The so called Diaspora: hear me Lord, I pray

THE following article is not fact. MacVivo takes a humorous jab at what ‘inside’ politics would look like. Zimbabwean politicians and citizens alike should find it funny. If not, then tough. As we do not have access to the ‘inside of politics,’ so to speak, satirical accounts of what their agenda might resemble will abound. Before you smile, remember, everyone is being ribbed; politicians, citizens, the press, civil society - you’re not spared. Remember if you make a fool of yourself in politics, or not, you will pay the price… You have been warned!

Here we go.....

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WHEN all was said and done, on the eve of the March election, Taurai decided to put his case on the feet of the highest power he knew of: God. Thus, on that dark, silent and overcast night, he got onto his keens, put his trembling hands together and prayed: “God, I have never asked for anything from you. Through all these years, I have lived according to the dictates of your holy Bible. Never have I lusted after another man’s wife nor have I been jealous of my neighbor. Ndinoziva muri mwari vanopa. I know you are a God who is fair and just. God, I’m an asylum seeker. Considering the aforementioned, I beseech you to make sure…guarantee it that Mugabe and ZANU-PF win this election. I ask of nothing else. If you fulfill this wish, I…” It was a dramatic end to that day.

The day before the elections in Zimbabwe had began just like any other wintry day: the wind had blown directly from the sea, stirring up large waves that came crushing on to the rugged shore and the ground on the block on which his apartment was located had been covered in a fresh coat of fluffy white snow that had fallen during the long night. That morning, gazing out of the hefty window from his 2nd floor one bedroom apartment, and drinking strong, scalding coffee from a chipped enamel mug, Taurai had assessed his dilemma for the umpteenth time.

 Try as he did, no matter which angle he analyzed and looked at his quandary, it seemed there was virtually no solution, no way out for him. A peculiar lassitude had crept over him that morning.  He had cursed in utter disgust and anger and rising despair. The overcast weather, as all the days are here in the Diaspora during winter, had subtly contributed to his overwhelming sense of being doomed, cursed perhaps?

A tall, lean, dark, silent, middle-aged man with contemplative dark eyes and a perceptible slow way of speaking, Taurai’s life was like a narrative from a child’s adventure book in its vivid shades and hues of swift luck and misfortune and long agonizing struggles.

 His latest troubles started early during the year. Like his other asylum seeker friends, he had been pinning his hopes of salvation and the success of his asylum claim on Mugabe postponing the elections to June…July perhaps. He had known then that by July, the immigration judge handling his case would have reached a decision, which he hoped and prayed would be a favorable one. But, alas Emperor Gushungo had defied his wishes and expectations by pushing the date of the elections up all the way to late March. And soon after the announcement of the date, Mr. Jameson, his pro bono lawyer, had quickly asked him to stop by his office. To this day, this Election Day eve, Taurai still remembers that meeting clearly, like it happened yesterday.

“Am I right to assume that you are curious as to why I summoned you all of a sudden?” Mr. Jameson had opened the meeting delicately, while the two men sat on comfortable chairs high up on the fiftieth floor in his sparsely furnished office. A chain smoker, Mr. Jameson’s neck was narrow and long like that of a gazelle, with a prominent Adam’s-apple. A pointy nose defined his face.

“That is true Mr. Jameson,” Taurai had let his concern show. “Has there been a change to my case?”

“Not really,” Mr. Jameson had said, snapping his long fingers that looked like those of a pianist.

“So why did you call for this meeting? I’m a busy man you know. I had to miss my work today and—”

“Don’t get yourself worked up,” Mr. Jameson calmed him and quickly added: “I’m afraid I have bad news for you as it is.”

“Bad news? What bad news?” Taurai had asked with a sense of rising fear. Could it be that he was going to be deported? Was there an increase in the consultation fees? He had wondered.

“I’m sure you are aware that the situation…the political situation back in Zimbabwe might change next week, after March 29?”

“Um…yeah, I’m very aware of that. But how does that have anything to do with me?”

“Well, to put it in simple terms, if the unimaginable were to happen,” Taurai had craned his neck, his eyes wide, listening to Mr. Jameson’s every word, “that Tsvangirai wins the election or rather…Mugabe chooses to lose the presidential election, your asylum case will become weak, very weak overnight.”

