On the Way to Smiley's House

On the Way to Smiley's House

By Fred Owens

Details and depth do not come easily to me. I could write about the chain on the gate. Next to the mailbox on Shottery Crescent. The chain held the gate shut, but it also served as a door bell. A visitor would grab the chain and give it a shake. It was so quiet in Bulawayo that we could hear that distinctive sound of a rattling chain out by the street. That meant we had visitors. And the heavy manilla rope we used to make a swing for a limb of the pepper tree. It lasted only a few days before it was stolen. That's how you learn. Nobody steals a rope in America, it's not worth the trouble, but the will steal it in Africa. Same with the garden hose -- which must be put in the house at night. Of course lots of the neighbors had five and six foot walls for security, and some had dogs to scare off intruders. Our yard was openly fenced all around with a light wire mesh,..........  I could write about the poinsettia hedge that lined the driveway, with so many bright red blossoms..... The lantana bush was on the other side of the front yard. The lantana, which is grown in appreciation in Santa Barbara becomes an invasive pest in Zimbabwe, covering thousands of acres with impenetrable brush. ..... These are details, as for depth, that is coming. My daughter said to me before she flew back to America. She said, I don't think you really love her. Or maybe it became a question, Do you really love her? I could not answer. But Precious swept the yard almost every day with a twig broom wearing a pretty wrap skirt, seemingly without effort. She swept the yard like a poem. So gracefully. The bare red-clay ground was smooth and hard as a rock in the summer heat.

I loved her, but I didn't want to marry her unless I could distinguish her in some way from her cousins. They all blended together.  Too many cousins, strong and pretty, more modest in bearing than Precious, who was the oldest and first of her generation, first born of Peter Lovemore who was first born of Grace and Patrick Mataka. Grace, who was deceased but clearly full figured or, as they say in Botswana, traditionally built. Mr. Mataka himself was of a smaller size, and not tall. So you could see who inherited the larger physique -- Molly was a big woman, the oldest daughter, and Peter Lovemore who was a big man, and he was very black, the blackest of all Mataka's children. And the smartest, that was Peter Lovemore's tragedy. He had a brilliant mind and no way to put it to use. He should have had an education or some path of advancement. Instead he worked at a foundry and stole small loads of scrap metal when the boss wasn't looking. Unless the boss was looking and was in fact implicated in the theft. So Peter Lovemore used his big size and impressive brain for petty crime. And womanizing. And spousal abuse. And violence against small dogs and children. He was a hateful man who scarred Precious in ways that were not visible. She might have this sullen look on her face at times, caused by an unconscious memory of her father's brutality. We called him Mr. T because he only drank tea and never drank beer, which is unusual in Africa where everybody except the church people drink too much beer. 

From our house it was a twenty minute walk to Nketa Nine, home of Smiley, Precious's uncle. You took the walk out the front gate, left down Shottery Crescent to Wellington then right a short distance to the Plumtree bottle store, a big and busy market with its own bakery for fresh bread daily, and a butcher shop next door where hung a half a cow on a chain, ready for your steak order to be cut fresh. Cold beer, shoe polish, fruits and vegetables. Whatever you needed. Then past the Plumtree bottle store, down a slanting side road, with country-side blonde and grassy fields on the left, and a row of modest houses on the right side  -- houses with garden growing chimolios, although that did not distinguish these houses because every garden in Bulawayo grew chimolios, which were a kind of collard green growing on a stalk. They grew abundantly and carelessly and you just picked a few leaves before dinner to make your relish. Hardly ever saw it sold in the market because everyone grew it, but did see many tomatoes sold in the market and few in gardens -- trickier growing tomatoes, what with pests and the need for constant watering and few people had hoses, it was bucket by bucket of water for thirsty plants. And sweet potatoes. Don't forget the sweet potatoes. Everybody loved them. And the baobob tree -- in that we were unusual because they don't grow in the climate of Bulawayo, it's too cool at 4,400 feet. But I planted one baobab from seed just to see if I could. That was in 1997. I like to think it's still there growing, but frost probably killed it after we left.

Nketa Nine. I never asked the obvious question, Why do they call it Nketa Nine and where is Nketa Eight? Well. I never asked too many questions -- that doesn't work in Africa, in my opinion. We could walk to Smiley's at a slow saunter in twenty minutes. He was the uncle of Precious, maybe the favorite. Smiley was small like his father and not big like Mr. T, his older brother. He was  a tough little bastard. I imagined him walking home at night in the dark from the beer hall. No one disturbed him. He walked with strength and confidence and he was well known. His mustache fit his face, and he did smile, but not that often. He worked at the tire factory and rode his bike there, saving his bus fare so he could drink his beers at the open air beer saloon near his house. I like to think he was faithful to his wife which means, in Africa,  that he didn't fool around outrageously. That's another question I never asked -- who is sleeping with who. I just got the distinct impression that monogamy was honored in the breach, and the women strayed too, except they didn't have bragging rights. And this lack of fidelity caused a lot of pain. But that's me talking.

Smiley had been an athlete, had played for the Highlanders, the Bulawayo football team when he was younger. He had the fierceness of a good runner. His house was tidy and warm. Set just aside the railroad tracks at the end of the development. You could see the freight trains, not very often, heading for Plumtree and over the border into Botswana. And he grew fruit trees in his small yard, probably guava, I don't recall. His wife, mamazala to me, or mother-in-law, was a generous women, quiet, but not too quiet. I imagined that she would even stand up to Smiley at times, when no one else around, at least she seemed respected in her home and did not cower, like Mr. T's wife. She baked scones in her small oven and sold them to neighbors, making the small money that was so important. She would fix eggs and toast for Precious and me when we visited, and we would sit  in her tidy living room, resting our plates on the doilies of upholstered chairs. She served tea, and Smiley would be present, but not commanding. I thought they were a good couple. And she was the same size as Smiley, not too tall or too wide, but like him, only softer and not so wiry.

Their daughter Grace was my favorite child, about eight when I knew her in 1997. She had beautiful eyes and a sweet smile. We liked each other a lot. In fact, we still like each other, because Grace and I are still in touch and she reads all the episodes of this family memoir and sometimes provides information, and often provides encouragement.

