Inflicted Ponder

INFLICTED PONDER CHAPTER 1 Loud shouts and bus roars that eclipse any other counteracting audible sounds are taking centre stage. The people are scattered and squashed all over the ever-busy and congested marketplace. What most strikes the chord is the efficacy of the transport service providers to and from this largest rank in the country. One after the other, different bus and taxi operators take turns to ease the long queues of commuters. It is five minutes after my arrival, and I am beginning to feel exasperated by the stagnation associated with our queue. It seems the duty bus inspector has personal issues with our destination, as some terminal points are getting successive flows of bus supplies and dispatches. As we get an allocation of two buses at once from the inspectorate, my impatience-driven frustrations suddenly get annihilated as our long queue clears in no time, much to the gratification and appeasement of the noisy, and equally disgruntled waiting passengers. There is no such thing as annoying as having to wait for transport for an indefinite period. As much as patience is branded a virtue that is purported to come with certain rewards, it is never for everyone. My irrational dosage of impatience easily degenerates into grumbling, and for that reason, the timeous bus boarding is a welcome development. Not that alone, Harlem bus rank is widely known for its unpredictability in terms of perennial acts of theft and robbery perpetrated by crafty rogues. I have seen crime victims and heard reports by some of them regrettably realising that their purses, bags, groceries and other precious belongings have been stolen under their noses. With a brick of dollars on me, being cautious of such dirty skits and exploits becomes a reflex action. The coming of the two buses does not only ease my fears and discomfiture but also renders my projected daily mission possible. It is never easy to stomach failure brought by external circumstances. I loathe negative subjectivity with a passion, and always guard against easily falling prey to it. I put a broad smile of exhilaration as the bus veered off the main terminal en route to the calmer and safer eastern part of the country via the city centre. The tarmac running from Harlem to Tebet, my destination is known to be flawless and sound. For a well-sealed highway, like any other across the country, neither bumps nor portholes can be felt. For now, the only notable distraction to the soothing jazzy Kenny G saxophone playing inside the bus is the blistering accelerator powered raves being made by the raring to go, bus driver. Because my destination is more than 150 km away, the bus driver’s determination to overtake every dragging vehicle as we pass through the central business district is somewhat justifiable. The tall and attractive buildings of the city centre cast glittering reflections of their lure as our bus endeavours to filter out of the congested, and robot governed Harlem streets. I can see an elderly straw hat spotting gentleman eagerly gazing and nodding in gratification as we pass through these skyscrapers. “Harlem is just like New York.” He utters to the youthful woman sitting next to him. The two mutually share their appreciative sentiments over the impressive and eye-catching infrastructure of the capital as they refresh themselves on minerals. The cleanliness of the city streets and pavements is indicative of the immaculate service provision of the councils. All robots seem to be functional. The pedestrians and other vehicle road users can be seen cautiously navigating and negotiating to their intended destinations. The bus driver is compelled to adhere to the inhibiting traffic calls of the crowded city centre as he adopts yard speed, much to his dejected frustration, as evidenced by his continual blowing of the horn along the way out. The presence of traffic police details does not only make him observe road regulations but also brings about some leverage of superimposed patience. As our road-worthy bus approaches Heylands, its speed increase becomes conditionally compatible as we get into the two-way section of the highway. Being on a priority road, his indulgent speeding is now only subject to the observation of just a few robots left before it becomes a free highway cruise to my destination. On either side of the highway are beautiful upmarket low-density residential properties under the pleasant cover of leafy trees and diverse hedges. I always make sure to sight-travel through my former secondary school every time I pass through the Cheese shopping centre, and this occasion is not an exception. As the bus driver stops at the designated stop of this memorable location of personal relevance and significance, as always, I cast my eyes around to ascertain whether there have been some notable changes to relish. To my pleasure, I realise that the once fenced enormous yard of the esteemed educational institution is now within the drywall, but can still allow for the vivid view of the school’s main 3 floors block, glass pavilion, and the sports grounds from the highway. I profoundly relish this moment synonymous with successful youthful academic recollections as the bus gets past it at a gradually increasing speed en route to my destination. Our bus is passing through a wonderful farm stretch, and I cannot help but catch glimpses of blossoming farm greenery. Everyone on the bus seems to be bestowing credit to those behind such tremendous agricultural efforts that have seen the country rating highly on the global agricultural map as we get lost into the deeps of the travel. I am woken up by the loud sound of the ringing phone alarm. I utter to myself, “Oh! Am I dreaming?” I stretch and straighten my body as I incline my back against the continental pillow. I have had similar dreams about myself before, but it has never occurred to me that the details of those subconscious experiences depicts with such relevant and realistic connectivity. It is surreal that I relive a bygone memory through a dream with all of its specific nitty-gritty. Be that as it may, the then and contemporary situations, beyond any believable dreams and imaginations, are vividly a world apart. CHAPTER 2 You do not need to be an oracle, prophet, witch doctor, magician, or