National budget a load of bull?

Why do we dread budget time? Is it because there is little good news new, if any, that comes out of such an exercise, particularly when it comes to relief in times of economic hardship.

The national budget will be announced with all the pomp and ceremony that normally goes with such occasions as if there is anything to celebrate. Forgive me for being sarcastic but with all the experience that I have garnered listening to statement after statement all these years, I just have to be understandably blasé.

I can’t help but feel pity for the Minister of Finance, Honourable Tendai Biti, who in his trademark bombastic manner tries to draw excitement out an occasion that can be at best, be compared to a gathering of sheep patiently waiting for slaughter. He has the onerous task of having to break the hearts of nearly 14 million people, more if you include those in the diaspora.

Apart from the reality of having very little cash to play around with, Minister Biti presents a statement whose principal challenge is to whether the ordinary man will be able to skim through all that verbiage and understand the facts. There is just too much jargon in the national budget statement,

We have already made our voices heard about an unreadable constitution that was designed to confuse us. The only things to remember about that forgettable document are the amendments, and for good reason too! They have done more to violate our fundamental freedoms than to give me peace of mind.

We deserve a user friendly budget, honourable minister, one that I can easily enlighten our four year old Junior without being bombarded with too many ‘whys.’ One which we can dot all the i’s and cross the t’s. There is nothing more frustration as trying to explain something so important in a medium one can hardly understand, that is, gibberish.

Perhaps it’s all intentional. Is it a case of what American comic and actor W.C. Fields once said; “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull?”

Just like law, as an example. Because of all the legal rigmarole, one is forced to pay an arm and a leg in legal fees for a privileged few to unravel it for you. Information should not be the preserve of a few, particularly when it comes to the budget which affects the lives of so many.

One of the most puzzling events that precede the budget is an event called a Pre-Budget Consultation. It is a gathering of all the economic fundis that can be smoked out of their foxholes, the beleaguered Minister of Finance, parliamentarians and a few hangers-on, to debate, dissect, and extrapolate elements that will make up the budget document.

Correct me if I am wrong, judging by the time these costly road shows are held, I get bet you my bottom dollar that the budget would long been prepared. With my limited English I can only assume that the term “Pre-Budget” means “before the budget.”

Any right thinking government would not expect a budget, containing vital info on how a country can earn and spend its financial resources, to be prepared in a couple of weeks! We might as well conclude that bearing this glaring fact in mind that the national budget for the year 2012 long left the drawing board and is actually at the printers as we speak.

So why national budget consultations to input in a document whose ink have is already dry? Aren’t we putting the proverbial cart before the horse? By attending these charades are we not lending credence to some form of mass deception? Not forgetting the money spent setting them up and sending the finance ministry juggernaut across the country?

And if they are dubbed ‘public’ why hold them at luxury hotels whose capacity and indeed distance put off the very people they are supposed to reach? I am yet to see pre-budget consultations held at the Luveve Beit Hall in Bulawayo or Sakubva in Mutare? Why not hold them at Stoddard Hall or Dulibadzimu for that matter?

Why it is that so few MPs attend such consultations? Are they showing contempt for an exercise that is so short on substance and long on hollow talk? Talking about the one this fly on the wall managed to sneak into, some of the MPs who attended showed this flawed aspect of the whole process by giving suggestions which for all intents and purposes should have made it into the final document.

Are they telling us that they were AWOL during debates in the House, which would not be surprising at all, or that if they were there, they could have been taking a nap which has been parliamentary privilege since time immemorial?

The issues that were raised at the consultations, had some of our decision makers bothered to attended, are nothing new. Government overspending, a warped sense of priorities and the thorny issue of accountability dominated the discussions. No matter how hard they tried, it was plain for all to see that the fiscus was leaking like a sieve particularly when it came to the world’s worst kept secret, revenue from the Marange diamond fields.

If we could substitute some big guns’ pockets for the treasury, I am sure that we would not be wailing about sanctions or any other lame excuse for mismanagement and plain pilfering. The question that remained lingering in the air like a bad smell was, do we have the courage to bite the bullet will we continue to go through the motions?

Such ill-advised decisions such as statutory instruments introducing duty restrictions on food stuffs would have been avoided if genuine consultation had taken place. By offering civil servants a pittance with one hand, then taking away that token increment through duty fuelled price increases is cruel.

Our hope is that the national budget will recognise the fact that the country’s economy is far from having recovered. And that people deserve some form of relief rather than to be thrown to the wolf pack that is Zimbabwe’s nascent entrepreneurs. It should tame this disrespect for hard currencies where businesses still believe in 100% profit.

