The Will

Determines
The Way

BY NGONI C. CHISIKARAMBWE

i
 tapdansales17@gmail.com
+263 0772 325 478
Copyright © Ngoni C. Chisikarambwe
The author asserts his moral right to be identified as

the author of this work.

Edited by Takudzwa K. Mandeya
takumandeyakay@gmail.com
+263 0783 374 905
ISBN:9781779208064
Book Cover Designer: Takudzwa K. Mandeya
All rights reserved under International Copyright Law.
No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of the author.

Printed and distributed in Harare, Zimbabwe by Media

Essentials

ii
Acknowledgments
This book writing venture was made
successful by the support and assistance
from my very supportive secretary, Nyarai
Chikukwa (Ms), who went out of her way to
type the initial manuscripts outside the
employment boundaries. Apparrently, also
not forgetting my dear wife Eddinah
Nyandoro (Ms), who endured loneliness
when I devoted my precious time penning
this book.
I also thank everyone who made this book a
success, I cannot mention all the names but I
am grateful.

iii
Dedication

I dedicate this book to all the people who

have the zeal to achieve greatness. Keep
pushing even if there seems to be no way;
where there is a will there is a way!

iv
CHAPTER 1

I
was born on 19 August 1961, in the
small agricultural town then named
Sinoia, now Chinhoyi, in Southern
Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. I was named
Ngoni, the other second name Crispen I
named myself, during the struggle for our
liberation from the bondage of colonialism. I
thought a vernacular name was backward
and primitive. That shows how our minds
were captured, thinking that only western
names and culture was the right thing.

I am told that my late father gave me that

name Ngoni, may his soul rest in eternal
peace. They had their fair share of
squabbles as a couple, so much that they

1
never thought they were to be blessed with
a baby boy again.

Perhaps, I was never meant to be in this

world. Perhaps I am a child who was
mistakenly conceived during the height of
their differences - but here I am, I have to
live, I have got to survive.

My father was a skilled artisan, a builder

and semi-literate. My mother, a rather
reserved human being, was a full-time
housewife.

He had his famous white medical chest, with

almost all respiratory condition drugs and
herbs. My father was a determined fighter.
He resolved to cure the disease at all costs.
Unfortunately, that was not to be.

2
His pathetic health condition made me to
choose my first career. If I could have gone
to a proper school. I wanted to be a medical
doctor, primarily to assist my ailing father,
but as always, fate would not allow that.
How cruel life is, at times!

Resultantly, my father tried all forms of

treatments - western medicines, traditional
herbs and as the norm in the country -
spiritual assistance, mainly the apostolic
sects.

The nature of my father's occupation meant

that his work-place was not static. He was
more of a nomad, moving from farms,
towns, cities and mines.

He was not blessed with a good health for

he was asthmatic. Coughing, difficulty in

3
breathing was the condition. When under
attack, one could hear him struggling to
breathe: wheezing - from a distance.
Indeed, it was a sorry sight. At times, I
would shed a tear, feeling pity for him.
Unfortunately, there was not much I could
do, except to be near him as much as
possible, helping mum with his needs,
medicines, water to drink and food.

It later dawned on him that his condition was

not curable. The treatment would just to
ease the pain for a while. Due to his
frequent visits to herbalists and traditional
doctors, he became one himself.

If it wasn't for my strong Christian beliefs

and conviction, I would have been a fully-
fledged-herbalists myself. However, my

4
strong inclination to herbs is more
pronounced even up to today.

Somehow, I was close to him. I became his

favorite child, I don't know exactly why -
whether it was by design or choice, only him
himself knew better. I could not ask him. I
just made sure to do what I was expected to
do to assist and make life a bit better for an
ailing poor soul.

Incidentally, in as far as the western

medicines are concerned - I still remember
the various names and brands then, though
most of them are now outdated.

I vividly remember accompanying him to

fetch his herbs - roots, leaves and shrubs
from nearby bushes and valleys, since we

5
lived near farms. I still remember the names
of the various medicines.

The colonisation of the mind got the better

of me. That time the mindsets of the people
of colour the blacks had to be emancipated
from mental slavery, so the reggae icon, the
late Robert Nester Marley sang;

“Emancipate yourself from mental slavery,

no-one but ourselves can free our minds”.

That was a popular redemption song, a

popular tune in the mid-seventies, during
the height of our war of liberation from the
colonial yoke. I yearned for an English
name. I chose Crispen, it sounded learned.
My father got the wind of my intentions. He
was angry, very angry. He became very
bitter about my moves and intentions.

6
 He angrily rebuked me, “Ngoni, why do you
want to change the name that I gave you,
for there is a reason? There is a meaning
attached to it,” he emphasised.

I had to really think very fast. “It’s only a

middle name, father,” I stammered.

He grudgingly accepted, he was not happy

about my moves and intentions. His body
language and tone of his hoarse voice said
it all.

There I was, my full first names were now

“Ngoni, Crispen”.

At least I was happy; I fought my mini war

with my father and won. Both parties had to
compromise. I learnt to fight for my rights,
for what I thought to be right and correct.

7
That was the militant aspect in me, the
fighting spirit in me.

It dawned on me, that most of our

vernacular names had meanings,
depending on the circumstances. From that
day, I became very proud of my first name.
Loosely translated, it means - mercy or
grace. That meant a lot in as far as my
father’s life was concerned.

When my father was fit to move around, he

would occasionally summon me to
accompany him to the nearby bushes,
valleys, hills to look for those numerous
types of herbs, roots and so forth.

“Ngoni, take the hoe and the matchet”. He

would summon and order me on these

8
numerous and occasional visits to fetch the
much-needed life-saving traditional herbs.

These herbs would be obtainable in

particular places – along river banks, hills
and mountains and so forth. One would be
very careful and observant so that one could
identify the right type of the plant, flowers
and leaves, for some were very similar.

Given my numerous visits to these

missions, I was now an expert. I would
easily identify the right herbs, quickly prune
the leaves or dig for the roots. At times, the
leaves of those herbs were the ones which
would contain the medicinal content, at
times the flowers. This would vary from
plant to plant – how wonderful nature is! The
mighty powers of the Maker, the Almighty
Heavenly Father!
9
CHAPTER 2

G
iven the poor health of my dear
father, for two good years, he
could not be employed. This
happened soon after I was born, I was later
told. The municipal house we were
occupying, in this small agricultural town,
was taken away from us due to our failure to
pay the rentals timeously. The only income
stream during that period had dried up and
the family suffered a lot. Despite that, the
family had to eat. Being in town, almost
everything had to be bought. School fees

10
and other daily necessities had to be
financed. I can imagine, it was hell, real
suffering for the entire family!

My parents were really in a fix, in a dire

financial quagmire! My mother being pushed
by her instinct of motherhood, to ensure the
survival of the family, came up with what
was the only viable solution; the family had
to temporarily move to her parents’ place.

My grannies lived at a nearby farm, only a

few kilometers from the town. They were
farm labourers or helpers, whichever way
you want to call them.

The farm was popularly known as George

Moyes. It reminds me of one of the popular
football managers in the United Kingdom,
our former colonial master. The football

11
manager is Mr. David Moyes, who once
managed Manchester United, one of the
biggest soccer teams in the entire world.

Since the family was in serious financial

crisis, transport had to be arranged by well-
wishers to ferry us and our few belongings
to this new place.

Human minds are complex and difficult to

understand. I think I was now around three
years - I don't remember how we got to the
farm. I don't remember anything about the
small town of Chinhoyi where I was born.
There I was now, at this farm, living with our
grannies, my immediate family, nieces,
nephews, uncles and other close relatives.
This is as far as I can remember. From the
farm onwards, I still vividly remember almost
everything, all the major events.
12
The farm compound structures were of pole
and dagga, mainly the round huts. The living
conditions were different from other farm
compounds to a certain extent. At this farm,
each and every family had its own plot sort
of, to build the huts and a piece of land for
subsistence farming. The mainly grown
crops included maize, cow peas, round
nuts, ground nuts and so forth. This racist
colonialist, was trying to instill a sense of
self-reliance to the farm helpers, the poor
and marginalised blacks. He didn't want
them to be dependent on him, to eat into his
harvest and profits.

My elder brothers and sisters who were of

school going age, had to drop off at school.
There was no school at the farm - to the
farmer, there was no need for black children

13
to go to school. It was not necessary and an
additional expense to the farm.

Almost all adults living at the farm, had to go

to work. My mother had no option but to be
part of the labour force. My family would
wake up early and return late in the day.
Lunch, composed of the staple diet, thick
porridge (sadza). The relish would be
interchanged between beans and some
small dried fish known in the country as
Kapenta. It was just boiled with the only
addition being coarse salt. It would be
prepared at work in huge drums, to save
them time to travel to and from work.

The work at the farm was varied and

seasonal - planting, weeding, applying

14
fertilisers and harvesting. There is a popular
saying, which says that farm work is always
ongoing. It's seasonal and repetitive. Soon
after completing the harvesting, then there
is packaging for the market. Then the cycle
commences again with the land
preparations. There is always some work to
be done at the farms.

Coincidentally, during that period, my

mother's two young sisters, came also to
stay together with us at this farm. The
reasons were not clear. To say we were
many is an understatement, we were a
multitude!

Food was literally prepared in drums, luckily

food was in abundance because of the
individual farming plots, each family had
also a small place for the garden, especially
15
reserved areas - wetlands, which were
usually wet and some areas were fortunate
to actually have some flowing streams
throughout the year. These small gardens
would be used to grow a variety of
vegetables and greens.

The children were equally many, with almost

all ages of both sexes! The children were
very colourful, with different complexions
and body structures. They were all uniquely
designed by the Maker, God the Almighty.

Resultantly, meal times were very

interesting and enjoyable. Breakfast times
were very interesting despite the fact that it
was just simple maize meal porridge, with
little sugar and peanut butter added to taste.
There were no enough spoons to share
around. Grandfather had devised a very
16
simple way to beat this handicap. All
children were made to rush to a place where
wood was chopped into smaller pieces for
cooking. We would scramble to pick big
enough spoon like wood chips for us to eat
our favourite meal with. That was the life at
a farm, during the colonial period in the
country.

The dismissal time from the farm daily

chores was at four, late in the afternoon. It
was time for bathing, working at the family
plots and meal preparation time for women.

The week - ends were generally free,

people would utilise that opportunity to work
at their individual family plots and the
general cleaning of the homesteads. Men,
older boys and some women, would drown

17
their sorrows, partaking home brewed
opaque traditional beer.

The inhibitors would sing a variety of tunes,

clapping their hands in unison and beating
the drum rhythmically. They would perform
a variety of dances, once the brew got into
their brains. They would all take turns to
enter the circle and exhibit their various
dancing skills. It was a spectacle to watch.

The life at the farm was hard-work and yet

simple. The people were generally
contented, they seemed happy.

Their meals were equally simple and varied

as well. Their main dishes consisted of
starch, vegetables, chicken - domesticated
free rangers, and game meat was also
consumed since limited hunting was

18
permissible. Beef remained a luxury, only on
rare occasions, cattle would be slaughtered,
when something good had happened, like
achieving set targets and good harvests.

