Zukiswa Wanner

Regular readers of this blog will be whining about my constant excuses for not updating. What can I say? I am a creature of habit and I loyally make excuses. But I do have two valid excuses this time around. One is that I have (with about 30 South African writers) been ferociously working on the ReadSA campaign (http://readsa.blogspot.com) since I got back in the country on Monday 28^th September. The second excuse is that a friend brought me a really good bottle of single malt, and well…you know how that goes.  Enny wey, back to my travels. I was back in Bob’s Own Country. Yup. South Africa’s northern neighbour known to the rest of the world as Zimbabwe.

I went there with some German friends who had never been to Zim and it was an interesting adventure from start to finish. Our driver was a hilarious guy called Funny Mbanje (I kid you not. For those not familiar with Shona lingo the last name means weed/zol/marijuana)./ You can see how his name alone was brilliant material for this sole writer. We got to the Zimbabwean side of the border at around 11 am and the immigration official decided I looked suspicious, ‘like a writer’ he said. ‘You look like Dambudzo Marechera’.  Never mind that Dambudzo had locks and was male and I have a chiskop (bald head) and am female. Additionally Dambudzo was a brilliant writer and I, I just pretend to write, so you see, I was flippin flattered. I’ve never been happier to lose an entrance permit to any country. In the end though, I was allowed in. The immigrant official’s totem was Mhofu which is the same totem as my Zimbabwean mother’s and as every Zimbo knows, muzukuru mukadzi so I smiled and joked accordingly, and got my pass.

From Beit Bridge Border Post, we made our way to Masvingo. My artistic German cousin (a cousin because her surname is ‘Waner’ –or something very similar- and mine is Wanner) was horrified when she entered the toilets in  Masvingo and some male attendant opened the door while she was pissing.  She swore that she was not going to a public toilet in Zimbabwe ever again (yeah right!).  Next we made our way to Great Zimbabwe, the historical site that the country is named after (for those not in the know Zimbabwe means ‘house of stone – zimba remahwe’ . The Great Zimbabwe kingdom existed from the 12^th to the 16^th Century).At US$5 for tourists, I had to use my Zim skills and pretend to be a local in order to get in. Funny and I became the two locals therefore while our three German mates became the foreigners (to be honest this is not the first time I have used my colour as a badge. Nine months ago, Nakuru Game Reserve tried to charge me some ridiculous US$ amount. With the help of a Kenyan friend I pretended to be a disabled Kenyan. I know, not cool. But I am from a developing African nation as well, I can’t understand why I should have to deal with tourist rates I can’t afford). Great Zimbabwe was phenomenal.

Then we made our way to Harare. My German friends ended up camping in that haven of Bulawayo prostitutes in Harare – Oasis Hotel. I swear I did not know about its reputation as a pick-up point until I went to Bulawayo a couple of days later.

The second day saw me hanging out with my fabulous personal designer and childhood friend, the ZimDanish Alice Knuth (yes. I did say personal designer. She designs my clothes so anytime you feel I look wack you know who to blame).  In  the early evening I had dinner and drinks with one of my favourite all-time writers  Shimmer Chinodya (he of the Harvest of Thorns and Strife fame) and later on, a Catholic priest I shall not name in case I get him in trouble with the Pope.  We were at Book Café so yeah, in spite of the bookshop being closed, Book Café Harare still rocks y’all. There was a girl on stage who sounded very much like a Chiwoniso Maraire clone. I sadly forget her name. I do remember jamming madly to her when she did one of the Marshall Munhumumwe cover tracks though.

Then we were off to Bulawayo. Literally translated from the Nguni  as ‘place of killing’,  but widely known in Zimbabwe as the City of Kings because it was founded by Mzilikazi ka Khumalo, one of Shaka’s generals during umfecane and his immediate heir, Lobengula ka Mzilikazi, was the last reigning  Zimbabwean monarch, Bulawayo is a city of wide roads and friendly people. I always seem to forget how much I love the city of Bulawayo until I get there and when I do get there, I remember how friendly its people are. How I can walk in the city without some males verbally harassing me like I find in Harare (think:  ‘sista ndeipi’ and when I ignore, ‘futi wakashata. Hure.’) and more importantly as an artist, how Bulawayo is the one place that I know that writers, musicians, painters and all other sort of artists will have full houses and an audience that genuinely engages them on their art unlike Joburg where when I  ask, ‘any questions?’,  I have to rely on the one friend I have asked to come to the function to ask the question.  It is here where my German friends left me because the US$ policy in Zim had left them cash strapped and they had to make their way back to South Africa (for the uninitiated, make sure when you go to Zim you have sufficient cash as ATMs will not accept non-Zimbabwean cards).

First night in Bulawayo saw me meeting Zimbabwean writer and Jozi resident  Ivor Hartmann and his (and now my) mate Jules in a bar at the Rainbow Hotel. The two guys, who were to become my partners in crime for the length of the festival,  accompanied me to the opening night.

The opening night of the festival was testament to what I am talking about with regards to Bulawayo. In a week when MDC Minister of Diversity (whatever that means), Sekai Holland had said divisive comments about the Ndebeles being cattle rustlers and thieves (and this as a member of a government of national unity nogal, wonder why that was never reported in international press as much as the Grace Nestle debacle?), the Bulawayo group, Black Umfolosi had everyone at the opening ceremony of the Intwasa Arts Festival holding hands and singing their signature song, ‘Unity’. Their lyrics resonated with the crowd and had many getting emotional in a country that’s trying to reinvent itself, ‘ No black, No white, No Shona, No Ndebele.’ For a solid forty minutes, the people of Bulawayo who were in City Hall held hands and danced together. It was the one time I was driven to tears in my mother’s land. You see, I had just finished reading the Catholic Commission’s Justice & Peace and Fr. Auret’s Gukurahundi , a testament of the 20 thousand deaths that occurred during the Matebele atrocities, and I could not understand how a city could be so forgiving. I certainly would not have been . I must admit, I have never had more respect for the people and the city of Bulawayo than I did two weeks ago. I love Accra and being Junior Agogo’s sister, but henceforth, I cannot walk tall without respecting the humanity of the people of Bulawayo.

Siyabonga Bulawayo. Your ubuntu, your spirit of forgiveness, your appreciation of the arts,  and your welcoming attention to visitors is a testament that you are truly, the ‘City of Kings’.