The pertinent question members of the public should be asking is whether the national budget is indeed an instrument in deception. Especially if a couple of months down the line, we seem to disregard the document and elect to operate like a village bottle store?

It is so obvious that we are able to salvage ourselves from the mess are in if we are honest with ourselves and live within our means. If our gallivanting leaders would stop siphoning the little that collects in the treasury or elect to drive modest vehicles rather than gargantuan fuel guzzling behemoths, then we would be indeed going somewhere.

The challenge for those in leadership is to ensure that the targets set in the national budget and the recommendations therein will lead us to a semblance of economic recovery. Our collective hope is that the 2012 national budget is not just another game of smoke and mirrors.

Zimbabwe: A nation run by dealers

FINANCE Minister Tendai Laxton Biti [who coincidentally was my roommate at the University of Zimbabwe] recently presented his mid-term budget review. The gist of that presentation to an expectant nation, besides revealing little on where the diamond ‘moola’ was going, seemed to lean on incentives and controls designed to allow local industries to recover.

This is a noble idea all things being equal, yet they are not. Picture this scenario: since the formation of the National Pricing and Incomes Commission in the mid 2000s, it would seem the government was hell bent on ensuring that commerce and industry did not see the light of day. In fact, it had nearly succeeded when the subsequent recession put the final nail in the coffin of business as we knew it.

Now, putting all this into proper context, everyone in Zimbabwe knows that from 2007 it became totally absurd to be in paid employment, unless you worked in the banking sector, or more precisely, the Reserve Bank. In those days, you would think those guys were gods. How the mighty have fallen!

In any case, most of us found it prudent to survive by any means necessary because, you guessed right, we were simply not getting paid! Inventive we became, and Zimbabwe turned out to be the only country in the world that had gone beyond Plan B. In fact we went beyond Plan Z!

Now, have I written this before? Never mind, my point is that by taking ourselves out of formal employment, we plunged headlong into the murky, unpredictable world of informal trade. In short, we became a nation of dealers.

Everyone was selling something, yet none was making or creating anything, because quite naturally, it made sense to make the quick buck. This was because entities were collapsing around us and if you delayed to get your dues, there would be no-one to pay you.

Zimbabwe fell spectacularly from employing 70 percent of the population – those figures being disputed — to that of somewhere above 10 per cent. The stupid question is, would that 70% still be twiddling their fingers while waiting for the economy to recover? NO dread NO!

The second stupid question is; would people who have literally immersed themselves in wheeling and dealing, be prepared to go back to slogging it off at some salt mine only to be paid at the end of the month? Do I really have to answer that one?

So, in a way, Biti’s MTP is skewed somewhat in focus. It’s more like treating the symptoms and not the cause of the economic epidemic. What Zimbabweans need is complete re-orientation. Our kids are now convinced that money can literally fall from trees, or more correctly, can be dug from the ground. You do not need an O’ Level certificate to take a shovel and a dish to go to some river to pan for your thousands.

The more daring preferred to duck bullets and climb barbed wire to obtain that elusive stone. The smarter ones, not necessarily in terms of brains, have gone into what one could term speculating. It goes like this: somebody has something and this other person who doesn’t needs it, yet does not know how to get it. In comes the dealer who knows both.

It’s a simple law of supply and demand, just not exactly. The middleman knows what both these people want and sees the potential to gain from the deal. The dealer approaches the one with the ‘item’ and initiates the deal through a technique called fishing:

‘Know what mzala, I can get a very good price for your item even though you don’t want to sell it.’
‘Is that a fact, how much?’

‘Let me scout around and I will come back to you,’ the dealer has set his bait.

The dealer approaches the potential buyer and drives a bargain.

‘I got what you are looking for but the buyer is reluctant to sell. Give him an offer’

‘I am prepared to pay US$1,000 but can up it a bit,’ the potential buyer offers.

Back with the reluctant seller who is told that he could be US$900 richer if he let go of his ‘item.’

‘Really?’ he exclaims, drooling like a lap dog.

Dealer goes back to the buyer and ups the ante.

‘The guy says US$1,500 take it or leave it,’ he offers.

‘I can only afford US$1,300 tops, not more,’ the buyer responds.

Now guaranteed US$400 from absolute fresh air, the dealers seals it with by taking the ‘item’ to the buyer who pays him US$1,300, retains his US$400, and pays the seller his US$900. Done deal.

