ARS

ARS

Northwestern University Library Evanston Ill'no's 60208-230U

To Live a Better Life

To Live a Better Life An oral history of women in the city of Harare, 1930-70 Terri Barnes and Everjoyce Win NO401Doo

First published in 1992 by Baobab Books (a division of Academic Books (Pvt.) Ltd, P.O. Box 567, Harare, Zimbabwe) @Terri Barnes and Everjoyce Win , Cover design: Tali Geva Bradley Maps: Lorraine Mons © City of Harare, Town Planning Office Typeset by: Baobab Books Printed by Mazongororo Paper Converters (Pvt.) Ltd. We would also like to thank the National Archives of Zimbabwe for the photographs on pages 32, 44, 45, 50, 52, 54, 58, 62, 66, 69, 78, 94, 107, 112, 134, 145, 149, 152, 159, 163, 184 185, 188, 195, 200; and The Herald for the photograph on page 104. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher. ISBN 0-908311-35-4

Contents Acknowledgem ents ...... viii Introduction . 1 Historical Notes 4 The Joys of Interviewing ...... 10 Biographies of the Interviewees...... 12 1. W hy did you com e to Harare? ...... 25 2. Old Bricks ...... 33 3. W hat did town look like in those days? ...... 41 4. Life in other parts of town ...... 49 5. G irlsandeducation...... 61 6. M arriage ...... 67 7. Hard at W ork ...... 79 8. Earning Money in Other Ways: Brewing Beer, Crocheting, Selling Vegetables ...... 95 9. Those W om en ofEpworth ...... 113 10. Prostitution...... 117 11. Tinobika M apoto ...... 127 12. Laws and passes ...... 135 13. Clubs, churches and politics ...... 153 14. Famous ladies ...... 169 15. Having fun ...... 193 16. The worst things about town ...... 201 17. The best things about town ...... 207 18. Getting old ...... 211 Glossary ...... 215 Oral History Projects (for students) ...... 220 Questions (for students) ...... 222

Illustrations Houses in Old Bricks ...... 32 General Plan of Salisbury Township, 1901 ...... 42 H arare in 1892 ...... 44 Manica Road (undated) "Early days" ...... 44 First Street, Salisbury in the 1930s ...... 45 Plan of Salisbury Municipal Location, 1940 ...... 46 A house in the married quarters of Mbare, 1927 ...... 50 A Nissan hut, native urban area, 1950 ...... 50 Mr William Craster in a rickshaw with his puller in the Craster uniform ...... 52 A house in Highfield, 1950 ...... 54 Kambuzuma Township, 1965 ...... 54 Single men's hostels in Mbare ...... 58 A kraal school near Epworth Mission, 1908 ...... 62 Girls at a school at Chishawasha Mission ...... 62 Christian wedding in Fort Victoria in the early 1900s ...... 66 Christian wedding at Gogoya, 1919 ...... 69 Old woman shopping with her servant, c. 1965 ...... 78 Beer garden in Harari township, 1950 ...... 94 Crocheting for a living ...... 104 Selling vegetables at Mbare Musika ...... 107 Epworth, 1908 ...... 112 Highfield Village Board ...... 134 A registration certificate ...... 145 M r W . S. Stodart ...... 149 A meeting of the Sakubva Homecraft Club ...... 152 M rs H elen M angwende ...... 159 M rs A gnes K anogoiw a ...... 163 Lady Kennedy, President of the Red Cross, presenting a Red Cross badge to Mrs Franks ...... 184 M rs Stella M ae Sondayi ...... 185 Red Cross workers receiving instruction ...... 188 Jiving in full sw ing ...... 195 A view of Old Bricks which in 1958 housed a quarter of Harare's populations ...... 200

Acknowledgements "...it's not nice to omit [the names of] some people who enabled you to start [activities] ...there were other people who enabled us to do [things] but omitting them is oppression, like the oppression we used to cry about." Mai Sondayi First, and most of all, we would like to thank all the women and men who opened their doors and then their memories to us - two strange women with a tape recorder and a long list of questions. Their patience, kindness and hospitality were always greatly appreciated. We hope that this book, the result of their efforts to satisfy our curiosity, will meet with their approval. The staff of the National Archives in Harare provided help with the illustrations and some of the other material included in the text. Elisha Khumalo, Sitabile Ncube and Samson Manjolo worked on some of the interviews. Mr V. Tutani of the Ethnomusicology Programme at the Zimbabwe College of Music, kindly helped with the lyrics to popular songs of the 1950s. Our families and friends bore with us and provided great amounts of moral support. Finally, the Ford Foundation provided the funds to pursue the project. viii

Introduction This is a history book but it is not a standard history text. There is no emphasis on great men and events. Instead the comments of ordinary people are presented on eighteen different topics dealing with the lives of women who have lived in Harare since the 1920s. To Live a Better Life grew out of the belief that the experience of ordinary people should be included in the history of the time they lived through. There are many areas of social experience in Zimbabwe which have never become a part of formal history. We know about the 'great men' of government; we know about the actions and ideas of the political parties which they led; we have read, seen and heard about the role of Zimbabwe as a nation in regional and international affairs. But we have very little information about such things as housing, the way colonial laws affected working people, women's experiences of town life: the details of daily life. So it was decided to do an 'oral history' - interviewing people about their lives - in order to try and fill in some of the blank spaces in our knowledge of urban social experience in Zimbabwe. This oral history project was started in 1988 by Terri Barnes. She designed the project and the interview structure; she edited the interviews and compiled them into this book. Everjoyce Win translated questions and answers back and forth during most of the interviews; she transcribed the tapes and translated them into English. She also translated some of the other materials which appear in the book. We conducted 60 interviews with long-time residents of the city of Harare. Of these, 47 were with women and 13 were with men. The material in this book comes from 52 of these interviews. Of course, 52 people are not very many in the whole population of elderly people in Harare; but their experiences and comments are representative of those of many other people. Few of the people we spoke to were well-known and most of the interviews were conducted with women. This was because women's voices are heard even less often than those of ordinary working men in formal history. Almost all the interviews were conducted in Shona and then translated into English for the purposes of this publication. We have tried to keep to the spirit of the language used by the elderly township residents; a strict English teacher would find a lot to correct in the text. Readers, at times, may also stop and say to themselves: "What exactly did she (or he) mean here?" Anyone who does this practices a bit of historical interpretation themselves. This can be one of the real benefits of using oral histories. Certain terms are in Shona or English words with which the reader may be unfamiliar; these are in italics and may be found in the Glossary at the back of the book. Oral history is not an exact science. For many people, remembering the dates for events which happened up to fifty years ago can be a difficult or even an impossible task. Also, the comments made by our interviewees often contradict each other and sometimes themselves. However each person who 'spoke' to us told us 'the truth' about the past as he or she remembered having experienced it. From adding up all these 'truths', we can get a sense of what life in the past was like for most people. Hopefully, this book will encourage other people to go out and do more oral history research in Zimbabwe. This can be as simple as getting organized to ask a group of people questions about their lives, and then finding good ways of sharing this information. There is a huge opportunity to enrich our knowledge of Zimbabwean history in this way. Chapter organization The chapters are organized in two different ways. Those at the beginning of the book start off with general comments about the subject of the chapter. These are followed by comments and observations from the interviews, arranged by the decade to which the speaker was referring. Later chapters do not use this chronological approach, and are organized according to the flow of each speaker's ideas. Letters and articles from some of the popular newspapers and magazines of the 1940s and 1950s have been inserted in the chapters. These will give the modem reader an idea of the debates and other important issues discussed in the past. Brackets [] are used throughout the text for two purposes. First, when an underlined word is used for the first time, its definition appears in brackets. Brackets are also used to insert words or phrases in the text of an interview where it was thought that the speaker's words were unclear.

To assist teachers in using this book as supplementary material in history classes, a series of discussion questions, some of which can also be used as essay topics, has been included at the end of the book. We hope that teachers of the O-Level history syllabus 2166, introduced in 1990, will find this section useful particularly when teaching teaching sections 5.5.4. i-iii of the new syllabus.

Historical Notes Rhodesia (Southern Rhodesia): This country was a self-governing British colony during the time-span covered by this book. White Rhodesians made their own laws. The British government supervised them, but interfered very little in the daily conduct of the government. Names: In the past, both groups of people and places were known by names which differ from those we use now. In English today, black people born in this country are called Zimbabweans or, sometimes, Africans. Until the 1950s the most common word used for such people was 'native'. By the 1950s this had begun to be seen as insulting and the word 'African' came into common use. In the same way, Mbare used to be known as 'the location', meaning the place where the town's African population was supposed to live. It was later called a 'township'; today Mbare and the other African urban areas which were built in later years are called 'high-density suburbs' or 'high-density areas'. Below are some of the places whose names have changed over the years, or since Independence: old name new name Rhodesia or Southern Rhodesia Zimbabwe Salisbury Harare Harare (or Harari) African Township Mbare Nyasaland Malawi Northern Rhodesia Zambia Portuguese East Africa/Portuguese Territory Mozambique Money: Until 1965, Rhodesia used the British currency system. Money was divided into pounds, shillings, and pence. There were twelve pence in a shilling, and twenty shillings in a pound. Prices were written differently: for example, 'f3/2/6' meant three pounds, two shillings and sixpence. A 'tickey' was another name for threepence, and a 'bob' was a shilling. The prices of goods four or five decades ago seem much cheaper than they are now.

Many of the people interviewed for this book remember that a loaf of bread, a kilogram of sugar or a pair of socks used each to cost sixpence. A man's shirt cost ninepence and a nice pair of shoes might have cost five shillings. 'A shilling piece of meat would feed a whole family for a day,' remembers one man. These prices seem very low to us now. But you must remember that wages were equally low. A general or a domestic worker in the late 1930s or 1940s probably earned less than a pound a month. For such a worker buying a pair of nice shoes would have meant spending a whole week's wages. At today's wage levels and prices, that would be about the same as a pair of men's shoes costing $45. So the prices in the past were really not much lower than they are today. When the Rhodesians declared UDI (the Unilateral Declaration of Independence) from Britain, one of the things they did was to change from the system of pounds and shillings to the system of dollars and cents. The old money became worth twice as much as the new money: therefore, a worker who was earning £5 a month before the change earned $10 after 'money became dollars', as one woman put it. A teacher who was earning about £117/6 per month in the 1940s was earning what we would now call $3.25 per month. This explains why a two-dollar note today is sometimes still called, 'pondo' - one pound, and a twenty-cent piece can still be called, 'two bob'. The population of the town: The officials of the city of Salisbury did not conduct a census to count all the Africans living in town until the early 1960s. Before then they had only counted the number of Africans who were working in the city's houses and industries, not all the residents. This makes it very difficult to know precisely what the population really was; it was assumed that there were many thousands more people living in and around the town than the city officials were willing to admit. Nonetheless, below we have some population figures from the city estimates. Year Europeans Asians and Africans Total Coloureds 1937 9601 1268 19960 30829 1949 22000 1870 59358 83228 1955 35500 3700 90885 130085

In 1948-49, the city's 'Director of Native Administration' made these estimates of the population of African men, women and children in the city. Men Women Children Harari Township 11 290 2233 6696 Duriro Hostel 1190 0 0 Industrial Areas 4 170 247 270 Residential Areas 14650 650 878 Elsewhere 21 000 150 450 Total: 52300 3280 8294 You will notice that according to these figures there were about 64 000 Africans living in the city; a much higher estimate than is given above for the year 1949, when the Mayor of the city estimated that there were only 59 000 African residents. These differences can be traced back to the belief of the city's officials that it was not really important to know the size of the African population; only the small white population really mattered. Urban life: In 1938 the Prime Minister of Southern Rhodesia said in a speech: The Europeans in this country can be likened to an island of white in a sea of black... Is the native to be allowed to erode away the shores and gradually attack the highlands [of the island]? To permit this would mean that... civilization would be removed from the country and the black man would inevitably revert to a barbarism worse than anything before. Godfrey Huggins, 1938 A few whites believed that Africans needed to be 'civilized' if they were ever to participate equally in Rhodesian society. However, most whites simply believed that Africans would never be equal to whites. Huggins' statement reflects this idea and reveals that segregation was official government policy. People of different races were separated from each other and lived under different economic and social conditions. This ensured that whites became the privileged masters, while Africans of all ages and skills were forced to work for them as servants. Thus it was said that:

The white man will not take his meals at the same table as the black; he will not meet him on the same footpaths on the streets; he travels by rail in separate wagons; he forbids him, though with certain exceptions, access to private property; he relegates him at night to 'locations' outside the urban centres. H. Rolin, 1913 After the passage of the 1930 Land Apportionment Act, which formally divided the country into unequal white and black areas, all towns became white areas. Until the mid1940s, segregationist government policy was that only those Africans who were needed as workers should be allowed to enter the white areas. Complicated pass laws therefore sought to find out who the Africans in the urban areas were and if they were working for white employers; if not, they were to be punished with a fine or imprisonment and sent back to their rural areas. These areas were known as 'reserves' and were situated in the poorest agricultural regions of the country. Most African women were supposed to stay in these reserves. No African woman was the legal equal to an African man. According to the law, an African woman could not do anything for herself without the permission of her father or husband (for example, a woman could not own property, open a bank account, or be given urban accommodation in her own name). This system tried to ensure that urban African men were only temporary migrant workers, and the few urban women were controlled by the needs and wishes of the men; and none of them were to be permanent residents. By the mid- 1940s, changing economic realities forced the Southern Rhodesian government to modify the ways in which they exploited the African population of the country. Developing urban industries needed a better educated and more permanent workforce than an ever-changing group of migrant workers. Also, the railway strike of 1945 and the general strike of 1948, in which African workers showed their anger about the conditions in which they lived and worked, convinced the Rhodesian authorities that new strategies were needed. Huggins said in the late 1940s: "We shall never do much with these people until we have established a native middle class." Garfield Todd, who became Prime Minister of Southern Rhodesia in 1953, when Huggins became the head of the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, thought that unless such a class was developed, Africans would become bitter and frustrated, which would be "dangerous to us, to our whole order in this country". Starting from the mid- 1940s, therefore, the government took an active part in establishing government-run secondary schools for African students, and conservative trade unions which would control the anger of workers. It told city authorities all over the country that they had an obligation to provide better (although still very unequal and very poor) facilities for African workers and their families in the towns. It gave a few wealthy and educated African men the right to vote in a separate and unequal system. In the Native Land Husbandry Act of 1951, it tried to divide the African population into rural farmers who had to follow the government's orders about how to farm, and urban residents who would always be available to work for the new industries. It was only the 1962 victory of the Rhodesian Front party, led by Ian Smith, which stopped the reform measures of Todd and Huggins (who by that time had received a title and was called Lord Malvern). The new reactionary RF government hated the idea of giving even limited power to Africans, and it tried to go back to the days when Africans were only unskilled labourers. By the early 1960s, most African political organizations had lost patience with the strategy of politely asking the government to improve rural and urban conditions. The steady development of nationalist organizations in Rhodesia and the granting of independence to Africans in other parts of Africa meant that 'the winds of change' were indeed beginning to blow over the country. Organizations such as the City Youth League, the National Democratic Party, the Zimbabwe African People's Union and later the Zimbabwe African National Union agitated for the rights and freedom of the people. Ordinary people also showed their anger at the conditions in which they were forced to live and work by participating in events such as the Salisbury bus boycott in 1956 and city-wide riots in 1960. The matter came to a head with ZANU's launch of armed struggle in 1966. From this time on there was war in Rhodesia. It was a war which both disrupted and changed forever the lives of all the ordinary people of the country. This book tries to provide the perspectives of ordinary people who lived through these difficult economic times and changing government policies. We see that ordinary people managed to live their lives with as much dignity and creativity as they could in a society which always treated them - despite their age - as boys and girls. Strategies for trying to achieve this dignity varied. Most people took the small opportunities that society offered and tried to make the most of them. Others defied the laws which sought to divide families and restrict incomes, or found ways around the laws and restrictions to develop important freedoms for themselves. Some people chose to confront Rhodesian society more openly in political work. Over the course of a person's life, all of these strategies might have been used. In juggling their needs, responsibilities and choices in a restricted environment, ordinary people developed the urban culture which we know today; lively and vibrant in some ways and yet tightly controlled in others. This book is mostly about women. Their efforts were primarily aimed at improving the quality of life for their families and children. Women bore the brunt of raising the new generation to 'a higher level' with even fewer resources and opportunities than men had. An important aspect of their lives was the extent to which they constantly helped each other learn new ways of coping - and even of prospering - in the city. The struggle to survive and do well in the city did not turn everyone into romantic heroines of resistance. Listening to people's real voices, we hear some less- thanflattering things. They complain about each other. They accept certain aspects of life which we might have preferred them to have visibly fought against. Perhaps they fought in ways which were not very revolutionary by our standards. In fact, time and again the interviewees describe how they found ways of confronting authority without using direct and provocative methods. An urban woman was not automatically a modem Mbuya Nehanda. Oral histories can reveal what was most important to ordinary people and how they went about trying to achieve their objectives. One significant theme that runs through the book is how nearly everyone planned, plotted and schemed to do as well as they could for themselves, their children, and for their communities. Thus the title of the book: To Live a Better Life. In one way, trying 'to live a better life' has contributed to the intense pursuit of style and wealth in Hararian society today. In another, it was an eloquent protest against a racist society which always tried to force African men and women into obedient inferiority.

The Joys of Interviewing The Characters: Interviewer, Old Lady, Friendly Neighbour, Granddaughter. Int. Can you remember in which year you got married? Lady: [laughs] Me, I don't know what is wrong with my brains. Heh? I don't remember. Int: Who did you say was born in 1933? Your first born? Lady: Yes. Neighbour: No, that's the one who is number two. Int: The mother of this one [the granddaughter]? Lady: Yes. Neighbour: She has one child. Int. So she is the one born in 1933. Neighbour: Yes. Lady: Yah. Int: Would you say that is the same year you got married? Lady: No. I was already married. You don't do both at once. You get married, then you have children. Well, these days you get pregnant and married there and then [laughs]. Neighbour calls to granddaughter: When was your mother born? Granddaughter: 1933. Neighbour to Int: Let's put 1931 for the marriage date!

The Characters: Interviewer and another Old Lady Lady: My husband was Malawian. He died because of politics. Int: Which year was this? In the 1970s? Lady: I don't know. You keep asking me dates, I have told you I don't remember dates! I didn't go to school!

Biographies of the Interviewees The biographical details of the interviewees which follow, are very brief and do not reflect the full scope of people's lives. They are only intended to give the reader an idea of the background to the interviews. Those people with an asterisk (*) beside their name were interviewed in English. Sarah Bakasa Mai Bakasa was born in Zvimba in 1914. She was educated at Waddilove, a mission school, where she completed Standard 7. She then became a teacher, teaching at Epworth Mission and at Chivero. She moved to Harare in 1936 after her marriage. She resumed teaching in the late 1950s, and subsequently became a radio announcer for the show, Nguva Yevana Vadiki [Children's Time]. Today she lives in Kambuzuma. Mary Butao // Mai Butao was born in Mozambique in 1918, and came to Zimbabwe with her parents in 1922. She married in 1946 and came to Harare from Kwekwe with her husband and five children. In 1956 they moved to Highfield, where she stilllives. Theresa Cele Miss Cele was born in 1925 and went to Waddilove, and finished her Standard 7 education at the Howard Institute. She has worked as a domestic science teacher, a nurse and a hostel matron. She retired from her position as Matron at Nyatsime College in Seke, near Harare, in 1991.

Maria Chagaresango Mai Chagaresango was born in 1925 at Nyabira. She came to Harare with her husband in 1945 and has eight children. She lives in Mbare. Berita Charlie Mai Charlie was born in 1913 in Chipinge. Miss Joanna Scott (see below) is her elder sister. Mai Charlie came to Harare in 1931 with her husband. She has worked at the old African hospital in town, as a municipal policewoman, a caterer, and now owns a shop, 'B. Charlie Store' in Mbare, where she lives. Esther Chideya Mai Chideya was born in 1915 in the Seke communal lands, near Harare. She was educated up to Standard 2. Married in 1930, she came to live permanently in Harare in 1952. She still lives in Mbare with her husband.

