LAKE OF MY HEART – CHAPTER 3

LAKE OF MY HEART – CHAPTER 3

He had been due to write a battery of part of his professional examinations. Entering the profession had been through a bottleneck. He had the requisite qualifications to register with the agency. He had been thinking of the banking and insurance sectors instead. He had sent applications from as far as Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe to every merchant, commercial, trade & investment bank and even the building societies. In his mind as a school leaver looking for a trainee or desk job, he could see himself working as a corporate banker or whatever that was, maybe a manager of corporate banking services.

That would have seen him rising from the ranks of a mere bank teller going up as he studied his way up the Association of Bankers Zimbabwe thence he would go through to the banking and finance degree qualification. Maybe one day he would be an Elisha Mushayakara heading Zimbabwe Banking Corporation or a Gideon Gono in charge of the former International Bank of Credit & Commerce now rebranded as Commercial Bank of Zimbabwe after the parent had flopped.

What a rude awakening when the very banking sector he had wanted had sent him through three fruitless interviews then by chance, here he was. Even all the insurance giants had somehow let him down. Maybe it was that the number of fresh posts to fill in with school leavers holding their passes was dwindling as the economy went into reverse gear most of the time losing the little forward momentum it had gained.

He was moving with applications as a school leaver waiting for the interview requests. He had like most of his age completing ordinary level with five passes or better applied for relief teaching. The end of the war had seen opportunities opening for the teaching, nursing, agricultural and civil service profession. In the education ministry the war had left dilapidated schools and classrooms that did not shape up. The eager school leaver who had just completed their ordinary level was at home where the qualified was unavailable. For almost a year and a half, he had taught Mathematics forms three and four. He had also boozed.

For someone growing up in the mining town of Bindura, with his moderate advanced level passes which he had added to by writing again a year later, he was assigned to schools within the periphery of his home town. He went out in the morning by bicycle and returned the same way. He found time and effort to do endless applications attaching photocopy certificates, identity documents and certificates of results. Then he waited.

He went termly teaching, teaching and teaching. Why hadn’t he married former students like some of his compatriots had done? Women were just not his cup of tea. Besides which, there was more to life than being a married expectant father at an age of less than twenty-two years. Most of his colleagues in relief teaching had gone to apprenticeship training, teaching, nursing, agricultural colleges, police, prison, air force and the army.

He had started as an administrative clerk by chance. Here he was in an office. He was a general dogsbody helping in the vetting of prospective clients, checking their references and credit worthiness. Some of them where big time defaulters elsewhere. He helped draw up tenancy agreements and contracts. He also was in charge of making sure rentals were collected in time with no arrears as the owners wanted their investments eggs in time.

How these chances fall at the same time? He had registered his name and qualifications with the Apprentice Board. He had also applied to about seventeen posts in apprenticeship, air force and the military. He had received about two apprenticeship offers after he had started as an administrative assistant. Then even the air force had called him for a technician apprenticeship training four months after he had started working. That had relieved him of the need by the military arms of subjecting trainees to a rigorous physical examination.

The last time he had run in long distance had been when he had been in the fourth form, almost three years ago. Beer and wine had added a pot belly. He had been accepted for a degree by the University of Zimbabwe, however the bachelors of social sciences honours degree had not appealed to him. Besides which the thought of a quick buck had greater appeal than three to four years of concentrated lecturers only to spend years looking for a job.

“Let me tell you something young man,” his father had said. “You don’t go to university then it means your chances of attaining a degree a slim within the next eight years. There is a problem with learning as an adult. The responsibilities outweigh everything else. There is an element of time. As a university student, you live on the campus, studying, learning and making friends. The same degree done while working will take you eight years.”

“The degree course they were offering wasn’t one that I wanted working with poor people and the social welfare,” he had defended. “They limited my choices. I had initially applied for a Bachelor of Science Honours (Accounting) or Actuarial Sciences. They gave me social studies.”

“Social Studies you become a care worker with the government or the many and sprouting non-governmental organizations that are coming up,” the father had suggested.

“Dad that is not my priority.”

“My priority wasn’t hard rock mining. I was a fisherman par excellence,” the other suggested.

“I know dad you joined the bandwagon to Rhodesia.”

“Others had bachelor’s degrees in art becoming just mere teachers. Today they have taken themselves from being mere teachers in the education sectors to become owners of upmarket private colleges without mentioning names,” he replied.

“It’s a chance encounter. A matter of one wild chance being exploited otherwise it’s like starting at the bottom,” Trevor replied.

“Son, if you start in the hotel industry as a bell boy moving through different departments with your advanced level training, going to college, by the time you attain a master’s degree, you will have vast experience,” the old sage was really somebody, he thought.

“I can’t throwaway a ready job for a degree course.”

“The lure of money is deadly in that the moment you start earning and living alone especially, you are duty bound to continue drinking. Where there is drinking there are loose women,” the elder had said. “The next thing you will be a father of one by the age of twenty-two. With a wife to support you will find the fees are too high. With a baby crying when you want to sleep, reading at night will be next to impossible.”

