It was one of those weeks when beer drinkers thought that their prayers had been answered when the Price Control guys published a new schedule implying that the much reviled beer price increase was premature and overstated. As I write, nothing resembling a reversal on the part of the brewers has been forthcoming. They are sticking to their barrels, so to speak. I am sure that the hotline numbers have been ringing off line ever since. At least the drinkers have something else to keep them occupied, now that their favorite pastime is near extinction. Gono must be laughing all the way to, eh, church?
With the lack of (alcoholic) inspiration comes a condition called writer’s block for this columnist. Besides writing about drunks and what they do, there is little else with similarly hilarious results to observe. While we wait for our dear friends to adjust to new lifestyles and to regain the ability to make fools out of themselves, we have decided to give you the following gems from around the planet they call earth.
Fungai goes to the zoo
This guy, Fungai, goes to London and is desperate for a job, you know, the usual rese rese Zimbo job. So he decides to apply at the zoo. As it so happened, their star attraction, a gorilla, had died the night before and they had carefully preserved his hide. So, they tell this guy that they'll pay him well if he would dress up in the gorilla’s skin and pretend to be the gorilla so that people will keep coming to the zoo.
Well, the guy has his doubts, but hey, ijob yijob s’bali, he needs the money and he can’t possibly come back to Zim so he puts on the skin and goes out into the cage. The people all cheer when they see him. He plays up to the audience and they just eat it up. This isn't so bad, he thinks, and he starts really putting on a show, jumping around, beating his chest and roaring, swinging around.
During one acrobatic attempt, though, he loses his balance and crashes through some safety netting, landing square in the middle of the lion cage! As he lies there stunned, the unusually thin lion roars. He's terrified and starts screaming, "Maiwe! Maiwe!” obviously thinking kuti pake papera. The lion races over to him, places his paws
on his chest and hisses, "Iwe pfutseke nyarara apa, unotidzingisa basa! Chibenzi chemhuka" (Keep quiet, you will get us both fired, stupid animal!)
A husband working abroad wrote to his wife...
Dear Sweetheart,
I can't send my salary this month, so I am sending 100 kisses.
You are my sweetheart.
Your husband,
Allen
His wife replied...
Sweetheart Dearest,
Thanks for the 100 kisses, below is the list of expenses...
1. The Milk man agreed on 2 kisses for one month's milk.
2. The electricity man agreed only after 7 kisses.
3. Your landlord comes every day to take 2 or 3 kisses instead of the rent.
4. Supermarket owner did not accept kisses only, so I gave him other items...........
5. Other expenses 40 kisses.
Please don't worry about me, I have a remaining balance of 35 kisses and I hope I can complete the month using this balance.
Shall I plan the same for next month? Please do advise!!!
Your Sweet Heart,
Josephine
A dying man’s wish
An old pastor lay dying. He sent a message for a man from the tax office and his lawyer to come to the hospital. When they arrived, they were ushered up to his room. As they entered the room, the pastor held out his hands and motioned for
them to sit on each side of the bed. The pastor grasped their hands, sighed contentedly, smiled, and stared at the ceiling.
For a time, no one said anything. Both the taxman and lawyer were touched and flattered that the old man would ask them to be with him during his final moments. They were also puzzled because the pastor had never given any indication that he particularly liked either one of them.
Finally, the Lawyer asked, "Pastor, why did you ask the two of us to come here?" The old pastor mustered all his strength, and then said weakly, "Jesus died between two thieves, and that's how I want to go".
A very true story
The following is a bow by blow account of what transpired to a friend who had boarded a combi the day they raised the fare. It was in SMS form and It was like in the movies…
“I am in a combi to church and the driver has just parked by the side of the road because pipo do no want to pay 150 grand. Ah! It’s so chaotic and everyone is talking and no one is listening. Ah! Now there is fighting, ooh some passenger is now driving! Ah! What a drama!
Oh! I wish I had my camera. The driver has taken over and God knows where he is taking us. This is hijacking chaiyo! Ah! Ah! He now wants to dump us at the cemetery. I have never seen this happening before. Oh! No! The driver has switched off the engine, jumped out and is running like a mad cow across the graveyard, the hwindi in the other direction!
And we are in the middle of graves, pipo are vowing not to budge. It’s turning sour, paita headboy, mu-War Vet! Mapurisa afonerwa! (Someone has phoned the police!) Pipo from the nearby suburb are now flocking to the place wanting to burn the combi! My friend, I am leaving and it’s turning really ugly. Ah! Hiiiii, water canon! I have removed my shoes and will just allow my legs to carry me off this graveyard before we are sprayed to death! Later!” (… and this actually took place honest!)
And finally, from Melvin Durai
The other day, there was another UFO sighting over America. And just a week or so later, on the planet of Serena, many galaxies away, the Minister of Intergalactic Affairs and other leaders gathered in the main chamber of the House of Serenity to hear a report from Ruba Pontuba, a heroic space traveler who had just returned from her second mission to Earth.
Minister: "Welcome back, most respected Ruba."
Ruba: "Thank you, most honorable minister. I am thrilled to be back. I can't tell you how much I missed being among civilized creatures."
Minister: "Is that so? It was my hope that humans would be quite civilized by now. This is a new millennium for them, is it not?"
Ruba (laughs uncontrollably for five minutes): "New millennium! Ha ha ha! Humans are no more civilized in the new millennium than they were in the old millennium. They still kill each other in great numbers, and then refer to lions and tigers as 'wild animals.'"
Minister: "You mean they haven't made any progress as a species?"
Ruba: "They've made a little progress in science and technology, mostly in helping teenagers keep in touch with each other, but no progress whatsoever in peace and love. During my time on Earth, I witnessed hundreds of conflicts, including Israelis against Palestinians, Americans against Iraqis, Zidane against Materazzi."
Minister: "But don't humans want peace?"
Ruba: "Yes, most humans do want peace. They want it so much; they're willing to fight wars to achieve it."
Minister: "What about love? Don't humans love each other?"
Ruba: "Not as much as they love money. Most humans have one main goal in life: to get rich."
Minister: "But aren't they like us? Don't they want to become rich so they can help the less fortunate?
Ruba: "Well, I heard of one human who won the lottery and said, 'The first thing I'm going to do is sponsor some children in Uganda.' But it turns out that those were HIS children. He was behind on his child maintenance. Most humans, when they get rich, buy themselves a big house, a fancy car and new teeth. Some get new spouses, too."
Minister: "So what happens to the poor?"
Ruba: "Many of them struggle to survive. In some countries, they don't have enough food to eat."
Minister: "You mean there's a shortage of food on Earth?"
Ruba: "I thought there was, but then I visited America and saw people taking part in an eating contest. They were stuffing hotdogs down their throats, hoping to win a prize in this great new sport. A Japanese man won first place. He ate up his competition."
Minister: "Are there any poor people in America?"
Ruba: "Yes, there are. They get fed twice a year: at Thanksgiving and Christmas."
Minister: "So humans are killing each other and not sharing their food and wealth. Are they at least trying their best to eliminate deadly diseases?"
Ruba: "Yes, they are. America, for example, spent billions from its health budget to eliminate a 'cancer' named Saddam. The American leader believes that Earth is now a much healthier planet."
Minister: "What on Earth is he drinking?"
Great mysteries of our time
Can someone answer this question for me? If inyanga (traditional doctors) claim they can make one stinking rich, why are they so dirt poor? It’s like this friend of mine who says his job is to facilitate the migration of locals to Australia in search of greener pastures. How can he be stuck here if he claims that he can arrange for [people to get a better life down under? Makes one think, doesn’t it?
Thursday, November 15
Wednesday, July 11
Shebeens: an idea whose time has come
MANOTSHA wears a wry smile as he beckons me aside. He is extending an invitation that we move from the boring environs of the bottle store to a more comfortable drinking place.
He prefers a shebeen called koMaSamoosa in Gwabalanda. With trepidation, I agree to the proposal, choosing to make this an educational visit.
‘KuBlind!’ he exclaims, almost jumping out of his skin in excitement. You see, in the local parlance, if a place is referred to as ‘blind’ it means it’s really good. I am not that enthusiastic. For one, the police have been raiding these dens of iniquity (so they say) like nobody’s business. They are soft targets for corrupt police officers thirsting for freebies and a few thousand dollars to buy roasted meat.
Second, it’s been ages since I last ‘frequented a shebeen,’ let alone being picked up from one by the long arm of the law. With the economy in the mortuary, I was convinced that shebeens had long gone the way of the Dodo. How wrong I was. They are alive and kicking hard!
We get to MaSamoosa’s humble abode. Her name, I am reliably informed, is derived from the fact that she started off selling spicy samoosas as snacks to patrons in shebeens in the neighbourhood until she accumulated enough capital and skill to establish her own place.
The place is packed to the rafters. The slogan here is, ‘The place might be small but the welcome is big.’ Familiar and not so familiar faces greet us and the conviviality is just too infectious for one to change their mind and leave. The Queen jumps into view and greets us with hearty hugs. There is no doubting at this point that we are at home away from home.
It is said that if you throw a stone high up in the air in one of Bulawayo’s predominantly working class western suburbs, more often than not it is likely to fall on a shebeen. It might seem like an exaggeration but those who have ventured into what was once called the City of King’s Wild, Wild West will attest to this fact. Shebeens are supposed to be illegal by they flourish nevertheless under Zimbabwe’s hawkish laws and in the midst of an economic meltdown.
For the uninitiated, a shebeen is an illicit drinking place that serves all manner of alcoholic beverages to patched patrons seeking a homely atmosphere. It operates from someone’s house and is usually presided over by the Shebeen Queen, usually huge mamas who would give a Yokuzuna a run for their money if given half the chance.
The ‘Queens’ are referred to by their surnames with your MaTshumas, MaMkhize, MaNcube, MaNgwenya or any other Ma’s you can think of. A few are called by their nicknames like MaNtuza, Didiri or Topsy and don’t ask me how they got those.
There were Shebeen Kings but they were a rarity. Here hosts like Silver (pronounced Siliva), Jomo and uBhudi Rho, among others, made their name in the hospitality stakes.
