My father had been ill for over a year, the day he died, it was early November 1990. I dreamt about his death the previous night. When I woke up, I told my mother about my dream and she just told me to go to school. I arrived home around 5pm from school and I learnt an ambulance had just taken him to Marondera Provincial Hospital where he died early that evening. He was 36 and I was 14. My father had suffered for over a year.
That evening, his colleagues in the police force wanted to inform my grandmother about his death. My mother was in no condition to travel to our village in Murehwa. I volunteered to show police the way to our village and we went via Macheke and Nhowe Mission. We arrived around midnight. The police officers informed my grandmother about the death and she started crying. My grandfather whom I am named after had married a second wife and moved to Chikore with his new wife a few years after I was born. I only saw my grandfather a few times. My grandmother wanted to inform her older brother Mr Johane Mukoko so we drove to village 36 to inform him.
In 1990 death was not very common like now. Then the Zimbabwean government was not broke. I remember my father’s casket in the brand new police Landrover Defender pick-up. There were many lorries that fetched mourners from Marondera to Murehwa. At the graveside police did the mandatory gun salute and a lot of villagers were really scared. We viewed the casket for the last time and my father appeared as if he was sleeping. His death hit my mother and my grandmother really hard. My maternal grandmother had died a few weeks before and my mother didn’t go to the funeral as my father was seriously ill.
As the first born, my father’s death made me grow up quickly. My father was a man of few words. He was a very patient man, he rarely disciplined me as that was left to my mother. Like all policemen he dealt with facts, he wanted direct to the point answers. When he asked you to do something you listened carefully as he didn’t like repeating himself. He taught me to iron clothes as he always ironed his own clothes. He liked reading everyday from Herald or Chronicle Newspapers and Newsweek and Time magazines. After he was done reading I would read. Even in primary school I knew about Cold War and Nuclear Weapons. He was a lousy cook, when mum was away he cooked sadza(pap) with lumps, I would struggle to eat the sadza as lumps made me want to vomit.
Like many men in my extended family who fought during the liberation war, he suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. After the war ended, he related very well with his uncle, cousins, nephews and nieces who had fought on the side of Zanu-PF. Most of 1990 he was on sick leave and so I spent a lot of time with him. In 1990 there was not much information or therapy for HIV or AIDS. At times he could not see, so I would accompany him to the loo. At Dombotombo Police Station we used a communal toilet and it was a tricky situation.
When he felt a bit better, I would talk to him. Everyone I met from his cousins and school mates told me how intelligent he was. After finishing the grades available at the nearby Jekwa School in the late 60s he had to cycle to Dombwe school about 14kms in order to continue with his education. He passed his Standard 6 education. Then there was no nearby secondary schools in the villages. To go for high school he had to go to boarding schools such as Murewa Mission.
As recounted by my father my grandfather wanted to sell cows so that he could continue with his education and the younger wife refused. My father told me never to have more than one wife as that would bring misery to yourself, your spouse and your children. My father had to look for work armed with a standard 6 education. Then in Rhodesia there was very few options for Africans, he started as a game ranger in the Kariba area and later joined the hated Rhodesia Police. He fought the war on the wrong side. As an African, he had a glass ceiling. After independence he continued in the police but it was obvious that there was bias towards war veterans. My father aced the police examinations but he was never promoted for among other things indiscipline.
Another important lesson from my father, the lesson came too late in his life. He told me that your spouse must be your best friend and not your siblings or your own friends. He had seen that when he became seriously sick all his friends who influenced him to do the wrong thing where nowhere to be seen, the only person who stuck with him was my mother. When his will was read, it was clear he had seen the light. He also told me a hilarious story to show why you must always listen to opinions of other people. He said there was a woman who never wanted to hear the opinion of her husband and one day she didn’t dress properly and her undergarments were exposed. The husband was really scared to say anything, when she went outside neighbours told her.
The reason why I don’t smoke nor drink that much alcohol is what I witnessed from my father in the 80s. I didn’t like it when he was drunk nor smoke. About two years before his death, my father took out a life insurance policy with Zimnat Life Insurance and nominated myself and my mother as co-beneficiaries. That money paid for my education and it only ran out in my final A’Level year and my school fees and examination fees were paid by the department of social welfare. In January 2004, I would join Zimnat Group as a middle level manager.
