Shebeens: an idea whose time has come

MANOTSHA wears a wry smile as he beckons me aside. He is extending an invitation that we move from the boring environs of the bottle store to a more comfortable drinking place.
He prefers a shebeen called koMaSamoosa in Gwabalanda. With trepidation, I agree to the proposal, choosing to make this an educational visit.

‘KuBlind!’ he exclaims, almost jumping out of his skin in excitement. You see, in the local parlance, if a place is referred to as ‘blind’ it means it’s really good. I am not that enthusiastic. For one, the police have been raiding these dens of iniquity (so they say) like nobody’s business. They are soft targets for corrupt police officers thirsting for freebies and a few thousand dollars to buy roasted meat.

Second, it’s been ages since I last ‘frequented a shebeen,’ let alone being picked up from one by the long arm of the law. With the economy in the mortuary, I was convinced that shebeens had long gone the way of the Dodo. How wrong I was. They are alive and kicking hard!

We get to MaSamoosa’s humble abode. Her name, I am reliably informed, is derived from the fact that she started off selling spicy samoosas as snacks to patrons in shebeens in the neighbourhood until she accumulated enough capital and skill to establish her own place.

The place is packed to the rafters. The slogan here is, ‘The place might be small but the welcome is big.’ Familiar and not so familiar faces greet us and the conviviality is just too infectious for one to change their mind and leave. The Queen jumps into view and greets us with hearty hugs. There is no doubting at this point that we are at home away from home.

It is said that if you throw a stone high up in the air in one of Bulawayo’s predominantly working class western suburbs, more often than not it is likely to fall on a shebeen. It might seem like an exaggeration but those who have ventured into what was once called the City of King’s Wild, Wild West will attest to this fact. Shebeens are supposed to be illegal by they flourish nevertheless under Zimbabwe’s hawkish laws and in the midst of an economic meltdown.

For the uninitiated, a shebeen is an illicit drinking place that serves all manner of alcoholic beverages to patched patrons seeking a homely atmosphere. It operates from someone’s house and is usually presided over by the Shebeen Queen, usually huge mamas who would give a Yokuzuna a run for their money if given half the chance.

The ‘Queens’ are referred to by their surnames with your MaTshumas, MaMkhize, MaNcube, MaNgwenya or any other Ma’s you can think of. A few are called by their nicknames like MaNtuza, Didiri or Topsy and don’t ask me how they got those.

There were Shebeen Kings but they were a rarity. Here hosts like Silver (pronounced Siliva), Jomo and uBhudi Rho, among others, made their name in the hospitality stakes.
Back at MaSamoosa’s place, the service is quick. Manotsha is already settled in a deep sofa that looks out of place in the small sitting room. As if to declare his sovereignty, he lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke through the corner of his mouth towards the roof. ‘Sit here, Mafana,’ he beckons.

He really is the king of this place. A voluptuous waitress, MaSamoosa’s daughter or nephew or maid - I really don’t care - has already brought the orders. She surely is one of the attractions here besides the beer of course.

Two cold clear Pilsners straight out of the South Pole are plonked on the table in front of us. A ward of Zim-kwachas exchanges hands and the damsel is dismissed with a cursory, ‘Keep change!’ by an increasingly relaxed Manotsha.

I fail to relax. Thoughts of seeing a policeman’s cap protruding round the corner to kill our joy is just too real to ignore. The last thing I need right now is to sleep in the fenced enclosure out in the open at Luveve Police Station, waiting for the morning shift to come, exact their fine and set us free.

The idea of shebeens, a term that is not surprisingly Irish, have their origins in South Africa were they have been legalised. They are almost unique to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city, having taken root during the colonial days when it was illegal for Africans to drink ‘European’ beer.

You see, the whites’ warped thinking was that if they drank with the blacks, the locals would start entertaining thoughts of equality with their white counterparts. That would inevitably lead, so they premised, to the Africans having funny ideas about independence or self rule.
Ironically enough, when the colonial authorities designed and constructed the western suburbs, which were more like labour dormitories then, the first thing they put up was a beer hall. Here, the traditional sorghum brew (also known to some as ‘sand and tonic’) was sold to keep the Africans ‘happy’ and away from mischief. Keeping them drunk outside of working hours was supposed to numb them from the pain of segregation.

Well, the effect of this was the opposite. Shebeens became the havens of defiance. They provided safe havens for rogue politicians who wanted to escape detention and arrest. Which explains why prominent politicians like the late Sidney Malunga, questioned their continued prohibition after independence in 1980. The new government retained most of the pre-independence laws including the ones that made it an offence to patronise a shebeen.

Ever since time immemorial, they have not escaped the attention of law enforcement agencies, with regular, sometimes heavy handed raids being part of the life of operators and their faithful patrons. In fact, being arrested in a shebeen had become part of the fun and a good excuse to explain to the wife why one slept out. Stoic veterans of numerous raids have railed against such laws as retrogressive in an era when government was encouraging self-reliance and entrepreneurship to counter high levels of unemployment.

Since, during the colonial era, the reasons for banning shebeens were both political and economic, that is, to protect the monopoly of white controlled hotels and municipal liquor outlets (beer halls), there are more valid reasons for these to be revisited.

The crowd in the shebeen is a patch-work of the society that lives in Gwabalanda. Working class types, teachers, students and O-jack roller (thugs) are all there. Add the odd celebrity like me and that completes the cocktail. I try to avoid detection but that’s futile. The conversation turns to the police raids which are increasing in intensity. A sign of the times, one man says, the police are hungry so they need to survive the best way they know how – through extortion. Legalisation of shebeens would surely help, says another.

The argument centres around the fact that the decriminalisation of the informal sector, of which shebeens are part, would kick start a burgeoning second economy that would free the scarce resources of the police force as they shift to more serious crime in the neighbourhood. That does not preclude the creation of employment of thousands who would choose formal employment over a life of crime.

Now try telling this to the police, worse still to the characters I observe sharing a quart of beer while throwing glances in our direction. I am convinced that we have just become unwitting targets. Their laughter is laconic. They are showing each other scars from previous battles. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, Manotsha is unperturbed.

One really wonders if legalisation would drive such low-lifes from the streets. It all seems too far fetched. What I know is that there are more voices out there who would violently oppose this, particularly from the clergy. While I entertain these thoughts a fight suddenly breaks out among the tsotsis. It all seems too stage managed for me.

Like a flash, MaSamoosa emerges from the kitchen, grabs the offender round the waist and carries him out with legs flailing helplessly. Her stretch belies her size. I guess one shouldn’t judge a book by looking at its cover. As suddenly as the fracas began, calm is restored. The rest of the brood are given their matching orders. There is nothing as embarrassing as being banned from a shebeen. It’s so painful.

The men of the cloth could be right in the opposition to these dens of iniquity, modern day Sodom and Gomorrah worthy of hell and damnation. All manner of vice is associated with shebeens. Prostitution, gambling, child labour, you name it. Though, I must admit, I never saw any of that in my sojourn koMaSamoosa. Perhaps something was going on away from prying eyes. Such is the operation – carried out with dignity and a measure of respect for anyone who chooses to come spend half his salary there.

‘Hypocrites!’ shouts Manotsha. ‘These church people are all hypocrites. I met Mfundisi Sibanda from the Anglican church koCecilia last week!’

Men of cloth, government aficionado, even senior police officers, people who speak out publicly against shebeens visit them under cover of darkness. You can’t keep a good thing down.
In fact, some operators pride themselves with the high calibre of clientele and it forms part of their marketing strategy. Surely one would not miss the opportunity to rub shoulders with a Minister of government or religion at their favourite drinking hole, relaxing over a pint or two?

As if by sheer coincidence, commotion outside announces the arrival of a troop of police details in full riot regalia. They number twelve which in itself is not surprising these days. They pretend not to be concerned and seek the audience of ‘the owner of the place.’ Grinning like a Cheshire cat, MaSamoosa summons the most senior looking of them into her office which also doubles up as her bedroom and storeroom to boot.

For some queer reason, I am not perturbed. Somehow I am content that MaSamoosa will sort things out. She does and soon the police caps are removed and everyone relaxes.

‘Asazaneni madoda (Let’s introduce each other guys),’ the officer says, and without particularly waiting for a response, settles down for the one or two pints on the house availed by the now overly hospitable shebeen queens. From the rest of us, a collective sigh of relief. At least for today, the fences will be empty.

Lenox Mhlanga is a New Zimbabwe.com columnist. His column is published there (www.newzimbabwe.com) every Friday.