The Pangolin Club

By Dabana Marotsi

The book explores how the political, economic, social policies of the government from the time of independence from the British government in 1980 have led to economic collapse. It highlights how corruption has resulted in the gap between the rich and the poor widening while, at the same time, there was a lot of disruption in the lives of ordinary people which saw them moving to different countries because of the dismal conditions that were a result of the corruption. It also touches on the issue of human trafficking and disregard of proper environmental practices that have led to ecological disasters and encouraged the outbreak of diseases such as cholera in certain areas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543494402

Dabana Marotsi

The author was born in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) sixty three years ago, where she worked as an educationist for more than twenty years. Now she has taken up permanent residence in the UK. In the UK she worked for several years as an advisor with Citizen’s Advice. During that time she studied for a Master of Social Science degree with the Open University.

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Copyright © 2019 by Dabana Marotsi.

ISBN:                    Softcover                    978-1-5434-9439-6

                             eBook                           978-1-5434-9440-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 01/28/2019

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H anani shook himself awake as he wondered what time it was. It must be well after sunrise from the bright sunshine streaming through the curtains. He could hear the birds singing in the tall marula tree which stood a short distance from the bedroom window. He listened more intently to discern what birds were calling. He got out of bed and moved to the window where he drew the curtains aside and opened the window. At once fresh air full of moisture hit him like a wave and as he looked out he saw raindrops glistening in the sunshine on blades of grass that seemed to be dancing to some music which only they could hear. Similarly on the tree leaves rain water glistened like tiny diamonds that had been scattered by some giant hands to adorn vegetation on this glorious morning. He breathed in deeply the fresh air and felt invigorated, he had not heard the rain fall during the night. The rain must have been very gentle with no thunder or lightning. It was the sort of rain that lulled you into a deep dreamless sleep.

He turned away from the window, walked out of the room to the Blair toilet that stood twenty metres away on one side of the homestead. After using the toilet he went into the bathroom section of the two roomed structure that served as a bathroom. He brushed his teeth and then washed his face. He returned to the bedroom where he discarded his pyjamas and pulled on his tracksuit. Hurriedly, he left the room as if he could not remain in for another second, went out the front door, leaving it open as he walked along the narrow path towards the river that flowed a short distance on the western side of the house. He could hear the roar of the water even before he turned round the bend beyond which he should be able to see the river. As he looked he could see the water beneath the trees, which meant the river, had overflown its banks. This had always fascinated him even as a young boy. It happened once or twice when rain fell heavily towards the source of the river and by the time it reached the middle course it was full and overflowed the banks. That could be dangerous as the swollen river could wash away objects in its way.

Hanani’s mind flashed back to the time when he was ten or eleven, he could not quite remember the exact age. The image still remained deeply ingrained in his mind and he felt he would remember it to his dying day. Four or five of them had been playing naked on the sand in the dry river bed when all of a sudden, a surge of fast flowing water had come rushing down and almost swept them to a certain death. They had been having a great time, rolling on the sand, throwing the sand at one another or building all sort of shapes with the sand when things changed so quickly that initially they were paralysed but fortunately recovered their wits in time and scrambled out of danger, up the river bank. There was one casualty to this but luckily it was only their clothes that were swept away by the fast flowing current. Now, as he reflected back he could imagine the deluge falling in the upper reaches of the river. The heavy drops scooping out the soil as the raindrops struck the ground with force and carving out dongas that would stand out like scars on the hillsides. The ferocious currents not only swept away the soil but many poor creatures caught unawares by the sudden deluges fell victim as they drowned in the swift flowing water. He and his friends had almost fallen victim to the swollen river when he was ten years old. He could not even remember where the idea of taking off their clothes had originated. Probably it was one of those silly things playmates do as a challenge to one another. Not a single one of them was able to retrieve his clothes. What had started as a bit of fun had turned into a nightmare. How would they get back to their respective homes with no clothes? What they had thought of as an original, exciting idea now seemed the silliest thing to have done.

The awkward situation was eventually resolved by Buhe, Hanani’s cousin. Their mothers were sisters, his being the younger sister and they lived a short distance from each other. Buhe came up with the strategy of going to his home and hiding behind some bushes. From behind the bushes he called out a younger brother who was enticed to get him some clothes while making sure no one else noticed. The ploy succeeded and from there the little devil, Buhe, managed to get to each of our homes, charmed the parents with his impish grin and under some guise or other succeeded in getting us all a change of clothing. Although at a later date this was to be an incident of great mirth, at the time we had all been terribly shaken. As we grew older we learned to respect the river more by not playing in the centre of the river bed.

