Grace Mutandwa

The Land of Jam and Honey

Businesses which do well in Zimbabwe are those selling hope. 12 Million percent inflation, raids from the price police, shake-downs from ZANU-PF gangs and the prospect of a return to mass violence: this isn’t exactly the recipe for business confidence and economic growth. So most entrepreneurs have given up and moved elsewhere. But there are outlets dispensing optimism and trust in a higher power (even higher than ZANU-PF) and these are doing well.

One of the biggest hope outlets is the Celebration Centre, a huge and popular church packed out on Sundays. I must admit I don’t go to the Celebration Centre much. Their huge posters put me off: “Spiritual Success through Fasting.” I’ve never been too good at fasting.

But I’m dropping in today because the Centre’s café is one of the last places in Harare actually serving food and coffee. I sip a perfectly fine cappuccino and munch a jam doughnut. I hope that the gospel music is improving my soul a little.

I reflect that it’s a bit mean to all the fasting people to serve doughnuts right under their noses. But more seriously it just seems wrong to fast in Zimbabwe. Most people aren’t getting enough to eat anyway and those who are sick and malnourished go downhill very quickly.

So I drive out of the centre’s gates feeling a little ambivalent about my doughnut and almost run over a teenage girl who walks out in front of my car and waves at me. I wind down the window to see what’s up.

“My name is Marita. I am HIV positive and my parents have both passed away. Can I have a lift into town please?”

After a pitch like that I can’t refuse and Marita gets in with me. But before I can get started a vigorous young woman called Esther bounces up to my window and asks if she can have a lift too.

This is a tricky one. The Embassy Security Manager (who is a lovely fella, ex-Royal Navy, fists like granite and humourless when it comes to Embassy folks taking chances) is always telling us never to give lifts to hitch hikers. There’s an obvious risk that we’ll be car-jacked by the people we’re helping.

Now I’ve always taken that with a pinch of salt. I’ve always felt that I’m on safe ground giving lifts to people like Marita. She is thin for her fourteen years and has nasty sores on her skin. With the right drugs, nutrition and shelter she might rally. But she ain’t going to get any of that in Zimbabwe and - awful to say - she is not long for this world. In short, if she tries to mug me I am pretty sure I can overpower her.

But Esther is a different proposition. Not only is she fit and well, but she could be a honey-trap car-jacker . The papers often carry stories of drivers who stop for comely young women only to be overwhelmed by thugs hiding in the bushes. But I’m sitting outside a church; there’s a policeman standing by the roadside and I’m feeling full of doughnut and gospel music, so I open the door for Esther too.

“Thank you so much. The lift is for my husband Simon, this policeman.” And before you can say ‘sucker’, Simon’s in the back of my car and Esther is bounding back into the church.

I can’t believe I fell for it. So here I am driving into Harare, in a British Embassy car, with a girl who could croak at any moment and a Zimbabwean policeman. I am a headline waiting to happen. There’s nothing for it but to have a little polite conversation, in the Zimbabwean style.

Simon tells me, very matter of fact-ly, that God is sponsoring his police career. He recently prayed for advancement within the force and was immediately promoted from Sergeant to Warrant Officer. The Celebration Centre is a great place.

Marita interjects to remind me that she is HIV positive and has no money. I reassure her that the lift is free and she falls silent for a minute or two. My response is not what she had in mind.

Simon is now thanking God for his wife Esther. Can I confirm that she is very beautiful?

I feel we’re drifting into dangerous territory so I change topic. Did Simon notice all the terrible violence that took place in June? Oh yes, the Police know that hundreds of people were beaten in Chisipite just a few hundred metres from the Celebration Centre. But what can be done? The people who carry out the beatings cannot be touched. The Police have orders to let them carry out their violence.

I ask Simon what God would want him to do about the violence. That brings conversation to a bit of a halt as Simon makes little groaning noises and admits that it’s a problem.

I deposit Marita and Simon in the centre of town. Marita reminds me that she has not yet eaten and needs $200,000,000,000 to do so. I give her two shiny little new $10 coins and explain that they are worth the same as two hundred billion old dollars. She clearly does not believe me and gives me a filthy look – the look one gives a man who cheats poor, sick girls - and stalks off.

I’ve had my jam and honey (trap) for the day. Unfortunately there’s no milk, as the dairy farms have all been shut down. Welcome to Zimbabwe! Perhaps the Celebration Centre could arrange for some Manna?

Posted at 18:08 19 August 2008 by Philip Barclay  |  Comments[5]