On Tuesday the 9th of September 2014 I buried my friend and colleague in the struggle for “equal rights and justice” Mukoma Thomas Deve. It was Warren Hills that swallowed his flesh into its ripe red soil, the sky was blue but partly cloudy, a typical beauty of a day yet the nation was mourning and celebrating the passing of a “gentle giant” the “soul of arts and culture”, a gift to the forsaken of this society, the artist, the fabric of our nation that swims but barely survives in pools of poverty in a society drunk on a cocktail of politics, greed and deceitfulness the same scourges Mukoma Thomas spend his life fighting. I took the short route and drove from Southerton through Kambuzuma then Warren Park the host suburb to Warren Hills, the final resting place to the late great Thomas Deve. I hurried through the swelling crowd of mourners as I readied my go pro camera to take a few pics of the scene that was quickly unfolding. I was surprised to see my very own neighbour Mai Mishi who quickly told me that she was related to Deve’s wife Bernadaette or should I say Benna as he often affectionately called her, the name rang through my head a couple of times, but it was not my voice, it was the voice of my friend Thomas, he was a family man, I thought of Aston “family man” Barrett Bob Marley’s bassist, we often talked about “The Wailers” in the early days when I d- Jayed with Star Time Supapowa “the ladies choice” and Mukoma Thomas introduced me to Keshia Abrahams my good friend and one of Mukoma Thomas’s exchange students from the USA, the reason for my sojourn to the states. Those days we ruled the roost, there was no Judgement Yard, Winky D or Jah Praisah to speak of for they were still in the making, to become beneficiaries of the wisdom and common sense that was freely dished out by Mukoma Thomas at the drop of a hat. Was he a “Rastaman” was he an “Intellectual” was he an “Pan Africanist” was he a “Humanitarian” was he an “Activist” was he a “Jesus Christ” of our time these thoughts running through my troubled mind. I bump into Munyaradzi Hwengwere ex ZBC boss looking lost. Doctor Fred Zindi was holding onto a pole for balance and wondering what he would write in his Sunday Mail column, Doctor Gwenzi, a wealthy promoter was standing next to Zindi and I didn’t know that they could make a black shirt that big, I mean the guy is huge. Before I could even get a glimpse of Benna my attention was drawn to the entrance of the former Prime Minister and President of the MDC opposition party Morgan Tsvangirai and I had to haul ass in order to get a few pics of the controversial leader, he glanced at me somberly and bowed his head in grief so that I had to wait a few beats before I could take two more pics of the gallant warrior before turning my attention to Benna and the kids. “He is survived by three daughters and one son” babbled the “man of the cloth” someone whispered to me that the man of the cloth was actually a lawyer, I failed to see the connection, but no doubt the guy was sharp. He beckoned everyone to take a seat except the bereaved and close family then urged them to look all around them as far as they could see. He then announced that if there was any reason to be sad they should no longer be sad because they were evidently not alone, judging by the multitudes that had come to be with them. I was forced to look at Benna and the kids, to face the pain, the loss, the in justice of it all, the contrast of celebration of a great man and the pain of a bereaved wife and children, I was not brave enough to face them with my token of obvious and expected condolences so I took a look around me and saw the convent girls high school students in their powder blue tunics and another girls school in navy blue and then I couldn’t help notice the pockets of dread locked Rastas scattered in groups between the NGO officials relatives and friends. Munya Nyemba of Transit crew was visibly shaken. Mukoma Thomas had spend his last night on this earth rocking to the infectious reggae rhythms of the Transit Crew one of the oldest and most consistent Zimbabwean Reggae outfit. They had been robbed of their number one mentor, supporter, fan, brother. The heart beat to the whole ceremony, the man of the cloth supported by the “director of ceremonies” took pains to tread the cautious road between Christianity and Rastafarianism in an effort not to offend anyone, their emphasis on love uniting all, quite befitting the man being laid to rest. I did not wait for the coffin to be lowered I left the party and drove to the other side of the cemetery where I said a prayer by my parents grave and was glad to see that the grave is being well cared for. Drained of energy I drove back home but could not relax so I went to my local bar to swallow a few cold ones and to chat to those who would listen. “I lost a brother today” I exclaimed and they asked who it was I had lost. In hind sight my thoughts after feeling very low for the loss of my brother, Did we not just bury the true “Minister of Arts and Culture” I think we did.
Posted on: Thu, 11 Sep 2014 10:39:02 +0000
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