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!
Thursday, September 30
Sunday, September 12
Crime does not pay! Part Three
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.
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