By Shami Fred
The loud hue and cry of Zimbabweans over Henry Olonga’s denunciation of his Zimbabwean citizenship, is a peculiar paradox to me, and absolutely hilarious, of its unintentional irony.
Most Zimbabweans, live in their topsy-turvy world. They choose willingly who is worthy of the title Zimbabwean, regardless of your background. That is only if you have made it in life.
Indulge me for a while.
The attached picture is of me circa 21yrs. 1st year i
n college. I had just been dumped by a guy I had been speaking to for 2 months.
Reason: Simply because, and I quote verbatim, ” Haa my family and friends vakaziva kuti uri mubrandaya haa hazvibude”. I was an alien. My sister Maria, was to suffer the same fate years later.
Was I surprised? Not at all. It was my reality.
You see, as a hyphenated person, you live in a no-man’s land.
My father, who was from what I thought was Malawi back then,( a story for another day), had married my mother. A pure Karanga from the Moyo Clan.
Having been born and bred in Zimbabwe myself, I didn’t belong to neither Zimbabwe nor Malawi. The Malawians didn’t know of my existence, Zimbabweans didn’t want the burden either.
Born Stateless, I was.
Try as I did, I just didn’t belong. I was labeled an alien from birth. An alien who didn’t know of any other country, but Zimbabwe.
In my primary school years, my second name was a dead give away. Fred!
The name gave chuckles to teachers, schoolmates and relatives alike. It could only mean one thing: MUBRANDAYA!! A derogatory term synonymous to Mukwerekwere, for effect.
In school, my siblings and I were forever segregated. This, probably created the everlasting bond we have, for we were all alone.
Then enter the hit maker: Zex Manatsa.
No musician has ever given me palpitations like Zex Manatsa. As the daily drip of his hit songs like Chechule Wavala bottom and Antonyo turned into a downpour, sexualising Zimbabweans with glee, what seemed to be sung in jest, turned out to be the Xenophobes opium. The songs lacerated every ” Mubrandaya” at any opportunity.
Pure Zimbabweans, just improved their vocabulary. We were upgraded from all the derogatory names like Mabrandaya, Mabwidi, Manyasarande, Mabvakure, Deera Njanji, Moscan etc, to Chechule and Antonyos.
The guy had no idea that he had woken the monster. I remember attending PE sports in my shorts. This guy called Clement, came and pulled down my shorts. All he did was to shout that Chechule anavala bottom.
Even the teachers were in stitches. It wasn’t molestation afterall.
Noone was coming to rescue me. Even my protectors. Except BaShami, he found the guy and gave him a whooping.
I am writing from a victim’s point. It sounds inhumane to say that when Zex passed, I breathed.
For many Zimbabweans to do the boy that cried wolf, over Henry’s denunciation of his Zimbabweness, is a self-serving hypocrisy, as a good number are perpetual xenophobes from a very young age into adulthood, knowingly or unknowingly, sometimes shrouded in jest, oblivious to the eternal damage this causes to other people.
It normally ranges from petty to pathetic.
We have often heard remarks like oh he excelled in everything because Mubrandaya. A prejudice that simply means, as long as they are from Malawi, Mozambique and to a lesser extent, Zambian, they use enhancers like Juju to excel.
Simply meaning, the mentioned demographics don’t have the capability to think independently.
In my teenage years, the yawning gulf between my hosts and anyone from my descent, gave substance to my observation, albeit uncharitable, observation nonetheless,that most Zimbabweans were hopeless xenophobes. And it’s systematic.
At the age of 9, a word was sent from my maternal homestead to my father.
There was a traditional family cleansing to be done at the village river as had been prescribed by the family medium spirit( Svikiro). That meant as long as you suckled a Mamoyo breast, you were invited.
My excitement couldn’t be contained. I was going to mingle with my cousins. It was going to be a memorable night of riotous jollity.
