Kubatana.net ~ an online community of Zimbabwean activists

Author Archive

The abortion debate

del.icio.us TRACK TOP
Monday, May 3rd, 2010 by Fungai Machirori

When I was a little girl of just four, I remember the family maid calling me to the spare bedroom to play a game with her. The game, she explained, would entail her lying down on the spring base single bed  and me jumping over her stomach.

Initially, I had concerns that such a game would cause her pain. But, in the way that only four-year olds can be convinced, she reassured me that the game would not hurt her at all and that it would instead be a good workout for her belly.

Somewhere in my mind, I can still hear the sound of those springs squealing as I jumped away to my heart’s content.

Recounting the new game to my mother that evening however,  put an end to it immediately.  It also put an abrupt end to Sisi Anna’s job.

A few months later, we heard that Anna had given birth to a healthy baby girl, thereby bringing unspeakable shame to her family who had already cast her off as a moral felon.

Her crime?

Anna was unmarried and the father of her child, who was apparently the married gardener from a few houses away, was refusing to take responsibility.

I am still filled with abhorrence at the thought of the role that Anna had wished me to play as her abortionist.

But with the passage of the years, I have grown to appreciate what levels of  desperation and despair must have led her to approach a clueless little child to assist her in finding a way out of her predicament.

Make no mistake; I don’t condone the measures that she took, especially since they involved an innocent party, myself. Rather, I am more open to understanding why she took such recourse.

Abortion is a topic that leaves a sour taste on many people’s tongues.

Walk the streets of Harare in Zimbabwe and you will come across many metallic placards featuring messages against the act, even citing biblical scripture about the detestability of murder in God’s eyes.

But just as we moralise and rationalise on end about whether or not sex work represents deviant behaviour, and whether or not it should be decriminalised, we go down the same torturous path when it comes to the abortion debate.

And the simple truth – as with sex work – is that regardless of the discourse and debates that take place, abortions continue to happen, whether sanctioned by the state, or deemed illegal.

Every day, young women all over Africa are having abortions.

According to research released by the Guttmacher Insitute last year, 5.6 million abortions were carried out in Africa in 2003. Only 100 000 of these were performed under safe conditions – that is, by individuals with the necessary skills, and in an environment that conformed to minimum medical standards.

And with only three African countries (Cape Verde, South Africa and Tunisia) giving unrestricted legal access to abortion to women, it would be safe to assume gross underreporting when it comes to figures pertaining to rates of abortion on the continent.

I’ll give a practical example of why I believe this is so.

Some years ago, when I was in university and living in a hostel, one of my hostel mates had an unsafe abortion. She told no one about it until she was forced to. Having  bled continuously for three weeks and in the process having exhausted her supply of sanitary ware at a time when this was a scarce commodity in Zimbabwe, she was forced to confide in a few of us that she needed help.

It’s not that we couldn’t tell that she was unwell. She had stopped interacting with anyone and when she surfaced in the communal bathrooms she looked wan and weak.

But finally, she decided to break her silence and share that she’d visited an old woman who’d given her a tablet to take for her ‘condition’. This tablet, my hostel mate, confided, made her uterus burn with acid pain and soon, she began to bleed.

She bled for all of a month and prohibited us from telling the matrons or even seeking medical assistance for her. All we could do was supply her with iron tablets, cotton wool and pads and eventually even mutton cloth to help her cope with the bleeding.

And that abortion, as well as many others, was not ever officially registered.

Why, you might ask, would women go to such desperate lengths to have an abortion?

For many young women, the cultural stigma of being an unwed mother is so strong that they feel they have to go to any length to avoid bringing shame and disgrace to their families in this way. A few years ago, a family friend committed suicide because her boyfriend had disowned the five-month-old foetus burgeoning within her womb. In her note to her parents she stated that it would be better that she died than bring humiliation to their Christian name.

Inherent in this cultural stigma is often the desertion of the partner or male responsible for the pregnancy, thus relegating the woman to position of a single mother.

And let’s not also forget that sometimes, a pregnancy is unexpected and unwanted and that the woman decides that she is simply not prepared for motherhood.

I doubt that this is ever an easy decision, but it is surely made more difficult not only by the lack of access to services such as hygienic abortions and counselling, but also by patriarchal hegemony that still prescribes the roles of women in society (ie. if you are unmarried you have no right to know anything about sex, let alone have a child).

Also, I am sure that the social perception of contraceptives, particularly condoms( which research has shown diminish in levels of usage as a relationship grows) plays a large role in the frequency of unprotected sexual acts, thereby putting women at risk of unplanned pregnancy as well as a host of other sexual infections.