renowned scientist to comprehend that all is no longer well in our redundant motherland. Some citizens have since given up on this once called breadbasket of Africa. Owing to daylight bloodsuckers masquerading as rulers, a staggering number of doctors, teachers, engineers, nurses, and other tradesmen have since migrated to the diaspora to cushion themselves from the sorry labour situation in the country, with those remaining rendering their diligent services on the pretexts of formality, desperation, and endurance. Gone are the good old days when you needed a change from your salary to foot your expendables bill, with some basic daily needs like bread and butter assuming the status of luxuries. It is now a matter of pondering that one day once again our economy will get back to its glorious feet. All the best of us can do is wish and hope for the overnight departure of these diamond looters who continue thriving on siphoning every penny from the coffers. One wonders whether the generality of the citizenry is ever going to wriggle out of this subjective quagmire any time soon. Back in the day as a naïve and innocent kid, I used to think that all the vile and damning words against the colonial Rhodesian regime were never going to be susceptible to retraction at any perceivable point in life, alas, I was still infantile and myopic to critically draw any logical conclusions over those sweeping statements that made the outgone white regime appear boldly painted in big black blocks. I was simply a hoodwinked ghetto child harnessed to depend on being spoon-fed on what was raw information in the guise of substantiated facts. The state monopolised media’s post-independence hyper imposed algorithm made it sound as though they had replaced worse with better when the truth would expose itself with time. It is only when I matured and removed the brainwashed blindfolds when I ascertained that it was a case of a childish mentality of purporting opinions as facts, speculation as evidence, let alone perceiving malicious p********a as fabulous authenticity. As I sit alone in my room pondering about the state of affairs soon after independence and a few years thereafter, I am compelled to admit that the outgone government had some angelic spots hidden behind its lined demonic garment. It is naïve to judge a book by its cover, I do concur indeed! While I agree that colonialism, in general, was a daylight robbery and disenfranchisement of the colonised from what they had birthrights over, I also feel that it was a catalyst in not only the infrastructural development of the occupied territories but also in terms of spiritual growth of subjects in a wide spectrum of social sciences. For all the accusations over repression and suppression of liberties, the Rhodesian government made sure that even the lowest-paid workers put three meals on their tables. It is hard for me to believe up to now that the colonial regime managed to build serviced homes in cities that were earmarked for the marginalized cooks and gardeners who offered their services in the elite’s suburbs of the status-quo. The ruling regime inherited a vessel that was intact and afloat, only to have it sinking through its nauseating corrupt practices. It is highly appalling that most of my unemployed, impoverished, and distraught countrymen can only wish and wonder whether the hands of time could be turned back instead of looking forward to new and better developments as is the case in other countries which share a similar historical background. There is no such thing as piteous as putting out your anguish and disappointment on “It was better before” Looking back, I can picture my late grandmother revisiting accounts of the rosy bygone days when glories outnumbered worries, boom eclipsed gloom, let alone hope reigned over hopelessness. I am pretty convinced that she will not roll in her grave because she had to bid farewell to these detestable developments that we are plagued with. She left us at a time when the regime she used to celebrate, just like the best of us, had already gone a long distance in engendering mass sufferance in the land. What could be boggling her mind right now in her eerie posthumous existence is whether there will be another lease of life for our dead country. For political mileage, the useless regime grabbed farms without weighing the merits and demerits in terms of ownership versus productivity, observing checks and balances as regard to exclusive indigenisation versus inclusive globalisation. She lived on farming and role-modelled as she laboured ardently within the threshold of her low scale production, but she never supported the idiotic and unscrupulous manner in which the land reform was undertaken. I always recall her encouragement and leadership prowess every time we took to the farm fields. “We will be done now, let us work, we are pushing to that end” she always fondly reassured me and my industrious late cousin brother during hoeing sessions. May they both continue resting in peace! Zimbabwe’s economic demise came into being as a result of miscalculations and despicable misrule by the ruling government. Only the devil knows why ZANU PF is still in power to this day in 2021. My country is historically an agro-based economy, which is the reason why the land blunder that the out of favour regime made at the turn of the millennium brought the country to its knees. Vast tracts of land were in the hands of a white minority, fair and fine, but did it warrant such barbaric and derailing measures as those implemented by our carcass government to address this disparity? Obviously, NO! There was the need to address this issue, but the irrational kickout methodology adopted by these greedy goons was obnoxious and ridiculous. This absolute regime never ceases to amaze, when we took over power in 1980, there was a provision in the land tenure act that allowed for a willing buyer willing seller scenario. The best time that the contentious land issue could have been logically addressed was soon after independence, but these filthy dictators got overwhelmed by the attainment of political independence to an extent of being oblivious of the need to have the same economically. To be frank, common sense cannot be branded “common sense” if one overlooks