This white farm owner was a bit different

from his peers, he was humane. He would
consider the people of colour, his farm
helpers, as humans. Yes, there were a few
good whites. At times, these few "good"
whites would get into trouble for being too
"nice" to the natives.

My aunts’ husbands - my uncles, started to

visit the farm, with the sole intention and
purposes of taking their families. It was not
clear what had happened in the first place. It
could have been the patching up of their
differences or an improvement of their
financial fortunes, that remained a secret. I
19
was still very young to be involved in the
pros and cons of the relationships of adults,
worse still, these were my mothers. For it
was taboo to poke one's nose into the
affairs of adults, especially, aunts from the
mother's side.

I still vividly remember a big truck driven by

an adult white man, who happened to be a
"boss" of one of my youngest aunt's’
husband. I was later to learn that my uncle
was a cook at a farm near town. Such posts
back then, were esteemed jobs for blacks.
To cook and eat the leftovers of the whites,
was indeed a big achievement on its own.
The "boss" had offered to transport his
cook's family and their meagre belongings.
Transport was a challenge those days,
especially to get a truck to drive to a farm.

20
The cost was obviously beyond the reach of
many people of colour, hence this forced
good gesture by this "boss" in question.

As fate would have it, it was now our turn to

leave that temporary residence. My father
had remained behind, hoping from place to
place. Looking for work, staying with his
colleagues in his trade, some close and
accommodative relatives.

My father had written a letter, using the

farm's private bag in town. The letter had
some good news, He had landed some
lucrative jobs in Salisbury.

One Friday evening, he visited the farm,

laden with some groceries and goodies for
us. How he carried them alone, remained a
mystery, indeed the will determines the way.

21
The whole family was happy, the grannies
and uncles were happy too. Perhaps they
were relieved, that finally, they would have
their peace. I saw happiness on my
mother's face; it was that kind of joy which I
hadn't noticed in a very long time.

Greetings and pleasantries were

exchanged. My father was equally excited to
see us together as family. He turned to us,
asking my mother how each one of us was
coping at the farm.

“Ngoni, how is he doing?” he specifically

asked, since I was the youngest.

“He is well, it’s only that he has been always

enquiring about your where abouts”, my
mother cheerfully replied.

22
I was now sitting on his lap, fidgeting with
his neatly shaved moustache. I was very
happy to be close to my own father, for I
had missed him so much. I was only hearing
stories about him, now there he was live in
flesh.

My father was equally worried and

concerned that my elder brothers and
sisters were not attending school. This very
important part of human development.
Sociologists, define education as the
passing on of skills and knowledge for
survival. How I like that definition, for it
summarises the main reason for going to
school.

“As soon as we get to the city, it will be back

to school for all of you, my children”, our
father assured us.
23
The family was happy, my mother was very
excited. I was equally happy too, though I
could not go to school at that juncture, for I
was under age, they told me, whatever that
meant. I was equally happy and excited for
my siblings, for schooling was always on
their lips. It was central to their needs and
wants.

My father went on to apologetically explain

his ordeal with this menacing respiratory
illness, how he always wished for a better
and meaningful life for us all. His moving
sermon, as it were, he only wished for a
good and prosperous life for us all. I was
deeply touched, though I was still very
young. I understood what he meant, what
our life and welfare meant to him. I vowed to
make amends, if I could only get a decent

24
education. I resolved to leave no stone
unturned in a bid to achieve my goals, to
make it happen.

CHAPTER 3

M
y father had to migrate to the
city of Salisbury for greener
pastures. The place we
moved to in around early 1966, was a semi-
urban and rural settlement of Hunyani, now
St. Mary's. It was a sprawling settlement for
mostly the poor and vulnerable members of
the society, composed of migrants from the
neighboring countries, namely: Zambia,
Malawi and Mozambique.

25
The houses were of various shapes and
sizes, built haphazardly, using mortar, poles
and mud. There was no uniformity to talk
about. If I were to reflect, most of the
dwellings were substandard, not fit for
human habitation.

There was no electricity to talk about and

there was only a single, properly made dirty
road; the main road to the capital city.
Luckily, there was communal piped water,
maybe because the settlement was along
the river, Hunyani, now Manyame. One of
the dams was named after Prince Edward,
one of the princes of England, the then
colonial power, with various set watering
points.

This dam was one of the early suppliers of

water to the capital city. At that period water
26
was enough for the city and its surrounding
suburbs. No wonder why the residents of
this new settlement enjoyed clean water, a
rare precious commodity for the people of
colour during that difficult period in our
beloved country of Rhodesia, then.

In January 1968, I was to begin my long and

torturous journey to get a decent education
which I had always yearned for.

As a young child, like most of us during that

dark period in our history, I regarded
education as the only way to escape
poverty.

Chaminuka Primary School was a very big

learning institution. It was well built,
considering that it was located in a semi-
rural area. The school was sandwiched by a

27
peri-urban settlement, rural area of Seke
and several farms - Doward, Philmon and
Richard.

I am very familiar with all these vast farms,

that's where we used to go for fishing and
hunting rabbits as a past time and as a
necessity. We learnt to fend for ourselves
and assist our parents in every way possible
because times were hard, very hard indeed,
during the colonial era. Though employment
was easy to come by, the conditions and the
rewards were a pittance, what I would
nowadays refer to as slave wages.

The school’s buildings super structures

were composed of red bricks, which are
also commonly referred to as face bricks in
the construction industry. It had roof
coverings of some corrugated iron sheets. It
28
was a marvel to watch, and an envy of
many.

It had four classroom blocks in a rectangular

form, with another block in the middle for the
library and administration. This was where
the dreaded headmaster operated from. The
headmaster, a Mr. T. Sox, was of a small
stature. A rather quiet but diligent school
administrator who was very passionate
about his work, not only for his personal
gain but for the benefit of the entire
community. Personally, I owe him a lot,
unfortunately he is now late. It's a pity that
he passed away before I personally thanked
him, before I paid my debt. He went out of
his way and assisted me to continue with
my schooling in some very difficult
circumstances given the financial

29
challenges my parents encountered on
several occasions.

He made me skip grade three. Yes, a whole

year because I had spent a good two years
without going to school when my father was
very sick. I was now over aged. The colonial
administration was very strict about age
groupings. It’s either I was supposed to drop
from school or skip a grade to catch up with
others as if it were. Luckily, I was
academically gifted, that prompted him to
make a decision that I would rather skip a
grade and catch up with others. For that
wise and compassionate decision, I am
forever grateful to him, that's why I feel bad,
I did not pay, and I failed to own up my
social debt. I hope the Almighty will richly

30
bless him and abundantly reward him where
ever he is.

CHAPTER 4

I
started schooling in the year 1968.
During those years, the first year at
school for us the people of colour, in
the colonial Rhodesia, was referred to as

31
sub - standard "A”. It was basically
rudimentary learning to read and write the
Queen’s language, the mother's language
(Shona), a bit of the Christian's holy book -
the Bible and a bit of figures, a subject that
was referred to as Arithmetic - the basics, -
addition, subtraction, multiplication and
division.

It was very unfortunate that for the next two

years, 1969 and 1970, my father was very
ill. He spent most of the days in hospital,
with the medical personnel rendering the
best medical attention available.

The family income was greatly affected

since my father was the only major
breadwinner. My mother could only do so
little. She was not gainfully employed, the
small income she got from vegetables and
32
fruits vending was hardly enough to
adequately put food on the table for the
family, which resulted in the family enduring
abject poverty. Resultantly, schooling was
considered a luxury, that meant forfeiting
going to school for those good two years.

That was a very difficult and painful period

of my life. I could not stomach seeing my
peers clad in their beautiful uniforms going
to school. To make matters worse, our
dilapidated house was along the way to our
school. It meant agony and torture daily
during the school going days, seeing my
age groups traveling up and down to school.

In the year 1971, I was then re-enrolled to

continue with my schooling, now in the
second grade, because the education
grading system had changed in the year
33
1970, into grades. This meant that primary
education was now graded from grade one
to seven.

The health condition of my father had

dramatically improved for the better.
Fortunately, his vast skills in his chosen
trade, being a skilled builder, meant that he
could get easily employed, though on a
contract basis, because of the nature of the
jobs and his poor health condition.

The nature of his work meant a vicious cycle

of poverty for the family, a see saw of being
in and out of school.

Regrettably, being sent away from school

for non-payment of fees timeously, being
ridiculed by fellow classmates became a
norm. In the face of all these hardships, I

34
endured the trials and tribulations. The will
made me stronger and I continued with my
schooling. The hardship became the norm.

My first year at school, in the then sub-

standard "A". The class was comprised of
about forty-five pupils. More than half were
boys, girls were fewer by design. In the
olden days, the girl child was discriminated.
It was widely believed that it was a waste of
money and resources, for the girl would
later be married.

Most parents were of the opinion that by

educating girls one would be making the
family of her future husband rich; hence
many did not enter the doors of the
classrooms.

35
The class teacher was a middle-aged
woman of medium built and moderately light
in complexion. Her name, I still vividly
remember - was T. Duri, she was married to
a teacher of a nearby primary school,
Zengeza.

The lady teacher was rather reserved but

very strict. She was a no-nonsense woman.
She would move around with her short but
effective bamboo stick, ready to strike to
any mischief makers. During our days,
corporal punishment was part and parcel of
the curriculum as it were. We used to be
beaten to make us straight, to make us do
our work, work hard, obey orders and
respect the school authorities and our
elders.

36
No wonder why, there is wide gap in terms
of behavior and work ethics. If comparisons
were to be carried out between the pupils of
the olden days and the pupils of nowadays,
there are vast differences.

The so-called human rights, have taken

center stage. The rights issue, has
destroyed our children, they are now the law
themselves. It's a pity, they are a spoiled lot.

The classroom furniture composed of

benches made of timber and supported by
steel frames for the learners, a table and
chair for the teacher only. The challenge
was when writing, the learners had to kneel
and use the benches as desks.

37
That was the given situation, we had no
choice, and we had to endure for our quest
for an education and the future.

The practice to write was carried out outside

on the sand. Parrell lines would be drawn
using a purpose made stick, like the one
used on catapults.

The teacher would move around with her

famous bamboo stick in hand. Those who
had passed the test, those who would have
managed to write well within the parameters
of the parallel lines were given the licence to
write in their books.

The colonial government made every child

to pay school fees but surprisingly, our
parents had to source all our requirements -
textbooks and exercise books.

38
The school authorities were very strict on
the payment of the fees. There was a clear
policy in existence - "no fees no school".
The majority of learners, including myself
endured the see-saw battle, being sent
home for none payment and parents visiting
the school for negotiations. We became
used, for it was the order of the day.

The school uniforms were the plain khakis,

shorts and shirts for boys and sky-blue
dresses, with floral shoulders of the same
colour for the girls.

