When is a rumour a Wiki-rumour?

The Zimbabwean press has been on a feeding frenzy of late. It reminds me of the English literature exam passage that nearly cost me an ‘A’ in the subject. It described how the most voracious fish known to man, the piranha of the Amazon, would go through its prey in seconds flat after being attracted by the slightest hint of blood in the water.

The phenomenon described in such graphic detail places our media in the same league. Stories that have dominated the headlines in the last month or so could have under normal circumstances passed off as fiction. But for the lack of sensational news, scribes seem to have thrown objectivity out of the window and have fallen for the oldest trick in the Fourth Estate... swallowing the bait hook, line and sinker.

Let us put this in the proper context and perhaps a short lesson on rumour mongering will suffice. In my dealings with members of the human species, I have learnt to take statements that begin with the words; “Have you heard the latest...?” with a pinch of salt. But for an industry that relies on ruse for its fodder, it is difficult to brush them aside... especially if they have the potential of turning out to be true.

Take note that the issue here has nothing to do with authenticity or veracity but rather, who has the balls to go to press with it and win bragging rights for the scoop or be condemned if it were not true. It’s a risk many editors are wont to take in their miserable vocation of wading through the muck that life throws at you.

For centuries rumours have been used to destroy individuals and nations with chilling effect. Who does not know that devious political opponents have been known to go fishing for damning evidence to discredit their adversaries. This is then ‘conveniently’ leaked to the press, who would of course have a field day.

Zanu PF has over the years used the advantage of incumbency of using this tool to demoralise and to discredit the opposition. Many a sting operation come to mind it would take another article to list them down. So it’s nothing new to them when they cook a story or place cameras in the most unlikely of positions to obtain the ultimate juicy story that the sensationalist media can get their hands on.

Rumours have been known by many euphemisms in different places by different people. I Shona they are “makuhwa” and the Ndebele equivalent is “inzwabethi’ which is the literal translation of “hear-say.” Which reminds me of a story...

A Ndebele teacher instructed her eager Form One class to write an essay which included the word “inzwabethi” One of her star pupils handed over a masterpiece which included the following statement:

“Umfazi uthe ezama ukuquma egangeni, inzwabethi yamenzani kanti!” Which roughly translates to: When the woman ventured into the bush, she was severely attacked by a rumour! This goes to show that rumours when placed strategically can be very dangerous. That is not to overlook the fact that our budding writer did not have a clue of what he was writing about.

Whether you choose to refer to rumours by the politically correct term the “grapevine”, or what we used to call ZIANA with no apologies whatsoever to the national news agency, or even the Nigerian “pavement radio” to the classic Corridor News Network – CNN, they all point to the same thing.

It is said that if a rumour persists for more than 48 hours, it is likely to be true. In the media world, it is known as the ‘no smoke without fire’ rule. Editors, being the ultimate in news hounds will send reporters to follow the trail laid out until it leads to nowhere.

However, creative journalists, craving for their one minute of face tend to stretch things a bit by adding a bit of action to what would be in all intents and purposes is a dead horse that’s not worth flogging. This is the stuff corruption is made of. A few well paced dollars and you can have a breaking story that is bound to break somebody’s reputation.

A lawyer friend put it this way; “The informal news network is the direct result of the lack of transparency in both the public and private sectors. Stifling bureaucracy has put a stranglehold on information which normally should be freely available to the public.”

This takes us to another angle in this debate based on unconfirmed statistics that 70 percent of the rumours originate from the government enclave. The culture of secrecy originating from the days of the war and moribund legislation such as the Official Secret Act have put a gag on an institution that by its very nature demands that information that has a bearing on issues of governance of the country should be in the public domain.

The law only allows for officials to respond to requests brought to them in writing and with no time limits. This places reporters in an invidious position as they have to meet print deadlines set in concrete... well sort of. The result is an information gap so wide you can drive the President’s convoy through it.

That gap, if left open is easily filled with all sorts of speculation and innuendo some of it originating from the same officials if not for malicious reasons. When the rumours hit a dead end, like a libel suit, there would be no one to retract them or to sue because after all they were just rumour.

However, what worries me is when officials begin to trust the grapevine to the extent that when it comes to disseminating information that they use it to shape the opinions of workers and the public at large. In other words rumour becomes the official news channel. We might as well tag it the Informal News Network – INN.

That would clear all the confusion surrounding official sources or unofficial ones, reliable sources or sources that are highly placed but are too afraid to come out into the open. The solution to all this is to have the Department of Information do what they should be doing. Instead of the paranoid control of information, they should ensure that government is as transparent as possible.

Then they would not have to humiliate cabinet ministers by passing them through embarrassing body searches. The reason cabinet meetings leak like a sieve is that there is a stranglehold of information in the first place. Decisions they make have a bearing on people’s lives and as such they have every right to know.

The question is, why the sudden outbreak of scandals in Harare. Well it works this way; Zanu Pf has been severely tested by the rumour (until it is verified) about the so-called infidelity of the Governor of the Reserve bank. In order that it regains the moral high ground, some well placed rumours are manufactured and planted in the appropriate media. So it becomes 6 and 9, tit for tat. Technically speaking it means that people in glass houses should not throw stones.

The reason the rumour mill in Harare is so lucrative, is that apart from the centralised nature of our government, this is where many of the media houses are also headquartered. You create a commodity and you are likely to get a customer. Try to restrict the commodity then you create a blackmarket that will ultimately overshadow the official channels.

That is how rumour has turned into the official source of news in Zimbabwe. The advice I would give is to implore you to take anything that comes out of Harare with a pinch of salt.

Are exams necessary?

Millions across the globe should be sitting for their exams at this time of the year. Judging by the moans and groans from countless Facebook friends, there is no doubting that this is a process rued by almost everyone. Unless one is a sadist, of course!

Candidates range from hopeful to totally hopeless as shown by the following responses to these perfectly legitimate questions separately set for Engineering and Philosophy Exams respectively:

Q. What does the term hydrodynamics mean?

A. It means I will fail this paper. (Response from a hopeless engineering student)

Q. If this is a question, answer it.

A. If this is an answer, mark it. (Answer from a hopeful philosophy student)

It is no wonder that some students in Japan petitioned their government to ban examinations because they led to suicide. A somewhat valid point if you look at the propensity youth from that island tend to cut their little lives short. I must confess that at some point in my exciting life, I did harbour such thoughts.

I can still remember the shrill voice of my former Maths teacher who on the eve of external examinations shouted, “You will fail, fail, fail! Then your mother will cry. Your father will cry, and so will your brothers and sisters. Even your dog will cry, and you will be very sorry!”

That was during our final revision where we would have been bamboozled by some equation. And so it was torture from beginning to the end. Yet we all passed with varying degrees of success. I have passed exams and of course failed some. I was your average student yet I can call myself something of an authority on exams. Add to that my years as an invigilator and marker from high school to university level. As if that’s something to be proud of.

First, a bit of history; at pre-school, or crèche for some of you, there was nothing of the sort. Exams I mean. We were banished there by our parents to get us out of the way of the rest of humanity. We played ourselves senseless and went home bundles of dirt which took the maid the whole evening to wash off.

The only testing activity I can remember was cramming my one liner for the Christmas nativity play. I had graduated from being Joseph’s donkey to the inn keeper. No one dared fluff their lines as that would haunt you for the rest of pre-school.

At primary school I had a teacher whose first name was Rhodesia. For purposes of lessening the embarrassment such a name would conjure at a time when the word ‘war’ wasn’t a metaphor, they called him Rhodes. So much about colonial names, exams then were a minor distraction.

But tell that to Rhodes Ncube who towards our Grade Seven exams drilled us military style liberally slapping us into shape. Largely due to him literally cruised into secondary school. Fletcher High School, yes, the same Fletcher every parent was fighting hard (and paying hard) to get their sons into. That was where my problems with exams started.

For a start, I thought we were learning too many subjects for one to have any hope of passing. It would be too much for the brain to handle even though I later discovered that we use only 10 percent. I even wrote to my father to complain. He must have thought that I had truly lost it and that I deserved to be quarantined in freezing Gweru.

Competition at Fletcher was stiff. We had the Brighton Tiribabi’s, the Davidson Sveto’s and the Victor Serima’s. They could have been robots for all I cared. They made my life at school miserable as I found myself woefully inadequate in anything. At least I did not end up in an asylum like a couple of my colleagues.

