Douglas Schorr

 I was a boy whom Ngwenya—the crocodile—bid, “Sleep well. If you want to help Africa, wake up a man. We don’t need pansies.”

From the verandah of the Mzingwane District government rest camp in 1968, I gazed across the outer reaches of the Matopos. Less than 100 miles from Rhodes’ grave, valleys spread like bicycle spokes, lined with thorn-fenced fields. Small granite hills flaunted spring colours, sheltering clusters of mud-and-thatch huts with rough-cut stock pens beneath them. Distant cattle bells clanged in constant rhythm as streams caught sunlight like scattered diamonds.

“Goodness, smell that!” I inhaled deeply. The diesel and tar of Bulawayo was replaced by woodsmoke, fresh dung, turned earth and cut grass as the breeze shifted.

“Yes,” grunted the old man. “So, you would like to visit the home of Magdalene, also known as Jabulile of Kraal Nyoni.”

I smiled. Assistant District Commissioner Coleman had warned me that he was placing me with “philosopher” Ngwenya specifically to temper my city-boy romantic notions. Already I’d been imagining my own hillside hut, living harmoniously with this untamed landscape.

“I do. She was our maid in Hillcrest, in Bulawayo,” I said eagerly. “She —”

“Yes-yes,” Ngwenya interrupted. “The entire office has heard about the coincidence—your first job with the district commissioner, and now the ADC brings you along to have a walk while he works!”

Stung, I shot back, “And you are a grumpy, know-it-all old man.”

Ngwenya’s stern face softened. “I apologize, young sir. I am a true Ngwenya—a crocodile who sees what’s wrong, but if I knew it all, our roles might be reversed. He instructed me to show you how the Matabele peasantry lives, and I will. Be warned—up close, ‘idyllic’ doesn’t fit.”

Later, I stood on a boulder behind Ndlovu’s compound while excited children danced around me. “This is fantastic!” I declared.

“Very far to go for water for all these children,” Ngwenya observed flatly.

I looked around, suddenly aware. No taps. Every morning, women trudged with huge buckets balanced on their heads to the water pond beyond that hill, an hour each way.

“Add an hour if they bathe,” Ngwenya added, watching my expression change.

“No bathroom?” I stammered.

“Morning time they go in the bush among the rocks. Come, we move on.”

After a brisk exchange with Mpofu and his wife—she hunched over sweeping the entire compound with what looked like bundled grass—Mpofu rose, pulled open a corrugated tin door and motioned me inside.

I stepped into darkness and gasped at the smoke. As my eyes adjusted, a small hut materialized around me. Ash dust rose from a central fire on the packed dung floor. Despite the open door, the heavy stillness grabbed at my skin. The conical roof had only a tiny hole for smoke to escape. Soot and wood tar hung from the thatch.

“A mother and her children share this,” Ngwenya said from the doorway. “The smoke deters mosquitoes and provides warmth. This is how we’ve lived since time began.”

Back in fresh air, I gulped deeply. “But we saw brick structures with windows—”

“Which belong to people who’ve worked in Bulawayo or the mines. They’ve seen another way of living.”

“I’d need light,” I insisted. “I study for exams at night!”

“Exactly!” Ngwenya’s voice boomed. “For you, that’s normal. But most Matabele haven’t grasped working beyond average to impress seniors. It isn’t part of their internal make-up.” He swept his arm around. “The best they have is a Tilly lamp. And do you see tables or chairs? Do you see even one book?”

“It is traditional,” I ventured, seeking value in this hard existence.

“What is traditional but a façade for primitive? People accept this as their lot, as ancestors did for millennia.” He pointed to a compound across the way. “Look—that’s Moyo’s place. Different, isn’t it?”

It was. Among the huts and cattle kraal stood two large brick buildings under tin roofs. A long table with fixed wooden ‘tree-trunk’ seats sat in front of one.

“Do you see the water tank?” I’d completely missed it. “It connects to the roof by gutters. The Moyo family have thrown off the tradition of being the king’s warriors for individual growth.”

“Very smart,” I conceded.

“No,” Ngwenya corrected. “What’s smart is how the District Commissioner’s Community Advisors operate. They are the change agents. They identify a family like this and make them the valley’s beacon—their Bulawayo without leaving home. At Moyo they learn new words, the words of dreams-guttering, tank, pipe.”

I considered this. “So Moyo went to Bulawayo, discovered what he didn’t know, and returned receptive to the District Commissioner’s teachers.”

“Yes!” Ngwenya’s face brightened. “And consider this coincidence—while other families we’ve visited have animal names—Ndlovu the elephant, Mpofu the eland, Nyoni the bird—Moyo means ‘heart’ or ‘air’—the new wind lighting the way! Magdalene’s grandmother married a Moyo. Both she and Moyo went to find out what lay beyond. We all need such motivators.” He straightened, eyes intense. “Africa needs you and the ADC to open windows. Your names are industrious—coal man, shepherd, smith. Now, let’s move on—Nyoni’s place is just left of where they’re dipping cattle.”

We walked through clouds of dust from the dipping process. “Government initiative for tick control,” Ngwenya explained. “Chiefs objected initially until agricultural demonstrators—another welcome breed of educators—explained the benefits. Now they argue over costs. People say it should be free, claiming the king provided everything in the old days. Chiefs counter that the people no longer fight for them. The debate stalls.”

As we approached Nyoni’s kraal, I rehearsed what I might say to Magdalene after ten years. Would she remember teaching me Ndebele words? The songs she sang while ironing? The anguish she felt when she left the iron on Dad’s shirt while she wondered where the sugar ‘went’!

“And here,” Ngwenya said, indicating a scrawny boy herding younger children, “is Magdalene’s son.”

My heart leapt, he looked as sickly and stunted as she was robust and tall. “Hello,” I managed cheerfully. “Where is your mother?”

The boy looked at me without expression. Ngwenya didn’t translate but turned to me with sudden gentleness. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Magdalene died giving birth to her second child two years ago. Both died.”

The vibrant young woman who’d taught me songs and complained about bus passengers throwing tickets into our hedge—gone! Died in childbirth without medical routine that was readily available in town.

A battered bus rattled past just then, its driver wrestling the gouged road, the coincidence almost too much to bear.

Walking back toward a hot shower, meal, and proper bed, Ngwenya spoke quietly. “You now know two worlds: one of competition and opportunities and this one where people desperately seek guides to show them paths forward.”

I touched his arm. “You don’t have to explain.”

I saw Magdalene’s face lighting up as Mom explained the importance of switching off lights and taps and of securing store-bought food “so it doesn’t bring unwanted guests!” Oh, how Magdalene had laughed—delighted by knowledge that opened doors to a world beyond the one she was born into.