These school uniforms were only won by a

handful; given the slave wages the blacks
were being paid for their labour and sweat.
Admittedly, jobs were in abundance but, the
remuneration was pathetic to say the least.

39
The same applies to the shoes or tennis
shoes, those were a luxury, only a few could
afford.

The ablution blocks at the school were blair

toilets, many learners would enter bare
footed, and it was by the sheer grace of God
that there were no major outbreaks of
pandemics like typhoid or cholera.

Bilharzia was a major challenge to the

majority of the learners; treatment was not
readily available to the majority of the
population.

Time keeping at the school was strictly

adhered to, with instant punishment for the
offenders. The headmaster of the school
would wait at the gate himself, with his long
stick to deal with the late comers. One day,

40
we were late by only a few minutes, myself
and my elder brother - we were heavily
punished. Being young, for I was only about
six years old, I cried out, tears streaming
down my cheeks. I became an object of
ridicule when I finally entered the classroom.
The class teacher threatened to beat up me
again, if I kept on crying, for I was making
noise.

The pain of the bamboo stick on my finger-

tips got the better of me. The tears just
continued to flow, at the same time making
some noise, no matter how much I tried to
control myself.

The noise I was making really annoyed the

teacher, she could not stand it anymore.

“Ngoni shut up”, she angrily ordered.

41
The more she shouted, the louder I cried.

“Ngoni, get out of my class!”, she shouted in

her ear-piercing voice.

I had no choice but to oblige. I hurriedly got

out. I sat outside on the lawn next to our
class, in the sun, until the break time. I cried
out, while enjoying sunshine. Eventually I
calmed down and grudgingly joined others,
soon after the break.

I took my place in class, right at the corner

and continued with my learning. My eyes
were still sore because I had cried a lot and
I had also shed a lot of tears. Some naughty
classmates, were mocking me, making fun
of me. I ignored them. I did not bother to
retaliate for there was no need for me to do
that. I simply continued with my schooling;

42
my core business at this learning institution.
The class teacher sympathetically, came to
my rescue this time around. Authoritatively,
she restrained the naughty boys and girls. It
was a kind humane move, a huge
confidence booster.

CHAPTER 5

W
hen I resumed schooling in
1971, now as a second
grader, since I had spent two
good years at home, the school work was

43
like really starting afresh. I had almost
forgotten what I had learnt, the basic
concepts.

Strangely, I did not struggle much. Within a

short period, I had almost caught up with my
other classmates. I was now operating at
the same wave length with my peers. It
could have been the zeal to learn, catch up
and be among the best in the class. It was
not a surprise when I came out among the
best in class at the end of that year. I
actually obtained second position in class. I
was so happy, that propelled me to work
even harder.

The following year, in 1972, when I was

made to skip grade three, was a very
difficult period in my schooling. The grade
four teacher was a Mr. L. Masuku - a young
44
man, a new graduate from one of the church
teachers training colleges at that time. In
colonial Rhodesia, there were more church
schools and colleges, much more than the
government learning institutions. The
colonial government was not much
concerned with the learning of the
indigenous people. To them, we were not
good enough. This young teacher was so
pompous and engrossed with a holier-than-
thou attitude, which was not good for the
young learners, especially myself, a pupil
who was handicapped. I was looking up to
him, to be considerate and sympathetic. To
my surprise; he had no time for me, no extra
lessons to cover up. I really wonder up to
today, I don't understand truly how he
thought I would catch up since I had skipped
a whole year, a year when many concepts
45
are introduced for the first time. I understand
he is now late, may his soul rest in peace, I
understand that he committed suicide
because of some family feuds. It's a pity, a
life was lost in such a manner.

That year, I really struggled. It later dawned

to me that grade three is a vital link from
what the educationists refer to as from
infants to lower primary. This is a grade
when many subjects are exposed to the
learners for the first time, this is the grade
when many new concepts are
also introduced. Imagine, that's the crucial
grade I was made to skip and expected to
catch up on my own. Several subjects,
namely History, Geography, and Sciences
are added to the syllabus. 

46
Given the hostile and difficult
circumstances, I pushed on, struggling; it
was not a surprise when I obtained poor
grades at the end of that year. Given the
circumstances, I did not give up, I kept on
working hard, looking into the future with
determination and confidence.

The negative attitude of the class teacher

did not deter me, though he used to call me
names and laugh at me instead of extending
a helping hand. Those difficult
circumstances actually propelled me to
rectify my weaknesses, I simply worked
harder, and I wanted to prove a point.

Luckily, the following year, in 1973, now in

the fifth grade, the teachers changed for the
better. The class teacher was now a mature
and experienced tutor; a Mr. T. Makwasha,
47
a teacher who went to his greater lengths to
explain concepts, give extra work and assist
what the educationists refer to as slow
learners as much as possible. I began to
understand better, I began to do better, my
grades changed, my classmates were
equally surprised, I even surprised myself.
At the end of that school year, I was in the
top ten, the super league of the class.

From the sixth grade to the final

examination class - grade seven, I remained
in the top ten, I did very well in the final
examinations and looked forward to go to
secondary school and achieve my goals.

The extra curriculum activities at the school

were varied which comprised of; athletics,
long and high jump, netball, football, choral
music, physical education etc.
48
I really wanted to play football,
unfortunately, I was not good enough. This
was made worse by the coach, a great lover
of the game; he didn't have room for the
average players. He did not have patience
to train and encourage those who had the
passion but lacked the requisite skills. In
football, not so good aspirants can be
turned into great players, as long as, they
do have the passion.

I attempted at many times without joy,

instead of encouraging, he would actually
laugh at me and other such aspirants. I
finally gave up and instead turned into
music, my other passion. Even up to today; I
am a keen lover of choral music. I am
actually in the church choir and the

49
chairperson of the church's music
committee.

I was a member of all the school choirs -

junior, intermediate and senior. The school
participated in several choral music
competitions and won several trophies and
awards.

The school encouraged us do the manual

labour as part of the learning activities, like -
grass cutting, gardening, cleaning and yard
clearing. Resultantly, during that period at
this primary school, I thought it was a bad
move for us to be involved in manual labour.
Later in life, it turned out to be a life-saving
activity.

Every class from grade three up to grade

seven, had a small garden patch; three big

50
beds to be precise, to grow onions,
tomatoes and some green vegetables.

The classes would tend their particular

portions - land preparation, planting,
weeding and watering. I used to enjoy this
activity, for we learnt the basics of
gardening. The basics which I am still
utilising through-out, in this life.

The educational trips for all grades were

organised occasionally. It's really a pity and
agony that I did not embark on even a single
one, given my poor financial background. I
missed out a lot. The bad part of it is that
essays would be required to be written
based on the respective educational trips in
question, soon after such visits. I had to rely
on the stories from my classmates. It was
tough and very bad. I would almost shed
51
tears. I felt alone in the cold, I was an
outcast. Given the scenario, I vowed to work
even harder and change my fortunes for the
better.

The school had an end of year tradition of

thanking its learners, more of a good bye for
those who would not be returning back, to
the school in the following year, especially
the grade sevens.

The school was four classes per grade -

thus classified into A, B.C and D. I
happened to be in the "A" class. The end of
year present was a small hamper, packaged
with some goodies - a variety of sweets,
chocolates, biscuits and candies. This small
parcel would be given to each and every
learner regardless of one's performance in
the end of year examinations.
52
Every child used to look forward to this
gesture of good will and even our parents
were also accustomed to these goodies. It
was a norm to deliver the hamper straight
home, in its original form. The contents were
supposed to be shared by all family
members.

This spirit of sharing, the spirit of

togetherness is deeply engraved in the
people of colour. I will be forgiven, for
equating our way of living to be close to
socialism, no wonder why, at one time, the
country was a socialist state, before the
powers of capitalists took centre stage,
that's a subject of debate on the other day .

The year 1975, was my last year at this

school, Chaminuka Primary School. Seven
years of primary education, strangely fate
53
would not allow that, perhaps the gods
thought it was a too long a period, for I did
my primary schooling in a record six years
and still passed very well.

The whole of my last year in the primary

schooling was very hectic and equally
eventful.

“Ngoni, remember to apply for your form

one boarding school place at any mission
boarding school of your choice", my elder
brother, the bricklayer, Tichawona,
emphatically reminded me.

This was really sweet music in my ears. The

joy I felt inside was out of this world, I had
this tremendous urge within myself to further
my education, to attend a secondary school.
To say I was ambitious, is really an

54
understatement. I really wanted to study and
change my life, to secure a better future and
assist my parents as much as possible. It
was my ambition to break this chain of
poverty in the family. I was convinced that it
could be done.

The mission schools were there during that

time, they were schools of choice for many
learners. They were decent, their school
fees regime was reasonable and affordable.

The mission schools, would kill two birds

with a single stone, so to speak. They would
offer academic education, as well as look
after the spiritual aspect of learners that’s
why they were so popular, mostly with the
parents. They strongly believed that our
characters and behavior would be moulded
for the better.
55
Willingly, I heeded to the call – to hunt for
the secondary school place of my choice. I
did apply earnestly to many such high
schools. I was replied by some, some
schools chose to remain quiet for reasons
best known to themselves. In most cases,
the schools would enclose some forms to
complete, all that I did on my own.

I vividly remember, Kana High school, near

the country’s second largest city; Bulawayo
– was very blunt and advised me to look for
a place near my home area. I evidently saw
some tribalism of some sort there. However,
that did not deter me to keep on hunting for
my next school.

Interestingly, during our era, majority of the

primary school learners used to apply for
both form one boarding and day school
56
places on their own, most of us, would travel
and attend the rigorous interviews on our
own. In my case, I did apply and I was
invited to attend an interview at Makumbe
High School, in the rural area of
Domboshava, now Visitation High School, a
few kilometers outside the capital city, on
my own. It so happened that along the way
to this secondary school, almost ten
kilometers before this Catholic mission
boarding school, the bus had a breakdown.
The first thing the bus crew did was to
disappear from the scene. How cruel and
uncaring these people were! Imagine young
school children with the average ages of
between thirteen and fourteen years being
forced by circumstances beyond their
control to finish the journey on foot, of
approximately ten kilometers, on their own!
57
We arrived at the school towards mid-day.
We were tired and weary. Our tender feet
and shoes were dusty. Fortunately, the high
school authorities - the Catholic church
priests, being the servants of the Almighty
God, got wind of our ordeal and decided for
us to have our lunch first. We had sadza
(thick porridge) with some vegetables for we
were really hungry and thirsty, had some
rest, then wrote the entrance test thereafter.
This was being generous and considerate at
its best, on the part of the Christian school
authorities

The entrance test was for a duration of only

an hour and half. The test was on
mathematics, English language and some
General Knowledge. The papers were to be
marked and the results forwarded to our

58
respective schools. Then it was time to go
back home, this time in the school’s mini
bus, the young children were excited. We
were very grateful.

“Get into the bus, in a straight line”, an

elderly white priest ordered in a very polite
manner.

