The country was suffering from a drought. We had spent an early morning at a UN camp that was providing food for thousands of starving infants. I had never witnessed anything like this and it wasn’t until we were almost in Harare that I realized that I hadn’t taken a single picture at the camp. We got off our dust covered bus in front of the hotel that we would call home for the next week. The hotel, the Bronte, had the look and feel of colonialism with Dutch cape construction, large verandas, sprawling gardens with areas to sit and relax, large dining areas, a nice bar, a pool, and smartly attired black workers and servants. Its history could be traced to 1911 when it was built as the personal home of the Director of the London Rhodesia Mining Company. It was without a doubt the nicest hotel we had stayed in during our study group trip through several countries in southern Africa.
We couldn’t check into the hotel until later, so we decided to spend the remainder of the morning at the local market. I love visiting open air markets. I can actually talk to the average person of the country and begin to get a sense of who they are. We tried some of the local fruit and vegetables as we chatted with the people who were selling their goods in the market.
We finally made our way back to the hotel. Our bags had already been taken to our room. While David and I checked into our room at the front desk, we were introduced to Chuma, who would take care of us throughout the week. Chuma respectfully referred to us as Professor Staten and Professor Smith. He was an older gentleman from the Shona ethnic group. He spoke flawless English and was dressed in a white, starched hotel uniform.
It was lunch time and Chuma said he would meet us in the restaurant and have a table all prepared for us. After getting cleaned up in our room, we went downstairs and met Chuma in the restaurant. We sat down and drank some of the local tea. Chuma offered, “If I may be bold, I suggest that you try mazondo. It’s a local stew made with cow heels. It’s very good.”
“Cow heels?” I wanted to make sure I heard him correctly.
“Yes, Professor Staten. It is very good and it comes with collard greens and sadza, the national dish. Sadza is a kind of corn meal mush that has the consistency of very dry mashed potatoes in the shape of a biscuit.”
“Well, I always try to eat the local foods when I am abroad so that will be fine with me.” David nodded in agreement.
We loved the food. As we ate we started chatting with Chuma who was respectful and formal in his relations with us.
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“I started in 1943 when I was 20 years old and I am now 70.”
“Wow, so working at the Bronte has been very beneficial to you?” I asked.
“Well, as you know, unless you are white, this is a very poor country. It has been difficult, and I have no formal education but through steady work here at the Bronte I have been able to earn enough money to feed my family and give my children an education. The different managers of the hotel were good to me as long as I understood my place in the social order. It was very difficult during the violence of the 70s but things have been much better since the first free elections and independence in 1980. Ten years ago with the help of the owner of the Bronte, I was able to purchase a very small house in the south in Mbare. I am now the Head Waiter here.”
I laughed a little, “How do two professors rate service from the Head Waiter?”
He smiled, “We are short on help this week and it is not often that we get academics from the US here. So, I will take care of you this week.
We continued to chat as he would come by and refill our tea. We told him that we were there to learn about and understand the political and economic problems facing a country that was moving away from rule by a white minority. After three days of getting to know Chuma he became more and more open toward us. In a most surprising moment of trust shown toward us, he revealed something very personal, “I care very much about the injustices suffered by so many, including myself, in my country. But I had to make a choice early in my lifetime between keeping my family alive through a job which required me to live with injustice and indignities or not having a job and risking the lives of my family by supporting an opposition movement that used violence to fight injustice. I chose to keep my family alive and endure the injustices. Many of my friends in my generation made the same choice. It was a choice I made and I do not regret it.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to such a personal statement, “We all have to make difficult decisions when it comes to family matters. I respect you for putting your family first.”
“Many here still do not understand the path I chose, especially the younger generation, even my oldest son. It has divided us. It has divided our family.” Chuma revealed.
“Our children often do not understand the sacrifices we make for them until they have their own children,” I observed.
We were going to the university that afternoon to talk to some of the faculty and students to evaluate the political and economic effects of the fact that 85 percent of the arable land was owned by white Zimbabweans who made up less than 15 percent of the population. We got up to leave and said good-bye to Chuma. I told him that I would see him tonight at dinner. He replied as I walked away, “Yes master.”
I thought I had heard him incorrectly, but David looked at me in a way that I knew he had heard it as well. I was stunned at hearing those words. David and I talked about it with the remainder of the group on our way to the university. Most of the group indicated that we should not mention it to Chuma. I wasn’t sure about that. It really bothered me.
We met several faculty members including an economist who discussed the relationship between colonialism, an agriculture-based economy, and property ownership and how that affected the politics of today. We spoke to several student groups who wanted to see major changes in the terribly unequal distribution of land.
At dinner, Chuma’s reference to me as “master” was still consuming my thoughts, so I finally just asked, “Chuma, did you refer to me as “master” at lunch today?”
He was embarrassed and initially did not know what to say. He gathered himself, “I may have. For so many years that was the way we had to address whites in our country and especially in this hotel. Sometimes it still comes out of my mouth. Look around. Only whites stay here. I know that our country has changed and is changing but old habits are hard to break. I am so sorry if it bothered you or made you uncomfortable.”
I responded, “I hope in the future you will call us by our names, Cliff and David.”
He replied, “Yes Cliff, I will.”
Later that evening, we decided to attend a local meeting of the ruling party that was being held in an assembly hall a few blocks from the hotel. It was a brief meeting but that is where we met Chinziri, Chuma’s son. He appeared to be in his early 40s. Unlike his father, he was immediately outspoken and much more informal with us. From the beginning of our conversation, he called us David and Cliff and wanted to know why two Americans would come to Harare. We explained the purpose of our research trip. He was very engaging and explained some of the goals of the party meeting and talked a little bit about his family.
Chinziri noted, “You know I fought in the guerrilla war in the 1970s. I helped the nationalist movement, and I am so glad that we are now an independent and democratic country in which I can vote.”
He went on, “But, we have not gone far enough.”
“What do you mean?” David asked.
Chinziri stated very bluntly, “Land is the source of wealth in this country and white colonialists stole it from us and are continuing to steal from us. We are the democratically elected majority now and we are in charge. We have waited way too long for real economic reforms. We should simply take the land from the wealthy, white landowners and distribute it to my black brothers and sisters. It is only fair. We owe the whites of this country absolutely nothing.”
You could feel the anger in Chinziri’s voice. He told us that he had graduated from the university. He recognized that it was his education and the fact that he was part of a growing black middle class that enabled him to become a leader in the resistance movement and a local party leader today.
Thinking of our conversation with Chuma, I very tentatively asked, “Chinziri, do you speak to your father very much?“
“We don’t speak very often. He’s never been an activist nor a big supporter of our party. Why do you ask?”
I decided it was important for me to say something, “Chinziri, have you ever sat down and talked to your father about his life? His lifetime of suffering injustices just so you could get a good education, so you could fight those very injustices that he has endured, and so you could serve in a leadership position today?”
I paused and continued, “Perhaps you should take time to talk to him.” David looked at me and shook his head. There was much more going on between Chuma and Chinziri than I knew. David was right so I chose not to say anymore. We told him goodbye, left the meeting, and returned to the hotel.
At breakfast we told Chuma that we had met his son at the party meeting but did not mention what we talked about. When we were leaving the hotel a couple of days later to travel to Malawi, Chuma thanked us for coming to his country and trying to understand it. I looked at him and smiled, “Chuma, talk to your son.”
He smiled and nodded, “Cliff, have a safe trip. Goodbye my friend.”
I never returned to Zimbabwe, nor did I ever hear from Chuma or Chinziri again. I hope they resolved their differences; life is too short and precious for family members to neither speak to nor love each other.
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