Ronnie, the youngest Mataka brother occupied the back bedroom. He was an unhappy man. He worked for the Indians at their store in an upscale neighborhood. They treated him badly and paid him poorly. He could not seem to find a girlfriend. I felt sorry for him.

Gosh. Gosh, this is getting to be long enough. Just picture Precious and I walking slowly back from Smiley's house to the Plumtree market, to buy steak and beers for dinner, and then two more blocks to our place on Shottery Crescent.

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Why Do They Call Me Zodwa?

Why Do They Call Me Zodwa?

By Fred Owens

But Precious and my daughter Eva did not look alike. Except for the matching green shorts. There was just the two of them -- two very important women in my life, playing dice with my heart. I feel like I could have described Eva better.. I'm reading short stories by Somerset Maugham and every story starts with a description of the main character -- full lips, sallow skin, perfect teeth, a stiff back, stern icy eyes. I wish I could do that. But all I can do is write Eva, you know, Eva, my daughter, can't you tell what she looks like? Can't you imagine what she looks like? Can't you fill in the details yourself?

Precious never hinted at wanting to go to America. It was after we got married and I began to feel very homesick that I asked her. Do you want to go to America, and she said yes. That was the whole conversation. But I warned her it can get very cold and there are way too many white people there. But then we went through the visa process, which took a few months but was not terribly complicated. It turned out to be much simpler that we had married in Zimbabwe. The US recognized that as a legal marriage and Precious was eligible for a green card. So then it was just a matter of assembling documents -- which is not that easy in Zimbabwe. Then a criminal background check. It seems Precious had once gotten arrested for assault. Gosh dear, how did that happen? I asked her. Other complications too. Basically once we decided to go back to the states it became inevitable and she never bugged me about it. I figured if she could take the rafting trip she could handle a trip to America. And I wanted to go home.

The truth is that Precious, when I met her, was simply not fitting into life at home. She was at loose ends. No husband, no home of her own. Like she really didn't belong there, like she had some future but she didn't know what it was. Then she met me. She was my trophy wife, sure, but looking at it from her side, I was the horse she rode in on. It seemed like a good match. She lives in Scranton, Pennsylvania now. I have not heard from her in several years.

She had a daughter age ten, named Bathabile, who lived with Precious's uncle, in a very nice but modest house. It was a good home for that child who nevertheless felt somewhat abandoned by Precious and not on my account. More than once I told Precious to bring Bathabile around thinking that she would become my step daughter. Bathabile would visit us for a few days, but then Precious would send her back to the uncle. The maternal connection was not strong, but in such an extended family not necessary. Precious herself was raised by her grandparents.

I'm forgetting, her name, Zodwa, or Zotwa. You can spell it either way. This was not her legal name, but her family name. I never used it. I tried calling her Zodwa a few times, but then she would give me this look, like a laugh with half a quiet snort. That's the you wouldn't understand look. I explained this a little bit with the skin and the hair. I could understand black skin, but I could never understand black hair  -- unknowable. Not in this lifetime.

Same with her family name, Zodwa, which means Too Many Girls. The name was Mr. Mataka's idea. He named her Zodwa. Let him explain this in his own words:

"You see, I had five daughters, all good children, Molly, Margi, Jennifer, Janet and Winny.  And four sons, Peter Lovemore, Smiley, Milton and Ronnie. That was my family and my wife was Grace from down by Plumtree. She was a fat woman and very strong. People see my first daughter Molly and ask how she got so big. They didn't know Grace. Grace was too big even until she died.  When Grace died her people in Plumtree came to Luveve to claim her body to be buried. You see, I never paid all the lobolo  for her. This is how we do it in Africa. You pay for your wife. But I never finished all the paying so they came and took her back to Plumtree. She is buried there.

"Then my children grew up. Peter Lovemore was the oldest. His wife had a baby, which is Zodwa. Too Many Girls. Because I wanted a boy. I had five daughters. But I wanted my first grandson to be a boy. So I named her Too Many Girls. And she is my first grandson, like a man in strength. Like a strong boy growing up. This is how we do things in Africa. You understand?"

No, I did not quite understand, but it wasn't like I was going around taking notes. I just saw what I saw and heard what I heard. I hardly believed anything. Mr. Mataka had a strong grip on reality, and we were sitting together in the shade of the mango tree in his front yard in Luveve. But his reality -- sometimes it didn't make sense.

They all called her Zodwa. That's who she is. And no secret, just not easy to understand.

Note. Roger Barcant grew up in Trinidad, went to college in Toronto, where I met him years ago. He made a career and a family in London and he has become a devoted follower of this African story. He asked me the biggest question that I have heard from any readers about where this story is going. He said, "Can you tell us how you got from Precious to Laurie Moon?" That's a big one. Laurie Moon is my life partner of nine years. She is the beach bunny I've been searching for all my life. And she is now outside watering the flowers at her home in Santa Barbara. Precious was my second wife. I have been writing her story because I want to redeem my emotional investment. For years, after the divorce in 2004, I thought to myself that marrying Precious was the biggest and most expensive mistake of my post-50 life. But I did not like looking at this so bleakly. It seemed I got nothing out of it, which is why the working title of this story is "I wish I had never gone to Africa."

I figured that if I could at least get a good story out of my year in Africa, then we could say I redeemed my investment. Yet I paused. There is nothing new or unique in the story of my African venture -- white man goes to Africa and gets involved with a native woman. And I have to admit, while I have enjoyed very much the writing of this story and many readers have encouraged me to keep going, that there is nothing new here. It's an old story, told once again. But I like old stories, don't you?

So, how did I get from Precious to Laurie Moon? Stay tuned and you will find out.

The Pandemic Blues. It's getting to me these past few days. I'm slowing down in the writing. I'm about two thirds finished with this African story. Maybe fifteen more episodes. The wedding, the trip to Malawi and then we get her visa and head for the states. Good bye Mr. Mataka. Good bye Mr. and Mrs. Elephant. Good bye Mr. Dhlwahyu -- I has happy to be your neighbor and give you fresh strawberries. I can see that day coming, the last day in Bulawayo, heading out to the airport, and now Precious started to get excited because we got to the airport two hours early. Taking off for Jo-burg on her first plane ride. Cool as a cat. Then waiting in the international lounge in Jo-burg. We took the escalator, which terrified her...... The airplane she could handle, but not the escalator. It goes on .....