At least it’s better than that Nigerian phenomenon – with apologies to Oga globally — called air supply. They are said to have perfected the art of getting paid for supplying nothing.

Now tell me, if one can make money like the dealer above, how can one convince him that only an honest day’s work can sustain him and that he or she would have wait for the month end to get his dues?

We got our fingers burnt in the various schemes that ranged from the notorious pyramids to the pervasive ‘burning’ of the local currency which brought about its inevitable demise.

One may point to the ingenuity of the Zimbabwean for finding ways outside the conventional economics textbook to survive the situation. But the reality is that it will take a lot to move a large number of Zimbabweans, including those who moved from the sticks into towns, to change their get rich quick orientation for a more demure and honest way of earning a living. This includes re-educating people to the fact that we can’t all be sellers when there are things to be made.

That precludes the fact that we should be approaching technological parity where the future is that of a plant being run by a man and a dog. The job of the dog would be to keep the man from touching the controls, and that of the man is to feed the dog. But we will still need the man all the same!

No amount of ideological brain washing of the youth fed on a diet of patriotism and mantras on the liberation struggle will produce the much needed mindset shift. One way is to tap the abundant innovativeness and channel it to create opportunities via initiatives similar to Botswana’s Innovation Hub.

I might be barking up the wrong tree but believe me this is a serious problem that requires urgent redress if we are to have a genuine revival of industry in Zimbabwe. Another problem is that this ‘dealer’ syndrome is also fed from the top. The lack of proper corporate governance and ethical conduct in state enterprises that were in the thick of dealing at the height of the collapse added to the confusion.

There is need to disabuse state institutions on the futility of the notion that for one to get services that every tax payer deserves, one has to grease a succession of palms. That Ministers at the head of some of these institutions seem to pay lip service to corruption under their watch lends credence to claims from some quarters that indeed Zimbabwe is a country run by dealers.

Raising the flag and not the fist in Zim

I met Boyd Maliki the other day in the centre of Bulawayo. Sure, the same one, the cartoonist famous for the Nyati and Taikuni characters that tickled us for decades in the Chronicle. I know that most of you wouldn’t know Boyd even if he stopped and slapped you in the face. Not that he is that type of character, but what I have always marvelled at is the way he has preserved his anonymity with such precision.

He even told me that he was the ‘culprit’ behind some intriguing columns in the independent press under various pseudonyms as recently as just a month ago! Sure, I didn’t know that Boyd could write… I mean carry a column. Cartoonist draw not write, so you think. Well here is a confession. Those few of you who know me pretty well, especially from our University of Zimbabwe days, when stones were still soft, know that I started off as a cartoonist.

I was the resident caricaturist for the infamous students’ rag ‘Focus.’ It was a publication whose articles sent authorities into paroxysms of panic. Our list of contributors will make a who’s who of the current crop of politicians, activists and artists. We had the likes of Tendai Laxton Biti, Tawana Kupe, Titus Moetsabi, Thomas Deve, Chrikure Chirikure and Trevor Ncube. Also regular as contributors we had James Timba, a very left leaning Munyaradzi Gwisai, Professor Shadrack Gutto who along with the late Kempton Makamure we dubbed the ‘Marxist Brothers’ including anyone who had something to say.

Focus was banned more times that I could remember, with my cartoons contributing in no small measure to the proscriptions. The magazine made embarrassing the establishment an art we would provide students a platform for venting their frustrations. I must admit that it really tested the elasticity of the freedom of expression.

But then I digress. Maliki, at our chance meeting along Jason Moyo Street in Bulawayo lamented the fact that we were running the danger of becoming irrelevant. By ‘we’ he meant the aging generation of columnists and cartoonists. He went on to list a number of great scribes who had fallen off the wagon and were doing things they never imagined to be doing. It was indeed a shocking revelation.

That’s what it’s all about… confronting reality head on. That is how the people in my homeland are living. Having arrived back in Zimbabwe, ironically on Independence Day, with memories of Botswana’s first civil service strike still fresh, I realised then that keeping quiet would be doing the legions who follow my ranting and indeed me. My calling is to create a window through which all of you can peep.

So Boyd Maliki reminded me, and this is the main reason why I am back. I confess I have made lots of promises that I have not kept, chief among them compiling a book that was supposed to have been on the shelves by now. For that, I am sorry… as if you deserve it. I will complete the book because I am broke which therefore transfers responsibility to your shoulders… that of buying the book to save a poor soul. But then, there are those among you who know fully well the folly of taking me seriously.