“What? What do you mean? How does it become weak?” Taurai asked, panicking, his voice shaky like that of tout at Mbare Musika.

“I won’t lie to you. Your asylum case will crumble like a house built on sand,” Mr. Jameson had paused, to let his message sink. “Given that your case entirely rests on the persecution you have received at the hands of Mugabe’s agents, with Mugabe out of office,  the judge will quickly dismiss your claim of asylum and chances are, despite all that I can try to do, you will definitely be deported and…” Mr. Jameson had continued speaking, but Taurai has stopped listening. His whole body had become covered with cold sweat, for talk of ‘deportation’ scared and horrified him like a wobbly silhouette of a ghost in the night.

Just like that, in the blink of an eye, Taurai had suddenly found himself in that distressing and somewhat unenviable position of desiring to witness the defeat of Mugabe on one hand, while at the same time hoping that Mugabe rigs the elections and wins—his win acting as a firewall against the collapse of his asylum case and potentially postponing the order of his deportation from that country in the Diaspora.

Every person has a fear of something, a hidden phobia of some sort. At this point in his life, Taurai’s greatest dread was being deported back to Zimbabwe. Of course, he preferred staying in this Diaspora country, although life in this country was not as awesome as it was cranked up to be.

Only two years before, Taurai had left Zimbabwe to a hero’s departure. How naïve he had been then when he was still in Harare, day dreaming of making it big overseas. Back then, he had had illusions of becoming rich and famous the moment he set foot in that foreign land.  But soon, the excitement of reaching this Diaspora country wore off and the hard reality had set in. Though he had two respected degrees from the University of Zimbabwe, Taurai had found out that the legal instruments one needed to possess while living in that Diaspora country were out of his reach, compelling him to work at an old people’s home washing them etc. If the truth were to be told, ever since Taurai came to the Diaspora, he had steadily become poor; in fact he was better off when he was back in Zimbabwe. If that is the case, one might ask out of curiosity: why is he afraid to go back to Zimbabwe? Fair question. But one must remember Taurai has his own pride to protect.

Of course, Taurai missed home and would have loved to go back. Back home where he would be able to walk on the street enmeshed in the sweet and reassuring aroma of maize cobs roasting by the fire. Or riding in a Kombi from Market Square back to home after spending the day drooling in Harare Gardens or from a thrilling march between Dynamos & Caps United. Or the simple things in life that people in Zimbabwe take for granted: Warm bright sunshine. Drinking Chibuku with close friends. Watching those beautifully clad women on a Sunday afternoon after church….

If Taurai were to be deported after Mugabe loses the election, the people who know him back in Zimbabwe would talk. What would these people say of him if he suddenly appeared back from ‘greener pastures’ empty handed? Certainly, Taurai knew that he would become the talk of the neighborhood. How people would talk behind his back and refuse to drink with him at the bar. “Stupid man,” he imagined his neighbors saying as they watched him pass by, “his peers have built large houses, started businesses and earned degrees since they went to the Diaspora. What does Taurai have to show for all the three years he spent there?”

“I heard he spent all his money on those loose women found in the Diaspora, you know those with short dresses that leave their thighs exposed and wear make-up and wigs and lipstick?”  The shame, the loss of face and status in his community would be tantamount to dieing.

When all was said & done, on the eve of the March election, Taurai decided to put his case on the feet of God, the highest power he knew of.  Thus, on that dark, silent and overcast night, he got onto his keens, put his trembling hands together and prayed: “God, I have never asked for anything from you. Through all these years, I have lived according to the dictates of your holy Bible. Never have I lusted after another man’s wife nor have I been jealous of my neighbor. Ndinoziva muri mwari vanopa. I know you are a God who is fair and just. God, I’m an asylum seeker. Considering the aforementioned, I beseech you to make sure…guarantee it that Mugabe and ZANU-PF win this election. I ask of nothing else. If you fulfill this wish, I will forever be righteous. I will live the rest of my life according to the regulations of the bible. And I will volunteer in the community. And…”

It was a dramatic end to a March 28 day.

Trymore ‘MacVivo’ Magomana

macvivo@alumni.grinnell.edu