Culture is the cohesive glue that binds communities together, but for many women, it is the hangman’s noose on which their freedoms are choked.

As I write, I wonder whatever became of Anna and her daughter; whether she grew to accept the child that separated her from her family; or whether her family ever took her back into their fold.

It is indeed a tragedy that so many women have to sacrifice one thing or the other for the sake of saving face in society.

For us, freedom and parity are still but utopian concepts.

The Faffy in Mai Faffy’s: a tribute to Tafadzwa Karase (1985-2010)

del.icio.us TRACK TOP
Tuesday, April 20th, 2010 by Fungai Machirori

faffyIf you have spent any amount of time in Harare, you’ll know of a popular spot called Mai Faffy’s. Located in the heart of Avondale – at one of the city’s busiest shopping complexes – Mai Faffy’s serves some of the tastiest sadza and relish to be had in Harare.

And as with any place named in such affectionate terms, there is a story behind  Mai Faffy’s – a story  I recall Faffy herself telling me.

After a spell of giving birth to only baby boys, Faffy’s mother finally had a baby girl – a girl she named Tafadzwa.

Faffy was the term of endearment that the family used to call Tafadzwa and it stuck so hard that everyone called her Faffy from then onwards.

Even to the day she died.

Faffy died in a car accident last week Monday, on the 12th of April  – a needless loss at the young age of 24. She would have turned 25 in October.

I only learnt of her death last Thursday from her best friend who sent me an SMS to tell me the shocking news.

It’s still unbelievable.

You may not have known Faffy, but on behalf of all who did know her – and in particular her friends and family – there is need to remember this remarkable young woman who has left this earth too soon.

What do you say when someone so full of life and promise dies so prematurely? Where do you start?

I remember getting a call from Faffy the day before I left to relocate to South Africa in November last year.

Faffy called me early in the evening wanting to make a plan to go out as her farewell gift to me.

I told her that I had a heap of ironing to do and would have to think about it first. Her response was typical Faffy.

“Stuff the iron in your bag and get all that done when you get to SA!”

In her world, there was too much living to be done without having to worry about mundane chores. I obviously didn’t listen to her, but now I wish I had and had just seized the moment and added yet another memory to the collection of brief moments that I spent with her.

When I asked her best friend, who’s also called Tafadzwa, what she’d like me to share about Faffy, she gave me  a long list of things.

But perhaps the most striking thing she shared was the range of people who attended Faffy’s funeral this past Saturday to pay their final respects to her. The lady who sold tomatoes from the corner of the block where Faffy lived came. Her neighbour, who named her child in honour of Faffy for escorting her to hospital in the desperate final stages of labour, also came.

Her kindness and accommodation of all people was well known and celebrated by those who loved and appreciated her most as they bade her a fond farewell.

Tafadzwa and I wanted to let you know about our remarkable friend, about the girl who always made time to brighten someone’s day, about the girl behind Mai Faffy’s.

She will live on in the vibe and atmosphere of Mai Faffy’s, in the laughter and chatter of friends and strangers alike who gather there each and every day.

So long Faffy, and thank you for the memories of a life well lived.

Whose fruit is it anyway?

del.icio.us TRACK TOP
Tuesday, March 30th, 2010 by Fungai Machirori

Growing up, an interesting predicament always befell my family. We lived next door to a family, highly prolific in gardening; and to show for their obvious passion, they had a yard abundant in flowers in kaleidoscope bloom, as well as all kinds of fruit and vegetable that could whet every visitor and passer by’s appetite, guaranteed.

One of their most productive exploits was the tall mango tree that grew in the backyard. Every year, the family was assured a harvest of juicy red-yellow fruit from it, heralding the arrival of summer.

And this is where the predicament came in.

Because the tree literally hunched over the low Durawall that separated our properties, a fair share of the harvest often fell into our yard.

Now it’s not that our neighbours didn’t try to avoid this happening. Often, I could spot the gardener on a stepladder doing his damndest to fish the fruit hanging in our territory with some form of hook or walking cane. But inevitably, a few mangoes were always missed and when their time came, they would fall daintily onto our patch of the world.

Each time that this happened, we were never sure what to do.

Should we get a bowl and gather that sweet juicy windfall, or return it to its ‘owner’?

Who was the owner anyway – the person who’d planted and nurtured the tree, or the one who benefited from its yield?

That is a scenario we can ponder for several minutes, hours even.

And the only reason I use it is because it perfectly mirrors a question posed by a few fellow Zimbabweans as we recently tried to rationalise the sad state of affairs in our nation.

We are all new ‘Diasporans’ – that term used to define Zimbabweans living and working out of the motherland – and were pondering the irony of our situation.