Back at MaSamoosa’s place, the service is quick. Manotsha is already settled in a deep sofa that looks out of place in the small sitting room. As if to declare his sovereignty, he lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke through the corner of his mouth towards the roof. ‘Sit here, Mafana,’ he beckons.
He really is the king of this place. A voluptuous waitress, MaSamoosa’s daughter or nephew or maid - I really don’t care - has already brought the orders. She surely is one of the attractions here besides the beer of course.
Two cold clear Pilsners straight out of the South Pole are plonked on the table in front of us. A ward of Zim-kwachas exchanges hands and the damsel is dismissed with a cursory, ‘Keep change!’ by an increasingly relaxed Manotsha.
I fail to relax. Thoughts of seeing a policeman’s cap protruding round the corner to kill our joy is just too real to ignore. The last thing I need right now is to sleep in the fenced enclosure out in the open at Luveve Police Station, waiting for the morning shift to come, exact their fine and set us free.
The idea of shebeens, a term that is not surprisingly Irish, have their origins in South Africa were they have been legalised. They are almost unique to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city, having taken root during the colonial days when it was illegal for Africans to drink ‘European’ beer.
You see, the whites’ warped thinking was that if they drank with the blacks, the locals would start entertaining thoughts of equality with their white counterparts. That would inevitably lead, so they premised, to the Africans having funny ideas about independence or self rule.
Ironically enough, when the colonial authorities designed and constructed the western suburbs, which were more like labour dormitories then, the first thing they put up was a beer hall. Here, the traditional sorghum brew (also known to some as ‘sand and tonic’) was sold to keep the Africans ‘happy’ and away from mischief. Keeping them drunk outside of working hours was supposed to numb them from the pain of segregation.
Well, the effect of this was the opposite. Shebeens became the havens of defiance. They provided safe havens for rogue politicians who wanted to escape detention and arrest. Which explains why prominent politicians like the late Sidney Malunga, questioned their continued prohibition after independence in 1980. The new government retained most of the pre-independence laws including the ones that made it an offence to patronise a shebeen.
Ever since time immemorial, they have not escaped the attention of law enforcement agencies, with regular, sometimes heavy handed raids being part of the life of operators and their faithful patrons. In fact, being arrested in a shebeen had become part of the fun and a good excuse to explain to the wife why one slept out. Stoic veterans of numerous raids have railed against such laws as retrogressive in an era when government was encouraging self-reliance and entrepreneurship to counter high levels of unemployment.
Since, during the colonial era, the reasons for banning shebeens were both political and economic, that is, to protect the monopoly of white controlled hotels and municipal liquor outlets (beer halls), there are more valid reasons for these to be revisited.
The crowd in the shebeen is a patch-work of the society that lives in Gwabalanda. Working class types, teachers, students and O-jack roller (thugs) are all there. Add the odd celebrity like me and that completes the cocktail. I try to avoid detection but that’s futile. The conversation turns to the police raids which are increasing in intensity. A sign of the times, one man says, the police are hungry so they need to survive the best way they know how – through extortion. Legalisation of shebeens would surely help, says another.
The argument centres around the fact that the decriminalisation of the informal sector, of which shebeens are part, would kick start a burgeoning second economy that would free the scarce resources of the police force as they shift to more serious crime in the neighbourhood. That does not preclude the creation of employment of thousands who would choose formal employment over a life of crime.
Now try telling this to the police, worse still to the characters I observe sharing a quart of beer while throwing glances in our direction. I am convinced that we have just become unwitting targets. Their laughter is laconic. They are showing each other scars from previous battles. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, Manotsha is unperturbed.
One really wonders if legalisation would drive such low-lifes from the streets. It all seems too far fetched. What I know is that there are more voices out there who would violently oppose this, particularly from the clergy. While I entertain these thoughts a fight suddenly breaks out among the tsotsis. It all seems too stage managed for me.
Like a flash, MaSamoosa emerges from the kitchen, grabs the offender round the waist and carries him out with legs flailing helplessly. Her stretch belies her size. I guess one shouldn’t judge a book by looking at its cover. As suddenly as the fracas began, calm is restored. The rest of the brood are given their matching orders. There is nothing as embarrassing as being banned from a shebeen. It’s so painful.
The men of the cloth could be right in the opposition to these dens of iniquity, modern day Sodom and Gomorrah worthy of hell and damnation. All manner of vice is associated with shebeens. Prostitution, gambling, child labour, you name it. Though, I must admit, I never saw any of that in my sojourn koMaSamoosa. Perhaps something was going on away from prying eyes. Such is the operation – carried out with dignity and a measure of respect for anyone who chooses to come spend half his salary there.
‘Hypocrites!’ shouts Manotsha. ‘These church people are all hypocrites. I met Mfundisi Sibanda from the Anglican church koCecilia last week!’
Men of cloth, government aficionado, even senior police officers, people who speak out publicly against shebeens visit them under cover of darkness. You can’t keep a good thing down.
In fact, some operators pride themselves with the high calibre of clientele and it forms part of their marketing strategy. Surely one would not miss the opportunity to rub shoulders with a Minister of government or religion at their favourite drinking hole, relaxing over a pint or two?
As if by sheer coincidence, commotion outside announces the arrival of a troop of police details in full riot regalia. They number twelve which in itself is not surprising these days. They pretend not to be concerned and seek the audience of ‘the owner of the place.’ Grinning like a Cheshire cat, MaSamoosa summons the most senior looking of them into her office which also doubles up as her bedroom and storeroom to boot.
For some queer reason, I am not perturbed. Somehow I am content that MaSamoosa will sort things out. She does and soon the police caps are removed and everyone relaxes.
‘Asazaneni madoda (Let’s introduce each other guys),’ the officer says, and without particularly waiting for a response, settles down for the one or two pints on the house availed by the now overly hospitable shebeen queens. From the rest of us, a collective sigh of relief. At least for today, the fences will be empty.
Lenox Mhlanga is a New Zimbabwe.com columnist. His column is published there (www.newzimbabwe.com) every Friday.
He prefers a shebeen called koMaSamoosa in Gwabalanda. With trepidation, I agree to the proposal, choosing to make this an educational visit.
‘KuBlind!’ he exclaims, almost jumping out of his skin in excitement. You see, in the local parlance, if a place is referred to as ‘blind’ it means it’s really good. I am not that enthusiastic. For one, the police have been raiding these dens of iniquity (so they say) like nobody’s business. They are soft targets for corrupt police officers thirsting for freebies and a few thousand dollars to buy roasted meat.
Second, it’s been ages since I last ‘frequented a shebeen,’ let alone being picked up from one by the long arm of the law. With the economy in the mortuary, I was convinced that shebeens had long gone the way of the Dodo. How wrong I was. They are alive and kicking hard!
We get to MaSamoosa’s humble abode. Her name, I am reliably informed, is derived from the fact that she started off selling spicy samoosas as snacks to patrons in shebeens in the neighbourhood until she accumulated enough capital and skill to establish her own place.
The place is packed to the rafters. The slogan here is, ‘The place might be small but the welcome is big.’ Familiar and not so familiar faces greet us and the conviviality is just too infectious for one to change their mind and leave. The Queen jumps into view and greets us with hearty hugs. There is no doubting at this point that we are at home away from home.
It is said that if you throw a stone high up in the air in one of Bulawayo’s predominantly working class western suburbs, more often than not it is likely to fall on a shebeen. It might seem like an exaggeration but those who have ventured into what was once called the City of King’s Wild, Wild West will attest to this fact. Shebeens are supposed to be illegal by they flourish nevertheless under Zimbabwe’s hawkish laws and in the midst of an economic meltdown.
For the uninitiated, a shebeen is an illicit drinking place that serves all manner of alcoholic beverages to patched patrons seeking a homely atmosphere. It operates from someone’s house and is usually presided over by the Shebeen Queen, usually huge mamas who would give a Yokuzuna a run for their money if given half the chance.
The ‘Queens’ are referred to by their surnames with your MaTshumas, MaMkhize, MaNcube, MaNgwenya or any other Ma’s you can think of. A few are called by their nicknames like MaNtuza, Didiri or Topsy and don’t ask me how they got those.
There were Shebeen Kings but they were a rarity. Here hosts like Silver (pronounced Siliva), Jomo and uBhudi Rho, among others, made their name in the hospitality stakes.
Back at MaSamoosa’s place, the service is quick. Manotsha is already settled in a deep sofa that looks out of place in the small sitting room. As if to declare his sovereignty, he lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke through the corner of his mouth towards the roof. ‘Sit here, Mafana,’ he beckons.
He really is the king of this place. A voluptuous waitress, MaSamoosa’s daughter or nephew or maid - I really don’t care - has already brought the orders. She surely is one of the attractions here besides the beer of course.
Two cold clear Pilsners straight out of the South Pole are plonked on the table in front of us. A ward of Zim-kwachas exchanges hands and the damsel is dismissed with a cursory, ‘Keep change!’ by an increasingly relaxed Manotsha.
I fail to relax. Thoughts of seeing a policeman’s cap protruding round the corner to kill our joy is just too real to ignore. The last thing I need right now is to sleep in the fenced enclosure out in the open at Luveve Police Station, waiting for the morning shift to come, exact their fine and set us free.
The idea of shebeens, a term that is not surprisingly Irish, have their origins in South Africa were they have been legalised. They are almost unique to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city, having taken root during the colonial days when it was illegal for Africans to drink ‘European’ beer.
You see, the whites’ warped thinking was that if they drank with the blacks, the locals would start entertaining thoughts of equality with their white counterparts. That would inevitably lead, so they premised, to the Africans having funny ideas about independence or self rule.
Ironically enough, when the colonial authorities designed and constructed the western suburbs, which were more like labour dormitories then, the first thing they put up was a beer hall. Here, the traditional sorghum brew (also known to some as ‘sand and tonic’) was sold to keep the Africans ‘happy’ and away from mischief. Keeping them drunk outside of working hours was supposed to numb them from the pain of segregation.
Well, the effect of this was the opposite. Shebeens became the havens of defiance. They provided safe havens for rogue politicians who wanted to escape detention and arrest. Which explains why prominent politicians like the late Sidney Malunga, questioned their continued prohibition after independence in 1980. The new government retained most of the pre-independence laws including the ones that made it an offence to patronise a shebeen.
