When we were students (and what happened next)

Alex T. Magaisa

Back in 1994, I was a 19-year old student at the University of Zimbabwe, fresh from high school and part of a very excitable and energetic group of students. Those were interesting times. We were the generation that had started school soon after independence and now we were fulfilling our dreams. But we were also beginning to ask many questions.

I remember joining a series of demonstrations at various establishments across Harare, which were accused of perpetuating discriminatory practices. University life does something to young minds. Brought up to be obedient and docile at strict high schools, the university student suddenly discovered himself and began to see it as their role to ask hard questions, indeed, to be the “voice of the voiceless”.

We were young and excitable and we thought very highly of ourselves. We were quite vain and arrogant, regarding ourselves as some special breed.

Back then, there were very few universities and such paces bred elitism in the true sense of the word. In fact, there were only two major universities, the UZ and NUST, in Bulawayo, which had been established a few years earlier. There was Africa University in Mutare but it was private and still fairly marginal.

The result was that out of the thousands A-Level graduates who could easily have qualified for university education, very few entered the UZ and NUST and this generated an excessive amount of pride and arrogance among those who made it.

The UZ was the place to be, the local equivalent in terms of prestige and exclusive entry, of an Ivy League university in the US or Oxbridge in the UK. It was extremely hard to get in and many of those who did grew rather big heads. It was an odd mixture of different cultures, backgrounds and interests, although the majority, like myself came from mission boarding schools, where the school and religious authorities ran a tight ship. Coming to university was some liberation. Suddenly we could drink alcohol and smoke freely and we had the liberty to visit girls’ residences, freedoms that had eluded us in high school.

We wore T-Shirts carrying inscriptions like “Academic Blast Furnace” and at the Students’ Union bar, where we drank copious amounts of alcohol, drunk students proudly declared, “We drink daily and pass annually” or something like that. When we got our pay-outs (grants), we proudly declared that we were paid to learn, that we were so good that the state had decided to pay us to learn.

Thinking about it now, and looking at some of the images of that time, I cringe. But I console myself with the thought that it was a phase that one had to go through. It made sense at the time and I can certainly say I had the best of times in the 4 year period between 1994 and 1997 at the UZ. But back to 1994 and the demonstrations.

One evening a rumour quickly spread around campus that a male student and his girlfriend, presumably a student as well, had been denied entry at a restaurant located at the local Second Street Extension shops. It was a fairly new establishment called Adrienne’s, a very posh and excusive place.

UBA, as university students would not ordinarily have ventured into such spaces, preferring the establishments of the cheaper and affordable fast-food variety. UBAs preferred to spend their money on alcohol, not on food and books. Second Street Extension shops was a popular rendezvous for many university couples – if you were lucky to have a USA, as the female students were called, or were making an effort to get one, you would take a walk down to Second Street Extension for a pizza from Pizza Inn or some chips and chicken from Chicken Inn or Nandos.

You might play a game of pool, teaching the USA how to hold the stick and hit the ball accurately or indulge in some video games. Afterwards, with your ice-creams from Creamy Inn, you walked back to college – a romantic walk – and there, if you were lucky, you found time to share closer moments at one or the other’s place of residence. The UBA without similar fortune would drown themselves in alcohol at the SU or catch a lift into town where they would return by taxi in the wee hours of the morning, often with female company of the commercial variety, for a few moments of purchased pleasure.

This was the normal UBA-USA routine, not going to places like Adrienne’s. It was not the natural habitat for UBA. I suspect this particular UBA, if the story was true, had gone there in an effort to impress the young lady, probably to up his game against competition. But, as it turned out, it doesn’t seem to have gone according to plan.

The story that did the rounds afterwards was that this fellow had been denied entry by the white owners of the establishment. With hindsight, I suspect the procedure was that one had to book a table at a place like that but our fellow might not have known this. He might have just turned up and asked for entry whereupon he might have been told there was no table. He took this to be denial of entry and believed that was motivated by the colour of his skin. Well, that is certainly how the story was sold to us via the agency of the rumour-mill, which was very active at college.

And as rumours go, they quickly develop new strands and dimensions, with one or two coming up with their own versions of how they had been mistreated at the same or similar establishments.

