Taurai Maduna is a well known and talented Zimbabwean photographer. He’ll be sharing World Cup 2010 photographs with us. Here is a Bafana Bafana fan seizing the cup for South Africa!

All rights reserved – if you’d like to use this photograph, visit our web site and write us an email.

Last week, Kubatana sent out a text message asking Zimbabweans what they thought about the state parting with $1.8 million as payment for Brazil’s Samba boys to come in for a friendly with our national team, the Warriors. They also sought to influence our conscience by reminding us that this was being done in the face of our civil servants getting peanut salaries. I don’t know how far true this business of paying $1.8 million is since ZIFA has been denying ‘such allegations’, but I remember looking at Kaka that day and thinking that clearly, Kubatanas are not soccer fanatics.

I was among the 40 thousand plus crowd that thronged the national sports stadium for the friendly and I must say; it was an electrifying experience .The atmosphere was just eclectic with cars everywhere and momentarily, all paths leading to the stadium turned into one-way streets. The excitement was infectiousness and previously at the office, we had all been having a hard time concentrating on what we were doing, watching the clock like eagles for the half-day knock off.

Like at all football matches, people saw this as an opportunity to flaunt their different ‘jerseys’ depicting the international teams they supported. Among them were the bright yellow Brasil T-shirts that I think somehow just look better on women. Inside the stadium, vuvuzelas did most of the talking and the crowd did not seem to mind the noise or the fact that uncle Bob turned up – as is usual when the national team plays – to jinx the match. Only this time, credit clearly could not be pinned on the geriatric leader.  That Zim would lose to Brazil was predetermined. But we didn’t care. If anything, Zimbabweans in the stadium that day struggled with the true test of loyalty and patriotism tugging at their consciences and had a hard time trying not to support both teams. At the end of the day it didn’t matter which team one supported. It was enough just being there.

Seeing Kaka and Juan in flesh and bone was our Fifa moment, and the Zimbabweans in that place could not give a flying fart whether $1.8 million was paid for it or not.

Moreover, it’s not like that money would have been put to better use anyway, we all know that. And if it’s any consolation to know, by FIFA standards, $1.8 million is nothing compared to what some of these players are paid internationally. Recently, Real Madrid reportedly parted with an obscene € 8m to get one of the world’s most prestigious coaches, Jose Mourinho. Kaka is currently the highest paid soccer player in the world, with an annual salary pegged at $12.87 million. This tells me that for Brazil, it wasn’t about the money.

Nobody was ‘bussed-in’ to come and watch that match. Zimbabweans from all corners of the country willingly drove their cars or walked to the stadium and paid their hard earned money to watch the game. For those 90 minutes, 40 thousand Zimbabweans momentarily forgot they had problems. Men smuggled in vodka and made merry, for the match provided an excuse to drown their sorrows. Some were already vomiting, way before kick-off. Women clad in tight leggings and boots danced sele like crazies. It was sheer craziness.  At kick-off, the stadium steps shook and reverberated with feet stomping excitedly on the terraces. It was like being 10 again for most of us. Apart from the lousy sound system supporting the big screen and the visibly smitten mousy woman behind me who annoyingly kept screaming, ‘come on Kaka’ each time the player had the ball at his feet, this promised to be a good match. At the end of 90 minutes we had of course lost the game, but we did not go home unhappy people. If anything, the only thing that dampened our spirits was the cold and long hours spent in the slow-moving traffic negotiating our way out of stadium grounds.

So to answer the question, what do I think about paying $1.8 million (that easily would otherwise have been used for some obscure purpose like shopping in Malaysia by you know who) – if it meant seeing the five-time world cup champion team playing live on our soil; if it meant experiencing 90 minutes of hectic action and excitement and momentarily forgetting how some people are everyday screwing up this beautiful country for us and lastly, to see 40 thousand Zimbabweans laugh out loud for once with great abandon despite all their problems; the answer is I’d have that again, any day.

Zimbabwe Poets for Human Rights recently held a poetry and discussion session with the theme Press Freedom at the US Embassy Public Affairs Section.

The session began with youth activist George Makoni, representing the Youth Alliance for Democracy, discussing media freedom in Zimbabwe since 1963. Mr. Makoni interrogated the notion of Press Freedom saying that it was ‘the ability of people to express themselves through media platforms’. He gave the audience a brief historical background of the issues of media freedoms in Zimbabwe, and examined the use of the media by the state for repression. He pointed out that the methods used by the colonial government had been made use of and extended by post independence government, during and after the 2000 election period. He also made note of the legislative tools used by the ZANU PF government such as POSA and AIPPA to repress media freedom.

Zimbabwe Poets for Human Rights comprises talented spoken word artists and poets. Samuel Mahuntse was amongst the first poets to take the stage. His poem, recited in English, Ndebele and Shona was celebratory in tone. It invited the world to take advantage of the World Cup in South Africa and to come and see what the real Africa looks likes. Another poet, Gargamel recited his poem ‘Pull, Pull, Pull and Pass’. While short, I found the poem to be very witty. Gargamel evoked the traumas of Operation Murambatsvina, and examined the state of Zimbabwean youth whom he charged had become a ‘clownish cast’. Mutumwapavi, with his poem ‘Izwi’ spoke about the power of words. In ‘Chigaro’, he examined the power of position.

