BEING A WOMAN - extract 3

“Pssst, pssst, young lady, what is your name, could I take you for a drink tonight?” they heard a male voice  from behind them. The girls stopped and turned but did not know which of the young women he was referring to. “You young lady, what is your name?” the man asked, gently touching Mary on the shoulder. When Hannah and Rosewitta turned they recognised that it was Mr Dune. “Hello Mr Dune?  We hadn't noticed  it's you. What can we do for you? How is Grace?” Mr Dune stood back as he heard his name being mentioned. He stood near the four young women shocked that someone recognised him. For a moment he did not know what to say. “So you want one of us? You might not know us but we know who you are because you used to pick one of my classmates, Grace, from Santa Maria.” 

“Please ladies, do not tell my daughter Grace that you saw me here,” Mr Dune pleaded. 

“Do you want advice for free? Go and look after your wife and children, they need you more at home, more than we need you here.” They moved closer to Mr Dune almost surrounding him in an intimidating manner, then they left giggling away and laughing at that man's behaviour. Rosewitta had been at the University for about 6 months now.

The scholarship which Rosewitta got took her to the University where she enrolled for an accounting degree. She did not pursue a law degree as she had planned, but Hannah did. At the university she learnt that a lot of female students had got there through affirmative action to encourage girls to get an education, but fortunately Rosewitta had adequate passes and did not need any affirmative action. The male counterparts at University thought most women had gone that far through affirmative action. Due to this widely held view, they did not view female students with much respect. A lot of those female students looked modest and some of the male counterparts thought they were products of affirmative action. Rosewitta knew she was not the only one who came from humble beginnings. 

BEING A WOMAN- extracts

Hattie stood in the middle of the road when she spotted the yellow and brown coloured bus from a distance. She stood in the middle of the road to ensure that the bus stopped. She was nearly run over had the driver not swerved to the left road verge. The driver missed her by inches. “Muchatsikwa! Mugoti kuonda kunge tsono, musoro senge demo!” the bus driver shouted. The bus had stopped on the roadside anyway as Hattie had intended. Hattie saw Rosewitta off on the tatty and puffing Birds-view Bus on the long trip to the central station in the capital city. As the bus left the road verge lifting a whirlwind of dust and taking with it Hattie’s waist wrapper, Hattie shed a tear and kept waving her thin cracked hands to Rosewitta until the bus disappeared on the bend, and engulfed in the thick fumes which it left behind. As Hattie was waving goodbye, she reminded Rosewitta to study hard, to write letters, to remember her background and behave well at school. She kept repeating this to herself and smiling long after the bus had disappeared. A group of cattle herders wearing torn clothes who were passing by stood to stare at Hattie and wondered whether she had lost her marbles. Anyway, they remembered that she came from a rather strange family. Hattie saw them staring, she plucked a whip from a nearby bush and shooed the boys off. “Voetsek” she said to them. Hattie had always been the village spectacle.

The Birds-view Bus was the only bus that Rosewitta could take en-route to her new school. The bus was so slow, Rosewitta thought it would never reach its destination. She only imagined what would happen to her for the first time at that notorious station. A school bus would collect all the students to her new school. The thought of going to that Central bus station on her own made her shiver. She was particularly worried about the pickpockets who plied that bus station and took advantage of people who looked rural and lost. Her mother had tied the few dollars that she was to use for pocket money in a piece of dirty cloth. She made a long string out of several pieces of cloths to make a string long enough to go around her waist. Hattie tied that string around Rosewitta’s hip, and told Rosewitta to tuck the knot with money under her groin where she was sure no-one would reach. The cloths were so dirty that Rosewitta left a trail of foul smell as she walked. Rosewitta felt embarrassed by this, but Hattie had insisted so she had no choice but to comply. Rosewitta did not have a purse to keep her money safe. She could not afford one. At Harare Central Bus Station, a very polite man approached Rosewitta and offered to help her with her suitcase. Rosewitta was grateful for the help. She did not even bother to look at the man closely. She was shy to look at him that close. A well mannered African girl never looked a man in the eye. Rosewitta remembered her manners. The man helped to carry the suitcase and accompanied her to her school coach. He was so kind she even saw him handing over the bag to another man on the roof of the school bus. Rosewitta smiled at such kindness on such a busy place and among such a hive of activity at the Station. She clapped her hands respectfully, thanking the man for his help. She was satisfied that she was now safe. Rosewitta then showed her vouchers to the driver's assistant and quickly boarded the bus to get herself a comfortable seat. She was happy that her journey had been comfortably safe and did not believe that the station was a haven for pickpockets.