Now as Hanani watched the water flow by he saw the legs of some animal, probably an ox or kudu, sticking out of the water as the powerful, fast flowing current gouged out gullies from the vulnerable soil along the river bank. The river was like an angry beast ripping out the intestines of its prey in fury with the insolence that nothing dared stop it. Whether it was a strong beast or small creature, like a lizard, gekho or grasshopper, all were ruthlessly swept away despite their frantic efforts to try and escape. The only resistance in this display of fury by the river rushing downstream was put up by outcrops of rock, around which the water swirled with amazing energy, hurling tree branches along. All this was accompanied by a roar that could be heard miles away, sending a shiver into both beast and man. The water was very muddy reflecting the ferocity of the rain that had fallen. By the time the stream emptied its waters into the Limpopo it was a much wider river and more placid in its flow to the Indian ocean some thousands of miles away. In his mind’s eye Hanani could picture the many tributaries of the Limpopo River emptying their swollen bellies into the mighty Ngulukudela, as the local Venda people call it.

After watching the river for a while he shook himself awake and retraced his footsteps back home. It was the last day of his visit to Kuku, his paternal grandmother who had looked after him from infancy. His mother had perished in childbirth, as the ambulance that had been summoned when labour complications occurred could not cross the river. They say that the night before his birth it had rained heavily. The older people in the village declared they had never experienced such ferocious rains in their lives. Unfortunately there was no proper bridge but a concrete slab on the river bed and whenever it rained heavily the river became impassable as water rose so high above the concrete slab that cars were easily swept away.

He was told that due to prolonged labour his mother had died shortly after he was born. She had lost a lot of blood and with no doctor to assist, she did not have much chance of surviving her ordeal. The local midwife tried her best but it all proved futile. Hanani’s mother was so weak that she did not even have the energy to look at her son when he was finally born after forty hours of labour. It was as if she had lived long enough to drop him and the moment that happened she gave up the ghost. Instead of joy and ululation, his arrival was met with wailing especially from the women folk. It was his paternal grandmother who found herself consigned to the task of bringing up the infant who had lost his mother under such tragic circumstances. She named him Hanani (‘Rejoice’ in the local Kalanga language) for she declared that instead of focussing on the death of his mother, people should receive his birth with joy. For this reason people who knew of this occurrence always treated him with kindness. The women in particular would shed tears and shake their heads with sorrow whenever they saw him even after several years.

As he walked from the river he could hear the shrill songs of cicadas from the tall, hardy mopani trees whose leaves shimmered with rain drops from the previous night’s rain. Meanwhile a bullfrog boomed in his thick voice, while swallows swooped across the sky in joyous abandon. A go away bird added its flavour to the cacophony of sounds with its warning call to whatever creature was infringing on its territory to go away. Hanani watched as young mopani caterpillars moved from branch to branch in search of leaves to feast on. Meanwhile birds swooped down to feed on the unlucky caterpillars that were moving slowly up or down the trees looking for leaves to feed on, when they exhausted those on one tree they climbed down and moved to the next, leaving behind them, bare trees. On the ground centipedes wriggled their way about, while long chains of soldier ants marched tirelessly carrying loads of foodstuffs bigger than their bodies to their destinations somewhere under the vegetation. Everything pulsated with life, even the trees seemingly taking part in the lively celebration of being alive on such a lovely day. Hanani made a conscious effort to stop drinking in the earthy smells that surrounded him. If he did not hurry, Buhe would be annoyed when he came to pick him up to find he was not ready.

When he got back to the house Kuku was preparing breakfast. He had a quick shower and then settled down to the sumptuous breakfast Kuku had prepared. Just as they sat down for the meal Buhe arrived in the ‘Old Faithful’ as one of their friends had nicknamed the Peugeot 504 that Buhe drove. That car had covered greater mileage than many a modern model and yet could be relied on to get one to their destination without failure. Buhe, his cousin, worked as a Criminal Investigation Detective in Bulawayo.

‘There, now! Eat some more, otherwise you will starve on the way’.

His grandmother heaped some more food on Hanani’s plate. The two young cousins looked at each other when they thought of the one and a half hour journey they were going to make and burst out laughing at the warning by Kuku they would starve on the way.

‘No Kuku, there is no way I can starve after eating so much. Anywhere we must be on our way soon, we don’t want to be caught in thunderstorms. As you have always said they are more likely to occur in the afternoon than at any other time of the day.’ Hanani smiled at his grandmother as he stood up, pushing his chair back.