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Two Women in the Canyon

By Fred Owens

A reminder, we are in Africa, in the year 1997, in the country of Zimbabwe, far away from the current troubles.

When we left the story last week, we had completed our whitewater rafting adventure down the Zambezi River, a series of boiling rapids in the deep canyon below Victoria Falls. Here the river forms the boundary between Zimbabwe and Zambia. The Zed Countries I call them. One country is poor and the other is very poor. The young Zambian men who help carry the raft to the launch site are not wearing shoes. That's Zambia, they don't even have shoes. And their currency is called the kwacha and their capital is called Lusaka. No tourists go to Zambia. They don't have toilet paper.

But that is just an observation. After we finished floating down through this incredibly steep canyon we pulled up to a sandy beach where the water was calm. We stepped out of the raft and wanted to kneel and kiss the ground for having made it safely through this devil's grist mill of white water.

I saw Precious and Eva standing together talking. They looked alike. No, they did look alike because they were both wearing green shorts. "I don't know why she bought the same color as mine," Eva said with some exasperation. "Now we look like team mates." "Maybe it's just that Precious wants you to like her. She flatters you by buying the same outfit." I was stumbling for words. This was female territory. But they did look alike. Eva, 18, with a dewy pink complexion, and light brown hair playfully tossed, with the freshness of an American teenager. Precious, mid thirties, rounder fuller, stronger, of black coffee skin and firm black hair. Precious of the doe eyes, deeper than the ocean. Eva with the sunshine in her smile. But both optimistic. Precious had overcome, had ignored, the tragedy of African existence. She had a trust in human nature that human nature did not deserve. Eva had that same trust but only because she was young.

Yes , they looked alike. I kept that image because it was true. Sure, I had to stretch this a little to make it fit, but I could do that, even though they didn't always get along. Why should they? Eva was raised to be outspoken. I might have had words with her, but there was never that sullen adolescent silence, that disconnect, close the bedroom door and don't talk to me. No, that never happened when she was growing up. Instead she was in my face, telling me with exquisite intelligence how wrong I was. And me coming back at her, saying you don't do what I say because I'm right, you do what I say because I'm your father, and being right is just a part of it.

But aside, to myself, I would think that I never expected obedience, and considered disobedience to be a small error. After all, I was not often obedient myself and did not respect it too much as a virtue. But she would talk to me, and always had. So, she was talking that day with Precious after this rafting trip which was a bit of bonding for the both of them.

Which one of them had the advantage? Eva with an American passport and a ticket to ride. That was the great privilege of American and European visitors to Zimbabwe --- they could leave.

Not Precious, she had no way out. Her life was African from birth to the end. But that was her strength, she was on the ground as firm as the old stones of this old continent. Her people had always been there. Had never been any place else. That gave her a lot of strength. 

Without ever admitting that she saw me as a way out -- a ticket holder. I was touchy about that. I was glad to buy her things, modern appliances and  clothes and good restaurants. But I was not going to dangle the Green Card Vision in front of her longing eyes. We were both too proud for that. If her dream was to go to America, she never hinted at it for me. Unless she was playing the long game.

Eva didn't know what she wanted. This three-week trip to Zimbabwe was her first venture overseas, and it was quite mind opening.

After the rafting expedition, we drove back to Bulawayo and when we got home to Shottery Crescent -- and it was home -- I asked Eva what Precious and she were talking about.

"Hair," she said.

"Hair, you were talking about hair?"

"Her hair is different than mine."

"I'll say...black hair is a mystery to me.," I said, beginning to discourse on the topic. "We always talk about skin color because it is the most obvious difference between black and white people. And we strive to overlook skin color and not pass judgment on that basis. So we are taught, but black people have the richest skin tone, from capuccino to espresso, from mahogany to copper, from darkest velvet to almost tawny white. It is a rich variety of hues. And so much smoother and hairless. White people have skin like sandpaper in comparison, and gross amounts of hair almost everywhere.  But that doesn't matter..... What really matters is hair."

"I know that, Dad," she said. "We're going to do our hair together tomorrow."

"Do?"

"Yes, Dad. Do our hair. You know, wash, comb, brush, weave, braid, trim. She has some beaded extensions she wants to try. This will take us almost all day."

"Well, be my guest, I can go to the bookstore downtown. They have a good cup of coffee."

When I left the two of them, they were sitting under the guava tree in the back yard. One sitting in front of the other, braiding and talking. When I came back from the bookstore they were still at it. I didn't ask.

Eva went on her own venture a few days later, trekking to the ruins and to the mountains. I can't believe I let her travel alone in that country, but she did all right, except she got off the trail in Chimanimani and had to camp out overnight unawares of where she was supposed to be. But she came back a week later, refreshed and ready to fly back to America, ready to start her second year at Oberlin College.

We took her to the airport and off she went, back to the world. She broke my heart. She did that every time I saw her.

And what was I going to do? Growing up she used to be in my life every day and all day and now she was gone. I looked at Precious and I said, "Baby, what do we do now?" She said, "We go back to Shottery Crescent. I fix you some dinner, we drink some beer and watch TV. I like to watch that man."

"What man?"

"That man on the show, you know, Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Is it like that in America?"

Next Episode.  Precious is her name. That is what I call her. On her passport, on her birth certificate, on her school records, that is her name. But that is not what her family calls her. They call her Zodwa. Next time I will tell you about that.

take care,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Africa is a Latin Name

Africa is a Latin Name

By Fred Owens

Africa is a Latin name. Africa was the name of a province in the Roman Empire, an area that is now called Tunisia. Likewise Asia is a Greek word. Asia is the name of a province in the Roman Empire, an area that is now called Turkey.

Australia is Latin too, and America is really Italian -- the entire Western Hemisphere is named after a not-well-known Italian Navigator, Amerigo Vespucci.

So the Italians  got naming rights for the whole world. Well, that doesn't bother me. Take Marco Polo, he didn't really discover China, but he did find out about noodles. "What shall we call them?" Marco Polo asked. But still nothing happened until the Spanish Conquistadores found out about tomatoes growing in the New World. Brought the tomatoes back to Italy. Combined them with the noodles that Marco Polo brought from China, and what do you have --- Pasta. And realize this, until the noodles from China and the tomatoes from the New World were combined by Italian cooks, there was no pasta in all of human history. That's why we call it progress and that's why we believe that discovery, adventure and exploration can lead to better things.