He said out some prayers firstly in Latin,

then in the familiar English language. True
to his words, we did behave. There was
heavenly peace and quiet, all the way back
to the capital city, for some school
authority’s representatives accompanied us
in a bid to make sure that all was well on our
part.

The entrance test results were posted within

the next few weeks to our schools. The

59
results were very positive for I was
successful. I was on cloud nine, I was very
happy, the first hurdle was over. I looked
forward to join this church mission school
the following year.

There was a scramble for the few form one

places available; high schools were very few
for the blacks. The few boarding schools
were mostly church schools scattered all
over the country.

The most popular schools were namely;

Kutama High – a Catholic mission school, St
Augustine High – an Anglican mission
school and Tegwani High – a Methodist
mission school.

The other church mission schools of note

were, namely; Old Mutare mission of the

60
United Methodist Church and Marist
Brothers of the Catholic Church.

There were only a few government high

schools in the country, during that dark
period of our nation. The most popular ones
were Goromonzi High, Fletcher High and
Umzingwane High.

The mere securing of a form one place was

a great milestone, let alone the final
admission to a high school; hence the few
educated blacks were revered and almost
worshipped like semi-gods. Back then, for
one to be decently educated was something
else.

61
CHAPTER 6

T
he bottle necking from primary to
secondary schooling was
deliberate. The high schools
which were there at that time, were meant to
produce just enough for the professions like:
teaching, nursing, medical assistants,
clerical staff and junior white-collar
occupations.

The rest of the black population was just

good enough to go up primary school level –
basic English, Mathematics and some
General Knowledge.

The primary school leavers were also meant

to become mostly assistants for the blue-
collar professions. They eventually became
semi-skilled workers in various fields like;

62
bricklaying, carpentry, plumbing and so
forth. In short, I would say all the other jobs
and occupations.

The colonial regime security sector was

meant mostly for the primary school leavers
– the police force and the army. For such
lowly educated people suited their
oppressive system. They perceived that the
educated people would question and
challenge their racial discrimination, brutality
and injustice. The educated lot were a
menace to them, a challenge to their
system, hence the deliberate bottle necking
oppressive system.

Those left out in the formal education

system, would leave the country to go to
neighboring countries to further their
education. Some would go out on the United
63
Nations scholarships in various sympathetic
countries. I also did apply for such United
Nations scholarships, the application forms
were sent to me, unknowingly my country of
choice was Bulgaria, a communist country
then. The freedom fighters were getting
assistance - materials and moral support
from mostly the communist countries, hence
they became number one enemy of the
Rhodesian government. I never got the
reply, it's obvious it got confiscated by the
brutal regime. How unfortunate I was then.
As fate would suggest, I was to remain in
the country and continue with my own
struggle of getting an education, by
whatever means possible.

The professionals and government

ministers who took over the once whites

64
only posts after independence, the majority
of them were trained abroad and in other
independent black countries like Ghana,
Kenya, Egypt, Nigeria and so forth.

The other aspiring learners would work for

fees at some few white farm schools. I
would attend such a school later, forced by
circumstances beyond my control. Others,
would resort to what was referred to as
correspondence learning, now known as
distance education. For those with a strong
will, there was a way out somehow. Unlike
now when schools, colleges and universities
are now in abundance all over the country,
they were very scarce back then.

The correspondence schools which were

popular during that time were; Central Africa

65
Correspondence College and The Rapid
Results College.

As fate, would have it, I would use some of

these well-prepared distance lecture notes,
during my quest for a better education.

The adage that, where there is a will there is

a way, would really inspire me. I would
keep on pushing for me to win my fight. I
indeed worked hard, very hard, for my
education and professional qualifications. It
was not given on a platter.

The good thing was that because there

were only a few educated people then, in a
way, it was sarcastically a blessing in
disguise. Once fairly educated, the whole
world would open up, there were a lot of
opportunities in the segregated economy of

66
the racist government and opportunities to
work in some regional countries and abroad.

Consequently, there was a single university

in the whole country serving the interests of
mainly the racists white minority – the
University of Rhodesia, now University of
Zimbabwe. To be enrolled at this once
famous university in Central Africa was a
mammoth task indeed. This was the only
learning institution in the country, where
blacks could be treated, mix and mingle as
equals. Perhaps, the thinking of the white
minority racists was that, at that level of
education, we were now almost equal
because one would be educated. What a
misguided way of thinking indeed!

Perhaps, circumstances in the country; the

manpower demands like the medical field,
67
would force them to admit a few blacks. This
was mainly for them to serve their folks
upon graduation, like working in the remote
areas of the country.

There were some manpower challenges as

well, in the country in the education sector
and so forth. The population was growing,
hence the need of highly skilled and
qualified blacks to cater for the ever-
increasing population of their folks.
Consequently, in most cases, the
circumstances forced them to incorporate
the blacks, nothing else.

68
CHAPTER 7

I
n January 1976, I was
mentally and emotionally
ready to start my
secondary education which I was yearning
for.

Just a few days before the opening of the

schools, my elderly brother, my financier,
dropped a bombshell. He changed his mind
and told me in my face, that he was not his
brother's keeper; as a result, it was not his
duty to finance my schooling. I was
devastated right to the core. I could not
believe my ears. He revealed that he

69
wanted to use the funds he had saved for
my schooling to marry his wife, a nurse, he
alleged.

My parents were surprised by his logic.

They tried to run around looking for funding
for me to at least go to school, but all their
efforts were in vain. I remember vividly
accompanying my late father to some local
business people, but alas, no one was
willing to assist.

My late mother, may her soul rest in internal

peace, was almost in tears. She had seen
my zeal to get a good education and my
vision.

My parent’s argument was that he should

have alerted them much earlier. They could
have planned otherwise, but it was now just

70
a few days before the opening of the
schools. There was no much time for them
to run around.

The other relatives, the neighbours, his

close friends and associates, all joined in to
make him see the light. Once, he feigned
mental illness, he burnt and destroyed his
personal property. He was adamant, he
couldn't budge. He was not willing and
prepared to finance my secondary
education. Perhaps he was jealous, perhaps
he lacked a vision that a better education
would improve one's standard of living. He
is forgiven, for he himself had gone as far as
the old standard six, the final primary
examination class then.

71
The value of education is also recognized
mostly by the learned. It takes a sharp stone
to sharpen another.

Stress and despondency took the better of

me. I became depressed, I became ill, I
spent some days crying until I could not cry
anymore.

My elder brother’s refusal to assist me; a

duty he had volunteered and promised to
perform himself, really surprised me and
many people. The whole thing was indeed a
puzzle, it was un-African, it was a deviation
of our norms and culture!

“Why are you doing this to me my brother?"

I boldly asked him.

He simply looked at me, ignored me and

walked away. Perhaps, he saw the anger in

72
my innocent eyes, perhaps, he had no
reasonable answer, perhaps he felt too
guilty to answer me.

“Your colleagues, your best friends, are

sending their brothers to school”, I angrily
reminded him.

“Why then did you lie to our parents?” I

angrily quizzed him.

He became angry and threatened to beat

me, “Ngoni, I will beat you up, if you
continue with your nonsense!” he
thundered.

That’s when I made a vow, a stand to fend

for myself and become my own man, my
own saviour at that age.

73
It really dawned on me that I had to do it
myself. I had to look for other ways, other
means to fend for myself to work really hard
and fulfill my dreams.

I heeded the advice of many, spear-headed

by my late uncle, the famous little man, the
clothing tailor, to go and work for my school
and boarding fees at such white racist
farms in the country. I made a resolution. I
had no choice but to do it, whole-heartedly.

The elder brother of mine was very

inconsiderate to me. Admittedly, it wasn’t his
duty, his obligation as such. The unfortunate
thing is that he had promised me. He made
me believe him. I had built my castles in the
air on the basis of his words, they say a
promise is a credit.

74
For a whole year, he made me manage his
small corner shop, near our home, hedging
this move by the fact that I was actually
working for my high school fees and other
necessities. Until today, he still has a
question to answer.

75
CHAPTER 8

T
he zeal in me to further my
education, to attend a secondary
school, made me to have a never-
say-never spirit. I had to find other ways to
fulfill and realize my dream. I vowed that
nothing, yes, absolutely nothing, would
stand in my way. I remembered one of Bob
Marley's songs - that was the period when
this music legend was topping the charts
musically, with his inspirational and
revolutionary reggae music. He was an

76
international icon, one of his songs had the
following lyrics:

"When one door is closed, many more are

open, stay alive."

My uncle who was sympathetic to my

cause, advised and referred me to a school
where one would provide labour for one's
fees and boarding…

There was one such school just outside a

small agricultural town of Banket, in
Mashonaland West. The name of this
school was Inyati Boarding School – about
eighty kilometers from the small town of
Banket.

The schools had already opened, when I

heard and decided to go and attend this
learning institution, which suited my now

77
prevailing situation. That kind of
arrangement suited my forced
circumstances at that time. To me it was a
God-given chance. I was ready and
prepared to labour for my fees and
boarding.

My parents made some arrangements for

my transport and other personal necessities.
There I was ready to embark on a journey to
fulfill my dreams and ambitions. I still vividly
remember. It was a windy morning. I was
clad in my best casual wear, with my
suitcase in my hand. The farewell rituals
were already performed, my mother and
myself had prayed for the Almighty to lead
and be my guidance to the unknown world,
away from home. I was fourteen. I left alone

78
to board a bus to town to my new secondary
school.

The bus from Salisbury arrived in Banket

soon after mid-day. The town was a small
dusty place, with fewer inhabitants as
compared to the capital city.

It was towards lunch, I had a simple meal of

buns and a drink, for I had no much money
on me. I quickly got into a car traveling
towards the school. I had written down the
directions. I had to follow the instructions
religiously, any deviation from the directions
meant I will be lost in an unknown place.

I disembarked at a certain bus stop where

there were a few oldish buildings. I further
enquired for the directions to my new
learning institution - Inyati Boarding School.

79
I was advised to follow a dusty road,
eastwards, it was almost sun-set and I
became jittery.

I changed my pace, I was now walking

faster. On the sides of the road were big
fields of the tobacco crop. The plants were
very big, the leaves were equally big, some
of it was ripening, and the leaves were now
turning yellowish.

There came a middle-aged woman riding a

bicycle with her lame son straddled on the
carrier, they stopped. I did not wave them
down. I think the way I was walking, my face
and my behaviour, at that particular moment
told a sad story. The lady, disembarked
from her bicycle, she enquired where I was
going and my mission. I narrated everything
in confidence. I was now relaxed, at least
80
now I had a mother figure to talk to in the
middle of the jungle.

She disclosed that she actually stayed at

the farm. Inyati Boarding School was, in
actual fact, a farm school meant to assist
the children of the workers at this particular
farm and those of the surrounding areas.

The lady was kind hearted and warm. She

was indeed a "mother". She somehow
comforted me and gave me assurance that
all will be well. It was exactly the kind of
message I wanted to hear, the kind of
message that boosted my confidence and I
resolved to make it happen.

