One plate of steaming hot Sadza. Another one full of boiled, brown vegetables. Five children smiling from ear to ear sitting around the plates. Their mouths are drooling. This is dinner for them. Sounds familiar? Well I don’t think so! Your reality is a table set in the regions of a banquet every day. That’s your privilege. The plates of Sadza are our reality. Let Me Explain!
I hear everyone crying that times are tough but let’s be really honest. It has been hard for us in the ghetto since I can remember. You now feel the sting because your luxuries are now becoming hard to reach. Don’t patronise us!
Let’s begin at the early stage of development shall we. My father was never educated. He is a case of those guys that ran away from their rural home because of the big city allure. He had odd jobs until he managed to do a technical course and then got a solid job. Nice right? Not really! He started a family banking on his job to fully finance his life but just then, salaries were cut. Enter us the spawn and things got a little tougher for him. This meant that I could not attend nursery school because that would eat into the family’s budget. Already the kids who were going to the crèche had a clique. We the poor ones were the undesirable because we spent the whole day at home playing chikweshe. The classes were evident already. This is still in the ghetto by the way.
When we all hit six years old we got into primary school. I was sent to a local school because of affordability, which I did not mind because the situation was normal for me. Other families in the area sent their kids to schools in the northen surbubs. That did not irk me at all but what pissed me off is the difference between the schools. My school was council run. Hot seating was a norm in a school with seven grades and only 5 classroom blocks to cater for us. The only sporting activities were the general athletics, soccer, volleyball and netball. Whilst on the other side my neighbours kids enjoyed a basketball court, learnt how to swim, played cricket, rode horses every week. I had never seen a horse in real life except when we had a chance to ride the bus to the rurals and the bus passed through the Mazowe farms when it was still day. That was my reality. Mediocrity all packed in the promise of good education for the child. What education?
This was the same story for my Secondary education. The moment you tried to sing or be a comedian, the school authorities descended on you with the notion of you having misplaced priorities. You see, following talent is considered as rebellion but embraced in the private schools. They breed their own crop to feel all the major sporting and creative voids. Whilst most of us in the ghetto are drilled that the book is the only salvation when they know that they are no jobs. They will tell you that the degree is the highest achievement you should get whilst their kids don’t even have O’Levels but are budding actors and filmmakers outside the country. That piece of paper will not buy shoes for me when its hanging from the wall and I’m sitting by the corner bridge trying to plot the next job run.
Do you think that when we finally have a music genre we control we will be so relaxed? Do you think when we finally get those top positions handed down amongst the privileged community, we will not want to amass wealth quickly so we can be at par with our peers? Do you think we will be civilised whilst selling vegetables in a street full of 20 other people selling the same thing? No one cares about us. Everything of ours was always a struggle. Five hands fighting for a relish with no cooking oil. Don’t you dare tell us to calm down. We are tired of this comfort in the midst of poverty. We are coming for the top, Pamamonya Ipapo!
Inini
