I had an uncle we all called BB. He was my father’s brother, but they were totally different in character. My father was meticulous, organised and a teetotaller. BB loved his drink and was not too bothered by the future. My father was a self-made man who had run his own business and managed at the highest levels. BB was employed at Amtec in Harare where he knew every car part by head. Where others consulted manuals and machines, BB knew exactly what part a customer needed and would head straight for the shelf where that item was. But come lunchtime, he needed a couple of drinks to keep him going. Liquid lunch, we called it in the 80s and 90s.
For us as children, BB was the heart and soul of the party. Christmas in Mutare was not Christmas until BB had arrived. His was not a grand appearance with a car, balloons and gifts. He usually arrived on the 24th of December or even on Christmas day itself. He would have taken a train from Harare and arrived early morning. He would have been drinking all the way whilst seated in “mbombera” – the economy section.
While cakes and scones would have been baked, with Choice Assorted biscuits winking at us and a dozen fresh Lobels loaves beckoning, we could not enjoy any of this until BB arrived.
My father would drive to fetch BB from the train station. The arrival of BB International at the gate would cause a bit of pandemonium. He wore a lazy smile, hugged us, danced a jiggy and laughed. He had only one present for all of us to share. A single packet of lemon cream biscuits. Never has a biscuit tasted as nice as those lemon creams from BB. The one Christmas he did not turn up had us scrambling calling the landline of one of his neighbours in Egypt, Highfields, to establish if everything was fine.
A good turn deserves another
One year a few days after Christmas, BB asked me for some money to buy a drink at the local Chikomo Tavern. I was in second year at the University of Zimbabwe and broke as a church mouse. The university “payout” was my semester saviour, but it would not last long given that we had begun a riotous living in the belly of the beast called Harare. But that is a story for another day.
“I don’t have a cent, BB, but your brother keeps some whiskies in the wardrobe that he receives as gifts. He does not drink any.”
“Give me one,” said BB. I duly went to the wardrobe where the stash of whiskies was hidden and reached for a J&B that was at the back of the pack. There was no way my father would detect that a bottle was missing.
“Bring me dilution,” said BB. I got him some Sprite. Yeah, what a combo.
Another uncle who lived at a plot on the outskirts of Dangamvura was seated with BB. You could see the duo salivating at the whisky bottle.
They began to down it like it was Fanta Grape. Halfway through the bottle, BB complained to me:
“This is fake whisky. Nothing is happening.” I just nodded. I did not drink whisky and I knew little about it.
By the time the duo of BB and aSeven (that was the name of the other uncle) had cleared the bottle, the atmosphere had changed. They had grown quieter. I knew the fake whisky had shown its mamba qualities. BB tried to stand up, reached for the door and fell back into his chair. As for aSeven, the less said the better. Let us preserve his dignity.
I doubt the two ever insulted another bottle of whisky.
Apologies to the goats
From about the age of fourteen, Christmas was not something I looked forward to. My father – a jack of all trades and master of them all – had taught me how to skin a goat. Every 24th December, my cousin Lomas and I would put on white Blue Ribbon coats and begin the task of removing a slaughtered goat’s “jacket”. My father would stand and supervise. You felt his eyes piercing through the back of your head and waited for that inevitable: “Haikona!” When that arduous task was done, there was the chopping of the meat into pieces and putting into different dishes. That piece for the Imam. That other one for the neighbour. And the other one for Mbuya Torindo Mai Hajji.
Late afternoon, when everything was done, you took a bath in order to prepare to head for the Beit Hall where one of the discos would be playing. It could be Ras Joe with his Dub Chemist Disco, or Greg Maurice and O’Jays Disco, or my brother Rex (The Boss) with Nite Shift Disco. The challenge for the goat slaughterers was that you felt you could not get rid of the smell of that meat off your body. Life Bouy could not do it. Your sister’s Lux could not do it. Vinolia Sandalwood could not. Geisha…forget. The alternative was to splash yourself with Old Spice until it seemed you had swum in an ocean called – yeah – Old Spice. Brut or Yardley could also come in handy.
All night on the dancefloor of the Beit Hall rocking to Atlantic Starr’s Silver Shadow or Surface’s Falling in Love, that goat smell still made its way to your nostrils. Could she smell it?
Season of Good Cheer and family matters
Theodor Seuss Geisel (1904–1991) was an American children’s author and cartoonist. Children across the world simply know him as Dr. Seuss, the author of sing-song books with crazy plots, concocted rhyming words and strange creatures. One of Dr Seuss’ characters is called the Grinch – a green, cat-like furry creature that hates Christmas. The Grinch, an ill-tempered and mean creature, lives in seclusion on the outskirts of a place called Whoville. In contrast, the residents of Whoville are cheerful folk who love to celebrate Christmas. Annoyed by the noise of the singing, the music and dances, the Grinch decides to put a stop to Christmas once and for all.
We all know the legacy that the Man from Zvimba left us, but babies are being born, children are growing, black hair is turning grey, and the days are sliding like clouds across the sky. Family is all that we have, when the future is a walk in the night.
Take care of each other. Merry Christmas.
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