By the time I sat for my ordinary level exams, I was confident at passing all of the subjects except maths. I hated the teacher and him likewise. So our mutual dislike for each other cost me a pass. The only thing we had in common was the love for the martial arts. He was a karate teacher and I adored Bruce Lee movies. That was as far as we went save for Pythagoras’ theorem and all those doodles.

I moved to Founders High School in Bulawayo for my advanced levels, largely because of my deficiency in Maths. It was a mixed race school with a large population of coloureds and Asians. At some point I even thought there were no exams written at this school. It was sports, sports, fun, sports and academics thrown in somewhere.

After pre-school, Founders High was the only educational institution where I looked forward to going every single day including weekends and holidays. It was a circus. I played rugby, attended and organised disco shows and luncheons...at school! We even had a few beers with some teachers because they said we were mature enough to know the consequences. They were wrong.

For all the shenanigans, the drama and a little debauchery here and there, I passed. Barely! But it was enough to get me to University. The University of Zimbabwe was a slightly different kettle of fish altogether. The chances of making it through were high... so were those of failing. The deal was for one to attend as many lectures as possible, all of the tutorials and to avoid annoying the lecturers.

But exams were dreadful affairs. That did little to stop people being desperate. Some slept with volumes under their pillow hoping that osmosis would take place...you know material moving from a place of high density (the book) to one with a lower density (the head). Or worse still the medical student who chewed a whole chapter hoping that the information would somehow be transferred to the brain via digestion.

University exams had their fair share of casualties. We used to call these perennial students. They never graduated into the world of work just because they could not pass the impregnable (for them) barrier of the exam. Some never finished college like Dambudzo Marechera who I met as a high school student while visiting the UZ in 1983 and I thought he was a professor or something.

Later as a university student I was to regularly bump into him at Harare’s Oasis hotel or the Students’ Union concluding that this dude was either too intelligent for varsity or totally whack. I was advised not to become too friendly because he had the tendency to come uninvited to one’s room and stay for good.

Sure it would have been good to have a celebrated author squatting in my room. But it was another thing having to share my shoes and underwear with him. Sure fame comes with a price, particularly when he attempted to burn down New College, Oxford. Now if you hate exams, that’s one sure way of avoiding them. Torching the university...

To cut a long story short, I passed university true to the adage: “We drink daily and pass annually!” And I am not proud of that. The moral of the story is simply that one does not have to go to extremes to pass an exam... any exam because it won’t work.

You may obtain leaked exam papers, or go to extreme of smuggling information into the exam room. No matter what you do, one thing is pretty certain. Examinations are a necessary evil. You just have to live with that fact.

Bullied at school? You're not alone

I READ somewhere recently that 77 percent of students are subjected to some form of bullying in school – be it mental physical or verbal. Those are frightening statistics if you are a parent. School-based violence has a tendency of affecting those at the face of it right up to their adult lives.

As I grew up, bullying was taken as a part of life. It was either you were a bully or a victim. My upbringing put me right in the firing line of being bullied.

Apart from the fact that ours was a Christian home, I grew up in a neighbourhood that placed middle-class and low income families in the same area. Because of the divisive policies of the time, affluent blacks could not be integrated with whites.

Coming from a well-off family gave the impression that I always had money on me. What made it worse was that my father ran a shop in the vicinity, something that made me a lightning rod for local bullies. They were mean and did not attend school. All they did was loiter around the school gate at knock off time.

It was not long before I attracted the attention of one called Loit. I never got to know his surname. His name struck fear in the hearts of my classmates and the day our paths crossed, I decided not to run. It was an act that I was to regret for many years to come.

Loit was not violent to me as he was to the others. I was his cash cow, but suffered a form of psychological bullying that seemed worse than physical assault. When I tried to buy him out, it only led to extortion, particularly when he discovered I was the son of a local businessman. I was to pay him to protect me from himself!

It began with a few sweets progressing to cigarettes and money. Sweets I could buy with my pocket money, but when it came to cigarettes, it became a different ball game. It meant that I had to steal from the shop. I was only nine years old then and being found with a packet of cigarettes at that age was deadly serious.

Loit soon left my school mates alone to concentrate on his new gold mine: me. I became increasingly exasperated as Loit tightened the noose. Once he came to my home and even threatened the house maid after I had gone AWOL. He was so daring that he would hang around even if my mother was there, pretending to be a friend. It affected my grades and soon my friends avoided me like a plague since he was frighteningly abusive to them if not to show what he could do to me if I did not comply.

It all ended when I was caught attempting to sneak out the biggest loot yet to him. It was a carton full of cigarette packets. An uncle who ran our shop had suspected something was amiss. I had started asking him for inordinate amounts of money for days in succession. It was unlike me and my father would have killed me if he knew. So a trap was set.

I was to lure my nemesis to the shop in a final gesture of forced generosity. I bargained with him that in exchange for a huge package of goodies I would buy my freedom. I personally knew that Loit would go back on his word anyway. He took the bait and came with two of his cohorts. I was scared. Loit had this aura of invincibility around him. On many occasions, people had tried to accost him, and failed to capture him.

My uncle wasn’t taking any chances and he had summoned the police. I handed over the booty to a gleeful Loit and that is the last I saw of him. Apparently they tailed them to a nearby bush where I assume they were to share the loot amongst themselves. He was carted off to a remand home for juvenile delinquents. By the time he was released, we had moved to another part of town.

Moving was no respite from bullying because at the new school I was transferred to had a strong legacy of bullying. We had characters like Cain, Mtsimana, Mafrondo and others who were involved in a frenzy of endemic bullying. When school knocked off, it was common to witness masses of pupils fleeing these little terrorists. No one was brave enough to stand up to them.

It was near impossible to avoid them because they would share stalking the school entrances among themselves and rob us of anything that was not nailed down. It was a generation of bullying because some of the older pupils who had left school before us had harrowing tales to tell. But this form of bullying affected me less because one could fall through the cracks.

Years later, when I began my teaching career in one of the most dangerous parts of the city, I encountered a different form of bullying. These boys had taken bullying to a corporate level. This was the time of the Terror Ten, the Brand New Heavies and the Dangerous National Army (DNA).

This was not Los Angeles-style gangsterism but juveniles who took advantage of moral erosion in the community and mass education in the school system. I was caught right in the middle because students at the school where I was a senior teacher consorted with them.

Things got out of hand when the Terror Ten started entering the school premises and on a number of occasions assaulted students right in front of terrified female teachers. One had to be careful on how to handle the situation though we knew that they had accomplices within the school who were using then to settle personal scores.

The trick was to weed out these insiders who were invariably girls and make an example of them through expulsion. The police would take care of the problem outside school. This two-pronged approach led to the eradication of the scourge. But not before several running battles and the gangs severely undermining the authority of teachers and local leaders.

On analysis, parents helped perpetuate the crisis by protecting their children who were gangsters. Some went to bail them out when they were arrested. Financially-burdened and helpless, parents and relatives could hardly feed these young charges, let alone educate them. This eroded their respect for them and they took to fending for themselves in any way they possibly could including through robbery and burglary.

Another factor was that at one point, the gangs saw themselves as heroes after their exploits were featured in local newspapers. By hitting the headlines, the gang members achieved what sociologists call ‘self-fulfilling prophesy’ and subsequently played to the press assembled gallery. This tended to perpetuate the problem.

Bullying is a sure way of making a child’s life miserable. They are made to feel helpless, frustrated and angry. I personally know how it felt. Parents should be on the look-out for telltale signs like falling grades and low self esteem. Take an active interest in your child’s school life. Parents should also make an effort to solve specific problems related to the bullying and develop self esteem and resilience in their children.



Seperated at birth: commuter drivers and touts

I DECIDED to take the commuter taxi here in Botswana the other day just to tap into the vibe of the moment.

It was then that I became convinced that commuter omnibus drivers (and their obnoxious touts) are born of the same mother. The difference is in the degree of obnoxiousness.

The experience took me back home to our brand of commuter drivers and touts in Zimbabwe — arguably the worst on the planet.

For lack of a better description, they are rude, crude, vulgar, immature, utterly corrupt and very loud. Their lack of etiquette is legendary and seeing them in their element would convince one that the sun shone from their backsides!

As I eavesdropped on the conversation, I realised that the bravado they display makes up for their serious deficit in elementary education.

The experience took me back to the days when the most reliable form of transport back home was the commuter taxi, otherwise known in those days as the emergency taxi. A bit of background will suffice at this stage.