She gladly put my old and tattered suitcase

on her bicycle, my luggage and her crippled
son, Joseph, shared the luxury ride of the

81
bicycle. The two of us were now walking on
foot chatting. We shared a lot, the life at the
farm, the boarding school, the dos and
don’ts at my new home. I gladly thanked
her. Soon, we arrived at our destination.

CHAPTER 9

T
he sight of this so-called boarding
school, the structures were far
beyond my expectations, I could
not believe my eyes. My heart sank.

The structures; the so-called dormitories,

kitchen and the dining hall were made of

82
pole and dagga. The roof coverings were of
thatched grass. According to me, comparing
with the buildings of my previous school,
this was a sorry state of affairs.

The lady who was now acting as my mother,

led me to the boarding master, a short and
stout middle-aged man - a Mr. A. Mhofu.
The registration did not take time. I was
ushered to this hovel; showed my "space" at
a corner, this was to be my dormitory. They
were no beds or mats to talk about. We had
to spread our blankets on the muddy floor. I
could not believe it, I wanted to cry. The
tears refused to come out, I was shell
shocked to say the least. I was now caught
in a dilemma, to continue or not to continue
with my quest for a decent education.

83
That evening, I did not eat. I had no
appetite, my hopes were shattered, my
expectations betrayed me.

I hurriedly made my "bed" and drowned my

sorrows with a deep and sound sleep.

The following morning, we woke up early

and had a cold bath. I grudgingly made it to
the dining hall and ate my porridge. Yes,
plain porridge without sugar, one had to
provide his own sugar.

Soon, it was time to go to the parade, the

military style of course. There, a white
young farm manager, popularly referred to
as "pikinini boss” did a roll call. The duties of
the day were discussed and deliberated.
The boarders were assigned to apply

84
fertilizer on a certain field, all the fields had
names, I can't remember this one.

The procedure was to work half a day,

either in the morning or afternoon - then
attend classes afterwards or vice versa. The
workload itself, I can't say was heavy or
difficult. The system was sympathetic to the
school children, at least - both primary and
secondary. It's only that the conditions were
harsh, the diet was horrible to say the least
and the learning standards were equally
bad. The teachers, all of them, were
untrained. The headmaster though, a Mr. P.
Ngundu, was learned and level headed. He
had some previous experience teaching at
Highfield High School, in Salisbury.

The schooling part was equally bad, form

ones and twos shared a single classroom. It
85
was very difficult to concentrate. There were
no school uniforms to talk about - it was
obvious - the issue of affordability was
central. Those were the conditions at Inyati
boarding school. Given my zeal to learn, I
kept on enduring the hardships and taking
the harsh conditions as a learning curve.

That was basically the daily routine at this

labour for fees school. In the final analysis,
the owner, the racist Rhodesian, was
basically getting cheap labour. This was in
the disguise that he was assisting, giving a
hand to the marginalised people of colour.

The diet consisted of the staple food, sadza

referred to as thick porridge in some
quarters. The relish was mainly the boiled
beans, cow peas, round nuts and green
vegetables here and there. The relish was
86
just boiled, the only addition was just salt -
tomatoes, onions and cooking oil were not
meant for the people of colour. In essence,
meat was rarely served. At one time some
cattle died on their own, because of too
much fat, we were told, and such meat was
shared amongst the school and all the
workers. It sounds like fiction but that was
life at Inyati Boarding School.

The routine was, we worked from Monday to

Friday for the fees and boarding. On
Saturdays, we worked for half a day for bus
fare at the end of the term when schools
closed. This money was paid to us right a
end of the term.

Tea and bread were a luxury. Interestingly,

it was only served the last few days when
the school was to close for the end of the
87
first term. I developed some blisters in the
mouth, now the system was not used to hot
beverages. Perhaps the gesture was meant
to entice the learners to return at the end of
the school holidays.

I did arrive at this labour-for-your-fees

secondary school during the rainy season.
This institute of learning was in the natural
region with a high rainfall pattern. That year
it rained cats and dogs, especially in
January, coincidentally, towards the schools
opening days.

The ablution blocks, the blair-toilets at the

school for both males and females gave in
to excessive rains. The floor gave in and the
walls collapsed, leaving no toilet to talk
about. The school authorities did not bother
to replace, this important facility, the place
88
of convenience when nature calls, the place
which knows no gender, creed or colour.

The school children had to resort to using

the nearby bush to relieve themselves,
exposing themselves to water borne
diseases. The situation was a health
hazard. The place had become a time
bomb.

For bathing - a make shift bathing place was

built using pole and thatching with some
bark stripes for reinforcement. The floor was
made of some flat stones as platforms for
the learners to stand on while bathing in
cold borehole water.

The absence of a proper ablution facility in

the vicinity forced some learners to empty
their bladders when full, in the make shift

89
bathing room. This made it a real mess,
soon an unpleasant odour was the order of
the day.

It was not a surprise when there was an

outbreak of a water borne disease - typhoid,
just before I arrived at this farm school. I
was told that one leaner succumbed to this
dangerous ailment and some health
personnel visited the school and made
strong recommendation for proper toilets to
be built, as a matter of urgency.

In terms of some extra curriculum activities

at the school, there weren't many. Only
football and netball were the learners
sporting activities. Competitive games were
only held with a nearby other farm school -
Dalston Secondary School. A school of the
same stature, a similar "labour for fees
90
school". This one was a bigger school. It
was much, much better in all respects.

These sporting activities would be held

strangely on Sundays - a tractor and trailer
would be reserved for the teams and
supporters to travel to this school which was
about fifteen kilometers away. Given the
workload at the farm, Sunday was the only
free day at school. There were no church
services. Yes, not any, for reasons which I
didn't know.

On the days of these football and netball

matches, the school would be filled with a
happy atmosphere; a change of activities
was a welcome relief. It was a good and
welcome move to meet and mingle with our
peers. We would exchange and compare
notes.
91
Dalston Secondary School, as a bigger
school in terms of both infrastructure and
enrollment - had stronger teams both netball
and football. Their teams were always
victorious, regardless of how much we tried
to compete.

The schools would take turns to host the

games. At times they would visit us and at
times we would visit them. The journeys
would be very entertaining, packed in the
trailer, singing and ululating. The learners
being children, for children will always be
children, some would be dangerously
jumping up and down while the tractor was
in motion.

The driver too, nicknamed "shortie" for he

was a very short man. He was dark skinned,
perhaps made worse by the scorching sun,
92
the area was generally a hot place. He
would drive like a man possessed and
school children would make wild cheers.
That was life at Inyati Boarding School. It
was not all work and books all the time.
That's what it should be like. They say all
work without play makes a child dull.

The people of this farm had no much social

life to talk about. It was working, sleeping
and working - Monday to Saturday. Sunday
was their only resting day.

On Sundays, it was time for laundry and

sprucing up their compounds. Their small
huts were of poles and dagga. There were
very few houses built with bricks and mortar.
The roof coverings for such structures were
corrugated iron sheets. These few modern
houses were reserved for teachers,
93
builders, farm managers and senior
supervisors.

Fishing was a favourite past time for many.

There was a small river near the compound.
This was where both adult males and
females would go for fishing, not as a hobby
but a way supplementing their relish.
Fishing was forbidden for learners; the river
was a restricted area.

This farm was doing very well as a business

entity. It's only that capitalists in most cases,
want to maximise on profits. Otherwise,
there was no excuses in as far providing the
farm helpers with better and hygienic
amenities. The farm owner was controlling
the flow of finances in this community. The
farm had a well-stocked general dealer -
providing groceries, clothing, blankets and
94
hardware. This retail outlet’s name was
Cheap-store Supplies. It wasn't cheap! It
had the monopoly, being the only legal shop
on the farm. The shop had a pull factor that
the workers would buy on credit during the
course of the month. The credit limit was
one's total month's wage. As a result, most
employees were always in debt-a broke
soon after pay day syndrome.

The pay days were a special occasion, a

happy day for most of the farm helpers. The
racist whites then preferred to refer to them
as labourers. I find that to be inappropriate
and impolite. The farm owner himself, an
elderly and frail man - Honorable A.
Ashburner was a member of parliament of
the Rhodesian government. The Rhodesian
Front, a ruling party at that period, with the

95
majority seats in parliament, would team up
together with his wife, to pay the employees
of this farm.

As a norm, the employees would be called

by their full names, from a hard covered
register. One by one, they would stand up,
shouting loudly, "yes sir", as they moved
forward to be handed a small khaki
envelope. They would then salute - yes,
salute, the military style, that really came as
a surprise. Saluting to be remunerated for
one's labour and sweat! That was life in this
country then, the reason why the majority
took up the arms. It was the reason why
they fought a bitter armed struggle, why
many were imprisoned without trial and
many were even murdered.

96
The pay day was also the day when some
basic food rations were handed out. Each
and every employee was given some mealie
meal, beans, kapenta dried fish and coarse
salt. The rations were proportionally shared
according to the size of one's family. Items
like sugar and cooking oil were not included.
Those were regarded as a luxury, more of
forbidden fruits.

It happened that the two little puppies of the

farm owner got lost. They somehow just
disappeared. All school children were asked
to look for them. Every possible bush, hills
and valleys were thoroughly searched. It
was a good break from work, a good
change of activities.

It was unfortunate that the dogs could not

be found, despite all the efforts for a good
97
two days of thorough search. Then during
the night of the second day, the little
puppies just appeared from nowhere, their
instincts led them back home, we were told.
That was the end of our favoured break…

I vividly remember that on a certain day in

mid-March, there was a thunderstorm in the
afternoon. Heavy rains poured; it really
rained cats and dogs while we were working
in one of the fields harvesting some
tobacco. There was no shelter to run to. We
just continued working and our clothes were
really soaked. I became very cold; the whole
body was wet and I was now shivering.

When the rains stopped, we hurriedly made

it to the tobacco barns where the curing of
the tobacco leaves was in progress.
Fortunately, there was fire in the barns. We
98
warmed ourselves as if our bodies were
being brayed. It took me quite a while to dry
and for the body to get warm again to its
normal temperature. It's one of those days
that will take me long to forget in my life.

Then one day, sometime in the afternoon

while working in the same tobacco field
surprisingly, we had some rare visitors. A
white family came to have a look at the crop
while the reaping was in progress. We were
really surprised to be given some cold fizzy
drinks. I was handed my favorite bottle of
coke which I had spent some months
without tasting. I really enjoyed this cold
refreshment for it was a very hot day. We
later learnt that the visitors were the farm
owner's relatives from abroad. They were
trying to impress them that the relationship

99
between the employer and the helpers was
sound and cordial. The farm owner was
actually boasting, telling his visitors that he
had some young and strong boys, the
school boarders at the farm, as part of his
corporate social responsibility.

The life at this boarding school continued. I

was now somehow used to the state of
affairs. I had a close friend, David Masiye,
who was from Gillingham high-density
suburb in the capital city of Salisbury.

This friend of mine was very pivotal to my

continued stay. He encouraged me a lot. He
taught me to be very strong. He was now in
his final year at this boarding school. He
was in form two – the school only went up to
then Rhodesia Junior Certificate.

