Easy Sunday Read: My friend, the Harare taxi-driver

It may be regarded as the optimistic view of a relative but I reckon my nephew Givhi is the gifted comedian that Zimbabwe never discovered. Were it not for his limited circumstances of  growing up in a rural community that offered too few chances, my nephew Givhi could have made a name for himself in the field of entertainment. Be that as it may, Givhi is a legend in our little community.

Givhi is, of course, not the name that he was given at birth. The birth certificate records Gift as his birth name. It translates to Chipo in the local tongue.  It was probably not  fashionable at the time. And so my nephew was saddled with Gift for his identity. Unfortunately, this choice of name had not accounted for the fact that villagers’ tongues would struggle to handle its pronunciation.

This struggle led to improvisation, something that villagers are adept at doing as and when they encounter the unfamiliar. They tame it by ascribing their own localised version. So Gift became Givhi, and that is how we have always known him. The application of his original name is now limited to those formal occasions when its use is necessary and unavoidable.  These include the register of voters, where his name appears in its original form, alongside grandparents and other relatives who passed away many years ago – such is the nature of our national voters’ register.

Givhi is blessed with the rare gift of making people laugh out of literally nothing. I suppose there is one like him in every village. He is also blessed with the memory of an elephant. It’s nearly thirty years since he sat behind a school desk, but Givhi can recite, word by word, stories that he read in books at that time. I don’t know if he might have what they refer to as a photographic memory, but he probably has something nearer to it. He could have been an actor, and he would have had better than the dish that life has served him so far.

These days Givhi uses his hands to survive. He is the local cobbler. He has acquired quite a reputation as a mender of broken shoes. He plies his trade at the local mission school, where the kids refer to him as sekuru – the old man, which gives the appearance of an older man than he really is.

All he ever asks for is sewing thread and glue – basic equipment  for his humble trade.  And, of course, a good drink whenever we go down to the village. We talk and laugh – reminiscing about the old days, from when we were growing up. He was older, but we grew up together in the village. He is very territorial, my nephew Givhi: when we arrive at the village township, paFirimoni, there is usually a multitude of local villagers who linger around, hoping for a beer. But unless you are in good books with Givhi, you have no chance. He claims us – his sekurus, and his local rivals know it is better to stay away or to plead with him. Sometimes he says, sekuru, when their relatives from the city come here, they pretend not to know us, so today it’s my turn! In that way, he also offers some protection.

There is only one subject that wipes away the jovial smile and laughter from his face. It’s about elections. It’s a shared fear among the villagers. The winter of 2008 was particularly bad. It was election season – the re-run of the presidential election. Givhi and other young men in the villages had to seek refuge among the dead in the village cemetery. There they dug deep pits, where they spent the long, dark and cold nights alongside the spirits of the ancestors. They were together on the voters’ roll, and here, they were together in the cemetery, the living and the dead. It’s still a difficult subject here in the villages.

“Yanga yagasa”, one elderly fellow said making reference to the calm that comes after the storm. “Manje ikauya futi yakadaro pane anobuda?” (If the storm comes again, like before, will anyone survive?), he asked. It’s that kind of question one asks without necessarily expecting anyone to offer an answer. It’s the question that one asks because he must although it is directed at no-one in particular. It is not actually a question; rather it is a statement signifying one’s desperation.

The man was in the autumn of his life. His hands and eyes register experiences that no amount words can ever capture. He walks with a limb – a register of wounds sustained during the war in the 1970s when he was beaten so hard along with his peers for allegedly supporting the ‘terrorists’. But now, there he was, reflecting on the pain inflicted upon him by those he had supported and fed during the war. But he just shook his head, pulling hard on his chimonera – home-made cigarette, before taking a long gulp of opaque beer. He won’t talk about it. The elderly man says elections are a curse.

I have never known an election to cause so much fright in a community. It is not a subject that brings comfort, although it was the very same for which they had sacrificed life and limb in the war to attain. Now they are petrified.

I see the same language of fear on the face of the taxi driver, Eddie.

Eddie is no ordinary taxi driver. In an intricate and complex web of relationships that would probably require a small book to explain, Eddie is my uncle – babamunini – the little father, so to speak. But Eddie is much closer than that, for he is a childhood friend. We spent many days together in the bush and pastures, Eddie and I, looking after the village livestock in our boyhood years. He was a clever guy, the boy who knew all the cattle by name – their habits and their ways. If we lost a cow in the forest, Eddie was the boy who could find it.

That was years ago, when we were boys. Now Eddie looks for people on the streets of Harare – he picks them up in the second-hand Japanese car that he drives. He takes them wherever they wish to go and he obliges – for a fee, of course. There is no meter – the price is negotiated. Some are mothers going home to their children. Some are men going for “one or two” before finally heading for home late at night. Others are in the company of their young female companions heading for the nearest love-nest for some moments of pleasure. He carries all sorts, and like all taxi drivers, he has a million stories to tell!

His mobile phone rings regularly – clients asking to be picked from this lodge or that pub at all hours of the day and night. He works hard, my friend Eddie, he’s a hard-worker. But then we grew up working hard in the village and the work ethic has become part of our very existence.

When I am in town, Eddie wants to drop everything so that he can take me around – all for free! But I say Bla Eddie, we are not herding cattle anymore; if he must carry me around town, then I must pay. “No, wavakuita zvechirungu, wangu!” (You are behaving like a foreigner, my brother) he says with a loud laugh – chiding me for raising the issue about payment. He won’t accept payment from me.