That having been said, which in other circles might be termed as ‘paying the bills’ allow me to let rip. I have been in and out of Zimbabwe for the past four months, mostly in. Long enough to notice that there is a serious shortage of cash in the country. We are paying the price of calling the owners of the money all sorts of names. You just don’t do that.

But then we all have full knowledge of where all the money is going, into the pockets of a select few. These few will then use it to buy favours from the desperate many. But what I then noticed is that people have realised the folly of pandering to the whims of politics and politicians. The current state of the Government of National Unity (GNU) and its birth certificate, the Global Political Agreement is nauseating for want for a better description. It has poisoned life as we know it in the country. The media, both state and independent, is deep in the throes of an epidemic that is worse than cholera.

We all know that the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation in its current state is beyond repair. If I had my way, I would have it shut down and we start things afresh. Watching the news is an outright pain. In fact calling it the news is so misleading. It is a compilation of political commentary, praise singing, crass boot and backside licking of the lowest order.

The epidemic seems to have spread to the independent media with some papers literally inventing stories that would easily pass as science fiction owing to their incredulity. Headlines that mislead are the order of the day, tempting cash strapped Zimbabweans to buy. If we could discern the veracity of some of the stories only by staring the headlines, I bet you some of these papers would have collapsed by now.

Don’t get me wrong, I am one for plurality in the media, but passing off fabrication as news, as some of the tabloids are wont to do, is just not on. That is the job that the highly partisan state media has ordained itself to do. We have to commend them for being unapologetic about it. It makes it easy for you to know which papers not to buy and which television channels to stay from.

That having been said, I have always stated here and elsewhere that I admire the ingenuity of my countrymen in eking out a living. One of the survival tactics is to steer clear of politics. Following politicians and their antics is very stressful activity. They are so full of hot air that one wonders why ZESA does not harness that to power its thermal power stations.

Civil servants have taken politicians to their word at their peril. Flung from one side to the other in the political divide their heads are forever spinning. Today it’s Biti ‘holding onto our money,’ then the next they are told that they would be paid peanuts after all, only to be yanked back to square one where we are told the revenue from the Chiyadzwa and Marange diamonds has not seen the light of day. At the end of the day, there is no guessing who ends up the fool.

Another survival tactic is what one called ‘flag-raising.’ You would be forgiven to think that there is a massive outbreak of patriotism in Zimbabwe by the number of cars flying the national flag. But those in the know say that cars ‘raising the flag’ are less likely to be harassed at the numerous police roadblocks dotted around the country.

‘Name-dropping’ is another tactic used to telling effect, particularly if you intend to unclog the creaking wheels of bureaucracy. This is the time to raid the family tree for relatives, distant and close, who are in positions of influence. The details of which remain privileged information… for now. That’s how we survive here.

Surviving the UK: The Truth and the Lies

Ever wondered what it was REALLY like going to the United Kingdom to look for the proverbial pot of gold? A Zimbabwean friend of mine (who else?) gave me some raw insight in this no-holds-barred, blow by blow dose of reality.

It’s a candid account by a disillusioned economic migrant about the diaspora. After the excitement of having ‘made it’ has worn off, he sees the place for what it really is. A number of you will find this familiar, others will be angry at me for being so revealing… but as I am always wont to do, I will risk pissing against the wind and bear the consequences…

“You arrived in the UK, albeit through the skin of your teeth, not really sure who to thank between the Almighty and your ancestors. You settle for the former because there are no visible inyanga Englandi, bra! Employment was a reason for you being there - correction - employment was the ONLY reason. The aim was to get a job at the earliest opportunity after surviving Gatwick. You had a number of options. The agencies wanted people for work, any kind of work, and this was not the time and place to be picky.

Skill number one; could you lie with a straight face? If you had never done that, now was the time to start. Thank goodness there was no CRB to contend with then. You found ways and means. Some just worked under their relatives’ names. But you see this also had its demerits. Imagine this. Your friend’s cousin would have gone to work under your name. Because at the very last minute you realised you were double booked for shifts at the biscuit factory. The agency would turn out be very vindictive, if you didn’t pitch up.

If you kept cancelling shifts you would find yourself in the COD (circle of despair.) You were given the ‘Passover’ treatment when it came to precious shifts. You knew you needed the money. Rent was due and there was money to be sent home to expectant relatives. Isn’t this what you came here for? Sebenzela ekhaya mfana.