100
In most cases, he used to motivate and
encourage me by saying that this life is full
of ups and downs but the hardships would
end soon if we could just get our junior
certificates and leave the school. Those
words inspired me.

My step brother, now comrade Shungu, -

before he went to war, he really surprised
me by sending some money by the
registered mail for my upkeep. Yes, by
registered mail, that was a popular way of
transmitting money during that period. Now
technology has changed or is continuously
changing for the better.

The names of the other recipients were

announced during the morning assembly.
There were four of us on that occasion. How
happy and relieved I was, for I had ran out
101
of the basic necessities - sugar, laundry and
bath soap, toothpaste and pens. That was
indeed God sent.

Arrangements were made by the school

authorities for us to go and collect our
monies from the nearest post office, at
Raffingora, roughly fifteen kilometers from
this farm school. Excitement made us not to
feel walking a long distance to and from the
school as tiresome.

Up to this day, I still remember and I am

forever grateful for his humane gesture, may
the Almighty God richly bless him.

The first term was to come to an end early

April. I really looked forward to the very
much deserved break.

102
The end of term exams were written. I really
surprised myself. I had very good results in
all subjects.

I vividly remember the comment by the

headmaster, "Though you look sluggish,
surprisingly, you did very well, keep it up!”

That was a very encouraging remark I was

on cloud nine.

Interestingly, towards the last week of the

school term the boarders were well treated.
A whole beast was slaughtered for us. We
really enjoyed our meals. The breakfast also
improved, tea, bread with some jam was
served. I developed some blisters in the
mouth, for the system was not used to hot
beverages.

103
This was a gimmick, a ploy by the racist
school authorities to hoodwink us the
boarders to return back to this farm school.
The school finally closed. We were paid our
monies. Every Saturday, we were actually
working for our transport and logistics to and
from the school. The journey to the bus
terminus was very eventful. We were all
happy to go home.

CHAPTER 10

104
I
arrived home in the evening, all the
members of the family were excited to
see me. We greeted each other and
exchanged pleasantries. My mother was
happy, very happy with my end of term
exam results. However, she was not happy
with my now frail body. I had lost weight
significantly. I did explain in detail, the daily
living and learning conditions at Inyati
Boarding School. My health condition
prompted my parents to think otherwise.
That I should find an alternative better place
of learning.

Apparently, during the school holidays, one

thing led to another. I bumped into contact
details of an organisation whose primary
aim and objective was to assist the less
privileged people of colour with school fees

105
payments. I hurriedly applied, luckily the
response was very positive. However, the
tricky conditions were that the headmaster
of the school where one was attending
would write to the body, explaining the full
circumstances of the applicant.

This requirement was the tricky part. The

headmaster of the last school I attended
could not write the letter, since Inyati
Boarding School was a "labour for your
fees" institution. That was the huddle, which
needed a solution.

My cousin, now Dr. D. Gandanhamo, who

was in his first year at the University of
Rhodesia, medical school, was very
sympathetic and supportive to my cause. He
took the bull by its horns as it were. He
approached his colleague, a former class
106
mate who was now a mentor at a local study
group, a Mr. L. Mbigi. The gentleman was to
later improve himself and he is now a
professor based in South Africa. Yes, a
study group organised for those who could
not attend a proper secondary school but
had the financial means. This study group
was attached to a certain local primary
school - Zengeza.

My cousin was pursuing his first degree in

medicine; he is now a medical specialist,
with several degrees under his belt in both
medicine and business! He is a brilliant
individual, a human being blessed with
natural intelligence!

The two gentlemen became my associates,

my mentors. Their talks, their daily bread,
were the pursuit of academic excellence.
107
Their message was very clear and straight
forward to me. They told me to read
diligently, saying : a poor man's child may
become someone in life, if only he or she
attains reasonable knowledge. Indeed, that
was to become my motto, even until today,
for I am still studying. I have become a
book-worm. I am somehow married to my
books, with all due respect to my dear wife.

The headmaster at the study group declined

my request to write a letter to this
organisation for me, that would have paid
my fees and joined others at this study
group. He was very honest, a straight-jacket
gentleman. He said it was against the ethics
to misinform this humanitarian body. Instead
of assisting me, he ended up giving me a

108
lecture on the values and ethics about his
beloved profession - teaching.

My medical doctor student cousin, one of

my mentors then, is the eldest son of my
uncle; a Mr. J. Tsvere, the one who came
up with the labour for the school fees and
boarding initiative. It runs in the family blood
to generously assist others, the less
privileged. Personally, I owe this family a lot
and I am forever grateful. This cousin of
mine would pay my exam fees for the
Rhodesia External Junior Certificate, from
his meagre income - the students pay outs
then. That was before I was generating
some income of my own. How generous,
sympathetic and committed to my cause he
was. May the Lord richly bless him. Long
live my cousin brother. This was very

109
different from the behavior of my own elder
brother, such is life.

110
CHAPTER 11

M
y mentors, collectively agreed
that I should study on my
own, with the close
assistance of Mr. L.Mbigi, the study group
mentor. The study materials and the
relevant textbooks were organised from
some of the students in the same study
group and the mentors themselves. As a
joint effort, purely on humantarian grounds,
donated some of their relevant study
materials.

Things were just falling in place –

conveniently. Our house was near our
church, then - the Hunyani Baptist Church,
for I had received the Lord Jesus Christ as
my personal Saviour. I was baptised

111
sometime in the year 1975, my final year at
primary school.

I became an active member of the church's

youth wing. I volunteered to be a caretaker
of the church property. The duties included
the general cleaning of the church and the
grounds. In return, I had an ample
opportunity to study. The church was
blessed with electricity. Apparently,
electricity was a very rare commodity to the
people of colour. That was the period when
the United States based missionaries were
actively involved in planting and assisting
the growth of the church in the country. I
took advantage and used this opportunity to
study in a quiet and decent environment.
God is great!

112
Reading, cleaning and maintenance of the
church grounds became my routine, until
the mid-year of that year 1976.The place
also became a meeting place among the
youths from the community who were
studying for various examinations. Even my
cousin who was at the university, the only
such high learning institution in the country,
at that time, would during his semester
break, visit this place for serious studying.
As a result, I met friends, a lot of them -
that's how I also met my ex-wife, the one
who dumped me soon after investing in her!
I financed the completion of her high school
education, tertiary training in Secretarial
Studies, assisted her to get employment
with a local international bank, her only
employment in her life! It was a success
story, given our bumpy backgrounds. Life is
113
always not fair, now that she was rubbing
shoulders with the elite, she thought
otherwise! She thought that I was I not good
enough and I was no longer in her class. I
had no choice, but to move on with my life. I
remarried and started all over again. The
slogan that "life goes on", was appropriate
in such circumstances.

The fact that we had sired four children

together, three boys and a girl, was not
important to her. She wanted to join the
class of the so-called men of class. I
became depressed, almost died because of
stress and hypertension. I had to seek
professional counseling. I survived and it
dawned on me that she was not mine. It is
said that if a bird is yours, let it free, if it

114
comes back to you, it was really meant to be
yours.

The year 1977, was the final year of my

studies, for the then "Rhodesia External
Junior Certificate". I was now in the final leg
of an examination that I had worked and
sacrificed for immensely. The challenge at
home was that my other siblings did not fully
comprehend my mission, my aim and
aspirations. They started to complain that I
was just eating and reading my books to no
avail. I took time to explain but they could
not buy my story, they could not budge.
Given our financial challenges as a family,
the elder brothers and sisters were all
chipping in to provide food on the table.
That's where they were coming from, that
was their argument.

115
 The quarrels grew louder. I could not
stomach such an environment and it was
disturbing my studies. I decided to look for
any job so that I could get my peace of mind
and get some finance for my personal
needs and also chip in at home. It was a
joint effort. True, given our circumstances, I
had to chip in. I understood the
circumstances very well.

116
CHAPTER 12

T
he pressure at home from my
other family members to look for
work forced me to try my luck at
factories and industries all over the city.

It dawned to me that the easiest way to

make money then was to sell tobacco
cigarettes in the morning. The same
tobacco I once assisted to produce at the
farm, and here I was now selling the

117
finished product! I had to think of means and
ways to generate some income for me to
finance my numerous trips to town.

I would wake up at dawn, clean up and rush

to the bus station to sell the cigarettes to
men and women queuing for buses to go to
work. It was a lucrative small business. It
was sufficient for my bus fare, pens, rulers
and other small expenses during my joint
operations; that of studying and looking for
work. At sunrise I would rush home,
properly have a bath, eat something then
continue with my job hunting.

Then one day, while job hunting in the

industrial sites in Salisbury, at a clothing
factory of Ferco Clothing Company, I got
very hungry. I had no money for food on that
particular day and then a middle-aged
118
woman, who was selling some cooked food
appeared. Somehow, she sensed my
dilemma, perhaps hunger was seemingly
showing on my face. She beckoned me over
and gave me some left overs. I hurriedly
munched the food as a hungry lion.
Obviously, I befriended her and confided my
dilemma to her and she prophetically
revealed that one day I would be like a king
and will be in a position to assist my
brothers. The very same people who were
tormenting my poor soul by not
understanding and supporting my mission
and aspirations.

I was even to chip in heavily, at the funeral

of my elder brother’s wife, later in life, more
than four decades after their joint refusal
with her husband, to finance my high school

119
education. My aunt - the one who once
bragged that I must forget about attending a
secondary school, since her husband, my
elder brother, was now married, the one
who turned down his earlier pledge to
finance my secondary education - such is
life! Indeed, history repeats itself, it also
happened in the case of the biblical Joseph.
He was to be a saviour to his elder brothers
during a famine at that period, the very
people who sold him to the travelers on their
way to Egypt, simply because of jealous.

This food vendor’s prophecy was to come

true. Later in life, I had to assist my brothers’
families, even sending some of their kids to
school, this is how strange life is.

I am happy to a certain extent, that I did

manage to achieve my intended goals, that
120
of assisting my siblings and improving the
lives of my dear parents before their passing
on. I even renovated my parents’ house, I
had to sell my first car, an Anglia, to raise
funds for the noble project. The very same
elder brother, also refused outright to carry
out the said building works, since he is a
builder. It was my thinking that he would
then chip in with labour since the house
was for our parents, our family home then. I
was forced to hire a skilled artisan, who
happened to be a neighbour. The same
elder brother who was so cruel and cold to
me, if the truth is to be told, is now staying in
that house with his family, enjoying the fruits
of my labour and sacrifice! Paradoxically, I
am happy, for I always wanted to assist as
much as I could. At times, it's a very good
way of sending a message across, in a
121
silent and dignified manner, yet being very
effective.

CHAPTER 13

T
he desire to get a better and
decent education propelled me to
look for any legal form of
employment. My late sister Chipo, a heavily
built young lady, a bit light in complexion got
wind of her boss's father’s need of a young
122
man who would accompany him to his work
place. His work place was in the bush, along
the Zambezi River escarpment. He needed
a young man who would be his assistant,
porter, cook and so forth.