Mr Chideya Mr Chideya worked for many years as a chemist's shop assistant in Harare. He is now retired and lives with his wife in Mbare. Faina Chirisa Mai Chirisa was born around 1920 in Chivhu. She came to Harare in 1953 and has worked as a factory worker and a food vendor. She lives in St Mary's Township in Chitungwiza. Katie Chitumba Mai Chitumba, known to generations of primary school pupils in Mbare as Mistress Chitumba, was born at Epworth Mission in 1920. Her father was an important member of one of the first African political groups in the country in the 1930s. Mai Chitumba completed her teacher training at Waddilove in 1935. She came to Harare in 1946 as one of the first teachers at Chitsere Government Primary School. She was married in *1955 and retired from teaching in 1989. Susan Dzvairo Mai Dzvairo was born at Marange near Mutare in 1909; "I am Marange's daughter," she said. She was educated at Old Mutare Mission and Nyadiri Mission in Murewa, and became a nurse. She married in 1933 and came to Harare where she worked for many years at the municipal infectious diseases hospital. She lives in Mbare with her husband. Eniah (Anna) Gasa Miss Gasa was born around 1918 at Chinamano, near Epworth Mission. She came to Harare as a young child with her parents, and grew up here. She worked as a domestic worker, and was the first African woman to work as a municipal policewoman, a job she held for many years. She lives in Mbare.

Levi Gono* Mr Gono was born in 1929 in Mushawasha Reserve in Masvingo, and went to school at Morgenster Mission, leaving after he had completed Standard 6. He became a builder and worked in Macheke before coming to Harare in 1953 as a small building contractor. He then worked for the National Archives of Zimbabwe in Harare for many years before retiring in 1989. He lives with his family in Mufakose. Faina Guchu I Mai Guchu was born around 1925 in Charter District. She came to Harare in 1947 after the death of her I husband, and worked as a domestic worker. She has three children and lives in St Mary's Township, in Chitungwiza. Laxon Gutsa* Mr Gutsa was born in Murewa in 1920, and came to Harare as a young boy after the death of his parents in 1930. He did his education at Nyadiri Mission, and became a builder. At the time of the Second World War, he joined the unit known as The King's African Rifles and did his war service in North Africa, Asia and the Middle East. He has been a large building contractor for many years, and is still working. He lives with his family in Tafara. Mai Hlabangana Mai Hlabangana was born in Gwanda in 1921. She attended school at Hope Fountain Mission. She has been a domestic worker in Harare since 1951. Rose Indi Mai Indi has eight children. She and her husband came to Harare in the 1950s, and they now live in Highfield.

Agnes Kanogoiwa Mai Kanogoiwa was born in Mutare in 1921, and was educated as a teacher at Old Mutare Mission. She taught at Nyadiri Mission until her marriage in 1943, when she came to live in Harare. She became involved with the women's clubs movement, and started the Radio Homecraft Club in the 1950s. She was also a member of the Advisory Board for Mbare, and has organized women volunteers to work with albinos, psychiatric patients and women prisoners at Chikurubi. She lives in Waterfalls. . Dora Kobe Mai Kobe was born in South Africa in 1936 and came to Harare as a very young child with her parents. She started work as a domestic worker in the 1950s, and has two children. They moved to a settlement known as 'Katanga' on the Hunyani (Manyame) River in the 1970s and she now lives in St Mary's Township, Chitungwiza. Elsie Magwenzi Mai Magwenzi was born around 1925 in Chihota, married in 1939 and came to Harare in 1948. She has three children, and lives in St Mary's Township, Chitungwiza.

Ennie Makoni Mai Makoni was born around 1910 in Rusape, and came to Harare in the 1926. She worked briefly as a clinic attendant, and has two children. She lives in Mbare. Taurai Dorcas Manhenga Mai Manhenga was born around 1916 in Buhera, and was educated up to Standard 3. She was married very young, and came to Harare in the late 1940s to find work. She worked as a domestic worker and as a vegetable seller at the musika [market] in Mbare. She now lives in St Mary's Township. Sanderson Manjolo Mr Manjolo was born in 1935 and came to Zimbabwe from Malawi in 1953. He has worked as a building worker and, in the 1960s, as a conductor for the Rhodesian African Labour Supply Commission in Masasa. He is now the caretaker for the Danhiko School in Masasa.

Jessie Marange Mai Marange was bom around 1932, and came to Harare as a young child with her mother. She married in the 1950s, and has two children. Today she lives in Mufakose. Effie Maripakwenda Mai Maripakwenda was born in Rusape in 1921, and came to live in Harare in 1944. She was a vendor at Mbare musika for many years. She lived in Mbare until her death at home, in 1991. Harriet Matondo Mai Matondo was born in 1920 at Old Mutare Mission where hrftewas a Methodist minister. She did four years of her fatherwaaMehdsmiitrShdiforyrsf school, and was married in 1939. She lived in Mutare with her family, selling vegetables and flowers. She came to Harare in 1961 when her husband was transferred to the city. Mai Matondo has been very active in women's clubs and was on the Advisory Board for the Mufakose clubs, the area in which she lives. Now she is a very active member of the Zimbabwe Women's Bureau. Maggie Masamba 4 Mai Masamba was born around 1912 at Epworth Mission, where she grew up, married, and raised her family. She has six children. She said, "We are farming, my child. If we were at the garden you would see my potatoes which I planted, and peas, and beans. You would see that Granny is still working."

Sophie Mazoe* Miss Sophie Mazoe was born in Harare in 1929; her father was a policeman. He was then transferred to many other towns, but the family came to live permanently in Harare in 1936. Miss Mazoe was married and divorced in the 1940s, and has two children. She has been a * domestic worker since the 1950s, and now is a housekeeper for the guest houses of the University of Zimbabwe. Loice Muchineripi -' Mai Muchineripi was born in 1925 in Murewa. She was married in the 1930s and has six children. She lived in Mbare for a year before her husband was transferred to Zambia, where they lived for many years. She had a musika for selling fish, made doilies and ran a butchery in Zambia. She returned to Zimbabwe in the 1970s, and now lives in Mbare. Tabitha Munda Mai Munda says that she was very young at the time of the influenza epidemic in 1918. She was born, grew up and raised her family at Epworth Mission, where she still lives. Mr N. Musonza Mr Musonza was born around 1901 in the Epworth area. He says, "I am left with a few [years] to get to a hundred." He has been a railway worker and a farmer. He now lives in Seke communal lands.

Tarwirei Musonza The son of Mr N. Musonza, he was bom in 1924, and has worked for many years in Harare as a painting contractor. Violet Musonza Mai Musonza is the second wife of the elder Mr Musonza. She was born around 1916 and married in 1934. She is still farming in the Seke communal lands. Lydia Mutizira-Nondo Mai Mutizira-Nondo was born near Mutare in 1935. She completed her teacher training in 1947. In 1958 she moved to Harare with her husband and started teaching in Mabvuku, in Mbare and then in Mufakose. She lives with her family in Marimba Park. Ruth Murhombe Mai Murhombe was born at Waddilove in 1918. She left school when she had completed Standard 5, and married in 1937. She came to live in Harare in 1945 with her husband, and raised eleven children. She worked for seven years in the 1960s in a doctor's office. Today she lives in Mbare. Enniah Mutuma Mai Mutuma was born in Mhondoro in 1917. She was educated up to Standard 4. She has been a domestic worker since 1936, and was married in 1940. She has two children, and lives in Mbare. Ruby Mwayera Mai Mwayera was born in 1924 and is also from Mutare, like her husband. She came to Harare in 1948 after her marriage. She started working in her husband's shop in Machipisa Highfield in the 1950s. _ . She now lives in Marimba Park

Enoch Mwayera Mr Mwayera was born in Mutare in 1920. He was trained in carpentry at Domboshawa and came to Harare in 1946 to open a carpentry shop, making furniture. In 1956 he opened a grocery store and bottle shop in Hightield, where he still works. He lives in Marimba Park. Sarah Ndhlela Mai Ndhlela was born in Chihota in 1913. She was educated at Waddilove where she completed Standard 6 before becoming a teacher. She married the Reverend Ndhlela of the Wesleyan Methodist Church in 1935. After their marriage the Ndhlelas lived in many different parts of Zimbabwe, and came to Harare in 1946. Mai Ndhlela is a staunch member of the women's organization Ruwadzano [Mother's Union]. She has always continued with herteaching, and finally retired from working with children at church creches in 1989. She lives in Highfield. Mativenga Beattie Ngarande Mr Ngarande was born in 1901 in Makoni District in the Eastern Highlands. He was educated up to Standard 4, and came to Harare to live in the 1930s. He worked briefly as a teacher, and then became a waiter in various Harare hotels. He was an early member of the waiter's union. He lives in Mbare. Caroline Renhas Miss Renhas was born in 1919 in Shamva. She came to Harare in 1946, and worked as a domestic worker for many years. She now lives in Highfield.

Munamo Rubaba Mr Rubaba was born around 1905 in Masvingo district. He came to Harare in 1940, and worked as a gardener, cook, and construction worker. He now lives in Tafara with his wife. He is well known in Tafara for beginning a public garden for the residents to enjoy. Shumirai Rubaba Mai Rubaba was born around 1930 in Chivavarira in Masvingo district She married Mr Rubaba in 1952 and came to live in Harare in that year. She has four children, and lives with her husband in Tafara. Cecilia Rusike Mai Rusike was born in the Seke communal lands. She came to Harare when she was married, and lived in Waterfalls suburb for many years. In the 1950s she came to live in Mbare, and worked in a clothing factory and as a domestic worker. Crocheting is her favorite hobby, and she has been selling her work commercially for many years. She lives in Mbare.

Mary Ruswa Mai Ruswa was born in Marondera in the 1930. She came to Harare in 1948. She has worked as a nurse-aide and a vegetable vendor. She now lives in St Mary's Township in Chitungwiza. William Saidi* Mr Saidi was bom in Marondera in 1937 and came to live in Harare when he was still a young child. He was educated in Harare and Plumtree. He became ajournalist and worked on a number of African newspapers in the 1950s. He has published two novels about life in Zimbabwe, and is currently the Group Foreign Editor of Zimbabwe Newspapers. Matombi and Keresiya Savanhu The Savanhu sisters were both bom in Harare; / Matombi in 1923 and Keresiya in about 1930. They both worked as domestic workers for many years, and now live together in Mbare. I Joanna Scott Miss Scott, also known as Mrs Mwelase, is the elder sister of Berita Charlie (see above). She was born in 1910 in Chimanimani in the Eastern Highlands. The thirteenth ' wife of a court interpreter, she lived with him in Harare from the 1930s. At that time she joined the Industrial and Commercial Workers' Union (ICU), one of the first militant African organizations in the then colony of Rhodesia. Miss Scott worked as a domestic worker after her husband's death, and also joined and worked for ZAPU and later, after its formation, ZANU. She lives in * Highfield.

Selina Sitambuli Mai Sitambuli was born in 1924 in Chihota, and came to Harare in 1943. Like Mai Rusike, she has been involved in crochet work to generate income for many years. She lives in Mbare. Stella Mae Sondayi See Chapter 14. Sarah Tsiga Mai Tsiga was born in Mutare in 1920. She was educated up to Standard 5 at Old Mutare Mission. She was married in 1943 and came to larare; she has nine children. Like Berita Charlie, Mai Tsiga and her husband were among the first Africans to be allowed to lease a shop from the municipal authorities in Mbare in the 1950s. She still lives in Mbare. Lawrence Vambe* Mr Vambe was born at Chishawasha Mission in 1917. He was educated at Chishawasha, and in South Africa. ie started his career as ajournalist in 1945; in 1953 he became the Editor-in-Chief of the African Newspapers Group, 'and to a salary - probably the highest paid to any African in the Federation at that time - of £10 a month.' After his newspaper, the African Daily News was banned in 1958, he worked as a civil servant with the Federal government until 1961, and then as a public relations officer for Anglo-American Corporation until 1970. Since then he has been the director of a number of private companies. He is the author of two books about Zimbabwe: From Rhodesia to Zimbabwe and An ill-fated People.

Chapter 1 Why did you come to Harare"? "I came and enjoyed myself here ... Then I stayed forever." Until the late 1940s, Harare was officially a town of white residents and black migrant workers. The policy of the government was that black workers, male and female, were only allowed in town as long as the white residents, manufacturers, industrialists, etc. needed their services. If and when workers were no longer needed, they were supposed to return to their homes in the rural areas. Beyond official policy, however, there was an African community - or several African communities - which developed a permanent character in the town. Even white residents admitted that black workers had to have places to stay. So the first 'location' (an inferior residential area for blacks) was established south of the town in 1892. This is approximately where the area called 'Magaba' is today. The location was moved further away from Salisbury (Harare) in 1907. The town authorities tried to establish firm control over the people living in this new location through various rules and regulations. For example: only employed men could rent a 'hut'; it was an offence not to keep a hut clean; no one was allowed out of the location after 9 p.m.; visitors to the location could not stay for more than twelve hours; no one was allowed to carry on a business; and, the police could enter any hut at any time. In this location - called Harare or Harari African Township, and now that area of town known as Mbare - an urban culture developed over the years. Despite white officialdom, a few married men and women managed to bring up their families in town; others established themselves as more or less permanent residents, even though they maintained close contact with their rural homes. In addition to a growing core of people who came to live permanently in the location, large numbers of men without their wives, and women without their husbands, spent shorter periods of time working in town and living in the location.

After the Second World War, the policy of the government changed. It was decided not only to tolerate, but to actively encourage, the presence of settled, black urban communities near the city centre. It was hoped that these people would provide a reliable workforce for the new industries in Salisbury. Partly because of this policy, more women came to live in town with their husbands. Many people still believe that there were never any women living in town until fairly recently. But, from the earliest days, women have lived in town, although there were always many more urban men than women. For example, some of the women interviewed in this section spoke about either being born in town, or coming to town as young girls in the 1920s and 1930s. This table shows the official figures of the male and female population of the 'location', later called the 'township' from the 1930s to the 1960s. Official figures of African residents of the Salisbury Municipal Location, later called Harari African Township, 1930-1969. Year Men Women Total % of Women 1930 2352 679 3031 22 1949 11290 2233 13523 16 1952 18914 3935 22849 17 1962 33940 8790 42730 21 1969 39510 18440 57950 32 Most African people in Rhodesia lived in the rural areas. This was true in the period from 1930-70, and is still true (although to a lesser extent) today. Urban areas under colonialism therefore remained small islands in a sea of rural farmlands. This is shown by the fact that, in this section, and throughout the book, the use of the word 'home' always refers to the rural area or village from which the speaker and his or her family came. Making the decision to come to a big town like Salisbury (Harare) was a major event in the lives of rural people. Mr M. B. Ngarande: ... and our chief, [Chief] Chiendambuya said, "No, there are no fields in Harare. Nobody lives in Harare. People live in their homes. They just look for jobs in Harare... looking for money to come and make their homes better, or to find lobola. Not that somebody 'comes from' Harare, no!" Mr L. Vambe:... when you came into town the family unit was gone. There was no father, there was no chief and so on. Then you lived in town as an individual. You didn't look around and say, "Okay, I've got a family to think about." You lived as an individual and it was also as an individual that you wanted to survive in the economic system. You had to have a job. If you didn't have a job, you had to trade... , or do something to maintain yourself. That gave you a sense of freedom, as an individual. You were not in the village... Mr Chideya: Was it a good idea to live with your wife in town? Ah. Who would look after my cattle, my home? Who will look after my chickens? It's my wife's job to look after my home. Yes. So, what about the women who lived in town? Where did they come from? Ah. I would be lying. No women lived in town. Mai Rusike: Girls ran away from their homes and came to Harare, that happened because of poverty. Like now. Some people don't have anybody to send them to school, some don't have anybody to look after them. The father is dead, the mother is dead, she has nothing to do. Then she comes to Harare and finds somebody who is sympathetic and they say,"Come let's stay together," and then later they ask about her origins: "Whose child are you?" And she says, "I was bom at so and so." And they feel pity and look after her until they see her relatives who say, "You are with this child?" and they say, "Yes, I am with her, and she comes from such and such [a place]" That's why some girls ran away and came to Harare not having parents to look after them. The 1920s Miss M. Savanhu: [I was born] here. Here, in Harare? Yes. In which year was this? I don't know. I never went to school .... But my uncle said 1923. So you grew up in Mbare? Did you go to school? Yes, for one year, then I just stopped. The parents of long ago said, "Why would we send you to school? You won't do anything for us. I can give money to a man, not a woman." That's how we stopped schooling.

Mai Sondayi: When I was still very young I came here to Harare with my mother... She was coming to work. What else did people come to do in town? She came to work. My father had died ... When I became [old enough to be] aware, we were in Harari, in Harari ... the location. Near the hostels there... in Old Bricks. Miss J. Scott: None of us saw Harare because we were scared of cars. If we heard a car going, "D-r-r-," we would hide. Did we know cars?... Did we know Harare? No! I only knew Harare after I got married. The 1930s Mai Chideya: We would just come at chirimo [the warm part of the dry season]. We didn't come that often because long back it was said: "Is a person who lives in Harare mad?" It was said, "maNyasaland [people from Nyasaland] live there." That's what they said long back. There were no maZezuru [Shona people who are native speakers of the Zezuru dialect] in town! Miss J. Scott: At that time there was no woman who was working in town... or even living in the location. Women used to refuse to live in the location, saying: "Ah. We will catch siki," [venereal disease]. There were very very few women who lived in the location. These were from Mutare or Bulawayo - not a muMezuru [native speaker of the Zezuru dialect] from here! She didn't want that. Where did women want to live? At home. They didn't know anything about the location - they said: "Its bad. There are people called mahuu [prostitutes] there ... we will catch sikb." Oh? So are you saying the women who lived in town were not maZezuru? No. They did speak Zezuru , but they were not from around: from Chihota, or from Rusike or from Zvimba, or from Bhora. No. The 1940s Mr M. B. Ngarande: Women started coming here, to Harare, a lot from around 1941. That's how women came. Before then, women didn't come here. She would even refuse; and the parents of the girl, the father would say: "I don't have a child who goes to town! No ... . What is she going to do in town as a woman? No, she can stay here and tend her chickens and her things here. But going to town... to go and just sit? What if she falls ill? Ah, ah, who pays for her? Who is going to remain with the children?" Mai Magwenzi: We did hear about women coming to Harare from Seke or Chihota without the permission of their husbands or their brothers ... . It went according to the rules. You could say: "I am going to my husband in Harare today." But if he wasn't aware of your coming, you could get there and you would be told to go back home, by the husband. And you would go back home ... . But if you planned and you had agreed that you would come and stay for so many days, then you could stay. Did unmarried women also come to town? Isn't it so with the unmarried ones? It was their job to come and just live here in town. It was a problem. It troubled even the nkosis [colonial officials]. They would say: "It's quite a disgrace to see African girls coming to Harare, seeing them walking with men with their arms around each other." It was a disgrace to us Africans. But it has always been like that. It didn't start today. Mai Sitambuli: I came to Harare with my brother. My mother and sekuru [grandfather] agreed to my coming. I asked them. It wasn't easy. But because of the way I was suffering, since I grew up without a father, my mother agreed to let me come and look for a job and help myself and her at the same time. Miss C. Renhas: I was a little girl like so.... Then I said: "I am now a girl." And I said: "I am going to get married in Harare." I was seeing my sister Porina wearing nice things. Then I said: "I am also going to Aunty [in Harare], to get married by those boys who wear suits."... I saw myself being given cakes with cream, and [they] tasted nice. Then I said: "I-i-i, my father doesn't buy nice food. Let me go to Harare. I am now grown up. Nice things are eaten there!" Then I came here to Harare... . And I came and enjoyed myself here. I don't want to lie, no! Then I stayed forever. Mai Tsiga: In that year, 1943, 1 got married. After the wedding I came here to Harare. My husband was living here. He had a shop and an eating house with his brother, right in town, when black people were still allowed to have businesses in town.., before it was as big as it is now. Mai Butao: For me to actually come to live in Harare, I came with my husband when our murungu [white person] was transferred from KweKwe ... . He was a teacher. Then we came here.

The African Weekly 30th March 1949 About 60,000 Africans live in Salisbury. Some in backyards, kitchens and shacks. The population of Salisbury is in the neighbourhood of 90,000 and of these over 60,000 are Africans, made up of every tribe from Central, Western, Eastern and Southern Africa. The official figure of the population of Harari [Mbare] is 20,000. Multiply that number by two and add about 5,000 to the product, then you have something like the approximate number. Outside Harari Africans live anywhere and everywhere, backyards, kitchens and shacks. The growth of both European and African populations in Salisbury has been something akin to the gold rush on the Rand or in California in the nineteenth century. Strictly speaking, the rush may be said to have started in 1945 and surged on until it was offset by the Native Urban Areas Act, that is, in the case of Africans, and the immigration restrictions, in the case of Europeans. However, the current is not broken, as it is generated by the large scale industrialization of Salisbury. About 45,000 [people live] in Harari. In Harari Township you hear a gong - an unending gong of men in a mad race to erect sufficient houses for single and married men. Yet the effort, in comparison with the demand, seems to be a mere drop in the ocean. One day, and I should believe it is not far away, we may wake up to see a shanty town snugly added on to our beautiful city. The Advisory Board put through a resolution demanding the right for Africans to erect their own houses, it being satisfied that the shortage of houses was an alarmingly serious matter, but no such right was granted.

