A ghost town called Redcliff

12 Oct, 2014 - 09:10 0 Views
A ghost town called Redcliff

The Sunday Mail

1010-2-1-REDCLIFFHaving been born and partly raised in Torwood, the “home of steelworkers”, it was a journey down memory lane a fortnight ago when I decided to reconnect with my umbilical cord.

After driving around the now dusty suburb for nigh on an hour, and stopping at the shops (ekumaQ) to see if I could find one or two friends from three decades ago, a lot of emotions overwhelmed me.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The Torwood that I knew, that I was born in and grew up in, was not the same.

It was a sad sight.

Never mind the dusty streets (we grew up knowing, smelling and feeling green in Torwood), it was the level of hopelessness that was touching and at times eerie.

Driving from the Harare-Bulawayo highway, the first sight of an organised settlement was the red sign on entering Redcliff.

Back then Redcliff was the more affluent of the two residential areas for Ziscosteel’s workers.

The other being Torwood.

Redcliff Zimbabwe’s Steel Centre, the sign boldly proclaims. Not any more.

Rusty and cracked like the welcoming sign, the hopelessness engulfing Redcliff and Torwood is there in that sign.

The towering Palm Court and its neighbouring Hotel Redcliff, once bastions of affluence and splendour, are now sorry sights.

Palm Court was where I had my first encounter with an elevator (we called them “lifts”).

It was a harrowing encounter, and the reason why when I came to Harare years later, I opted for the stairs until I had to do business on the 20th floor of Karigamombe Centre.

I remember the inviting aroma from our ever-clean superette, whose scents made one want to return again and again.

And what of Zisco Club, where the artisans, the managers and Zisco’s top earners blew their earnings?

I was too young to enter this watering hole, but there was a certain aura about Zisco Club that made you aware that you and your empty wallet didn’t belong there.

All that is in the past.

Towards Torwood, I got the first indications of what lay ahead as I drove past the eerily silent open-cast mine.

The same silence was at the roasting plant, which used to scream with industry.

Back in 1984 when we left Torwood because my father had retired, Zisco was the biggest integrated steelworks in the region.

As I drove across the narrow bridge that leads right up to Torwood Stadium, more memories came flooding, the many times we ran from home to go to Redcliff to scavenge for “toys” at the dumpsite, the “soccer training” on the ground adjacent to Torwood Stadium; or just sitting on the bridge talking hot air for hours.

That day of my last visit, the entrance to Torwood Stadium was locked, and understandably so.

This used to be the home of Ziscosteel Football Club.

Who can forget Frank Mkanga? Frank Mkanga, I can never forget because my dad claimed him as a relative.

Torwood Stadium: the first and only time I saw Mukadota and the Sea Cottage Sisters perform live.

Chibhodhoro was also there.

The stadium was packed that Saturday afternoon, we had money for ice-cream and the little things that keep young taste buds titillated.

The Mukadota show was the only thing to talk about at school the following Monday.

Those who hadn’t seen him live were endlessly pitied.

Torwood Stadium: where the Chamber of Mines athletics meets were held.

We had our local hero, a chap called Obey who never seemed to lose a race. Needless to say, when we held our own races on the streets, the winner was always hailed as “Obey”.

I drove through the different sections of Torwood.

My former school, George Hill, still there, a double-storey school that now has a borehole.

Whatever happened to Torwood Community School, the one I attended in 1979, created to accommodate pupils coming from the rural areas where the liberation struggle was raging?

I remembered my dad taking me to the barber, seemed like he was the only barber in Torwood those days, near the beerhall.

My drive took me to the TCs, so-called because they were the “teachers’ cottages”.

That is where the Nyeregonas stayed. Who in Torwood didn’t know the Nyeregonas?

Or the Philimes? Or the Manokores? Manokore was for a long time the headmaster of Drake Secondary School.

Finally I drove to where my heart really wanted to be, RJ Davies Primary School.

Years later, I was to interview Bob Nyabinde – former headmaster and former pupil reunited by their different career paths.

When I left RJ, Ncube was the head and Nyabinde was the deputy.

RJ Davies holds some of my fondest Torwood memories.

Thirty years have since elapsed since I was last there, and I tried in vain to link up with some of my ex-classmates.

The names I remembered drew blanks from the adults I asked.

One name drew a look of recognition. Welcome. His younger brother was idling somewhere nearby.

He was called and we had a chat.

Then I drove to R35, the house I lived in.

The doors and windows were closed. I drove past again. I reached for some tissues, here was the place I once called home.

We didn’t know Harare then. It was either Guruve or R35. If by any chance we passed through the capital, it was just to commute from the railway station to Mbare.

The train arrived just in time for us to catch the buses to Guruve.

So R35 was my all – television or no TV.

“The A-Team”, “Big League Soccer”, “Sounds on Saturday”, “Mvengemvenge”, “The Mukadota Family” were all watched on the neighbour’s TV set.

I took one last drive past R35, proceeded to the “O” Section and I couldn’t help but notice that “kumaO” still has the beautiful girls.

When we wanted to catch a glimpse of the beauties, we would wander down this way.

With the sun setting, I decided to check out Torwood Hospital, where I was born one December night back in ’71.

The gate was manacled, just like the heavy lock that hung on the gates to Torwood Stadium. And I knew my Torwood was no longer the same Torwood.

The silence is stark, the desolation unnerving.

Maybe Kurt Kuhn would see Torwood today as the perfect setting for one of his more skin-crawling movies.

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