My sister was working for a Mr. L. Frasser

(Jnr) in the suburb of Sunningdale; a
residential place reserved for the coloureds
in Rhodesia. This was the way of living in
the racially segregated country then. There
were separate residential areas, schools,
clinics, hospitals and so forth. This Mr.
Frasser (Senior), though he was classified
as a coloured, was dark skinned like myself,
except for his silky black hair, which was
getting white here and there because of his
old age. His bald head was forcing him to
put on a hat all the time. Perhaps, he didn't

123
want to be referred to as an old man. Given
that scenario, he would try to conceal his
balding head as much as he could.

The racial segregation was so intense. The

colour of one's skin would determine the
opportunities, one's destination in life, not
necessarily one's skills or qualifications.
That's how bad it was no wonder why most
of the young people then left the country to
join the war of liberation. The liberation war
finally ushered the country's national
independence in April 1980.

This racial segregation forced some of our

black colleagues who were light skinned to
choose to be classified as coloureds. They
changed their names, their way of living and
their culture. It wasn't easy though for them.
It was unfortunate. They had to abandon
124
their vernacular names for the English ones
- John, James, Freddie, Douglas, Beauty,
Bridget, Sussan and so forth. It was a
survival strategy. It only backfired for the
males when they were forced to join the
Rhodesian army to fight their own brothers
and sisters who were voluntarily in trenches
for national independence. Quite a number
of them perished fighting on the wrong side.

It was really unfortunate when our sisters

had to use some skin lightning creams on
their faces leaving their legs and hands
black. It didn't make sense, not at all. In fact,
it was stupidity at its best! The will to live a
better life forced them to do so.

The mini-interview with the prospective boss

was arranged. I reluctantly accepted this job
because I did not fancy working and staying
125
in the bush infested with wild animals,
reptiles and all the dangerous creatures. I
had no choice, I had to be my own man. I
liked the fact that I would have a lot time to
read and study. The will to have better
education propelled me to accept.

"You will have enough time to read your

books since you are so eager to learn", the
old man assured me, forcing a smile on his
face.

"It’s just doing a few things for me, only a

single person", he continued.

He explained the job description in detail

and the paltry wages. I told my sister that I
would give it a try. She smiled and nodded
her head in agreement, perhaps she wanted
to please her bosses.

126
The departing day was revealed in the
following two days, that was enough time to
go and bid a farewell to my parents,
colleagues and friends.

We departed on a sunny Monday morning.

We left for the Makuti area in Mashonaland
West. The mode of transport was a
government truck - a Landrover. The truck
was laden with tools, equipment and
insecticides to control the tsetse flies, some
food and so forth.

The boss was employed by the then

Ministry of Agriculture, in the Tsetse
controlling department. He was a section
leader responsible for the whole province.

The departing time was around nine in the

morning. The boss was a rather quiet

127
person. The zeal for me to know a lot about
the work and the way we would be living,
made me to ask him a barrage of questions.
The answers were mostly one-word
answers. The boss would converse very
fluently in Shona. It was very surprising how
he would quickly change to the Queen's
language in front of his peers and equally
change his attitude towards the blacks when
there were white people around. I witnessed
this when we met some coloureds and a few
whites at the department’s headquarters in
the capital city when we went to get the
supplies for the trip. He suddenly changed
his attitude towards me, it was a norm to
mistreat the people of colour in front of the
whites. It was deemed that blacks were a
cursed lot, inferior and good for nothing
race. How painful it was, to be treated like a
128
second-class citizen in one's own country!
The mistreatment actually made me even
work harder on my studies, to get a decent
education and better qualifications and
challenge the status quo. It is widely
accepted that an educated black person has
the guts and confidence to face racial
discrimination anywhere in the world.

CHAPTER 14

T
he journey was less eventful, we
were stopping at every town for
refreshments and recess. I was
generously fed - pies, fruits and drinks were
bought for me. The boss was not eating
much, he would occasionally take sips of

129
some cold beers. Yes, very cold, for we had
a cooler box.

I was always looking outside, enjoying the

country side. Most places were new to me
except for the town of Banket, a transit town
to my former farm high school - Inyati
boarding school. I clearly remembered my
last journey to this school which birthed my
zeal to work hard and gainfully use my
hands. In Chinhoyi, we again stopped for a
while eating, drinking and refreshing
ourselves.

The average travelling speed was

approximately eighty kilometers per hour.
The old man was not a fast driver, even if he
wanted to speed up, the automobile would
not permit him, the Landrovers were not
made for speeding.
130
"I don't like speeding, Chris," he told me, he
preferred my English name.

I also liked it like that. For indeed, I was

somehow mentally colonised, for I rarely
used my first name Ngoni. In fact, I didn't
like it, not at all. Colonisation was taking a
toll on me and the majority of us blacks
Indeed, finally independence really freed us
as a nation, as a people from looking down
upon ourselves.

Soon after the town of Karoi, I did ask him,

"Boss how far are we from the station?",

“We are almost there, son" he answered,

smiling showing his brownish teeth.

Fatigue was now killing me. It was almost

four good hours on the road! The boss also
seemed tired. He had now reduced his

131
speed. We were now in an animal infested
area, both wild and domesticated, for we
were in a farming and gaming area.

Soon the truck, slowed down, indicating to

the left, "Here we are, my son", the old man
cheerfully said.

That station was just a few meters away

from the main road to Zambia. The place
was a hive of activities. The team was busy
doing this and that, chopping firewood,
cleaning the yard and some were cooking in
drums on huge bonfire. As soon as they
saw the car, I could see some excitement
on their faces as soon as this reliable
automobile halted. They came to greet us.

132
"Guys this is Chris, my new assistant, he is
still young. Assist him and make him feel at
home", the boss sort of commanded.

He turned to me and said, "Chris, these are

your brothers and uncles, be good to them".

I clapped my hands greeting them all, our

traditional way, crouching on the ground.
They liked it very much.

“It's ok, it's ok,” they all said in unison.

"Stand up and feel at home, young man, “a

hoarse voice boomed.

I later learnt that it was the voice of the

foreman, the gang leader. The team
comprised of a gang of thirty strong men -
the foreman, the security, the cooks, the
sprayers, the driver and the general hands

133
T
CHAPTER 15
he transit camp, had a few
buildings - an office, a storeroom, a
dormitory and some ablution
blocks.

The team was busy preparing for the next

day, not much unpacking was done. It was
not necessary - the security was very tight
at this transit camp. Trained armed guards
were manning the entrance gate and
randomly patrolled with sniffer dogs during

134
the night. The arrangement was that I was
to put up in the truck, that was to be "my"
bedroom for the following three weeks.

Food was served; sadza with some roasted

dry game meat (biltong). We all ate from the
same pot. The boss chose to eat with us
that particular day. People were chatting,
sharing some stories about their families
and friends. As a new recruit, I was forced
to be a good listener. I had to and I learnt a
lot. There was also a lot of men’s talk.
Though I was still only a teen, soon I was to
graduate to become a man, they kept on
reminding me.

"Chris, listen and learn from some of these

chats", the gang leader chipped in. He was
a commanding figure, always leading from
the front. They all listened to him attentively.
135
The Zambezi valley region is generally a
very hot place, especially in summer.
Resultantly, the majority of the guys chose
to sleep outside, yes just spreading their
blankets on the grass and tents and
spending a night there.

The following morning, we all woke up very

early. We had to leave for our targeted area
to be worked on that particular period. The
tools, camping equipment, food, insecticides
and so forth, were all neatly packed,
arranged and secured in the trucks. There
was a huge Nissan Toyota 5 tonne truck for
that purpose. There was no breakfast to talk
about, only cups of tea, for we were to eat at
our next camping site.

The hustling was mainly done by the gang.

Somehow, I was being shielded. Perhaps
136
they thought I was still raw, perhaps I was
still a boy. Nevertheless, I also played my
part, keeping an eye on the cardboard box
where my books and study materials were
being stored.

The journey to our new site took us almost

two hours, navigating through the rough
terrain. Soon we were in the targeted area,
a place near a stream was chosen. The
security team was always in front, armed
with the old 303 and FN rifles. The place
was quickly cleared. Bushes and grass were
slashed, the cooking team made fire and
soon the cooking was in motion. I was
preparing those special dishes for the boss.
He was very particular about his food. He
ate well. I also ate what he ate. Yes, from
different plates. It is obvious food was in

137
abundance. We had unlimited choice of
game meat, fish and birds. Occasionally we
would enjoy some wild vegetables.

The cooking team comprised of myself and

two other guys from the gang - uncle Tom
and the talkative Tendayi popularly known
as Tindo.

Fish was in abundance. Some of the

streams were drying up. It was in summer
and very hot - I learnt that the fish was in
abundance simply because there were no
people to consume them, thereby not
reducing their population. Fish could literally
be caught by bare hands!

The bathing would be done in turns with

others and the security team watching over.
That was life in the bush!

138
The daily routine was that the boss and the
gang would leave in the morning and come
back around three in the afternoon. During
their absence, we would prepare the
respective meals for the boss and the rest of
the gang. Yes, segregation was
everywhere, it was the order of the day.

This was the time I would utilise to read and

study. In my case, my chores would be
done in approximately two to three hours,
the remainder of the day would be for some
studying. For music and current affairs, we
had a small radio. This small gadget, would
remind us of the days of the week, what was
happening in the country, the war front and
so forth.

139
CHAPTER 16

T
he daily routine continued; days
changed into weeks. The working
arrangements were three weeks in
the bush and two weeks off days. Since we
worked Monday to Saturday, only Sundays
were reserved for resting cleaning, hunting
and fishing.

140
This area we were in had some ruins of
human settlement. It reminded me of my
late mother who was of the Kore Kore tribe.
She used to tell me of stories of their
ancestry living in the Zambezi escarpment
only to be moved away to pave way for the
construction of the Kariba dam; the biggest
man-made lake in the country.

On the final day, the tents were dismantled.

We packed and left for the transit camp in
Makuti. I was very excited to go back home,
I vowed not to come back again. I was
dicing with death, at times, lions would
group at night near the camp. On one
occasion they actually came near the
Landrover truck I was sleeping in. To say I
was afraid is an under-statement, I was
petrified! The alert security personnel saved

141
our lives by firing some bullets in the air,
that's when they ran away, such was the
way of living in the bush.

The journey back home was very exciting,

the boss did like he did when we came. He
was very generous with food and
refreshments. Perhaps it was a bait for me
to go back again with him. I chose not to tell
him. I could only give him some lame
excuses when it was time to go back. That
was stupid, unfair and childish behavior on
my part then.

I bought myself some clothes and invested

some money in my study materials with the
paltry wage that I was paid. That experience
I got working for this old man propelled me
to look for employment as a domestic
helper. I could now cook, clean the dishes
142
and do some laundry. Armed with that
experience, I hunted for a job as a domestic
helper in the suburb of Arcadia in the capital
city.