So off your friend’s cousin went masquerading as yours truly. Then, horror of horrors, you received a call from the AGENCY asking what happened to you at work that day. Apparently, “YOU” had dropped a client, they said, and an explanation was required as a matter of urgency.

You were not sure what really happened to YOU but you couldn’t say this. So with a straight face you told the AGENCY that you would call in later because in reality you had to call YOU, I mean, your friend’s cousin who had actually just come to England, having dropped off the plane that very morning and had covered your shift for you as you took care of the milk run.

Luckily, the AGENCY would buy your second-hand account of how “YOU” dropped the client, another close call. You were getting used to this, lying through your teeth to save your skin. Forget that you were Seventh Day Adventist ekhaya (back home), this is Englandi, mfana.

You could also pick up a name and work under that pseudonym. The danger was that when you became so engrossed in the task at hand your supervisor would call, “Hey Antonio!” No response. All the while you are thinking to yourself. “Some people really have hearing problems. If my name was called out like that I would jump to it!”

After the poor supervisor had almost lost his patience and voice, trying to catch Antonio’s (your) attention, it suddenly dawned on that IT’S YOU he is calling…YOU ARE ANTONIO! You pretended to be too engrossed in the task and later apologised that indeed you had a serious hearing problem.

Care work. Now there is a occupation minefield if you knew one. The major skill here was how to fake it. You found out the common words and the names of the specialised equipment from your friends. The commode, hoist back-pan etc. You see, this would be your first day at work and you wouldn’t know a stitch from a Band Aid.

You were asked to make the bed which was easy enough. Your boarding school skills came in handy here. Next you had to get someone up. Since you were from the AGENCY, you were not that popular unless you had been to the place a number of times before. The regular staff quickly paired up and left you to work on your own. Tough it!

The pad, now which way did it go, you asked no one in particular. You just had to do what you could under the circumstances. Now you had to wheel the client to the dining room for breakfast. There you were, struggling with the pushchair. You were thinking, “My goodness me, no wonder people say that when you do care work you need to watch your back.”

You realised in your wake that you were leaving a conspicuous trail with the wheels, but hell, you were too determined to do this. That is until one of the nurses, seeing your strained effort, decided to investigate. Alas, the brake was on! You quietly and between your clenched teeth cursed your cousin Mavis for leaving out this important piece of information during her quick induction to care-work. She forgot to tell you that these wheelchairs had brakes.

For the faint hearted, the sight of human excrement in its ubiquitous abundance was a strong incentive for voluntary dieting. Some did not touch food for days on end, until the strangest of things started to happen. You suddenly stopped noticing it, the human manure that is. It was as if it was not even there. Food suddenly took on a new taste and texture and you partook of it with gusto, even seconds after you had been handling you-know-what.

And you tell me God isn’t wonderful? Was this really you, pinching yourself? You once would throw up at the slightest unsightly thing, even at the sight of a baby with mucus dripping from its nose, but now.

Some ‘clients’ needed to have their baths. You see, they are called that and not patients. Your idea of a bath was to drench everything from head to toe. But you see ladies don’t wash their hair every time they bath. You didn’t know this because you though you did not need to know.

So there you were, scooping the water with zest and zeal. SPLASH! “OH, NO MY HAIR! THE HAIR DRESSER DID IT JUST THIS MORNING,” the shaken old dear would cry. You would apologise profusely but the damage had already been done. You know how these old people would relay their story to everyone within earshot about how this horrible man did this even to the extent of narrating the story to you unbeknown to them that you were the culprit in question!

Work was hard and at times some people would nod off during handover because of the strain. Interestingly enough, no one ever came from Zimbabwe and everyone was a nursing student. Everyone either came from South Africa, the most popular, Malawi or Zambia. But you couldn’t hide your identity forever.

There were equally interesting encounters in industry. “What machinery do you drive?” Your cousin Matthew had told you the more boxes you tick, the higher the chances of you getting shifts. Forklift Operator - tick, Pneumatic drill Operator - tick, Excavator Operator - now what does this thing do? - Tick, Skid Steer, err, tick, Crane - tick, now that that looked so impressive. Had these people in England ever heard of the concept of LYING? Not here, I suppose if you indicated you could do it, you could.

One such adventurous chap found himself having to walk the walk as well as he had talked the talk. Forklift operator - tick. Yes, the AGENCY wanted a Forklift Operator and there he was, or should I say, there he wasn’t. But since he had committed it to paper, he had to have the experience.