I discovered Africa in 1997. The very first minute that I got off the plane in Capetown I realized that it was a very old country, and the New World is correctly named, because it is new. America is much newer than Africa. You just look at the stones at your feet anywhere in Africa and you can see how old they are.

Precious and I visited a cave in Matopos Park near Bulawayo. Former inhabitants, many thousands of years ago, had painted hunting scenes with men carrying spears in search of antelopes. So, this is funny in a cosmic way, a Rhodesian farmer in the late 1890s came upon these cave paintings that had lasted for thousands of years, and decided, with the best of intentions, that what they needed was a good coat of varnish, which he did apply -- coated those ancient drawings with varnish, and thus ruining them. You cannot get any dumber. The dude was trying to help. That illustrates the downside of discovery as it devolved into tourism. So in Egypt some Turkish soldier fired a cannonball at the Sphinx and blew off his nose. Sic transit gloria.

But the Sphinx without his nose adds to the mystery. Because you need to imagine what he really looked like. The Sphinx is the gateway to Africa and his expression to a white man like me is blank. Precious had a look like that, about a thousand years deep. I used to call her Queen Nefertiti. "Who is this Queen Nefertiti, is she your queen?" she asked. "She is my queen and she is you," I told her. "So bring me a beer," she said, "because you must do what I tell you."

Masr is how the Egyptians name their country. Mitzrayim is how the Israelis name it, and that is quite nearly like Masr  and that name goes back to the origins of the Bible, some 3,000 years ago. The Book of Exodus is what put Egypt on the map. Egypt was a bad place and you wanted more than anything to just get out of there. Thank God, we are no longer slaves in Egypt. I appreciate that sentiment but if you take Egypt as the  gateway  to the continent of Africa, it kind of puts a slur on things. Egypt is probably not such a bad place.

You can look on a map and understand the dream of the British colonials, to conquer and subdue all of Africa, from Capetown to Cairo. Let's look that up. Wow, it's 10,300 miles from one end to the other That's huge. Up  the Nile, across the Great Lakes region, down through Malawi, down to Zimbabwe, then Botswana, across the fearful Kalahari Desert, and then Capetown at last. All where the first humans walked the earth. All where civilization began. And the place we call Africa doesn't get too much respect for that.

They had a lot of nerve, those British, dreaming of a railroad across the continent. I don't hate the colonial regime that preceded my coming to Africa. Our House on Shottery Crescent was built by the British colonizers --- called Rhodesians. It was built for the white people who managed the Zimbabwe Railway. Built strong, built to last a hundred years or more, and reserved for white people, until 1980 when the white people were shown the door. And they left, but they left behind the railroad, the highway and the house we lived in. It was a beautiful strong home, so how could I hate the people who built it? "Precious, do you hate the British people who lived here?"  I asked. "No, I don't hate anybody," she said. "But they all left after Mugabe took power. Are you glad they left?" "Yes, but I don't hate them." "But what about me. I'm white. you don't hate me, do you?" "No, I don't hate you. People do what they do."

The  only white people left on Shottery Crescent, besides me, were Bill and Mary Collier. He was a tough old bastard and so was she. They had a generous contempt for native culture and made no bones about it. Their swimming pool was empty except for a puddle of rusty, muddy water at the bottom. Mary grew nursery plants for sale and made a few dollars. Bill sat in front of the TV and drank gin. You'd think the new African authorities would throw out the Colliers and send them packing. But they were left cawing and crowing, powerless now, penny-pinched, but still wild. I disapproved of their attitude, so why was I in their living room drinking their gin? Precious would never go over there. Maybe that's why I went there, to get away from her, to get out of Africa for a while, to knock back the spell of Queen Nefertiti.

Precious was too strong for me. She had the power of 500 million African woman, going back many tens of thousands of years. She built the pyramids and crossed the Sahara. She swam with crocodiles ..... hold it, hold it, my imagination is getting away from me. Precious did not know how to swim. Like many Africans she was afraid of the water, for good reason -- crocodiles. Nothing romantic about crocodiles in the local swimming hole. you just don't go.

Or take elephants, please. Nothing funny about elephants if you own a farm near to Hwange National Park. What can you do if an elephant leaves the park and decided to wander across your field of corn? Elephants can walk through any fence. They trample your corn. You can't stop them and you don't love them. But you can kill them and eat them. Nature's balance. Nowadays, under the best circumstances, programs exist that compensate the farmer for the damage done  -- better than killing the elephant. Progress.

So am I going to reform Precious, be Prof. Higgins to her Liza Doolittle? No. My plan was to stay out of her way. I went to Africa in search of a trophy wife. No, I did not, but who is going to believe me? People will see her and see me and think whatever they want to think in America, if we ever go there.

I was trying not to think about that. Except my daughter came to visit during her summer vacation form Oberlin College in Ohio. Because I missed her, hadn't seen her since Christmas, and she missed me. A nice reminder that I still had family obligations. I had earned an extended break, having gotten Eva and Eugene both landed in good colleges.

But there was Eva at our front door with her backpack (actually we met her getting off the plane) meeting Precious for the first time. Precious was too pretty, too young and in bare feet. I don't know what Eva was thinking. I don't know what Precious was thinking. They started talking to each other, probably negotiating a truce. Eva stayed for three weeks. She had been an outspoken opponent of the previous woman in my life, and she was right about Nira. Nira was simply not going to work. Eva knew it and I knew it. But Queen Nefertiti in the African-beautiful-barefoot flesh was another story. It was not approval from Eva, it was that things were beyond her 18 years and we were going over the waterfall.

Which we did. I rented a car, and  we piled in, the three of us, to Victoria Falls, a day's drive. To see the falls of course, but the test was the wild rafting excursion down the Zambezi River at the foot of the falls. Continuous Grade Five Rapids, one of the toughest rides in the world of commercial rafting. We held on for dear life. Eva fell out of the raft. They fished her out. Precious was fearless. Afterwards I asked Precious if she would do it again. "Yes, I like it," she answered. And then it occurred to me, because I knew she couldn't swim, to ask this question. "Have you ever been in a boat before?"  "No," she answered.

