Metamorphosis of hero to mercenary is not subtle but bold

Today 10 August is National Heroes Day, a day put aside for the nation to remember its fallen and those still very much with us heroes and heroines of the liberation struggle and of the other trials and tribulations of life. My childhood heroine and that of everyone in my village was VaMudisi.

Even to this day I remember my step-grandmother with her head always wrapped loosely in a large cloth two or three inches thick; much the same way one would wrap a light bulb whose glass is so thin and delicate a slight pressure or shock will shutter the glass. She had migraine headaches and when she was having one of the attaches, which was only too frequent for her, the woman was stop whatever she was doing sit down cross-legged with her head bowed low.

She had been to see specialist in Hospitals, tried every religious and traditional healers from near and far but all to no avail. Whilst other women in the village would carry the clay pot of water or bundles of firewood on their heads; my step-grandmother never ever carried anything on her head. She avoided anything that could trig another headache.

One day she had a visitor, vaMudisi; a little known traditional healer from a village a day or so walk from our village, she said she could cure migraine headaches. My step-grandmothers had tried everyone else so why no, she agreed to try vaMudisi’s roots and tree bark brew. Within days she did not need her elaborate head gear and by the end of the week she was carrying bundles of firewood on her head!

Everybody in the village was so pleased and none more so than my grandfather; he offered vaMudisi a heifer in payment for her service. It was a generous offer considering that the going price for specialist services like midwife was a goat if the new mother was from a rich family or a chicken if she was from a poor family. VaMudisi said no. My grandfather increased the price to two heifers and still she said no.

“Mbuya (grandmother) is my grandmother too!” explained vaMudisi.

A great meal was prepared of rice-meal sadza (thick porridge) and chicken in peanut butter sauce, a real and rare treat in our village, to celebrate the curing of the migraine headache. When vaMudisi left she was given several bags of maize, ground nuts plus a goat; my grandfather had learnt that her family was poor and had little to eat.

VaMudisi was to become a regular visitor in our village. She was in the neighbourhood and thought she would drop by to see “Murwere wangu!” (My patient!), referring to my step-grandmother. She would stay for a week or even two weeks and would nag about how she has missed some of that rice-meal sadza and chicken in peanut butter sauce. When she finally left she would again bags of grain.

As far as vaMudisi was concerned my step-grandmother was never cured of her migraine headache because she insisted in calling her “Murwere wangu”. And she exercised the doctor’s right to visit her patient as often, stay as long and bring along whoever she pleased. She would visit with her husband and two or three of their children. She visited two or three times a year and this went on for some time.

VaMudisi and her family were poor but only because they were lazy. My grandfather was rich, by our village’s standards anyway, because he worked hard. He and his wife were the type who prayed for good rains and earned a rich harvest. VaMudisi and her husband were the exact opposite; they prayed for a good harvest expecting the ancestors or whoever it was they prayed to provide the good rains and the labour too.

After vaMudisi refused his offer of two heifers in payment for her medical skills my grandfather became suspicious of the traditional healer’s motives particularly when he had learnt already that her family was poor. My grandfather was fastidious about everything including being fair.

Everyone in the village knew about this old man who sold hoes and axes, for example, how one could force him to reduce his price to half or less for a quick sell especially when the old man was thirsty for beer. My grandfather made it a point of honour to pay the old man the full going price.

When my grandfather offer vaMudisi two heifers he knew that was more than a generous price to pay for her skills but he would have paid it and be done with it. These two or three visits from vaMudisi and her leaving with bags of grain each time went against the grain. He was fastidiously fair and would never cheat anyone and by the same token he did not like being short changed other.

My grandfather, for the sake of his wife – for I am sure my grandmother must have told him to bite his tongue countless times-, allowed vaMudisi to visit and leave loaded with grain for a number of years. He must have decided enough was enough.

It was said whenever my grandfather had something he wanted to say but for one reason or other could not say it; whatever those inhibitions were would disappear once he has had a stiff drink! He confronted vaMudisi after a day of heavy drinking.

Let us just say he told vaMudisi his piece of mind or as my mother put it “Chakatadzisa imbwe kuseka kunyemana ichigona!” VaMudisi left his home empty handed that time and never returned. 

I later learnt that vaMudisi was not the traditional healer’s real name but a nickname short for mudisiwezvapasi (lover of the worldly things) given to her dirty habit of giving with one hand and make a big song and dance about it whilst taking with the other hand even more than she gave!

When you look at Zimbabwe today and compare it to where we were as a nation in 1980 few would doubt that we are worse off economically than then. Life expectancy, that all-encompassing qualitative and quantitative measure of a nation’s wellbeing, has plummeted from 68 years to a misery 34 years as of 2004 when the last data was available.

On the political front, unlike during white colonial rule, we now have a say in the governance of the country but that is true in theory only because the nation is yet to hold free, fair and credible elections.

There is no doubt that the nation’s liberation heroes and heroines who have ruled this nation for the last 34 years have undergone a metamorphosis after independence transforming them from heroes to mercenaries who, like vaMudisi, have taking away all the fruits of the nation’s hard work and leaving the rest impoverish economically and politically!

After 34 years of being rob blind by the very people who claim to be our liberators it is high time we told Mugabe and his cronies “Chakatadzisa imbwe kuseka kunyemana ichigona!” Tell Mugabe and his thugs; enough is enough, now fcuk off!