Our resourceful friend had a trick up his sleeve. What do most workers in the UK love most? Answer: ciggies or cigarettes to you. By some stroke of luck our friend had stumbled upon cheap cigarettes and that is how he disguised his lack of expertise on the forklift. He handed out the cigarettes as gifts/bribes.

Having provided such a rare commodity, his fellow workers turned a blind eye to his shoddy workmanship or let us say lack of dexterity in manoeuvring the machinery. But everything has to come to an end some time.

In Zimbabwe the closest he had come to a forklift was when he was walking across the company compound on his daily inspection errands as part of management. Mdara Makoni operated the forklift then. Now HE WAS in purpose and deed MDARA MAKONI! What he would have given for Mdara Makoni’s skills then.

His University degree counted for nothing in these new settings. With his powers of placation and appeasement (cigarettes) depleted he had little choice but to perform a disappearing act never to be seen nor heard of again in that part of the world. His former workers were later heard inquiring, “Where did that GOOD guy who was such a BAD forklift operator go?”

People came from totally varied and unique work environments from the ones they suddenly found themselves in.  The new tasks they had to endure left aches in parts of the body they never thought would ache the way they did. Some gave testimonies of going for a shift at a food packaging plant. Frozen foods had to be packaged for transportation to wholesalers.

The issue here were the brutally icy working conditions. They went for the shift at midnight and by morning break were caught up in an internal debate whether to stay put or split. It was so cold that to get a bit of warmth they had to take refuge in the freezer, which was slightly warmer than it was outside. The AGENCY knew this and was never surprised by the high staff turnover.

At one such plant there were cold mushrooms in a big container into which one had to dip their hand, scoop a handful of loose mushrooms and sprinkle them on a burger that had just come down the conveyer belt. Another unfortunate soul had the unenviable task of prying apart pre - fried burgers that, at times had fused together into an icy lump.

These needed to be separated quickly but carefully without breaking them. While all this was happening, the conveyer belt would be doing what it does best, that is, continuously conveying the items to the end.

Inevitably, things would go wrong when someone up the chain was unable to pry apart two burgers in good time causing the roll to tumble down the conveyer belt with a conspicuously absent burger.  The belt would be then be halted by the visibly annoyed shift manager who had only targets and quotas in his mind. The monotony of the task was so mind numbingly boring. You had been turned into an automaton.

I am sure the guys remember Sara, yes Smiley Sara from the office, who always made you feel you were her favourite and seemed to always have shifts for you and you only? For the ladies, you should remember Roger, who almost flirted with you when he gave you shifts left, right and centre?

When you live with people you just have to speak their language. Some Zimbabweans being adept in survival and mimicking, quickly aped their local counterparts. One such overzealous brother was heard saying to a workmate, “You’re naked mate!” much to the vexation of his interlocutor who aggressively demanded, “What do you mean I’m naked”.

You see there is a local word “knackered” (pronounced Naa-kaa-d) which means “tired.” However, there is some controversy surrounding this word. Some parents don’t allow their children to use it in their conversation because they say knackered refers to the kind exhaustion one experiences after you-know-what. But then, you can’t blame the brother for trying to fit in.

You started using the local lingo, what some call “The AIR HEADS’ ENGLISH. “How AM you mate?” “I want THEM shoes over there, love?” “We was coming to GETS her up, duckie”, “I SAYS to her she is not coming today, Barb”.

But truly speaking, you could never be caught dead speaking this gibberish back home in Zimbabwe. But that is beside the point, mate.  YOU ARE IN LONDON NOW. The rest can just sod off! By the way, for the uninitiated, London is used as a generic term to refer to any part of the UK, well sort off.

My deep sense of appreciation goes to all those colleagues, friends, relatives, and enemies alike that provided material for this piece. This is dedicated to all of you in the Diaspora and your resilience under tremendous odds. It is YOU who make Zimbabwe GREAT!”

I remain always

V Moyo

Glossary of Terms (SiNdebele to English, duckie!)

Inyanga – Traditional Doctors who are believed to link people with dead relatives

Bra – (slang) Salutation meaning brother, nothing to do with a woman's support system.

Ekhaya – meaning back home in Zimbabwe, as in way back...

Sebenzela ekhaya mfana – Expression reminding Zimbabweans in the diaspora why they are there in the first place. To support family back home. South African Mbaqanga group the Soul Brothers sang about this phenomenon.

Don't tell me you want an explanation of what Mbaqanga is. You will never understand...