The gathering of young people who attended the session, while small, was enthusiastic and eager to share their ideas. Of the questions from the floor the most difficult to address was, “What is propaganda? And who determines what it is?’ Consensus was reached in the definition that propaganda is a message designed for political means. Participants also discussed the infringement of the right to information and freedom of expression. Debate arose over the right to freedom of expression insofar as it does not infringe on another persons rights. Poet Cynthia Flow Child, discussed patriotism with regard to propaganda. She stated that in Zimbabwe patriotism has come to mean an association with a certain political party.

Rejoice Ngwenya wrote an “independence special” for Kubatana which I share with you here:

Your City, My Land

Conte Mhlanga and Daves Guzha are two of the best playwrights in Zimbabwe. One resides in Bulawayo, the provincial capital of Matabeleland that took the biggest brunt of Zimbabwe’s post-independence ‘genocidal’ human rights violations in the 1980s. The other is based in Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital, the seat of one of the most brutal and senseless government in modern history. Both men are my friends, having met them last year at a regional arts workshop.

I am so impressed by their history of protest activism. Once in a while, their ‘play houses’ are visited by the proverbial men in dark glasses who want to glean anything off their plots that vaguely pokes fun at our very own ageing dictator Robert Gabriel Mugabe. My view is that there is no play or work of art worth its salt if it makes no reference to the liberation of Zimbabweans from ZANU-PF fascism. This may sound really negative; indeed, oppression of citizens is a negative force. Those like Mhlanga, Guzha and I who have the courage and rare opportunity to say our opinions, we might as well have fun doing it – messages full of laughter, tell me about it!

And so during that workshop – in a spontaneous feat of bravado – I foolishly committed myself to contesting for the ‘best playwright of the year’ and promised to deliver a gem to Conte and Dave. Mind you, the nearest I ever encountered playwriting was only reciting lines that were shoved at me by Bev Parker, my ‘old’ lecturer at United College of Teacher Education. Some things are easier said than done!  The title of my play was simply going to be Assegai Technology with a curiously named main character Your Excellent Sir, the Good Leader-for-Life – a sophisticated, enlightened but unorthodox, crude and jovial middle-aged cell-phone addicted dictatorial president of an African country called Haraland.  He is obsessed with this compulsive and paranoid idea that someday, King Bengula who died one hundred years ago in Bengula Province south of his country would lead an insurrection to challenge his authority.  Your Excellent Sir, the Good Leader-for-Life is afflicted by this recurrent dream that King Bengula will incarnate through Team Impi – four rebels based in Bengula Province to spearhead this rebellion. He claims that a fellow dictator Yoom Shin Sha of an Asian country called East Kora, has promised him portable guns with rubber bullets laced with radio-active material to suppress the rebellion. Problem one: Haraland has no money to pay for the guns, but his wife owns a diamond mine which he can persuade her to give away to Yoom Shin Sha in exchange for the guns. Problem two: The mine is located in a national game reserve, so the East Koraian also wants to have a licence to hunt the endangered rhino! Your Excellent Sir, the Good Leader-for-Life tells Yoom Shin Sha to wait until after the elections. Yoom Shin Sha promises or claims to have delivered the contraband even before the elections, but of course he is lying.  Problem three: Team Impi are all geniuses of different professions who are designing an advanced model of a Bengula assegai that bounces off bullets to the sender, much like an Australian boomerang! In the play, all this ‘conspiracy’ is only seen and heard from conversations that Your Excellent Sir, the Good Leader-for-Life has on his cell phone with both Yoom Shin Sha and ironically, Team Impi.

Just as I am about to finish this play, I read a report of a massive land scandal at Harare Municipality – Daves Guzha’s local town and am immediately inspired to write another play I will aptly title  Your City, My Land. I want its plot to be less painful than Assegai Technology. The main character will be named Leapfrog – a young black policeman who retired from active service in 1980 to work as a security guard for a rich white banana wholesaler based in a town called Haracity. The banana man had never married, and has no children so when he passes on; he bequeaths one of his many double-storey houses to his loyal askari – Leapfrog. The house is too expensive to maintain, so Leapfrog approaches Comrade Zvamahara – a Member of Parliament from his rural village to rent the house. For almost twenty years Leapfrog continues to work as a guard-cum-messenger in a real estate company, until he is enlightened to sell his house to start an own estate agency! But there is problem. Comrade Zvamahara had deliberately forged the lease into an agreement of sale, so all along, Leapfrog thought Comrade Zvamahara was paying rentals, yet he was receiving monthly instalments!

Luckily, Leapfrog had befriended a man named Makoini, an experienced housing officer in Haracity who helps him win his case against Comrade Zvamahara. It is through this friendship that Leapfrog and Makoini ensure scores of Leapfrog’s relatives are clandestinely registered on the housing waiting list. He retires from formal employment to concentrate on developing and selling the housing and industrial stands issued to his relatives. On realising that Leapfrog is getting wealthy, Comrade Zvamahara sends an emissary to convince Leapfrog to enter politics so he can ‘one day take over as member of parliament’ of the village. The two men make more money and get more property through Makoini, but when the latter retires from Haracity, the only ‘gift’ he gets from Leapfrog and Comrade Zvamahara is a motorcycle! Makoini is so distraught and heartbroken. In a feat of diabolic rage and vengeance, he sells his story to a local weekly newspaper called The Insider and reveals the transgressions of both Leapfrog and Comrade Zvamahara. Just before the two are arrested, they escape to Zambezia, a neighbouring country.

I only hope that either of my playwright friends Conte Mhlanga or Daves Guzha will accept    Your City, My Land and perhaps, just perhaps I might join this elite team who indeed are worthy members of Zimbabwe’s protest theatre hall of fame!

Rejoice Ngwenya, 16 April 2010, Harare