The Sunday Mail
He didn’t drink water because, he says, though some people call it Adam’s Ale, the Garden of Eden was history and we have come a long way since then. He didn’t drink coffee or tea because, like lots of people who call tea “coffee” and coffee “tea”, he couldn’t tell the difference — and anyway neither of them had the kick of a Castle or the voltage of a Vodka.
“You know, comrade, zumbani makes me think of Zimbabwe.”
Thixo! What a cup of herbal tea had to do with Zimbabwe flummoxed me. I didn’t have to wait long before Adam explained. He was in a philosophical mood — unfortunately. His philosophy was a lot less entertaining than his tales. He saw the disappointment on my face.
“Don’t worry, comrade, I have a story for you but first zumbani. Zumbani is indigenous, jack. In fact, in my opinion it is a symbol of national sovereignty. Do you know that the bushes on which the leaves for this delicious tea grow can be found almost anywhere in Zimbabwe?
The other day I was standing on Harare Drive near Meyrick Park waiting for a kombi and there at my feet and behind me in the ditch was zumbani. Now, as you know, comrade, as a Griqua, in the Cape where I come from there is another bush — a red one. With their usual genius for originality the Afrikaners called it “rooibos” — which means — wait for it — “red bush”.
“Now the difference between rooibos and zumbani is that rooibos is drunk all over the world but very few people, even in Zimbabwe, drink zumbani or even know what it is. Name one supermarket in Zimbabwe where you can go in and, on a shelf where they keep Tanganda, Rooibos and herbal teas, find a nicely packed box of zumbani teabags! You see, comrade, it is no good just talking about indigenisation and staying poor. Let the comrades walk the talk.
Why not get zumbani onto the world market? What’s the use of going on and on about national sovereignty if you can’t make it work?”
“Very interesting, Adam,” I said. “Tell that to Ngulube, your editor, and he might promote you to the inside pages. You could say the same thing about Marula. There must be lots of indigenous treasures that with a bit of enterprise could put Zimbabwe on the world map, make a lot of money and employ thousands of people. But how about the story? And don’t you have something a little less indigenous than zumbani to drink? What about a Scotch?”
We were at Adam’s place and, as the cat — Adam’s wife, Rudo — was away, I knew the mice could come out to play. Adam did not disappoint me — I got my Scotch and a tale. It was a tale Adam could only tell at home when Rudo was away because it was all about his favourite girlfriend, Nesta. I say his favourite because Adam had a lot of them.
“You know as well as I do, comrade, that Nesta’s attractions are not to be found in her intellect.” For a moment he paused and a dreamy look seemed to come over his face as he no doubt began to think about Nesta’s other attractions. Adam had begun in typical fashion. If there was one thing Adam knew nothing about, it was gender sensitivity. It could only get worse. Adam continued: “In fact, most of the time what she has to say can only be described as delightful chatter. But the other day she surprised me, man, when she suddenly began to hold forth in a way that was almost philosophical.”
I tried to visualise that long-legged, silk-skinned ‘‘indoniyamanzi’’ — Nesta was a woman of velvety black beauty — with a mortar board on her head and an academic gown. She would have made the most stunning graduate of philosophy UZ has ever seen.
“Nesta suddenly said to me, out of the blue: ‘You have no idea, Kok’ — she has been calling me Kok as long as she’s known me. My surname seems to have some kind of fascination for her.”
“I can’t imagine why?” I said.
Nesta continued: “You have no idea, Kok – the power of a woman. As early as 12 years old, I could feel it. I began to read it in men’s eyes. Only a woman knows what it’s like. You know, Kok, a woman’s beauty is worth all the money and influence in the world.”
“Tell me about it,” Adam said to her. “But if that is the case, how come, if beautiful women are so powerful, you often see them going out with old or ugly-looking men?”
Nesta laughed — that tinkling, silvery laugh of hers, which made Adam want to stop talking for the next hour at least. “What do you men know? It’s an ideal match. The beautiful woman does not waste herself on young men – because most of them are pathetically poor. No, a rich old or ugly man is a much better proposition. For a start you don’t have to give him much. He’s just too grateful for anything he can get. Then, too, his age and ugliness make a woman’s youth and beauty all the more attractive — and therefore more powerful. Don’t they always place beautiful jewels on a dull background so they shine even more brightly?”
I must say, I was beginning to echo Adam’s amazement at Nesta’s unexpected mental brilliance.
“If a woman is seen with a handsome young man,” — there was no holding Nesta back now — “she doesn’t get the special attention she desires. People don’t say ‘look at that beautiful woman’. They say ‘look at that handsome couple’. But with an old and ugly man, every man’s eyes are on her — and her alone. Besides, it is not just that it is easy to be nice to such a man, it is also rewarding.”
“As she said that,” said Adam, “she lifted that beautiful long arm of hers, the one I am sure you have admired — from a distance, comrade, uyezwa! — and a delicate little gold bracelet glittered against her dark skin in the light of the bedside lamp.”
“And your young handsome husband, what does he have to say about it?” Adam asked her.
“Him? He is no problem. He is young and virile. In bed — like you, Kok — he gives me what I want. But can he give me this?” — and she flaunted her beautiful gold bracelet again.
“But won’t he be jealous — and what if he finds out?”
Again that captivating tinkling laugh. “O, Kok, my darling, don’t make yourself stupid. Do you think a young, virile, handsome man would suspect an ugly old man of stealing his beautiful young wife?”
“As she said this,” said Kok, “Nesta looked as smug as a cat that has just had a nice fat mouse for dinner.”
Adam usually gets so involved in his stories that I could see him squirming on his seat at the thought of Nesta looking smug and the thought of what the two of them did next. I felt sorry for him.
“Mfo, why don’t you put that zumbani of yours away and join me in the Scotch? I won’t be able to finish the bottle by myself.”
“You know something,” Adam sighed. “You know something, comrade. It is not just zumbani that makes national sovereignty and indigenous control of the economy a must. Can you imagine what would happen if Zimbabwe opened its doors to all those ugly, old rich men out there to come here and mine our treasures? When I look at Nesta I pass a very loud vote of confidence in Zimbabwe’s policy of national sovereignty.”
Kok and his tales always confuse me. On the one hand, they are amusing. On the other, they make me mad. They make me mad because Kok doesn’t care a damn for everything a person like me considers to be right and wrong. As a society we have inherited certain values from the traditional culture, from our Christian religion, from the liberation struggle and — some of us — from socialism. These mean nothing to Kok. Kok presents a frightening image of a world without any values at all — except sexual love, physical satisfaction, “mafaro” and the so-called “good things in life”.
But what makes it even more frightening is that his stories are true. My friend, Kok, is actually ‘‘holding up, as it were, a mirror’’ to what is actually happening now in places like Johannesburg, Nairobi and Harare. So while I laugh, I shudder. Where is it taking us?