"That was your first boat ride. Force Five Rapids. The roaring Zambezi River. Were you afraid?"

"Yes, I was a little afraid, but I remembered what Mr. Mataka said. You only die once."

Note. Does Eva get a good introduction here? I don't even describe how she looks.  But she is my daughter and to me she looks like the morning sunshine. And how do I feel about my daughter? Ask me how do I feel about being alive.

take care,

Fred

 

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

You Only Die Once

You Only Die Once

By Fred Owens

You only die once, Mr. Mataka used to say. He was nearing eighty when I knew him. He could walk many miles in a day, to see his children, to see his daughter Winnie in Lobengula on one day or to see his son Smiley in Nketa 9 on another day. Walking and always dressed right, in a sport coat and tie over a dress shirt and pants, with black polished shoes.  "I wear these dress clothes to tell you of my work as a legal clerk. I worked for 25 years as a clerk for Justice Charles Daniels. When I retired from that position, Mr. Daniels paid off my house in Luveve and so now I only pay the taxes. You see I am a free man because I get a small pension and I have my house. Everyone stays here, even my daughters Molly and Margie

"You have five daughters."

"Yes, I have five daughters. Molly is the first."

Aunt Molly was a course and beefy woman who spent most of her time in a separate bedroom built off the kitchen. Was it just me that didn't like her? I think not. She had ashen-brown skin and a surly expression. Hefty, stocky. You wish she had been just a little pretty, but that never happened -- men never noticed her and she became hardened to it. She sold boiled cow hooves at the open air beer hall. She obtained large sacks of cows hooves from a slaughter house. She boiled the hooves for hours in a large back yard kettle over a hot fire. A dreadful odor. The finished hoof was gelatinous and much appreciated as a snack by drunken men at the open-air beer hall where she kept a stall. A rough business selling boiled cows hooves to drunken men. But her daughter Maureen was the pretty one, almost as hefty, but in a nicer way, with almond eyes and a honey voice.

"But I will tell you about my children some other time," Mr. Mataka said. We sat many afternoons in the shade of a mango tree on his front porch. Aunt Margie would bring us tea. I called him Sekuru which is old man or grandfather. He called me Umkunyani which is son-in-law. "Umkunyani which means he who pays for everything," I said and we laughed. But it was true, if the son-in-law had money he would pay for everything. There were too many hungry children running about. Johnny and Prince were small boys, 8 and 10, and they often scampered in the mango tree where we drank the tea.

"So I will tell you my story. I was born in the mountains of Malawi a thousand kilometers from here, even further. Chembe village it was called and we were very poor. Even my father was poor. He was the chief of the village and he had two wives..."

"Two wives?"

"Yes, because we were Moslems. The Arabs came through here long back and stole our people for slavery and made us pray to Allah, so we still do that. There was a mosque and no church in Chembe. But even my father was poor and we had no shoes. Until one day when I was becoming a man we walked three hours to Dedza town where the highway is and the bank for money. And the Christian missionaries. I talked with the missionaries and they could see I was clever. They said you will never have money in Malawi, you must go to Rhodesia. You can find work there. My father said to go to Rhodesia and make money. So I walked there..."

"You walked to Rhodesia, over one thousand kilometers."

"Yes, it's a long way, but that's when I began to say -- you only die once. I will walk to Bulawayo and make money on the farm or in a mine. I will never give up. So I came here and worked. I married Grace and we had all these children, so now I sit here and drink my tea."

When the fish were biting in the lake, the fishermen would go out all night and catch them, small fish, but many. Then Mr. Mataka would get up at four o'clock in the morning and ride his bike one hour to the lake, to buy the fresh fish and bring it home. When he brought home the fish, he would nail one fish to a post and the neighbors would see it and come to buy them. So Mr. Mataka made small money here and there.

We enjoyed many days on his front porch. He might read the daily newspaper and he might tell the small children to be a little quiet, but they knew he didn't mean it. One day I asked him, "Will you ever return to Chembe village where you were born?" "Yes someday I will return because it is where my father and mother are buried. I will go there and visit my sister Amina. I have not seen her since I was a young man."

"If you come back to Chembe village will they still know you?"

"Yes, they will still know me. They will never forget me. It is my home. I will go there one more time and die."

"No, you cannot die, sekuru, not now, not this time. But I want to see your home. Precious says she has never been there. Can we go? I will pay for the train ticket and the bus ticket, and you won't have to walk the whole distance. After Precious and I get married we will bring you to Chembe village."

"Yes, and you will pay for the journey, unkumyani," he said and we both laughed.

"Yes, you can take us to Chembe and I will pay for the tickets, after we get married."

And so Mr. Mataka and I made  this arrangement. When I went home I discussed this with Precious. She agreed that it was a good plan. But we needed to set a wedding date. I don't know why we decided  on September 1, but that became our wedding day. And for our honey moon we would go to see her home in Malawi on a journey with Mr. Mataka and Aunt Marji and Aunt Winnie.

Note. I could write a lot more about Mr. Mataka and his large family. And the garden! We grew so many tomatoes. And sweet potatoes, corn, strawberries and beans. Week after week passed in working mornings, before it got hot, and idle afternoons. Often we sat on the front stairs which were tiled and cool, we sat on the stairs and just looked at the pepper tree and the slow street. Sometimes Precious would hail a young boy passing by. "Little brother, I have a small job for you and I will pay you ten cents." The boy would stop and come to the fence in a respectful way. "Here is some money, take it to the bottle store and buy three cold Cokes. And make sure they are very cold." So she would give the small boy the money and he would run to the store and come back in a few minutes with three cokes. "One Coke is for you, little brother, and here is your ten cents." So that was lazy living on Shottery Crescent, like room service at a fancy hotel only better.

Eva came to visit us. I am not sure how her visit fits into the story. Eva, my daughter, had just turned 18 and had finished her freshman year at Oberlin College -- that same summer that I spent with Precious in our rented home in Bulawayo. I missed Eva and sent her funds to buy a plane ticket. Eva, being impressively competent, bought a ticket, got a passport and hopped on the plane to Africa. I was very glad to see her and I kind of hoped that she and Precious would get along. Meaning that if my daughter and bride-to-be were at odds, then my life would become very unhappy. To make this short, Eva issued a Certificate of Tolerance for the proposed union of Precious and Frederic. Daughters have that power. Then she packed up her kit and began to explore Zimbabwe. She got lost in the mountains of Chimanimani, trekking by herself. I cannot believe that I let her do that, but she did all right. But this is part of Eva's story and maybe she will write it some day.

