Zimbabwe’s Sunday Mail, the nation’s so-called leading family newspaper, has yet again proved how insensitive and unprofessional it is. Choosing to ignore vociferous criticism for carrying a horrendous photograph of one of the victims of the recent fuel tanker accident, they went on to republish the same photograph on page 5 of their newspaper this weekend. Clearly the Sunday Mail is keen to publicise charred human remains. How do you like your corpse? Medium, well done or scorched. Just ask the Sunday Mail.

With yet another horrific Zimbabwean traffic accident, Chris Kabwato’s most recent piece carries extra weight. Make yourself a cup of coffee and read his fine writing:

AS ONE drives on our country’s highways (highway here being a polite term for those dangerous pot-holed paths that connect our cities) there is one thing that one gets used to: the sight of a broken down bus. As one who literally grew up plying the Mutare-Harare route on a Tenda or Kukura Kurerwa bus, I know the pain and despair when the bus gives up the ghost. But it seems to be happening just too often nowadays.

In 1992, because of my mad love for soccer, I used to take the first bus out on a Sunday morning and do the 265km journey to Harare to watch Reinhard Fabisch’s Warriors slaughteringTruck/bus other national teams. At one time the bus of choice for us was called “Scud Mabasa” and it was driven by an equally crazy man who wore a permanent huge grin which pretty much resembled the front grill of his blue and white machine. Serious.

Immediately after the game it was a mad rush to Msasa to try to catch the last Tenda bus. If you missed that then it was the gonyeti ­– long-distance trucks. Believe me these were a nightmare in themselves – the drivers were always garrulous, slow and overly keen on stopping and piling more passengers into that small cabin. One time I jumped onto a gonyeti driven by a man who had a severe tummy problem. I will spare you the details but you can imagine how many times we had to stop and the driver would rush into the nearby bush…

Now where am I going with this road tale? Each week we are buffeted by events that bring contradictory emotions in us – the economy is re-bounding we are told and at the same time some people behave like Nazi blackshirts and storm parliament. The result can be that feeling of uncertainty that comes whenever you jump on any of our “chicken” buses.

To get a perspective on uncertainties our country throws at us, let’s go on a journey on the Pungwe Star bus from Mabiya to Chigodora. You board the bus – not because that is the one you really want – but the touts at the terminus do not give you a choice. They seize your bag and the next thing your Monarch suitcase is on the roof being bundled with other luggage. For that involuntary service the “hwindi” will demand a tip or else… Ask yourself if this is too different from being frog-marched to an election booth and being told where to place your “X”.

Once on the bus you will discover that the bus is like a mini-country – there are all sorts of people there – women, men, children…But like in the real world you will be forced to cohabit with strange characters – the young boy who opens his “skaf-tin” to take out two boiled eggs and salt wrapped in khaki paper. The woman who buys mealie cobs, misses the window as she tries to throws the sheaves and messes up your Michael Jackson red and black leather jacket. The drunkard who piles in sorghum beer, washes it down with some lagers and forgets there is no loo on the bus (he will later shout himself hoarse for “Recess, driver!”)

The bus conductor is a greasy character that all passengers are in awe of (very much a mini-Joseph Chinotimba or Jabulani Sibanda). He has not given anyone their change – he has written what’s due to you on your ticket and he will sort out the change when he feels like. Should you complain rather loudly he threatens to stop the bus and chuck you out – right there in the middle of the msasa bush.

There will be roadblocks – countless stops by officers asking for the same things over and over again. For the bus crew roadblocks are like toll-gates…

The inevitable tyre puncture happens (could this be the equivalent of inflation?) It is discovered that the spare tyre has no pressure and also it is a “snake” (it is worn out). Worse still, the hydraulic jack is missing. The wait begins. The povo does not have a clue if a spare bus will be sent. No one knows if the driver has called for help after all he had said his cellphone had no airtime… Just like a country there is no plan B.

All that people can say on their phones to anxious relatives is the dramatic – “Bhazi rafa” (literally, the bus has died). When the bus dies no one gets a refund. It’s like contributing to a public housing fund and the next thing you know some clever folk have swindled you of your money and built themselves mansions.