‘Kuku, I promise you, I will be back to see you soon. I have to take up my new job of political correspondent with The New Horizon. You are going to be proud of your grandson because I intend to be the best reporter this paper has ever had,’Hanani said as he looked at his grandmother with love and concern.

He picked up his bag, momentarily putting it down, to embrace her in a loving hug and kissing her on either cheek. Her eyes welled with tears although she tried her best to prevent him seeing them. Every time he went away, he knew it was all she could do not too cry. She seemed to think that each time he went away from her she would never see him again. She feared what had happened in the past might repeat itself. His elder brother had gone away to join in the liberation struggle fighters and had never been seen again. Although they say lightning never strikes on the same spot twice, it appeared this was not the case with this particular family. Two years previously his father had walked out of the homestead early one morning without saying a word to anybody and just disappeared into thin air. Searches by the villagers had drawn a blank. They had been too scared to report his disappearance to the police not sure how the latter would react. It would be like inviting trouble into their midst and most of the villagers could not stomach inquiries by the police. After this occurrence Kuku had become very possessive of Hanani. It amused him to think what protection she could provide towards his safe keeping. He was much stronger than her and could not imagine under what circumstances she could be in a position to protect him but he was wise enough not to say so. Since she had brought him up from infancy probably it was difficult to concede roles were now changed and he was in a better position to take care of her, than her of him. He kept his thoughts to himself.

When they reached the outskirts of Bulawayo an hour later, they found themselves caught up in a traffic jam. Everyone was heading to Barbourfields Stadium for the political rally of the Patriotic Front. While the older generations had met the leaders of the liberation movement before they fled to exile in the 1960’s and 1970’s, for the younger generations like Hanani and Buhe this occasion would present the first opportunity to set eyes on the people they had heard so much about. Excitement was so high that most people headed to Barbourfields stadium for the rally. They wanted to hear first hand what the politicians would say. For Hanani the occasion was of special significance since it would be his first assignment as political correspondent for the New Horizon.

Hanani and Buhe decided to divert from the A1, turned east into Bulawayo Drive, a narrow single lane road that runs on the periphery of Bulawayo City forming almost a semi- circle that runs from the south to the north of the city. They made good progress as there was little traffic on Bulawayo Drive. The downside though, was one had to keep alert for cattle and donkeys which often strayed onto the road from the nearby small farming plots. Most residents in this sparsely populated part of town were engaged in market gardening.

When they reached The Old Esigodini road, they turned left towards the City centre. They drove past the fire gutted remains of the drive-in theatre which had stood there in that pathetic state for as long as Hanani could remember. For some reason it reminded him of the biblical story of Lot’s wife who was turned into a pillar of stone. He wondered why the theatre had never been rebuilt or the ruins pulled down completely.

The heat was intense, the humidity high without a single cloud in the sky. He felt he was suffocating as there seemed little air to breathe. With the humidity that high, relief would only come if it rained and chances of its raining later on were highly probable. The fan in the old Peugeot was not very effective as revealed in the sweat streaming down their faces. Hanani wondered how the people who could be seen working on their plots were coping when it was so hot. Some had even discarded their shirts and were working barebacked in the intense heat. However when he saw row upon row of cabbages, tomatoes, spinach, squash growing lushly in the rich red clay soils, seemingly in defiance of the heat, he realized the urgency of harvesting the vegetables before they were damaged by the heavy rains that had been forecast for the late afternoon and evening. They drove past Hotel Rio at the junction of Hope Fountain road and the Old Esigodini road. It was lovely to see the tall gum trees standing majestic on either side of the stream as if keeping sentinel on anything that dared defile the clean, serene flowing water. Here, there was less traffic as they cruised past towards the Country club, where the city’s affluent residents played golf.

The Country Club was a very exclusive club and it was rumoured that membership was only by invitation. Nobody knew if there was any substance to the rumour as the members were invariably tight lipped, when it came to the subject of membership. Buhe joked that when they got to their fifties they would find out then when they tried to join the club.

Nsikana Taboka was the third born and only girl of five siblings, born to Kadzaha and MaTshuma. She was twenty two years old by the time she completed her graduate teaching certificate with the University of Rhodesia in 1978, two years before the country attained black majority rule. As the first member of the family to achieve such a feat, the whole family treated her as a treasure. Her two elder brothers had only gone as far as standard six before joining thousands of other factory workers at Bata shoe factory. They were unable to proceed to secondary as they were not motivated enough to put in the hard work at school so they failed to make the grade. Competition was stiff as they were few secondary schools, so it was only the cream who managed to pursue their education beyond the initial eight years of schooling.