BEING A WOMAN - extract

As Majozi had planned, Hattie became grounded at home because of the eleven children that she had borne literally year after year. If he was not drinking opaque beer, Majozi's other form of entertainment was having babies with Hattie. On the birth of their eleventh child, Hattie had experienced unusual pain during child birth. After she had given birth to Gumie, she felt different and vowed to stop having children ever again after that birth almost cost her life. When Gumie was delivered, the doctors noticed unusually large clots of blood coming from Hattie's uterus. The inexperienced junior doctors who were attending to her did not exactly know what was wrong. They could not clearly establish Hattie's problem as most of the good equipment had broken down and the hospital had exhausted its allocated meagre budget. Dr Davies one of the senior doctors was the one who came to Hattie's rescue at the last minute. When Hattie had lost all hope of living and was saying what she thought were her last words, Dr Davies discovered that Hattie’s uterus had developed a tear. He carried out emergency procedures to remove the uterus. This is how Hattie’s life was saved.

Majozi knew that even if his marriage to Hattie became rocky, Hattie would never leave him. Marriage was never meant to be a bed of roses and African women hung on to their marriages for the sake of the children anyway. Majozi knew the flame had gone but Hattie was a very cultured woman, who stuck to her ideals and would stick to her man no matter what. She was the sort of person who knelt for her husband as a show of respect, and made sure he took precedence over any other family member. In any case, Majozi had paid 8 head of cattle and $800 to Hattie’s parents as bride price for her. According to African custom, she in turn had a duty to cook for him, do his laundry and fulfil the conjugal rights albeit in the right manner. At the time of marriage a woman was supposed to be well trained and to know how to please her husband in bed. At the local beer garden, Majozi boasted that although Hattie was of a slim stature, she had all the assets that he wanted in a woman to fulfill his conjugal needs. “Tete vake vakamuraira,” he was often overheard speaking in this way at the local beer garden. Hattie had been trained well to be active in all respects. She had been coached well before marriage on how to be a good wife. According to African custom, she had used traditional herbs to tighten her private parts and make them attractive. She tied traditional beads round her waist to compliment this. A woman had to be right for her husband. Hattie would never leave Majozi and in any case, even if she left him, no man wanted a woman with eleven children. Despite performing her duties well, Hattie had been worn out. Her sapless breasts were now sagging. They had become unattractive and lacked the suppleness that Majozi had known when Hattie was still as tender as a spring chicken.

'TANGA WANDIDA'

'TANGA WANDIDA.....'

During the 80s and 90s 'tanga wandida...' became a familiar phrase at most Zimbabwean work places, as in 'no sex, no job.' Unfortunately some vulnerable women fell victim to such manipulative bosses and ended up shagging their bosses for jobs. The trend soon spread to head teachers, pastors, service station attendants, headmen, policemen (yes!), 'anamahobho',  'mahwindi' .... all demanding such favours.

At first I didn't believe this until my very first boss came straight into my face one day and asked for sexual favours in return for accelerated advancement. This new boss of mine was eloquent in his speech, he was well connected, he had money. Later on I learnt that he had studied abroad and owned a string of properties in the heart of London, and had lived in London for some years. This explained that London accent innit?

