A diary of the festive season

LAWRENCE OOKEDITSE
Correspondent | Friday January 8, 2010 00:00

In particular that it is a waste of time, energy and money, to have to go home to some village. In his view, having one's entire life in the City and not having to trek to some village is desirable. Well, I am reflecting upon this as it is a hobby of mine for my mind to sometimes wander off and end up reflecting upon little and at times what others would term 'trivial' nuances.

Well, unlike you Loose Cannon and this by no means is a rejoinder to what you wrote, I happen to be very much a country boy, though I believe not just a country boy. The day prior to leaving, December 17, I am engrossed with getting the car in perfect condition for the journey, I even miss out on the Pan African Universities Debate Championships activities.  Equally, I am excited about the likely village encounters-the old men and women, the young men and the young women, the lifestyle and of course the festive season soccer tournament-I even already know the fixtures!

We depart early on December 18, It is a Friday and our great wish is to get home before the rest of the 'pilgrims' are on the road. This proves helpful and by 10 am we are in Francistown and I feel the difference. First, no offence will be taken I hope, this place is hot and stuffy. If one is unable to stay calm it is easy to pick up little arguments with those around them. It is evident it has not rained for quite some time and the heat is just too much even for a boy who grew up around these parts.

Secondly, this town comes across as some sort of trans-frontier town-it is a meeting point for people from a good number of countries-refugees from as far away as East Africa, the Somalis in particular are here and people from Zimbabwe are hard to miss. I am no demographer, but the population of this town appears to have doubled up, unfortunately, the space has not. If anything, the space has shrunk as the malls were springing up.   The famous Blue Jacket street, and I hear it was named after one of the Gold rush's miners who pioneered the town and was often walking about in a blue jacket, is a jungle of humans. Getting through here is difficult, you have to literally wade through other people and anyone who doesn't get to wish Zimbabwe was the thriving place it used to be, has not been to this place or has seen worse somewhere else in the world, but not in this country. I am tolerant, I know my fair share of politics, sociology and international relations and I condemned the xenophobic attacks in South Africa-and Lord knows I still do, but after wading through such crowds one gets to some point where they see why some people attack foreigners. It is neither 'cool' nor right to wish others could just go back to their country; after all they are victims of some self-proclaimed big man after all, who for all intents was once just a tiny baby and I don't know where he gets all these lofty ideas of being a little god in charge of other people's destiny. Thy beloved Francistown though has changed and a major part of the change is best explained by the rot Mugabe, the West, Tsvangirai and others have brought upon or in a way helped occur and continue festering on Zimbabwe. This town has too many people.

Third and forth, buying a bottle of water is a problem because the outlets are almost running short of cold bottled water due to increased demand thanks to a conspiracy of the overwhelming number of people and the scotching sun; and the traffic flow and parking is even worse. I always thought Gaborone was 'one hell of a place' to find parking but the 'Ghetto' is even worse, at least during the festive season. What's more, the traffic flow at the roundabout near the major shopping centres is its own story; here no one cares about waiting for anyone. Vehicles literally stop in the middle of the roundabout to negotiate the chaos of going through.  After buying some groceries and a few other things in Francistown that the village normally lacks, we drive off and it is not until about 4 pm that we reach Mosetse; that is myself, two little sisters and my girlfriend- she lives just a stone's throw away from my house back in the village so I am one of those people who appear on course to 'take' right from back home! So, at least the old men and women will not have much of an excuse not to like my future wife.

My father is on leave till January 11, so we find him home together with my grandmother who is now crowding her 80s. My mother, a traditionalist who does regular visits to the Mwali shrine and claims her stake at talking to and appeasing the ancestors is also home with bead work dangling from her neck and some adorning her wrists. She is happy and so is my old man to see us, particularly that my 14-year-old sister, Wada, now schools in Gaborone and the youngest who is 7 had also come to Gaborone when schools closed.

The village is dry but it's green. It might not have rained for some time, but at least the earth is covered with a blanket of green and the trees are leafy. One thing spoils the otherwise 'good to be home' feeling; water. In the past, when I was going through primary school, it wasn't this bad. Yes, the engine would occasionally breakdown or the 'Water Pumper' would decide not to pump water that day, but within a day or two the water would be flowing again and the water was not saline. This time around, there is a new water engine and the water from this place is so salty you would wonder if someone literally threw a teaspoon of salt into your cup of tea.

