Indispensable power-thoughts from Sekuru Simba’s Funeral My Mom’s last surviving brother, Gospel Simbarashe Nyaunwa, finally succumbed to nagging chronic illness last Wednesday, just a couple of hours after I had a one-to-one chat with him by his death-bed on special request outside normal visiting hours. As I walked out of the Chibvuti campmeeting main enclosure at the end of Divine Service on Wednesday, it was with some kind of premonition that I answered the most nerve-chilling phone call from my only brother, Nixon, who despite being thousands of miles away in the Asian environs of Mitakashi Tokyo, was ironically the first one to break the news to me. The erudite and polished sermon by the Guest Speaker, Prof. Joel Musvosvi, had been invariably interrupted by my fear-inspired heart-rending thoughts about the worst befalling our family at such an ill-timed moment. It is with hindsight that I can perceptively reflect on invaluable gems of thought resultant from my last surviving maternal uncle’s tragic eventuality. The somewhat endless, gruelling and toilsome drive along the rugged and long-neglected parody of a road to Tsikada village, my late maternal grandparents’ home area, was such an arduous journey that made me miss my long-cherished luxury of sitting fully strapped and perched on the back seat whilst being chauffeured by my young brother, Nixon, who by all known standards is a much more seasoned and refined expert behind the wheel than myself. Because Nixon has just relocated to Japan, I had for the first time in ages to take on the unenviable task of driving for a long distance (albeit on a painfully dilapidated road that tells the sad story of a nation’s failure to measure up to the ideals it so noisily enunciates on public platforms). As we trailed behind the Nyaradzo Funeral Hearse on our way to the Nyaunwa family cemetery on the foot of Nyamapfeyo mountain, I had a torrid time trying to calm my Mom’s disconsolate elder sister, Mrs. Manziyo, who after an emergency connecting flight from Cape Town early that morning, had jetted into the country to share the bitter moments and commiserate with all bereaved family members. The tone of her moaning voice, whose tremors still reverberate in my heart and soul, echoed the soul-searching obituary my Mom had presented earlier in her speech on behalf of all her siblings. What an overflow of emotions and sentiments, especially considering that for weeks on end, Sekuru Simba’s hospital ward had become a default rendezvous for our large extended family members. Sekuru Simba’s final excruciating tussle against cancer had synergized our concerted efforts in our yearning for the singular miracle against the adverse circumstances at hand. His last moments had created a rare-find platform for the manifestation of real agape love. Just before the final journey to the Nyamapfeyo resting place, I had joined my dad, my uncle Mr. Mutunzi and my cousins Robson and Tidings in an enthusiastic team of Vakwasha and Vazukuru doing the catering for the guests. We prepared some savoury beef stew that almost diverted the gathering people’s attention from the bereavement agenda. By the time we returned from the graveyard, we were almost terribly worked out by the chores that we dutifully carried out in honour to this last uncle of ours. After filling up two 200litre drums with drinking water with the aid of my Mahere family cousins, I struggled successfully with my truck on the rugged road from the Matengenyika communal borehole back to my grandparents’ homestead where the ladies were waiting to fix supper and do the dishes. There is something about the rural house-keeping routines that brings out the merits of our Zimbabwean tradition in celebrating the dignity of human labour. One of the most memorable episodes was my final bath at Sekuru D.D’s ruware. When I am in my rural homestead of Zviyambe, Hwedza, I always make sure to spare time for the exciting river bath. This has been my tradition ever since my boyhood cattle-herding experience where together with my mates, we would strip naked, wash all our clothes and spread them out to dry on the large hot rocks jutting out of the majestic Mhare river. The experience at my maternal grandparents’ place was a bit different. There is no nearby river but there is a large, spacious rocky plateau with amazingly well-cut-out natural dishes that collect clean bathing water in this area that is highly favoured by consistent relief rainfall. At the time of going to Sekuru Simba’s funeral, the area was just dry in this post-harvest season. As if to re-enact our childhood ritual, my cousin Tidings and I carried our hot water buckets and toiletry bags and sauntered in the thick of the night on the hazily marked-out path leading to this ruware. We had such a phenomenally exhilarating experience bathing under the bright moon-light. The natural feel of the cold rocks on our bare feet, in contrast to the artificial ceramic tiles that have become a commonplace phenomenon, gave us such an organic link to this land of our departed forebears. Stooping down with cupped palms to scoop some hot water on this chilly and wintry mid-night was such an experience, the routine of stooping and straightening up giving me the magical view of the twin landforms, Nyakapanga and Mapere mountains covered in the azure of the misty pre-morning phase in the day’s small hours. Sekuru Simba’s death was indeed a loss that triggered our most sensitive points. Further to this tragic loss, the passing on gave us the sense of reconnection to our forebears’ rural environs, sensitizing our minds to the mundane realities that we ordinarily brush aside. There is something about the over-sensitization of today’s cosmopolitan bustle which denies our hearts and bodies the physicality of connectedness to the earthy, healthy, organic and life-giving essence encapsulated in our heritage-keeping rural homes………………………………………………………..
Posted on: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 15:53:25 +0000
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