“A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart” — Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.
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| “My best friend is the person who in wishing me well, wishes it for my sake” — Aristotle. |
Though I venerate the State and Private institutions that I have been a part of my adult life, the lessons that matter to me, and which have stayed with me my whole life, are those I learnt in childhood. In this entry just before my birthday, I will just reflect on instances in my childhood that have stayed with me as lifelong lessons. This is what has shaped my kind demeanour — I guess what I really learnt is that I have nothing to be bitter about, as I have had a lot of good fortune.
Indeed, from my familial upbringing, I learnt goodness, if I do bad things it will be either out of choice or necessity. Many have not had the same luck of growing up in a good family. I did. What I remember the most is my Grandmother’s kindness, the woman is a saint, especially because she never hit me once. You all know the Shona adage about “the spoilt kids who were raised by their Grandmother” (Mwana akarerwa naAmbuya), that’s not to say I wasn’t a hell raiser when I was growing up, I was, but when my Grandmother ever got her angriest with me, the worst she would do is yell “Kunyakwanye,” at me — a contortion of my name — Kudakwashe. And I would have been a spoilt brat too, had my Grandfather not have been a hard taskmaster. All the discipline and hard work I have as qualities, that comes from my granddad.
But let’s talk first about why I can be kind to a fault. Again, blame that on my Grandmother, a kind-hearted woman who ensured that all our evenings involved songs, a reading from the bible and prayers. My Grandmother taught us to pray for the sick and those in prison. People we had never met, people we didn’t know, but already my Grandmother was preparing us to know and understand that the world is full of misfortune. There are people serving sentences while not having committed any crimes. People in hospitals are not there by choice, they would rather be healthy and active. She crowned her teachings with exemplary conduct. There was not a single instance I saw my Grandmother in an argument or gossiping with anyone, she was always a kind-hearted, dutiful and hardworking wife.
As for my hard work and discipline, blame that on my Grandfather. You know how in the Army they reckon if you never forget to make your bed on rising, you will never forget your rifle or ammunition when you go into battle? I learnt that lesson well before military age: my Grandfather made me a small axe that I was supposed to carry everywhere — I got caned if he ever saw without that axe. You think that was harsh? No, it wasn’t. We lived in the Zambezi Valley, which was teeming with dangerous wild animals, that small axe was the tool I would use to stand my ground if I ever got accosted by a Lion, Leopard or pack of Painted/Wild Dogs. My brother and I, as the older boys of the household, also had to fetch water, firewood and, sometimes, early in the morning we would work in the fields before going to school. This taught me self-sufficiency.
But the instances that made an even deeper impression on my young mind were the fates of two of my age mates when we were barely 8 or 9 years, and without any power over our lives. I will start by relating to you what happened to a girl classmate of mine. One of my classmates, Eunice, grew up in a family that belonged to an Apostolic Sect that did not believe in Western Medicine. Any affliction, they believed could be cured by Prayers alone. Unfortunately, being in the Zambezi Valley as we were, Malaria was, and still is, rampant. I have lost count of the number of times I contracted Malaria but got cured after a dosage of anti-malaria tablets which were available at the local clinic — courtesy of the Zimbabwean government. When Eunice contracted Malaria, we knew nothing about it, we only found out about it when the school took our whole class to go to her burial. Kids that young, saying goodbye to another kid. So unfair. I only remember so well that she had died because her parents refused to take her to the clinic, just keeping her at home and praying for her, because of an altercation at the funeral. This is so vivid in my mind because Eunice’s younger brother was also suffering from Malaria when we went for her burial. When it was discovered what had killed Eunice, a Policeman in uniform forcibly took the younger brother on his bicycle to the clinic to get treatment. I never found out what happened to the younger brother, but from this instance, I got an inkling that the State can know what is best for its ordinary citizens. Poor Eunice, for having been born in her family instead of mine, her life was cut very short. I have suffered from Malaria: the fevers, the hallucinations and disorientation are so bad that the itching that is the side effect of anti-malaria tablets is a welcome relief. What she could have gone on to achieve in life!
The other instance that comes to mind is of a boy schoolmate who poisoned his parents. I don’t know what lessons to draw from this one. As I said before, we lived in the Zambezi Valley, and the major crop we grew there was Cotton. And Cotton demands application of Pesticides throughout its growth cycle. Every home then, including our own, always had pesticides in stock. I even used to use them to spray our own crops, but it never crossed my mind to poison my own family. I do not know how a person of my age can even get the idea to do something like that. We had no TVs to even think he may have seen it on TV. But it happened, he put Rogor in the food his family was about to eat. His mother and father died from it. We even went to the funeral and I think my grandparents tried to drum into our minds that Pesticides were dangerous. Perhaps this happened because we were poor and did not have cupboards to lock away these Pesticides away from the reach of children. But there, I defeat my own argument, because we also didn’t have cupboards, and none of the children in my family ever put Pesticides in our food.
I guess what really made this instance stick in my mind, is that it happened towards when we were nearing Secondary School age, and had to move back to my parents in the city to attend Secondary School. On the day I boarded the bus to move to Harare, that former Schoolmate of mine was brought onto the bus in handcuffs by a policeman moving him to Harare Central Prison. The Police Station and holding cells in the Zambezi Valley are at the last stop before the bus gets to cross the Mavhuradonha Mountain. The police, for shortage of vehicles, must transport criminals on public transport. It was so early in the morning and that kid in handcuffs looked disoriented, lacked sleep and was unkempt. Even now, no matter how much time has passed, it is heart-breaking to remember my age mate in such a situation. There is a case to be made by Amnesty International for the treatment of minors in the prison system, but I am glad this misfortune never befell me and I hope no other minor finds himself in such a situation. Ever.
I could go on and talk about the other lessons I learnt by observing both wild and domestic animals, but I will leave that for my next birthday’s reflections on lessons learnt!