Back in Santa Barbara in the year 2020. The African story will likely continue for as long as we are self-isolated against the plague. That's just a guess -- that I will complete the story when the quarantine is lifted. I don't know why I am worried about how the story will end. I have lots of good character and dialog and scenery, but I'm way short of a plot and a proper plot-driven ending. This is where I can use some help.

 

Laurie Moon said she stills enjoys my company after one month of co-confinement.

Health is good here,

take care,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Elephant

The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Elephant

By Fred Owens

Mary was the first human being. She was barely four feet tall and she lived somewhere north of Lake Malawi. That is the point of this whole expedition, to meet her, or at least to commune with her remains somewhere in Malawi, where the first human being walked the earth, where we all came from. That was my quest. The house on Shottery Crescent in Bulawayo was a wonderful home in its own way, but in the plot of this story it becomes the base camp. And Precious, my bride-to-be, becomes my guide, because she was from Malawi, knew the language and the terrain, had family there. She could take us home. They have a tourist slogan in Malawi, which is Welcome to the Warm Heart of Africa, and they don't mean welcome, they mean welcome back, because this is where we all came from long, long ago. I wanted to visit my original home.

Our ancestors came from that area many thousands of years ago. Our ancestors wandered off and peopled the continents. But some people never left. They are still there near that spot where Mary stood up one day and she had a look in her eye -- that moment when she realized she was a human being and like no other. So all this story, going back to Chicago when my mother died, and I flew to Capetown, and took the bus to Bulawayo, and met and became engaged to Precious and we rented the house on Shottery Crescent -- all that story was the first part of  of this journey to before the beginning of time, to meet Mary.

We are at the interlude now, so we will tell more stories about the garden and the Mataka family.

The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Elephant

Bulawayo is the capital of Matebeleland where the spoken language is called Ndebele. It is a branch of the Zulu nation. You remember Shaka Zulu, the great Zulu warrior who organized large armies of steel weapons to conquer many neighboring tribes. His chief general in this combat was Mzilikazi Khumalo, a mighty warrior in his own right. But Shaka Zulu was a jealous man and he began to fear that Mzilikazi wanted to over throw him and become king of the Zulu empire. Shaka Zulu planned to kill Mzilikazi, as simple as that, but Mzilikazi got wind of the plot and planned his escape. He gathered his own army and fled to the north of Zululand, north across the Limpopo river to what is now Zimbabwe. There he was safe from Shaka Zulu, although this was not so good for the Shona people who actually lived there, to have thousands of Zulu warriors occupying their land. And, as things often go in Africa, Mzilikazi and his warriors decided to stay, and take over, and find wives and build houses and so that became Matebeleland, and the language of Ndbele was a dialect of Zulu, and the capital became Bulawayo, which means killing field, where the original Shona tribe members were slaughtered and conquered. That is the founding myth.

But Mr. Mataka, the grandfather of Precious, was not Ndebele although he spoke the language. He and his family were Malawi immigrants and lived according to Ndebele culture to some degree. This is where we meet Mr. and Mrs. Elephant. They were distant relatives of the Matakas.  In Ndebele they would be Mr. and Mrs. Ndlovu ...... Surnames in Ndebele are often from animals, so you might meet Nkomo or Mr. Cow, or Mr. Lion or Mr. Monkey.

Mr. Ndlovu worked on highway construction. He sometimes operated the bulldozer and made lots of money doing that, but just as often there was no work and he was too poor. He had a very round shiny bald head, a very shy man who often looked at his shoes while talking, a chestnut skin tone, a warm smile, a stout figure, about forty in age. He lived with his partner, Mrs. Ndlovu. She was a harsh, scowling woman, thin figured, shattering teeth, wiry hair, muscular, resentful. She was smaller than her husband, but I think she hit him now and then, and scowled some more when there was no work and he brought home no money.

That sounds too grim. The truth is that they had been living together for 12 years and had 6 children. The affection was there, you just didn't see it.

In 1997 the government of Zimbabwe  launched a program of low-interest mortgage loans to married couples. A reason to wed! Ndlovu proposed to his sweetheart. She accepted, but refused his offer of a quick trip to the Justice of the Peace. Despite her age and 6 children, she would have a proper wedding with a gown and bridesmaids, a cake, a reception and a feast.

Ndlovu bowed his head, or it was already bowed and he bowed it even lower. She would have her wedding, she would finally become Mrs. Ndlovu, or Mrs. Elephant to you.

In the days preceding the feast, we attended  the rehearsal of  the bridesmaids dancing in  matching gowns. A professional photographer took photos. A wedding gown was rented. A cake was ordered. All that was left was to bring a huge amount of beef for the reception because people in Zimbabwe did not care for dainty appetizers, they wanted beef.

Ndlovu came to visit us two days before the wedding. Bowing his head, we saw the sun gleam on his golden chestnut pate, holding his hat, he wanted to ask me a favor.

"Good morning, Mr. Owens. I am happy to see you,"

"Yes, I am happy to see you too. Please come in and have some tea."

"No, I will stand here by the door because I wanted to ask you one small favor to help with our wedding plans. Because you have a truck."

"Yes, I have a strong truck."

"With your strong truck, we can drive to Kezi and pick up the beef for the wedding feast."

"Well, that will take one hour to drive to Kezi town, and pick up the beef, and drive back, so only two hours -- yes, I can do that because I am not too busy and it would be our wedding gift to you and Mrs. Ndlovu."

"But there is one more thing, Mr. Owens, we need to find the ranch because it is down some dirt track and not in the town."

"All right, we can find that ranch on the dirt track. We will ask for directions, it will only take a little longer. Then we can load the truck and come back."

"But, you see there is a small problem. You see it is a cow, it has not yet been slaughtered."

"Oh my, that will take some time, to slaughter the cow and cut up the beef, and load the trucks and drive back."

"And we need to find the cow, because it is out in the field some where," Mr. Ndlovu declared.