such matters of proven substance. CHAPTER 3 My name is Gulliver, I was born a couple of years as the firstborn to both my now deceased parents. Most of my friends prefer calling me Gaza because of my ardent childish passion for the world’s most beautiful game. I was born with a great footballing talent that unfortunately suffered arrested development. I had to witness some footballers I could play way better than applying their trades professionally and internationally a few years later. In some cases, it could be due to hard work beating talent owing to the latter’s failure to work hard, but mine was stereotype of a talented ghetto child misunderstood by parents who expected more from classroom achievements than the football pitch. By then, several international stars had come through as trendsetters including Diego Maradona, Franco Baresi, Ruud Gullit, and my nickname namesake himself, Paul Gascoigne who was also affectionately known as Gaza. The underlying benchmark was that a few of our local footballers had proven soccer as a career that could change one’s life in just 90 minutes. With most of our parents, it was a matter of looking through goggles instead of binoculars, and discipline entailed doing as they said. My mom’s fight with my Headmaster over specialist medical bills when I sustained an arm fracture while playing soccer for the school team heralded an unprecedented end to what most perceived as a promising career ahead. She had to foot the bill by herself prompting the imposition of a never-play-again home policy. Despite that mishap, my innermost love for football continued to grow from strength to strength outside professional involvement as a player. In any case, destiny often tends to decide for us and not the other way round. My late father was a member of the civil service. At the time of his death, he had risen through the military ranks in his 11-year career which spanned from 1981 to earn a decent salary. Unlike my late grandmother, my father did not get to witness most of the unfortunate political and socioeconomic dwindles that my deceased female cult heroines both did. He bade life farewell when there was no misfiring economy, arbitrary arrests, sewer water running on the streets, even the looted diamonds at Chiadzwa had not been discovered when he passed on. He left us when he was still gainfully employed in the winter of 1992. As a ranked army officer, his ducks were in a role, let alone the general economic situation in the country was still somewhat enviable. Notwithstanding, the only development that could have flashed red flags to my late father was the adoption of what the state termed ESAP, an acronym for Economic Structural Adjustment Programme back in 1990. As I ponder about how he arrived at naming one of our calves ESAP, permutations are that he was beginning to sense the impending adverse economic conditions the latter later engendered in our country, but he did not get to experience the hell that later accompanied that adopted government move. The general state of affairs in my country as of now is glaringly undesirable. Much of the grandeur depicted in that bus fantasy now belongs to the dungeons of obsoleteness. Dormant Harare is now like a single street in developed Johannesburg. Mbare marketplace where the largest bus rank in the country is found is long gone to the dogs. The central business district buildings now look like ruins of a deserted ghost town. The Enterprise highway is now a porthole-infested tarmac, with the general national transport sector dismally leaving a lot to be desired. The once long, but timeously cleared terminal queues are now a thorn in the flesh of many hurrying commuters. My former school back in Chisipite is now a pale shadow of its former self. Most of the upmarket Newlands and Highlands homes have lost their top billing stature, save for just a renovated and upgraded few. The eye-catching greenery on farms along the highway to my Mashonaland east destination has become a ridiculous compromise of its traditional spark and posture. Thanks to the beleaguered ruling government for bringing down our once vibrant motherland to its knees. All credit to the autocratic and corrupt regime for turning the so-called sunshine city, and the rest of the country into a trash catch of political and socioeconomic gloom and doom. As they chanted “Happy Independence!” in 1980 they forgot that the glory they were to bask in was hinged on a white-manipulated economy. Myopically, these thieving bastards overlooked that the mainstay of that inherited economic stability was farming. The truth be told, it was absurd and insane to adopt a radical kick out and grab land reform policy given a scenario where most of these farms had been immensely developed to warrant negotiations concerning both production and ownership stakes. It was a sensational case of a collapse of judgement to carefreely meddle with farming activities that had assumed a large-scale status, let alone bearing global trade significance. The saddening situation today is that the best of the citizenry is plagued on pondering about how the lost economic blossom can be resuscitated. Mothers and fathers are always seen palm to chin wishing for a repeat of the sweet tunes the country used to loudly play, with brothers and sisters barely closing their eyes during the night meditating about how best the impoverished country can get to the apex again. I detest this government with a passion. As I travel in inflicted meditation, I envision Zimbabwe without a feast clenching ruling government someday in the future, looking forward to the ascendance of a regime that will create a landscape synonymous with observing the rule of law and growth of investor confidence, as opposed to that which invites gross human rights abuses, expect a leader who is God-fearing and given to democracy and not brutality and corruption. Yes! Just like my fellow natives. I immensely hope and wish for the reincarnation of a country that was highly rated for its distinct quality in virtually all sectors, be it education, Health or Agriculture itself. In this wishful extravaganza, I hope for divine intervention in terms of the establishment of a new political and socioeconomic chapter. In any case, may our wishful meditations come true!