The Sunday Mail
It was round about the time of the Unity Accord — 1987 if my memory holds good. I remember because the day Adam began telling me the story of his “ugly sister”, Poppie, the Unity Accord was the hottest topic in town.
We were having one of our weekly get-togethers at a popular watering hole in town, sitting with a bottle of Laphroaig on the low table before us.
Don’t talk to me about Chivas Regal or Johnnie Walker Blue Label or any other colour label. Blended whiskeys are all frauds. None of them can come anywhere near a Single Malt. The malts from the Western Isles of Scotland, like Laphroaig, have the aroma and the taste of peat smoke. In the old days, that’s what they used to use for their fires, squares of turf cut out of the peat bogs. If you want to drink whiskey, don’t play around. Drink the best — if you’ve got the money for it, that is. It’s expensive.
We started off by having a chuckle at the song we were hearing all over the place at that time, “Unity’s Number One”. That’s typically Zimbabwean, Adam and I joked. Make history with something as awe-inspiring as the Unity Accord and then have a song like that. It’s like calling an airline, Fresh Air. Maybe that’s what makes Zimbabwe so special.
“Jy ken, comrade, this Unity Accord is a wonderful thing.”
Adam launched straight into it. When things were beginning to look grim for the new nation of Zimbabwe and we non-Zimbabweans dreaded another Renamo nightmare like the one over the border in Mozambique, when the boers in South Africa were rubbing their hands in glee and enemies of the African revolution everywhere congratulating each other over yet another African revolution degenerating into civil strife, Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe stunned the world by pulling peace out of the fire, like those magicians at children’s parties who produce rabbits out of a hat.
“Unity is Africa’s greatest challenge, jack. If Africa could do what Umdala and Gushungo have done, we could tell the West to go to hell, man, and then really start making things happen.” After a powerful statement like that, a man has to have a sip. Adam took one dreamily as he thought of all the things Africa could start making happen. The amazing thing was, for once, Adam wasn’t thinking of women! Then, typical of my disgraceful friend, he suddenly spoilt everything by adding: “But, you know, comrade, you know what Africa’s worst enemy is?”
“Underdevelopment?” No. “Imperialism?” No. “Corruption?” No. “Then what?”
“Democracy!” said Adam.
O, my God, I thought. Adam was never a great one for politics. In the camps he never went in for the ideology classes. But for someone to call democracy, Africa’s greatest enemy was not just ignorance. It flew in the face of everything he and I, and so many others had fought for. What was the struggle about if it wasn’t for democracy? And now that the writing was on the wall for apartheid South Africa, wasn’t it that we were all trying our best to show those great democracies of the West how mature we are and how we can have democracies just like them?
“Manje uyahlanya, mntanakamame! Now you are mad, my brother. This whiskey’s finally eaten up your brains. What do you mean democracy is Africa’s biggest enemy?”
“It is because I drink the stuff that I can see what is right in front of people’s eyes but they can’t see. You agree that Unity is our biggest challenge, ne?” I nod and drink furiously. “Then how can democracy be good for us? It’s either Unity or Democracy? Listen, jack, it’s this mbanje called Western Democracy that’s giving us kopseer — it’s a headache. When they conquered us they used one against the other, ne? When they colonised us, their policy was divide etimpera — divide and rule, ne? You see, they have always tried to divide us — so how come now they are shoving this democracy of theirs down our throats the whole time? It’s obvious. It’s because it divides us. Man, jy! I thought you were educated. It’s not just me who’s saying it. Almost every one of our great leaders said it. Nkrumah said it. Nyerere said it. Kaunda said it. Museveni said it.”
“Who said Museveni’s a great leader?” I said, trying to find a way to squash Adam quickly before he embarrassed himself. But you can never win against Adam. He just continued like nothing had happened.
“Democracy divides the nation. People who should be united and working for the good of their country are at each other’s throats. They don’t work for the country. They work for the party. They hate each other; they say everything each other says is rubbish. I’m a journalist. But even the papers do the same thing. There’s no serious debate. One paper supports one party, the other another — and then they stand like people on opposite sides of the valley, shouting at each other.
“How can you go ahead and build a nation when millions of your own people are hoping you will flop and doing their best to make sure you do? That is why, comrade, I say this democracy of theirs is a poisoned chalice and why I say the Unity Accord is wonderful. Sons of the Soil, who were in two different political camps, came together and they discovered that they are nothing but Zimbabweans who love their country. Ichokwadi, comrade, Unity is Number One!”
We laugh. I begin to see that maybe this wild Griqua has a point. But you don’t want to waste a good bottle of Laphroaig on a discussion about democracy. So I ask him: “Eksê, my broer, what’s this about your ‘sister’, Poppie?”
“You are running, my friend. Kandikagqibikalokhu! Let me finish. Now, listen, we Griquas were a very small nation. And we had two very big hyenas just waiting to gobble us up. You and I know, boer means farmer. The boers came and they wanted to farm — but you need land to farm and they didn’t have any. So every single one of them had to steal some land before he could farm. That’s why to this day, it is the boers who have got all the land in ‘‘the Rainbow Nation’’ and every little bit of it is stolen property!”
“Wow! Comrade! Now you’re talking!” I thought. Adam was getting into his stride.
“So the boers wanted to grab our land. What could we do? We asked the other big hyena to help us — the British. Ha! He was just waiting to help us. He couldn’t help us soon enough. But that was just because he didn’t want the boers to gobble us up. He wanted to gobble us up for himself. For us Griquas the only way to survive was to be united. None of this Westminster Democracy for us. If we had tried that one, the hyenas would have gobbled us up in even less time than they did. We, Griquas, like many other people in Africa, ruled ourselves through consensus. If we disagreed we talked until we agreed and that way we went forward together as one. Of course, in the end the hyenas had their feast. What could we do? We were too small and weak — but Zimbabwe, comrade, if Zimbabweans can come together and be one, the sky’s the limit!”
“Ok, I see your point, Adam, but what about Poppie?”
“Well, I was getting there. Can’t you see? Was I not talking about us Griquas? And is Poppie, my sister, not a Griqua. Which reminds me, comrade, I can’t sit all night talking to a man when I’ve got a woman waiting for me. I don’t want to talk about that ‘ugly sister’ of mine. I want to show her Harare — and much more. Check me tomorrow.”
And before I could protest — or get him to pay his share of the very expensive bottle of Laphroaig, which now stood empty on the low table in front of us, Adam was gone.