The 1950s Mai Mahenga: I came to work. We did laundry. Ya-a. Laundering in all mayadhi [the white suburbs]. I came with my friends. There were many of them here from our home area. They got married and lived in town. I knew life in Harare was so- so... [much higher] . We were people who were not used to bathing, and this body would have layers of dirt. We would just wash our legs a bit. So we learnt in Harare that you wash a bit more. Mai Hiabangana: Why did you come to Harare from Bulawayo in 1951? Because there was money. People were telling us, "Salisbury pays better."... Yes... we were paid better than Bulawayo people. Mai Rubaba: It was my first time to come to Harare when I was married, in 1952. In Chivavarira we didn't buy things, we used to eat what we grew. In town the money wasn't enough, but things were cheap. We were staying in Mbare, in Old Bricks. There were so many women at that time. If they had children, they had to sleep under the bed, it was so crowded ... . There were water pumps at that time, one for five houses, so it [water] was no problem. There were places for men and women to go and bath, one big place for each. I was just seated at home [working as a housewife]. 1. For the changes in place names after 1980, see page 4.

Houses in Old Bricks

Chapter 2 Old Bricks "Today things are far, far much better Birikisi, or Old Bricks, was the name people gave to the oldest section of the oldest township in Harare. The first section, which the authorities started building for the new location in 1907 was called MaTanks. These houses, which looked like water tanks, were round metal huts with thatched roofs. Later on, one-roomed brick houses were built. Old Bricks was in the section of Mbare between Matapi Road (Harare Road South on a map) and Chaminuka Road, which runs south of Rufaro Stadiu m, north of the Mukuvisi River and east of Mbare Musika. Old Bricks survived until the 1960s, when the municipality finally tore down the old rooms. Although town officials insisted that Old Bricks was a good, clean 'place for natives', it was actually a poor, bleak area, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. According to the historian, T. Yoshikune, who described the township in the 1920s, there were no shops, clinics, churches or amenities, only a beer hall run by the town authorities. In 1920, there was only one well and three communal latrines (without ablution facilities) for the use of a population of about 700 people. Water-borne sewage (flush toilets) were provided for the white residential areas in the 1920s. But, even in 1957, the city had still not provided water-borne sewage to all parts of Harari Township. (Some parts of Tafara Township, which was built by the authorities in the 1960s, did not even have this service twenty years later.) Here is a description of Old Bricks, from a novel called The 01dBricks Lives by Mr William Saidi. One of the characters in the book says: "Now, you see, we are all in this deep hole, this bottomless black hole, Maskito. All of us. The darkness is complete... . We are all here bound or united by our slavery. We are slaves, prisoners, serfs, the scum of the earth, the wretched of the earth ... we are.., where the earth lies down to die."

Mai Tsiga: In those days, what did people say, when they saw themselves living in places like Old Bricks while the whites lived in big houses, what did they say? We just said: 'The whites are the ones who must live in those houses," because even our knowledge was very little... because of being dominated. We just said: "It's for whites, we blacks don't fit there. They are for whites who rule us." The suburbs were scary, they were scary. And we said: "Wherever I am told to stay, I will stay." Yes. And you would think, "With this little money I am getting, will I be able to furnish [my house]?" So we thought it was for whites." Mai Murhombe: My husband was staying in Old Bricks. There were these round MaTank houses. So many people would be piled up there. There was no space; as long as one had room to sleep. The 1920s Mai Chideya: We only came when we were grown up, that's when we came to Harare. There was a brother of ours who was working and he lived in a MaTank, those houses called MaTank. Old Bricks had not yet been built. There was MaTank. That's where our brother lived, and we would come from home on foot, following some older women, saying, "We also want to go and see Harare." And we got there and stayed with our brother at MaTank. Mai Sondayi: When I became [old enough to be] aware.., we were in Harare: in Harare, the location. Near the hostels there - in Old Bricks. They were MaTank houses. The walls were made of (zinc), and grass-thatched roofs. And the floor.., it was just soil! Yes. We would go and dig for clay to come and polish, and then we polish with a stone and then put cow-dung1. That's how we lived long back. There was one bathroom which had been built at the edge of the location. Women would go and then men. There were showers. During the day it was the women's time to bath, when the men had gone to work; and in the evening the men went. Men and women used the same bathroom? Yes. That same one. Of course it was called bhavhu ragogogoi [the knock-knock bathroom]. "Gogoi!" and those inside answer, "Varume" and you know there are men inside. "Gogoi!" "Vakadzi!" You know they are women, and you go in.

The 1930s Miss J. Scott: [In the 1930s], did you have to have a husband in order to get a house? No. There was nothing like that. If you went to the location you could just get a house. If you were a girl doing chihuu [prostitution], if you wanted a house you could get it. Rent was eight bob [shillings]. If you had a house, it was yours personally - as long as you could pay eight bob for it. So these mahuu could have their own houses? You mean those girls? Yes. Some mahuu lived in twos... in the MaTank, those round ones. I found those houses in the location, those in Old Bricks. When Majubheki2 was built I was here. When they built those [houses] near the police, I was there. A woman could get a house of her own in MaTank, before the men started wearing shirts or whatever, as they do today. Then... they said, "The houses are now for men." And those men who had no houses were given [a place] where the women had been removed. That's when they did away with giving women houses. Then the women ran to buy houses.., where? In Seke. Those who had money, the rich ones, like Emilia Mupoto. But in the very beginning a woman could have her own house? Hers! By herself. She could put her own beautiful beds [in it]. Things were not expensive long back! Miss S. Mazoe: They used to build [toilets] just like this room, you know. Its just building this side, then they can make small rooms, they can put tins. Tins, yes, but no doors. No doors. No tap of water, to wash your hands. When you come in the morning, you couldn't go in. Some careless people used to do it on the floor. When the people came in to wash those things, it was terrible. Because there were people called, mazai, we used to call them mazai, those people who come to collect our shits in the evening. And then some they used to come and wash the toilet. If they don't take those things you don't get inside. It was terrible. The bathroom3, the same.., just a line of showers. When you come in you just take your clothes [off], and you do your bathing. But it was one, one room with no doors. Everybody can see. If you bring a child he can see you, how you were bathing. You see it was terrible. It was terrible.

When you do washing, they just made on the other side, something like pavement, for washing. There were just about four sinks. One can stand there, there, there. When you finish others can come in. Some, they don't clean that place, you know: some they are very dirty. Some they are very clean. Eh ... . So it was bad. That time it was bad. It was really bad. The toilet and how we used to bath. It was terrible. Today it is far, far much better, because everybody has got her own [place]. Miss M. Savanhu: What was your house in Old Bricks like? It was a little round one. It was for mother, father and the three of us. So, do you think life in Old Bricks was hard for the people who lived there? I would say it was hard because those who lived in those brick houses lived in fours. Four men in each one? What about in your round house? It was the man and his wife and his children. Mai Chagaresango: Life was really difficult. We stayed in MaTank houses. Just one room in which we [four children] stayed with our mother. Life was difficult. But long back things were cheap. You could buy a loaf of bread for a shilling. Food was cheap. Miss A. Gasa: The MaTanks were these round tanks which were grass-thatched. They were just one room. So people would pick up these old pieces of zinc and tin and make a little room by the side, for the children to sleep in... that's where we all lived ... the brick houses were better than the MaTanks. Yes, they were better. They had a big room and a kitchen by the side, so those with children would put them to sleep in the kitchen. The parents would be in the big room. Mai Butao: Schools closed in June, then we would come and visit [our sekuru in] Harare, in Old Bricks when it was still Birikisi. New Location had not yet been built. It was still bush. How big was your sekuru's house? It was a big one. Made of bricks. They were later destroyed and they built the ones that are there now. How many rooms did they have? Two, plus the kitchen was three.

The 1940s Mai Kanogoiwa: We were in Old Bricks. That's where I first arrived... You could have a big house with toilets and showers together. So it was a problem ... because some people... in fact everybody ... . Nobody wants to bath while being watched by somebody else. It's nice to bath on your own. I didn't like the fact that people would start defecating from the door of the toilets. I saw that the communal toilets were difficult to handle... I said: "If I could have my own toilet, if I can't clean it, let it be my fault. I don't want to step on other people's shit." Mai Guchu: My brother is the one who lived inMaTank. My husband and I lived in real brick houses. It was just a room like this one and a kitchen outside. Somebody lived in the kitchen and in this one there were four people. We would divide [the room] with curtains, cutting off your bed from the rest with curtains. Did the others have wives? Yes. Their wives.., if two of you were married you all lived like that. What about the children? You just put them to sleep near your bed. Did you get along with the other women in the house? How could we not get along when we lived in the same house? We got along. If you quarrelled, you just quarrelled one day. But we got along since we lived together. Miss Mazoe: It was just a room with a roof. Yes. This side, about two, that side, two people ... and then the people, they started to [feel] disgust, they said, "No, we can't live like that. where you sleep, where you cook, where you eat, everything!" So they started to start again, to build another line [of houses]. It was one room with a small kitchen, that's all. Mai Mutuma: What were the houses in Old Bricks like? Ah. Just one room and a small kitchen. Some would try and get little pieces of zinc to extend the verandah, to sleep well. [Then] one would sleep on the verandah and another in the kitchen. And the next day you would exchange. But the room had three or four people.

So you divided the room? Yes, with blankets, and curtains. Some would say, the one with a wife would go and sleep in the kitchen or in some little rooms built by the side [of the house], and the ones without wives would sleep in the big room. When it was so crowded, was stealing from each other common? It was there but not very common. It wasn't much. You could go and leave your things and find them there [when you got back]. Mr L. Gutsa: I had a room in the Old Bricks, that was Mbare. There was one line of brick houses, the rest were MaTanks. My employer was paying the rent. Living conditions in that area were very good, except the toilets had buckets which used to be removed by men with wagons before tractors came. This was the location and Mr Vito was the sergeant looking after the location. All the troubles in the location were to go to him and if he couldn't straighten it out, it would go to the NC [Native Commissioner]. I had one room to myself. In the rest of the house there was a kitchen, and one other room .... As a person who was being taken care of by a white man, I used to have more things than my neighbours and I used to give them things. A general worker used to get seven shillings and sixpence, which was seventy-five cents a month, plus food; and I was getting one pound ten shillings a day, which was forty-five pounds a month. Really, I was one of the best paid people ... . I did my own cooking and washing. But, as you know in those days, we had what I call African socialism: my neighbour, in the next room, seeing as I was young, he did nearly everything for me. I was providing the goods: mealie-meal, meat, soap and whatnot. He had a job also. He was like one of my family. He said, "Young man, do not wash, give me your clothes." My neighbour was in his room with three others, they were also general workers. They were all men. There were no married quarters. Women were not wanted, but then there were some women in the location. I must admit that when women are prohibited, there will be women in the night. So we had a lot of women, but the houses or rooms were not married quarters. Each room had four beds for men. So the women, there were quite a lot of women... I witnessed some women from home who came to visit their husbands. They used to sleep in one room with four men. Mr Rubaba: In Old Bricks, there were four men in a room. Our wages were now two shillings and sixpence per week. It was enough money. Bread and meat were tenpence. You could save the meat for a long time. Conditions were very good, we thought everything was fine. We didn't know about anything else. Mai Chitumba: In 1946 when I came to Harare to teach I lived in Old Bricks. Near the musika [market]. That is where they gave single accommodation. We used to live in one house, being two or three women together. As long as I was working, I was living with other working women. They had their children as well. We were sharing one room. Some were working as housemaids or in the stores, but they were working. When you were given accommodation at that time, you were given, as two or three women, one accommodation. It depends how many children you have. If you have two or three children they will accommodate you with only one other woman. Because it was only two rooms - a kitchen and a bedroom. If you have no children, then you would be three women; if you had more children then you would be two. The room was quite big, like this [ i.e. like a small classroom]. They were big, to accommodate us sleeping. But the kitchen was quite small. It was only a kitchen for cooking. It was difficult to share a room with three other women! It was difficult. You know women, sometimes you would be put with a person who drinks and sometimes you are put with someone who doesn't know how to stay with other people, and sometimes children would fight. It was difficult. The 1950s Mai Magwenzi: If you had children you would just accommodate them near your bed. We had divided the room among ourselves. Life was very difficult! [laughter]. We used stoves, inside the house, primus stoves. Each had one. But if you didn't, you could make a fire outside. If you lit the fire while the child was close she could be burnt. How can she not get burnt? This used to happen. It used to happen. We got water from tanks outside. There was a big 'bath' which had been built that was where you had taps for drinking water. Those inside the toilets were for the toilets. But our drinking water tap was outside. If you went to the tap late, you would find the water already turned off. Long ago they used to turn it off. You had to queue up for the water.

I Cow-dung can serve as a sealer for an earthen or clay floor. After being smoothed on and allowed to dry, rubbing it brings a polished finish. 2'Majubheki', a version of the nickname for Johannesburg in South Africa, refers to a section of Mbare Township which was built in the 1930s. It was said that the first people to move into 'Majubheki' had criminal tendencies, as in the stories that were told about the residents of Johannesburg. 3 In 1930 there was only one 'shower bathroom' provided for the 700 women residents of Mbare, yet the colonial location superintendent said that he thought that facilities were adequate.

Chapter 3 What did the city look like in those days? "All this was bush.. Today the city of Harare is much bigger and more developed than the town of Salisbury was. Below are some population figures for the town over the years. Official figures of the adult populationof Salisbury by race, 1934-69: Year 1934 1946 1956 1962 1969 Blacks 19910 39058 90000 147550 280090 Whites 8039 11392 61930 88710 96764 Total 27949 50450 151930 236260 376854 The growth of the central and northern parts of the town can be seen in the photographs and maps in this chapter. The first location, which was started in 1892, was moved south in 1907, and joined by a location for married people in 1920. The site of Old Bricks is shown in the 1940 map. Some of the older residents recall in this chapter some of the changing features of these different parts of town many years ago. The 1920s Mr M. D. Ngarande: A black person was not allowed to walk on the 'stoob', the one you call a 'stoob' [pavement]. No. You had to walk on the road. If you went there, on the pavement, you were arrested. You were not to step on it. No.

General Plan of Salisbury Township' (Harare), 1901 PAAS ONA LAN D TVR CLUF T~Y~ MESS CAM~

There were only two tarred streets [in the mid-1920s]. Eh, Manica, the one we call Manica Road, and First Street. That's all. Most of the others didn't have [tar]. The one [road] we now call Nyerere, it was a little river. They would put planks like this and we crossed them to come to Puzey and Payne, where soccer was played. There were no others [tarred roads]. Early in the morning, eh... they poured water so that there wouldn't be dust in town. There in Greenwood, we call it Greenwood isn't it? It was all bush. Yah. There were mizhanjes [indigenous fruit trees]. Then to go to the jail, to the [police] camp you wouldn't go there at four o'clock. You would be eaten by lions... in Majubheki, in Mbare. What you call Majubheki. You wouldn't go after four. You were eaten by lions. Here where is Harare Hospital - you wouldn't walk there after four. Ah! You'd be eaten! The 1930s Below are comments made by members of the Industrial and Commercial Workers' Union (ICU) in 19302. "All roads are made by natives but if you walk there you are arrested.... One day the road will tell you it was made by natives." "When I arrived in Bulawayo I was nearly arrested for walking on the pavement as I did not know there was a law against it - but who made the pavements? The black man." "We must write and ask for permission to walk on the pavements because of the danger from motor cars." ".... you are in constant fear of bodily injury and death itself, the European does not incur this risk, why should you?" Mai Bakasa: Salisbury was small. It wasn't that big. Manica Road was the largest road, and - we are now getting into politics - you were not allowed to walk on the pavement, brushing

Harare in 1892 Manica Road (undated) "Early days" ZEtE past the missuses.... You were pushed, "Move over!" By vamukwindi [the angry ones] we used to call the policemen vamukwindi. Ah. Brushing the missus? You were shoved away. Um. Life was hard. We went into those shops owned by Indians... H. M. Barbour3 and those were there but we were not allowed in. And Sanders. Ah! They didn't allow us. You would be asked right by the door before you got to it, "What do you want?" "Ah! I just want to buy material." "What does it look like?" So you can't talk about material which you haven't seen, so we never went into H. M. Barbour. We would see many motor cars. But they were not as many as they are today. They were fewer. Because if you are walking in town and you are not used to cars going in every direction, you will be scared. [Whites] didn't want you to brush into them. You had to walk away from them in fear. - -- First Street, Salisbury (Harare) in the 1930s Jel"411 V

Pian of Salibury Municipai Location (Mbare), 1940 crmc. iRY +* +e +4-C +e++ e e ce+~ +++ece [email protected]...... es..... *00***+ * + + + + ++ o.sOCee.@B Ae..e i

The 1940s Mai Maripakwenda: Highfields was small in those days [the mid-1940s]. But if I could remember the names and say it ended at such and such a place... say, in front of Jennings Hall. There was nothing elsewhere, nothing. It was bush. Even going towards Saint Peter's Kubatana [ a school], it was bush. It was so bad that people said: 'There are bandits, there are bandits!" An aerial view of central Harare in 1952

Mai Mwayera: When I came to Highfield in 1949 there weren't many people. They were few. All this was bush - from Gwanzura [stadium] ground. We used to have fields all over. Machipisa, that was bush. People farmed there... I was farming. We really fanned, and grew maize. Where there is Gwanzura, that's where my field was. I grew maize and sweetpotatoes and groundnuts. Mai Ndhlela: In those days [1946-53] when we lived there, Mbare was not that big, as big as now. It was very small. Areas like National4 were not there. This school I am talking about [Chitsere Government Primary School] was not there. On this whole plain, women grew a lot of rice. Mai Chagaresango: Town was small, not as built up as it is now. I could even ride a bicycle in town. But can I do it now? Ah no. There are too many cars. Was there a part of town for blacks? Ah. Ah! Ah! It was like that. There were certain shops which did not admit blacks. We just went into Indian ones. I Note the use of the word 'township'; native or African areas were referred to at this time as locations. 2 These comments have been taken from a file of police reports on ICU meetings in the National Archives of Zimbabwe, file number S482/280/39, vol. 2. The ICU was one of the first vocal and active organizations agitating for the rights of African people in the colonial system. It took its name and philosophy from the ICU of South Africa. The law that did not allow black people to walk on the pavements in the towns was dropped in 1934. 3 H. M. Barbour was an expensive shop for Europeans in the centre of Salisbury. It opened in 1921. 4A section of Mbare built in the 1940s. The houses were built by the National Building and Housing Board, so the new area became known as 'National'.

Chapter 4 Life in other parts of town "God felt sorry for me, so I got a house like that." Mbare was the first location built outside Salisbury. Highfield was built in the 1930s, Mabvuku, Tafara, Kambuzuma and Mufakose were built in the late 1950s and early 1960s. In addition to these council locations, people lived on the outskirts of the city on private plots and farms owned by whites. Taylor's far m, William's farm, and Waterfalls far m were some of the private localities where people were able to rent a plot or a room. Residents in these areas had a bit more freedom in their daily lives because such farms were outside the reach of the city's laws. For this reason, city officials, over the years, tried to bring these areas under their control. Most African residents were cleared out' of these localities by the 1960s. They were forced to relocate to places such as St Mary's in what became the satellite city of Chitungwiza. The 1920s Mai Makoni: So you would say 1926 is when you came to live in Magaba? What was your house like? They were just houses ... . Ha-a. Long ago there was just a room to sleep in and one to cook in... . They were white man's houses, [he] had his little area there. So you were renting from this white man? Yes, we were renting. I don't remember where he lived... we were just living [there]. The life of long ago was real life.

