The November savannah sun was glaring in its full brilliance as I trudged to the railway station musing over the burdening uncertainty that lay ahead exposing my vulnerability hauntingly, in an unpleasant manner. Clutching on to my threadbare ruffled bag it just crossed my mind that every railway station in Zimbabwe was always to the south of major cities. With glory days having faded into a distant past, the giant state parastatal was struggling to keep it together and it now seemed that those whose financial standing had gone south had no choice but to traverse southwards of town and secure a travelling ticket.
Being double orphaned since birth, I barely had an easy start in life; it had always been a messy business of living, searching, adjusting and moving forward. That Saturday evening I was embarking on a journey from Mutare to the capital on one of my innumerable wanderings in search of some sort of fortune. My spirited attempt to strike new money in the famed Chiadzwa diamond rush had ended in staggering breaches of the law, a near accidental suicide and other inexplicable gory experiences. Gentle reader, that of course, is a story for another day.
“Ndeipi’’, said an elderly lanky man who was taking the seat next to me, extending his hand in courteous greeting uncharacteristic in these parts where elders always have to be greeted first. I answered politely with a fake smile that betrayed paranoia. If you were there I would have forgiven you for judging me cold and unfriendly. Sigmund Freud was right when he articulated that unresolved conflicts in childhood manifest in failure to adapt to society in adulthood; the evidence was right under my nose – the evidence was me. Lack of affection growing up had taught me things I was not consciously aware of such as selfishness, to say the least. “Off to visit some relatives, chap?’’ the old man gracefully enquired. For a moment I hesitated to mouth a reply, startled by this sudden effortless switch from the local Shona language to the Queen’s. Inevitably, I lied confidently saying, “Yeah” in response. It was easier and normal that way, I reasoned. Who on earth would commit themselves to the tedious task of trying to explain complicated details of their life to a random stranger? The people living on the streets I would be sharing the cover of card board boxes with in the night were the relatives I meant, I thought, justifying myselfin internal monologue. I stole a thorough gaze at my neighbour pretending to check if my bag was safe. He was wearing a half glossy suit and a man’s straw hat. How he reminded me of overzealous traditional African chiefs officiating at something long awaited for in the village with the President cutting the ribbon. He could afford to go to Harare by road or air, I concluded.
“I am Gambanyika, the son of Ganyamuto”. The eccentricity of my companion was steadily taking shape, threating to blow the wits out of my mind. His name Gambanyika translated to English meant national hero and his father’s refered to a vicious dog. It was all in sharp contrast, to my name own name as I amiably said, “Takaedza”, careful to observe social etiquette. On the contrary, for me, my name was heavy-laden with connotations of hopelessness, of trying, of meeting failure and resigning to fate.
As if we had met before and he was taking the conversation from where we had left, he rambled into a thread imbued with life-transforming meaning. In that moment it felt as if I was at the right place at the right time. If you were there and eavesdropping you would have been awe struck by the depth of my companion’s utterances. “Life is fair in the sense that it is unfair to everyone and obstacles are there to reveal our strengths”. Then he paused for air and continued without seeking my consent, “Success favours the consistent and daring, kufa kwemurume kubuda ura”. His sentiments were arguably cliché but coming from him they made my brain feel like a blank slate upon which he was imprinting indelible nuggets of wisdom. Something about his aura exuded world class genius that I was to learn later. As if sporadic use of rich vernacular language coud not convince me that these nuggets were for me, he unwittingly delved right into my predicament. “See sonny, I have unwavering love for orphans because they are uniquely vulnerable and as such they have the most potential for growth”. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I let down my guard and meekly said, “I for one can relate. Mother and father died of AIDS”. His eyes lit,“See! See what I mean. You are here without parents, and you have something in you to propel you to greatness!’’ I smiled,genuinely now, filled with sanguine hope.
The stranger insisted on not talking away the night despite my constant nodding which served to urge him on; he emphasised the importance of sleep highlighting that most of our growth takes place whilst we rest. When I woke up to the sight of pristine Harare the stranger was nowhere to be found. I found a note from him stuck on my bag saying if I ever needed help I should not hesitate to call on him. I called, got employed at one of his global conglomerates under his global corporation, served a number of years and now I run my own global business empire.
At the time of writing this account I was meeting Gambanyikaat one of his apartments in Switzerland and we never seem to get over the memory of our first encounter when he decided to take the overnight train to check on his farm. “I was so guarded, man. You must have been a sorcerer to have taken the guard down,’’ I would tease amidst chuckles downingMock-Mojito