On completion of her training Taboka was fortunately posted to Mpopoma Secondary School. It was one of the high performing schools in the city so this was a really lucky break for her as a newly qualified teacher with no experience. Normally, the school only recruited teachers with a proven track record of success in teaching. However, one of the members of the board of directors had pointed out the school now resembled a geriatric ward and needed an infusion of young blood. Thus, when Taboka applied and was offered a place, she was over the moon and gratefully accepted.

The school was within ten minutes walking distance from her home. This was a bonus as she could stay on home with her family instead of having to find some miserable dump to rent at an exorbitant price. In fact, leaving home would have been considered an unforgivable snub to her parents and would have provided fuel for gossip by the neighbours. Her two elder brothers had moved out of the parental home without a hitch. However, in the Zimbabwe of the 1980s while this was considered appropriate for a man, the same action by a single woman would have been regarded as untoward behaviour by society.

Taboka was of medium build, one hundred and sixty five centmetres tall. Her complexion was light brown and she had large brown eyes. Her strongest feature was the smile which seemed to light up her face. She did not smile often but when she did an observer would feel it was worthwhile to catch the radiance that transformed her. Her hips were wide while the waist was narrow and the bust was of a moderate size. She stayed trim by visting the gym two times a week.

She loved teaching, particularly her favourite subject, history. Probabably this had developed from the time when as a little girl, her paternal grandmother told her stories about events that occurred when she was younger. Taboka found it hard to imagine her seventy year old grandmother as a girl or a young woman although she enjoyed the stories immensely. She always thought of her as old. The stories fascinated Taboka as she compared what things were like some seventy years ago and the changes that had come about now. Her imagination would transport her to thousands and millions of years ago as in school she was introduced to History.

When she started teaching history, she was so enthusiastic that this kindled interest in many of her classes. The major setback was the scarcity of resources as pupils were forced to share textbooks. However, she soldiered on bravely, making the most of the situation. She was not the only teacher affected by this handicap. Like her colleagues, she was forced to improvise. When the government had declared that education was going to be free for every child with the attainment of political independence in April 1980, little did they realize what a strain this would be as educational resources were not limitless.

Taboka hoped in a few years’ time she would be able to buy her parents a larger house with a fair sized garden at the back, a green lawn and flowers at the front. The family home in Mpopoma suburb was rather cramped, although her two older brothers had moved out, her two juvenile brothers still lived at home. Her father worked very hard but as a mere messenger at his work place he did not earn much.

On that fateful Monday morning Taboka woke up earlier than usual. She looked at the clock on the bedside table and realized it was six o’clock. Her usual time was half past six, so she closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep but found she was too wide awake, so she decided she might just as well as get out of bed and get ready to go to work. She could hear her mother in the kitchen preparing breakfast for her father and two younger brothers. Her father, Kadzaha was the first to go out at half past six on his bicycle. The boys would be next at seven o’clock.

Shortly after the boys left she was ready to go out too, so she bade her mother bye and opened the door. Just as she closed the front door, a car came to a stop next to her. She looked at it but realized she had never seen it before. Even the middle aged driver who jumped out to open one of the back doors was not familiar. From the back seat emerged her aunt, Bamadzi who staggered and leaned against the car to support herself. Taboka quickly realized her aunt was unwell, and ran to her and assisted her stand up straight up while calling out to her mother to come out.

‘I am sorry ladies I can’t stop, I have to rush off’, the man said as he got back into the car and drove away.

Taboka and her mother helped Bamadzi into the house and sat her on the sofa. She explained it was a problem of malaria and the man who had brought her was her neighbour at her home in Matopo, fifty kilometres away. He had offered to drive her to her relatives as it was urgent for him to get to Monarch to let the workers in. He could not stop as he had the keys to the factory building and any delay on his part would cause mayhem. MaTshuma and Taboka did a quick assessment of the situation and concluded the best option was to send for an ambulance to take the sick, Bamadzi, to Mpilo hospital. When MaTshuma tried to call Kadzaha on his mobile to inform him of his sister’s illness she discovered that he had left it behind as it was ringing in their bedroom. Kadzaha worked at Mhlahlandlela as the governor’s messenger. What MaTshuma did not realize was that on many occasions Kadzaha left it behind because he said he did not like it chirping like a cricket in his pocket at awkward times. Now with this emergency that had come up, Kadzaha’s wife found she could not contact him. She decided to take her sister-in-law (Bamadzi) to hospital while Taboka went to her father’s workplace, Mhlahlandlela, to inform him about his sister’s illness. MaTshuma had hardly stopped instructing Taboka when they heard the siren of the ambulance that had been summoned and a minute later the ambulance braked to a stop just outside the door. MaTshuma accompanied Bamadzi in the ambulance as it blarred its siren all the way from Mpopoma, through Nguboyenja and Barbourfields to the Casualty Department at Mpilo Hospital.