/ A house in the married quarters of Mbare (Harari), 1927 A Nissan hut, native urban area, 1950

The 1930s Miss J. Scott: When you came to live in Harare, where were you staying? At a house do"wn there [in Highfield] with an upstairs ... . The house is still there, its the only one. It was painted red, but I think it has been repainted by people who live there now. Near the police's houses. Were they flats or it was a house? Those English words like 'flats', did we know them? 'Upstairs!' Did you have workers? Yes. I had two girls and two boys. What work did they all do? Gardening, sweeping the house. I had a fantastic house... . Then we went to the location [Mbare]. I also had a fantastic house in the location. That house is among trees... . If a murungu came to my house she would be surprised! And mywayof dressing - it was amazing! The 1940s Miss S. Mazoe: Hitler and the British [were] fighting. And then there was another small town where they [made a camp for] those people who were arrested - the matarian [Italian prisoners of war]. Like Marandellas, where they used to put Polands and Germans .... When the wars finished, they take those houses, they starting to give [them to] Europeans. The Europeans said, "Ah, no, it's too near to the Africans." They just left that place. Then they started to give it to Africans and we call it Beatrice Cottages." Mr W. Saidi: Most of the [very respectable] women lived in the [Beatrice] Cottages. They were somehow more advanced... Mrs Opperman, for instance. She lived in the Cottages... most of [these] women were nurses, and they were mostly South Africans. Miss K. Savanhu: We lived in, we changed houses in, Old Bricks. Sometimes we went to Majubheki. In Majubheki near 'Sure's', near Mbare, which is now called Mbare Hostel.

From there we came to New Location - in the middle - on Sixth [Avenue], and another road in the middle, I don't know what it's called. On Sixth Avenue, from there we went back to Old Bricks again. From Old Bricks we went to Majubheki again. We stayed for a long time in Majubheki, then we went to National, just after it had been built. I don't know when it was built. You kept moving house because your father had left his work? That's what mother said. If the husband stopped working, the house was locked up because you no longer had a white man to pay rent for you. Because people's rent was paid by whites. So if you left work, it was said that you no longer had a white man to pay rent for your house1. Then your house is closed and you go and live with a friend ... Long back, my mother said, long long ago my father used to run with a rickshaw2 when he was still a boy. Jr4 Mr William Craster in a rickshaw with his puller in the Craster uniform

So if the house was closed where would you go and stay? We would live with his friends. Sometimes we would live with my mother's aunt who had a house in Old Bricks. We would all go and live there. When my father gets a house after getting another job, we would leave and go there. Miss M. Savanhu: When you went to visit relatives in the reserves, did you think life there was hard? I can't say it was hard because we just went there to visit. We would get maize, pumpkins and peanuts, so I just thought life in the reserve was fun. Mai Mwayera: I came here in 1948, February 21st, on [President] Mugabe's birthday. Then on November 15th, I know the date, that's when we got a house in Old Highfield: in 'M' block. That's where we stayed. I was lucky with that house. I was given a house which had, I think, four rooms. God felt sorry for me, so I got a house like that. Mai Murhombe: The house in Ardbennie was a one-door [i.e. it had a front door only]. So if we made a fire, the whole house would be full of smoke. So, when they built these [houses in Mbare], we moved and came here because, if you make a fire in the kitchen, you can close the door, the smoke doesn't come this way. The 1950s Mr W. Saidi: I think Highfield was, eh... I think initially some of us were scared of Highfield. We heard stories about Highfield... that you could get killed in Highfield. And it had that reputation of, 'shebeens', for instance. I didn't know about shebeens [small, illegal local bars] until I went to Highfield. You couldn't have them in Mbare? No, you couldn't have them. Was it because there was less supervision there? Well, most of the people who came to Highfield were new to the city, and also there was respectability. People in Highfield thought [of] themselves as high[er] up than people in Mbare. And I think some of them thought they were more educated and they could get away

A house in Highfield, 1950 Kambuzuma Township, 1965 with certain things that people in Mbare couldn't. And also, mind you, Highfield in the beginning was not run by the municipal council. It was run by the government. It was a government settlement. There was this feeling that if you lived in Highfield you were higher. You were not under this katsekera [location superintendent] person. I think that's why it was like that. I think most of us were scared of Highfield. When I lived there, of course, I realized there was nothing to be scared of. I lived there. Of course there were things you could do in Highfield you couldn't do in Mbare. Mr J. Manjolo: I lived in Mabvuku from 1953. In 1961 I was married. We got water from an [outside] tap. There were twenty to thirty people using one tap. If you were married the wife got the water. It was problem to go there late for water, then you had to queue up. But our house was close to the tap. Mai Mutizira-Nondo: There were houses but life was so low in Mabvuku Location [in the late 1950s]. When we came, the major problem was the toilets. Because the toilets were like the ones they say are in Tafara now. The ones we had were just a hole [in the ground] and if it got filled up, you had to take the dirt out yourself and throw it away. They were not flushable. You poured water in yourself. They got filled up quite quickly. They didn't even have buckets for you to lift out. It was just cement and everything just floated. That was the problem. We left it like that [in 19631. How many rooms did the houses have? We started living in a three-roomed and we went into a four. That was the biggest we knew. Did they have electricity and cement floors? They had electricity but only for lighting. We used firewood for cooking. There was none for ironing. We used charcoal irons. The floors were concrete but not very smooth. It had little stones. Mai Kobe: What were the houses you lived in, in Canaan [Highfield] like? It's those that were built - the Ma-twenty-one [houses which cost £21]3. Twenty-one what? Pounds! Twenty-one pounds? Rent per month?

Yes. No. We paid twenty-one pounds to get the stand. Yes. And rent was three pounds something. Yes. When you went to take the bin, and the keys for the house, it was twentyone pounds. How big were the houses? There were four rooms: bedroom, dining room and kitchen and a spare ... . Ah, they [the rooms] were big. Because the dining room is big. The bedroom is big. The kitchen is big - a person can sleep there. The spare room is the only one which was small. Twenty-one pounds was just to get into the house. And they wrote that you will finish paying your rent in 19... what? 1999! Mai Ruswa: At MaOrange [a small settlement between Arcadia and Mbare] the houses were in a mudhadhadha [a long building] ... . Each person had one room. This was because if you took two, the money would be too much. It was too much for us to pay because we got a little money... . We rented from a certain Indian. He was the owner of that place. Were your rooms better than those in Mbare or they were the same? Ah - ours were not very much better, no. Those in Mbare had electricity, isn't it? So because of the trouble we had in striking matches to light a light - we said those in electricity were better. Were there any women living there? There were women who lived there. Some went to order vegetables, [like] bananas and other musika things to sell. Some brewed skokiyana [a potent home- brewed alcohol]. Where did they have a musika? They just displayed [their wares], and people would pass by and buy. There was no musika where we were. You would just display. But they were not allowed to do that. They were arrested. So were the others who brewed skokiyana. Mr L. Gono: In 1952 and '53, I was staying in Masasa4. Yes. It was a compound. It was a very bad place - no toilet, nothing. It was called Mukura. Mukura compound. You know, before you get by the drive-in cinema there, there is a small road going into the compound... Nobody gave me a house to stay in or anything. There was a compound, so you could build your own house, with mud and poles. So we stayed there. It was awful... [there was] no toilet, no good water. You had to dig a hole like a well.

That's how we lived. And the rainy season! The rain was flowing - where were you going to fetch your water? No clean water. And think of the place, the toilet place. Um. You can't believe it. It's lucky that I am still alive. Mai Rusike: We lived at Waterfalls, at Six Miles, across the Mukuvisi. We lived on Taylor's farm. We paid rent, two pounds. You built what you wanted, two or three rooms, the rent was two pounds. If you built three or four rooms, three pounds. Those for two pounds had their own line5, and for three pounds their own line. Were there many people at Taylor's farm? There were many people! There were many and there was a Methodist church. We wedded in that church at Six Miles. The ministers who came there, were from town and they came, and evangelists came to preach. There was a school for the children and the teachers stayed there... [but] it wasn't a mission. It was a government farm. This Mr Taylor was an important official. He had this farm ... . Those were the officials who had their own farms, who did what they wanted with their farms. Did Mr Taylor live there too? He stayed here in town. He just had some people who saw that everything was all right, how is the church going etc. If there was a problem, they would go and tell Mr Taylor. Women grew tsenza [a potato-like tuber], some grew rice, some sorghum. We just ate [what was grown]. We hadn't known about selling and if a friend came you would say, "My friend, here is some sweet potatoes," if she hadn't grown any. We just helped one another like that. Yes. Nobody knew [about] sleeping in hunger. Children also ate, not that children spent the day in hunger, no. If somebody was in hunger they would say, "Ah, shamwari [friend], can't you give me a bucket [of food]?" Like those who brewed beer. And then one day she says, "I have brought you a bucket of rice, here it is." That's what we did." The 1960s Mai Matondo: In 1961 when you started living in Mufakose, were there only married people living here? Yes. There were no thieves. We could sleep with things outside. There wasn't even any noise. Now we have so many problems.

Did you come to live here because Mufakose was the only place with houses, or because there were better houses here? There was Highfield, Mabvuku and other townships, but this was a new township in the 1960s. That's where married people came, only married people. Single men's hostels in Mbare (Harari) The 1970s Mai Magwenzi: [My second husband] had a girlfriend, then his house was about to be locked up and then he married me6. So after marrying me for the house he went and took that girlfriend. So I realized life was difficult. If he just wanted to marry for the house, why didn't he just marry her? So I realized I had had enough. The Nkosi [Native Commissioner] Marandellas then said to my father, Whatever happens I won't marry your daughter to anybody again. He said, "We have annulled her [two] marriages." Then you left Mabvuku? I left, then I looked for a stand in Hunyani, in Katanga [where] you would come and build a tangwena [shanty]. I bought the tangwena and the ground, then I built my house, at the 'ruins' near the Hunyani River. It was a home for women without husbands. Men came later and found the women already established. So you formed your own town? I found it formed already, here in Hunyani. Mai Ruswa: Some have told us that Hunyani was a place where they settled widows. Is this true? They settled widows, but they did not discriminate, saying, "You a widow, come here." No. It went according to the way you were living. . . . When we heard that there was a place, we ran for it. Some with husbands, some without husbands. People said, "A home for widows, a home for widows!" because some came from the farms. We came from Highfields. Our child got sick at home and we went. So our house was closed while we were at home. So we looked for another place to live in Harare. While we were there we heard there was a place where people were being allocated [stands] to build. Then we came. They would ask, "Did you wed?" Maybe you would have just been married without wedding. Then we were given a place and we stayed. ' A certain percentage of housing in each township was controlled by various employers, who paid rent for their workers. If a worker lost his job, he also lost the right to live in the house and was evicted. 2 A rickshaw is a small carriage in which passengers are pulled by a person in the same way that a cart is pulled by a horse or donkey. Rickshaws were used as taxis in Rhodesian cities for about 30 years.

The following overview of early urban transportation methods was written in 1956... '[In 1935] cyclists were a dominant feature of the traffic landscape [in Salisbury], though motoring was firmly and largely established. Every other European, however, went to and from work by cycle, cars for the most part being reserved for taking the air at the end of the day and for week-end runs and holiday trips. The [writer] cannot now recall when the last rickshaw passed, though rickshaws in numbers survived on active service until at least the late 'Twenties and one at least until 1939. The last "Stand for 4 Rickshaws"[sign] disappeared only a year or two ago, when revellers by night broke[it] up... at the north-east entrance to Cecil Square.' (From: Salisbury - A City Comes of Age, 1956.) 3 After paying an initial deposit, payments for houses in New Highfield were made in monthly installments. The home 'owner' did not own the land beneath the house. He or she paid a small monthly rent on the land itself, and was granted the right to do this for 99 years. This arrangement was called 'leasehold'. 4 This is an area east of the city, shown on maps as Beverley or Msasa. 5 A 'line' was a row of houses. 6 After the 1950s, townships were built for married people only. In order to rent a house in these areas a man had to be properly married. Single men or couples who were not legally married were evicted. Chapter 5 Girls and Education "Why can't you girls learn to be teachers?" This chapter looks at one of the most important obstacles that was put in the way of many women - lack of education. Education was one of the things which colonial society denied African children. When, for example, a survey was done in 1950, it was found that out of about a million children, there were only 230 000 African children in school. About 40% of those students were girls. Rhodesia had two kinds of schools for African children: mission schools and government schools. Mission schools were the most numerous, but even these were few and had small enrolments. The picture at the secondary schools level was even worse. The first government secondary school, Goromonzi, was opened in 1946. By 1950 it had 255 students, 53 of whom were girls. But, in the same year, there was only 849 children in Rhodesia's other African secondary schools; and only 25 of them were girls. Government primary schools did not charge fees, and had free books. But there were only a very small number of these schools. Also, only parents who had 'proper' marriages and could show a marriage certificate were allowed to enrol their children in government schools. This restriction put schooling beyond the reach of many children. For example, in 1956 in the townships of Harari and Mabvuku, only about one out of every five children was attending school. Mission schools charged lowfees, but even so, there were many rural people who could not afford to pay them. In 1950, the boarding fees at Goromonzi were £7 lOs ($15) per year. When they came to the city, the fact that almost all girls and women were uneducated meant that there were very few ways in which they could earn money to support themselves. Women who could not speak English found that it was very difficult to find work in the white-controlled economy. There were jobs for women as domestic workers

I 1 log' t A kraal school near Epworth Mission, 1908 w MK -F Girls at a school at Chishawasha Mission L and child minders. But working in a white household was hard when there was a language problem and industrial jobs presented similar problems. Girls faced another problem. Many parents felt that education - especially advanced education - was not important for girls. This view was widespread, as the interviewees in this chapter show. This was one of the reasons why there were very few educated women in the rural or urban areas. However, the women who were educated up to a high level (Standard 6 or above) by their parents, were among the elite of the African population of the city. They could support themselves as domestic workers, teachers or, later, as nurses. Mai Ndhlela: My father and my mother really wanted me to go to school. Because we were born as four girls. And people laughed, saying, "You send a daughter to school? What is she going to do? We are sending our sons!" There were no boys in my family and my father said, 'Those children I have been given will go to school." So I went to school. In the village, I, a daughter, am the one who went to school, until I did my teacher-training. I was the eldest. Mai Hlabangana: I remember when my father sent us to Hope Fountain Mission, people around were saying, "Ha-a. You are somehow [mad!] sending girls to school, wasting money. For what?" And my father said, "I like girls to be educated." Mai Ruswa: It happened - that if you were taught only to write your name - what else do you want as a woman? That's what happened, that a girl must not go forward. If you are able to read a letter - that's enough for you. Mai Guchu: I went to school up to the old Standard Two, because long back our parents didn't want us to go any further with our education. Ah! They said we would be mahure [prostitutes]. They had not yet been modemized ... . A boy who was called educated would have done Standard Three. That's what was there at my school. [Other schools had Standard 4], then came Standard Six. Like that. Then all this further education is also coming in, as chirungu 1 is. Mai Chideya: We were just stopped [from going to school] by our brothers and even others in the area used to say, "You can't send a girl to school or keep on sending her to school. What job is she going to do?" Then they would say, "Stop going to school. Where you have gone up to is enough."

Mai Mutizira-Nondo: At that time there were no problems (with girls running away from home), during the time I went to school. There were no problems. Girls even went to school. The only problem was that most parents did not want to send girls to school beyond Standard Three. They thought that as long as a girl could read and write in order to correspond with whoever wanted to marry them, that was enough. So for you to go to the mission up to Standard Six, it was according to parents who wanted you to learn. Mai Kanogoiwa: The parents didn't mind boys going to school. It's the girls that they didn't want to go to school, because they feared they would not want to get married, because of the education. They thought education was against our tradition. So our elders only wanted a girl to grow up and learn domestic work and good manners which she would take where she went [when married] ... . That's all. They would be so proud when people said, "I-i-i, soand-so's daughter is well-mannered!" They would be so proud, as if she had passed a course [laughter]. Especially if she could work. Pounding, grinding, ploughing in the field, and cooking well, even brewing beer! Mai Makoni: In those years they didn't want a woman, a girl, to learn English. It was said she would scold people. She would scold the husband in English. African Weekly 8th May 1946 Women's education We are getting many letters on the subject of women. Many are talking about the bad things being done by women, especially in towns. They say the government must pass a law which will prevent women from moving about in bad areas. As we see it, there is a reason as to why the women are unable to please their men. There isnothing like this among the whites, otherwise the biggest story in the papers would be women. What would be the best advice to make us treat our women like the whites? Education is the only thing that would develop our race, both men and women, so that we can distinguish between good and bad, and what is helpful and what is not. Everyone and every race has been developed through education. If we deny our women education, therefore, we must not expect them to know which activities are bad. Look at a madman, he can kill a person, not knowing that it's bad. It's the same with our women, all the women in towns, don't know the difference between human and animal behaviour. The government and the church are trying to teach blacks about religion, hygiene, reading and writing etc. Are they doing this to entertain or so that they are related to black people? No. It's their kindness. They want people to get out of poverty, witchcraft, illness and our stupidity. Thus it's good that we must all be educated. In this country, the people with the desire to get educated are men. Most schools are full of boys. Others are flocking to South Africa to get higher education. But how many women are doing this? Very very few. They don't have the desire to be equal to men. They want that old system, whereby, "A woman is a man's slave, she mustn't know what the man knows." Times have changed. Today's woman must be as educated as a man, because she must also help the nation. Look at the hospitals. They need nurses. This is a woman's job. Today we are being helped by women from the Union - where are the local ones- they are still in mapoto [informal marriage]. We also need teachers. Why can't you girls learn to be teachers? Even a home needs an educated wife. Look at many black households which are being plagued by disease, poverty, delinquency, traditional beliefs, and beer drinking, because the uneducated parents don't know how to run a home, full of happiness, peace and harmony. This problem needs to be thought about by all, especially the leaders and chiefs, .they must tell women to be as educated as the men. i Mai Maripakwenda: But these days, you, our children, you are educated, you have a job, your husband also has a job. So do you go to the farm? You don't go to the farm, because your farming is what you are now doing ... . Working! We used to tell out girls that, "Girls, [by educating you] we are giving you hoes for farming."... So we have given you these hoes for you to get educated - like myself, I would say, "We have given you hoes to weed the field of education." Yes. Once you are educated your family won't suffer. Yes.... You can now support it because of the education from your parents. There is no one who was educated by her husband. I The term chirungu means both the English language specifically, and western culture in general.

Christian wedding in Fort Victoria (Masvingo) in the early 1900s 66 law-If,

Chapter 6 Marriage "Ah! Can you finish the problems of a home?" Marriage is often one of the most important personal and economic arrangements of a woman's life. By the 1930s, the system of marriage for African men and women had been firmly laid down by the colonial regime. Whether celebrated in a 'traditional' or in a Christian way, formal marriage was very important in the colonial system. Formal marriage could be proved by showing a marriage certificate. Some people, however, did not bother to take the steps necessary to acquire a marriage certificate, even though they may have lived together for many years, or had children together. These were the informal urban marriages which neither the colonial authorities or the old people in rural areas liked very much. In this chapter, we hear how women were affected by their marriages, and what some of them learned through their involvement in formal and informal marriage. Miss C. Renhas: On his return [from fighting in the Second World War], that's when we got married. After I had seen him wearing a nice shirt and nice trousers, I clapped my hands and I thought, 'This is the right husband!"... Then I stayed with him for years, but he didn't dress me [give me nice clothes]. I wore rags. To carry my child on the back I had to tear [my] dresses to make a carrier. Mai Sitambuli: When we got married, my husband lived in Majubheki line.., my husband was a teacher. The house was just one room; four bachelors would be allocated to one room, and there were four beds. So I went there: as a person who had chosen her husband, what could I do? I, as a person who was married and had a husband, went to sleep in the small kitchen. At that house everybody bought [their own] primus stove to use. I, the woman, did the sweeping.. . I didn't see anyone being visited by a girl. If they did they went somewhere. The boys of long back respected married women. Mai Manhenga: I left school because I had been pledged by my father. My father gave me to a man who had three wives and I went to become the fourth one. The 'law' in those days was so oppressive, saying, "If your father says do this, don't refuse!" I was very young, I don't know the years, if they were twelve, or whatever, I was very young, with breasts just coming out. So, I was given to him ... . It went like this: say a baby was bom in that village, so a man would go and look for firewood and come and drop it at the door where the child had been born, to claim a wife, if it was a girl. So our fathers went to work in the farms where chirungu started, and became sort of friends with people there. So when that happened he would say, "You don't visit others, I have daughters.".. . So they think of coming to look for wives. These would be old men of the same age. Yes. I left home on that old man's bicycle, with his beard fanning me, that man's beard, and Iwas so frightened. [laughter] Honestly. The hair went fu-fu-fu on my mouth, while I was on the crossbar, not the carrier. I was put in the middle, with his hands clutching the handles and his beard fanning me, on the crossbar of the bicycle. And the people at his home said, "Why have you brought this child? Ah-ah-ah..." Did you get along well with the other wives at that home? What can you do in polygamy? If your husband takes another wife, would you like it? No. So you were the last one [wife]? No, a fifth one came after me. We were five... So with the poverty in polygamy - we lacked things. So if you just sit in your house like this, nothing will help you at all. So we said, "These things that other people do? Let's do it [growing tomatoes for sale]."... Those in Mhumhurwi, we saw what they were doing, and we did it. Poverty. Lack of things, we really lacked things! I-i-i. My child... polygamy? It's like a forest with growling lions. Mai Ndhlela: We had a church wedding. We had a real wedding. In those days [1935] the women wore white dresses. That was greatly honoured. A bride must wear a white veil and a dress. Yes, very nice ones ... . And the umbrella. It was greatly honoured at weddings. Aha. The bride must wear nice clothes. We came and bought them here in Harare. We bought our veil here in Harare, our dress here in Harare. At that time they were not hard to get because if you had money, those five pounds, you bought amazing things. Because they were not very expensive. An umbrella was bought for only a pound.