Ever since time immemorial, they have not escaped the attention of law enforcement agencies, with regular, sometimes heavy handed raids being part of the life of operators and their faithful patrons. In fact, being arrested in a shebeen had become part of the fun and a good excuse to explain to the wife why one slept out. Stoic veterans of numerous raids have railed against such laws as retrogressive in an era when government was encouraging self-reliance and entrepreneurship to counter high levels of unemployment.
Since, during the colonial era, the reasons for banning shebeens were both political and economic, that is, to protect the monopoly of white controlled hotels and municipal liquor outlets (beer halls), there are more valid reasons for these to be revisited.
The crowd in the shebeen is a patch-work of the society that lives in Gwabalanda. Working class types, teachers, students and O-jack roller (thugs) are all there. Add the odd celebrity like me and that completes the cocktail. I try to avoid detection but that’s futile. The conversation turns to the police raids which are increasing in intensity. A sign of the times, one man says, the police are hungry so they need to survive the best way they know how – through extortion. Legalisation of shebeens would surely help, says another.
The argument centres around the fact that the decriminalisation of the informal sector, of which shebeens are part, would kick start a burgeoning second economy that would free the scarce resources of the police force as they shift to more serious crime in the neighbourhood. That does not preclude the creation of employment of thousands who would choose formal employment over a life of crime.
Now try telling this to the police, worse still to the characters I observe sharing a quart of beer while throwing glances in our direction. I am convinced that we have just become unwitting targets. Their laughter is laconic. They are showing each other scars from previous battles. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, Manotsha is unperturbed.
One really wonders if legalisation would drive such low-lifes from the streets. It all seems too far fetched. What I know is that there are more voices out there who would violently oppose this, particularly from the clergy. While I entertain these thoughts a fight suddenly breaks out among the tsotsis. It all seems too stage managed for me.
Like a flash, MaSamoosa emerges from the kitchen, grabs the offender round the waist and carries him out with legs flailing helplessly. Her stretch belies her size. I guess one shouldn’t judge a book by looking at its cover. As suddenly as the fracas began, calm is restored. The rest of the brood are given their matching orders. There is nothing as embarrassing as being banned from a shebeen. It’s so painful.
The men of the cloth could be right in the opposition to these dens of iniquity, modern day Sodom and Gomorrah worthy of hell and damnation. All manner of vice is associated with shebeens. Prostitution, gambling, child labour, you name it. Though, I must admit, I never saw any of that in my sojourn koMaSamoosa. Perhaps something was going on away from prying eyes. Such is the operation – carried out with dignity and a measure of respect for anyone who chooses to come spend half his salary there.
‘Hypocrites!’ shouts Manotsha. ‘These church people are all hypocrites. I met Mfundisi Sibanda from the Anglican church koCecilia last week!’
Men of cloth, government aficionado, even senior police officers, people who speak out publicly against shebeens visit them under cover of darkness. You can’t keep a good thing down.
In fact, some operators pride themselves with the high calibre of clientele and it forms part of their marketing strategy. Surely one would not miss the opportunity to rub shoulders with a Minister of government or religion at their favourite drinking hole, relaxing over a pint or two?
As if by sheer coincidence, commotion outside announces the arrival of a troop of police details in full riot regalia. They number twelve which in itself is not surprising these days. They pretend not to be concerned and seek the audience of ‘the owner of the place.’ Grinning like a Cheshire cat, MaSamoosa summons the most senior looking of them into her office which also doubles up as her bedroom and storeroom to boot.
For some queer reason, I am not perturbed. Somehow I am content that MaSamoosa will sort things out. She does and soon the police caps are removed and everyone relaxes.
‘Asazaneni madoda (Let’s introduce each other guys),’ the officer says, and without particularly waiting for a response, settles down for the one or two pints on the house availed by the now overly hospitable shebeen queens. From the rest of us, a collective sigh of relief. At least for today, the fences will be empty.
Lenox Mhlanga is a New Zimbabwe.com columnist. His column is published there (www.newzimbabwe.com) every Friday.
Monday, June 18
Defending the marriage institution
I have often stood accused of having a low opinion of marriage. Let us all agree on one sure thing, that this institution has both been venerated and vilified depending on the state of one’s union, gender, marital status, or on opinions grounded in either fact or fallacy. Mine are based solely on hardened experience. You see, I am happily married (my wife told me to say so) and have been for the past 13 years. So that makes me an expert of sorts on issues marital.
I was startled by statistics that revealed that in the United States, an average of 3 million people divorce each year and the figure is rising. One of the reasons that so many marriages end in divorce is that those men who promised that they'd die for their woman just don't come through. People have divorced because of reasons that range from the way in which the toilet paper should gang, mothers-in-law (of course), lipstick on the belly button to whose turn it was to taking he dog for a very long walk.
I am surprised that the milkman, plumber or the postman did not feature prominently as we would have assumed, but rest assured that if this was in Zimbabwe, they would be top of the list along with the younger brother (or sister) and the maid.
Marriage has been defined as the only war in which one sleeps with the enemy or that enduring state of undeclared civil war. There are others who feel that marriage is not a word but a sentence. In fact the ever witty Winston Churchill once said: “Where does the marriage start? It starts with a young man falling in live with a girl. No superior alternative has yet been found.”
Bachelors have a very low opinion of marriage, granted, they don’t know what they are missing (Look who’s talking now). Marriage, they say, is the sole cause of divorce. The impression given is that the marriage institution is one to avoid at all costs. Among the host of reasons proffered is that of independence. Bachelors claim that they have the freedom to do what they want, when they want and to or with whom they want. They are convinced that married men have imaginary leaches around their necks and are wilfully manipulated by their better half which we emphatically deny.
The sanctions, bachelors say, take the form of tight financial control on the assumption that men are hopelessly careless with money. They go on to say that it is the woman of the house who normally commands the powerful portfolio of finance minister and so it goes without saying that this controls the movements and spending habits of the husband through a system of checks and balances.
If this were true, married men counter, then quite a number of pubs would become extinct. Pubs are full of married men to avoid house hold chores. Now there’s a burning issue if I saw one. Who should do what in the house, how and when? In the traditional set-up, the situation is pretty clear; the women do the entire house work while the man dozes under a tree.
In the 21st century home, things have changed somewhat. Wives are crying out: “Help me, help me!” but it’s actually “Help me exactly the way I tell you!” Housework is repetitive, tedious and physically sapping, but it isn’t difficult. It has only been shrouded in such perfectionist mystique the same way lawyers have done to their profession, so men don’t buy it.
Let’s get back to the bachelors. We all know that they are rabidly reckless when it comes to cash, searching for the ultimate thrill that money can buy, limited only to the depth of their pockets. Married men on the other hand, take refuge in the comfort that their spouses would be there to pull the brakes on those unplanned bouts of unrestricted spending at the local with the lads.
They (married men, that is) deny that there is any so-called ‘home by six’ curfew restriction effected by their allegedly overprotective wives. Instead they point to the inherent dangers of bachelors’ ‘home by the next day’ policy that has left its fair share of casualties in unplanned pregnancies, monumental hangovers and nasty diseases being the tip of the iceberg of total ruin.
If the truth be told, say the married men, bachelors are scared of attachment. They unearth all these excuses about married men living miserable lives under a petticoat dictatorship. Agreed, they are a minority of women who give their spouses hell but they are the exception rather than the rule.
A columnist once posed an all important question: Why do people marry, and came up with the apparent answer that we marry because by nature humans, and animals for that matter, hate being alone. We marry for other reasons like security, children and intimacy. Marriage is not an event but a process and it takes a great understanding between couples.
For instance, here are a few things that wives do not like; things that go bang, the husband’s best friend, the husband admiring her best friend, smelly socks, the internal combustion engine, the internal combustion engine in pieces and anything in a mini skirt. You can also add the fact that they detest men who talk back and dirt. Wives do not see the point of 12 pints of lager, boxing, pin-ups, rugby, many other things involving balls bachelor’s parties and pubs.
So newly-wed flowers are warned that it’s not all marital bliss or a bed of roses, but should beware of the thorns! Men, God forbid, leave the toile seat up, break wind anywhere and everywhere and cut their toe nails in bed. That does not leave out doing press-ups before breakfast, whistling in the shower and dozing away on the sofa a la Andy Capp. Add knuckle cracking, sniffling loudly like a jet engine in reverse, or chewing nosily. It all takes a bit tolerance.
Men, be patient with your wives. Things like riding the clutch, using your newspaper to clean the loo before you read it, sitting comfortably knitting while the kids re-engineer the DVD player, and spring-cleaning the bedroom at dawn after your hard night out with the boys are genetic. So there is hardly anything you can possibly do to change that unless you ship out.
But then who cares if your partner wets the bed, snores like a diesel engine or yodels in their sleep for that matter? It all adds spice to the relationship and a bit of drama too! No one said we were all perfect. One has to hand it to those brave women who are married to mass murderers, dictators, thieves and other social misfits. Real love conquers all, they say. So to you bachelors out there, there is nothing to fear except fear itself. Divorce, in actual fact, is bachelorhood, with strings attached.
I was startled by statistics that revealed that in the United States, an average of 3 million people divorce each year and the figure is rising. One of the reasons that so many marriages end in divorce is that those men who promised that they'd die for their woman just don't come through. People have divorced because of reasons that range from the way in which the toilet paper should gang, mothers-in-law (of course), lipstick on the belly button to whose turn it was to taking he dog for a very long walk.
I am surprised that the milkman, plumber or the postman did not feature prominently as we would have assumed, but rest assured that if this was in Zimbabwe, they would be top of the list along with the younger brother (or sister) and the maid.
Marriage has been defined as the only war in which one sleeps with the enemy or that enduring state of undeclared civil war. There are others who feel that marriage is not a word but a sentence. In fact the ever witty Winston Churchill once said: “Where does the marriage start? It starts with a young man falling in live with a girl. No superior alternative has yet been found.”
Bachelors have a very low opinion of marriage, granted, they don’t know what they are missing (Look who’s talking now). Marriage, they say, is the sole cause of divorce. The impression given is that the marriage institution is one to avoid at all costs. Among the host of reasons proffered is that of independence. Bachelors claim that they have the freedom to do what they want, when they want and to or with whom they want. They are convinced that married men have imaginary leaches around their necks and are wilfully manipulated by their better half which we emphatically deny.