But it could be worse – an accident could happen. At one time we seemed to be on a mission to kill our farmers – think Dande Bus Disaster 1982 (61 farmers killed), Chivake Bus Disaster 1989 (78 farmers perished) and we had to add schoolchildren too with 80 killed in the 1991 Nyanga Bus Disaster (the overall total was 87).

Can we safely declare 2008 to be our worst year in living memory –the year of when the locust ate the economy and politics contrived to deny the will of the people? Was this our Nyanga Bus Disaster?

Or maybe we avoided a total disaster but we have the unique arrangement of three drivers who constantly argue about who should be at the wheel and where the bus should be going? The third driver is content to be just called a driver.

In any case the Zimbabwe bus is heading towards an uncertain destination. Maybe one day the passengers shall take matters into their own hands and demand to be delivered home – safe and kenge? For now the bus croaks on…

I heard the other a man say to another: “Don’t speak to me in Shona. When you are here in Bulawayo speak to me in Ndebele.” The other guy said, “Okay, let’s speak in English then,” to which the first guy retorted, “How can you expect me to speak English that comes all the way from Britain when I cannot speak Shona here in Zimbabwe.”

I couldn’t figure whether this was just buddy-based banter or this was indeed a no nonsense exchange, yet it raised once again the emotions that surround the issue of language in Bulawayo where there is an increasing outcry by Ndebele-speakers concerning how the language is being decimated. The first guy’s response was exactly what got senior Zanu PF official Joshua Malinga into trouble when he told off a cop who had addressed him in Shona. Malinga fumed and told the cop that he had no business addressing him in that language here in Bulawayo.  He was promptly arrested.

The other day, a letter writer to one of the dailies complained about the wrong Ndebele spellings on the Zimbabwean passport. Again the other day, one was complaining about place names carried in street signs about the appalling misspellings. Inevitably for many here, this has been interpreted as part of a grand agenda to render the Ndebele language second class and this among other things is what no doubt has given “secessionists” here ammunition to call for self-rule or whatever. Yet you just have to ask yourself what is simmering underneath because we know what has happened elsewhere based on violated tribal and ethnic sensibilities.

The next question of course is how are the country’s political leaders themselves reading this obviously divisive issue of language especially at a time when we already know that some of them have traded barbs labeling each other tribalists.  You do get the sense that this is an extension of the troubles of the 1980s which the government men who choose to explain “salutes” instead are so reluctant to address. Touché.

A photograph from a street in America. Similar graffiti in Zimbabwe please, to remind us that those in power are taking us for a ride.
From: Dangerous Minds

Gone are days when people would cry their lungs out to express their emotions for the loss of a loved one. Instead, as way of celebrating the life of a loved one who has passed on, people have now resorted to lightening the occasion with some music leading into a party. When I was growing up funerals were associated with somber church hymns and sad faces. Laughing at a funeral was taboo because one was expected to be mourning.  I remember back in 2001 my Uncle had a nasty fight with my Aunt after they attended a funeral in the low-density suburbs of Harare. By the slip of the tongue my aunt was overheard telling her friends that she really enjoyed the funeral to the extent that it looked like a wedding … “Asikana takafara zvekuti nhamo yanga yoita kunge muchato, taingoti kana toda chikafu tongo shevedzera waiter ouya nacho” … meaning we really enjoyed ourselves and one could think it was a wedding because there was catering service at the funeral. I wouldn’t blame my aunt for being unAfrican or for saying those things because coming from the high-density suburbs she expected to see grieving people wearing sad faces just like any funeral she had previously attended.

In Zimbabwean culture one is not supposed say you enjoyed the funeral no matter how much fun you had. But with changing times and the embracing of other cultures, funerals are now places where one can put on dancing shoes and place your favourite music request from the master of ceremonies. In a similar scenario Jimmy Jimalo, the young brother of Philip Chiyangwa, before he died asked for a live band and a party at his funeral. Music promotion was his business and as a nice farewell Sulumani Chimbetu gave a stunning performance. To some people this sounds like showing off or an extravagance but to some they call it changing times and a befitting sent-off.

I’ve just seen this headline and intro from The Zimbabwean, about alerts being circulated via ZBC.

Electricty Warnings
Zimbabwean’s have been warned to brace themselves for daily power outages with cash-strapped Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority (Zesa) unable to pay its dues.

I thought. Isn’t that what we’re already experiencing?