It was a brisk winter’s morning when I left Harare, en route to Bulawayo in my trusty Mazda.
I was fully fueled up, coffee in the flask, my favourite music selected, all good. This was hopefully going to be the final trip of many in connection with winding up my late parents’ estate, a process that had stretched over four long years, and I was eager to finally conclude this painful and testing time. I was due to attend a meeting in Bulawayo at 8.30 on the Monday morning, so I had arranged to stay over with a friend, giving myself plenty of time for a nice leisurely Sunday drive.
As I pulled away from the urban jungle that is Harare, I felt a sense of relief, the open road stretching ahead, and the lapis lazuli sky arching overhead. I love the bush in winter, stark in its dry beauty, all the shades of gold, orange and umber, with occasional raptors spiraling through the heavens. I couldn’t help but miss my Mom and Dad. Somehow this journey felt like an ending for I had grown up in Bulawayo, and now there would be nothing to hold me there any longer. I let my mind wander back through all the road trips we had taken, to the river, to the mountains, to the seaside. The car trip was always an integral part of any journey, padkos prepared, stopovers at random motels, I Spy, fighting with my brother. All gone now, but the legacy of their deep love for this country has permeated my soul and I felt very grateful.
The kilometres peeled back as I passed through the familiar landmarks, first the Lake Chivero hills, then the tollgate at Norton, Selous, Chegutu, Kadoma and Kwekwe where I stopped off for my usual halfway coffee and toasted sandwich break. Yes, there was evidence everywhere of hard times, failed mealie crops, crazy unpredictable drivers, eternal fuel queues, but underneath it all a sense of limitless potential and deep roots, a connection I’ve never found anywhere else. As I neared Gweru, I noticed a light flashing on my dashboard. Silly stupid lights, how am I supposed to know what they mean, in hieroglyphics? Then a red light, shaped unmistakably like a battery, and as I entered the city, my car died.
I did what any lady driver would do, opened the bonnet, peered inside knowingly, saw a mass of incomprehensible engine parts, then stood forlornly on the side of the road. My mind jumped into panic mode, whom could I call, in Gweru on a Sunday? I googled AA road services and tried the number but it rang unanswered. I knew nobody would have the fuel to drive all the way to Gweru and rescue me. I was stuck. Then some young men who’d been watching amusedly from a distance ambled over. Immediately I jumped into suspicious mode as they looked decidedly dodgy. We exchanged the usual greetings and soon they were twiddling and tightening various knobs but to no avail. My car was dead. We would have to push her to the workshop where there was an auto electrician.
Soon there was a whole team puffing and straining whilst I, the madam, sat up front steering us towards a yard full of broken cars, kombis, street kids and loud music. All the horror stories I had ever read on social media now returned in full technicolour. Simba, the dreadlocked auto electrician, who looked no older than twenty five, proceeded to dismantle my engine to get to the alternator, whilst I had no choice but to sit and watch the goings on around me. There were all manner of people, the outcasts, the down and out, those whom I never gave a second glance, but also much activity and comradeship. Cars were being panel beaten, spray painted, tyres changed, a new exhaust was being fitted and just as the mechanic pulled out from beneath the car, it collapsed off its rudimentary support system, crashing to the ground. Young bucks in their fancy souped up wagons pulled in for a chibuku or six, and all the while, pieces of my engine were being hammered, soldered and screw- drivered, but to no avail. My alternator was well and truly burnt out.
Time was ticking, and as 4pm loomed, I knew that there was no chance I was getting to Bulawayo that day. The last time I had travelled in the dark on the Gweru/Bulawayo road I had witnessed a kombi travelling at full speed hit a huge black cow. There was no chance he could have seen it, and it could so easily have been me. But what to do? I had to be in Bulawayo the next morning. A man had been watching the proceedings with bored interest as something was being tweaked on his vehicle. He looked well dressed and friendly so I went over and asked if he could call a taxi for me as I would have to find somewhere to spend the night. He offered to drive me to a hotel and introduced himself as Tidings. With deep misgivings, I abandoned my car to Simba, fearing I would never see it again, and headed off into the heart of Gweru with a complete stranger.
“Don’t worry, they will fix your car. I will take you to a nice Lodge for the night and you can come and fetch it tomorrow,” he said.
“But I have to be in Bulawayo tomorrow morning and I don’t know what to do!!” I bleated. “Is there an overnight bus I can catch?”
“No, no, you don’t want to be doing that,” he replied. “What time do you have to be there?”
By now I was feeling slightly hysterical and on the verge of panic. Tearfully I explained the whole story, about my parents dying, and this being a crucial appointment that I couldn’t postpone, and very calmly he said, “I will take you.”
Just like that. I was driven by Tidings to a lovely Lodge where, joy of joys, there was hot water for a bath, stopping to grab some Chicken Inn, and even to buy a charger for my phone, as I had foolishly forgotten mine in Harare. There was no question of money, no sense of being a nuisance, no obligation. We arranged for him to pick me up at 6 the following morning, and sure enough, slightly early, there was a knock on my door, and there he was. We set off, and on the way I learned a lot about this humble man and his family. I realized that we are not so different after all. Like all Zimbabweans, we make a plan. It might not be what we had intended, but if running two kombis to make a living instead of practising as a quantity surveyor, was what it took, then so be it. We laughed a lot at the catastrophes that are part of daily life, comparing stories and crazy solutions.
I made my appointment. Later, after retrieving my car complete with new alternator salvaged from the car breakers, I bade farewell to my new friend, who had patiently waited with me until everything was sorted. As I drove home, I was struck by the fact that my perception of those with whom I co-exist but never come to know, had profoundly changed.