The sanctions, bachelors say, take the form of tight financial control on the assumption that men are hopelessly careless with money. They go on to say that it is the woman of the house who normally commands the powerful portfolio of finance minister and so it goes without saying that this controls the movements and spending habits of the husband through a system of checks and balances.
If this were true, married men counter, then quite a number of pubs would become extinct. Pubs are full of married men to avoid house hold chores. Now there’s a burning issue if I saw one. Who should do what in the house, how and when? In the traditional set-up, the situation is pretty clear; the women do the entire house work while the man dozes under a tree.
In the 21st century home, things have changed somewhat. Wives are crying out: “Help me, help me!” but it’s actually “Help me exactly the way I tell you!” Housework is repetitive, tedious and physically sapping, but it isn’t difficult. It has only been shrouded in such perfectionist mystique the same way lawyers have done to their profession, so men don’t buy it.
Let’s get back to the bachelors. We all know that they are rabidly reckless when it comes to cash, searching for the ultimate thrill that money can buy, limited only to the depth of their pockets. Married men on the other hand, take refuge in the comfort that their spouses would be there to pull the brakes on those unplanned bouts of unrestricted spending at the local with the lads.
They (married men, that is) deny that there is any so-called ‘home by six’ curfew restriction effected by their allegedly overprotective wives. Instead they point to the inherent dangers of bachelors’ ‘home by the next day’ policy that has left its fair share of casualties in unplanned pregnancies, monumental hangovers and nasty diseases being the tip of the iceberg of total ruin.
If the truth be told, say the married men, bachelors are scared of attachment. They unearth all these excuses about married men living miserable lives under a petticoat dictatorship. Agreed, they are a minority of women who give their spouses hell but they are the exception rather than the rule.
A columnist once posed an all important question: Why do people marry, and came up with the apparent answer that we marry because by nature humans, and animals for that matter, hate being alone. We marry for other reasons like security, children and intimacy. Marriage is not an event but a process and it takes a great understanding between couples.
For instance, here are a few things that wives do not like; things that go bang, the husband’s best friend, the husband admiring her best friend, smelly socks, the internal combustion engine, the internal combustion engine in pieces and anything in a mini skirt. You can also add the fact that they detest men who talk back and dirt. Wives do not see the point of 12 pints of lager, boxing, pin-ups, rugby, many other things involving balls bachelor’s parties and pubs.
So newly-wed flowers are warned that it’s not all marital bliss or a bed of roses, but should beware of the thorns! Men, God forbid, leave the toile seat up, break wind anywhere and everywhere and cut their toe nails in bed. That does not leave out doing press-ups before breakfast, whistling in the shower and dozing away on the sofa a la Andy Capp. Add knuckle cracking, sniffling loudly like a jet engine in reverse, or chewing nosily. It all takes a bit tolerance.
Men, be patient with your wives. Things like riding the clutch, using your newspaper to clean the loo before you read it, sitting comfortably knitting while the kids re-engineer the DVD player, and spring-cleaning the bedroom at dawn after your hard night out with the boys are genetic. So there is hardly anything you can possibly do to change that unless you ship out.
But then who cares if your partner wets the bed, snores like a diesel engine or yodels in their sleep for that matter? It all adds spice to the relationship and a bit of drama too! No one said we were all perfect. One has to hand it to those brave women who are married to mass murderers, dictators, thieves and other social misfits. Real love conquers all, they say. So to you bachelors out there, there is nothing to fear except fear itself. Divorce, in actual fact, is bachelorhood, with strings attached.
Wednesday, May 30
Why are men so obsessed with virility?
‘Man dies after taking aphrodisiac,’ screamed the headline in a local paper last week. In another case, two men from Tsholotsho were admitted into hospital with miniature ‘Leaning Towers of Pisa’ in their trousers that refused to go down after taking an unnamed substance to boost their sexual endurance.
Yet another story described how a 50 year-old man could have directly or indirectly caused the death of a 15 year-old girl after a session of artificially induced passion. Claims were made that this was after the said geezer had consumed a liberal amount of a concoction to prop up his libido.
The implication was that given his age the man, at half a century of existence, would not have achieved such high performance levels without the aid of an aphrodisiac. For the record, the man denied ever taking any such concoction. This unfortunate incident occurred in Bulawayo where I come from which makes me a reliable source on the goings-on in the City of Kings and Queens.
Go to any beer hall KoNtuthuziyathunqa (The city where the smoke billows) and you will observe almost without fail, groups of men passing around a piece of khaki paper containing a ground powder called Umvusankunzi. This, in the local SiNdebele language, literally means ‘arouser of the bull.’
When the rest of the world went crazy over the discovery of Viagra, these men must have been wondering what the fuss was all about since the local version had been in existence since time immemorial. Whether the old man mentioned earlier took the concoction or not is beside the point. What concerns us here is why he should have taken it in the first place?
Which begs the question; why are men so obsessed with their virility? The whole psychology behind the conundrum is that while in pursuit of a basic need, which we assume he paid for I hard earned dollars, he had to make sure that he would not be found wanting.
If there is anything that deflates a man’s ego it would be his inability to perform where it matters most. Had he failed, he might have been the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. In this case the girl in question would have broadcast to all and sundry the apparent inadequacies of the man which in lackadaisical sort of way highlights the tragedy of the episode.
Breaking from the story, let us take a hard look at the traditional reasons for taking performance – enhancing concoctions. In the not-too-distant past, when polygamy was the rule rather than the exception, a man was supposed to ‘satisfy’ his numerous wives reasonably well so as to prevent them from taking their business elsewhere.
Knowing the frailty of the human body especially after the exertions of a normal drinking day, it would be near impossible to undertake these essential domestic chores to the satisfaction of the parties involved. So in the spirit of keeping the family happily together, traditional doctors prescribed anabolic steroids to the males.
These were usually doled out in the dead of the night because males with their trademark obstinacy saw themselves quite capable of the task at hand without any artificial assistance when the opposite was true. Not even the favourite wife knew about these nocturnal consultations.
Nowadays the situation has somewhat changed. Most of the men are now in monogamous unions though modern diet, the taxing working conditions and high alcohol consumption are also known to put a huge dent on their stamina when performing their matrimonial obligations. It is a fact that a man dreads being deserted by his wife for any reason worse still if it is because of impotence.
There are some men who find it hard to believe that impotence is a disease. To them, it is just being inadequate, a straight-forward inability to perform, and period! Hence the need to go the extra mile by any means necessary.
Other pertinent questions come to mind. For instance, should the female partner be made aware that her partner takes a herbal performance enhancement drug? What if she fails to satisfy his increased demands? Does it men that he now can go to the next person in a skirt to tame the raging bull?
So it goes without saying that the majority of women in this predicament will never know about their partner’s curious drug habit if I may call it that. That is as long as their part of the contract is reasonably or exceedingly fulfilled. The whole thing is shrouded in a veil of secrecy. I am yet to hear of a man who calls out to his wife to fetch him his 5 gallon container of Vuka Vuka before they retire for the night. Even the passing round of the khaki paper in the beer hall is a ritual in silence. One isn’t even sure it’s the real thing. I suppose the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
Sexual performance enhancement drugs, whether herbal or artificial, open a Pandora’s Box of potential hazards chief among these being HIV contracted in pursuit of a cheap thrill as it was in the case of our 50 year old murder suspect. The two Tsholotsho men are an illustration of what happens to those who overdose or fail to find a willing partner.
Rape is also common in some of the extreme cases as the need for sexual relief borders on desperate. The murder case itself is giving law enforcement officers’ sleepless nights when it comes to its classification. They are finding it difficult to charge the man with anything. Aren’t we going to see a new statute opened in the law books where men can possibly be charged with ‘murder with a friendly weapon?’ Anything is possible these days.
And by the way, this plan to give aeroplane passengers Viagra in order to counter the effects of jetlag and time lapse, just drop it. There just won’t be enough leg room.
Health Warning: This is a serious issue which is normally discussed in low voices by members of the male species.Women are best advised to pretend they are not reading this.
Notes:
This column first appeared in the Daily News in 2000 which has now been banned. It has been rehashed by the author for a web audience on his weekly column 'Breaking the Wind' at www.newzimbabwe.com
Bulawayo is Zimbabwe's second largest city with a population of aproximately 1 million people.Its called the City of Kings because of its historical past as the capital of the ancient Ndebele kingdom of Mthwakazi ruled by Mzilikazi and then his son Lobengula in the 19th century.
Yet another story described how a 50 year-old man could have directly or indirectly caused the death of a 15 year-old girl after a session of artificially induced passion. Claims were made that this was after the said geezer had consumed a liberal amount of a concoction to prop up his libido.
The implication was that given his age the man, at half a century of existence, would not have achieved such high performance levels without the aid of an aphrodisiac. For the record, the man denied ever taking any such concoction. This unfortunate incident occurred in Bulawayo where I come from which makes me a reliable source on the goings-on in the City of Kings and Queens.
Go to any beer hall KoNtuthuziyathunqa (The city where the smoke billows) and you will observe almost without fail, groups of men passing around a piece of khaki paper containing a ground powder called Umvusankunzi. This, in the local SiNdebele language, literally means ‘arouser of the bull.’
When the rest of the world went crazy over the discovery of Viagra, these men must have been wondering what the fuss was all about since the local version had been in existence since time immemorial. Whether the old man mentioned earlier took the concoction or not is beside the point. What concerns us here is why he should have taken it in the first place?
Which begs the question; why are men so obsessed with their virility? The whole psychology behind the conundrum is that while in pursuit of a basic need, which we assume he paid for I hard earned dollars, he had to make sure that he would not be found wanting.
If there is anything that deflates a man’s ego it would be his inability to perform where it matters most. Had he failed, he might have been the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. In this case the girl in question would have broadcast to all and sundry the apparent inadequacies of the man which in lackadaisical sort of way highlights the tragedy of the episode.