CHAPTER 17

E
arly January, in the year 1977, I
had to find a job for mainly the
sake of my soul, for the peace of
mind and to study away from the madding
crowd, as if it were.

143
Soon, I got employed, in the then coloureds’
suburb of Arcadia, in Salisbury. I was
employed as a domestic worker - a two in
one sort of job. I was both a house cleaner
and a gardener.

The Lambat family was comprised of an

Indian coloured husband who was a
professional soldier in the racist Rhodesian
army, a true gentleman. One thing I didn't
like about him is that he was fighting our
brothers and sisters, our kith and kin in the
protracted war of liberation. Every time I
saw him in that dreaded uniform; my blood
would run fast, very fast, for he was also
fighting us, the oppressed and down
trodden majority.

The wife was more of my sister, her mother

was a pure black person who was married
144
to a white farmer, I was told. It's true that
blood is thicker than water, she saw me as
her half-brother, and she was warm and
kind hearted towards me. She hardly yelled
at me. Her work instructions were humane.
Unfortunately, the racist system kept us
apart. To her mum, she would eloquently
converse in Shona, a widely spoken
vernacular in the country. When talking to
me, she would use the English language as
a way of showing superiority. I could tell she
was a confused person; she was caught in
between. She was half black and half white,
hence the derogatory term "coloured".

The three children comprised two girls and a

naughty boy - Bee Jay, I think his brains
were truly coloured. The boy was naughty,
very silly at times, but one thing, he

145
respected me very much, he would refer to
me as an "uncle".

The two girls were really mixed. The first

born was more of an Indian-colored, her
behavior would tell. The texture of her long
and black hair told a story that her origin
was Indian.

The younger sister was more of a duplicate

of her mother. More like our light skinned
people of colour, with our kinky hair. God is
truly great! Our parentage determines who
we are.

The work-load was varied, cleaning the

house, the laundry, ironing the clothes, the
maintenance of the garden etc. Life is funny,
later in life, I combined those chores to form
a cleaning company - Tapdan Cleaning

146
Services. The company provides cleaning,
pest controlling, gardening and landscaping
services. I used my past experience with
some bit of imagination.

The working hours were from dawn to

around 8.00pm. I would wash the dishes
and clean the kitchen after supper.

My breakfast consisted of a mug of very

strong tea and two plain slices of bread, yes
plain, for jam and margarine was not meant
for us the blacks. This would be prepared by
granny, the mother of the madam boss. She
was staying together with her daughter but
the racist and cruel system would not let her
share the same main house with her
daughter and grandchildren. Instead, she
was my neighbour. There were two
purposely built cottages for us blacks. They
147
were at a marginal distance from the main
house, the residence of a superior race.
That was disgusting!

My lunch and supper, I would prepare it

myself. I had my "boy's" meat kept in "their"
refrigerator and my mealie meal in "their"
store-room. These were steadily
replenished, I couldn't complain. I would
pick the vegetables from the garden.
Tomatoes, onions and cooking oil was a
luxury not meant for people of colour.

My studies were between free times and

after work. I had no television or radio, so
when I had free periods, I would read. I
would usually sleep with a book in my hand.
Be it as it may, I persevered and sat for my
final exams for the "Rhodesia External
Junior Certificate" in August 1977. I did ask
148
for some time off for a period of three days
and sat for all my six papers; English
language, Shona, Mathematics, History,
Health Science and Bible Knowledge.

The results came out after two months in

October of that year – 1977. I passed
marginally. I was not very happy with the
results but I congratulated myself. I had at
least achieved my goal up to that point.

The human nature in me instructed myself

to somehow share the good news with the
Lambat family. The news of my success for
they were very supportive. They somehow
assisted me a lot; a domestic worker being
given time to write exams in the colonial
Rhodesia! It was a rare good gesture of
humanity by the oppressors who deemed
themselves as superior.
149
I decided to resign since I wanted to pursue
something different and use my newly
acquired qualifications. In November that
year, I tendered my resignation. I gave them
a month’s notice. December 31, was to be
my last day at work.

CHAPTER 18

150
T
he following year in February
1978, I landed myself a job as a
shop assistant, at Ladybird Mini
Market. This mini market was situated in the
suburb of Braeside next to Arcadia where I
was working as a domestic helper.

The nature of duties entailed packing the

shelves, packaging some food stuffs, pricing
and attending to customers.

There working hours were from 8.00am to

8.00pm. Breakfast and lunch was provided,
including supper, if the employees so
wished. We used to cook for ourselves. The
food was abundantly available. The working
conditions had improved in many respects;
salary and other benefits. I was beginning to
reap the fruits of my hard work and sacrifice.

151
The trend was basically the same until June
when I decided to change towns and try my
luck in the clerical field.

Things were changing in the country,

professional wise for the better. The
authorities were raising the bar in line with
the international standards. The entry
qualifications for teachers and medical
assistants were raised from the Junior
Certificate level, which I had attained to
Ordinary levels. That meant another two
years of serious studying! Those were the
two professions I had targeted. That's the
reason why I opted to look for clerical work
and earn a better salary and then finance
the proper evening classes to sit for the
ordinary level examinations.

152
The following month in July, as fate would
have it, my mother asked me to accompany
her to Sinoia to visit her sick mother.

The gods were smiling at me this time

around. I successfully secured employment
as a Clerical Assistant with the Central
Mechanical Equipment Department, a
department with the then Ministry of
Transport and Power, as from 1 August
1978, using my Junior Certificate as a basic
qualification. My brother-in-law, a Mr. J.
Mukamba played a crucial role, since he
was a senior member of staff at this
government institution. He was the most
senior black person for he was the Stores
Controller. Invariably, he acted as a
spokesperson for the people of colour. He
was very influential. The whites trusted him

153
so much, they would listen to most of the
things he said and took heed of his advice. I
was different. I was a bit militant. I stood for
my rights, I didn't like the oppressive and
racist system. I wasn't alone, it was a norm
mostly among the young blacks for the
winds of change were blowing in Africa in
general and in Rhodesia, in particular. It
was during the height of a bitter armed
struggle and the guerrillas were gaining
ground, hence the change of attitude
amongst most of the black youths.

My workstation was a fenced cubicle. My

work consisted of mostly clerical work and
some personnel functions in the workshop.
The work was varied and I enjoyed it very
much.

154
The conditions of service were superb, for I
was now a government employee, a civil
servant. I really thanked my stars. I was now
reaping the fruits of my hard work. I kept on
studying, I could now afford to pay for my
distance education materials, for the next
level, which was GCE - Ordinary levels
examinations. I must admit, the studies
were now a bit tough.

My senior at work was a Mrs. Irene

Jackson, an old and frail white lady. She
was very meticulous in her work. She
wanted attention to detail and was a good
mentor, she professionally taught me most
of the work. She liked me a lot, because I
was very eager to learn and I would grasp
concepts in a short period. I really enjoyed
working with her.

155
I worked for close to four years from 1978 to
1982. In between; I was also attending
evening classes at Nemakonde High
School.

I must confess and admit that when I joined

the evening classes from January 1980,, the
classes were now taught by qualified and
experienced teachers. To me, most of the
areas of study were really like starting
afresh, hence it took me long to attain my 5
(five) ordinary levels.

One other thing is that we would only spend

at most two hours a day - from 5.30pm to
7.30pm. We could not cover much.

I attended these evening classes with much

older people; the demobilised ex-
combatants, who had left for the war mid-

156
way their studies, teachers and
headmasters, for the new government
emphasised ordinary levels as a basic
academic qualification. Most primary school
teachers of that time had trained after
Standard Six or the Junior Certificate level,
hence it was like back to school for most
people.

157
CHAPTER 19

I
n April 1982, I joined the Electricity
Supply Commission, now Zimbabwe
Electricity Supply Authority, as an
Accounts Clerk, on the recommendation of
my lady boss, Mrs. I. Jackson. The power
authority had better scope of work. I always
wanted challenges in my life. The salary and
other benefits were much better. I joined this
quasi-government entity on a former
European salary scale. I must have been
one of the pioneers among the people of
colour to enjoy the once benefits reserved
for whites, thanks to our liberators, those
who suffered and perished in the bush,
158
those who lie buried in shallow graves. May
their dear departed souls rest in eternal
peace.

I transferred to the eastern border city of

Mutare, at the same level; for it was a much
bigger city and I wanted to attend the newly
established Mutare Technical College to
pursue a tertiary training; a Diploma in
Business Studies. The trend was the same;
attending evening classes from 5.30pm to
7.30pm. Without a proper professional
qualification, I felt naked, hence the transfer
to attend this newly established government
institution. The tuition was very affordable.

The urge to still attain better qualifications

and to be exposed to proper accounting
systems made me to leave my rather steady

159
employment with this power authority, to
work in the capital city.

I worked for several companies at different

levels in between, completing several
qualifications in accounting and business
studies.

During the years, I was steadily climbing the

ladder as well - from an accounts clerk to a
senior accounts clerk, a bookkeeper to a
senior bookkeeper, an assistant accountant
to an accountant then finally, to a financial
executive with the Apex Group of
Companies.

I made it a point that my young brother

would not experience what I went through. I
volunteered to finance his secondary
education right through the end. He

160
attended St. Mary’s Secondary School, in
Chitungwiza, an Anglican mission school.
It's very unfortunate, he passed away at a
very young age, and may his soul rest in
eternal peace.

As fate would have it, I had to make sure

that the two children of my late young
brother had to finish schooling and also
attend tertiary training of their own choice. I
really believe in progress as a family, hence
my desire to assist every school going age
in the family. This was fairly achieved, the
majority of "our" children were adequately
financed to obtain basic education and
qualifications.

I made a vow that God willing, all my

children would not endure what I went
through. They all attended decent high
161
schools: Murehwa Mission School, Chinhoyi
High School, Mutare Boys High School,
Rusunguko High School, Oriel Boys High
School and Goromonzi High School.

Resultantly, three of my sons are university

graduates in different professions one
daughter is a diploma holder in secretarial
studies.

Funds permitting, children must be afforded

an opportunity to earn a decent education.

I then left formal employment to start my

business in 1999. I am very proud to state
that I am a founder and managing director
of the following companies: Tapdan
Investments (Private) Limited t/a Tapdan
Cleaning Services, Best Solution
Enterprises (Private) Limited t/a Unique

162
Designs Contractors and Ray Support
Company (Private) Limited.

That's the tortuous journey I traveled in my

quest to better myself academically and
professionally. I learnt that the will
determines the way, if you really want it, you
will get it. It can be done!

163
CONCLUSION

I
am happy to a certain extent that I did
manage to achieve my intended
goals. I managed to assist my siblings
and improve the life of my dear parents
before their passing on, may their souls rest
in eternal peace. I even renovated my
parents’ house and the same elder brother,
who was once cruel to me, if the truth is to
be told, is now staying in that renovated
house, enjoying the fruits of my labour and
sacrifice - such is life! He is forgiven, for to

164
err is human to forgive is divine, so the
Christian Holly Book, says.

165
166