Born and raised in Zimbabwe, completely educated in-country, we are all now externalising the collective wealth of our knowledge to live and work in South Africa.

I believe that this is the saddest of all fates of the political and economic meltdown of our nation. We can bemoan the fact that all of our valuable natural resources, like gold and platinum and granite are being externalised to ‘friends’ in the East. But nothing is as precious to a nation as its pool of skilled persons.

Nothing shows more evidence of a robust social system (that includes positive socialisation at familial and educational level) than a capable, committed and diversified workforce.

And to prove the quality of Zimbabwe’s workforce, let me offer an example. Many of the young professionals Zimbabwe has recently produced have been trained under a plethora of trying circumstances which include a crippled economy that has led to endless academic strikes (by university and college lecturers, and teachers alike) and therefore limited learning; as well as hardships among scholars trying to raise fees for their education

The fact that even with all these factors working horrendously against them, Zimbabweans can compete with professionals trained at far more renowned institutions than the few semi-reputable (at least for now) institutions that the nation has is a testament to the great resource that is Zimbabwe’s people.

But boasting aside, there is a predicament in this scenario; much like the one I set out at the beginning of this piece.

Just like the neighbour who receives a windfall from a tree that he hasn’t planted, so do foreign nations who harvest the fruit of the Zimbabwean crop. This isn’t to say that this is a bad thing, but with the current state of socio-economic affairs in Zimbabwe, it is an unfortunate thing.

Zimbabwe’s soils are fertile for nurturing capable intellectuals and professionals – but not for retaining them. Instead, they are often forced to seek greener pastures elsewhere.

So the question remains, the question that we few Zimbabweans found ourselves asking ourselves that day.

Who owns our output – the nation that has nurtured us, or the one that benefits from our yield? Who ought we plead allegiance to?

And as with the mango tree and its fruit, this is a scenario we can ponder for several minutes, hours even.

Rest in peace Sam Mtukudzi

del.icio.us TRACK TOP
Wednesday, March 17th, 2010 by Fungai Machirori

That was the simple status update that one of my friends posted on his Facebook profile.

And that’s when the frenzied Google search for more information began. Could Sam, the exuberant, all-conquering son of the great Oliver Mtukudzi, really be dead just a few short weeks from his 22nd birthday?

I often saw Sam at the Book Café in Harare. Sometimes he played his guitar and sang a few songs – and other times, he just hung around to listen to whatever entertainment was going on.

Admittedly, I never spoke to him, but the great potential coursing through his being was always palpable, always on the verge of eruption.

One Friday night, he held a concert in the very same Book Café. Every tile of the floor was teaming with feet dancing and throbbing to his beat. Every few moments, he bobbed his head back and forth – much like his father does when he becomes immersed in his performance. A look of enjoyment and concentration coloured his face.

I remember lots of swaying, sweat and sing-alongs to each word he amplified through the microphone. I remember that night because I felt release and exhilaration.

Oliver Mtukudzi once sang a song entitled ‘Tiri Mubindu’ (We are in a garden)  that describes us all as being flowers in a garden. Translated from Shona, his words state the following:

A beautiful flower does not survive. We harvest it just as it blooms

The irony of these words is tinged with great sadness, especially when I think of how beautiful Sam’s bloom would have become had it been allowed to grow a little longer.

But he is gone.

The fragrance of his flower, however, will stay with us.

Rest in peace.

Poetry Slammed

del.icio.us TRACK TOP
Monday, March 1st, 2010 by Fungai Machirori

Have you ever heard the type of poetry that gives you goosebumps and sends you unexpectedly into a trance; the type where you just have to laugh in disbelief that anyone could come up with such lilting lyrics and resounding imagery?

I just had that experience at the ‘House of Hunger’ poetry slam – the competition where young poets and spoken word artists take to the microphone to show off their skills.

One participant, who calls himself Mugmumopus, stands before the crowd and recites a satirical poem about politicians and their many hypocrisies:

“I am a vegetarian, but meat is what I like eating in the dark,” he says, ploughing into the many double standards that political leaders offer.

Another poet tells so vividly about listening to some jazz on a kombi ride into town, how the bass beat elevates him into another world where he’s dreaming awake. As he recites the words, his eyes are shut and he wears a smile of ecstasy. You can’t help but get swept up in his dream.

Lazarus, the eventual winner, tells us in the opening line of his piece that he doesn’t write poetry but that rather, he recites notations of God’s thoughts. Everyone buzzes in anxious wait for the rest of his poem.