Breaking from the story, let us take a hard look at the traditional reasons for taking performance – enhancing concoctions. In the not-too-distant past, when polygamy was the rule rather than the exception, a man was supposed to ‘satisfy’ his numerous wives reasonably well so as to prevent them from taking their business elsewhere.
Knowing the frailty of the human body especially after the exertions of a normal drinking day, it would be near impossible to undertake these essential domestic chores to the satisfaction of the parties involved. So in the spirit of keeping the family happily together, traditional doctors prescribed anabolic steroids to the males.
These were usually doled out in the dead of the night because males with their trademark obstinacy saw themselves quite capable of the task at hand without any artificial assistance when the opposite was true. Not even the favourite wife knew about these nocturnal consultations.
Nowadays the situation has somewhat changed. Most of the men are now in monogamous unions though modern diet, the taxing working conditions and high alcohol consumption are also known to put a huge dent on their stamina when performing their matrimonial obligations. It is a fact that a man dreads being deserted by his wife for any reason worse still if it is because of impotence.
There are some men who find it hard to believe that impotence is a disease. To them, it is just being inadequate, a straight-forward inability to perform, and period! Hence the need to go the extra mile by any means necessary.
Other pertinent questions come to mind. For instance, should the female partner be made aware that her partner takes a herbal performance enhancement drug? What if she fails to satisfy his increased demands? Does it men that he now can go to the next person in a skirt to tame the raging bull?
So it goes without saying that the majority of women in this predicament will never know about their partner’s curious drug habit if I may call it that. That is as long as their part of the contract is reasonably or exceedingly fulfilled. The whole thing is shrouded in a veil of secrecy. I am yet to hear of a man who calls out to his wife to fetch him his 5 gallon container of Vuka Vuka before they retire for the night. Even the passing round of the khaki paper in the beer hall is a ritual in silence. One isn’t even sure it’s the real thing. I suppose the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
Sexual performance enhancement drugs, whether herbal or artificial, open a Pandora’s Box of potential hazards chief among these being HIV contracted in pursuit of a cheap thrill as it was in the case of our 50 year old murder suspect. The two Tsholotsho men are an illustration of what happens to those who overdose or fail to find a willing partner.
Rape is also common in some of the extreme cases as the need for sexual relief borders on desperate. The murder case itself is giving law enforcement officers’ sleepless nights when it comes to its classification. They are finding it difficult to charge the man with anything. Aren’t we going to see a new statute opened in the law books where men can possibly be charged with ‘murder with a friendly weapon?’ Anything is possible these days.
And by the way, this plan to give aeroplane passengers Viagra in order to counter the effects of jetlag and time lapse, just drop it. There just won’t be enough leg room.
Health Warning: This is a serious issue which is normally discussed in low voices by members of the male species.Women are best advised to pretend they are not reading this.
Notes:
This column first appeared in the Daily News in 2000 which has now been banned. It has been rehashed by the author for a web audience on his weekly column 'Breaking the Wind' at www.newzimbabwe.com
Bulawayo is Zimbabwe's second largest city with a population of aproximately 1 million people.Its called the City of Kings because of its historical past as the capital of the ancient Ndebele kingdom of Mthwakazi ruled by Mzilikazi and then his son Lobengula in the 19th century.
Wednesday, May 16
Political Correctness: A Manual
In Zimbabwe we tend to take political correctness a bit too far. For instance, problems here are never referred as such but are couched in cotton wool. The correct term, we are always reminded, is “challenges.” Problems, we suspect, are the direct result of some degree of incompetence or irresponsibility on the part of authorities. Challenges, on the other hand, are a slight diversion from the norm and are to a large extent surmountable. What a load of crap if you ask me.
Well let’s steer away from that minefield which a lot of colleagues have discovered, much to their horror, that this is a hard hat area… Zimbabwean politics I mean. It also explains why I avoid it at all costs, not that I am apologizing. It’s called common sense. You just have to watch your backside in this very dirty game. Some time last year, I did some research on ways in which one could address certain deficiencies among us without offending the subject.
For example I discovered that one is never referred to as short, but rather, “vertically challenged.” Now we are told that no one's tall anymore. They are "vertically enhanced" people, not implying of course that those of us who are tall are offended by their extraordinary height above sea-level. But one would if he were called a ‘tower light.’
I am sure that quite a number among our student population would be glad to know that no one fails in class anymore; you are merely "passing impaired." Neither are you detained after school, you're just one of the "exit delayed." Your room at college isn't cluttered; it's just "passage restrictive."
These days, a worker isn't referred to as lazy. He's "energetically declined.” His or her locker isn't overflowing with junk, but "closure prohibitive." Kids don't get grounded anymore. They merely hit "social speed bumps."
And do you remember those days when it was difficult to complete your homework? And you had to stand before the teacher and lie through your teeth about how the dog came into your room and promptly without provocation ate through your homework exercise book? Take heart because there is a new term floating around these days. Yes, your homework isn't missing; it’s just having an "out-of-notebook experience."
Sleeping in class was not an unusual phenomenon, particularly when the lesson or the teacher or both, where boring you to death. During our time we used to strategically position ourselves in the back row for that much sought after before-lunch snooze. I am quite sure the teachers did notice but rather chose to allow us to exercise our democratic right of non-participation in the lesson. Those who are still in the practice (of dozing) will be glad to know that sleeping in class is now referred to as "rationing consciousness."
Being late for school for some of us was the rule rather than the exception. So the prefects would put our names down in their books in advance for the rest of the week cock sure that we would always crawl in late. I should add that the school administration thought that my case was so exceptional that they made me a prefect in order to curb my bad habit of coming late. If you are ever late, do not search for some far-fetched excuse. Just say you have only had a "rescheduled arrival time."
Hair was another sticking point at school. If wearing an afro was your preference, which by the way is on the boomerang these days, you just had to have an afro-comb on stand-by. The problem was that some of us lacked the energy needed to lift that comb to the head. And as a result one would look more like Don Kings’ illegitimate son. Now here is a good turn-off for those bothersome teachers who make a fuss out of nothing. Just tell them that your hair is not unkempt but that you're suffering from "rebellious follicle syndrome."
In the area of personal hygiene, we always had those who were averse to water. We used to refer to them as cowboys, after that famous local soap advert where a boy would wail to his insistent mother, “Mama, wake wabona ama “cowboy” egeza?” (Have you ever seen cowboys taking a bath?) And that chap had a point. At boarding school guys wore their socks continuously until they could stand on their own when placed on the floor with stink starch. Now they tell me you don't have smelly school socks anymore, rather they are referred to as "odour-retentive academic footwear." You would be interested to know that at boarding school and later at varsity, that particularly overpowering pong was inexplicably referred to as “Noise” (Umsindo).
Here is one for those who are shy. You’re supposed to be “conversationally selective." At school, initially I was in this select group. I would nearly faint when a girl spoke to me. But then something happened. They call it adolescence and now I am referred to as someone who is “abundantly verbal."
Then there was this irritating habit of passing notes in class. Teachers really detested this disruptive behaviour, especially when the teacher was the subject matter of these surreptitious missives. I should add that this was another sure sign that the lesson in question was in intensive care. So to add a bit of daring and excitement to the proceedings we wrote little notes which circulated in class faster than a rumour in Harare. The problem was getting caught after which, I dare say, you were humiliatingly asked to read it aloud in class.
About 99.9% of these notes were vulgar and reading it aloud was like playing Russian roulette. Unless you popped the piece of paper into your mouth, where the least you would receive was a thunderous clap, as compared to ‘six of the best’ from the Head. Or better still you could get away with the explanation that you were "participating in the discreet exchange of penned meditations."
Did I mention the dreaded trip to the headmaster’s office? At Fletcher High where I did my O levels, it was ominously called the “office.” Our teachers would use it in the form of a threat when they would hiss, “Okay my boy, I will report you to the office.” And one sorry trip to the “office” was enough for you not to wish for another. Actually, the ‘office was so efficient that a whole class of errant pupils would be canned in one afternoon!
It was so prevalent that some of us were convinced that the teachers also regularly went for canning too! We even renamed the area where the “office” was located, “The Corridor of Death.” The next time you are called to the “office” just tell your friends that you're "going on mandatory field trip to the administrative building."
I never thought they would find a phrase that would replace the word gossip. From now on it will be known as "the speedy transmission of near-factual information."
This also reminds me of a recent meal at a local hotel that will remain nameless to protect the innocent (as in yours truly). I wouldn’t’ dare call the food they serve at their eatery awful. It's just "digestively challenged."
And finally, remember the column on the touchy subject of gate crashing? Well, the HR man at a local tyre maker has a politically correct term for such pests. At a company function during the just ended Zimbabwe International Trade Fair, he referred to them as “sympathizers.” How cute!
Well let’s steer away from that minefield which a lot of colleagues have discovered, much to their horror, that this is a hard hat area… Zimbabwean politics I mean. It also explains why I avoid it at all costs, not that I am apologizing. It’s called common sense. You just have to watch your backside in this very dirty game. Some time last year, I did some research on ways in which one could address certain deficiencies among us without offending the subject.
For example I discovered that one is never referred to as short, but rather, “vertically challenged.” Now we are told that no one's tall anymore. They are "vertically enhanced" people, not implying of course that those of us who are tall are offended by their extraordinary height above sea-level. But one would if he were called a ‘tower light.’
I am sure that quite a number among our student population would be glad to know that no one fails in class anymore; you are merely "passing impaired." Neither are you detained after school, you're just one of the "exit delayed." Your room at college isn't cluttered; it's just "passage restrictive."
These days, a worker isn't referred to as lazy. He's "energetically declined.” His or her locker isn't overflowing with junk, but "closure prohibitive." Kids don't get grounded anymore. They merely hit "social speed bumps."
And do you remember those days when it was difficult to complete your homework? And you had to stand before the teacher and lie through your teeth about how the dog came into your room and promptly without provocation ate through your homework exercise book? Take heart because there is a new term floating around these days. Yes, your homework isn't missing; it’s just having an "out-of-notebook experience."
Sleeping in class was not an unusual phenomenon, particularly when the lesson or the teacher or both, where boring you to death. During our time we used to strategically position ourselves in the back row for that much sought after before-lunch snooze. I am quite sure the teachers did notice but rather chose to allow us to exercise our democratic right of non-participation in the lesson. Those who are still in the practice (of dozing) will be glad to know that sleeping in class is now referred to as "rationing consciousness."