Immediately after we got to the village, an Uncle approached us. He spoke to my Mum in hushed tones. I could hear my Mum’s voice rising. She was clinically upset about something.
The following morning, everyone was woken up at 4am to go to the river.
When we got there, my sisters and I were separated from everyone. We were sat a good distance from them. We were not to touch anything. My cousins at this moment were being donned in different regalia. The cousins from the Mamoyo’s side, were addressed by their totems.
My sisters and I were totemless. The gulf was visible and a necessity.
I asked my Mum why was that. She served me a vacant stare.
I was to be informed there was a deferential hierarchy. All the “pure MaKarangas”, were to be cleansed first. Not to be mixed Mabrandayas. We were also totemless, according to this Uncle of mine( of course, another bout of hopeless ignorance).
This meant we were impure by virtue of our descent.
My Mum couldn’t hide her tears anymore.
She announced that she was leaving together with her kids. If we were not good enough to be among others, then she would rather we face whatever it is that was said to be inflicting the clan and needed cleansing.
At that very moment, the Svikiro pointed at us and asked why we were not with others?. He asked what was going on, AmaShami, crying full blown, narrated what had taken place. The Svikiro wasn’t having it. That’s how we were cleansed first. My Uncles were told off and lectured on the importance of unity and how we all had totems. Saved by the Spirit. Phew.
My father couldn’t have married into the worst xenophobes. Growing up we were always Manyasarande or Mabwidi. I do pray to the gods that I appreciate the fact that, they only found out I am from Mozambique, in my old age.
I have always pondered why Kenyans, Tanzanians and other Africans seem to be palatable to Zimbabweans. I am not sure what the trio that is Malawi,Zambia and Mozambique did to them.
Of the trio, there is also a hierarchy. With Mozambicans being at the bottom of the food chain.
I did reiterate the cleansing story to my Uncles and Aunts recently. Everyone has developed acute amnesia. Infact, the derogatory jibes seem to have subsided. And Mozambique is now appealing.
My own family are a good cross section of Zimbabweans. When someone is of a good stead in the society, like Henry, Tinashe etc, we tend to claim them, with toxic vehemence forgetting how we tossed them into statelessness in the prior years.
When my father married a second wife, he made sure they used a Shona sounding surname, Muchavanhuwa, hoping to shield them from the wrath.
They were still labeled aliens.
In my teenage years, in this milieu of sullen suspicion, secrecy was a necessary and constant companion. Caution was my watchword.
By the time I was in Form 4, I had become so desperate because even the teachers would call you Mubwidi with impunity. My cousin and I decided to visit the ID registration offices in Bindura, hoping to change our names.
That left the officers in stitches.
There on, my coping mechanism was to be a brilliant actress in front of people who disguised her private sorrow. And my intellectual hinterland, needed development.
My Father had introduced me to reading books at a very tender age. I have maintained that to date. My escape.
My achievement was to find my true self in the face of overwhelming odds.
My statelessness has pretty much built my character. Very suspicious of people. I don’t quite feel like I belong. So I am an introvert. I actually get social anxieties and hate introductions. Because they are always followed by Fred, that’s not Zimbabwean.
At best, they think I married a whiteman for convenience.
As I have grown older, it seems I am a bit tolerated.
Until I attended a meeting with some Minister last month.
He welcomed my team and I with an exaggerated bravado. After we were sat, he wanted to know who we were.
” My name is Shamiso Fred…. before I could finish, the Honorable gentleman was already falling off his seat, laughing his lungs out.
He went and stood by the window, for some fresh air.
Finally, after he caught his breath, ” What the hell is Fred”, he barked. The laughter continued and was joined by a few nervous laughs from the room.
Tears were stinging but over the years I have practiced composure in such instances.
But that brought me to when I was 10.
My Dad came home beaming. He had been told that the Government was now ready to allow people to denounce their original citizenship. 2 days later, he came back with a new ID. ALIEN!! Was stamped across.
