The Sunday Mail
Nyasha Doris Kumbawa
Our times have confirmed that culture is also dynamic, evidenced by the evolution of values and belief systems as our diverse cultures continue to be dipped and turned in the cauldron of globalisation. It is thus becoming increasingly difficult to determine the authentic African from other races.
One author has even proposed that the world is flat, upon reflection of the impact of various factors including information, communication and technology that have promoted an inter-mingling of not only knowledge, commerce and industry, but our very individual and social lives.
Consequently, as the winds of globalisation blow even in our part of the savannah, we have bowed to it, at times snapping back in position and in other instances leaving us as hapless victims in their trail of destruction.
As Zimbabweans, aspects of our culture have not been spared. It is not a rarity for a Zimbabwean family to speak predominantly in English and for their weekly cuisine to range from sadza rezviyo to Italian lasagna and then Indian chicken biriyani on a Sunday afternoon, culminating in English high tea.
It is also now common business to refer to our father’s brothers as uncles rather than traditionally as one’s father.
Often it is said that you know someone is a Zimbabwean when they refer to their cousins as ‘my cousin brother’ or ‘cousin sister’, and as a result, we have adopted the preferential cousin, deleting the emphasis on brother.
Regardless of what the world has done to us or what we have done to it, I still find moments of comfort in aspects of our culture that have remained intact despite the ravages of worldly forces.
I say this following the illness of a loved one that has seen me spending more time in the hospital than any other place. This dark cloud hovering over my family has occasioned my deep appreciation of the role of our extended families.
It is true that in hard times friends are few, but our culture avails our relatives in abundance.
During this period which is traumatic both physically and emotionally, I am thankful for the dynamism of my extended family, which in our African culture is seamless with the nucleus one. My so called ‘first’, ‘second’ and ‘third’ cousins have cheerfully played their role as wives, husbands, brothers and sisters, easing the pressure of caring for a sick loved one.
Where my small family would have struggled with shaving the patient, toilet runs, meal times and prayers, one of my ambuya’s (aunts) will insist on feeding her ‘husband’ and a ‘brother’ will carry our loved one effortlessly where needed and still come back the next day to do the same.
Another jewel of our culture that I have used and abused with reckless abandon is that of totems (mitupo).
The proximity that our shared totems gives us, issues me license to invoke authority bestowed upon me, not necessarily by virtue of blood, but by my culture which tells me that if we have the same totem we are related.
Orders issued through such powers are meticulously carried out by some of my children born out of such linkages, and even older than I am.
I recall many a baffled customer to my former hairdresser in Botswana who used to wonder why a whole grown woman like myself would call someone clearly ten years my junior ‘mother’ with such gusto and sincerity, and this only because she shared the same Chihera totem as my mother. But it is relationships such as these that have been the glue and fibre of our communities. This is why as a black person, or rather as a Zimbabwean, I find it difficult to ignore another person as they may turn out to be related to me in one way or the other.
The issue of sahwira (bosom buddy) has also given me pause for thought.
As a young girl, I never grasped the concept of these so-called vatukwa and often dreaded them as I thought their sole purpose on this good earth was to tell me everything that was wrong with me or my family.
I often took many things they said personally, as it never occurred to me that they did this in jest and that I had both the right of reply and to deliver even more lethal ‘insults’ myself.
As a grown up, I now appreciate and enjoy their dark humour, providing laughter in gloomy moments, but even more importantly, they are the kind of friends that stick closer than a brother.
This trail of thought also gave me occasion to think back on the time I was invited for dinner at a friend’s house and I taught her that we say “pamusoroi” before partaking of a meal and “mazvita, taguta” when done.
She then asked why it was necessary to say this when clearly a person would be full after eating, and I told her that it is a way of acknowledging the effort someone put in preparing the meal.
One time, I also had to convince a stranger to our culture that when a woman brings you water to wash your hands, one may perceive it as an act of slavery, but this is an act of love, much like a man will open the door for his woman or go to the ends of the earth to get delicacies demanded by his pregnant partner.
Clearly our culture is rich not only in our expression of love and community, but also in its language and as a deep reservoir of wisdom.
I realise now how I have often taken so much of what it has to offer for granted, and at times even shunned it.
I remember my grandmother always telling me that I should never let the sun rise before me.
It seemed an archaic way of thinking then, but with maturity, I realise there was no better way of teaching me diligence which applies in the workplace today.
Although my hospital vigil has not turned me into a pundit on culture, it has afforded me a chance to temporarily dwell on those things that are good in Zimbabwean culture.
Even as my family continues to tread the corridors of the hospital daily, we bask in the warmth of our family and friends.
These burdens shared have, indeed, become lighter and easier, and so I toast to our culture for being a cleft for me in times of distress.