With the steady decline of the public bus system, the Zimbabwe government was forced to look to alternatives in order to alleviate the crisis. And as the economy took a predictable nosedive, commuters found themselves having to scramble for transport.

A toxic combination of mismanagement and corruption was taking its toll on the Zimbabwe United Passenger Company (ZUPCO). For years, the backbone of the urban transport network, the company failed to put up any semblance of the organised ferrying of workers in the country. This called for a temporary solution that would allow ZUPCO to recover its former glory, a feat that would only find currency in a fairy tale.

Enter the ‘emergency’ taxi into the fray. Through the slight ‘tweaking’ of transport legislation, the government gave birth, by caesarean section, to a class of pseudo-entrepreneurs whose main brief was to take commuters from point A to point B, never mind how. They were supposed to be a stop gap measure, hence the complete absence of any standards under which they should operate.

This led to the resurrection of the most dilapidated of ramshackle contraptions that masqueraded as vehicles. In the beginning, there was the ancestor to the current kombis. They huffed and puffed around the city like the steam engines they were, ferrying passengers mostly between the high density residential areas and town.

The Commers and the Austins, with wooden benches for seats, caused untold damage to the ozone layer before they were overtaken by the ubiquitous Peugeot 404 station wagon which became the flagship of the taxi operators.

If we thought that this was progress in the transport sector, we were mistaken. The condition of the vehicles left a lot to be desired. This put them on the radar of an increasingly corrupt traffic police force. Add to the fact that in order to break even, the ‘tshovas’, as they were affectionately known, would be packed beyond redemption. These mobile coffins soon made their mark on accident statistics charts.

There used to be a saying those days that utshova is never full. At one roadblock, the police counted no less than 16 bodies crammed into one station wagon. They could have easily qualified for the Guinness Book of World Records if they applied. It can also be assumed that the cat and mouse relationship between traffic cops and emergency taxi drivers could have led to a complete breakdown of sanity in the urban transport sector.

As the tshovas deteriorated with constant abuse, so did the driver’s treatment of their passengers. The introduction of touts or ‘owindi’ made things worse. The touts were there ostensibly to make things easier for the driver who was supposed to concentrate on what he was employed to do. The role of touts was to ensure the car was full and that they collected the agreed fare from the clients.

The problem was the absence of any standard qualification for the job of a tout. Because of the need to cut costs and maximize profits, taxi drivers employed anything that the cat dragged in. The unfashionable job of a tout attracted the scum of the earth that included pickpockets, thugs, vagrants … just take your pick.

The obvious gap between commuters and touts soon led to inevitable clashes with the latter asserting authority by virtue of being able to determine who among those desperate for transport could climb on board.

If it came to the worst, an individual could be barred from boarding any other taxi just because ‘uyimbulu’ (arrogant). I won’t attempt to define ubumbulu in the eyes of a tout at this stage. That would require a whole article of its own.

But the truth be told, the power of touts rose quite alarmingly as transport woes increased. Dirty, scruffy and smelly touts soon ascended the totem pole, high enough to attract the amorous attentions of desperate women and silly schoolgirls. One can equate this phenomenon to the time when petrol attendants rose to the status of demigods at the height of fuel shortages in the country.

When the Peugeots died a natural death, the roomier and far smarter kombis took their place. One would have assumed that the drivers and their touts would clean up their act. Not on your life! The situation became worse as competition for passengers reached desperate proportions.

Unsuspecting commuters were lured into the kombis by seemingly polite touts only to be verbally and sometimes physically abused once inside. The police made things worse by soliciting for bribes at unofficial ‘tollgates’ dotted around the city raising tempers even further. Whatever the police levied on the drivers, it would be magnified on the passengers in the form of maltreatment.

The touts were willing accomplices in terrorising their clients. Sadly enough, no amount of complaining to the owners and the authorities has ever solved the problem. Attempts by government to arrest the rot have hit a brick wall.

It’s a social problem, says one analyst, and there are many of them in Zimbabwe. One in two people are analysts. It is a form of survival mechanism. As long as people rely on commuter transport, passengers will find themselves at the mercy of the drivers and touts.

No amount of evangelising or complaining will ever erase the problem. Unless of course the economy picks up, the government reverts to its responsibilities of providing and facilitating proper, affordable transportation.

In the meantime, commuters risk life and limb each time they step into a commuter omnibus. If the vehicle is in good condition, they do not have to imagine how it feels like to ride in a Formula One racing car. Never mind the fact that some roads in Zimbabwe have potholes big enough for one to plant a baobab tree, these drivers can do anything short of taking off like a jet fighter.

The vulgarity of commuter taxi drivers and touts is the stuff of legend. At one point I was convinced that for one to be employed, being able to deliver 100 swear words per minute was a must, that and the ability to swing a wheel spanner. By the way, I don’t think possessing a valid driver’s licence was absolutely necessary.

Beauty pageant debate rages on

The 59th edition of the Miss Universe pageant ended recently with Miss Mexico Jimena Navarrete Rosete sauntering away with the coveted crown. Miss Jamaica Yendi Phillips and 19-year-old Miss Australia Jesinta Campbell came second and third respectively at the pageant that was held at the Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada, US on August 23rd. Where the hell was Miss Zimbabwe?
Organisers pandered to the accusation that pageants are glorified meat markets. This they did by allowing some of the contestants to pose topless with only body glittering paint and covering the strategic parts. This was just a publicity stunt if you ask me, that translated into valuable hits.

Nonetheless, this brought out the Mother Grundy types from the woodwork who accused organisers of putting contestants in a compromising position. This, they said, went against concept of the beauty with brains. Compromising position indeed; that is a conundrum that we are familiar with in Zimbabwe.

At independence our politicians were dead against the whole idea of beauty pageants. It begins when some dusty guerillas emerged from the bush to rule the country. The then Minister for Community Development and Women’s Affairs Joyce Teurai Ropa (spill blood) Nhongo (now Vice President Joyce Mujuru) called for the banning of beauty contests because not only were they un-African but they degraded women. She said that beauty pageants misrepresented the real Zimbabwean woman.

In 1981, Juliet Nyathi was scheduled to represent Zimbabwe in the Miss World contest in London. Mujuru was quoted as saying that Juliet was going there as plain ‘Miss Beauty’ on behalf of those “who wish to commercialize her physical assets.

“In the concept of African tradition, culture and morals a woman’s body was solely for her husband and herself,” she said.

The cartoonists of the day had a field day caricaturing the ‘ideal’ Zimbabwean beauty who was supposed to be ‘moral, dignified and disciplined.’ One cartoon had a girl, wearing a doek on her head, carrying a baby on her back, brandishing a hoe and umpini-mugoti (cooking stick). She was dressed in the ubiquitous sarong with the image of popular political leader (of the day) on her backside. To cap it off ‘Mai Zimbabwe’ was shown doing the kongonya dance.

Fast forward a couple of decades and we had the debate resuscitated by one Kudakwashe Marazanye, who advocated for the banning of beauty pageants in the country. He wrote that Government should pass a law that forbid girls at tertiary institutions from participating since it was a waste of tax payers' money.

“A third world country like Zimbabwe needs all the budding and potential pharmacists, engineers etc before satiating the appetites of rich men with beautiful ladies," he wrote then in the Zimbabwe Independent.

Then there was the ‘Miss Rural’ scandal which seemed to confirm Kuda’s fears. Well known business moguls and politicians were said to be abusing innocent country bumpkins that had been lured with promises of education and a rich life. A certain businesswoman connected with the ill-fated pageant had a torrid time at the hands of some of these people and was nearly ‘sent down’ to a mental institution as a result.

What is my take in all of this? Well I was judge of the Miss Zimbabwe regional finals; twice. No, a pervert I am not, though my friends envied me for having a front row seat ogling at all those beautiful women. I have to admit that any hot bloodied male would kill to be in my shoes. There was serious controversy among the guys as to why it had to be me.

“Shouldn’t such ‘sensitive’ duties be offered on a rotational basis?” they bayed.

Admittedly, controversy has never left that pageant alone. There was the race debate when Una Patel an Indian from Bulawayo went on to become Miss Zimbabwe proper. I was judge at the regional finals that chose her ahead of 20 other hopefuls. You just can’t please all the people all the time. There will always be some who will dispute the winner.

If I had a say, my own seventy-year old mother would have qualified. Any choice would be subjective and it’s a combination of factors that lead to the final decision. Take it from me; it’s really difficult to fix a contest though I must admit that there have been less than reputable contests.