He had called me to his hotel room as we were attending a workshop at the time. I was shaking like a leaf, and what with my SRB accent? I managed to gather a little bit of courage and of course said 'No', but this had insulted my intelligence as I had never slept my way through high school or college. I had used my brains to advance myself ..... and sharp ones for that matter!

So the story continues ....... in my autobiography of course........

Just a reminder to all you good followers out there, women are not stupid, neither are we objects, or punch bags or anything of the sort. I, for one use my brains to think hard and empower myself 'handishandisi gotsi.'

Bis spater.

Ruth

'A TIME TO SPEAK....'

Date: December 1st, 2012;  Stevenage, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom

Now is the time to hear all about my forthcoming book, no more secrets! When 'some' people look at a black woman, particularly a woman from Africa, they think nothing good comes out of them. This is what our societies taught us, these are the biases in the societies that we live in today ..... a lot of prejudices work against us. I share this background, and no matter how I look or sound, I believe black African women are beginning to speak out, just as I will do on the day.

I will be sharing the platform with other inspirational writers and speakers. 'It's my time to speak...' so don't miss out, make a date. See you there!

I will be posting further details about the place and time in the near future. The date is definitely the first of December this year, and the town is Stevenage in Hertfordshire. I look forward to seeing all you good friends who have been eagerly waiting for my book!

Ruth

OUT OF THE SHADOWS ...

Out of the shadows
.

One cold morning after the authorities had rid Harare of its 'filth' I heard a loud bang on the big black gate that led to my house. I looked through the window to check who it was, but the pre-cast boundary wall blocked my view. For a moment I was tempted to ignore the knock as it sounded rather intimidating. What had happened a month before was still fresh on everyone's mind!

I went out anyway, strutting my stuff as usual. I was proud of my assets! "It's a free world", I thought to myself..."but who could that be .....?" I wondered.

"Err, tingaonewo baba vepano here?" "Could I see the man of the house please?" a man asked. He was wearing a multi-coloured scarf and was accompanied by 3 other people, a man and 2 women. Their blood shot swollen eyes were sticking out as if they were about to fall off. These people must have spent the previous night drinking opaque beer at the local beer garden, judging by the man's stinking breath and the bits splattering out of his mouth.

A quick thought ran through my mind. "Ahh, iko zvino vambobuda, vabuda manje manje sooo..." "He is not here, he left a moment ago...." I answered in a faint voice, playing victim.

"When he comes back, tell him we wanted to speak to him ..  about the forthcoming elections," he said with an emphasis. The conversation was brief, as he only wanted to speak to the man of the house. I could not wait for these people to leave and shut the gate behind them. This was 25 years after independence and 10 years after my husband had passed away ..... what an insult!

A little girl from Africa

This is the story of my life that will be published soon. It is set in Zimbabwe where I was born. In this book I talk about growing up in the 1960s through to the 1980s, in a country torn by civil strife. I talk about the challenges of growing up in a society that was deteriorating both physically and socially due to the ravages of a war and due to global influences.

During that period, I (as part of a group) attended many vigils (pungwes) where the wartime message was spread. Some of my peers were persuaded to travel gruelling journeys to neighbouring countries to join the liberation struggle. Some joined and fell by the wayside and some returned, traumatised by the realities of a bush war. I lost a close family member. That left me devastated. That aside, the other negative effects of the war, coupled with societal problems of the time left a mark on me.. My book narrates all those unforgettable experiences.

This is a captivating story about growing up as an African girl. The story gives a fresh perspective into the African way of life then and now. I question the relevance of 'some' lingering African customs as well as beliefs and norms to today's society. At the same time I question whether 'modern lifestyles' are the way to go. By modern lifestyles, I am referring to today's complicated lifestyles.

This is a real life story soon to be in a good book store near you. The book will be published by AuthorHouse and the title is still under review. The book might come under a different label but the message remains the same.

I hope you will enjoy reading this story! On another note, another GRIPPING story by a notable female writer, Betty Makoni, is out, called 'Never Again - not to any woman and girl again'. I thought mine was 'the story' but wait till you READ this one.

Ruth xx