollar? Do you remember?”
My experience in a ZESA queue
I never intended this to be a gripe column. But one incident has forced my hand, so to speak. We all know that ZESA, the power utility, has had its fair share of bashing in this and other media, but I feel that they sometimes bring it on themselves the state of their bill payment halls being a case in point. More specifically at Hylett House. What I will detail below is a true story. Names have been excluded to protect the innocent (and inconvenienced.)
Day One: Yours truly, being a conscientious citizen, decides to pay his electricity bill, even though I last received a bill in ninenteen-gocha nhembe.I calmly queue in front of the Enquiries Desk with a 200-page novel, well prepared for the long haul. Thirty minutes later (this queue was short) the kind gentleman behind the desk tells me that I have not been billed. So could I be a nice consumer and pay a million dollars (old currency) which he tells me is a guesstimate.
Looking at the long and winding payments queue, I decide to write a cheque as I normally do under such circumstances. Lo and behold I find the cheque box sealed. The security guard standing nearby politely advises that I join the queue and pay cash. Cheques are not being accepted because they might ‘bounce’ because of the currency revaluation. Seeing the prospect of spending the rest of my short life in the payments queue, I give up and head for work.
Day Two: I am pleasantly surprised by the short queue at the enquiries desk. There are just two of us there. This is going to be nice and quick, I sing to myself. The chap at the counter informs me that there is a ‘problem’ with my electricity account.
“Go round and join the Credit Control queue labelled BYO East,” he advises. I then discover why the enquiries queue is so short. It has reformed at Credit Control. For those of you who did not know, the Credit Control queue is composed mainly of sheepish looking people whose supplies have been disconnected for non-payment. The difference is that I am yet to be disconnected, which is why I want to find out how much I owe.
Remember, I have not received a bill since dinosaurs roamed the earth. The queue is visibly longer than the one at the ‘BYO’ West counter and is not moving an inch. The lady there is busy cleaning her keyboard. I assume she is the cleaner by the way she meticulously scrubs the computer. We later discover otherwise and that there is a ‘problem’ with her terminal. We are then shunted to another one and she promptly starts work.
Meanwhile, the BYO West queue has disappeared and the lady there is dutifully telling anyone who strays there that she deals only with the WEST. Our queue has grown much longer and soon I regret the folly of having moved from Gwabalanda to Parklands. After going through two customers, the ‘cleaning’ lady abruptly moves back to the first terminal which is now working after some tinkering by a very smart looking young man in glasses.
By then the bearded white fellow behind me has blown a couple of fuses. In fact, he is on the verge of inciting a riot. It also doe not help matters that an old white lady has cut the queue in the process. Apparently, he has been queuing since the day before and wonders aloud why there are no bills being sent out and why the computers don’t seem to work. Good questions those, but the rest of us are like new-born kittens.
It’s now my turn and the ‘cleaning lady’ informs me that I have a credit, meaning that ZESA owe me money instead! However, since bills are sure to materialise this century, I’m advised to pay an estimated amount. This, I am kindly warned, is the prudent thing to do because when the bills do eventually arrive and I am found wanting, I will surely be cut off. It’s a small victory for a small man like me to be owed money by a utility. I take a glance at the payments queue and I decide that I do not want to miss seeing my children grow into adulthood standing there.
Day One: Yours truly, being a conscientious citizen, decides to pay his electricity bill, even though I last received a bill in ninenteen-gocha nhembe.I calmly queue in front of the Enquiries Desk with a 200-page novel, well prepared for the long haul. Thirty minutes later (this queue was short) the kind gentleman behind the desk tells me that I have not been billed. So could I be a nice consumer and pay a million dollars (old currency) which he tells me is a guesstimate.
Looking at the long and winding payments queue, I decide to write a cheque as I normally do under such circumstances. Lo and behold I find the cheque box sealed. The security guard standing nearby politely advises that I join the queue and pay cash. Cheques are not being accepted because they might ‘bounce’ because of the currency revaluation. Seeing the prospect of spending the rest of my short life in the payments queue, I give up and head for work.
Day Two: I am pleasantly surprised by the short queue at the enquiries desk. There are just two of us there. This is going to be nice and quick, I sing to myself. The chap at the counter informs me that there is a ‘problem’ with my electricity account.
“Go round and join the Credit Control queue labelled BYO East,” he advises. I then discover why the enquiries queue is so short. It has reformed at Credit Control. For those of you who did not know, the Credit Control queue is composed mainly of sheepish looking people whose supplies have been disconnected for non-payment. The difference is that I am yet to be disconnected, which is why I want to find out how much I owe.
Remember, I have not received a bill since dinosaurs roamed the earth. The queue is visibly longer than the one at the ‘BYO’ West counter and is not moving an inch. The lady there is busy cleaning her keyboard. I assume she is the cleaner by the way she meticulously scrubs the computer. We later discover otherwise and that there is a ‘problem’ with her terminal. We are then shunted to another one and she promptly starts work.
Meanwhile, the BYO West queue has disappeared and the lady there is dutifully telling anyone who strays there that she deals only with the WEST. Our queue has grown much longer and soon I regret the folly of having moved from Gwabalanda to Parklands. After going through two customers, the ‘cleaning’ lady abruptly moves back to the first terminal which is now working after some tinkering by a very smart looking young man in glasses.
By then the bearded white fellow behind me has blown a couple of fuses. In fact, he is on the verge of inciting a riot. It also doe not help matters that an old white lady has cut the queue in the process. Apparently, he has been queuing since the day before and wonders aloud why there are no bills being sent out and why the computers don’t seem to work. Good questions those, but the rest of us are like new-born kittens.
It’s now my turn and the ‘cleaning lady’ informs me that I have a credit, meaning that ZESA owe me money instead! However, since bills are sure to materialise this century, I’m advised to pay an estimated amount. This, I am kindly warned, is the prudent thing to do because when the bills do eventually arrive and I am found wanting, I will surely be cut off. It’s a small victory for a small man like me to be owed money by a utility. I take a glance at the payments queue and I decide that I do not want to miss seeing my children grow into adulthood standing there.
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