Sexual exploitation has been at the top of many complaints about pageants. However, speaking as a former judge, I can vouch for the integrity of the Miss Zimbabwe contests I was involved in. The judges are meticulously chosen personalities from within the community. Do not forget that most of my colleagues on the panel were women.

I also agree to the view that there are more beautiful women in the audience than those strutting on the ramp. Since they chose not to contest why should the judges consider them? The mandate of the judge is to assess what is before him and not to start looking for better fish in the ocean. I had a friend who was convinced that his wife would qualify though he was against her parading in a bikini in public.

To those who have perennially lambasted beauty contests as exploitative meat markets, take comfort in the fact that the overwhelming majority of the screaming audience are women. Men do not want to be caught dead at a beauty contest by their wives unless they are there with them. That would definitely send the wrong signals. Men on a fishing expedition, that is. Another thing, there is no worse sight in a wife's eyes than her man drooling over some floozy in a g-string.

The exception, of course, would be those pageants that were held at the University of Zimbabwe. To this day I admire the bravery, if not stupidity, of those girls who chose to be debased to that level by participating. The audience was mainly composed of drunk, vulgar and randy males, that in itself a deadly combination.

Short of being raped on stage, the contestants were called all sorts of names, whistled at and God knows what else. If Mrs Mujuru had attended just one of those charades, the beauty pageant would have been the subject of history lessons by now. I should add that some those forming the jeering crowd are now ‘respectable’ members of society. We are not here to name names are we?

Mr and Mrs 1966 Botswana contest

Let’s cap this up with a gem from the Botswana Sunday Standard’s ‘Below the Belt’ Column. According to the columnist, Independence Day always inspires some out-of-the-box ideas of making money and one this year has to qualify as the lamest of them all.

“Somebody, who has obviously never seen a beauty pageant, plans to organise a Mr and Miss 1966 Botswana. First of all, there is a good reason why pageants are restricted people under 25 years of age.

Beyond a certain age, some body parts (tummy, cheeks, buttocks and neck) attain self-rule and guard it jealously. Try as one might, no number of trips to the gym can help that person re-impose his rule over those parts. Does one need evidence? Look outside your window.

Secondly, the sole reason beauty pageants are held is so that the top 10 yuppies in a place can choose future ex-girlfriends. These guys are only interested in girls under 25 years. It is unlikely though that the organisers would heed this advice. If BTV shows this contest, they would well be advised to do so after midnight because the sight of cellulite and independent tummies is what nightmares are made of.” Classic!

Crime does not pay! Part Three

I have to admit that the first time I related my tale about my being mugged way back in 1993 I lied. Even former President Bill Clinton lied... twice. He said something like, “Read my lips; I did not sleep with that woman!” Then when confronted with information that he had smoked something he said, "When I was in England, I experimented with marijuana a time or two, and I didn't like it. I didn't inhale and never tried it again." Yeah right!


I wrote then that muggers had stripped me of my expensive grey suit and left me standing there in my jogger shorts. I only wanted to lessen the humiliation of being stripped naked. The real truth is that they left me in my underwear if that’s any comfort. If Clinton did it why can’t I also ‘did it’ too? Now don’t try to push your luck and dispute this version as well.

Anyway, you must have read how the police ‘meticulously’ recorded our statements while the muggers were gleefully adding to the toll outside. When the cops were through with us, a good two hours later, an ambulance was summoned to ship us to hospital. Even though my parents were there with the family car, we were advised that I had to get to the hospital in an ambulance to emphasise the urgency.

It was the first time that I had been on board an ambulance with lights flashing and sirens wailing. In a strange sort of way I knew how President Mugabe felt when riding his motorcade. In fact, all this cacophony wasn’t necessary at all if you ask me. If indeed we were emergency, we would have been dead by the time they collected us at the police station.

Nevertheless, we just had to enjoy the ride in a way that was ‘presidential’. I really looked forward to the reception at Mpilo hospital. Those of you who have been to this health facility in Zimbabwe’s second city will know that Mpilo, which means life in the local SiNdebele language, is a misnomer. People came to this place to die and I was to find out how.

When we arrived we were unceremoniously dumped at the casualty section. Yes I said dumped because no one paid attention to us because, as we soon found out, we were walking. The impression I got was that as long as there wasn’t any sign of cardiac arrest or some such serious condition you could as well walk out the same way you came in. I guess I had been watching too much of ER on television.

The casualty section resembled a war zone. People with stab wounds, swollen faces and broken limbs littered the floor. The receptionist who was obviously overworked paid little attention to their cries. This is the time when you feel obliged to play the compassionate hero. What a big mistake. When I tried to highlight the plight of those who required urgent attention I promptly told not to jump the queue and wait my turn.

From then on I told myself that if I wanted to receive treatment I had to mind my own business. After what seemed like an eternity, my turn came. If there is anything that I appreciate about my government was the fact that health care at a public facility dirt cheap. When I was told how much I had to cough up I could not help laughing. Regrettably no one else caught the joke and that reduced my marks with the receptionist by several notches more. Somehow I felt this was going to be a long night.

As we were shunted towards the treatment area I noticed that there was no sense of urgency among the staff. It was like if you dropped dead before receiving potentially lifesaving treatment it would be God’s will. In between the countless tea breaks (I must admit that it was a bit chilly) I calculated that they took care of one patient every 45 minutes. It would take the whole night to clear our lot and they here they don’t call you a ‘patient’ for nothing.

When my turn came, I really worked at being nice. The nurse who looked me over was the kind that would have been a prison warder if she had a second choice at employment. To say that she was rough is in itself the understatement of the millennium. She yanked the temporary bandage from my face so hard I just had to yell.

“Who stabbed you?” came out of that woman’s orifice in a way that did not require a response. It was later that I surmised that she was referring to the piercing scream I let out rather than my gaping injury. What cheek! I would have been mugged for the second time that night had I tried to be funny. So I kept mine shut.

The ‘prison warder’ examined my injuries much the same way a mechanic would a second hand car, cursory and without much care. The prognosis was that the gash on my forehead required stitching and the ones at the side and back of the head were not that deep. The problem was that the doctor on call was nowhere to be found. Remember that this was way before the mobile phone.

So I just had to be the patient that I was. As luck would have it, the doctor was spotted around the canteen area and an orderly bolted out to fetch him. It was the first sign of urgency I had witnessed that night. When he got in I immediately knew why he was at the canteen. To buy dilution (a mixer) because smelt like a brewery. Yes I used to get drunk like a skunk but I can tell you that no one relishes having to spend the best of an hour directly in the line of fire of puff the brandy dragon.

I have to hand it to these doctors for being able to undertake such a delicate operation while in a stupor. They must have given me a shot for local anaesthesia but I felt every piercing of the needle since I was terrified this guy would sew my mouth shut by mistake. There have been stories of doctors doing crazy things during operations so I had to be wide awake to make sure nothing of the sort happened to me.

By the time the procedure was done I am sure I must have staggered from the operating table stone drunk. One sensation I remember quite vividly though was having lost all feeling from neck upwards. I briefly entertained the thought that the doctor could have removed my head completely. Judging by what I felt in subsequent weeks I wished that he had.

As I recuperated at home, an outpatient counting my blessings that I had come out of Mpilo alive, my head ballooned to about twice its size. Sure I have a naturally big head but this was something else. I looked in the mirror and I could not recognise myself. My mother who is a former nurse assured me that it was expected. When my colleagues saw me for the first time they broke down. It was as if I had been hit by a train.

However looking back I must mention that the guys at Mpilo did their best under very trying conditions. After all they are human. In fact they were heroes. With a bit of understanding and tender loving care it could have been better. As for me, I can boast that I know what a football really feels like when its pumped up and kicked around, well sort of.

Crime does not pay! Part Two

I had been mugged and that is putting it rather mildly. My executioners were standing over me apprehensively because not only was I still moving; I was trying to bargain with them. In my state I should admit that I was in no position to negotiate. I was down, bleeding, weak and hopelessly outnumbered.

It was a surprise attack where I had been felled by two blows from a half brick, one to the back of my head and the other to my forehead. The last thing I remember was the decoy reaching into his shirt pocket and then ‘Pow!’ According to the inebriated doctor who treated me later, the blows could have felled an ox. At that point, I wished I was one.

The muggers were meticulous, having thoroughly rehearsed their moves. One could tell that they had done this sort of thing dozens of times. They had honed their moves to the point of perfection, much like actors in a Shakespearean tragedy. In reality it was a cold and calculated attack where the thugs held the initiative and retained the element of surprise until the first blow was delivered.

