Mwenda Njira

I am a traveler and I love my job. I like to watch and observe. The best thing about being an observer in anything is the opportunity to watch without being involved. A spectator is able to watch from the safety of the sidelines, skills and blunders of football players without getting a headache for losing a match. Well, you can rise up on your feet once in a while to shout at the players when they work your blood pressure up by missing an opportunity..”iwe ukanaponya chonchi!”and you end up hitting the spectator in front of you…but it ends there. Palibe kukatentha gombeza kunyumba chifukwa cholephera pa masewera.

This, my dear country folks, is what I intend to do through this column, talk about issues from the sidelines. Issues that I will observe as I sojourn throughout the world. The idea will not be to demonise anyone or any group of people but that together we should be able to laugh at ourselves and learn from our mistakes. That has really helped me.

Oh, can you believe I am deep into conversation with you before telling you who I am? Describing myself and telling others about my name has not been an easy feat for me. Well, where do I start from? Perhaps I should start with the name. I was christened at birth as Elijah by my good old grandfather, Chibwe the Great, may his soul rest in eternal peace. He was a church minister by calling and a soldier by profession and that explains the choice of Elijah as my name. As I grew up I found the name to be too perfect. People expected a lot from me than I could deliver.

At school I was expected to be super intelligent and all knowing. Like the biblical prophet, I was expected to find solutions to people’s problems, do miracles and be the leader in any group I found myself in. I remember one day, a standard one pupil fell into an old pit latrine and the whole school was sent to search for me. I was cracking BODMAS with friends when the word came that the headmaster wanted me at the old pit latrine. Moved by the agony in the voice of the little boy down the latrine, I did not hesitate when the headmaster suggested they tie a rope around my waist for me to go after the boy, “You were endowed with such a height that we are sure you will not drown down there.” The headmaster observed as they lowered me down the dark smelly hole. My friends said I had been down the latrine for less than five minutes but to me it was the longest and most dreadful experience that I had ever gone through. As they pulled us out drenched in maggots and caking human excreta, everyone shouted my name....Elijah! Elijah! Now, such Rambo adventures were not characteristic of me and the name weighed heavily on my being.

I have always enjoyed playing second fiddle, watching from the backbench or the sidelines as Chibwe the Great would call it. If my right hand helps someone in a situation, I go to great lengths not to let my left hand know. So at age 21 when I was legally called an adult, I changed my name to Mwenda Njira, short for Mwenda Njira Wangodutsa Sanatchole Mnkhwani. Funny name ha? Yeah! Funny and safe and harmless…and long too. You should listen to my azungu dudes pronounce it. The best that one of my friends can manage is Muwenida Nijira.

Enough about my long funny name. I guess you are still asking as to what I do for a living. Well, I am a traveller. Get me right here. I am not a tourist. A tourist wonders about aimlessly admiring beautiful sights along the way. I travel purposely appreciating and learning from how people around the globe live and organize themselves to create a better world.

The traveller and observer that I am, I just came back from the United States of America, and Zimbabwe to watch campaigns and actual elections. I was there in the land of George Washington when Obama unleashed the historic nasty left punch knocking Hilary out of the American presidential race. I am trying to make American politics sound exciting here. The truth is, the Obama-Clinton politicking was the most boring contest I have ever witnessed. You see it lacked the drama of venomous tongues that are characteristic of real politics. The Americans are yet to learn how to scandalise one another at public rallies, in the media and at religious gatherings. Their legislators are yet to be schooled on what it means to spar with the speaker of the national assembly and hold a nation at ransom until their demands are met. The dishonourable members of the US congress are not daring enough to be able to roll up their sleeves and sort out disagreements outside the chamber one on one. Is that not pathetic? They surely know how to take out excitement from politics in the name of discursive democracy.

Before I headed for Harare to see how Uncle Bob was preparing for the next term of office after his opponent chickened out of the contest, I braved the last winter breezes to hear the next president of the United States of America. I woke up quite early on that day and joined the crowd that was already gathering on Court Street in Athens, a small town in Ohio.