In the meantime, Taboka had jumped onto an emergency taxi on the Luveve road. Even before she had sat down, it was already accelerating. The way the commuter minibus touts screeched loudly through the half open side of the minibus to try to attract passengers was very irritating. Wiithin the minibus, the fares clung on perilously for their lives. When they reached St Patrick primary school they almost collided with a cart laden high with wares for sale heading to Renkini, the famous bus rank where thousands of commuters congregated every morning to catch buses travelling to various parts of rural Matebeleland. The noise emanating from Renkini could be heard from miles away as buses revved, reversed and blew their hooters to warn potential commuters milling around to get out of way. Many of the buses belched clouds of black smoke from their exhausts, while some groaned as if experiencing physical pain but surprisingly there were mountains of luggage piled high on the on the roof rail of the buses. Others needed to be pushed before they could start. Taboka wondered why the Vehicle Inspection Deport whose base was a stone’s throw away did not check the roadworthiness of these buses before they left the rank on their long journeys into the countryside, putting many commuters’ lives in danger. Meanwhile scanias (hand driven carts which can be pulled or pushed) manoeuvred their way around buses and commuters who were rushing not to miss their bus. It is easy to lose your luggage here if for a second you are distracted and forget to keep a watchful eye. The place is a thieves’ haven as they prey on those who do not keep a hawk’s eye on their luggage. Those who frequent the place can identify the pick pockets from the innocent by standers. Many calls have been made to the City Council to do something to reduce the congestion at Renkini.

While these facts flashed through Taboka’s mind the taxi had made good progress and now turned right into Basch Street which leads to the railway station and separates Mzilikazi police station and the Egodini taxi rank. Taboka’s destination, Mhlahlandlela government complex was a recent development. It was one of the rejuvenation developments by the government, meant to improve run down areas. Dignified government officers in suits and ties walk in and out of Mhlahlandlela the building that stands majestic to the right of Egodini the renowned emergency taxi rank. It is as if someone with an ironic sense of humour had decreed that Egodini (the pit) should stand a short distance from Mhlahlandlela. Egodini could be described as the antithesis of what Mhlahlandlela (used to be one of the royal palaces of the last Ndebele King, ULobhengula) stood for. You cannot miss Egodini even if you do not know it. It’s a hive of activity that stands out because of the large numbers of the taxis that race in and out, competing for passengers while the touts screech at the top of their voices trying to attract passengers to their own taxi. The touts use very crude language which is not fit for gentle ears as they compete for clients. Prospective passengers jostle each other to get into the taxis and the touts push in as many passengers as possible. The taxis then drive at breakneck speed to the western suburbs where once the utility value of the petrified passengers has been exhausted, they are unceremoniously pushed out, and the driver rushes back to pick up more fares.

The emergency taxis play a game of cat and mouse with the traffic cops who try to monitor the speed of the taxis so as to prevent accidents. The taxis are death traps since most of them are not in good condition and yet they are driven at impossible speeds.

Taboka dropped off the emergency taxi on Khami Road before it turned left towards the city centre. She proceeded to Mhlahlandlela on foot. She walked into the foyer, looked up the directions and made it to the main reception area, where she was directed by someone to Governor Madlala’s office. On arrival, she explained her business to the governor’s secretary, who told her Kadzaha was somewhere around and she would find him for her. The secretary indicated to Taboka to take a seat as she went to find Kadzaha, returning two minutes later with a shocked Kadzaha who could not imagine why Taboka had followed him to work. Taboka explained about her aunt who was critically ill and had been taken to Mpilo hospital.

While Taboka was still explaining, governor Madlala walked into reception, which was the only way into his office, an inner room. He had taken three steps into the room when all at once it appeared he had lost the power of locomotion. He stared, blinked as if to shake himself awake and stared again, his mouth dropping open involuntarily. His heart gave a mighty lurch, as he was mesmerised by the beautiful woman talking to the messenger. Was she real or an illusion? He had come across