As I leveraged myself into a sitting position I confessed to not having any money on me, which is what they were obviously after. For some reason they were not buying that story. I was not surprised by their disbelief. What was I doing out here, standing out like a sore thumb, in an expensive grey suit and carrying a very conspicuous portfolio case? I was literally written ‘mug me’ all over!

One of them held me up by my expensive suit jacket and yanked me up like a lifeless mannequin. In a flash they descended on me like a pack of rabid wolves all the while swearing and making threats to my life. Sadistic as it might sound; this was the ‘best’ part of the mugging for me. At least they were not stabbing me.

But for a brief moment of weakness that temporarily overcame me, I became fully conscious of what was going on around me. It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I took out my wallet to prove that I had no cash on me. Looking back, I realise now that it was a potentially stupid and risky thing to do.

For one, reaching for my wallet might have spooked the muggers into thinking that I was drawing some weapon. On the other hand, by highlighting my temporary poverty, I could have incensed them into a blood-letting frenzy. There is said to be an unwritten rule among muggers that a victim should pay dearly for not carrying any cash on him.

Thankfully, these muggers seem not to have heard about this rule. The physical assault which included crude panel beating, kicks to the mouth, chest and groin, came to a stop. One of them then gingerly reached for my wallet and examined it thoroughly.

I was warned not to scream, something I was not keen on doing for macho reasons. It became apparent that they were not going to extinguish my precious life. The whole ordeal then took a business-like, almost clinical turn. With astonishing skill and speed I was relieved of my expensive grey suit, equally fashionable shoes and the portfolio case.

I still vividly remember the thugs walking away going through the pockets of my suit as if they were going to send it to the dry cleaners in the morning. As I sat there in my shirt, socks and underwear, I was glad that I had survived the ordeal and would live to see another day. Then it dawned on me that the muggers could easily change their minds and come back and finish me off.

I picked myself up and staggered into the darkness. No one else could mug me in this state, I comforted myself. Getting home in a state of near nakedness was indeed a challenge. I had taken off my shirt and made a bandana that would slow the bleeding from my head. If I was to meet anyone looking like this at that hour; there was the possibility that I could be mistaken for a crude version of some comic super hero after a hard day’s work.

I was not keen on making a spectacle of myself by rocking up at the local police station in a state of undress. Even as beaten up as I was, I wasn’t going to give the cops something to joke about for the rest of the millennium. To cut a long story short, I reached home without any unpleasant surprises. My mom, a nurse by profession, took care of the injuries.

I then faced the inquisition in the form of my father. I must admit that his barrage of questions like what was I doing where I was at that time of the night, prepared me well for what was to follow. I must have related my tale over a thousand times! I should admit that the story improved in quality to the extent that I can now submit it as a screenplay for a future television drama. But then I digress.

At the police station it took a good two hours for my turn to have my statement taken. To my relief, I wasn’t the only one who had been mugged that day. It must have been open season for my muggers. By the time my turn came, the cops only added ‘expensive grey suit’ and ‘conspicuous portfolio case’ to the ones they had already recorded saving us all precious time.

Make no mistake that I expected the police to rush out to apprehend the muggers like they do on television. I was merely concerned with being able to get hospital treatment because in my country there is a rule that victims of muggings can be attended to only after a statement has been recorded by the police. Never mind the fact that you could be bleeding to death. How else can the police be seen to be doing their job?

After the stupefying bureaucracy, we were driven to the hospital where we queued up to be stitched. They had fish out the doctor on call from someplace, and it wasn’t long before we discovered where he had been.

To be mugged and robbed of my favourite suit was one thing. But to be stitched by a doctor breathing alcohol fumes directly onto your face for the best of an hour is worse. The only good thing about it was that after a few minutes there was no need for local anaesthesia. In a short while I was well and truly knocked out for six. But that’s another story...

Crime does not pay! Part One

None of you would admit that you were beaten up by somebody. It’s usually the other way round, the pugilist being the one boasting about having pummelled someone into a pulp. Unless of course if one was trying to solicit sympathy or use the incident as testimony that would drive some point home or to teach a moral lesson of sorts.
As I grew up I must admit that I was often at the business end of some guy’s or even a girl’s fist. Not that I was weak or what others refer to as a wimp. I had this streak of pacifism running through my veins. It took some effort for me to kill a fly. While boys my age dismembered grasshoppers and tortured frogs, I read comics.


So it was difficult for me to understand why others were so sadistic as to be violent to other human beings. If there was a fight, I quickly removed myself from the scene. But during the few occasions that I was helpless to watch, like those ferocious fights in the classroom, I was horrified by how far my classmates could go at each other.

I am convinced that this violent streak in my former classmates had a bearing on their future. Those who were particularly virulent ended up in jail or worse still dead. In fact, the worst of criminals in our neighbourhood were the bullies during our time growing up. Nevertheless, as I was later to discover, avoiding trouble would not prevent me from being a victim.

Some of you might have heard this story, but this time around I have to retell it to offer a different perspective about being a victim. Those of you who grew up in an urban environment know that one of the important skills of survival is to avoid being mugged. Muggings, the most prevalent of crimes, were very much part of the urban landscape.

While the chances of one being mugged are sure to increase with the amount of time spent in an urban setting, one tends to relax into a discernable routine that will attract the attention of known criminals in the neighbourhood. What is shocking is that these invariably are people you are familiar with.

While you are lost in the familiarity of your routine, you are blissfully unaware that someone has been meticulously planning to mug you. This is a chilling discovery for some but a life of criminality and disposition to violence nurtured from those heady days in junior school has blossomed into a full time career. These guys have been so horned in this that to them there is a thin line between assault to course grievous bodily harm and killing someone.

This is why victims of mugging who survive to tell the tale should thank their maker for coming out alive. I have been doing so ever since that fateful day when my life flashed before my eyes at the hands of the most vicious thugs roaming our neighbourhood. What began as another normal day ended tragically for me.

I had used this particular road countless times but as they say, routine dulls one’s sense of security. Who would have imagined that on this very road running between several rows of houses, one that is more than well lit, and is the main thoroughfare to a bustling housing estate would be the site of an ambush?

However, one should have never lost sight of the fact that this is dubbed the ‘Wild West’ of the city. It is an area where Murphy’s Law reigns supreme, that is to say, if anything could go wrong here, it would! I of all people, having grown here for the better part of my life, should have known that for a fact.

As it turned out, I it just wasn’t my day. It was early by any standard, but in winter it gets dark quickly in the southern hemisphere. The chill of evening usually forces people indoors though they would hardly be asleep at this time. There was also this deceptive presence of a few ‘people’ moving about at that hour that must have lulled me into a sense of false security.

Here I was, walking from home, disarmed of the alertness very necessary in these parts. Lost in my own thoughts I failed to notice that the street was now deserted. I could vaguely recollect someone following me and even more distantly a rather odd whistling. The muggers had managed to retain one critical advantage over me, the element of surprise.

That I was being discreetly shadowed was lost on me. As I approached a junction that would normally be teeming with vehicles dropping off passengers and vendors plying their trade, my ‘shadow’ was now abreast of me. What perturbed me was how he had managed to get this close without me noticing. He was so uncomfortably close he was right in my space.

Unbeknown to me this was supposed to the decoy. He was short, rather stocky and as the Americans say, butt ugly. I noticed all these things about him because he said one of the most extraordinary things to me.

“Can I pass?” he asked.

How anyone could ask for permission to pass on such a wide road, I wondered out loud.

On hearing my rather surprised comment, he turned round just a couple of metres in front of me. Just then my early warning system otherwise known as instinct, kicked in. Well it kicked in too late as I was to painfully discover.

Noticing my apprehension, the thug became patronising. I should have known there and then that I should be preparing for the worst, or at least glancing at what was behind me. But looking at this pathetic figure in front of me, I thought to myself; what could possibly happen to me? Famous last thoughts, as I was to find out soon enough.

“Pow!” a hard object hit the back of my head with such force that I fell down face first. I could have said that I saw stars but the truth be told, I saw and felt nothing. I turned round to face my executioner, a move I was to regret. A hard object, which I later discovered was a half brick, smashed onto my forehead. Now I knew what a snake felt when its head was being crushed.

The bleeding was immediate and profuse. Feeling faint but nonetheless conscious, I tried to reason with the muggers. Remember that I am the peaceful kind, ready to make amends whenever the opportunity presented itself even when on the verge of certain demise. The fact that was I talking and trying to get up must have perturbed them.

