I recently discovered that I needed about US$400 to have my name changed to MGCINI NYONI, the name my father gave me. My father disappeared in the early eighties during the Gukurahundi madness. I was only about three or so. Along with thousands other Ndebele people he was hunted down by the notorious Korean trained fifth brigade. He was not a dissident like other thousands of people lying in mass graves somewhere. In some cases bellies of pregnant women were slit open by sadistic soldiers. Armored vehicles ran over the hands of school teachers as they lay on the ground. Entire villages were shot and killed, their homesteads burnt down because they did not know were the dissidents were. After the disappearance of my father, mother remarried and we assumed the surname of our stepfather. I know she meant well, may her soul rest in peace (we buried her mid last year). Thanks to Mugabe, I’m now an orphan. My family will have to go hungry for several months for me to be able to afford changing my name. Shouldn’t Mugabe pay for it and compensate me for the disadvantages I grew up with because I did not have a father who had been killed by forces sent by Mugabe to do some ethnic cleansing. His crime was belonging to the Ndebele tribe.

The closure of official Bureau de Changes gave rise to Osiphatheleni in the city of Bulawayo. They got their name from the fact that they stand along the street and say Usiphatheleni (what have you brought us) Bhudhi, Sisi, Mama or Baba. Or they used to. Now they say, “cross rate” (US$ to Rand, Pula to Rand and so on).

It was a few individuals to begin with and as inflation rose and the loss of value to the Zimbabwean dollar gathered momentum until it was like a runaway train, the streets were invaded by women in white dresses. Some belonging to the religious sect postoli and some just deciding to make white the uniform of the trade. Everyone wanted a piece of the get-rich-overnight cake.

The Zimbabwean dollar was suspended and the rug was pulled from under the feet of many. Drumsticks of fried chicken were literally snatched from the mouths of obese woman. At the height of the Zimbabwean economic crisis Osiphatheleni kept fast food outlets in business because they could afford the ridiculously priced chicken pieces and Russian sausages. A lot of the former Osiphatheleni had to stoop to selling feet and heads imported from South Africa.

I have since noticed that Osiphatheleni are slowly trickling back onto the street and a lot of people hate the sight of them. A lot of people have a bone or two to chew with Osiphatheleni because they believe inflation was fueled by them. The exchange rate between the US$ and the Rand recently changed from 1:10 to 1:9 and there are a lot of conspiracy theories revolving around Osiphatheleni. One day I had to explain to a group of very irate women that Osiphatheleni adhere to international exchange rates.

Recently I had a chance to witness first hand the important role played by Osiphatheleni in the absence of an official Bureau de Change. I went into a supermarket to buy some groceries. I had some Botswana Pulas on me and I was told that the exchange rate they were using was 1 Pula : 1 Rand. I promptly went to Osiphatheleni and got R120 for every P100 I had.

And watching the till almost crying as the operator battled with the cross rates between various currencies; I was even more convinced that Osiphatheleni had an important role to play in our multi-currency economy.

Getting into town in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, is particularly problematic on a normal day. On a rainy day it is a nightmare. The rain presents all sorts of problems to those intending to get to ‘work’. There are all sorts of options available to those intending to travel to ‘work’. There are private cars that pick up people on the road because that is the only way the owners can buy fuel for their cars, otherwise they would have to park their cars. Commuters prefer these because they are more comfortable as opposed to commuter omnibus that carry up to 20 passengers instead of the recommended 15.  There is also the option of traveling at the back of pick up trucks that charge less than the commuter omnibuses.

Work is anything that brings in a bit of income, not necessarily formal employment. I am still trying to figure out how most of the people I know make a living. I am not counting those that sell sweets, sugar and various forms of farm produce on the street. There seems to be a form of employment called ‘dealing’ that I don’t seem to know much about. Whenever I ask some of my friends why they travel to town on a daily basis when they do not seem to have any visible form of employment, they are rather cagey. My dear friends do not look me in the eye and are fidgety when I challenge their source of income. It’s like asking a Mafia boss what he is carrying in his bag.

Those intending to get to ‘work’, usually stand by the traffic lights central to Luveve, Lobengula and Emakhandeni high density suburbs. Here they get rides from ancient pick up trucks that charge them R3. Once in a while a loud-mouthed individual joins the group and influences them into refusing to pay R3 and the trip to town will cost R2. Conventional commuter omnibuses cost R5, so that is a saving of R2 per trip. It might not seem much, but a return trip for R6 means a saving of R4. Enough for a trip into town on the back of a pick up truck, with R1 left over to buy arctic ice mints that are sold for R1 for 8 by street vendors.

Not all those intending to get to town can afford even the R3. Some walk into town. For those who walk and for those who travel on the back of pick up trucks a  rainy day presents all sorts of problems. For those traveling on the back of pick up trucks, the rain lashes and whips your face so much that by the time you get into town  you are freezing and as disoriented as a headless  chicken. Traveling on the back of an open truck on a rainy day, one is tempted to think that the foot brigade – those who walk into town are better off. But they are not. Following the ‘tarred’ road is a rather along way to walk, so people take short cuts using mainly footpaths. On a rainy day these are very muddy and any false stepping and one finds oneself knee deep in mud. Besides being rather too long a route, on the ‘tarred’ road route one an easily be run over by the speeding commuter omnibuses trying to avoid rather deep and wide potholes. The potholes are large enough for a child to do a backstroke in. Either that or a speeding car will hit a pothole and the pedestrians on the side of the road will find themselves drenched in muddy water, and getting into town looking like that is not good for ‘business’.

After somehow making it into town, the workers are presented with a different kind of problem. They cannot stand on street corners and do their ‘business’ when it is pouring rain. So whilst the rain is hailed as a good thing by mainly the farming community and by leaders of Bulawayo who see it as a solution to perennial water woes that are faced by the city. The indigenous ‘business’ people curse rainy days as they disrupt their livelihoods.