If my memory is faithful, it was also around this time that the media reported on a story that a black employee had been subjected to degrading treatment by his white employer in the industrial areas. Apparently, as punishment for something wrong that he had done, the form of punishment was to make the employee stand in a circle marked on the ground all day. He was not allowed to move out of that circle. If my memory serves me well, it was referred to as the “Circle of Despair” in the state-owned Herald newspaper. It caused a lot of outrage when it was reported, revealing the latent racial tensions that lay beneath the veneer of post-independence unity and reconciliation.

This incident at Adrienne’s sparked an outrage at college. How could this be happening in an independent Zimbabwe, 14 years after independence? It was very easy to whip up the emotions of a young and excitable crowd at college and student leaders were very adept at doing this. Alcohol, whose price at the SU bar could be slashed at a moment’s notice, was a useful tool.

Things turned ugly very quickly. This “racism” had to be confronted and for that reason Adrienne’s restaurant was marked out for attack. A message had to be sent that Rhodesia was long gone and that racial discrimination was unacceptable. That was the overwhelming sentiment among the students.

Anyway, things quickly got into motion and hordes of singing and aggressive students marched onto Adrienne’s restaurant. It was built of glass and was fragile and easily vulnerable to attack. My memory is now hazy on what exactly happened that evening as I did not attend and was relying on second-hand information. But I think the owners eventually managed to negotiate with the student leaders and some offers of special discounts were offered to UZ students. That compromise ensured Adrienne’s survival.

When I sat there for dinner with a guest two years ago, I could not help but recount the events of those days. The place has of course had new owners now and looks like it has been well and truly indigenised. But still, I have always wondered whether the story that sparked those events was actually true.

Having “conquered” Adrienne’s, this generated new energy and a new resolve. It emboldened those who were leading the demo, which was now packaged as a crusade against unfair white privilege and discrimination. The view was that there were many more places that were like Adrienne’s which allegedly discriminated against blacks. They had to be confronted, too, it was said.

I recall two that were specifically targeted – Ramambo Lodge, a gazebo-type bar/restaurant (which probably had a gallery as well) that was located along the then Moffat Street (now Leopold Takawira Street). I think these days the location houses the headquarters of the Land Rover dealership. The other was Sandros, along Julius Nyerere Way, which was very popular with tourists and dreadlocked young men and women. I understand it is now a place of worship.

Looking back at it, these were places where some students were keen to enter but had never had the courage to do so. This became an opportunity. I took advantage of the invasion of Ramambo Lodge to discover what went on there. I was also there at Sandros, where incidentally, Tuku, a local artiste was belting out his popular songs to tourists. The inside of Ramambo Lodge was amazing. We drank a lot of alcohol that evening, including spirits that we were offered which we had never known. Previous threats to burn down the thatched roof of Ramambo Lodge quickly dissipated and everyone had a merry time. Afterwards, everyone was very intoxicated.

It was in the spirit of that time that Lawrence “Warlord” Chakaredza (May his soul rest in peace) threatened to go and exhume the remains of Cecil John Rhodes from the beautiful Matopos, where he has been resting since his death just over a century ago.

Warlord was a small but spiky character with a streak of aggression and courage that gave him legendary status among the students. We had heard of his “extraordinary feats” while we were at high school and when we arrived in 1994, we expected to see a hefty and brawny character called Warlord. Instead, what we saw was a small and actually rather affable character.

He was part of what was known as the Revolutionary Command Council (RCC), an informal group of self-proclaimed leaders of students’ demonstrations. The name had been derived from a unit of the same identity made popular during the Gulf War. He was among the leaders of these demonstrations against allegedly racist institutions. His next target was Rhodes’ grave. However, this did not gain much traction. The government would not permit the desecration of the grave.

The demos quickly ended. The next chapter, in 1995, were demonstrations against police brutality, after a student had been shot and killed during a demonstration. I recall the Police Commissioner, Augustine Chihuri churlishly saying, Tear smoke is tear smoke, it is not perfume” in response to criticism and complaints against police brutality. But that is a story for another day.

I just remembered these incidents in my university days in light of the furore over statues and lately the horror we are witnessing over foreigners in South Africa. What happened next in Zimbabwe – just a few years after our own demonstrations is something that South Africans must take heed of. These are dangerous times and such situations can very easily get out of hand, especially if politicians take advantage of these very emotional issues for their own nefarious agendas. What is happening is bad but it could get worse.

wamagaisa@yahoo.co.uk