Being late for school for some of us was the rule rather than the exception. So the prefects would put our names down in their books in advance for the rest of the week cock sure that we would always crawl in late. I should add that the school administration thought that my case was so exceptional that they made me a prefect in order to curb my bad habit of coming late. If you are ever late, do not search for some far-fetched excuse. Just say you have only had a "rescheduled arrival time."
Hair was another sticking point at school. If wearing an afro was your preference, which by the way is on the boomerang these days, you just had to have an afro-comb on stand-by. The problem was that some of us lacked the energy needed to lift that comb to the head. And as a result one would look more like Don Kings’ illegitimate son. Now here is a good turn-off for those bothersome teachers who make a fuss out of nothing. Just tell them that your hair is not unkempt but that you're suffering from "rebellious follicle syndrome."
In the area of personal hygiene, we always had those who were averse to water. We used to refer to them as cowboys, after that famous local soap advert where a boy would wail to his insistent mother, “Mama, wake wabona ama “cowboy” egeza?” (Have you ever seen cowboys taking a bath?) And that chap had a point. At boarding school guys wore their socks continuously until they could stand on their own when placed on the floor with stink starch. Now they tell me you don't have smelly school socks anymore, rather they are referred to as "odour-retentive academic footwear." You would be interested to know that at boarding school and later at varsity, that particularly overpowering pong was inexplicably referred to as “Noise” (Umsindo).
Here is one for those who are shy. You’re supposed to be “conversationally selective." At school, initially I was in this select group. I would nearly faint when a girl spoke to me. But then something happened. They call it adolescence and now I am referred to as someone who is “abundantly verbal."
Then there was this irritating habit of passing notes in class. Teachers really detested this disruptive behaviour, especially when the teacher was the subject matter of these surreptitious missives. I should add that this was another sure sign that the lesson in question was in intensive care. So to add a bit of daring and excitement to the proceedings we wrote little notes which circulated in class faster than a rumour in Harare. The problem was getting caught after which, I dare say, you were humiliatingly asked to read it aloud in class.
About 99.9% of these notes were vulgar and reading it aloud was like playing Russian roulette. Unless you popped the piece of paper into your mouth, where the least you would receive was a thunderous clap, as compared to ‘six of the best’ from the Head. Or better still you could get away with the explanation that you were "participating in the discreet exchange of penned meditations."
Did I mention the dreaded trip to the headmaster’s office? At Fletcher High where I did my O levels, it was ominously called the “office.” Our teachers would use it in the form of a threat when they would hiss, “Okay my boy, I will report you to the office.” And one sorry trip to the “office” was enough for you not to wish for another. Actually, the ‘office was so efficient that a whole class of errant pupils would be canned in one afternoon!
It was so prevalent that some of us were convinced that the teachers also regularly went for canning too! We even renamed the area where the “office” was located, “The Corridor of Death.” The next time you are called to the “office” just tell your friends that you're "going on mandatory field trip to the administrative building."
I never thought they would find a phrase that would replace the word gossip. From now on it will be known as "the speedy transmission of near-factual information."
This also reminds me of a recent meal at a local hotel that will remain nameless to protect the innocent (as in yours truly). I wouldn’t’ dare call the food they serve at their eatery awful. It's just "digestively challenged."
And finally, remember the column on the touchy subject of gate crashing? Well, the HR man at a local tyre maker has a politically correct term for such pests. At a company function during the just ended Zimbabwe International Trade Fair, he referred to them as “sympathizers.” How cute!
Sunday, May 13
How the coalmen took care of me
Apologies are in order for my no-show last week, and for those vendors who were assaulted for selling an incomplete product at a time when the price of this paper went up. It was just a coincidence, no harm intended. Blame the economy for its unpredictable histrionics doing untold damage to the pocket. Any excuses? I must admit that I was buried under an avalanche of Trade fair Cocktail parties only to emerge on the very Sunday you were unfortunately expecting to see my visage and the associated nonsense.
You see, being the celebrity that I now am, everyone and their grandmother want a piece of me, particularly these Harare types whose source of dough knows no end. Everyone loves to be seen with someone famous and to buy them drinks too! I was so overwhelmed! Even ZTV wanted me to present their ‘five-minuters’, which I politely declined and passed on to my good friend Walter. My schedule was just too tight.
But let me tell you something for nothing. Those who say that there is no money in this country are lying. Even if they are printing it, there are people pout there who know how to spend it. And they came to the Trade Fair to do just that. Every firm worth its name threw a shindig to end all shindigs! For the uninitiated in the language of the oppressors, a shindig is a party, my friend.
The only brewer in the country had journos scrambling for superlatives to describe it; until a ‘consultant’ decided it was time up, telling all and sundry it was time to go to bed. Now, you and I know that a journalist and his beer are never parted except when they surface for air. The crime was that this person actually ordered workers to pack ice cold beers away. What a travesty! Even Black Scorpion was appalled. The rule of the function is that you let the booze run out, you do not run the guests out.
I liked the tyre maker’s cocktail. My former employer always gets the formula right only that this time there was far much more Coke than pints. There the ever-so-cool Tshuks the HR man taught us all a new term for gatecrashers. They are now known as sympathisers. How cute!
The guys who supply us with timber and other building things missed the point of inviting people to sample their hospitality. You don’t hold people captive for hour on end to near starvation just to launch some product. Luckily, I sauntered I when the MC was conducting the draw when the cream of the crown were already turning in their sleep at home. Then I discovered the ruse. There was so little food and drink that even izibhonda (the destitute) would have complained. Marks out of ten? Zero!
The Coal-miners (never mind the fact that there is hardly any to throw at each other these days) did their best to monopolise me. I was literally embedded to their humble but imaginative pavilion which by the way won the best Zimbabwean exhibit prize, and to think that I had nothing to do with it. Winning the prize, I mean. I was being spoiled rotten by these guys for the second year running and it paid dividends for them to! I look forward to their scooping a couple more prizes next year.
I must admit that I did gatecrash at least one function, even though I was later to discover later that I had been invited after all. Here I was well and truly cornered in a corner. While the wise waters flowed to no end, I was put to task and found myself having to justify my column, its contents and my very existence. So much for being a celebrity; it has certain, eh, ‘uncomfortable’ responsibilities. Save to say that it was a truly enlightening experience, I found myself having to flee the excuse being that I had more pressing issues elsewhere.
On a more sobering note, haven’t we suffered enough already? We should at least get the service that we deserve from the money we fork out in taxes, service charges and purchases. The major problem is that Zimbabweans have perfected the art of celebrating mediocrity. We pay an arm and a leg and we get horse manure in return only for us to smile and say ‘Thank You very Much!’
I have experienced the worst kind of service delivery imaginable. The impression one gets is that you have to beg for the service you are paying for. Putting commuter omnibus crews aside (they have a unique disease those), we just have to stand up and fight this scourge. Where the heck is the Consumer Council? We deserve better for our hard earned money, even if it’s stolen. And this is how it should be; receive shoddy service, shift your business elsewhere. When was the last time you did that? Tell those people straight in the face that you will not brook ant nonsense and that you are leaving… with your money.
Commercial Banks, particularly the established ones, have long been playing Fiddley-Dee with our custom and money. Apart from outrageous bank charges and other equally despicable demands on small fry like us, we are lumped together at one branch like cattle in the name of rationalisation. One ever gets the feeling that they would be happy if we closed our accounts and shifted our cash into the pillows and gardens.
More culprits can be found polluting the hospitality industry at a time when they need every Zim dollar that blows their way. To some of them the word hospitality is just a decoration on their brochures. What justification is there to charge a glass of Coke Z$25! Unless the drink can sing the national anthem at my command, I see no plausible reason at all. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg?
One of them, and I will not name names here said, ‘If we had time we would explain to the gentleman how we come to those prices he is moaning about!’ My foot! The solution I guess is to keep away or take our business to Maunga. At least he understands what customer care is all about more than some of these glorified shelters.
Why rob tourists of their foreign currency? The idea is to tease it from them, not daylight robbery! Charging Bulawayo tap water masquerading as bottled ‘Mineral Water’ for as much as US$20! Now that is my whole salary! When bottled water costs that much, do you expect the tourist to come back to buy more? Not on your life! In fact, you will be the one moaning about ‘negative publicity’ destroying your business, when the negativity originates at you very door!
Yes, it makes one’s blood boil! Customer care should be priority for any proprietor who wants to stay in business in these hard times. A customer who walks in from the pavement has to be given reason to choose on and spend his money. One customer lost through bad service translates into a horde when the word spreads. Make the customer feel important; kiss his feet (God forbid) if you can. And be rest assured he will be back.
This greed must stop. Some advice for the long suffering consumer: Make every cent that you spend count. Do not feel obliged to reward second rate (horse manure) service when you can get first class across the road for the same amount. Accept no excuses. Make you opinions about shoddy service known and loudly too, which is exactly what I am doing on this page.
You see, being the celebrity that I now am, everyone and their grandmother want a piece of me, particularly these Harare types whose source of dough knows no end. Everyone loves to be seen with someone famous and to buy them drinks too! I was so overwhelmed! Even ZTV wanted me to present their ‘five-minuters’, which I politely declined and passed on to my good friend Walter. My schedule was just too tight.
But let me tell you something for nothing. Those who say that there is no money in this country are lying. Even if they are printing it, there are people pout there who know how to spend it. And they came to the Trade Fair to do just that. Every firm worth its name threw a shindig to end all shindigs! For the uninitiated in the language of the oppressors, a shindig is a party, my friend.
The only brewer in the country had journos scrambling for superlatives to describe it; until a ‘consultant’ decided it was time up, telling all and sundry it was time to go to bed. Now, you and I know that a journalist and his beer are never parted except when they surface for air. The crime was that this person actually ordered workers to pack ice cold beers away. What a travesty! Even Black Scorpion was appalled. The rule of the function is that you let the booze run out, you do not run the guests out.
I liked the tyre maker’s cocktail. My former employer always gets the formula right only that this time there was far much more Coke than pints. There the ever-so-cool Tshuks the HR man taught us all a new term for gatecrashers. They are now known as sympathisers. How cute!