“I have no money on me,” I mumbled as I felt the warm liquid that was blood flowing over my face. To say that I was in a pathetic state is in itself an understatement. Yet in the eyes of these thugs, all six of them, I was a threat because I was supposed to be unconscious or at worst, dead.

To be continued...

Selling a car ain't easy

You should remember the first car you ever bought. In most cases it was because you needed a contraption that would take you from place to place. Even the socialists of our day knew the necessity of owning a vehicle. Former University of Zimbabwe lecturer Professor Shadrack Gutto who drove around in a battered jalopy was confronted by his students as to why this was so.

“A car is a car, comrades. As long as it takes you from point A to point B, it’s a car!” he replied in his East African accent. He could never explain why so many of the female species are so enamoured by cars to the extent that if one tied a plastic bottle filled with petrol to a wheel barrow, they would hop on! That will remain one of the greatest mysteries of or time.

Being so impressionable, I took a leaf from Gutto’s manifesto and purchased a second hand Renault 4 (R4). You know the one with the funny umbrella gear leaver. A friend of mine who is now late (may the Lord Bless his soul) referred to it as an ‘instrument.’

“Lenox is driving an instrument!” he used to shout to all and sundry much to my chagrin.

Nomusa and I knew then that it would take considerable effort to convince our intelligent and blatantly blunt first born son that we had bought the bargain of the century. At least that is what we thought at the time. It was then that he dropped one of those direct questions that begged an equally direct answer.

“Dad, why don’t we buy a better looking car, more like the ones reasonable fathers drive?” It was a tough question coming from a four year old. What stung me most was the word ‘reasonable.’ Put anywhere in a sentence directed at me, it really hurt.

After spending a fortune attempting to transform the R4 classic model into a miniature version of the Space Shuttle, we soon found ourselves seeking to obtain a healthy return on our massive investment. We had it re-sprayed, re-upholstered and serviced, tweaked it, you name it, we did it. If you asked me it was as good as new. Well almost.

Those of you who remember the French cars of the time will know that they had serious aesthetic issues. Take the Citroen for example. If there was an ugly car, that was definitely one. The Renault wasn’t far behind. But again I was the budding socialist who would trash a Merc with a hammer and sickle at first sight! It was the quintessential symbol of ill-gotten wealth. Today I can easily kill someone for that German work of mechanical art.

As fate would have it, we soon found ourselves having to sell it, the family Renault 4 I mean. Confident that we would get a good price for it we set out to market it first to sympathisers, then to anyone who cared to listen. There were several things going for the car besides the touch ups we had tastefully done.

For a start, it could move... from point A to point B. It was definitely “better than walking.” The fuel economy of these little shopping baskets made it much more valuable than in dollar terms. I can vouch that it could took us from Luveve to the city centre (12 k’s away) and back at the whiff of petrol from a soaked rag. Our first prospect, an old white lady who said she wanted a car to “run about with in town” was too punctual at our appointment. She caught me with the gasket down if you know what I mean. I assured her she wouldn’t be disappointed only if she signed along the dotted line.

But then I assumed that she might have been thinking: A black man selling a car must either be desperate or there is something dreadfully wrong with it and is eager to dump it voetstoets on me!

“So you spent a lot of money on it?” she said with sarcasm not at all lost on me. It was a rhetorical kind of question which I chose to answer. It went along the lines of if you don’t want to buy it, just save your breath and hit the road, though I did not say it in so many words. She never looked back.

I must admit that the car looked a bit unkempt, having just collected it from the spray painters who, by the way were asking for my arm and leg. That added to my desperation. They wanted their money like yesterday. You don’t want to mess around with these backyard panel beaters. They can use their expertise on you at the drop of an engine block if you failed to pay up.

Anyway, I assumed that by waving a fistful receipts and job cards from reputable car mechanics at prospective buyers that would convince them of the veracity of my claims. After a run in with several bush mechanics, one learns pretty fast the folly of going the cheap route when getting a car fixed.

While the cost of going the legitimate mechanic route for repairs can give anyone a massive coronary, it was the price of some of the ‘genuine’ parts they fitted that stupefied the guys at the local AA (Automobile Association). It was later that we realised that the bulk of the costs went towards ‘labour’ as if they had done anything fantastic.

You see, mechanics prey on your ignorance. The most dreaded sound you won’t want to hear is the sound of a low whistle coming from a mechanic under your car. After such an experience, I was convinced that the breakdown of the labour costs were actually as follows:

Opening the car hood, $10; disconnecting the battery, $10; checking the oil, $3; changing oil (excluding cost of oil), $10; cleaning oil (from mechanic’s hands), $5; blowing air filter(using own breath), $25; dipping finger into radiator, $25; getting overalls dirty, $25; consulting manual (ad nauseum), $30; taking a nap under the vehicle, $2; dislodging cockroach from fuse box, $50; risk allowance; $50...and so on. However, occupational rules dictate that they should not show you this breakdown for obvious reasons.

In my case, the fact that they had to import a number of new parts straight from France did not seem to impress prospective buyers. In fact it would take another mechanic to identify the said parts in a car after repairs. What was obvious was that this was an old piece of junk with a couple of new parts thrown in.

The truth be told, under the circumstances, any buyer, real or fake, would wish we gave away our car for next to nothing. That is the kind of arrogance we had to contend with, no matter how much of our hard earned cash we spent fixing it up. In fact one very nasty little old man said that it was a miracle that our car was still moving and that all he wanted to do was to reward us for our act of faith!

I could have throttled him there and then had the wife not reminded me that my income was still an essential aspect of our marriage contract. Then again, one had to look at it from the bright side. We were selling an antique that could easily fetch a few thousand in France or Europe from classic car enthusiast. The only catch was shipping our dear old Renault 4 there which would require, you guessed it right, a few thousand!

So we were left with no option but to literally give it away. At least with the proceeds we were able to purchase groceries that lasted eh a couple of days. It was better that turning the car into a hatchery. The worst past was been downgraded from a driver to a pedestrian, literally from R4 to R Two!

I found myself missing the incredible experiences of driving. Anyone who thinks a wounded lion is the most dangerous living creature on earth has never overtaken a commuter taxi driver like I was to find out to my near peril. And what about the car travelling at 5 kilometres per hour hogging the fast lane and driven by an elderly lady whose licence was issued when the Egyptians still worshipped an insect.

The Idiot’s Guide to Gate crashing a Royal garden party

Nick Griffin of the Brutish (British) National Party (BNP) has had an embarrassing episode where he was refused permission to attend a garden party at Buckingham Palace thrown by the Queen quite recently. He then went on television on what the media called a ‘gloating spree’ saying that he deserved to be invited on account of the 1 million people who voted for his party.

BNP's Nick Griffin and his goons (AP)

Pity he had not read my ‘Idiot’s Guide to Gate-crashing a Party,’ not that I am implying that good Ol’ Nick is one, a fool that is, though of course many would violently disagree with that sentiment. I must admit that I am one of those who find what his party stands for quite distasteful. Not the least because I happen to be black and of African descent.

For those who don’t know the chap, he leads the British National Party that seeks to restore the overwhelmingly white ethnicity of Britain that it says existed prior to 1948 through legal means, including "firm but voluntary incentives for immigrants and their descendants to return home", and the repeal of anti-discrimination legislation. He is a Member of the European Parliament.

Don’t get me wrong if I sympathize with people who are denied entry into certain functions through no fault of their own, no matter how stupid that might be. I am motivated by a long career of demanding recognition by those who think is important enough to deny others the right to be invited to their parties.

For all that he is worth, and it’s not much I’m afraid, Nick broke one of the cardinal rules of gate crashing. That is telling all and sundry that he had been denied entry. One never admits failure, especially on television which in this case reaches every nook and cranny of the globe including Francistown where I am holed up. One cannot even begin to calculate the untold damage this has done to his rather dubious reputation.

Buckingham Palace was justified to deny Nick entry because it was their party after all and they can invite and un-invite with equal measure. The trick is how one reacts to the latter. You don’t go shouting to the rooftops but rather you retire to a quiet corner to re-strategize. Desperate situations require desperate measures.

First, I know of no law that makes gate-crashing or ‘crashing’ in short a criminal offence. Sure there might be issues of trespassing here but, unless you kill someone in the process the law is a bit dim on this one. In Africa, we are no strangers to the phenomenon. Since time immemorial we have been pitching up unheralded at the doorsteps of relatives, friends and in a few instances stranger’s houses. This is more likely to be at mealtimes for obvious reasons.

This is unlike in Europe or the UK to be specific where they find it exceedingly irritating if not outright impolite to call on someone without an appointment. In Africa, it is considered back luck to urn away someone at your door. That is part of our culture and what a better excuse to gate-crash those parties during the festive season.

Griffin for all the repugnant things that he stands for would be welcome with open arms like a long lost brother at some homes. A word of caution though for our guest; he is expected to respect the hospitality of his hosts. Throwing a person out head first is not something that is beyond African hosts. There is a very thin line between hospitality and hostility.

Another tactic that Nick should have employed was to know who the host was in advance. The mistake he made was to think that the Queen was the host. Technically, she was, but in reality, it was Buckingham Palace, the institution. Griffin thought that he was going to appeal to Her Majesty’s grace and compassion. Yet the guys who pull the strings behind the scenes are faceless bureaucrats who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at having him thrown out on his bum if it came to that.

This meant that all modesty had to be thrown aside and crude tactics like scaling the palace wall should have been employed. That he would run the risk of being shot in the process, which he surely deserved, would have been neither here nor there. It would have attracted sympathy from an otherwise disgusted public. They are many who believe that Griffin is better off dead by the way. I am a born again Christian whose patience has been stretched too far by this man.

Going back to the range of options Griffin could have used besides pole vaulting over majestic walls, he could have disguised himself as a waiter or better still the chef. We are not aware of any culinary skills that he possesses but once inside, I doubt it if his would have been able to keep his mouth shut. Knowing how bombastic he tends to be at the best of times.

Any party organiser employs elaborate measures to ensure that only those invited get to enjoy. From fancy invitation cards, which Nick was ironically brandishing when he was ‘P.I.’ed (declared a prohibited invitee), to security guards, bouncers, or in the case of Buckingham Palace, the security measures that might have included metal detectors and secret service personnel.

In such a situation, Nick would have to make himself inconspicuous, another golden rule that Griffin defiled. Griffin never moves without a cavalcade of goons (to label them politely) who are not known for their civility. Now if you pitch up at any party with a phalanx of bodyguards and you meet an equally determined posse at the gate isn’t that a recipe for World War III? And do you think any host with his head screwed on straight would allow for that?

Nonetheless, in order to succeed against such odds, a professional gate crasher has to be psychologically and physically prepared. One must always be a step ahead of the measures put up to prevent one from entry. Dress for the occasion which unfortunately is no guarantee for eventual entry as Nick woefully discovered.

He told all and sundry on television that he would have to return his hired morning suit, cravat and waist coat. The unwritten rule that the smartly turned out person is unlikely to cause trouble does not seem to apply to politicians, so Buckingham Palace made us to believe.

Finally, any gate crasher worth his salt should know what the occasion being celebrated is. In Africa, lack of this basic piece of intelligence has led to some people I know gate crashing funeral wakes, tombstone unveilings and prayer meetings. I have to exclude the desperados who actually work the funeral circuit if not for the free meals and refreshments. Nick Griffin, unfortunately enough, knew what the party was for in the first place.

For all his troubles, the leader of Britain’s most reviled political party then ran into Peter Tatchell, the bane of all xenophobes. Tatchell, we are told, called Nick ‘a gutless coward’ and demanded that he apologise for the ‘BNP’s history of anti-Semitism and homophobia.’ It is at this point that Nick’s goons sprang into action. If only they had shown their bravery against the palace guards.

In Africa we have a saying that when relieving oneself, one learns to keep your mouth shut. The sooner Nick Griffin discovers that, the better for all of us.

The Debris the World Cup left behind

The first World Cup staged in Africa is all over bar the shouting. The accolades are still pouring in about how South Africa pulled it off with FIFA boss Sepp Blatter giving them 9 out of ten on his scorecard. This flies in the face of skeptics (in Zimbabwe we call them detractors) who doubted that an African country could successfully host the world’s biggest event.

The question as to whether the hosting the event was worth it or not. The overwhelming result is that it was. Not only is South Africa endowed with world class stadia, there is other infrastructure, roads, the Gautrain and the rapid transit transport system. There is the legacy of all the sports programmes, poverty elevation initiative and education schemes that have been established in the name of soccer. Not to forget very rich sex workers.

The Mexicans and their sombreros, the Ghanaians, Nigerians, Ivoirians with their masks and drums, the Brazilians doing their samba, the Dutch smuggling in German Bavarian beer and the English, well, quaffing it in huge quantities, all added to a colourful event that will take ages to erase from the minds of many.

Vuvuzelas silenced

However, regrettable fallout from Mzansi 2010 is the fact that not many sporting disciplines will tolerate the 127 decibel horn with the persistent drone is to be banned at the Brazil 2014 World Cup. The ubiquitous vuvuzela which has spawned a culture that has changed how the game is supported forever is also to be banned by some English Premier clubs when the new season begins, the first being Tottenham Hotspur.

Arsenal, Birmingham City, Everton, Fulham, Liverpool, West Ham United and Sunderland have followed suit. Oh Bollocks!

Manchester City and Chelsea - though not encouraging their fan – have no plans to ban them. Yay! That explains why I support Chelsea, well sort of. Other sporting events where you are unlikely to hear the vuvuzela include, all golf tournaments, the 2012 London Olympics, Wimbledon tennis tournament, cricket test matches and equestrian events.

Paris blows a cloud

Paris Hilton was arraigned for questioning for dagga possession, twice. Well the second time she was caught could have been was far away from South Africa. On both occasions she has denied culpability and has got away with it. Well, even former American president admitted that he smoked grass but incredibly did not inhale.

This is indicative of two glaring facts: It seems the drug has a liking for the hotel heiress and keeps popping up wherever she is, and secondly, something strange happens to the arresting officers to the extent that they are obliged to release her.

I am sure it has nothing to do with fact that she is the daughter of one of the richest people on the planet. It’s just a coincidence. In Zimbabwe it’s called chioko muhomwe literally meaning ‘hand in the pocket.’ But I can bet that if she had been caught in Zim, she would be singing the blues at Chikurubi as we speak. If there is one thing our cops are efficient in, it’s busting people for dagga possession.

New English word Introduced - SUAREZ

As a direct result of the game between Ghana and Uruguay, and the ‘goal’ (that would have been and never was) that could have meant Africa’s only hope for World Cup Glory, a new word has been introduced in the English language.

SUAREZ (Verb) (a) To viciously and proactively inhibit or halt the progress of a person, an establishment or a nation. For example, ‘The team’s opportunity to score was SUAREZed by a member of the opposing team.’

(b) To act in a way that is deliberate and intentional, though spontaneous, yet calculated to frustrate the advancement of an adversary. For example, ‘As pressure built up in the dying moments of the game, a shot at goal was SUAREZed by an opponent standing next to the goal post.’

(Noun) (a) A state of being, where all your efforts are visibly and overtly being frustrated and impeded. For example, ‘I am in a state of SUAREZ, please don’t stress me further.’

(b) A purposeful behavior intended to disregard rules or engagement so as to prevent an opponent from eminent victory. For example, ‘The first thought that came to Fernando’s mind was to cause SUAREZ in order to save the day.’

(Adverb) Describing a frustrated state of mind where force is directed, deliberately and intentionally. For example, ‘The Uruguayan SUAREZedly prevented the ball from entering the goal posts.’

SYNONYMS; frustrate, prevent, stress, halt, oppose, challenge, resist.

ORIGIN - Root word is from the extinct Inca language meaning “an erratic young man with the tendency to frustrate the effort of all those who deal with him whether in peacetime or wartime”.

Since that time SUAREZ, the entity otherwise known as Lius, so popularly called in Ghana because of the inscription on the back of his jersey has become a household name in Ghana. Ghanaians have not been economical with their curses on him. They sleep cursing, eat cursing, walk cursing and… well.

Paul the Octopus steals the show

Who will forget the antics of Paul, the octopus that predicted the results of World Cup matches the Germans won and lost, and of course that of the final. He beat several pretenders to the throne that included an Elephant and some other creature. Well news is that the Spanish town of Carballino has given Paul the honorary citizenship. Carlos Montes, the mayor of the north-western Spanish town visited Germany to bestow the honour to the octopus.

I know what you are thinking. How can some fish get all the luck? In fact, the Germans have so jealously guarded their octopus that they have decided to retire him. Let’s hope he is not destined for some restaurant somewhere. Otherwise, the outcry would be deafening.

In Zim, we do not have octopuses. But we do have little supernatural bearded men well known for their extraordinary strength and virility. We call them ondofa or tikoloshe (goblin) to you. They will put Paul to shame any day. This however is the subject of another article.

New word introduced into English language

SUAREZ
 
(Verb). a. To viciously and proactively inhibit or halt the progress of a person, an establishment or a nation. Eg. The team’s opportunity to score was SUAREZed by a member of the opposing team.
 
(b). To act in a way that is deliberate and intentional, though spontaneous, yet calculated to frustrate the advancement of an adversary. Eg. As pressure built up in the dying moment of the game, a shot at goal was SUAREZed by an opponent standing next to the goal post.
 
(Noun). a. A state of being where all your effort are visibly and overtly being frustrated and impeded. Eg. I am in a state of SUAREZ, please don’t stress me further.
(b) A purposeful behavior intended to disregard rules or engagement so as to prevent an opponent from eminent victory. Eg. The first thought that came to Fernando’s mind was to cause SUAREZ in order to save the day.
 
(Adverb) Describing a frustrated state of mind where force is directed, deliberately and intentional. Eg. The Uruguayan SUAREZedly prevented the ball from entering the post.
 
SYNONYMS
Frustrate, prevent, stress, halt, oppose, challenge, resist.
 
Origin-Root word is from the extinct Inca language meaning “an erratic young man with the tendency to frustrate the effort of all those who deal with him whether in peacetime or wartime”.
 
Since that time SUAREZ, as the entity otherwise known as Luis is popularly called in Ghana because of the inscription at the back of his jersey, has  become a household name in Ghana and Ghanaians have not been economical with their curses on him. People sleep cursing, eat cursing, walk cursing and ….all the motion curses you can think of.

Zim style coalition in new UK government?

As much as I hate them, politicians run the world and worse still, make the decisions that make living such a pain sometimes. We are forced to keep a close watch on their antics and weep at their mistakes which invariably result in disastrous consequences. We take the brunt and wish for an early election to clean up the mess. However, elections do not always come up with the solutions that we yearn for.

Take those held in Zimbabwe as an example. The government prides itself with holding timely elections. It’s an achievement that has been touted by the former ruling Zanu PF to demonstrate that they were truly democratic. Bar the fact that all these so called democratic elections were seriously flawed. The playing field has never been level, and the party in question has so perfected the art of rigging that the people wonder whether any truly free and fair elections were possible in the Southern African country.

On the few occasions when the elections nearly returned an unanticipated result for the ruling party of course, the authorities defied any pretence of shame by ensuring that the will of the people never saw the light of day. On one notable occasion in 2008, the person charged with running the elections to the results and literally ran for the hills with them. What was later revealed to a patient, expectant and obviously cheated electorate was an electoral dish of epicurean proportions.

Fast forward a couple of years and we have a government that is a curious contraption borne out of insidious compromise. Totally ignoring the will of the people, marathon negotiations concocted a witch’s brew of the stale variety. How true the adage that we get the leaders we deserve rings. The half-baked administration that is running Zimbabwe, if we may call it that, has been misfiring on all cylinders.

It is in this regard that the Zimbabwean experience should hold lessons for the incoming coalition government of the Conservatives and the Liberal Democrats. It has all the trappings of Zimbabwe’s Government of National Unity (GNU) or ‘Inclusive Government’ as they choose to call it. It is a product of a political crisis and is therefore a marriage of convenience.

If you look at it from all angles, it is an awkward, to quote Professor Welshman Ncube, ‘half human, half beast.’ You have on the one hand the Movement for Democratic Change - Tsvangirayi which won an election but not enough for it to control government, and Zanu PF, the former ruling party that gate-crashed after losing the elections. Then of course the MDC Mutambara faction that could not even dream of being at the table. There are no prizes for guessing which one of these is the beast.

The gist of the questions at the Cameron-Clegg press conference on the lawns of Downing Street clearly showed this. Who would field question time, chair cabinet meetings etcetera. They should ask how Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirayi has fared against a belligerent President Robert Mugabe who will not hesitate to remind everyone within earshot who is in charge. His Excellency the President, Head of State and Commander of the Defence Forces runs the country and the rest of you can frankly go to hell.

Another interesting result of the ‘historic’ coalition in the UK is the fact that a whole host of politicians who previously could only dream of being in government were thrown in at the deep end. The Liberal Democrats managed to get 5 seniors cabinet posts and at least 15 as junior ministers. The question is whether they could swim. In Zimbabwe, senior members from both factions of the former opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) found themselves in ministerial positions that seemed more of largesse that deserved.

The obvious result has been the preponderance of lame duck cabinet ministers whose claim to fame is being at the right time at the right place with the right people. I’m afraid there is little here worth writing home about except perhaps Finance minister Tendai Biti and State Enterprises and Parastatals’ Gorden Moyo who apart from standing their ground evidently know how a government should be run. The net result was gross incompetence among those who could not fit the bill and were booted out in a ‘reshuffle’ by the Prime Minister Tsvangirayi recently.

While the Lib Dems are still pinching themselves, the question that Britons should be asking is whether they have the right people for the complex job of steering the country from economic disaster and a war they were not supposed to be involved in? Soon, just like a wedding, the novelty of union will soon wear off as it did in Zimbabwe a year ago. When reality sinks in that is when the dirt hits the fan. I suppose Britain has better prospects at calling for early elections than Zimbabwe.

As we speak, the tone coming from Harare on both sides of the political divide, and so eloquently and loudly pronounced by Deputy Prime Minister Prof Arthur Mutambara, is that there won’t be elections in Zimbabwe any time soon. Not if the MDC guys comfortably ensconced on the gravy train can help it. While the Britons are admiring their new toy, Zimbabweans both at home and abroad have to face some hard truths about a Lib Dem-Conservative coalition government, what one UK paper called brilliantly dubbed, Con-Dem-nation.

The views of both parties on immigration are well known. While the Conservatives (and Labour) advocated for the deportation of illegal immigrants and putting a cap on non-EU immigrants because they felt that they are swamping the country’s services, the Liberal Democrats pledged to offer illegal immigrants a lifeline in the form of an amnesty. This explains why a lot of Zimbabweans and other immigrants in the UK backed the Lib Dems.

However, the coalition agreement seems to reflect the conservative position of limiting non-EU immigrants although it puts an end to child detention in immigration centres. It goes without saying therefore, that the new government is likely to get tough on asylum seekers. This would be bad news to the thousands of illegal immigrants who have been in the UK for years. Whether it was time for our relatives to start packing their bags or not, it’s all up to fate.

It has come to my notice that there is a discernable level of excitement among Zimbabwean politicians each time there are elections in the UK. The hope, particularly within Zanu PF, is that it might bring a shift in foreign policy and a possible lifting of the ‘Harrods shopping spree’ ban they are labouring under. If there is one thing blacklisted Zanu PF politicians hate is cooling their heels at Heathrow Airport departure lounge on transit while their MDC counterparts paint London red.

With William Hague heading the foreign ministry I suggest they look elsewhere for relief in this regard. The Conservatives might have given us our independence all those years back, but these Conservatives of today are a different kettle of fish. Hague has not hidden his apparent distaste for Zanu PF as are many of his compatriots. For those with short memories, he is the one who advocated for the evacuation of British kith and kin from Zimbabwe at the height of the disastrous land invasions.

As for Zimbabweans who had found sanctuary with their former colonial masters, the signs are there that the coalition government is not what they expected. Not that they are packing their bags and rushing for the border. The climate of unease is shown by the growing number of enquiries about opportunities in Botswana, Swaziland, Namibia or even, God-forbid, South Africa. Some are talking investment while others are preparing to make a move.

Only time will tell as to where the policies of new occupants of Whitehall will trigger a mass exodus of Babylonian proportions by Zimbabweans ensconced there. Though the rumblings are becoming audible, the vast majority are sure to give their forsaken homeland a wide berth. Not at moment when the inclusive government is still clutching at empty straws as far as finding solid financial backing for their experiment is concerned.

One thing that Zimbabwean diasporians are unanimous about though is the fact that only free and fair elections will bring about finality to the crisis that is there. The challenge is that of politicians, ideologues and indeed demagogues who would like the status quo to prevail. Because any other arrangement would mean a sure end to their access to the largesse associated with political power. In the meantime, the Lib Dem-Conservative coalition is not offering any better options either.