"That is all right. I am not too busy tomorrow. We can leave early and make the day of it, to find the cow, and lead it back to the ranch house. Then slaughter the cow and load the truck, and drive back to town."

But then Mr. Ndlovu scrunched his hat very tightly and pawed the ground with his feet, and tried to make himself smaller although he was such a big man.

"We have to pay the man." Long pause.

"You want me to pay for the cow? All of it?"

"Well, you see the money is gone after we bought the cake and the dresses for the brides maids and rented the hall and there was so much to  pay, so if you help me to buy the cow .... "

I said no. That is too much. I reached into my wallet and gave him US$50 for the wedding gift. Mr. Ndlovu thanked me and left. The wedding was  a success. Mrs. Ndlovu looked beautiful in her white bridal gown despite her scowl. Mr. Ndlovu looked handsome in his suit. And the brides maids danced like angels, but there was no food at the reception. Mr. Ndlovu had borrowed and begged almost everything but no one brought the beef.

That was the only time I saw Mr. Mataka get mad. He said, "How can you have a wedding without beef?"

A brief summary of global, local and family news.

Harvey Blume of Cambridge, Massachusetts, wondered if he ought to feel sympathy for virus-stricken English PM Boris Johnson. I told him he already had plenty of compassion  for other people. Boris Johnson has people who actually do care about him. Senator Bernie Sanders retired from the race for President. It was an act of true bravery and humility, to take that long, last walk. And it's not over. He may never become President but his agenda has wings. And Joe Biden will have something to say -- you can count on that.

We weep for the suffering and courageous people of New York City. I cannot enjoy the quiet solitude in Santa Barbara because I cannot forget about these very strong people and their powerful leader, Andrew Cuomo. They are doing us a a big favor here in Santa Barbara, because we have been given time to get ready for the viral surge that is coming our way. Time to get ready. The public spirit is strong here, social distance has quickly become established custom and we will get through this.

Our family members, most of us, are still employed and working from home. Nobody is sick or showing symptoms. Laurie is busy right now disinfecting a shipment of InstaCart groceries from Costco. I am taking the cardboard that it comes in, taking it with gloved hands out to the trash. Then washing my hands. We are getting good at this. Plugging up the holes, as it were, knowing that we should have started sooner  -- but that is like almost everybody else.

Happy Easter and Good Pesach to every one. Please email back to me and tell me if you like the story and tell me what you didn't like in the story, and tell me what you want to hear more of  --- tell me anything because I would love to hear from you.

take care,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Talking Over the Fence with Mr. Dlhwayu

Talking Over the Fence with Mr. Dlhwayu

By Fred Owens

Precious and I settled into our rented house on Shottery Crescent. It was an African paradise of strength and love. Mr. Dlhwayu was our neighbor. He and I would talk over the low-wire fence in the evening.

"Mr. Dlhwayu, how is your evening going? I see you are doing some small work on the engine of that car. When will your car be ready because I wish for you to give me a ride in it." Mr. Dlhwayu was bent over the engine under the hood of the junker. "Let me finish to tighten this nut, then I will speak to you," he said. He spoke a quick command to his assistant, a very humble and quiet young man who wore white -- they were once white -- overalls. "Patrick, hand me the spanner of 12 mm," he said to the assistant in the Shona language. Spanner was what we call a wrench, and 12 mm because Zimbabwe used the metric system  I was a little proud of myself for knowing things like that, for knowing how to pronounce and spell Mr. Dlhwayu's name.

The sun went down. It became too dark to work, so it seemed to me, but Mr. Dlhwayu did not emerge from under the hood. He had no Go Light to use. To me, his old car seemed a hopeless pile of junk that would never cruise the road again. But what do I know? Mr. Dlhwayu pursued a dream.

He wore the modest attire of a high school history teacher. His hair was soft and woolly. His skin was like vanilla caramel, a very smooth light-brown shade. I enjoyed the sound of his voice, as he spoke wistfully of many dreams.  "Someday this car will be welcome to use, and I will give you a ride. Someday my wife will have a new carpet for the living room. And I will build a strong six-foot fence around my property."

"But where will the money come from?" I asked. I asked him questions like that every evening, over the wire fence that separated his plot from our rented plot. We talked like neighbors who had known each other for decades. Some times I came into his house to use his phone because we did not yet have one. He had two teenage sons, sprawled disrespectfully on the living room couch. They would barely greet me when I came to use the phone.

Mr. Dlhwayu told me of his spiritual practice, because I asked him. I would sometimes see him leave the house right at darkness, wearing a white billowing robe and sandals. He said, "I belong to the Apostolic Brethren. We gather on a hilltop on certain nights of the month. We pray and sing the whole night through. This is my practice and belief."

"But where is your church building, where is your Bible?" I asked him. Mr. Dlhwayu responded, "We do not believe in a building or in a book. We only believe in the power of the spirit. So we wear our white robes on the hilltop for the power and goodness. That is my belief."

"I see you are a good man, Mr. Dlhwayu, will you say a prayer for me on the hill top?"

"I will."

I had a home in Africa. I could pinch myself I was so happy. A house, a truck and a bride-to-be. A TV, a new stove and frig, a good used sofa and a dining table with four chairs. Everything a man could want to have. Precious ruled it all. I only paid for it. She had such presence. That it was her right and destiny. I just smiled and drank my beer. "What do you want to watch in the TV tonight?" I asked her. "We can watch Fresh Prince of Bel Air or the Jeffersons or something else. They are from America, like me, only they are black, like you. " We had a small black and white TV with a rabbit ears antenna. There was only one channel, the ZBC or Zimbabwe Broadcasting Company. Having only one channel reduced TV to its essence. You could either turn it on or turn it off. That pleased me. Then Precious would sprawl on the love seat or the sofa. She would never sit up if she could sprawl.

She cooked in the kitchen. I sat and waited in the living room. Once I came into the kitchen to lend a hand. She paused from her work. Turned around to look at me and said, "What are you doing in here? You think I can't cook? You don't like what I make?" She made the same thing every night, sadza with meat. A huge heaping mound of sadza which is nothing but an extra stiff mixture of white boiled corn meal, stiff enough to hold up a fork by itself. Much stiffer than mashed potatoes. It amazed me how much sadza people ate in Zimbabwe. Every day. Every meal. And meat. usually beef, fried in a mixture of chopped tomatoes and onions, fried until it was tender.

