The beating heart of every Zimbabwean home 

Relationships.

Long-time readers of my column may recall very early stories from our invaded farm in 2000 with mentions of my six-year-old son Richie. That was a very, very tough time for us.

How do you explain to a little boy that the mob at the gate, shouting and throwing bricks at you, have declared themselves the owners of your farm and home, and when the little boy says ‘Just call the police Mum’, how do you explain that the police won’t come because they’ve been told not to?

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Richie is in his 30s now and it’s hard to believe that our country has been in turmoil and decline almost all his life. This week my column is a story about my son and I, and our long-time employee and friend Simon.

As part of his pre-retirement package, there was nothing greater and more important to give Simon this Christmas than water.

We have all long given up hope that the ruling Zanu-PF party, in power for 44 years, would provide water and electricity to people living in rural villages.

To this day, the vast majority of people living in rural villages still use candles, lamps and firewood as they have no electricity, and they get water from rivers, pools and streams as there is no piped water. This is not at all how things should be more than four decades after independence, but the roar of one big truck would change Simon’s old age.

The borehole rig arrived at the rural village at 3:30 in the afternoon. I was worried; that’s late in the day to start drilling, especially if the water is deep or the ground unstable or rocky. Everything had been carefully planned and all was ready: the solar pump, pipes, cables, connections – and the big green storage tank.

Everyone saw the big green water tank coming and Simon laughed to see the shocked looks on people’s faces when they saw it being unloaded at his house in the village. Then the huge borehole drilling rig arrived. Eyes widened and mouths hung open.

Richie stood enthralled, listening to Simon telling the story about the day the borehole rig came to his kumusha (rural home). Their mutual delight was palpable.

Simon said kids climbed up into the mango and mulberry trees to watch as the huge crane lined the drill up on the exact point located by the probes.

Watching Simon talking to Richie instantly took me back 25 years. It seemed like yesterday when Simon was lifting Richie into the middle seat of my trusty old Land Rover and then climbing in next to him, and off we’d go, dogs and empty drums in the back, everyone loving the adventure of going to get water at the spring on the farm.

Simon would crouch down next to the little boy and show him how the water came bubbling up from underground: bloop, bloop, bloop, Richie giggling at the sound of the funny bubbling words. When Richie had filled up his little plastic bucket from the spring Simon would lift him up to tip the water into the drum.

“It’s water for us and the cows and sheep and chickens,” Simon would say and Richie would clap his little hands excitedly and slowly but surely the drums were filled from the ever-bubbling spring. My memory of collecting water then seemed inextricably linked to the story of now, drilling for water for Simon 25 years later.

The high-pressure compressor started and the noise reverberated throughout the village. The drill began churning down into the ground, the noise deafening, the dust suffocating. It was still dry at 10 meters. At 20 metres, there was some water but not much, and so they kept going, 30 metres, 35 and then, just before they hit 40 metres, the water came shooting up. “Water, mvura!” Simon shouted.

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“It was plenty, running like a river,” he said, a wide grin on his face.

Kids were shouting, spectators laughing and clapping hands and congratulating Simon, and everyone, just everyone, was smiling.

When it was all done and the rig had gone, silence returned to the village and all there was to see was a blue pipe sticking up out of the ground, the pipe of life. Forty-eight hours later, the pump and wiring were in, the solar panel in the sun, and the pipes running to the tank attached.

Out of the pipe the water came, a bit cloudy at first but soon clear, clean and cool.

“We are so happy,” Simon said, describing to Richie how he cupped his hands in the water and drank his own fresh, clean water. First all the buckets were filled, 300 litres safe, just in case. Then the tank was filled, 2 400 litres.

Just like that life had changed for Simon and his family. No more trudge to the river or hand pump with the ox cart twice a week – six kilometres, a long hot walk for an old man. No more bending and filling buckets, no more lifting heavy water containers into the cart, loading, unloading and carrying. Now it was just turn the tap on at the tank, exactly as it should be, as it should have been for the past 44 years.

This may be the story of water, but it is also the story of the very special relationship that so many Zimbabweans have with their loyal and dedicated employees – men and women who love and look after our children, our homes, and our families, who are our friends. Their problems are our problems, and our worries are theirs. Our lives are inextricably linked, and this is the beating heart of every Zimbabwean home.

Copyright © Cathy Buckle

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