What I’m writing next….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perhaps you could be wondering but I’m working on two articles at the moment. The first one is a follow up on the handbag fetish that all women are smitten with… fashion. I was inspired by the wonderfully weird Lady Gaga’s wardrobe stunts. By far the worst on her list was making an appearance adorned in an outfit make entirely out of steaks. The sight nearly put me off meat for ever!

Also in mind was the Janet Jackson’s infamous wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl when her mammary gland decided to have a life of its own… in front of millions. I wondered what the fuss was all about. We see breasts of all shapes and sizes every day here in Africa as mothers do not think twice about whipping them out to feed their little ones.

The second article is a celebration of sorts. My eldest son goes to university (college) next year. Having gone that route myself, I am tempted to give him a blow by blow account of what to expect and of course what to avoid once there. It not like he’s going to grade One… but its a minefield out there. I recount my own experiences, both good and bad, and pray that he does not fall into the same traps like I did.

You just have to watch this space to find out won’t you? In the meantime, I hope you can tolerate these pieces that New Zimbabwe.com has inexplicably failed to publish. Eish!

A woman and her handbag are never parted

I will be the first to admit that writing about women can be a tricky endeavour. In my experience, it’s like walking a thin line hung over the Victoria Falls gorge. And we are not talking bungee jumping here. It is very difficult to write positively about females without raising the temperature of males and vice versa.

However, this life is about taking risks and without doing so one achieves little or nothing. After 16 action packed years of marriage, I now know why John Gray was motivated to write his bestselling book, ‘Men are from Mars, Women from Venus,’ and yet he has never been an astronaut!

The so-called Battle of the Sexes seems to have no bounds, particularly when one broaches the subject of women who have risen to positions once exclusively male. For centuries we (meaning males) have - and deceptively so – maintained the false impression that there are things only men can do.

That myth has been blown to smithereens with women now wondering if there is any use for men at all – except perhaps in procreation. The danger of men becoming extinct should be taken as seriously as climate change or global warming.

A comedian once said that behind every successful man is a baffled woman. The implication being that with all a woman knows about her man’s weaknesses,  it’s a miracle that men can achieve anything if left to their own devices.

Unbelievable as it might seem, there are men out there who appreciate the fact that the creation of Eve was a stroke of genius on God’s part.

Where there is the feminine touch there is supposed to be eh, order. However, having mentioned all the niceties about the fairer sex, I would hold my breath when it came to what I will call the psychology of the handbag.

Men will never understand the attachment women have to their handbags. Far from being the fashion item it is purported to be, it’s an enigma. The handbag represents everything about a woman and more. It’s about the capacity to hold so many different things but not being sure when to use them.

This explains why it becomes so difficult for women to locate things they have unconsciously chucked into their handbags. Women take ages in finding an irritatingly ringing cellphone, car keys, the code to unlocking nuclear weapons (with apologies to Michelle Obama) diaries, pins, needles, the family pet, telephone directory…lunch… take your pick.

This dilemma is so critical that the person who will invent a gadget that makes it easy for women to locate items in their handbags will be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Apart from eliminating the single most contentious issue between males and females, we would hear much less of the frustrated expression, “I am sure I put it in my handbag!”

A husband once remarked that the way his wife misplaced things in her handbag, he feared that she would lose the Mini Cooper he bought for her birthday … IN HER HANDBAG!

In the age when we now have women presidents, men shudder to imagine where we are all headed if women were to manage countries the same way they did their handbags.

But then in the wider scheme of things, handbags and clueless males fade into the cacophony that is everyday life. As positions that used to be exclusively male are ‘feminized,’and vice-versa, men have to face the grim reality of the male species headed for extinction. Particularly when we witness the fashion entry of... wait for it... HANDBAGS FOR MEN!

East West Home is Best

Those of you who have been ‘following’ me on Twitter and ‘liking’ me on Facebook will know that I have been in and out of Zimbabwe since Christmas Eve. Not being one who likes boasting, I have the privilege of being in the Diaspora and being able to drive home in the afternoon and arrive in time for supper. How neat!

But I can’t by the death of me explain why it took me close to a year to visit home when I was literally next door! Perhaps home was just too near... or I was too broke, or both. It also won’t explain I have not been writing this blog for close to three months. I am not implying that Zimbabwe has been run to the ground so much that the only form of communication with the outside world is through the smoke and drum method.

Like most of those who returned home after being away for a long time, I was pleasantly surprised. Don’t get me wrong that I was among those who lapped in the skewed reports of horror stories from home. I was kept well informed by my network of acquaintances. But there are some things that never change.