My young self had no idea what that stood for. I was to find out when I went to take my own ID. I was sent from pillar to post. I had to fill in different forms to denounce my pseudo citizenship. Mind you, I was born and bred in Zimbabwe.
But here I was, forced to denounce what I had never been.
I was still an alien, Mubwidi, Murudzi, Mubrandaya, MuNyasaranda, paying for a crime I never committed.
” Hazvina basa vanangu”, said my teary Father one of these days when my Half-sister had been subjected to the same thing my family had suffered over and over again.
This desperation made me want to understand my roots. After realizing I was actually from Mozambique, I decided to go find my roots.
My Father in tow, we crossed Nyamapanda. 2019 May.
This is when I learnt how futile my situation was. My father, armed with a passport showing he was born in Mozambique, was welcomed with both hands. He was escorted back to the car and was told he would be served from there. This was the national character throughout my stay.
On the other hand, I was subjected to the most inhumane humiliation. The centre had no electricity, so the immigration officer advised me to go purchase a candle from a tuckshop about 500m down the road.
Mind you, I didn’t have a visa stamped into my Zimbabwean passport yet, so I couldn’t drive there. After I came back, I handed over a packet of candles to the officer, who looked at me like I had lost my marbles. He started laughing. He went inside his office and brought back a gentleman of measurable girth,who seemed to be having breathing issues.
He asked what was the matter. The officer told him I wanted to bribe him using a packet of candles.
I was taken into a dingy room where I was lectured about how We Zimbabweans had treated Mozambicans. Now what was I doing in their territory.
I begged to be let out to my ailing Father and if they so wished, I would go back to the land where I was a nobody too. 3hrs later, after my Father’s intervention and a brown envelope of course,I was released and so the journey continued.
With the benefit of hindsight, the acuity is 20/20. This was the moment I realized I was a faceless human being who didn’t belong anywhere on earth.I was to learn on the hoof that actually, there was no training, backup or advice on how to deal with Statelessness. Those in power, approach the issue with laissez-faire
One just needs to look into how even those in power, who are of Malawian descent are treated. Athletes et al. One mistake, it’s always, ngaadzokere kuMalawi Mubwidi uyu. Regardless of them having not been in the said country. Pure Zimbabweans can’t make mistakes.
Most xenophobic Zimbabweans come across as haughty and empty. The caustic criticisms sometimes are based on their obliviousness to ignorance.
Moanna’s death for instance. The family were forced to do an almost ” open” funeral to appease their hosts.
People were commenting that Rice richabikwa nemvura yasvina mumatumbu aMoana. A myth that has taken residence in most people’s brains.
To a worm in a horseradish, the world is horseradish.
Before I conclude my narrative, allow me to give you another nauseating example that happened in my homestead in 1986.
A bunch of drunkards from the nearby Chikwama farm, loved singing. After imbibing the merry waters, and beer halls were closed, they would walk almost 10km back to the farm. Men and women. Singing and dancing.
The African spirit. Not hurting anyone.
Unbeknownst to them, they had developed 2 enemies. The Villagers that felt Mabrandaya were noise polluters in the middle of the night,and their Bwana. Their Muzungu didn’t like the idea that these guys would drink on Sundays and will be late for work on Mondays.
He crossed over to the villages and had an agreement with the locals.
The methodology was simple. You see a farm worker imbibing, beat the heck out of him, as payment, Bwana would buy the villagers the opaque beer. My Uncles included. They still reminisce to this, today.
I had the committee planning on how to execute this. They would simply hide in strategic positions with different types of weaponry.
Only ” MaZezurus” would be spared. I felt like puking. I had no means of warning the farm dwellers about the impending doom.
As the sun set, my innards churned as I heard the unmistakable voices of the imbibers.
The leader approached the first hiding place. He was shut up by a left hook struck by my cousin. Dude started vomiting. The villagers were in glee.
The assault and attacks went on forever until I heard a wailing voice of a woman.
