Zimbabwe's forgotten families

I TRY to imagine what it is like living in Zimbabwe today, right now, at this very time. I left Zimbabwe at the very end of 2003. When I left, I thought things were tough. We still stood in queues for sugar or mealie meal, but somehow I had friends who would always help me out. Back then, you could still walk into a store and buy bread, for Z$1 000, you could still buy fresh meat and other necessities. Yes things were tough, but we were okay ─ but not today.

Imagine a father of six, all children under the age of 16 ─ all in need of food everyday. They live in a two-roomed plastic shack at Porter Farm squatter camp. Imagine what the farmer has to go through every day. His only source of income was selling his wares on the streets of Harare ─ from used text books to fake perfumes. At the end of the day he has to have enough to buy meat, mealie meal and bread. If he is lucky, he would make enough to buy one whole chicken. That would be a treat for his family.

His wife most likely would be able to bring home vegetables and tomatoes. She makes a living selling vegetables at bus termini. Together they could afford to pay school fees for their four kids ─ two who are in high school and the other two in primary school. Lucky for them, the two younger ones spend the day with their mother at the vegetable market.

That was the life for a struggling Zimbabwean man and his family. But now, things have turned belly up.

Now the father has to worry about were they are going to live. Operation Murambatsvina came along and ‘scooped their house’. Their home is no longer existent. Children do not attend school. School fees have become a luxury they can’t afford. Having a decent meal on the table is something they never dream off.

The father has to worry about what his family is going to eat every night. He has to worry about his wife and his two year old son who who could develop some nutrition-related complications and diseases.  

Picture this man out: He is going mad trying to figure out what to do. The situation does not look good, especially for the young child, who is deteriorating daily. The man cannot afford to think of the worst, otherwise his worries will have to include funeral expenses. How can he afford a funeral when he can’t even afford a life? He is the man; he is expected to be the head of the house. He is expected have a plan but where do plans come form in a country that has lost its footing.

Picture the mother: She has borne six children, beautiful healthy children. Life used to be good, despite living in a plastic shack at Porter Farm, life was still okay. She would help her husband feed the family by selling vegetables at Mbare terminus. When that was not going well, she could always catch fish, since the lived so close to the Mutirikwi River. What she caught, shesold to motorists driving by the Harare–Bulawayo highway. What they could not sell, they ate. This is how she irked out a living. Her children, her pride and joy made her go through each day. Her hope was that they finish school and make something of themselves.

She secretly that one day the children would afford to take the family out of Porter Farm to live in a real house ─ without having to worry about the rain drenching them.

Now, she cannot even get up. She has been lying on the floor for weeks. She is sick. She can’t even take care of the two year old son lying next to her, suffering. She passively sees her older children, milling around aimlessly, hungry and weak. Yet here she lies, too weak to care for her children. Her two year old lies next to her, too feeble to cry. Her breast milk ran dry a month ago and now, all they live on is water. And if they are lucky, they may get some porridge.

Her husband has tried all he can. She cannot expect him to do more. He cannot work miracles. He has been by their side, day and night, hoping and praying .Going to Gomo hospital is not an option. She might as well lie there with her son because the treatment she gets lying there will not be any different from what she will get at Gomo. It all boils down to the same thing, waiting to die. A painful death process.

The eldest child is fifteen years old. She was in Form Two. She should be in Form Three but she fell behind when she had to stay at home when her young brother started high school two years ago. There was not enough money for the both of them to attend school.

Now, they are both not going to school. Going to school in Warren Park was not easy. Waking up at four o’clock in the morning and walking all the way to school was not easy. They usually got there tired and sweaty. Getting into class with no books and hoping to share with a kind classmate was embarrasing. When the adolescent girl had a monthly period she skipped school ─ for a week. Seven days ─ no school. How could she go to school with no sanitary pads, or underwear to hold the pad! Staying at home is definitely better than being embarrassed.

When her young brother started school, she was happy she had someone to walk to and from school with. They looked after each other. However this past year, things have been harder than ever. Her brother had fainted numerous occasions at school from hunger. Their meals have become erratic. She is seriously considering going to the City ─ maybe get a job, as a maid or even ‘work on the streets in Harare’. She has heard stories of how rich men with big cars ‘help’ young girls with money. She ponders. If she makes enough money, she may be able to help her parents care for her siblings. If she moves fast enough, she could go and start work, raise enough money to look for medication that can save her sick mother and her feeble little brother.

The little brother ─ two years old ─ will be lucky if he lives to three years old. He doesn’t comprehend much of what is happening around him. He can feel the pain. He can feel the hunger. He just lies next to his mother, motionless. He doesn’t go outside anymore. He doesn’t have the energy to play games anymore. She doesn’t tickle him anymore. They just lie there all the time, motionless. He has no idea what is happening to him ─ but he knows something is wrong, somewhere.

The slow death process is a daily reality

This is the life that many of our people are living. It is not an exaggeration. If at all, it is an understatement. This is the life of those who don’t have a relative abroad. They don’t have the relief provided by Diaspora cash. No one helps out. These are the people who are at the bottom of the pit in Zimbabwe.

 In so many ways, we have been spoiled by our lives in the Diaspora. We have our cars, we have our rented (or bought) flats, apartments; we have our houses. We can make our ends meet and have a bit to spare. Our children go to school, when we have a head ache we just drive to the pharmacy. We are well fed. We have a life. We have a clue how people in Zimbabwe live, but we choose to ignore.

Our families in Zimbabwe tell us their daily trials and tribulations in Zimbabwe. We should help, when we can ─ which is most of the time. I believe that very Grace of God the people in Zimbabwe see a brand new day, living in a country where normal living is next to impossible.