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!