My Mum thought enough of this, as I escorted her using the moon light, a sound of a bland object hit the woman. That’s when we realised she had a baby on her back…but it was too late. She fell on her back. The thud and the sound of a crack that followed, sent me vomiting. The baby cried once and that’s it.
To my knowledge, no arrests were ever made. There was and is no justice for the farm workers who are predominantly alien anyways.
The singing stopped that night. Their crime was their identity.
2018, I sent my team to Train Water Harvesting in Mrewa village. The Legal team was on board. Their leader Yvonne, came back traumatized. The Sabhukus had presented to them some serious issue. Most children didn’t and couldn’t go past G7. The reason being they didn’t have IDs.Their parents were immigrants who were displaced during the shambolick land appropriation.
Teenage pregnancy and drugs was now order of the day.
We wrote a report and submitted it to Social services.
Follow ups yielded zilch.
After 2019, we realized my Father, who now was the rightful owner of Wakuwa Kingdom Throne in Mozambique, wasn’t registered in his country since he left in 1950. We started from scratch to process his birth certificate, and ID. Thank God the Mozambican Ambassador in Zimbabwe and Mozambique were very helpful in fulfilling this. It did cost tens of thousands of dollars, but it was achieved.
Next, he now needed to sort out his Zimbabwean papers so all his kids would be non-aliens.
He was told to bring each and everyone of his children’s birth certificates stating he is the father, marriage certificates and witnesses. My Mum’s family was not an issue for they had a Chapter 37 marriage certificate.
As for my half siblings, their mothers were not recognized by law.
My Father died an Alien. He needes 2 death certificates however. Zimbabwean and Mozambican
He belonged to no country in life, but has two certificates at death.
Stateless faceless human statistic!!
Even in death he wasn’t spared. We were informed inorder for him to be buried at the farm, we needed permission from Chief Masembura because he was an alien. As he laid in state, we did the needful to give him a decent burial. We had to pay a fee and a goat to the Chief.
After his burial, beyond his grave, we were summoned kwaMambo.
You see, my Father being a King where he comes from, he has to buried close to a river. The King from Mozambique attended the funeral, together with the Village head, we chose a place about 500m from a creek. But 3 days after his burial, Mambo called us. Some villagers had gone and reported that an alien had been buried near the river. This, inspite of other locals being buried by the river bed.
We attended the Dare and explained to Mambo. Thank goodness Chief Masembura is educated, he took this as a learning curve. He said the region had never considered other people from different regions and their customs. He believed my Father, from his grave, was trying to teach another Mambo on
this oversight.
A new local law was born. He said a place to bury people of different customs to be identified hitherto. He also announced the place where my Father was buried, should be our ” heroes acre”.
We had pay a goat for his trouble. The people who had reported, were forced to pay 2 goats each.
They were close relatives. I had just spent $600 to fence one of these guys gardens as he said was facing issues with livestock.
This unmitigated disaster looming in Southern Africa has resulted in a deep- seated and intense feeling of rejection describing a bleak emotional landscape where most feel guilty for not being accepted as equals due to who their forebears were.
Some can only hope they remain
in relative obscurity.
The yawning gap between the “locals” and aliens in Zimbabwe does not tally with the way the world moving and most are stuck in a xenophobic time warp without the necessary visual acuity to appreciate the dynamic demographics that have taken place in this particular Geographical campus.
The Henry’s of this country can only dream of hope: hope of the chance of fulfillment, of freedom and of a future he was free at last to belong.
I am now being invited to input on issues at village level, by the same people that couldnt stand Mubrandaya. A relation’s burial was recently postponed because my flight would only land later that day.
We cant bury until Shami arrives, they said.
To Henry my brother, I UNDERSTAND!!.
Success became his mitigatory intervention.
The loud hue and cry about Henry was because he is a success. It would be heartwarming to see the same outrage over the unsuccessful third generation who are in this country