These things were brought by the missionaries, when they brought the gospel. So that there would be such weddings. Everybody who wedded as a Christian - being married by a minister - had to wear such things - white ones. A veil and a white dress, gloves and shoes on, and white socks. Christian wedding at Gogoya, 1919 Mai Masamba: Here people had white weddings. We would never have two husbands. We would only have one husband. We, the children of Epworth, had weddings in that church. We would wear white dresses. They would be sewn with lace; and white umbrellas and a white veil on the face and walk slowly. There were tough laws here in Epworth.

African Weekly 3rd May 1955 Church weddings Sir, This is a serious matter which all men of Africa must think about. When you have thought about it you can reply, As a woman, I don't see what the advantages of a church wedding are, besides it is for whites not for us. When whites get married they don't pay lobola.., we [should] get married the African way and leave church weddings alone. ... I am a woman, but I would say that getting married at the District Commissioner's is better. See, we are living in towns, and it is not our fault. If we stay at home who will marry us? It's because the church says one must have only one wife, it wasn't like that in the olden days. A man could marry ten wives! He would give each one land to plough. This European thing has pushed us into towns where we have a hard and bad time. Sometimes we are asked to produce a pass, sometimes wejustlive in tinobika mapoto [a casual live-in relationship] with somebody's husband. Sometimes we are arrested for brewing skokiyani, sometimes we sleep in jail, sometimes we get venereal diseases, and we look for money to buy food and other things. Men of our people, don't you see this? What do you think? If you don't have a solution, this is the solution. Let's do away with church weddings, so that all of us can get married. Men will be free to marry many wives. Our flocking to towns would end. The whites' assumptions that arresting us will make us leave town is not true. Yours, Sarah Mwatembudzeni Brickfields, .Salisbury

Miss J. Scott: My husband was really old. A really old man. I used to refuse, saying I didn't love him. But the Zezurus had this custom where if a girl was kugambirwa [claimed as a child to be someone's wife] by a man - she had to go there and marry him. Kugambirwa is ... let's say I am pregnant, and somebody says, "When this child is born, if she is a girl she will be my wife, if he is a boy he will be my son-in-law." That's it! That's what will happen. Nothing is going to change. That is what happened to me - kugambirwa - it was said when I was still on my mother's lap. So did your husband have other wives? Yes. Twelve. You were the thirteenth? Yes. I am the one who wedded. Ah. The people of long ago used to wear skins. Mai Rusike: The husband [living and working in town] could forget, "I have a family at home." That was hard because a wife would stay alone for three or four weeks. Some [men] would only go when the child was being weaned [laughter]. So it would be hard for this wife. If she doesn't have something, like [food], "I wish my husband could bring me this." But she couldn't have it. Some would send messages, "Please tell my husband I don't have this, I want this or that." But the man won't send it. So it was hard for the wife, because she could spend one month not knowing where the husband was. Yes. Mai Chagaresango: I would just come [to town] and go back home [to Seke reserve]. I would come occasionally... I would come when there was not work at home. During the ploughing season I would be at home. So how often did you come here? Did you come in December? Ah - you couldn't come in December. That is the time for work; [and] many people spend Christmas at home. What about during chirimo [warm part of the dry season: August, September, October]? I would come.., then I would go back when its about time to work. So did many women do this sort of thing at that time, the 1940s and 1950s?

You mean that time? Yes, many women did that. They didn't stay with their husbands. No, they didn't. But later on with the coming of schools, the women would stay here with their children who were going to school. So when your children started schooling, you started living here? Yes. But when it was time for work, I would just leave them with their father while I went to work [at home]. The person we talked to yesterday said it was the not so well-to-do rural women who would come to town to sell their crops. Do you think this was true? Isn't it that I have already said to you that if a woman had a working husband, she would consider herself as somebody well-to-do? She would not [come to town to sell things], knowing that, "My things [groceries] are coming." But those whose husbands were not working, she had to do it, so she could have money to buy clothes for the children. Mai Magwenzi:... For a person to leave her own home to come and destroy yours, isn't it she is envious of the life you will be leading, of the things you and your husband will have worked for? The woman who was taken by my husband was my friend. She was married to a sergeant. She killed her husband and was then taken by my husband. I left her with him, but she was my friend. She was just envious of my life. I decided to leave. All the plans I had made with my husband - [afterwards] you can't plan to buy a bicycle or cattle - so I left. So that was it. Was there a difference between educated women and uneducated ones? There was a difference. There has to be a difference. [It would be] that an educated woman could handle a husband. If you are uneducated you can't manage it. Isn't it? That's the difference. He will then say there is life [with this new woman]. When you had lived well with your husband, then you try to plan and you are told, "Ah, you can't plan anything!" But how were you doing it all along? Now that he has a young wife he thinks you can't plan. That's how it was. Now he has another wife he looks down on you. You hear him say, "You egaroronzi [ignorant person], what do you know?" Oh! Today you are an egaroronzi because he has another wife [laughter]. So what can you do? You end up saying, "Let me go and leave the ones who know." Mai Kobe: We only had two children. Most of them died. My husband lived a Western life. He was also an orphan1, so when he got his three pounds [in wages] he brought it home, and when I got my six pounds I showed it to him, and he said, "Use it." Oh! You earned more than him? Yes. You are laughing? That's the money we were given, more than the man's. And he said, "Ah, use it." We used to lead a very good life. It was only his relatives who started saying, "Your wife has been having too many miscarriages." These were relatives from his uncle's side. They are the ones who made us divorce. Mai Maripakwenda: Was there so much divorce in those days as there is nowadays? Ah - no. There wasn't. Um. If you were suffering you suffered while in [your husband's] house... Could a woman divorce her husband? Did it happen? Like nowadays a woman goes to court to say, "I no longer want this husband?" Um-m. Isn't that being sick? It's a disease! Ah! Rejecting your husband? Where do you want to go? To stay and look for another husband? Ah-a-a. Benzi! [a fool!JAh. No. You are mad! .... Unless there is a reason so that everybody will say, "Ah. It's better she leaves." Because there are some cases where other people will support you. Mai Hiabangana: Why did women divorce their husbands in those days? In those days because [men] were stil fond of marrying many women, and you know... there is no life when you are in [a] group. Did your husband have more than one wife? He wanted to marry one. You see, that is why I divorced and left him with the one that he wanted to many ... I didn't want to live with them while he was with this woman.

By the time that you divorced your husband, you had eleven children? Yes. Because I was having children year after year. Year after year. Mai Butao: You know men never used to tell us how much they were paid. I don't want to lie. He hid it. He hid it. He would just give me money to buy bread and food. That's all. I didn't know his pay. I don't want to lie ... I just waited for my husband to be paid and he [would give me] a penny. It was hard for me. We were told by the elders that, "You don't bother your husband. Whatever he gives you, thank God for that. It's his money." So you don't say, give me money. You don't say that. Whatever he gives you is all right? It's all right. If he doesn't give you any, he will know that there is no food in the house. I have children, who want clothes, etc. If you force him, he will refuse because it's his money. You must stay nicely with your husband. That's what the elders told us. So we just sit curled up like a millipede and say, "It's up to him." Mai Bakasa: Ah. We were helping [our husbands] by crocheting, and selling to the whites, but some were forbidden to go and sell. Yet she is trying to help this husband of hers but because of lack of understanding, he forbids her. Even teaching! Some who had Standard Seven or Standard Six didn't go to teach. Some friends of mine were forbidden to teach. Honestly. What did the husbands fear would happen? Ah! My child, just men's lack of understanding. Yes. Forbidding her from going to teach. Yet they had certificates in their houses and they would say, "Lucky you, who are teaching." Those who were teaching were lucky to have good husbands. Yet these others just sat, waiting for what 'Daddy' would bring: Baba vachauya nenyama [father will provide]. They would sing such a song [laughter]. Yes, they were forbidden - when they wanted to even go and sell. Things were difficult in my time.

N- African Daily News 6th March 1956 Stamping out the evils of divorce Sir, What can be done to stamp out the evils of divorce? First of all, every uneducated man married to an educated wife should not allow her to work because once the woman comes across a man she considers superior to her husband at the place where she works, she will be tempted to fall a victim to him. My own view is that my wife is my property, I should not keep her far from my house... I believe that the work of the wife is in the house and to improve the family's standard of living and not to work out where she is going to behave as if she is still a girl looking for a husband. Iam, Jefiyas Ndhlovu, Shabani. Mai Tsiga: When I got married - because of the low level of education, women could only teach - and they [the authorities] said to my husband, "We heard your wife used to be a teacher. Can she come, and teach?" And he refused. He said, "I don't want my wife to work!" Mai Chitumba: I was a teacher. I spent most of my time at school ... . Of course many men did not like the women to work. Except as a nurse or teacher - prominent jobs like that. Because if you did all that, they didn't trust you. They thought you would fall in love with men whom you spent the whole day with. Most women [in the late 1940s] did not want to work. They depended on their husbands, most of them. So that if a husband didn't give money to that wife, life was very, very low; very, very poor. And most of the children used to faint here at school [in the morning] without having had anything to eat. I do remember many children used to faint during prayer time and you would run to the domestic science [class] and give them a cup of tea. Their life was very low. It was only the working women. Those are the only people who had a better life. Unless your husband was a driver or had such a better job, with a good salary, the life was very low. It was very low. Mai Marange: Ah. I don't want to lie. At that time we [women] didn't do anything. We were so hopelessly stupid [laughs]. And also the men didn't want a person who sold things. We were learning to crochet doillies, but we were not selling. We did not even see the benefits. And the men would also say, "Why do you want to sell?" So we were afraid of going selling. The men were not yet educated enough, about how life was. They just thought, "What I am [getting] is enough for you." So we thought we were doing the right thing, yet we were going backwards. Mr Gono: So you were not one of those husbands who said, "No, I can't let my wife go to work"? Most - it's changing today. A few years ago if a wife was working, she [was called] 'a bitch'. But I used to explain to them, "Well, if she has got time to do that job, and do the bitching business, how can that be? What about the one of yours who is staying at home? She has got the whole day without you, she has got the whole day to do the bitching." And it was proved because people who have got cars, you find an accident happened in Norton, in Marandellas - and you're somebody's wife. In the car instead of being at home? Uhm. Instead of being at home. Yah. So it's better for her to go to work? Better to work. She hasn't time for bitching [laughs]. If she was born a bitch - well you can't stop her! I used to tell [my friends] because my chance was to stay in [many parts of the country], so I could see the difference... women in front those days were nurses. [So, you said to yourself if] you can get this one [a nurse] can she do the ploughing and the weeding? But you can't compare your life with this one [a woman without education]. She is earning [in] one month [what] your wife was doing the whole year. You can't compare your wife with this one. You can't compete with this one. There is a great difference.

Mai Magwenzi: Would you say not having a husband made life difficult for a woman wanting to survive in town? For me it was 'lighter' because I worked for myself. If I wasn't working for myself it would have been difficult ... . My problem is my poor health. Otherwise I work for myself. So your boyfriend was a policeman? Yes. But you didn't get married? No. No. He had his wife and nine children. But I stayed for a long time [with him] - twentytwo years. My boyfriend. But I didn't want also to get married. No, I didn't want. Men talk too much. Mai Ndhlela: Women are now waking up. Long back women were done like this [pushed down] by the men. You just followed him like a donkey. Yes. You would just follow. Now it's no longer there. People are now free. I Therefore he had no parents to support.

Old woman shopping with her servant, c. 1965

Chapter 7 Hard at Work "You would just steel yourself because of poverty." This chapter looks at the many and varied experiences of women who found formal jobs in town. They worked for regular weekly wages or monthly salaries. Working in one of these jobs was unusual for urban women. Only a small percentage of urban women held formal jobs, and they were only a small percentage of the total formal urban workforce. For example, in 1936 there was 167 women working in formal jobs in Salisbury, out of a total population of African women of about 3 000; there were almost 12 000 African men working in the city in that year. By 1969 the percentages of working women had increased: about 10% of the female population had formal jobs. There were 10 000 women working for wages as compared to 113 000 men. This information shows the occupation of some of the African women who were working in the city in 1958: Occupations Number of women Commerce and industry (shop assistants, and factory workers) ...... 356 D o m estic Serv ice ...... 1 3 8 2 T e ach e r s ...... 5 6 N u r se s ...... 16 6 M unicipal W orkers ...... 40 Self-employed (charwomen, dressmakers, food and wood vendors) ...... 231 Women's wages were lower than men's. For example, in 1941, the highest paid female attendants at a government hospital earned £3 per month1, whereas the highest paid male attendants earned £4/6 per month. In 1950, a female teacher with the lowest qualification earned £24 per month whereas a male teacher in the same category earned £30 per month.

Mai Maripakwenda: The way you are now ... you are westernized children. When you get married you would not know how difficult [running] a home is. It's in your age which is nice, you are a child, and your husband is a child. Before you [said], "I will suffer for my home," you just sit.., we left many sitting on their doorsteps... suffering in there, before [they] could wish to go to work. Why did they sit, those who just sat? Ah. Their brains. They hadn't got the idea that a woman must also do something. That's why you see women sewing, yet others remain seated. Others carry bags on their heads, others go to South Africa, ... to Botswana. It's working for the household. Miss A. Gasa: Would you say you were lucky to have a job? Luck? Yes? What luck? When you compare yourself with these other women who couldn't get jobs ... Can you say it was luck when you were wearing rags? We would call it luck if we were given rags by the whites you worked for. Because some would give you clothes. You say luck: wasn't it poverty? It was poverty. It was suffering. Were those who were not suffering looking for jobs? They knew about their lives. We were suffering. That's why we looked for jobs. We wanted to survive. Miss S. Mazoe: You know how much the boyfriend can give you today? [He] can't look after you. If you don't have a job, you are not a woman. If you are working, your husband loves you. They want you because you are working. When he comes to your place, they want a cup of coffee. If you are not working, what can you do? If he is saying rubbish to you, you can say, "F... off," of course. In those days it wasn't like that? No. Those days [when] a woman was not working. They used to get blows in [their] eyes; blows from the boyfriends, in the afternoon! The boyfriends, they can hit you, my dear. If you are working [it is] your money, you are all right. In town? To be working? Nice.

Mai Manhenga: How could women earn money? Even knitting was very little; I didn't see anything which enabled women to earn money. Some were just 'going around' as they still do today. Sleeping in the shebeens; so I didn't see anything which pleased me at all. Besides the educated people who were nurses and doctors, treating others. Ah. None of the jobs I saw pleased me - I didn't look at those. Miss M. Savanhu: My husband had gone back to South Africa and I stayed. Then my aunt said, "How can you keep on crying? Why don't you come and work?" and I said, "Will I be able to do the work?" And she said, "Ah! You will learn, I will teach you." Then I learned and learned, until I was able to do the work, until I knew, "Ah! This is what is called money from working for yourself." Mr N. Musonza: Ah... in the history I am talking about [in the 1920s], no woman was working. The work women did was to go in a crowd, to mould bricks. They are given their money and go back home - like that - until they had their own cattle. Miss A. Gasa: I have told you that I was working to help my family [as a young girl in the 1920s]. I was working for the Chinese who had hotels. They had many hotels, near the location, Old Bricks. All those areas now called Kaufman, there were hotels ... . We would clear the dirty dishes. We also washed up. We would carry the dishes and wash them. It was poverty which made us work. Was it common for young girls in Harare to work then? Ah. No. They were a few. Some were well off. I was suffering, that's why I was working. My father had many wives and he couldn't support the children. We were just working for food like little children. We were suffering. We can't say we were living well. Now the Chinese understood, "Buya wena tata plate" [go and collect the dirty plates]. Then we would work. Washing the plates. After washing the plates they would put the leftovers on a piece of paper for us. Then we would take it home to our mothers. Then we would eat it. It wasn't a formal job. We were not working for money. No. It was suffering. Poverty. Mai Kobe: At the time when I started working... it was said, "Working [women] came with the South Africans." Here we didn't know about working - and its true. Local people didn't know about working by women. So when they saw me and another madam who had some girls, we saw women now starting to work.

Was it difficult [as a domestic worker] to get a new job? Long back it wasn't a problem... [new employers] just came to take you after seeing how well you worked. If you cooked nice food for her, she would come and take you. Yes. She would talk to you privately saying, "I will give you so much money." After being told by your madam that, "I give her so much," and she thinks, "Ho-o, I will offer her better." Then when your madam is off to work, she drives her car and comes, "Come, let's go!" What would you say was difficult about working in whites' houses? Ah. There was no problem. The problem was if the money was little and you did a lot of work. That was the problem. If you worked well and they paid you well and gave you days off nicely - you just worked nicely. We enjoyed working in mayard [white suburbs] because if you are not educated where can you go and work? Nowhere; you have to work in mayard. But was your life a happy one? It moved forward. It's not the same as taking your hands and making them into a chair. Like what I am doing now; there is no work, it doesn't help. African Weekly 13th November 1946 Dear Sir, I am very grateful for some things you write. However, I don't agree with others. You say women must work, and I think this is bad advice, it destroys homes. A home cannot have two heads. If a woman works, she will say, "I don't care about you because you don't clothe or feed me. If I divorce you I can repay your lobola." Thus there won't be a cook in the house. I am embarrassed to hear you talk of Johannesburg working women. You don't know a thing about Johannesburg. You just hear about it. Yours, Solomon Muzavazi Orlando, Johannesburg Mai Maripakwenda: I can say the first women to work were [nannies]. Those are the women we saw working, as far as I know ... . The others who were working were from other countries, from South Africa. Some came with their husbands. They came with them from there and they got here and worked ... . When our fathers were working, we would be surprised that, "Ah, a woman who works!" Yes. Our fathers told us that in Joni [Johannesburg] women are working, in Cape Town women work; and we were surprised. But with the movement of time we were also seeing it here. Mai Dzvairo: We came here in 1941. Immediately I got a job at the lazareno [infectious diseases clinic]. Then I went to work until, ah! I retired... . We treated different diseases. Those who were sick we cured. But there was no maternity. We didn't deliver babies. You treated [sexually transmitted diseases]? Yes, those are the ones. In those days it was very common. Many people came. Some were really suffering with sores, some with, what is it called? Gonorrhea. So before you joined didn't you hear about the women who refused to be treated because there were no female nurses? They were examined by a man, but he wasn't a black man, he was white. Urn. Mr Kemit. He examined them. Some didn't want to be examined by a man. So later there were women and it was good. Mai Mutuma: Did you have to go to the doctor to be examined to see if you were healthy before you got a job as a domestic worker? Yes, that was done... i-i-i! Long back we were really examined! Here, and chests, everything. And they see that you don't have a disease. Everything. We were examined every year. Why was this done? Ah. I don't know. How would I know? You just heard your employers say, "It's time for you to go." And you go and get examined. I think they were afraid - you know living with somebody is difficult. Sometimes you would come straight from the house and before you get into the house they say, "Go and bathe." Some would not even wait for a year -just six months - they would say, "You may give our children siki."