I tell him I must pay him anyway because I am in the country on work-related business and they pay me to do that. Eventually, Eddie succumbs to the pressure, reluctantly so, it must be added. I understand him. It’s the nature of our community – we have a big hand of giving and we like to look after our guests, however little we have. Blood and friendship are more important factors than pecuniary issues. Eddie would not want it to come between us, to define our relationship. For him, when we are together, it’s not business; it’s us herding cattle back in the village.

Later, I put the issue of elections on the menu of our conversations. Should we be going for elections in 2011, as the politicians are threatening? Eddie pretends he didn’t hear me. Instead, he starts talking about football and asks about the last time I went to The Emirates to watch our favourite team, Arsenal. He tells me he is the only man in his street in Zengeza with an original Arsenal shirt – one I brought him two years before. He’s very proud of it. All others are fake, he says, laughing riotously. I know it’s his way of asking for another so I say I will get him a new one next time I return.

I return to my question later when we stop at a place where he says he wants to see someone, a mate.

“Hameno, wangu” (I don’t know, my brother) he says, dismissively, shaking his head, eyes fixed ahead, the look one has when they are not looking at anything in particular. It’s a tone that says he doesn’t want to know. It’s obviously not a subject that gives him much comfort.

“I am just concentrating on this business – to feed the family. Zvematongerwe enyika zvinonetsa, wangu.” (Politics is a hard game; I’m just focusing on making ends meet in this tough business), he says, still looking at nothing.

A long, empty pause and then, “You see here”, he says pointing at several cars around us, “Look at the number of taxis in this city. There are too many and business is tough, wangu so we just focus on getting the next customer. People got taxis before the World Cup having been promised there would be big business with all the tourists crossing from South Africa. But zvakadhakwa (it didn’t work out) It’s a dog-eat-dog world and up there the politicians are eating each other too!” he manages a chuckle and concludes, “And when elections come it will be dog-eat-dog of a serious kind! Hameno!”

He is interrupted by a small chap who approaches the driver’s side of the car. I later learn that the little chap answers to the name Big Mike. For a man of diminutive stature, Big Mike carries a heavy name. He has a hoarse voice that is inconsistent with his size. Maybe that’s why he is called Big Mike – the small man with the big voice, I say to myself.

He greets me as ‘Vahombe’ (the big man), he says feigning a clap of hands. Eddie tells him we are old friends. Big Mike laughs at Eddie, a condescending laugh that says Eddie is lying. The conversation is quick and they exchange a couple of packages.

As we are about to depart, Eddie says to Big Mike, “Vahombe varikuti unofungei nezvesarudzo?” (He says I am asking what he thinks of elections).

Big Mike’s happy face suddenly become sombre.  “Asi ndeve poritiks here mdhara ava?” (Is he a politician?), he asks, hesitantly, fear laced around the words, his face transformed into an inquisitive, ferful frown.

Eddie quickly reassures him that I mean well.

“Ah!” says Big Mike before a short pause during which time he looks behind his shoulder as if to check if someone is eavesdropping, “Iyi ine mhunhu pasi iyi, Big Dhara” And he departs very quickly without saying goodbye.

Eddie looks at me and laughs. “Manzwaka Doc?” (You heard for yourself, Doc?), he says as he laughs some more before driving away.

It’s nearly 5 in the afternoon, and Eddie takes me to my next apointment. Later we will catch up and probably have one or two.

waMagaisa

Post-Script

I wrote this story in 2010, after a trip to Zimbabwe. At the time, there was a lot of talk about holding elections in 2011. Then in 2011, I was invited to be an adviser to the committee that was writing the new constitution in Zimbabwe. I accepted the honour with humility and played my part. Later, in 2012, Morgan Tsvangirai, leader of the MDC and Prime Minister at the time, invited me to be his adviser. Again it was an honour accepted with humility. In all this Eddie worked with me, as my driver and assistant. But he was far more than a driver and an assistant. I had grown up with Eddie. He was the man I relied upon and those who saw us together know how much dependent I was on him.

But in April 2013, disaster struck and Eddie died in a fatal car crash. I was away in South Africa on the day he died. We had spoken only a few moments before and he was as jovial as ever. It was devastating. The last time I saw him was at the airport in Bulawayo. We had travelled together, on what a beautiful trip to the Trade Fair. I remember taking the wheel from the Halfway House near Chegutu to Gweru, to relieve him. I remember buying cheese and tomato sandwiches at the airport and Eddie saying how lovely they were. I said I would make some more when I returned from Cape Town. That was the last time I saw my friend.

We grew up together, shared great moments and here he was the man who gave me great company and comfort during a very hectic and tough period. He was the only person I truly trusted on the political terrain because he had my interests at heart. Afterwards, it was never the same again. Burying Bla Eddie, as we called him, on 1 May 2013, ironically, his birthday, was one of the hardest things that I have ever had to do.

Most days, I think about my friend. Many people who talk about my time in politics don’t know about this circumstance. For me, the political journey is not just another dry exercise – it has been a painful experience in which I have lost one of my most treasured companions. When I wrote this story in 2010, I had no idea that I would ever have the roles I took on 2011 and 2012, let alone that Eddie would be by my side.

The most chilling feeling is that had I not been in South Africa on the day, I would almost certainly have been with Eddie in our car, because that was the car I used and we were always together. All I can do now is do my best to look after his family, in the absence of their father. God bless Bla Eddie’s soul. He was a great friend, and there will never be another like him.

This was supposed to be the first Easy Read on Sunday. But I guess it isn’t. I thought I should pay a humble tribute to my great friend. It was hard to put together, and I guess it was not such an easy read, after all. I’m sorry about that but as Bla Eddie would often say, “Iri bho, Doc”.

Are there some tears at the end? Yes, I’m afraid, there are … But such if life. I serves all kinds dishes, some sweet but some very bitter.

waMagaisa