No one paid particular attention to me and I liked it that way. My lean tall figure with a narrow face decorated with thick eye brows and short clipped hair was less attractive than the breath-taking and scantly dressed bodies of the students from the local university. I fastened the buttons of my double-breasted jacket. It made me look awkward among the students who were mostly in jeans and sports attire that being a Saturday. I cared less and just braced for a long wait.

I did not feel bored with the waiting. I watched as the crowd increased in the street. A young man in his early 20s emerged from behind a parked ambulance carrying a placard that simply read “Obama for President 2008.” He was followed by another whose banner read “Change we can believe in. My attention was soon grabbed by a girl who wore a very tight pair of jean shorts in spite of the chill that was now reaching to my bones and threatened to solidify me. On the back of an equally tight black T-shirt that barely covered the rich endowment on her chest were emblazoned the words “Totally fallen for Obama.” She elbowed her way through the crowd and disappeared at the top of the street. I shook my head and heard the voice of Chibwe the Great as he used to say, “May the Lord have mercy on the soul that will be deceived by those looks.”

I was still thinking about the girl’s strange expression of political support when a group of three young men all dressed in the American flag colours appeared from nowhere carrying the largest banner of the day. On the banner was a sheepishly smiling face of George W. Bush. Below the smiling face were crookedly handwritten words “Clinton lied and no one died. I lied and thousands have died.” I almost joined his Excellency the US president in his smile.

I did not have much time to think about the smiling Bush and his message. A convoy of three cars appeared from the direction of the road that was not blocked by police. Six men in dark suits and equally dark sunglasses jumped out of the cars before the all familiar face of Barack Obama appeared from the doorway of one of the cars. Smiling and waving at the crowd that was now standing still, mesmerized by a Martin Luther King Junior brought to life. Obama proceeded to the podium where some college students had been taking turns warming the stage singing and shouting about change whose time had come.

“It is good to be back in Ohio. How are you doing Ohio?” Obama roared in the microphone his voice resounding across the street and driving away the chill that was beginning to make my feet feel numb. I could feel my heart starting to beat faster. “Take it easy, you are just one lucky fellow watching from the sidelines. You are not even a citizen, what’s the excitement about?” Chibwe the Great whispered in my left ear.

“But what’s causing all this excitement? Look at how transfixed the whole street is by Obama’s voice.” I whispered back to Chibwe the Great. Smiling he whispered back to me, “He has his roots in Kenya remember?” Nodding I agreed with the all wise one.

When my attention was drawn back to the street before me, a female voice shouted, “We love you Obama.” I stood on my toes to see who it was. I was not surprised to see big mama in her tight short and T-shirt. She was now carrying the American flag and was waving it across people’s heads as if to increase the chilly breeze that defied layers of clothing.

“I love you back Ohio,” Obama responded before he began to elaborate on the purpose of his visit. In his Ciceronian eloquence, he went on to talk about the need for affordable healthcare for all Americans, the need to bring back jobs from overseas and create more at home and the need to bring American troops back home from the war that should never have been authorised. The street resounded with handclapping and whistling. He went on to explain how as a former community organizer he was fit to be America’s next president since he identified well with the people and their needs. More handclapping. About his co-contender in the democratic camp who had just tipped the hat after a resounding knockout in the primaries, Obama simply praised her as a formidable contender. He said Hilary had made history just as he had done and will play a vital role in his administration should he be elected president.

As I stood there shivering in my leather boots, I shook my head in desperation.

“So they call this an election campaign?” I asked myself as the six men in black whisked Obama back into one of the three cars. I found the American politicking to be very boring. Right from the pretty blonde who did not hide her crush on Obama to Obama himself. They were all disappointingly boring.

“These American politicians need to be taught real political language and befitting campaign tricks,” I said to myself noticing that Chibwe the Great had decided to call it quits so I could not ask him his opinion on the Obama speech. Just as I respected his decisions when he was still breathing, I respect his decisions now as a shadow that guides my wandering soul.

Anyway, I must go now to Nairobi and see how Odinga is doing in the new group that he has found himself in. I hear his bodyguards and those of his boss, Kibaki nearly exchanged blows at a public rally recently. Now, that is politics, mwamuna nzako ndi pa chulu umalinga utakwerapo. Ndapita...let us meet next week and I will tell you stories of how the Swahili and the Shona are birthing democracy the African way.