African Weekly 10th July 1946 Women must work in white people's houses Most whites these days are saying, black women must do all the domestic work which is being done by men. Men have got jobs that suit them. As we see it, nobody with brains would say it's bad. Domestic work suits women, it's theirs. In our African culture, no man cooks, sweeps, or makes beds, a woman does this. A man does a man's jobs. But why is it that in this country women do a man's job? This is a bad practice. Who doesn't realize that if women work they will develop in a number of ways? Even the men will develop. If this happens women will earn a living in a decent way like men, and help themselves in a number of ways. This will destroy mapoto, a thing we dislike so much. If women work they won't 'whore' and finish the little wages that men get. Plus they won't be as lazy as they are today. How many women know what development is and that it comes from a man and a woman working together? Very few. If they did, they wouldn't have the idea that a woman must just sit and squander the money that the man works so hard for. This is what we are seeing in Harare. It would be better if all the women we see drinking beer and laughing uproariously in the locations were working, helping their men to buy food and clothing for their children, like what the whites and other smart races do. Let's say the man got £4 and the woman got £3, together that would make £7. With this money they would do lots of things or even start a business. In other countries like South Africa, domestic work is done by girls and older women. Men do jobs that suit them. In England and other countries, men do not agree to do female domestic labour. We must also let this job be done by women, so that in their hearts they will cherish the desire to work, not to pull a man backwards. We say government must build a school for training girls in cookery and housekeeping. If this is done, women will then take over all domestic jobs, except maybe in the big hotels.

The men will do their jobs like carpentry, building, police, teaching, doctors, and others with higher wages. There are some who wonder why women get higher wages than men. This is because there are a lot of men who want to work, yet there are a few women and they are hard to get, so the whites increase their wages so that they won't leave. But men are paid less because the whites know that if the man leaves, they will quickly get another. We are surprised by those who write to us saying women musn't work, why? We know what is good for our people, and we say those who don't want women to work must not be given ears. Our aim is for our women to be like white women. We look forward to the day when our women will be office workers, drivers, nurses, doctors, etc. When that time comes, poverty, ignorance, illiteracy and superstition will end. Please, let's encourage our women to work, not to sit or to earn money in their current bad ways. Miss M. Savanhu: I started working at the flats [in town], then I saw as if it was a problem for me. Then my aunt - this one - said, "Come and let me teach you how to do real work!" Then I worked - carrying laundry, bringing it here [to her house in Mbare] and washing it and ironing it and taking it back. For many years ... . For those [customers] who didn't have an iron, we would bring it to Mbare. You would wash here and when you have finished, you hang it to dry. You go to another one, like that. Then you come back and do the ironing. One who had strength could do [the work for] four customers in a day... . [Or] you could go and wash for one on Monday. Then on Tuesday you wash for others and you go back to the Monday ones on Wednesday. So you could finish two households ... . You could finish, yes. If you just hurried through it, then the madam could say, "You haven't done my things properly." So in fear of that we would do for a few people today and go to others the next day. We got our money at the end of the month. But if you wanted you could be given on that day. We did that [waiting until month-end] so that we would have money to pay rent and to buy food and to send the children to school... One with strength could get forty pounds per month." Mai Guchu: I was doing that work of looking after a white child ... . As it was -it wasn't difficult, because I bathed the child and dressed her. Then I gave her to the cook to feed and I took her and played with her outside. What was difficult there?

Mai Mutuma: Ah. Jealousy has always been there. Ah ... it was a problem. Even those of us who were working, we were followed. You go to work and you finish, you go on your way [home] and he [the husband] is by the side seeing you, seeing wherever you are going. You get home almost at the same time. Oh! He will be spying on you? Yes. So he can see what you do, what time you knocked off. I-i-i. It was hard. And tomorrow you wake up and go again. That happened. What troubled [many women] was this thing of not wanting to work ... . Some, their husbands refused to let them work; some didn't want; plus some didn't want to see whites. They would say, "How am I going to talk to them?" They were really frightened, especially women, that, "If I go into a murungu's house what am I going to do?" The other problem with women was, if she had never been to school or anything, what was she going to do? She can't say [a word in English]. What could she do? The murungu doesn't understand your language. How could she work? Some would [try and] work. Some asked us and we took them. But as soon as she saw the inside of a murungu's house, she doesn't go back again. "I am going to break the things, I will do that," they would say. They were afraid that if they did something they would be arrested. African Weekly 4th April 1945 Educated girls Sir, It always worries me when I see girls who have learnt cookery and needlework failing to get jobs, in shops and in whites' houses. We see only men sewing trousers and dresses. Is it not a woman's job to sew dresses while men sew trousers? We also see men cooking, is it a man's job to cook? You must remember the man cooks nice food for the white man and then goes home and finds his wife's cooking bad. Then he starts harassing his wife, saying she cannot cook. The woman will have since forgotten how to cook because since the day she left school, she hasn't practised. Cooking and sewing dresses is a woman's job, not a man's. Yours, Samuel M. Mhlanga Fort Victoria Mai Rusike: I was given fifteen pounds (thirty dollars) a month [to look after a murungu's child]. There was no money in those days, my child. We would think, "We are so rich, we are working, getting so much money. Fifteen pounds!" This was one child I looked after, and the missus would feel sorry and give you a dress, and you would say, "Ah, missus really loves me." I was given clothes; "Here Nanny, wear this, and change clothes, and.. ." Ha! We would be so thankful! I started work at quarter to eight and finished at half-past four... I washed and ironed and the napkins too, I washed them... I saw to 'my' baby and cooking the baby's food. I would cook at half-past three and leave it there - when the missus came - she worked in a bank she would take her food and feed the baby until tomorrow when I came to work. Nothing was hard. That missus loved me. Even if I did wrong in my job, she didn't mind. She would say, "As long as you look after my baby." Even today when we meet. One of the children is now married.They live in Mabelreign. If we meet on the road... ah-h. We will be so happy. [Her next job was to look after a elderly disabled woman]. I was given seventeen pounds to look after an ambuya ... . It was just a job. She was a problem. She could stand up and wander around the house and we would pull each other in that house. And if she went anywhere I had to follow because that was the rule - that was working. Ha. I can say I was happy. Yes, I was happy. In the afternoon - I went into the garden with her looking at flowers, ah. I was happy. Those whites looked after me and I liked them. But her death made us part. Miss K. Savanhu: Ah - as a person who said, as long as I get a job [it didn't matter which one]. I did laundry, washing plates, cleaning the house, looking after the baby, ironing, everything... . [Often] we just quit and looked for another job. It wasn't a problem. Uhm. If it bothers you, you quit and you go to another one. How will it have bothered you? The large amount of work, that was the problem... . Sometimes you got where there were no children. Sometimes you got where there were children again. So what would you have seen as too much? The laundry, ironing, looking after the children. So if you found it a problem you left. You look for another place again ... . Because jobs were not a problem. At the flats where I started, sometimes you were given five pounds, sometimes you worked for four pounds exactly per month. When I started I got four pounds, then five pounds. Then I went somewhere, that's where I was given nine pounds. We changed jobs. Sometimes you [had to go] where there was less money... because if you delay in getting a job, at katsekera's they would say, "You have delayed in getting a job, we are about to close the house." That law of theirs of wanting to close houses made you quickly get another job where there was a little money. .. The whites of then were hard. They were stingy with money. The amount he wanted to give you is what he gave you. If he wanted to increase [your wages] he would increase by only one pound. Then you found the job painful and you stop. You just quit. African Parade June 1954 Meet the urbanized African and his wife ... Admittedly, the effect of urbanization on some has been detrimental. On others it has been otherwise. While there is the loafer, the spiv, the criminal with a perverted mind, you have at the same time the enterprising individual who cannot only hold his own in any sphere where opportunities exist but is both in character and enterprise a national asset. For instance while the emancipation of the African woman has produced the 'skokiaan' queen and the prostitute, it has also created the woman who is conscious of her human dignity, her rights in the community and her duties. Take the countless African women who are earning their living by respectable means such as domestic maids, the girls who work in the factories and hospital nurses whose services are every whit the bulwark of African progress. Miss J. Scott: [In 1945 after her husband died] I cooked, housegirl, everything. I did all that. And swept. I used that machine for the carpet. How much were you paid? She was nice - as a Christian - five pounds. Mai Mutizira-Nondo: Teachers! [laughs] When I was straight from college we were given seven pounds. Which is fourteen dollars. Then we came to Mabvuku; I think it was in Mabvuku that we went on to seventeen dollars. From there we had increments. At that time it was enough. It was very good.

Miss A. Gasa: How did you get a job with the police? This place was rotting with dirt. The toilets. It was said, "Sergeant Vito - he was here - the location is rotting." We had done Red Cross with Mai Musodzi2. Isn't it you have heard of Mai Musodzi? Yes. She taught you Red Cross? Yah. That's where we did Red Cross. Then it was said there is too much dirt. Worms were coming out of toilets. Young children were getting sick. So Sergeant Vito and Mai Musodzi were asked to find people. I was called. "Anna... come, there is a job." I tried to refuse, I thought of walking, looking at people's shit. But I thought, "Can I leave this money? Let me work. My mother is suffering. My father is suffering. Let me work." So what was your job? Toilets. We checked the toilets... . Later we would see to the cleaning of houses. Then came a time, when Carter [House] had been built. At Carter, it was built for women. So myself, Sergeant Kabona, Sergeant George [Jojo] ... I was just taken [to work], I wasn't educated. I didn't go to school. They liked me for my cleverness. They said, "Anna, you move in the night." There were these prostitutes, some prostituted because of poverty, some prostituted for chigare [enjoyment]. There were houses for [nannies] in Runyararo [Street]. Their whites paid for them. So they wanted people's husbands.That's the time we arrested trespassers... . The peoples' husbands who would have gone there... . So we went there to catch trespassers. If we caught trespassers we took them to katsekera. After katsekera we took them to the Native Commissioner and took fingerprints. If the person was not from here, if he was Manyika [a person from the Eastern part of the country] he would be sent back to his home. Could the person pay a fine, if he was found guilty? They were fined. Three pounds or two pounds [or] you go to jail. Mai Charlie: We were taken by the municipality to become SMPs, Salisbury Municipal Police... . We were the very first. Myself, Ennia Gasa, and Bella, and Angelina, and Enritte... I was the last one ... . We made the women clean up. Dirt was like cow-dung around here [Mbare]. We checked to see whether people cleaned nicely, were they sweeping their houses. Um. We did all that. Some were naughty. So if you continued doing the same thing, your house would be locked up. If we came across [people who were brewing beer or skokiaan] they would be arrested by the men [male policemen]. When we found them, we would go and report that there was somebody selling beer. Then they would be arrested by the men. We would only go to search them, so that they would go to jail. Besides brewing chikokiyana, what else could a person be arrested for? For other feminine offences - I wouldn't know about that. And those who fought. People used to fight here in those days. Those who were notorious for fighting were arrested. Was being a policewoman a difficult job? Did people respect you? Yes, they feared us. I believe so. They respected us. But the naughty ones were just naughty. Mai Magwenzi: I started working. I was the first woman to work in the shops [in Mbare]. I worked in Rice's Grocer, before women were allowed to work ... . I was a shopkeeper, I was selling. Jobs were not hard to get. But with most women, it depended on the husband. If he didn't want you to work then you didn't. Mai Mwayera: We started in '56... but our shop, it was very small... I [would go to work there] with my children. I would carry one on my back and carry the other in my arms - the one who was born in '57. My house was so near the shops I didn't even take a taxi. [We didn't get a worker even though] we had some relatives, but they were in school. We didn't do what you do now. Miss T. Cele: So you decided to...... Come and work in town here. You found a job or you were offered a job at the...... hostel. I was not the first person there. It was already built. I don't know when. So you came here in... 1956. [To] Carter House. It was meant for women who were working? Most of them were singles and divorcees. How did you choose who was going to stay at the hostel? Ah. There was no special thing, because they were paying. If they had no children they were permitted to stay there. No children were allowed.

... [The hostel] was always full. Unless if, say, some of them were nannies and they are at [their employers'] houses. They see there is a house where they are working, they have to move and others will come and stay. It was always full. My work was that - you know these women. Sometimes they have their boyfriends and they come and ask, "Can I see so-and-so." You were always sitting in the office and you had to call that so-and-so, "Somebody wants you outside." And to see that we had workers who were cleaning up the place. We had to see that they do it thoroughly well. And these women were cooking for themselves. We had a very big kitchen. You had to supervise all those things and their rooms, that they are clean. The cleaners, you had to supervise those cleaners. Would you say it was a good place for those women to stay? It was a good place. It was helping them a lot, because some had nowhere to stay. They can get a job of ironing there, some were ironing - then they wanted a place to stay. But that place was good for them to stay. A woman could stay there even if she had a small job? Even a small job. They were doing their musika there, selling things, but they used to come and stay there, paying money. Did they have to be in by a certain time? We had a special time. Nine o'clock we lock the gates. If they come late, unless they had permission to come late - because some of them were nurses; if they were due to come at a certain time we write it down - "So-and-so and so-and-so are on duties." Those who are working at the houses, they say, "We are on night duty looking after children. The madams are going out. We [will] come at such- and-such a time." They report - we open for them. But those who just go, we don't open. No. They must know the rules, that at nine o'clock we close. Weekends we used to enlarge it a bit to half-past ten. ... the outsiders... they used to say, "Imba yemahure iyo [house of prostitutes]." It's what they used to call that place. And of course it was true. They could do what they wanted. Some were used to having so many boyfriends. Sometimes they will fight outside, if the boyfriend comes and finds his girlfriend is standing with somebody ... that's why I moved. You had to go there and separate them. The men? No. You take the girl away or they will be beaten, the woman. You have to take the woman away. Because according to those men - if they respect you they will just stop. Then you take that woman in.

Some, they wouldn't stop fighting? They wouldn't stop. They would even want to hit you, as the matron! Yes. That's why I left that place. I said, "Ah. Let me go to the missions." You can't talk to [the hostel women] and say, "Please behave nicely." They will say, "I left my husband, you don't know why I left my husband." Now with the girls you can talk to them and explain to them, 'This is right, this is wrong." Not with the women. Mai Chirisa: I got a job at Export Tobacco, at the industrial sites, where tobacco is sorted by women. We did the job of pruning the tobacco - removing that stem until only the leaf was left. I got this job because this ambuya that I lived with was working there. She made it possible for me to get a job. We would only work when it was tobacco time. We would stop in December and spend one month at home. Then it would be reopened in March. You earned money according to your strength. One day you could not prune enough to fill a 'pocket', which was like a pillowcase. Then when you go to the scales, if you had done little you could get seventy-five cents. Sometimes if there was a lot of tobacco you could get one dollar fifty [$1.50]. We started work at seven a.m. We left home at four a.m. to go to Machipisa [Highfield] from where a lorry would come and fetch us... . We finished work at four... I worked there for four years. Mai Rusike: If you had a relative who was working they would advise, "You can do this one, but not this one where you always have to speak English. You may be sacked." That's why they looked for jobs for us which they thought we could do and we worked just seated, not speaking. The inspectors would come and see, "Ah, she has done well." B3ut you didn't talk much. That's what made us not go to higher jobs where if you were asked a question you could say [only], "Ah, yes! What? This?" So does that help? So they looked for where we didn't have to speak. Did men and women get the same wages [at this sewing factory] ? Ah. I don't know how men were paid. Some were [paid] ten dollars, others twenty dollars a week. People were just different. We just saw it outside when we opened the envelopes and saw, "Ah. He/she gets the same as me... he/she gets more... Ha- a. From what I saw men got more. We women just got a bit. I don't think we got the same. Did you have problems with the hours, were you late in the mornings to get to work? You didn't sleep! You had to find somebody to wake you up and say, "Hey, its dawn!"If you try to sleep too much - "Oh! I am late!" And sometimes you run like that [unbathed] and go and wash your face at the tap and run! But when you got used to it, you would ask, "Who has a watch, what is the time?". .."It's not seven yet." And you go walking nicely. Miss S. Mazoe: I decide to get another job again, and then I get the job at Barbour. The shop, yes. Then I thought they pay so much yet they were oppressing [they were] racists. Then somebody took me there and I worked, I think only one month. They used to pay me every Friday two dollars fifty cents ... . Then I thought, "No, let me look out [with] my friends. [Like] Mrs Penfold, she used to work for the parcels, when she used to write the parcels for the people in Barbour. Then she said, "Do you know how to cycling the bicycle," and I said, "Yes." She said, "There is a nice job for housekeeping in Bronte Hotel ... . I will give you a letter because myself I don't know how to ride the bicycle; I should leave this place, there is no money in Barbour." Then I said, "I will try." On Friday when I get my pay I said, "I don't want to do any [more of] your work." They said, "What's wrong? You are doing your work well, good pressing the dresses, why? We can give you some more money." I said, "No, I want to leave the place. My father, they are leaving Harare. They are at home now. Who is going to look after me? Nobody. I don't know where can I go and stay? So I want to go with my parents." I was just fooling [them] because I heard of another job. Mai Ruswa: In about 1959, I got a job at Harare Hospital. My job at Harare Hospital was to make beds and to clean the wards ... . What happened was when we did our work, we did it in a hurry. Before you finish, you are given another task. Before finishing, you are given another task. You were in charge of one ward. So it was hard, that among patients - you do the work quickly within the time you are told to do it and finish. So it was hard. I think it's now better - when we go to the hospitals and see how our children are working, it's a bit better. We were given what was called three pounds and a tickey [threepenny silver coin]... three pounds of long back and a tickey on top. Mai Sitambuli: As you know in those days the whites didn't really like black people. So you could not work and enjoy everything ... . Long back those people were scary! Mai Indi: I was just seated, cooking sadza [laughter] ... I was the worker's worker. I Until 1970 the Rhodesian pound was tied to the British pound. Thus, if one allows for inflation and devaluation, £1 in 1940 would be approximately $60 in 1992. Also see the Historical Introduction p.4 2 See Chapter 14. w Beer garden in Harari Township (Mbare), 1950 4~ I! iiiiiiiiiiii1pi -'

Chapter 8 Earning money in other ways: brewing beer, crocheting, selling vegetables Brewing beer Women earned money in many ways other than in formal employment. One of the better things to do in the early days of the townships was to make beer or liquor. This was a traditional skill learned by women in the rural areas where the activity was tied to traditional ceremonies. But in town a women could use her brewing skills to earn money for herself, selling mainly to male workers who were forbidden to drink 'European' liquor (such as clear beer) and had few other options for relaxation and entertainment. As time went on, individuals brewing beer came into conflict with the town authorities and the official beer halls. Private brewing then became illegal and more difficult. Nonetheless, people continued to brew and sell their own beer as we see below. The 1920s Miss A. Gasa: It was just a life of suffering [living in the location as a child]. The problem was that our mothers brewed beer and sold it. When they were banned from brewing beer they were being arrested. That's how it was. At first they were allowed to brew beer. ... I could have been educated but my father had very little money. He had so many wives at home and he was producing children as well. So we lacked clothing. So your mother's money was what clothed you?

This beer money? Yes. If she sold the beer, then she would buy us clothes ... . When the police started arresting people that's when she stopped [brewing beer]. At first they [the police] were not bothered. There was a Superintendent Reilly [responsible for the location]. Mason [another superintendent] didn't mind. He said, "Let people help themselves," at that time. First there was Mason. We were young. We were just told [about him] as stories. But we did see him. This one [Reilly] is the one who used to ride his horse, while our mothers were brewing, over their drums of beer [laughter]. The 1930s Mai Dzvairo: Did you find hobhiya [hop-beer, a mild alcoholic drink] still being brewed when you came to Harare [in 1936]? I found it there. People were not arrested. But after the wars they were arrested. But I found it there. Mai Butao: At that time [the early 1930s1, what did the women of Mbare, like your ambuya [grandmother], do? They brewed beer and sold, there near where OK [a chain store] is now. There was a brewery and they went to collect waste [from the brewing process] that had been thrown away and came and brew their own to sell and get profit. Some brewed beer, some chikokiyana, and others '7-days' [a traditional beer]. Did many women do this? Ha-a. They were many. So many. Did your ambuya do this? How else would she survive? She did. How many times a week did they brew? Every week. They brewed every week [and] as soon as it is finished she goes back to the brewery to get waste and brew again.

