In my journalism rookie years, I took alcohol like a fish to water.
I was adventurous. I took all kinds of everything. Whisky, brandy, draught, lagers and ciders. I have never loved spirits though. Not even once. They were just too hard for me. From the Belgian Stella Artois to the Zambian Mosi, I have had it all. I tickled my taste buds in memorable ways.
And when I stopped half a decade ago, i vowed never to go back to drinking life again. Each time I pass through beerhalls and taverns, I look back with nolstagia. Drinking is much fun but every dog has its day. There are beer stories I would rather take with me to the grave.
We had fun, crazy nights and yet in between, I bumped into interesting characters from the who’s who in Zim’ s political, academia and corporate orbits , the creme de la creme in the sports and entertainment world as well as low life’s of the ghetto who took alcohol as an escape route from unemployment, marital strife and a general disinterest with their lives.
One night, there was a corporate funtion at the spacious Chapman Golf Club in Eastern Harare. There place was teeming with all manner of media people and the former Clerk of Parly Mr Austin Zvoma who passed on this week was among the attendees. Not that he had major business there but he was part of the gallery.
As is normal at such evening after parties , beers flowed in copious quantities. We drank and danced ourselves lame to the pulsating music.
For rookie journalists who didn’t take much home for wages, this was a chance to taste and experiment with all manner of beffudling beverages.
Late into the night as the crowd thinned out. A group of journalists including the late Chakanza Paranji of the now defunct Daily Mirror and bespectacled Clemence Tashaya who sadly passed away in Namibia due to a covid infection found ourselves ringfencing one table nursing our favourite freebie beverages chatting animatedly.
Clemence was famous for his favourite “Double Viceroy on the rocks”.
At one night at the upmarket Meikles Hotel in Harare CBD, he infamously passed out. He had had one too many. The hotel beverages manager who had become a friend to most Harare journos, generously hailed a cab for a wasted Clemence to his home in Avondale, a stone’s s throw away from the city centre. Each time we had chats in the subsequent years. I reminded him of this debacle and encouraged him to always remember his limit. We would reminisce with raucous laughter and teary eyes. Such was our adventurous youthful years.
Back to Chapman Golf Club, as attendees left. We had no transport of our own and with us on the table was the late Mr Zvoma. A jolly good fella tapping to the sound of jazz music. He drank too and offered to drive us to Harare CBD. So here we were, the three of us in the back seat of his silver Mercedes Benz. There was all sorts of discussions obviously political. He was the Clerk of Parliament after all and we were journalists with mainstream media yet under the influence of alcohol trying to make an impression on this long-standing senior civil servant at Parly which happens to be a major boxing ring for political minds shaping up public policy et cetera.
It was then that he told us that in his younger years, he was part of of a jazz outfit, the Mbare Trio that also included the widely acclaimed and affable former Minister of Finance Herbert Murerwa as a drummer.
We never thought of the danger of drunken driving. He looked composed and in charge but before we knew it , his humming machine had bumped and straddled the island along Samora Machel Avenue face to face with the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe and The Base, the favourite watering hole for Harare’ s goons allegedly from Hardwick house.
Mr Zvoma played the music as we hurtled at breakneck speed towards the city centre, with Harare’ s colonial era Jacaranda trees whizzing by in a blur.
It was then he screeched to a halt thrusting us forward. When we came out eventually, the front right tyre had broken. The fender was broken too.
It was then we came to the rescue of the situation, frenziedly and drunkenly. And when Mr Zvoma staggeringly opened his car boot to retrieve a spare wheel for replacement, he quickly fumbled for his pistol from some bag thrown about on the boot floor simultaneously shoving it onto his belt beneath the immaculate suit jacket.
He made a light joke of it and assured us he was never afraid of being out at night alone. This gave me a different view to this man who was in charge of Parly administration for years. On one hand he was a reputable musician who loved his music and beer in equal measure. On another, he was a powerful man with a gun under his belt.
To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth so said Voltaire. I don’t know which side of history he falls on about his whole life. I had only a fleeting moment with him. But there is mention of him not repaying a US$75,807.00 loan under a financial facility launched by the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe(RBZ) called the Farm Mechinasition Scheme of 2007 after the Fast Tract Land Reform Programme targeted at equipping black new farmers.
The programme has since been as a white elephant that sought to benefit the late Mugabe cronies only with the majority not beneficiaries not repaying a single penny to the national fiscus.
Not to say he took us all the way to our respective commuter taxi ranks when Harare Streets were empty in our drunken stupor. He was generous that day. And no story was ever written on the ordeal. What happens in Rome remains in Rome.
Mr Zvoma had retired as Clerk of Parliament of Zimbabwe in November 2014.
