This week, I took a stroll around the plush gardens of the Union Buildings in Pretoria.
The vast, well-kempt lawns, bushes, blooming flowers and breathtaking cityscape is amidst great architecture which is the hallmark of this citadel of power for the Republic of South Africa.
I sat on one of the many garden benches absorbing the aura of the surroundings, observing the palatial Holiday Inn hotel gleaming at a distance.
Exquisite! I have been here almost daily and lived a couple of streets away.
I have also trained my weak body on the meandering pathways when I thought I was going to die from some chest infection when Covid 19 ravaged the world.
But there was something eye-catching about observing a coterie of joggers in colourful sportswear going about their evening routines around the perimeter fence.
A rag-tag team of amateur footballers also went about their training paces in the adjacent lush courtyard with a mural of apartheid godfather Jan Van Riebeck on horseback looking down perched atop some fancy ledge.
And not so far away, the iconic and larger-than-life Mandela statue with wide open arms shone in the receding light of the evening.
On the foot of the Mandela statue, the famed Khoisan leader protesting for the race’s recognition among other grievances had set up a base and grown huge bushes of marijuana.
Not so long ago, Ganja had seen this famed dreadlocked man bedecked only in a threadbare loincloth in court when South African police came and uprooted the plants as an exhibit whisking him away too.
But then a stranger walked up to me and sat on the other end of the bench.
He was civil. He grunted. Uugh! Eem!
And I nodded in acknowledgement.
“Some quiet time here alone”, he said.
” Yes, sure,” I responded, eyes cast down on my smartphone in hand.
” You on WiFI? ” He asked. The park has ubiquitous WiFi provided for by the City of Tswane.
“No. Not today, it’s down”. I answered.
It was a cue he needed. He went off the hook. He rambled about how data had become expensive in SA. How life had become difficult generally. There was just a dry season for jobs. Food he said was slowly becoming a luxury.
I agreed. Without a doubt, South Africa is going through some tough economic paces just like countries of the world.
There had been a lull in economic activities because of the Covid-19 pandemic for much of the past three years. And the geo-political war in Europe between Russia and Ukraine had changed the world order immensely.
The guy sporting designer sunglasses, a shirt and a jacket parading a pot belly was so much into current affairs, I noticed. We spoke just about anything for some time.
” Are you from here” he eventually asked?
I was taken aback.
” No, I am Zimbabwean,” I said unsure of his reaction thereafter.
“I could tell, your English”, he said.
That was a relief. Any foreigner would tell you it’s a bit uncomfortable to be asked about nationality in these parts.
And suddenly the conversation took another sharp twist. He cracked a smile. He mentioned the late Ginimbi and whipped out his smartphone to google Genius Kadungure.
“That guy was rich neh,” he marvelled in a typical South African tone.
“Look at the cars and the mansion in the rural area”
“How many people can afford a Royce Rolls” he asked rhetorically.
“But he died a sad death”, he said flipping on a gruesome picture showing the charred remains of Ginimbi’s burnt-out Royce Rolls on the roadside.
“Is it true he had no kids and was not married,” he asked.
I only chuckled and said it’s all the media said. I will never know. I cannot tell what happens to such a rich man’s love life.
Apparently, he knew a lot about Ginimbi, from his array of top- notch vehicles, his rumoured girlfriends and the night club Dreams, he ran. He admired him immensely apparently.
“How can a single man actually accumulate so much wealth. What business was he into”, he kept on prying.
I could only say gas business. I couldn’t make out much of this flamboyant Ginimbi’s life story. But I realised he was one of Zim’ s finest export to the world, loved immeasurably beyond the border.
In the distance, a convoy of black cars- a few BMWS and landcruiser sedans whizzed past without much fanfare. A traffic police motorbike took the lead and the rest followed.
This was a normal sight in this part of town. Nothing unusual. Nyamandlopfu, the President official residence was literally a stone’s throw away.
“It’s Cyril or the deputy Mabhuza”, he said beckoning with his hand in the direction of the cars.
“Yes, not so flashy like other leaders I guess”,
I told him how Mugabe used a customized German-made machine. How it was rumoured to have double engines and a bullet-proof casing. How much of it wasted on fuel. How a mile-long Mugabe motorcade would travel at breakneck speed across town on its way to his rural home in Zvimba every Friday making people scatter and freeze like zombies in its vicinity. It did not matter whether he was in it or not, it was a common Friday happening. I mentioned how even motorists would become transfixed and not move an inch in his presence.
I explained how one of his lead bikers burst into flames and died yet Mugabe continued on his way.
I discussed with him how it was quite a spectacle to watch Mugabe in action. People literally worshipped the ground he walked on. How heavily armed soldiers in four-wheel-drive army trucks , an ambulance in tow at the tail end was a permanent feature.
He listened intently and gave a chuckle.
“But in the end, he died, what was all the security for,” he said.
“But we were so happy for you when Mugabe was toppled by the army and Munangagwa” he said.
“There were parties all over. We thought you guys would pack up and finally leave South Africa”, he said.
Aha! We thought so too I told him
Clearly there are millions of Zimbabweans in SA I indicated to him. I told him the situation had gone to another level once more. The levels of poverty and neglect are inhumane. The government in Harare was doing everything in its power to hound millions of people out of the country as the economy lie in the intensive care unit.
I told him no man would wait it out seeing his wife and children go to bed hungry. Many people pack up and leave again all the time.
“You guys are cowards, it’s not like South Africans where we can say anything to the President. We are not scared. Our media is also free to ask anything” he said.
I reminded him the government in Zimbabwe does not even have stock for rubber bullets. They don’t buy rubber. They use live rounds on protesters. People disappear without a trace from their homes at night. People get arrested and thrown in despicable dungeons for voicing out dissent to the erstwhile leadership.
But the stranger looked at me hard and went silent. The kind of silence a Jesuit priest takes on after giving out mass. The kind of silence my former priest Fr Oscar Wemter of the Mbare circuit in Harare would observe after preaching. Eerie! Nobody moved. Nobody coughed. Nothing, even flies would freeze.
“Are you going home at the end of June when your permits expire”, he asked.
” I don’t know, many people I know have never had one for decades they have lived here”, I shot back.
At that point, the stranger said goodbye. He was going to meet someone across town. He stood up, looked at me once more and left. I watched as he walked away into the distance disappearing into the evening crowd.
Not in Zimbabwe would I discuss politics with a stranger like him. Never! I mused. It would be like shooting in the dark. There are goons everywhere.
A game of football was in session nearby. But the loud shouts of instructions and exhortations was foreign. The names called out were not South African. Even the physical appearance of the players was not from these parts. They looked too black and muscular to me. They looked more Congolese and Nigerian than locals.
Africa has its people I mused. I stood up and left the park too as the sun sank, painting the eastern horizon of city scrapers with a tinge of gold.
Image Credit: Richard Deng on Unsplash