Were they not arrested then? Ah. They got arrested! They got arrested! What would happen? They go and pay a fine... long back ten dollars, five pounds. Yes, five pounds. Could they be locked up? Yes. But if you had the fine you just paid. Or they could hide it when the police were passing ... in their houses. Some dug pits. In the floors? Since they were not cemented? No. They were not cemented. They used to polish with cow dung. Were these women organized, or friendly with each other? They could be friends. But some would be jealous of those who were getting more money. So they could go and alert the police that, "So-and-so is brewing." And they get arrested. And she doesn't. She hides hers. You see? How did people choose whose beer to drink? Ah, they just knew, "There is beer there today," they go to so-and-so's. Tomorrow to that one, like that - wherever you wanted. When [your ambuya] got the money, where did it go? Ah. She bought things to send to her home - ploughs, etc. Mai Mutuma: In 1936, when you came to Mbare, did you find hobhiya still being brewed? Yes. [If you brewed it] you would be arrested. At first, it wasn't intoxicating. Later they put yeast in it and it changed, almost like chikokiyan... . At first they were not arrested. It was only when they started to put yeast. Hobhiya was even drunk in the hotels, like the one near the brewery. You would go there and buy it for five cents. But when they put yeast, they [the whites] saw people getting drunk, and it was now brewed in big drums like this, foaming like beer, and then they realized, "Ah, it's not hobhiya any more," and they started arresting people.

The 1940s Miss S. Mazoe: Do you remember women who were brewing beer there in the location? To cook the beer? Ah-h, they used to cook but I can't remember them. But it was a lot. You know skokiaan? They used to cook skokiaan. They used to get money. They used to sell the beer, but when the police come, they get arrested... . They used to arrest them. To take them - some [offenders]. If you have no fine, you can go to jail, to Gwelo. Did ladies hide beer in their houses? Oh yes - they used to hide [it]. Sometime you can put it under the bed. Some they used to put [it] in the wardrobe... to put a tin of beer in the wardrobe... . What to do? Some they used to dig in the ground; they used to make a drain, put [it] there, hide it... If it was European beer, [if the police] caught you with European beer, a pint, like Castle, a pint of Castle, you used to pay twenty-five pounds! For one Castle [laughter]! ... Nobody was allowed, an African, to drink European beer.' African Weekly 25th October 1944 Sir, I am surprised by people who say 'skokian' is bad, when it is food for the poor. Our husbands who work in towns and on farms get such little money which does not enable us to have good lives and eat good food. Poverty makes us brew 'skokian' so that we can get a little money to survive. It also makes us happy and we forget our poverty. We black people are not allowed to live as people' in towns. Other races are allowed to sell things and get money... How do all the others survive, considering they have to pay rent until they die? So how can a black person leave 'skokian', when it's the one that makes us forget our poverty? Leave us to drink please. Yours, Julia 98

Mr L. Vambe: [In the 1940s] there was also brewing of illicit drink. Like a shebeen [a private bar where liquor is illegally sold], that's right. The majority of those people would evade the law by brewing their own beer which we called iskokiyana. That was a very lucrative business and usually those women were quite well-to-do. If they were arrested they pay the fines very happily [laughter]. They were making very good money. That was very popular. ... burying things in the ground - they certainly hid [tins of beer], wherever possible in order to fool the police. When during - towards the war, the Second World War [1941-45], you know what they call the Light Industrial Sites, as you go to the airport, Hatfield Road you see lots of industries there - that area was predominantly called Brickfields ... . That is where skokiaan, what we called skokiaan, really flourished. It was a huge industry. Absolutely. And it was dominated by these very tough women. It was mainly women, the people who actually brewed. Either they would be working for their relatives or for the men and so on and share the profits. But the majority of them did it on their own. They had to be protected of course by male friends or male relatives. It was a very big industry. So much so that if you went there during weekends that whole area was covered with people, especially in the evenings. Because it provided a social environment which didn't exist anywhere else. There used to be thousands and thousands of people there and they made a lot of money. What happened, when the police wanted new income, when they wanted to build a new police station, they just raided that place, [and] fined everybody! They got their cash and went and built their station. It was quite amazing, really. It was quite amazing. Was skokiaan in the 1940s as bad as people say kachasu [extremely potent home- brewed alcohol] is today? To start with, I think, it was a good drink. You know - because it wasn't poisonous or too strong. But then you see, because you had too many people competing for business, each brewer made her brand stronger and so on. So they were even putting methylated spirits... honestly, putting all sorts of dangerous concoctions [into the beer]. Absolutely. Where did that money that these women were earning go? You see, some of them came from rural areas and they built better houses in these rural areas. They clothed their children much better. They sent them to school. They bought motor cars... some of them bought taxis. They started more steady businesses ... . Those women did many things with their money. And they didn't just fritter it away. No, no. They used it very wisely. Yes. They used it very wisely, and I think some bought farms or cattle or something. It gave them a firm basis for independence. Unfortunately these things are not researched and properly - you know - documented and so on. It will be very interesting, you know, social history in this country... it was quite, quite interesting, it really was. The 1950s Mr L. Gono: Was it men or women who used to make skokiaan? Skokiaan, usually women. She could brew for her husband to sell or herself, by herself. But married or single, they did it. But again, I made it for my own drinking... I used to buy but I made [some also] for my own drinking. It's only an hour's work. An hour is even too much. The one I was making wasn't really like skokiaan. Mine, my umcombothi [homebrewed beer] which I learnt from South Africa, you only make it from a little morsel of sadza, ah, and three shillings sugar. Those days! Three shillings of sugar and three loaves of bread. In those days bread was only ten cents. You mix with water, all those things together, in a big tin, a four gallon tin, today you say twenty litres. You mixed and close it, for tomorrow. Did you have to hide this from the police? I-i-i! And the police were very very harsh those days. If they caught you with a drum, it was twenty-five pounds! ..You know, I can tell you another story which happened in Hatfield. It was at a small plot. They brewed beer there. They had a full drum, which is forty-four gallons. And he saw the police were coming straight for his place. You know what he did? He called his wife and closed the door. And slept with his wife by the door, here, by the door. Closed the door and slept with his wife by the door. When the policeman opened the door, he found these people busy [laughter]! The policeman had to run away. He didn't even try to find the beer. And I am sure he smelled the smell of the beer but he had no chance! By the door here! 100

African Parade, May 1955 Evil drink ... It could be any house in Harare Township, in the suburbs or a tin shanty in the environs of Salisbury. The time may be day or evening. But evening is better, affording a greater degree of safety than daylight. The door is bolted and within is a lively conversation, which, however, is hardly above a whisper. Now and again it rises and falls, always because the owner is aware of the dangers of discovery by the police, and must regulate the tone of the conversation. Somewhere outside is a sentry who is also a tout, and never keeps his eyes to one direction for long. In his hands lies the fate of the men and women inside. He must be quick to think and quick to act when danger is in sight. The owner of the house, that is the housewife, yesterday bought butter, yeast, mealie- meal and sugar, and with various other ingredients such as methylated spirits, brewed a drumful of skokiaan or 'koki' to give it its popular name. Her husband told some of his trusted friends that at his house, "things are right". Hence this clandestine organization of boozers, who are coming in in ones and twos at definite intervals. They enter through the kitchen, the maize in the garden which reaches up to the very door, affording an almost complete camouflage. The brew is being sold fast in big or small receptacles, according to the price. In this jovial assembly are certified boozers, to whom skokiaan is food, and they must have it first thing in the morning before work and last thing in the evening. You can easily pick them out. The chaps with red eyes, peeling red lips and faces with ugly pitch black colour, the result of addiction. They may be women too. Skokiaan in Salisbury as elsewhere takes its toll of degenerate, perverted members of both sexes. And in this house a good time is being had. Men and women are drinking and smoking anything from penny cigarettes to dagga. [Police come in and raid, there is confusion] ... . One of the policemen is drenched through and through and we wonder how he came to this mess. The explanation is simple. Just as the door flew open and he was rushing in, the housewife caught him with a tinful of it and poured it on him from face downwards. But it was not intentional... 101

Mai Marange: Were you ever bothered by the police for brewing beer there in Masasa? Ha-a. We were made to run! The police did come. They did not want to hear about beer. They would come, and if you were found with it, you were arrested, and the beer taken away. How long would they hold you in jail? Ha-a. When you got there you were just charged a fine, and if you were able to pay - mostly it was five pounds, which we called five pounds. These days it's called ten dollars. Yes. Five pounds was the beer fine, long back. If you have it, you are sent back home. If you don't, you are locked up until you have it, your relatives would be looking for it. Did the police come often? Whenever they thought of it. If they catch you, they would stay away so that you could forget - then they come back. But people were now clever, they would hide it... [the police] would bring their metal things and poke all over, like this - looking - because we were now digging holes in the ground, and put the drums down there, [taking pieces of] zinc to close [them]. But now they knew it. So when they came and found you here, they would take those things of theirs and go poking all over. And if they felt zinc, they kept poking; if they didn't see the owner they would just throw it away. You would have run away. Did you get a lot of money from selling beer? From those drums like this, if we got five pounds, we would think we had got a lot. Because we sold those jam tin [-sized drinks] for five cents. Two were what we called a shilling. There was a sixpence, [then a] shilling. If you were given [beer] for a shilling, ha-a, you would drink and be satisfied. ... So per drum if you got what we called five pounds. Is it five pounds? We are now spoiled by today's [money], five pounds, is it? That's what we got. These days we call it ten dollars. So if you got five pounds and a little bit more, ah, you would say, "I got a lot." Yes. You would say, "I got it," because it was a lot of money in those days." Mai Ruswa: Would you say [selling skokiaan] was a dangerous business because the police were a problem at that time? It was like that. Yes. That was the problem. You went to buy things with the little money you had so that you can come and do something to help yourself. Then you do that. Before you finish selling, they come upon you and it [the beer] is thrown away. You are arrested and you have to pay a fine. So it was hard to make a living. 102

Crocheting "Until today, I can't sit without crotcheting. My hands will get sore." Today the sight of women selling their crochet work is a very common one on street corners and in the markets and car parks of Harare. Crotcheting has a long history here. It began as a commercial activity in the late 1940s and 1950s. Today it is a common occupation amongst women who are relatively uneducated; but the craft did not start out that way. The first women to get involved in making and selling doilies and tablecloths were a bit more educated than some of the other women in town. They were the ones who had learned the craft either at school or from other women who had been to school; they were the ones who could negotiate successfully with white customers in English. Mai Sitambuli: Besides looking after your children, what else did you do? At home? I was crocheting. I started in 1948, when I got married. What did you crochet? Doillies and table mats and tablecloths. I sold them. I sold them to the whites, there in town. You went on your own to sell your things? I went by myself... I also went once to Zambia to sell. It was in 1963. [Here in town] how did you sell? These days they display on the roadside. We went into the mayadhi and knocked on the doors. The murungu would come out and if she wanted she would look at them. If she didn't she would say, "No thank you," and you go on your way. Wasn't it frightening going to knock on a stranger's door? No. It wasn't if you knew what you were after. Didn't they say, "Vootsek! [Get Lost!]" or set the dogs on you? 103

It was only those who were bad-hearted; but normally they didn't do that. When did you stop crocheting, and why did you start? I am still doing it. I started after seeing that, the money my husband gets is little, and I am having many children. There are many things required in the home. So I saw that I must help myself in another way. So that if there is anything I want I can buy it for the home. When you started were other women already doing it? Yes, other women were already doing it, [but] they were not that many as now. Because at that time - some women used to laugh at us. They thought we were going for other things and not for selling. But that was because of ignorance. When they realized that those who were doing this were helping themselves a lot, that's when they also got interested in selling. ... I had nine children. It would have been difficult for one person to see to their schooling, clothing and food; so I was able to send my children to boarding [school].2 Ell Crotcheting for a living 104

Mai Chideya: Why did you come to live in Harare in 1950? I was now crotcheting doilies, when I realized that I wasn't getting much from farming [in Seke Reserve]. Sometimes I got just six bags [of maize] ... . But here I could crochet doilies and get money and buy everything for my children. Sometimes we were given many clothes for the doilies and gave them to the children. We went to Zambia [to sell]. I was crocheting for a certain woman and after church we met that woman who wanted her things and [my ambuya I said to me, "Ah. You, since you live in town, why do you spend the day seated at [your husband's house]? Just washing pots and gardening?" And she scolded me," Vootsek, how can you do that? Just crotcheting for others? Why not for yourself?." And I said, "Ambuya, are you mad?" And she said [to that woman], "Let her buy her own cotton and not crotchet for others. Why are you so stupid, muzukuru [grandchild], just crotcheting for others, and you just sit and wash pots and sit," - so she scolded me. And I said, "Is ambuya mad?" But she said, "From today, buy your own cotton, don't crotchet for others." Uhm. My brother... once went to teach in Gweru... so, there were so many whites who he taught with, and I went there when I returned from Zambia; and I got so much money. And he said to me, "Ah, sister! At home you don't get much. This madhoiri [doilies] gives you money and you give your children. But at home you get only six bags [of maize]. But now you can crotchet in your house and bathe and cook for your children. The money you get is more than what those who work get. Stop fanning at home." That's the year I stopped farming and I would crochet and go to Zambia, and go wherever. And I got everything for my children. They lacked nothing, because I was now getting more money than my husband. My elder brother, when I returned from Zambia said, "How can you go to Zambia by bus, do you think you will get money to cover your trip?".. .His wife had also given me things to sell. "How much money will you get in Zambia?" And I said, "We will get money." And they said, "Ha-a, what kind of money?" [And I returned and said], "Here is your wife's money - eighty dollars - for her things. Here is my hundred dollars." And he said, "Ah, you make money! I thought you were just playing!" Ali. He had buses and he would say, "Sister, can you lend me some money, my bus broke down." So we were now crotcheting and there were many of us. Did people make up patterns or they were found in books, long back? 105

Sometimes you would see two or three people talking about how it was done and you do this and that. And if you didn't do it properly she would tell you, "Ah, here you made a mistake, you must do that and that. Where you don't count, you add more and so if you count so much you add so much." Sometimes you would get a finished one from somebody and you analyse how it had been done. How many [stitches] here and how many there, just by looking at it. ... [After it became more difficult to sell in Zambia after the end of the Federation] we went to Victoria Falls... many of us were now going because there, if you went during Easter or Christmas, the whites had money. They came from South Africa, America, wherever. And you go and display. Ha-a. When they came out of the airplane! They had money. Later the women there got jealous. [But] we just sold. But later - the police came and said, "Why do you come here? Why don't you sell in Harare?"... People were now being arrested. Mai Rusike: We were taught.., until we knew how to make doilies, until we saw others selling, then we also started selling doilies... . We started going to whites' houses, in Hatfield, in Greendale; selling those doilies. Then we saw, "Ah! It's dawn [this is knowledge]! We have been wasting chances." And we saw, "Ah! We are now smart people and we now know things; knowing that you get money from crocheting." Until today, the life we live is because of doilies. Did you find many women doing this when you started [in the 1950s]? Many people hadn't known about this. I taught my niece how to hold a crochet. She is now in South Africa, selling doilies. I told her, "Use a crochet. There is life in it." Mai Bakasa: Where did you sell your doilies? In offices where there were women - white women - who were typists [laughter]. So you went inside? Yes. Saying, "Madhoiri! Dhoiri!" But sometimes we were not allowed in. We were barred. So you actually went into town? Yes. And sometimes we went to the houses of the missuses who were not working and we met those from Chiremba selling vegetables. 106

Selling vegetables "I did it for the life of my household." For women who had a talent for growing vegetables, raising tomatoes, peas, etc. was sometimes an alternative way of earning money. Most of the women who sold their own crops lived just outside Harare, in areas like Epworth and Domboshawa, where there was more land available for gardening. Before the great expansion of the city in the 1950s, however, some urban women were able to grow crops on land which is now inhabited by the townships of Mbare and Highfield. As time went on, more urban women began to work at a musikg reselling vegetables which they bought from people who came in with them from outside the city. IL4 Selling vegetables at Mbare Musika 107

Resolution from a meeting of the Southern Rhodesia Native Association, a group of educated urban men, 1927: [This Association asks] that the Government be asked to approach the Municipal authorities, asking them to frame a bye-law dealing with women... selling or sitting on stoeps [verandahs; outside entrances to city buildings] in big Mobs chatting with male natives, and that no woman be allowed to loiter in shops, butchers, and other places, the municipality to provide a certain area where they could go and sell their mealies and etc. (The conditions of Second Street, Orr Street, South Avenue and Railway Avenue are very disgraceful to the whole community.) Mai Ndhlela: There were no stores like there are now, that in supermarkets you have tomatoes, onions. There were none. There were Indians who moved with their carts, selling, pulling their carts. Some used horses or donkeys. But mostly they [white suburban customers] bought from black people. Yes. There was no place where you could buy things, like how it is now - they are all over. Like what it's like in Mbare? No! Or even in town? You didn't get things everywhere. Yes. If you want vegetables you go to TM [supermarket] and you get them - there wasn't all that. The Indians moved with carts, women moved around selling. Like that. There were no stores like now. In those days when we lived there [1946-53], Mbare was not that big... . It was very small. Areas like National were not there .... On this whole plain [between Mbare and Highfield] women grew a lot of rice. They lived in Mbare when it was started, when the houses were still very few. So in this whole plain they grew rice, maize; helping themselves, all things like that. Yes. Women only. And on the banks of the Mukuvisi, they went to cultivate vegetables. The men went to work. The men who had work went to work. Yes. But women also worked hard. They worked, farming, on the banks of the Mukuvisi, they farmed. Peas, and everything like that. But they didn't sell like those from Epworth. They just grew things to help themselves in their homes. Maize, rice, ah! They grew a lot of things and had big harvests. I was farming - really fanning - tomatoes! cabbages! peas! After school on Friday I would take my bicycle and go and deliver my things. I had brought [this idea] from Epworth. Mai Makoni: How did you survive in town? 108

In town we were helped because of farming. The white man we had here, [location superintendent] Mr Stodart, he said, "Farm. If you can't farm it's your fault. Those who can farm, farm." Then we started fanning ... there... on the Mukuvisi [River] .... We grew maize and vegetables. Where did you sell them? There were a few men at the musika who bought these. And women who didn't want to step on mud [laughter]. African Daily News 10th October, 1956 Woman deposits £665 for new lorry An African woman, a prominent resident of the Harare African Township, Miss Jane Maruta, has deposited £665 for a new lorry. In an interview Miss Maruta said the value of the lorry is £ 1165, and that she would make efforts to get it from the garage as soon as the officials fill her forms. She is expecting to get the lorry out of the garage before the end of October. Miss Maruta is making negotiations with the Native Affairs Department to see if she could get a recommendation to enable her to pay the balance by installments. Her occupation in the Harare African Township is to sell firewood. She started this business in 1950. Priorto this she was working in Salisbury as a nanny. Miss Maruta comes from Wedza Reserve. She sells firewood next to the groceries, near the Salisbury East School. Mai Maripakwenda: Did you ever have a job? Me? No. We just worked at the misika [markets] - doing this women's job of selling [vegetables]. I never worked for a white man. Which time was this, when you had a musika? 109

Ah-a-a... When I had two children; 19 ... 47... . Yes. That's when I started here. That's when we started musikas. We sold things, and you went to order, there were vegetables that came from Chiremba, which we went to order from town. Why did you start this work? [Because of] wanting something of your own, yours personally. Because you could sell and get money. Baba [the husband] also found you having bought vegetables. You could buy firewood - we still cooked with firewood. You bought tomatoes, you buy vegetables. So that your family doesn't suffer. Yes. I did it for the life of my household. Instead of being angry saying, "I haven't been given this, today I don't have firewood, tomorrow I don't have that," it's a problem. Yet there is a place for you to do some work! Ah. We worked a lot in the misika, until our children went to schools, we were also helping. Where did you say you ordered these vegetables from? From town. Those from Chiremba brought the vegetables from their home ... in Epworth .... You would have made your orders, saying, "I am coming on Tuesday, I am coming Friday. Where was this in town that you met them? In. . . on that road, what is it called? Nyerere? Julius Nyerere Road. Kingsway [the former name of Julius Nyerere Way]? Kingsway. Isn't it... some arrived at charge office where you get off the bus ... . That's where we went to get vegetables. From there you went to Kingsway. Yes. That whole street that went up like this, you would see them displaying tomatoes, this and that, everything. So was it difficult to get the vegetables? Vegetables? Ah! It was difficult. Yes. They were few, and people were not as interested in selling as they are today. Women in other parts of the country also did this work, as Mai MatondofromMutare remembers: I did a lot of work. I was selling. I was growing vegetables and flowers and sold them. That's what made me get all the things I have. I was selling, when I was in town, in Mutare, in the 110