“Dad, it’s either apprenticeship or one of those trainee on the job training like the trainee managers program from Bata Shoe Company that I applied for which runs for four years,” he had replied. “If they pick me up I will willingly go to Gweru and start a new life.”

“Why Gweru?”

“Bata Shoe Company is resident in Gweru.”

“Why do you want to run away from the mining community that reared you?”

“The jobs are possible outside Bindura.”

“While others from other towns are coming here?” his father asked. “There are men/women applying for apprenticeships, nurse training or so many to name a few from outside Bindura as far as Harare hoping to make it out here.”

“It's different father.”

“I have since registered my name and those of all children under eighteen at Bindura town council offices to be considered for a council assisted housing scheme. I am in my sunset years, one day the mine will say move out.”

“That is fine father. If I am working we will see what we can do about a non-company house.”

“Did you ever apply for a job at the council offices?”

“They wanted political connections and a party card,” he had responded. “Besides I did apply however I still await their decisions on clerical posts.”

“It’s your decision young man. I never did advanced level,” his father had said shifting attention from one foot to the other holding his walking stick even though he was sitting on a wooden chair. He rarely used it. It was a habit of a man who had broken his leg a long time ago. The leg had healed but the walking stick had replaced the crutch. “I never did advanced or ordinary level. I did just my standard 5 yet I sent you to school.”

It was like a man who had gone blind insisting on wiping his eye shades.

“I know that father,” Trevor replied.

“I just know how to mine for chrome, gold and nickel. I just know the rocks when I crack them open. I know how to follow their seams without getting lost and how to survive mining accidents that have wrought havoc on my friends. Maybe Nyamba has kept me alive kibusiwu and chwani. Definitely it was not my own knowledge of the rocks and caverns underneath that kept me alive. I wouldn’t know where an underground river and its torrent are. Nyamba knows, He tells me to stay put.”

“I am not looking down on your job. Worse still if I endured being called names because of my language, I know it was worse for you in your days.”

“Whatever you do we will still support you.”

“Thanks father.”

“There is the mail man with another of your interview or regret letters. Maybe, this one letter is from a nandila thinking of you,” his father had said. “At least count your blessings before they hatch Trevor because a lot of your peers never had so many offers for interviews. Some actually had none!”

“It’s all to do with Mathematics and Geography at advanced level and my sciences and language at ordinary level,” he replied moving to the postman. He collected two letters one for him and one for his sister. Maybe his would be brother in law was writing love letters.

“All the same some of your peers did not pass Mathematics so well at ordinary level,” his father said. “Look at Dumisani who tried apprenticeships to no avail. Now he is almost into his second year at Chibero College of Agriculture.”

“I know about Dumisani, we once taught for two terms at the same school. We shared from our mid-morning meal to supper and chores,” he recalled.

“And a calabash of beer too?”

“Yes father. Where exactly did we come from?” Trevor had asked.

“Many centuries ago, our people migrated from today’s Zaire into Zambia. We came from the Lubalunda kingdom of Mwata in the seventh century after Christ. We fought and were conquered by the Makalolo from the south who were fleeing from Mzilikazi‘s impi’s. We lived in the Barotse Plains as cattlemen migrating to higher grounds yearly. The old days are gone. The days when there were buffalo herds as many as a village’s population multiplied by three are gone. Even the predators in the Barotse plain have certainly declined as successive droughts and human encroachment affect them.”

“The kuomboka ceremony?” Trevor asked.

“Yap”, the older man replied and explained what the yearly ceremony was all about crossing from the flood plains to higher ground in anticipation of large volumes of water. “You see there was a lot of fanfare and pageantry which is now done according to a published date for the same of a few tourists. There is always the need to move to higher ground during the rainy season. However, seriously speaking how many permanent houses can you build if you are always on the move? Our culture and the modern age had come to loggerheads.”

“Where you not fishermen?” asked Trevor.

“Being close to the Zambezi River meant we were fishermen and hunters. Animals came in to drink hence hunting. Fishing was great after the floods when pockets of water would start receding. We hunted trapped fish especially tiger fish and eels which we salted and dried for harder times,” there was nostalgia in the eyes.

“And wars?”

“My grandfather said there were inter-tribal, intra tribal and other wars. We feared the Ndebele the most, well we came to Rhodesia around before you were born with your mother. Unlike other migrants, I did not look for a local wife. I already had two children. The wife, she followed even though there were Rhodesian restrictions.”

“How did you go past the restrictions?”

“I simply told Mr. Robert Edgewise my boss the truth. I wanted my wife and your two elder brothers here and two years later after some paper work they came.”

“But the modern age say the Lozi is made of integrated clans not a simple clan.”

“It’s the same with the Ndebele. The true Ndebele were the Khumalo clan. Try telling that to the assortment of Shona people integrated into Mzilikazi’s Ndebele.”

That had been less than a year ago. When he had clinched the job, he had talked to his father as was custom.

“Well?” he had asked the older man after the elder had read the letter and contract specifications.

“There is no management training.”

“I will have to do so on my own,” he replied. “The company is mainly into real estate, auctioneering and valuation and management of assets like large buildings and land.”

“Trevor,” the elder man had said. “If you don’t read, you will be sunk. Unfortunately there is no big college here where you can endure three to four years of practical training but there are lots in Harare. Harare also has many items that can derail any young man who wants to read.”

“I hear.”

“Where will you stay?” his father had asked.

“I have an ex-form 4 class mate working for a haulage company as an invoicing clerk who stays in Kambuzuma.”

“Two bachelors in a large city are cause for trouble”, came back the reply. “Girls are the first stumbling block then the calabash and loud music.”

“I will get my own place as soon as I start getting paid,” he had replied.

“We do have cousins in the capital though I wouldn’t suggest you go and live there,” the elder replied. “After years not seeing a relative, coming in unannounced is not a good thing.”

“You know what father, the salary is better than apprentice or management trainee because they are treating us as equals. What remains is to make sure within two months after pay day I should have registered with a professional institute and be a student at a college with examinations due within five months,” Trevor had said. “I will be an accounting and administrative clerk shuffling papers and bank statements at an estate agency that has offices in Harare, Bulawayo, Gweru, Masvingo, Mutare and Marondera.”

“Don’t put your head inside the beer calabash,” his father had replied to laughter from Trevor. “Your head is not bald like that of a bastard. A bustard, buzzard or vulture can do that to get at the flesh inside a dead animal. You don’t need to. You will get messy. Think before you drink or think before you take loose women home. Look at the products of whoring and over drinking. Don’t drink yourself to a standstill. The human heart has a limited capacity for how much liquor the human body can take. We drink liberally. Don’t drink yourself to a stupor. Mind the women especially those of the night and the girls from loose high density suburbs who go hunting for men.”

“Maybe I will come back one day and we will have some clear beer,” Trevor said.

“Clear beer causes many problems, alone with as friend or two, opaque beer is okay. Clear beer cannot be shared like opaque beer.”

“Poison can be administered into opaque beer”, he pointed out a negative from within the positive.

“Well I will drink one or two clear beer quarts. With you coming from Harare when you will have a vehicle, I will be taking Lion Lager or Castle all the way stopping at every rest point to irrigate the grass,” the old man said with a wink.

“If I study well, you should not have a dry throat too long.”

“You are going to kill me!”

“Mumumela ndate, see you later father.”

“Mumumela. Fine son.”

He had stayed with his ex-classmate for two months before he started looking for a place to lodge. His ex-classmate had been very liberal when Trevor had first received his salary helping him to budget and check out the city life.

“So what areas are you looking at?” his friend had asked.

“Westwood next to Kambuzuma.”

“No,” his friend said.

“Why?”

“You and I are birds of a feather. We are all studying and we leave colleges late at night. If you are in town and you listen to pirate taxis calling destinations which are the most frequent loading zones?” he asked.

“Mbare and Machipisa.”

“Find a place to lodge within those radiuses so that if you leave college you have six or seven places to look for transport not one. Who wants to get to walk up his home stretch when the night stalkers are doing their rounds?“

“Mbare is not kosher. Too many crooks, thieves, muggers, people and ladies of the night. It wouldn’t be safe trudging down the streets at nine in the evening.”

“Machipisa is in Highfield close to Glen Norah and there is Old Highfield, Egypt lines for instance.”

He had squeezed in by chance, now he was running through examinations after examinations in order to be a qualified somebody, a recognised human entity. Men and men were weaned leaving the chancers behind. This was real brain works were there were no teasers, this was real stuff. He rushed through the streets of Glen Norah A before he could catch a lift to the city. From there it depended on whether or not he was early. If he was in time, he would saunter towards Harare Polytechnic to sit the first of his staged estate agents and valuers’ examinations. Then he got to the road leading north-west towards Machipisa and south-east towards a river which drained industrial waste and at times sewer past a large area with rocky outcrops.

“What is it with these guys today? “He asked a fellow would-be passenger.

“Police or Vehicle Inspection Department,” the other suggested. A combination of the two normally had unroadworthy vehicles impounded. This meant fines and mechanical costs before their operators could redeem them. “If it’s both, the vehicles will be a mess at the VID depot hence transport blues today.”

“I had thought the drivers were pressing for higher fares,” Trevor had suggested. “The moment fares are gazetted the transport blues end somehow.”

“Is it not a mixture of pay days perhaps?”

“Pay days?”

“If its education pay day all the teachers that teach in the afternoon want to get their salaries in the morning and later, vice versa.”

“You are correct it must be education, police and municipality pay day today.”

He flagged emergency taxis. It looked like it was one of those days when everyone had decided to go to the city almost within the same hour. The taxis were filling up faster than he could assume. They were picking up passengers before they reached his bus stop by which time they needed two or three when there were dozens standing in wait. He at last got one after a struggle, pushing and shoving. In most instances there were more passengers than seat capacity hence there was pressure and at most times fares went up to compensate. When the authorities stamped this practice down, the operators reacted by creating two journeys from a single journey, cutting routes, costing the commuters twice. Imagine the embarrassment he had when payment time came. He could not locate his wallet.

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