Simbarashe Mubvuma
So I am at a dinner, in a hotel that I will not name for fear of a defamation suit. Well, I will not state the name for many others reasons too, but the name of the hotel is not the point. I am here fortuitously, because quite frankly I didn't think I would be here yesterday, or even when I woke up this morning. If I'm to be entirely honest, I didn't think I would be here when I was a small dusty boy growing up in the small town of Marondera. Until today, I didn't even know about this place. But I'm here now, and the next logical thing is for me to be happy, right? I hate to disappoint you but the fact that I'm here is appalling to me. It disgusts me.
You know there are so many strange things about this place, but one thing in particular is the reason why I'm ignoring the fine steak to type this unusual post. I have been told it's rude to type on the table, but the truth is I can't help it. To me, this whole situation is a patriotic emergency. I feel that I have to ignore this food and type. The thing is I am the only black diner here and people who look like me, people who look like my brothers, my sisters and my friends are here too, but only as laborers, waiters and dancers (yes there are black people dancing and playing drums as we eat). They are not part of this charming festivity.
The fact that I'm here, that I'm the only person like me who is dining here, does not appease me. It is quite frankly appalling to me. Not because I hate to eat, or that the beautiful view and the lovely ambiance does not impress me. Far from it. I just think this dinner, these dances, this food, this steak, this whole idea that I'm the only one of my color and my background in this place represents something bigger, something more political, something more depressing.
I can assure you that the reason why I see no faces like mine here is not because the people who look like me do not yearn to dine in these fine places, it is not because they do not like to eat or that they wouldn't appreciate a lovely view. Quite the opposite. Most of them whom I know, whom I grew up with and with whom I lived and laughed are hungry, they are struggling, they are desperate. They have no jobs, no prospects, no hope. In all truth, most of them, aside from these dancers and my brothers who made this fine steak, do not even know that places like these exist in their own country.
And all this is in their own land, the land of their ancestors, the country they are told is independent, the country their grandfathers and grandmothers died for. That fine country they love. The country they call home. The only country they have. I think if you look like me and this is not appalling to you then you have forgotten where you come from.
So who do we blame for all this fine mess, and this fine food. Because we have to blame someone. I would not dare blame these diners, or this lovely hotel, or this fine steak. I blame those men in over-sized suits back in Harare. Those men who masquerade as a government. Those men who told us that independence was everything. Those men who my grandmother voted for in 1980 when I wasn't even born. Those men should be ashamed.
So in 2018, if you do not know about this fine place, if you appreciate fine steak and a lovely view, if you have no hope and no prospects, you need to go out, let your need for fine steak and a lovely view be heard. You deserve this, and a whole lot more. I do not know how the election will pan out, but trust me if you let your need for fine steak be heard, you will definitely feel a whole lot better about the whole thing.
Author retains full publication rights
Simba Mubvuma
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