1940s. That is what the majority of women did. Because many men had no money so they had to sell to live. That is what made women 'come up'; and also kuruka [knitting]. Were you allowed to sell in town? We were not allowed. We were not allowed. We went 'hiding'. We would go kumayard [in the white suburbs] to sell, and if you see the police, you run away. Were you often caught? Not often. We would sell very early in the morning. By six we would have finished selling at the hotels. What sort of vegetables did you sell? Cabbages, peas, and beetroot. How much could you make per day ifyou sold all your vegetables? Per day. Ah, I can say, one dollar. If you sold a lot - but if you had flowers you could get three dollars every Tuesday. Because they were bought by the whites from the cemetary. You said your husband earned one dollar seventy cents a month? At first when we wedded in 1939, yes. He earned one dollar seventy cents per month. Then it was raised to three dollars fifty cents. That's when he was earning better money. So the vegetables you bought and you got a dollar for, was a lot? Yes. Because we ordered from those who came from home, from the reserves. We ordered their vegetables too; for two cents per bundle, two cents and then we sell for five cents. So that I get a profit. That's what helped us... . It was better [than what a man earned]. We could also buy household things like pots and plates. I The alcohol laws were changed in 1957 so that African people could legally buy wine or clear beer, but they still had to get official permission to buy spirits like whiskey, vodka and gin. 2 As there were so few schools for Africans, and the majority of these were mission schools in the country, children who went to them had to board. (See Chapter 5.) 111

At~t 1% ,~ rrr~rr Epworth, 1908 112 FlvvI

Chapter 9 Those women from Epworth "They were farming" Epworth Mission is about 20 km from the centre of Harare. Today it is a sprawling settlement, filled with people who settled there in the 1970s and 1980s. Many were refugees from the chaos caused by the liberation war in the rural areas. They were looking for work and safer homes close to Salisbury. This is all very different from the way Epworth once was. Epworth Mission was founded in 1892. The people of one of the nearby villages, Chire mb a, accepted Christianity and supported the settlers during the First Chimurenga of 1896. As the colonial system developed, people from other villages nearby and workers from Salisbury came to live in Epworth. The community at Epworth lived according to the strict rules of the Wesleyan Methodist Church, but the people there were free from the much harsher rules and regulations which the Salisbury authorities forced upon people living in the location. Epworth attracted some of the more educated workers in the town, and in 1920s it became the birthplace of one of the first political associations in Mashonaland, the Southern Rhodesia Native Association. From an early date the people of Epworth were able to take advantage of their closeness to Salisbury. Epworth men lived at the mission and cycled into town to work. Epworth women were the first to grow vegetables on family plots and bring them to Salisbury to sell. This practice then spread to Seke and Domboshawa, two relatively fertile reserves I which were near town. Epworth's story shows how a rural community can become influenced by and involved in the life of nearby town. *** 113

Mai Masamba: It is said that people, especially women, used to sell vegetables, when did this start? Selling vegetables? Things like peas, I think started in the 1920s, going to the '30s... [Long back] there were no green vegetables being sold. If somebody asked for green vegetables, you gave [them to] her for free. Even pumpkin-leaves or any other, you just gave her. What was sold was peas, beans and matapiri [potatoes]. So who took these things to town? We the children and our mothers. And our grandmothers. We carried them on the head, yes. There were no buses.., and bicycles came later. It was a way of getting money so that they could educate their children. Wasn't there any other way of getting money? How could they get it? There was no way of getting it. Yes. Our mothers say, long back when there were still young girls, they would bum firewood, this firewood, they burnt it to make charcoal. Do you know charcoal?... and [they] went to sell, in Harare. We don't really know where they went to sell. We just heard them saying that. They went to sell to the whites. So by the time you were born [around 19121 they had stopped? They had stopped. They were now growing peas and beans and sold them. And maize. ... I went [to town to sell vegetables] myself. You didn't go on your own. We would plan: five of us, or six. We wake each other up, early in the morning; at about four o'clock. We carry our things on the head, the child on the back. We go to town, to sell. All this was built recently, Park Meadowlands... going on to Cranbome. They were built very recently. [Before] there was nothing, it was just bush. We were afraid of walking on our own. Mai Bakasa: Yes, I remember, those from Chiremba used to sell maize and peas. That's what they grew mostly. They would walk on foot from Chiremba, carrying the things on their heads. There were no buses then; bicycles were few. It was the men who rode on them coming to work in town.But the women set out very early in the morning, before sunrise, to come [into town] and sell - peas, maize and other vegetables. They usually sold to the whites who were called, vamissisi vamissisi, [laughter]. They carried peas - that's how they made a living. After the peas have been bought they go back carrying meat and sugar, going back home. 114

Mai Ndhlela: The women of Epworth - they were fanning! They were very strong women, helping themselves in their homes. Especially in growing peas. They grew a lot of peas and sold them. They sold, and went back carrying edibles - bread, meat, mealie-meal, and other things like that. Helping their husbands in such ways. Were there other women from other areas besides Epworth, doing this selling? Like from Seke? Which Seke? Where there is Chitungwiza now. There was nothing in Chitungwiza. There was nothing at all. It was bush. There were reserves which were there. But they [the people there] were not so alert as to sell something.... They didn't have the knowledge. Knowledge was at Epworth. Yah. When knowledge spread, it went to Domboshawa. That's when those in Domboshawa also started fanning, also getting into town. They are the ones who were really growing tomatoes, peas, beans ... . This was later. When women came to town to sell things and the men went to work in the industries, did the men complain about this? Ha-a, never. They really liked it [saying], "We are being helped." Yes. The one who wasn't doing it, would be encouraged by others saying,"Look at what other women are doing. You just spend the day seated! They are growing beans, they are growing peas, they are growing maize to sell - green mealies - you just spend the day seated!"... The men really liked it. Nobody complained because it was done with nothing else behind it. They just went to sell. At about this time [noon] they have finished, they are returning. Mai Chitumba: How did the women of Epworth get the idea of coming into town to sell vegetables? Because it was near town, and [there were] people [shopping] in town. If you wanted any vegetables, you had to buy them in town. Before there were other shops where you could buy rice, meat, or cloth, you had to come to town. There were no other nearer places where you could buy these things. So that is why people at Epworth were coming to buy them here. You buy everything from town, then you go back home after selling your vegetables. After selling your maize you would come - even chickens; we used to come and sell them here in town. 115

So you were able to sell all your mealies and vegetables? All of them. I don't remember having problems bcause at that time there were not many people who wanted to have some gardens and grow these things. So they depended on people who came to sell them. I don't remember having any problem. So we bought the sugar, bought the meat, to take home. Would you come once a week? We used to come twice a week. Depends when your things were ready. Then you came Tuesday. Usually Friday was the day when most people would come, so that there was meat and other things for the weekend. Did any men do this as well? Yes. Even men used to do it. Yes. Especially men, because they had transport, they used bicycles, while women had to walk. So we couldn't do that many times. We would come once a week. Then if you had other children they come on Tuesday and some on Friday. Mai Munda: Oho! Long back [in Epworth] people could grow a lot of food. We had rapoko, maize, and other crops. Groundnuts and peanuts - that people would be satisfied. Before they knew about gardens. They cultivated fields, they would harvest and fill their granaries. People would be satisfied. Then later the land became useless. Then they started gardens; putting cattle manure, until they 'saw' fertilizer. The soil [was then] useless. If you grew maize it would only grow up to here. It no longer grew well. Did you have problems in travelling to town to sell? No, ah-a-a. It wasn't there. Didn't you ever meet police who would ask, "Where are you going?" Police? They knew we were going to sell. Ha-a. They didn't ask that. We were not even arrested for selling. No. They knew we were selling and going back to our houses. Never, we were not bothered. Were there tsotsis [thieves] in those days? No. Like what is done nowadays? No. At that time the country was good. We didn't know all that. You could travel on your own to wherever, without seeing a tsotsi. We just moved freely, all of us. Not like now. You can't travel! A woman? Ah! Now the country has gone bad. No! Long back, there were no tsotsis. I See Historical Introduction. 116

Chapter 10 Prostitution "When you no longer have a husband, what do you do?" Prostitution is probably about as old as colonial rule in Zimbabwe. There is not much evidence that women sold themselves to men for sexual use before 1890. It does, however, seem that as the colonial order spread, prostitution became more common. Most people consider prostitution to be a dirty and shameful topic. In fact it is a very complicated issue. Prostitutes are often poor and relatively powerless women who cannot find any other means of survival. However, because they are not looked on as the property of any one man, they are also more free in some ways than wives or mapoto women (see Chapter 11 for the stories of mapoto women). Men often simply refer to independent women as 'prostitutes' because they earn incomes and keep their own money without the supervision of a man. Only a few of the women interviewed for this book ever actually worked as prostitutes. Most of the comments in this chapter are, therefore, people's opinions about prostitutes and prostitution. The common idea that all town women were prostitutes is expressed by both men and women. Because prostitution is such a controversial topic, the names of the interviewees are not included with their comments. * It was a way to make a living, to get money.., doing that job. Some didn't want to look for jobs, they just wanted to prostitute. Yes. It wasn't as big as it is now. It's now very big... . Don't you see that they even speak about it on the radio? Even among the leaders it's being mentioned. In the old days it was blasphemous, that a person could talk 117 about such things. Yes. Those people who did it, did it in private. Yah. Now they just do it in the open! Nobody gets amazed by it any more. ******** When you no longer have a husband, what do you do? You come and you join [the business of prostitution]. It's called a 'joining fee'. Isn't it? You just join. But it's not out of choice. It's because of suffering. That is how many began to do it. What used to happen was that if a man said, "I love you," then you go with him, because you will be suffering. Isn't it? But if you are living well would you just want the man? You wouldn't because you would be living well. It was quite widespread in Harare... because if you had nothing else to do, and you wanted to live, what could you do? If you were just seated what would you gain? We were not the first to do these things... The people like Magumede [see Chapter 14] you are talking about how did they come to the location? Isn't it because they were suffering? Then she decided to start businesses. Where was she getting the money to start businesses? Since you said it was widespread, was there a kind of harmony among these women? How can you have harmony in such cases? Isn't it you have hatred? But if you don't clash over a man, you can be friends. Women would say, "How is she living without a husband?" Wherever you went you would hear them say, "Isn't she is carrying on with our husbands?" Sometimes it would be true. But sometimes they would just accuse you of things you didn't even know about." ******** Today, as I say, young girls of today, they have got accommodation to live in. They have got jobs to do; and if a girl like you becomes that way, she is doing it willingly. She has nothing that is forcing her to do it... if she wants to go loose with men.., because the girls of that time, some of them really didn't want to, but one: they had nowhere to live. Two: they came from a very poor family. She wanted to get somebody; she had nothing to eat, nothing to dress with. Then a man comes.., you are supposed to go. Those were the reasons as I saw them. Not the girls of today; they do what they like. * * Now these mahuu just lived to eat people's things. She could have one, two, three, four [men] in order to get money. Others would leave home after divorcing, so she would do chihuu to try and get money, saying, "I wish I could get a husband and settle down, I am tired." But now they are doing it purposely and willingly. They don't want to get married. They just want to do chihuu. I have grandchildren who do chihuu. 118

African Weekly 25th July 1945 The causes of prostitution Sir I think that most of our people have forgotten what causes prostitution. Even if we give women IDs and passes it won't help. Look at the fact that long ago those who engaged in prostitution (especially the Karanga of Gutu, Zimuto, Chivi and Chilimanzi) had their eyes gorged out. In those days prostitutes were few. What has reawakened this today? What are the causes of prostitution? First, the pledging of daughters. A girl is given a husband before she 'wants' a man, because her father envies that man's cattle or produce. When she grows older she thinks of choosing for herself, but she is forced because her parents have already used the lobola. So she runs away to town. Whose fault is this? Secondly, divorcing wedded wives. Ten out of every hundred divorced women are good. The rest go to towns where there is money, food and clothes and they end up as prostitutes. Thirdly, laziness. Rejecting good ways of earning money. Most ofus blacks are lazy to think and work. A child always copies his parents. Our girls don't want to use their hands and brains. Laziness sends them into selling their bodies. Fourthly, not being educated; especially education about God. If we all do God's will we will work harder. I ask all our parents and leaders to develop our country by hitting the cause of prostitution. P. Damiani, Mrewa * * I think I can say that [the word] 'prostitute' in those days was a very loose definition. Largely influenced, quite honestly, by the conservative nature of our own society... African society was even more conservative [than colonial society], absolutely. A woman who rode a bicycle was a 'prostitute'. Honestly! Exactly! Today [riding a bicycle is] 119 acceptable, but in those days ... . Anybody who was not married, who was living in a hut somewhere with kids and so on, she was called a prostitute. Unfortunately. Yes. Those who were called vana rukatsi [prostitutes] do you know of them? The first whores who were called vana rukatsi. They were the first women to live in the location. What other jobs could uneducated women in the location do besides being housegirls? ******** Most of them just went about, not having one man. That's one of the things that helped them. Those who were not married and not educated, they just dressed well so that they could get men. Only some didn't even want to work. But they dressed so well. You would be surprised that they dressed better than you who were married [laughter]. Maybe that was their hobby. Ah. We can't really explain it. What jobs were being done by the women you saw in Majubheki [in the 1940s]? ******** Ah. Long back there were majoki [prostitutes]. We called them majoki isn't it? Mahure. There were prostitutes who went to drink beer in the bar and just sleep with men. Ah, long back, there were mahure, real mahure! They would be given a shilling. Ah ... hure [prostitute]? So there was inspection. So if she was found in somebody's house, she was taken... some would be arrested. They would close the doors of the bar and open the water taps on those mahure and they would get wet. Why would they do this? To fix them. Just to fix them. They would feel cold and the water would still come down on them. Yes, then they were taken from there to be charged. Those mahure. They would drink beer and go with people's husbands, when dancing was still there. Ah, there is no dance there [in the beer halls] any more. Long back they had dances at Kaufman and near our musika here ... . So that's where men and women went and those mahure. Yes. That's what was there. But they were not slept with for a lot of money. If you were given 25 [cents] that was enough. There was no money. What would they be given money for [laughter]? What did the married women say about these mahure? Ah! A married woman would never like a whore. There were fights. Real fights! ... [The police] would not intervene because this was a wife with children. The police didn't want that prostitution, that's why they inspected the houses. 120

Where did the mahure come from? Would I know? This place is like heaven - you don't know which way you are going. Look at the musika - isn't it there are many buses? Do we know where people come from? You only know the one from your home. As a woman who was married, why do you think these people engaged in prostitution? Ah! Not wanting to get married and only prostituting to get money ... . Some would run away [from their husbands] without being divorced. With those women who were divorced or widowed it was understandable. You have said some didn't want to get married - why wouldn't one want to get married? That? It's still there up to now. You see her from the start 'knowing' men. Those are the ones who would run away [to towns]. So if [a man] sees you drinking, do you think he will marry you? If you get married while you are a prostitute, you are lucky. [If] you take this man, you take that man and who will marry you? Before you got married [in the 1940s] were there many unmarried girls living in the location? They were sort of many. You would just hear, "This one doesn't have a husband. This [other] one doesn't have a husband." Many, but not like it is now. Now there are many more What were the women doing? How did they survive? Ah ... chijoki [prostitution] which had come. We want to tell the truth. That was the story. I also wanted to do it. But my aunt is the one who said, "Leave that dirt and come to work." When I wanted to join, I saw it as if it was enjoyable. Yes. When I saw those who were doing it. Then I realized, ah... it was useless. What else could a woman do [in the 1950s] to earn nwney besides being a housegirl? Nothing. Some just went around hoping to get proposed to. Were there many women like that? Ha. Plenty. The whole country through. Some just wanted to find a way to live. How else could they survive? *t 121

******** In 1953 I was staying in Masasa... that's where I saw these ladies. They used to be near Wenela' at Masasa... I saw women. You could see a woman sleeping in the house with a man. With a long queue outside, waiting for her. What were the men in the queue charged? It was two and six [two shillings and sixpence or 2/6]. Did any of these women have houses of their own? Um. They were staying in the compound ... . Some used to come [from town] for their boyfriends to make money. What did the boyfriends do? He is the clerk, sitting there, getting the money. They [the women] went to sleep like that, with a bucket of water and a wet cloth.., to do a little bit of cleaning. She [the girlfriend] doesn't get up. She is lazing in bed and the clerk collects the two and six. You know, one day a woman wanted to collect money by herself. She was collecting the money and putting it in - we used to call it a skavha, a big cloth which she would tie on her head. Then [she would] collect the money and put it there. The next boy saw, "Oh, she is by herself." He brought a thin bottle of dry chili. So he gave her the money and pretended as if he was going to sleep on her. With that bottle he was hiding in the palm, [he] shoved the bottle in her, shoved it and pulled that cloth with the money. She was taken from there by an ambulance. Yah. So you had to have a boyfriend. Everybody. You didn't work it by yourself. But some of the money went to the boyfriends? Yah. They shared together, and those were the people who were 'dressing'. Buying suits at H. M. Barbour for twenty-five pounds. Suits, and.., cars. Those are the first people to own cars... and they were buying better things, pots and cups. They were the best-dressed people. Is it true that there were some prostitutes who stayed in the compounds near Masasa? ******** Ha-a. Those are always there. They stayed everywhere. With those [women], if you want the beer to be nice, they have to be there. They make beer go down well. Did these women cause problems in the community? 122

There were some who caused problems. But, at that time, since working was not yet that popular, they did something to help themselves. So nobody blamed them and said they were doing wrong? They were quite clever. They did not stay near people who had their husbands. Did the police do what is done today, come and round up all the women in a truck?2 Oh - prostitutes? Rounding them up? The police did not mind. You would just settle with them ... . What happened was, if your husband was taken [by a prostitute], you can go and fight. So sometimes they [married women] would fight and go to the police. Not that the police minded. So when you get there they say, "You must settle your problem. You, man, you are the trouble-causer. So talk to your women." At that time there were many we knew who [survived by prostitution]. What did they do with the money? Buying food - because they had no husbands. They were just people who went around. With children? With the children that they may have got through prostitution. Sometimes they bought food and clothing for the children. How did these prostitutes view their lives? They say it was a good life, because they were once married and they were divorced. After they were divorced, they were suffering, they no longer had somebody to look after them ... So they would go with other people's husbands. When the men say, "I love you,' they take money the men give you. The women were given so much money. But then he [the man] no longer supports his wife at home. All the money goes to that one [the prostitute]. So those ones bought very nice dresses! And they bath every day. She is in the bath, and they use perfume. Now most of us long back didn't know bathing that much. But those ones were always smart. So to them it [prostitution] was okay because they lacked nothing. When that husband wants to come back [home to the wife] he finds things are different. You, the wife, you are told, "You are dirty, you stink," this and that, and the man runs away and goes to those [women]. So that [prostitute] thought it was good because he gave her money. Would you say that the prostitutes in Masasa were united or each one worked on her own? 123

******** They were not united. How could they unite when each person was seeking her own livelihood? That's what I saw happening. Because you would see one on her own, sometimes you saw two together - like how people move around... Were the men who came there, were these women'sfriendsfrom that area, or did they come from far away? These men.., one can come from another place, to his friend's house and he proposes to a woman in that place. A woman can board a bus or a train to go to Harare or Marandellas and go to her friend's house, with the aim of looking for money ... . And the way she looks for it? If she is a woman she will say, "Iam going to look for money to support myself, through 'going out"'. If she is proposed to, she will agree, isn't it? So you can't say it was only done by people who lived there, no. It was a mixture, from there and from wherever. They would just meet on the road or wherever and just... Were there some [prostitutes] who were well known? There were some, yes. I think so. That they were called, 'champions'. Yes. That's 'fame' isn't it? There are some on Earth, when you do something, you will find there will be some who are in front and others who are behind. So I think they were there... [Some had] names which were not theirs. Some were their totems, some they picked up .These days if a child is educated it's rare that she does such degrading things. ****** It's like Magumede [see Chapterl4l. She used to get these beautiful women at her house. Men would come and they would pay money to her. That's how she got money to start businesses. * * We say prostitutes were the ones doing bad things, and the men admired those who went around looking for money. Those who ran away from home and did that job of theirs. What made men do that was.., they met these women in bars. Don't you know whores don't leave bars? So men would forget their homes. Whose fault do you think it was that men went to the bars and got those women? Um-m. I can't say whose fault it was. We thought those governments which built bars3 they were the ones who brewed beer. So when they did this business, they built places where people would come and buy beer. Nobody is forbidden from buying beer, if he has money. But we said, "Ah, Mambo wanga [My Lord], this is bad, that men and women go to the bar! Men will go!" And so they went. ... when one is drunk, she won't be afraid that, this is so-and-so's husband - she doesn't 124 care, because she is in her business. That man also says, "I don't know where this woman comes from. So I just touch her." So killing each other increased because people were fighting for women... Beer made men run away from us; to go to those others isn't it? