When people ask where I am from my answer is always Harare. That is accurate, that’s where I was born and raised but what really feels like home for me, is where my father was born and raised, kwa Zinhata. To help you pinpoint where this is, it is in Masvingo province which is in the southern part of Zimbabwe. The closest “growth point” or district service center is Mupandawana and I’m from the Magumbo clan. Just typing this elicits emotions of extreme pride in me.
Growing up I would often go kwa Zinhata to visit my paternal grandparents. It was always such an event seeing that I come from a fairly large family. These road trips consisted of multiple stops at petrol stations, car games and being lucky enough to be in the car with the best snacks. After what seemed like hours on the road, we would arrive home. My fondest memory was of my grandfather smoking a pipe and sitting under the mango tree with whoever else was visiting. On arriving home, the unspoken rule took effect and like clockwork, everyone fell into their respective gender roles. The women would unload the cars and go into the “kitchen” i.e. the hut and start preparing for dinner and the men would head off to the kraal to slaughter a cow and a goat. I remember never being allowed to see or hear this process as our parents feared we would have nightmares. As kids, our excitement levels were high and this was because we got a chance to play outside with cousins we hardly saw. We were even fascinated by the pit latrine and no running water, only using water stored in the barrels collected from the well. These childhood memories were some of the very best.
Years later as an adult, I went home again with mum and three of the same cousins I used to play with. This time it was different, I wasn’t the child playing car games and riding in the car with the best snacks. I was the driver, trying to navigate the roads and figuring out which route to take, thank goodness for mum being my GPS. I was the one arriving home without a warm welcome from grandparents, just a few of the farm workers to greet us. When we arrived, we started cleaning and deciding where we would sleep that night and what we would eat. There certainly wasn’t a slaughtered cow or goat, who would do it? We weren’t running around and playing together outside. The lack of running water and the same pit latrine didn’t have the charm and fascination it had so long ago. We sat around the fire that night, reminiscing on our childhood and the past, not realizing that this would be the last time we would all be together like this. Despite it being so different, it still felt like I had come home. My heart yearns for my beloved home kwa Zinhata, even though I realize that being home again will be truly heartbreaking.
