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My Holiday Soliloquy, Vol. 13: It Is The Season Of Motorised Madness, Obnoxious Self-Indulgence, and Predictive Anxiety*
By Rejoice Ngwenya
When people of my age refer to ‘good old days’, we’re probably talking about two decades from 1980 downwards, specifically the ‘golden decade’ of 1965 to 1975’. Unless you’re completely unschooled in Zimbabwe’s political history, you won’t notice why I advertently excluded 1976 – 1980. Hold your guns. I’ll touch base before the end of my story.
The phenomenon of Christmas carols is as old as musical history. We Zimbabweans adopted the habit as an extension of colonialism since the British brought all their festive habits with them. I only went overseas later in life as a young man who had never seen snow except on Christmas Cards.
I realised then that December is peak winter season in the Northern Hemisphere hence their obsession with snow-capped pine trees and snow-laced landscapes on Christmas Cards. The Father Christmas folklore and his nocturnal chimney frolics required deeper knowledge of Christmas mythology.
It is therefore no coincidence that the greatest Christmas song of all time is “White Christmas” recorded as Bing Crosby’s (NOT Bill, but Bing) but originally meant as a soundtrack to the 1942 movie ‘Holiday Inn’ scored by Irving Berlin.
Yet back home in Rhodesia, we black folk used to take this holiday thing seriously, for good reasons. The Rhodesian economy was extremely vibrant because Ian Smith had a case to prove. Having been ‘puninshed’ by Great Britain for ‘secession’ after its Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI), the white junta was slapped with a barrage of strong sanctions that included an actual economic blockade.
To preserve his political credibility, Smith focused on what we now know as ‘import substitution’- which made Rhodesia one of the most sophisticated industrial countries in Africa. The economy needed all the labour it could, thus imported workers from Malawi, Mozambique, and Zambia – especially in the railway, mining and agricultural sectors.
Since the Rhodesian government had designated rural areas as ‘tribal trust lands’, our parents established a tradition of two homes. City dwelling was meant to be a ‘temporary’ base for formal employment while rural homes were havens of relaxation, retirement, and subsistence farming.
This explains why there was always mass exodus to rural homes especially during big holidays like Christmas.
Back then at this time of the season places like Mbare Musika (Harare), Makaranga (Gweru) and eRenkini (Bulawayo) would have ‘Daf buses’ Ruredzo, Matambanadzo, Super Godhlwayo, Shu-shine, Super, B and C etc. loading travellers to different holiday destinations. For us black guys, a ‘holiday’ was not a drive to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe Ruins or Matopos. Hey, that was ‘white stuff’!
In the unlikely event that one didn’t have a rural home (Bhonrokisheni was the depredatory adaptation of ‘being born in the location’!), Christmas was just as vibrant. Pubs, shebeens and beerhalls were favourite hunting grounds for smartly dressed men probably in tight ‘bell bottoms’, floral shirts, and high-heeled ‘Roberto’ shoes.
On Christmas Eve as today, places like Mushandira Pamwe, Marisha and Happy Valley would be fired up with musical icons of the time like the Green Arrows, Blacks Unlimited, Wells Fargo, Double Shuffle etc.
If you were like me confined to the lush green plains and granite outcrops of rural Shurugwi, Christmas had its own fireballs. Typically, after a full breakfast of tea spiced with fresh cowmilk, fresh white bread and drank from a metal ‘kango’ teapot, we would put on our new clothes.
Yes, what was Christmas without new clothes, hugh? My father was an average rural schoolteacher, so he could afford me a pair of white ‘tennis shoes’ as well.
However, at the local ‘township’ where us young people assembled to dance to the music of Soul Brothers and Izintombi Zesi Manje Manje (umbhaqanga), competition for girls who had come from the city was stiff. Remember I said above Rhodesia used to import cheap labour from the region.
Equally, the more develop Apartheid South Africa used to send small planes to raid Rhodesia’s labour force and fly thousands of young men to ‘Wenela’ mines in South Africa. These boys would make their way to the rural areas at Christmas, showing off quality ‘eGoli’ gear and fancy ‘radio grams’.
The only reason why I would beat these show-offs to the pretty girls was because my dad was a teacher so better English would prevail over bemused adversaries!
In the cities, weather permitting on Christmas Day, guys would position their ‘Supersonic’ furniture stereos outside front doors, hang around drinking opaque beer listening to the sounds of Black Mambazo and Soul Brothers. Although the revolutionary Bob Marley had not ‘infected’ us then, Jimmy Cliff, Roy C, Ray Charles, Donna Summer, Dianna Ross, The Commodores, and other Motown greats were familiar sounds at Christmas parties.
However, the advent of independence – especially the ‘freedom decade’ of 1980 to 1990 – ushered in a new working class that completely discarded the city-to-rural culture. The liberation war completely decimated rural life, so we had to create a new urban entertainment culture. A new genre of music appeared and with-it icons like Patrick Mukwamba, Paul Matavire, Jonah Moyo, Lovemore Majaivana, Solomon Skuza etc. The blind ‘lover’ Matavire was particularly popular because of his abrasive love songs tinted with humour.
The government of the day introduced a ‘thirteenth cheque’ popularly known as ‘bonus’. This gave the working class a new vibe in disposable incomes for Christmas Holidays, hence Patrick Mukwamba’s anthem ‘Wapenga Nayo Bonus’. You, money was money back then, so we could afford to enjoy.
This is the generation of the Datsun 120Y, Pulsar, Peugeot 504. If you were too proud to hop into an ‘Omeni bus’, a small ‘Creamline’ or Rixi Renault 4 taxi with a ‘stick gear’ would shuttle you from one night club to another. As Zimbabweans accumulated more cars, crazy revellers from Gweru would even drive to ‘Chachacha’ in Shurugwi, ‘Msopero’ in Kwekwe or even Mupandawana kwaGutu.
But for now, today, as you indulge yourself, be alerted to motorised morons out there who care little about life. Also, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to predict that school fees are coming in January 2024. So, I do appreciate your anxiety even at this time of quintessential Xmas Love. Otherwise enjoy yourself and ‘see’ you next year!
Context: It’s Manifesto Time, Obviously With Rejoice Ngwenya
#Election Wednesday23/08/2023: Like a Railway Slipper, Every Vote (Will) Count
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