The guys who supply us with timber and other building things missed the point of inviting people to sample their hospitality. You don’t hold people captive for hour on end to near starvation just to launch some product. Luckily, I sauntered I when the MC was conducting the draw when the cream of the crown were already turning in their sleep at home. Then I discovered the ruse. There was so little food and drink that even izibhonda (the destitute) would have complained. Marks out of ten? Zero!
The Coal-miners (never mind the fact that there is hardly any to throw at each other these days) did their best to monopolise me. I was literally embedded to their humble but imaginative pavilion which by the way won the best Zimbabwean exhibit prize, and to think that I had nothing to do with it. Winning the prize, I mean. I was being spoiled rotten by these guys for the second year running and it paid dividends for them to! I look forward to their scooping a couple more prizes next year.
I must admit that I did gatecrash at least one function, even though I was later to discover later that I had been invited after all. Here I was well and truly cornered in a corner. While the wise waters flowed to no end, I was put to task and found myself having to justify my column, its contents and my very existence. So much for being a celebrity; it has certain, eh, ‘uncomfortable’ responsibilities. Save to say that it was a truly enlightening experience, I found myself having to flee the excuse being that I had more pressing issues elsewhere.
On a more sobering note, haven’t we suffered enough already? We should at least get the service that we deserve from the money we fork out in taxes, service charges and purchases. The major problem is that Zimbabweans have perfected the art of celebrating mediocrity. We pay an arm and a leg and we get horse manure in return only for us to smile and say ‘Thank You very Much!’
I have experienced the worst kind of service delivery imaginable. The impression one gets is that you have to beg for the service you are paying for. Putting commuter omnibus crews aside (they have a unique disease those), we just have to stand up and fight this scourge. Where the heck is the Consumer Council? We deserve better for our hard earned money, even if it’s stolen. And this is how it should be; receive shoddy service, shift your business elsewhere. When was the last time you did that? Tell those people straight in the face that you will not brook ant nonsense and that you are leaving… with your money.
Commercial Banks, particularly the established ones, have long been playing Fiddley-Dee with our custom and money. Apart from outrageous bank charges and other equally despicable demands on small fry like us, we are lumped together at one branch like cattle in the name of rationalisation. One ever gets the feeling that they would be happy if we closed our accounts and shifted our cash into the pillows and gardens.
More culprits can be found polluting the hospitality industry at a time when they need every Zim dollar that blows their way. To some of them the word hospitality is just a decoration on their brochures. What justification is there to charge a glass of Coke Z$25! Unless the drink can sing the national anthem at my command, I see no plausible reason at all. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg?
One of them, and I will not name names here said, ‘If we had time we would explain to the gentleman how we come to those prices he is moaning about!’ My foot! The solution I guess is to keep away or take our business to Maunga. At least he understands what customer care is all about more than some of these glorified shelters.
Why rob tourists of their foreign currency? The idea is to tease it from them, not daylight robbery! Charging Bulawayo tap water masquerading as bottled ‘Mineral Water’ for as much as US$20! Now that is my whole salary! When bottled water costs that much, do you expect the tourist to come back to buy more? Not on your life! In fact, you will be the one moaning about ‘negative publicity’ destroying your business, when the negativity originates at you very door!
Yes, it makes one’s blood boil! Customer care should be priority for any proprietor who wants to stay in business in these hard times. A customer who walks in from the pavement has to be given reason to choose on and spend his money. One customer lost through bad service translates into a horde when the word spreads. Make the customer feel important; kiss his feet (God forbid) if you can. And be rest assured he will be back.
This greed must stop. Some advice for the long suffering consumer: Make every cent that you spend count. Do not feel obliged to reward second rate (horse manure) service when you can get first class across the road for the same amount. Accept no excuses. Make you opinions about shoddy service known and loudly too, which is exactly what I am doing on this page.
Thursday, January 11
Why Injiva could not last another day
If you are a family man in Zimbabwe, who is law abiding and is not into shady deals, you have had it. There is practically no way you can tell me that things are fine for you at this time of year, particularly ‘this’ time of the year. Personally, I am seriously considering putting my family under judicial management. Then I don’t have to worry about all the monies that I owe people. Or better still, I could ask that my family and I be turned into state property.
The only problem with the former would be that I would have to wait until the next budget to be funded. Now that is a very long time to wait for a stipend. At any rate, unless you are a gold-panner (know as Makorokoza) or a diamond dealer who has escaped the jaws of Operation Chikorokoza Chapera or some form of corrupt activity…you should be on your knees praying for a miracle.
Things are tough, mshana. But some get by through divine intervention alone. Take the guy who earns Z$20,000 (revalued as opposed to devalued) and is supposed to pay school fees worth Z$80,000, not to mention shelling Z$40,000 for transport. That leaves absolutely nothing for rent, food and beer! Even injiva, as migrant workers from South Africa are known here, felt the heat. They beat a hasty retreat towards Beitbridge the moment they discovered that their rand wasn’t worth jack. Those who had planned to stay a couple of weeks more were spotted pawning their cell-phones on Boxing Day just to enough fuel to reach the border, heyi wena!
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ they were heard cursing under their breath. What they failed to do, arrogant as they usually are, was to ask those of us with experience on survival tactics, such as pushing your car half way to town from Pumula to save fuel. We would have told them about ‘cruising’ (with the engine switched off) from ‘D’ Square to Happy Valley, as long as the ‘robots’ are green or amber or unless that police road block cum toll gate at the Nguboyenja fly-over isn’t there for some inexplicable reason.
They also made the mistake of driving around with a car bearing GP number plates. Unless you robbed a bank in Nelspruit, that is a red flag for the traffic police. My advice was for them to park it out of sight and borrow a ‘better-than-walking’ from the neighbour. He would be so glad because it would be the first time in years that the jalopy had a full tank of fuel.
Better still, they should have melted into the crowds by using what we plebeians use for transportation…good old kombi, Bra! We might be risking our lives on a daily basis but what other choice do we have? Walking? Ungabi ngucleva when riding a ‘commuter’ asking uwhindi (tout) such silly questions like whether he got a receipt at that road block. Hell hath no fury like a tout scorned! He is likely to eject you with the words, “Hamba wena uyebabuza ukuthi yindaba!” (Go and ask them yourself!) Such is the life of survivors, to mind your business when others are doing theirs. No matter how elicit.
What about the queues? Not the ones at the bank, nor the ones for bread at the supermarket. I mean the queues at every school in the country. Parents are begging headmasters to give them enough time to rush off to Marange or Bocha (where there is an outbreak of the precious stone) so that they can raise money for the fees. There is practically no way a salaried person can afford those fees, never, unless the head is a distant relative or a drinking buddy, khohlwa sibali.
And this thing about rising prices each time we turn our backs. Greed is one thing but what is happening nowadays defies definition. I think its time those handcuffs did their job on some unscrupulous individuals once again. Just ask the managers from that bread company though it seems to have worked well for them. Hours after being sprung from the cells did the legal price of bread quadruple. It definitely sets a bad precedent for crafty capitalists. I hope we are not going to see some managers volunteering to be arrested for illegal price hiking so as to coax a higher figure from the authorities. Funny things really do happen sometimes.
Quote of the Week: “Help a man when he is in trouble and he will remember you when he is in trouble again.” Unknown
What it means:
Injiva or Imtshifana. Zimbabweans who have gone to South Africa through various ways and means are come back to show off their being well off. Usually loud, pompous and arrogant.
Gold Panners. (Makorokoza) have wreaked hovoc on the environment answering the call of greed by digging anywhere they think gold is at.
Currency revaluation. What happened to Zimbabwe's currency by striking off the last three zeros to allow suffreing citizens to carry decent loads of cash made near useless by quadruple digit inflation.
Operation Chikorokoza Chapera (Lit: Gold Panning is finished) A police dragnet that attmpts to arrest the widespread destruction at its perpetrators.
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ "Its tough at home for sure"
GP number plates. The licence plates found on vehicles from Gauteng Province (Joburg) as called 'Gangster's Paradise' with good reason
'Ungabi ngucleva' Don't be clever and a half.
Marange or Bocha. These are places in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe where a diamond rush of sorts is in progress, making instant millionaires out of once dirt poor peasants.
Khohlwa, sibali! Forget it
The only problem with the former would be that I would have to wait until the next budget to be funded. Now that is a very long time to wait for a stipend. At any rate, unless you are a gold-panner (know as Makorokoza) or a diamond dealer who has escaped the jaws of Operation Chikorokoza Chapera or some form of corrupt activity…you should be on your knees praying for a miracle.
Things are tough, mshana. But some get by through divine intervention alone. Take the guy who earns Z$20,000 (revalued as opposed to devalued) and is supposed to pay school fees worth Z$80,000, not to mention shelling Z$40,000 for transport. That leaves absolutely nothing for rent, food and beer! Even injiva, as migrant workers from South Africa are known here, felt the heat. They beat a hasty retreat towards Beitbridge the moment they discovered that their rand wasn’t worth jack. Those who had planned to stay a couple of weeks more were spotted pawning their cell-phones on Boxing Day just to enough fuel to reach the border, heyi wena!
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ they were heard cursing under their breath. What they failed to do, arrogant as they usually are, was to ask those of us with experience on survival tactics, such as pushing your car half way to town from Pumula to save fuel. We would have told them about ‘cruising’ (with the engine switched off) from ‘D’ Square to Happy Valley, as long as the ‘robots’ are green or amber or unless that police road block cum toll gate at the Nguboyenja fly-over isn’t there for some inexplicable reason.
They also made the mistake of driving around with a car bearing GP number plates. Unless you robbed a bank in Nelspruit, that is a red flag for the traffic police. My advice was for them to park it out of sight and borrow a ‘better-than-walking’ from the neighbour. He would be so glad because it would be the first time in years that the jalopy had a full tank of fuel.
Better still, they should have melted into the crowds by using what we plebeians use for transportation…good old kombi, Bra! We might be risking our lives on a daily basis but what other choice do we have? Walking? Ungabi ngucleva when riding a ‘commuter’ asking uwhindi (tout) such silly questions like whether he got a receipt at that road block. Hell hath no fury like a tout scorned! He is likely to eject you with the words, “Hamba wena uyebabuza ukuthi yindaba!” (Go and ask them yourself!) Such is the life of survivors, to mind your business when others are doing theirs. No matter how elicit.
What about the queues? Not the ones at the bank, nor the ones for bread at the supermarket. I mean the queues at every school in the country. Parents are begging headmasters to give them enough time to rush off to Marange or Bocha (where there is an outbreak of the precious stone) so that they can raise money for the fees. There is practically no way a salaried person can afford those fees, never, unless the head is a distant relative or a drinking buddy, khohlwa sibali.
And this thing about rising prices each time we turn our backs. Greed is one thing but what is happening nowadays defies definition. I think its time those handcuffs did their job on some unscrupulous individuals once again. Just ask the managers from that bread company though it seems to have worked well for them. Hours after being sprung from the cells did the legal price of bread quadruple. It definitely sets a bad precedent for crafty capitalists. I hope we are not going to see some managers volunteering to be arrested for illegal price hiking so as to coax a higher figure from the authorities. Funny things really do happen sometimes.
Quote of the Week: “Help a man when he is in trouble and he will remember you when he is in trouble again.” Unknown
What it means:
Injiva or Imtshifana. Zimbabweans who have gone to South Africa through various ways and means are come back to show off their being well off. Usually loud, pompous and arrogant.
Gold Panners. (Makorokoza) have wreaked hovoc on the environment answering the call of greed by digging anywhere they think gold is at.
Currency revaluation. What happened to Zimbabwe's currency by striking off the last three zeros to allow suffreing citizens to carry decent loads of cash made near useless by quadruple digit inflation.
Operation Chikorokoza Chapera (Lit: Gold Panning is finished) A police dragnet that attmpts to arrest the widespread destruction at its perpetrators.
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ "Its tough at home for sure"
GP number plates. The licence plates found on vehicles from Gauteng Province (Joburg) as called 'Gangster's Paradise' with good reason
'Ungabi ngucleva' Don't be clever and a half.
Marange or Bocha. These are places in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe where a diamond rush of sorts is in progress, making instant millionaires out of once dirt poor peasants.
Khohlwa, sibali! Forget it
Wednesday, January 3
The Mother of all hangovers
I know exactly how you feel; severely hung-over. It is that feeling you feel after you felt you had to have the feeling that you never felt before. You are now counting the losses and you are classified as a casualty of your own merriment. The evidence is there in the form of the red crates piled behind the kitchen door, or the burgeoning rubbish bin, which gave way to a huge hole you dug in the garden trying to hide the fact that you had an extravagant festive season. Yes, you really overdid it this time Jeki.
What about the school fees, mfo! You should have thought of that as you sipped expensive wine like you were Bill Gates himself. What about the rent, lamanzi, lamagetsi? Don’ you feel like killing yourself? I do too! But something tells me that I have to count my blessings. The fact is that I am alive and kicking in 2007 is some mean achievement, don’t you agree? What it means, in a few words, is that you have been chosen to face the very problems mentioned above for another full year! Yeah! Aren’t you just lucky?
On the bright side think of all those things that are provided for you free of charge. Like the air you breathe, the sunshine, free entertainment in the form of chirping birds and stinging bees. And to think that you are not alone in feeling the feeling. Take comfort in the fact that a problem shared is a problem halved. And you don’t hear me taking about challenges. Whoever coined that horrible, deceptive word? A problem is a problem, period!
But then I digress. My subject matter at the beginning was that of the hangover. I did some research and came up with some interesting stuff courtesy of howstuffworks.com
It is a fact of life that hangovers have plagued people throughout history. The Bible even makes mention of the pain that follows a night of heavy drinking: "Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink" (Isaiah 5:11).
And Shakespeare knew the unwanted effects of alcohol, as shown in his play Macbeth (Act 2 scene 3):
Macduff: What three things does drink especially promote?
Porter: Marry sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
It is written that it's no secret intoxication has a number of immediate negative consequences. "Among other things, it impairs judgement, it impairs the ability to do most things and it can bring on a depressed mood. But even after a drinker has sobered up, alcohol can still be causing the body trouble. More than 75 percent of alcohol consumers have experienced a hangover at least once; 15 percent have one at least every month; and 25 percent of college students feel symptoms weekly," quoteth howstuffworks.com. As if we didn’t know that already.
And of course, the New Year came with a bang. In fact, so many bangs that one felt like being caught in the middle of World War 3. I have never seen such a wild display of fireworks in my entire life! And then you have the Zimbabwe Republic Police playing the party pooper right in the midst of all of the gaiety. What in God’s name got into our inspired police force to issue a statement that fireworks were a no-no at the last minute? We were ‘urged’ to register at the nearest cop shop or else!
One would have thought instead, that a word of caution over their use was in order, seeing that one or two people nearly blew their fingers off and one was shot in the head on the eve. If they were really serious, they should have barred the sale of fireworks in the first place. If you were watching TV even the Australians, who had the privilege of being among the first to celebrate the arrival of 2007, were in on the orgy of fireworks. We wonder how many people registered, or were arrested for breaking the law. Which law for that matter?
And then we had commuter omnibus operators spoiling the party unilaterally hiking transport fares by 100% .Who do they think they are, fouling up the festive season like that? In fact it was after I overheard a driver and uwindi discussing another travesty, the rise in the bread price, that they wondered when they should take their turn to raise fares to $100,000 just like that! And to make it worse, we all lapped it up and quietly accepted the preposterous increase. When are we ever going to wake up and smell the coffee? Just you wait until they raise the fares to $200,000 then lizazibonela!
What about bread? What bread, you might ask. More precisely, bread crumbs. Try cutting it and it disintegrates into nothingness. I have even tried to glue the stuff together without much luck. And to think that bakers were awarded much more than what they were arrested for. What really troubles me is why we continue to accept this excuse for confectionary that is sold to us at extortionist prices. What happened to quality control? Where is the Consumer Council? Where is our appetite?
Finally, some sobering words of advice: If you feel the urge of taking one more drink, and that you are prone to sweating after a night out, and your mouth feels dry all the time and all you can think of is ‘One more Mr barman!’ then contact your local Alcoholics Anonymous. You are in serious need of repair.
Glossary
Jeki - slang for 'Jack'
Amanzi/amagetsi - SiNdebele for water and electricity
Uwindi - Transport touts
"Lizazibonela" - You will see (SiNdebele)
What about the school fees, mfo! You should have thought of that as you sipped expensive wine like you were Bill Gates himself. What about the rent, lamanzi, lamagetsi? Don’ you feel like killing yourself? I do too! But something tells me that I have to count my blessings. The fact is that I am alive and kicking in 2007 is some mean achievement, don’t you agree? What it means, in a few words, is that you have been chosen to face the very problems mentioned above for another full year! Yeah! Aren’t you just lucky?
On the bright side think of all those things that are provided for you free of charge. Like the air you breathe, the sunshine, free entertainment in the form of chirping birds and stinging bees. And to think that you are not alone in feeling the feeling. Take comfort in the fact that a problem shared is a problem halved. And you don’t hear me taking about challenges. Whoever coined that horrible, deceptive word? A problem is a problem, period!
But then I digress. My subject matter at the beginning was that of the hangover. I did some research and came up with some interesting stuff courtesy of howstuffworks.com
It is a fact of life that hangovers have plagued people throughout history. The Bible even makes mention of the pain that follows a night of heavy drinking: "Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink" (Isaiah 5:11).
And Shakespeare knew the unwanted effects of alcohol, as shown in his play Macbeth (Act 2 scene 3):
Macduff: What three things does drink especially promote?
Porter: Marry sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
It is written that it's no secret intoxication has a number of immediate negative consequences. "Among other things, it impairs judgement, it impairs the ability to do most things and it can bring on a depressed mood. But even after a drinker has sobered up, alcohol can still be causing the body trouble. More than 75 percent of alcohol consumers have experienced a hangover at least once; 15 percent have one at least every month; and 25 percent of college students feel symptoms weekly," quoteth howstuffworks.com. As if we didn’t know that already.
And of course, the New Year came with a bang. In fact, so many bangs that one felt like being caught in the middle of World War 3. I have never seen such a wild display of fireworks in my entire life! And then you have the Zimbabwe Republic Police playing the party pooper right in the midst of all of the gaiety. What in God’s name got into our inspired police force to issue a statement that fireworks were a no-no at the last minute? We were ‘urged’ to register at the nearest cop shop or else!
One would have thought instead, that a word of caution over their use was in order, seeing that one or two people nearly blew their fingers off and one was shot in the head on the eve. If they were really serious, they should have barred the sale of fireworks in the first place. If you were watching TV even the Australians, who had the privilege of being among the first to celebrate the arrival of 2007, were in on the orgy of fireworks. We wonder how many people registered, or were arrested for breaking the law. Which law for that matter?
And then we had commuter omnibus operators spoiling the party unilaterally hiking transport fares by 100% .Who do they think they are, fouling up the festive season like that? In fact it was after I overheard a driver and uwindi discussing another travesty, the rise in the bread price, that they wondered when they should take their turn to raise fares to $100,000 just like that! And to make it worse, we all lapped it up and quietly accepted the preposterous increase. When are we ever going to wake up and smell the coffee? Just you wait until they raise the fares to $200,000 then lizazibonela!
What about bread? What bread, you might ask. More precisely, bread crumbs. Try cutting it and it disintegrates into nothingness. I have even tried to glue the stuff together without much luck. And to think that bakers were awarded much more than what they were arrested for. What really troubles me is why we continue to accept this excuse for confectionary that is sold to us at extortionist prices. What happened to quality control? Where is the Consumer Council? Where is our appetite?
Finally, some sobering words of advice: If you feel the urge of taking one more drink, and that you are prone to sweating after a night out, and your mouth feels dry all the time and all you can think of is ‘One more Mr barman!’ then contact your local Alcoholics Anonymous. You are in serious need of repair.
Glossary
Jeki - slang for 'Jack'
Amanzi/amagetsi - SiNdebele for water and electricity
Uwindi - Transport touts
"Lizazibonela" - You will see (SiNdebele)
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