Village people though, are very patient and courteous; despite this water situation, whenever a government minister or even a head of state visits they get bottled water to avoid giving their guest the nearly unpalatable water they drink. I wonder why they do not give them the same water so they too can experience the stomach upsets, bath them with it so they feel the skin irritation and many other 'water issues' so the politicians can perhaps 'push for' the damming of Mosetse river that has been 'in the pipeline' for as long as I can remember. Today many people do not even talk about the dam anymore.  I am not being overtly graphic but for a whole week there was no water in the village. The people were saved from thirst by the river, as for cholera and other water borne infections I do not know how they escape that. In typical 19th century fashion or maybe even earlier than that, women and children had to dig wells in the river sand, flush out the dark water they consider dirty till the lighter fresh appearing water starts sipping through. The men, like many others of their kind in this continent do not go fetch water; it is considered a feminine chore.

On December  21 we drove through to Marapong village to see my paternal grandfather. It is not more than 70 kilometers getting there and we arrive to find the 'old man' home; my parents tell me when me and my siblings were young we referred to him simply as Mdala meaning 'old man'. His sight is no longer as it used to be and he looks frail too.Still, he can't hide his happiness and keeps referring to us as 'ntombo', our totem.

He narrates how difficult it is for him to get around these days; telling us that he struggles to reach one of the shopping complexes nearby that he has to rest several times along the way as his legs are no longer coping. And he amazes me with his grace for he keeps saying he has seen it all in this world and it's perhaps time to reunite with his creator. Yes he is old but I can't help a sad feeling engulfing me every time he tells us the end is near. 'In this ward I am the oldest. I have buried all my peers. Even back in Nshakazhogwe I am told there is just about one of my age mates left', he says with a smirk on his face. It is a day well-spent as we eventually go back to Mosetse.  For most young folks the preoccupation is the upcoming soccer tournament. Every year the 'stadium' is prepared for the games and this year it is no different. The 'stadium' is in top condition and teams from Mosetse, Dukwi and Kutamogore are going through their paces at training. There are also preparations for some weddings here and there.  A lot of developments are coming into the village, but still there is some hollowness that remains.

I still feel that while many people have better livelihood means than before, a good many are still poor; some from their own laziness, some from the exploitation and  unkind nature of fellow humans, some due to the unreliable nature of the weather conditions here that periodically see their livestock perish in drought years.

This year the erratic rainfall is simply not falling and some are even thinking of opening their fields for cattle to graze; and these are people who have spent about P500 to plough a hectare-and that is by no means a small amount in a rural setup. I hate the rain's spoilt nature of pouring as and when it pleases. No wonder the Chinese have experimented with the technology of shelling the clouds to rain.

The village is a blend of plenty and worthlessness. I see young men and women driving the latest cars and lodging in the most modern of houses in the village while some dwell in what could hardly be termed a house. For many here, Khadi (a form of home brewed beer) and Chibuku, are permanent occupations. Some of these partakers are young men and women in their 20s and 30; people who cannot be said to not have had the privilege of entering a classroom.

While pondering this unequal nature of things I seek explanations and none of the theories so far forwarded, Marxism included, is adequate to explain the situation. I conclude it is human nature and the forces of natural selection that partly explains the way people turn out to be here.

For some of these young people a greeting is to request for a pula or so to buy a cigarette or khadi. They are young but they look older than they actually are, some are not reported ill, but look frail. This is a village where there is diversity in terms of ethnic groups but one cannot help but notice that the Basarwa within the village are the most poverty -stricken, and the most prone to alcoholism. Sociologists and Social Workers have their work cut out for them and so do the politicians; the politicians last because they never do much anyway.  What more? The villagers are partly impoverished by the extremely high prices for food stuffs in the village. No wonder the capitalists argue competition is important in regulating prices and quality. The prices here are mad; a 5 kg bag of Surprise rice, not the most popular brand by any means is offered at P75-its equivalent in towns would be below P50. A 10 kg bag of tastic rice bills you P170 while in town it hardly exceeds P110. Everything is expensive, very expensive, out here and if nothing happens to balance out things many people will continue to be malnourished. I get sad as I wonder how these people manage especially with the rain not quite falling they cannot even gather much leafy vegetables from their farms. People in the cities have it good, in terms of prices, I realise. 

On Christmas Eve, after the last soccer match of the day I drive off with my mother to Tutume for a funeral. My mother was born and bred there. Upon arrival we go into the custom of being introduced to other relatives. And I confess I cannot remember two thirds of those I was introduced to. They were many and seeing them for the first time does not make it any easier.  It is while doing the last tour of relatives after burial on the morning of Christmas day that I gather a lot of wisdom from the old men and women we visit. A close relative did not come for the funeral and this angered some of the mourners. It is said she did not come because she did not have money for contributions but an old woman says it out that 'money is not what is important in life but what is important is for one to come and be with others in time of grief'. She then goes on to caution the others against apportioning blame saying 'it is not quite proper to count another person's sins till we know exactly what their situation is'.  Having come, seen and felt, we are on the road again to celebrate Christmas back home in Mosetse. It is great to be around family and friends. However, I do not quite feel Christmas. It is as if the day is like any other. People are not as excited as they used to be in the past about Christmas and they are just going about their usual duties.  I do not see many kids clad in new clothes, I have not seen many beasts fall, and I do not see many pots of bread and rice. Some people have not even taken a thorough grooming of their bodies for this day. The spark is lost. Someone says it to me that 'these days people eat rice and all other nice things on any given day'. He is right; in the past such foodstuffs were rarities and were saved for Christmas day. I see the futility of development.

As you develop you also lose the sense of pride and joy you used to derive from 'little' things. The only constant on this day is beer drinking or maybe it too is not such a constant especially that His Excellency has had the watering points closing and opening hours quite reduced-for better or for worse-I am yet to see. So, yeah, Christmas day proves just another day, only memorable for what could have been that never was.  The next few days prior to New Year's Eve are fast forwarded by the soccer tournament.

Well, the old women also keep coming to our household. They are preparing some malt and getting ready to prepare traditional sorghum beer for a celebration on New Year's Day. As I said already, my mother is a traditionalist of the Mwali cult and if it does not rain or things are not going properly they very much believe that there has to be some dancing to appease the gods to bring rain. Also, there is a new plot near the main household where she is to move her religious stuff to and there has to be a ceremony to mark this.

We are preoccupied with this for a couple of days and the festivities begin on New Year's Day. People gather around the dance arena and the clapping, drumming and dancing begins. Also, the drinking of the traditional beer ensues. I do not usually take alcohol but on this day I decide to take a sip and boy it was not bad. So I drank.  I am not a very religious person and this has helped me on many occasions; I can relate with persons from across religious denominations without the usual inhibitions that I see others having.

My grandmother is Christian, my mother is traditionalist, my father like me is not religious, I have friends who are Muslim and Hindu and I relate well with all of them. As such, I am not one to judge as I often see happen.

Surprisingly, after the ceremony it drizzled. I do not know if the gods indeed heard the prayers and request for the rain to fall or it was mere coincidence but thus far; what I know is they danced and prayed for the rain and on the night of the third January it did not just drizzle but it really did rain. So, indications are that the gods did listen and help in making it rain. How they interfere with the rain cycle I learnt at school I do not know.

Perhaps they have some effect on the evaporation, condensation and eventual melting of the water to produce rain. As for it being coincidental, someone has to prove it to me, though I do not know how.

On January 2 I am just around a band of friends; some of them from the cities and we are talking about traditional doctors. Someone tells me there used to be a Malawian man who could make money and petrol. I press him really hard for details and he tells me that the late Tembo indeed made cash notes before their own eyes. 'He made petrol with us there watching and then we injected the petrol in to my car and we drove away'. I argue that perhaps he already had petrol in his car but he tells me that his car was out of petrol and this guy made petrol out of water and they drove away. I had no reason to doubt him so I guess I reluctantly bought what he was saying. After all, a physics teacher at high school once told us that lightening is caused by friction in the clouds.

One student told him there are people who can make lightning strike you and within the ensuing conversation he told us a story.  He said there was a researcher who was making an inquest into the truthfulness of assertions that traditional doctors can make lightning strike someone. It is said he went into the Molepolole area to do his research and one doctor got tired of being doubted and told him, 'well, if you need me to convince you my son then let me make lightening strike you so you see for yourself. I will make it strike you just partially so you live to tell the story'. As you would expect, the scientist abandoned the research project.  January 4 marked the day we trekked back to the city.

Oh, the day before, a cock was offered to us as food for the road. We left while it rained and I hope it continues raining. All in all, the countryside though with its frustrations remains a fulfilling place. I doubt if I wish to come to the city, live here, die here and be buried here. If repatriating me back when I die is a waste of resources then so be it.