This is the South African edition of the ‘House of Hunger’ poetry slam, held every last Saturday of the month in Johannesburg. According to the slam coordinator, Linda Gabriel, the competition began in September, taking its name and philosophy from the ‘House of Hunger’ poetry slam that has been running at the Book Café in Harare, Zimbabwe for many years.

But looking at the astounding quality that the South African edition has to offer, it is almost too depressing to mention the deplorable state that the Zimbabwean version of the contest is now in.

I had the opportunity to be in Harare at the beginning of February to witness this sad state for myself.

Imagine a poet coming before an audience to recite a Valentine’s Day poem from his hardcover exercise book and stating the following:

“Valentine’s Day is a day commemorated on 14 February every year; It is a day when lovers exchange gifts of flowers and chocolates…”

That is NOT poetry, but rather a boring oration on the facts of things.

Another poet came to the microphone to deliver a nauseating piece in which every line had to end in ‘-tion’, so that we had ‘nations’ using Ambi ‘lotion’; we had ‘interpretations’ of ‘colonisation’ and ‘privatisation’, and every other such line that you can think of. The poem would have been clever if it had made more sense. But sadly, it was all a jumble of hopeless words.

Dambudzo Marechera, the poet and writer, after whose acclaimed novel the slam is named, must be turning in his grave.

I say this because I know what quality the Zimbabwe ‘House of Hunger’ slam has offered in the past.

At the height of the nation’s political turmoil, the ‘House of Hunger’ became literally that – a house where hungry souls converged to feed each other with words of anger and encouragement; a symbol of protest where performers such as Godobori, Comrade Fatso and Outspoken held the crowds in awe with their incisive thoughts and clever rhymes.

I will never forget one poem by the spoken word artist known as Upmost in which he described getting off the kombi from the city centre to Borrowdale because the conductor had decided to charge whatever fare he wanted.

A solitary figure, he chose to get off and walk the long journey home because he wasn’t prepared to feed into the system of greed that had heightened the anarchy and strife in Zimbabwe.

Today, none of those poets still perform at the slam.

And no one expects that they should have to. A new crop of poets and spoken word artists should have sprung up to carry on the mantle.

But sadly, it seems the new crop didn’t receive the all-important nutrients to ensure a useful harvest.

Instead, they are completely clueless about what makes good delivery of poetry. Elocution, emotion and entertainment are all seriously lacking.

For the sake of the future of poetry in Zimbabwe, I hope that those with the experience and expertise begin to sow back to the youth of our nation. It is only that way that we can sustain art initiatives and be sure that young people comprehend the great reverence with which the arts must be approached.

I am raising my hand up. I hope you’ll join me so that together, we can do something for the sake of the future.

The dead legends’ society

del.icio.us TRACK TOP
Monday, January 11th, 2010 by Fungai Machirori

So I have a problem with making fashion out of dead legends. I am sure you have all seen bags and T-shirts bearing the images of greats like Steve Biko and Martin Luther King Jnr. I often cringe to think that these men, who fought for the emancipation of their people, now find themselves pasted onto brightly coloured garb, forming a part of popular culture.

Okay, so I think it’s important for young people to be conscious of the past, to be able to identify with the efforts of predecessors who have paved the way for a better today. But I am not so sure if a T-shirt will achieve this. What about a visit to a museum or a look through a history book?

Oh, but you will tell me that young people don’t have time for that, that between Face Book and their i-pods, there is simply no time for that. So how exactly does regalia ensure that these people are conscious of who these heroes are?

I tend to feel that all these artefacts are commercial gimmicks that ensure that ordinary people feed into the capitalist machine. In a world where everything and everyone famous is patented, it’s not hard to see how all these products largely serve the interests of a few. So we think it’s cool and conscious to buy something that says Kenyatta on it, or to cruise around wearing something emblazoned with Saartjie Baartman’s derriere when all it usually is some company churning out mass-produced goods for the health of their pockets and not history.

I do agree that these products make young people more curious about the past, but it’s saying something if they are not made aware of history within the school setting, or at home.

I remember that when I was in high school – at a private school – we were never taught Zimbabwean liberation war history because our school believed it was time to bury the hatchet between blacks and whites, the two main race groups in our school. And so instead, we learnt about Chinese feudalism, the Egyptian pyramids, 18th Century England and everything else that took us away from the gory details of Rhodesian history. I believe that was the wrong way to go about things.

Imagine if German kids weren’t taught about Nazism. It’s an ugly horrible shameful past, but one that must be confronted and accepted. It is what happened, and this can never change.

And it still saddens me to think that many young people, like I once did, go to school in Zimbabwe and know zip about their own culture and history. Sadly, T-shirts, caps and bags aren’t the real solution to unlocking one’s history.

It is a far more intricate process of unraveling the hidden layers of self.