For instance government officials have this misconception that people coming from outside Zimbabwe are dripping money. And that it was our duty to evenly distribute it sleazy and corrupt individuals, draining us before we get it to our expectant relatives. I was reminded of Mobutu's Zaire at the hight of his decadent rule when officials looked forward to being bribed and felt offended if you did not oblige!

The IMF recommended the establishment of a Ministry of Corruption, and they were not joking. It had become so endemic that openly acknowledging its perverse existence was the only way out.

On the brighter side, I was pleasantly surprised to see that for the first time locally registered cars outnumbered those of Injiva. The population of vehicles in Bulawayo has grown exponentially belying the fact that the average salary of a civil servant was well below US$200. 

Everyone and his grandmother mother now drives a car. The expression ‘Lami ngilayo’ (I have it too) refers to a cheap Japanese midget of a car that has flooded the country. Some of these cars are very ugly if you ask me. Yet all this is lost on satisfied drivers who no longer refer to them as second hand. Instead, a friend referred to ‘experienced cars’.

The increase in traffic has led to more work for traffic cops... and more money in the form of fines and bribes, of course. The ZRP has even acquired ‘Top-of-the-range’ BMW patrol cars that are prowling the roads and highways. I witnessed a standoff at Egodini terminus where commuter omnibus openly rebelled against what they termed to be over handedness on the part of traffic police.  

One thing led to another and touts attacked one of the new patrol cars not once but twice on different days adversely affecting commuters who were stranded for hours as a game of cat and mouse was played out in the street of Kontuthu. Many agree with me that you cannot help but mention the words 'police' and 'heavy-handed' in the same sentence.

Another good thing I witnessed was the re-launch of the Bulawayo Power Station courtesy of the Botswana government. The firing of the steam turbines was music to the ears of many, harking back to the days when Bulawayo earned the name ‘Kontuthuziyathunqa’ (Where the smoke billows). I really felt good inside. In fact residents even professed to a slight let up the crippling load shedding by the state electricity utility ZESA.

On that historic day I 'tweeted' to my followers: “Bulawayo is ticking!”  

While people admit that things are far much better than during the dark days of 2007 to 2008, the refrain is that there is no money. Civil servants hold on to the hope that they will have a share of the diamond proceeds. Much the same way we hoped for an improved economy until some of us ended up voting with our feet.

My opinion is that the time for living on hope is over. A number of people have moved on, taking the plunge and doing their own thing. Hanging on the thread that is dangled by a misfit government is not something to hang one’s hopes on. There are people who grab at the few opportunities that come their way and strike the odd rich vein.

One just has to make a conscious decision, a mindset shift and accept that a life of employment is no longer an option. The government does not owe anyone a living. Be your own boss.

Tuning in to Nausea Hour

The drums are still pounding alright on the ZTV News Hour. Let me be the one to say that those drums are just about the most credible thing about the bulletins. The local Gestapo has taken over the script and it’s not pretty watching. People follow the news for its entertainment value in a funny sort of way. Because as far as the informing bit they long ago lost the plot.

One gruelling episode saw News Hour lining up the usual suspects; namely Jonathan Moyo, Chris Mutsvangwa and George Charamba in one bulletin! Police SPOKESMAN Wayne Bvudzujena was thrown in for good measure along with dubious looking analysts who must surely had fallen from the woodwork. To cap it all, Rueeeeben Barwe and Sisi Judesi Makwanya where there to ensure things were well stirred up. Need I say more?

Braai Rules, OK!
We are right in the middle of summer and (if climate change does not play another fast one on us) the braai (barbecue) season is upon us. It is therefore important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking activity, as it's the only type of cooking that a 'real' man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved.

The man invites his buddies over and when he volunteers to do the braai the following chain of events are set in motion:

Starting with the routine were...
1. The woman buys the food,
2. She prepares the salad, the vegetables and makes dessert.
3. The woman then marinades the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the braai – cold beverage in hand.

Then comes the important part were...
4. THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE BRAAI.

Back to more routine work were....
5. The woman goes inside to organise the plates and cutlery.
6. She then comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He thanks her and asks if she could bring him another drink while he deals with the
situation.

Then more another important activity where:
7. THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE BRAAI AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.

Then more routine in which...
8. The woman collects the plates, salad, bread, utensils, serviettes, sauces, and brings them to the table.
9. After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes.

And finally and most important of all...
10. Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his culinary skills.
11. The man asks the woman how she enjoyed 'her day off' with the boys. Upon seeing her annoyed reaction he concludes that there's just no pleasing some women!