The beef in Zimbabwe was almost always grass fed and organic. This was not intentional. They just had not gotten around to building feed lots and adding hormones to the diet of the cows. Cows in Zimbabwe live wild and free, got kind of rangy, were sold when the owner needed money. The meat was very tasty but far from tender. Precious boiled it first, then fried it. It was wonderful, every night. Except we had chicken sometimes.

Should I be talking about hyenas and leopards and native drumming and dancing? I could, but that's not how people live in Zimbabwe. They live in houses and watch TV and eat dinner on a plate with a knife and fork.

The daytime temperature was 95 degrees almost every day, always the same. It might edge up toward a 100 degrees once every week or so and then the lady selling tomatoes out on the curb of the street in front of the bottle store would say "It's too hot." I would answer her, "Yes, mama, it's too hot. I don't like it." And she would say, "but what can you do?" "You don't have an umbrella for the shade, mama?" "Otherwise I didn't bring it."

"But you won't suffer," I said. "No, otherwise it will be all right."

But our house was always cool, even on a hot day. We did not need a fan, just opening all the windows brought in a light cooling breeze.

And a garden. I will just mention one thing about our garden before I finish this episode. Among other things we grew strawberries. Very few people do that in Zimbabwe. We gave some fresh strawberries to Mr. Dlhwayu and he was thrilled beyond. "I have never in my life seen a strawberry. They taste so good!"

all for now,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Our House ... is a Very Very Very Nice House

Our House ... is a Very Very Very Nice House

By Fred Owens

The title is from a Crosby Stills and Nash song from long ago. The story is about the house Precious and I rented at 21 Shottery Crescent in Southwold, a subdivision of Bulawayo. But first I need to comment on the previous episode when this charming couple announced their engagement. The African half of this pair, that is Precious Mataka and her very numerous band of cousins, and all the good people of Bulawayo, and even everyone in the entire continent of Africa -- which is far bigger than North America, by the way -- all of Africa blessed this union, and thought nothing of it. Two people find each other, they sort out a few things if they need to, then they get together. There are no single people in Africa. A single person needs his or her own room to be single in, which is not possible in Africa. Nobody has a big enough house. So everybody hooks up and it doesn't take long. There is not a lot of foreplay. It's not an ideal system and it can get very messy, but it's what they do in Africa. And that's why Precious and Fred received the blessing of one and all -- in Africa.

Not so in the western world. Eyebrows were raised. Glances bordering on disapproval were displayed. Not quite right, it was thought. A hesitancy. The optics were not good .... Well, that's just too bad. Precious and Fred decided to make a go of it , and so he bought her a ring for all the world to see. That's what he did, buy the ring, and she wore it like it was meant for her. So I wrote that scene at the jewelry store in the previous episode. The jeweler was a young white man, mid-thirties, thinning light-brown hair, slight build, pearl-grey tie, white shirt, charcoal black sport coat, grey slacks, nicely shined black shoes. Very clean hands, even manicured, as he ceremoniously handed Precious the velvet tray of rings, she in a navy blue top with no accessories, over a full-wide immaculately white skirt -- looking the part. Fred, the old white man, used his privilege to dress casually.

"Take your time, Miss Mataka, every stone has a story, and the ring you choose will have a story written by you.,"  "Take the one you like the best," I said. "I know what I want," she replied. "I'm sure you do," I said and to the jeweler I said, "Mr. Bourne, it's getting a little stuffy in here, is there a window?" "Yes, yes, of course, surely, I will get right to it," he responded quickly, but then moved very slowly and deliberately, not wanting to break the spell, not wanting to leave the tray unattended. Bourne adjusted the window and returned to his seat. "These stones are from Botswana. They have the biggest diamond mine in the world. These are not blood diamonds, but created from honest work and we are proud of that," he explained to me. Precious was not interested in that fact about the source of the stone. She said, "I like this big stone and then I like this smaller stone, can I try it?" She slipped on the smaller stone and then looked at her hand. "What do you think?" I asked. "This one," she said, with a look on her face as if she had staked a claim on a mountain stream in a gold rush. This is something African people know about  -- precious stones, diamonds, rubies, emeralds. She did not have to tell me anything except to say, "This one."  Mr. Bourne read the signs correctly and kept quiet, not to queer the deal. A long pause, a meaningful pause, "Yes," someone said, probably me. "We'll take it."

I handed Bourne my bank card and he rung up the sale. He took the ring into the back room and placed it in a special box. But Precious said, "I will wear it now," and she took it from the box and placed it on her finger. (Anthropological note, third finger left hand, same as here). We were engaged, and we were going to find out what that meant.

Standing on Shottery Crescent Road, a  road which rarely sees a vehicle, but sees foot strollers often enough, we faced number 21. "Precious, who told you about this house?" "That woman told me," she said. "What woman?" "The one that sells tomatoes in front of City Hall," she told me.

I liked this house. It was very strong. A tremendous broad pepper tree shaded the entire front yard. "We can sit out here in the afternoon under this tree and drink our tea," I said. "Let's take it."  The rent was $150 a month. The roof was clay tiled, the thick walls were brick. The windows were barred. Three bedrooms, one bath.  The floors were polished parquet made from the hardwood of the mopani tree. The landlady lived in Francistown in Botswana. Her son, Jerry Thebe, stayed in the garden boy's shed in the back. We could have a nice garden in the yard. The driveway was hedged with blooming poinsettias. "This is a strong house," Precious said. "We can live here."

This episode is shorter but I worked on including input from the Serious Readers. Judy Booth of LaConner wanted more dialog and she got it. Mare  O'Brien from Dubuque, Iowa , wanted more context, which means more detail to me. It's tricky. I want to add context and background but I don't want to get into explaining things. Finally Harvey Blume from Cambridge, Massachusetts, commented that the first episodes were raw, but later episodes were becoming anthropological. I took this as a good thing, going from emotional to analytical, going from wet to dry, and then back again. I like both modes and will try to vary them in a harmonious manner.

The title of this episode, from a 60's hit song, is not absurd. Okay, a little absurd. But that song is part of my context.

Stay healthy, wash your hands, wear a mask at the grocery store,

Fred

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital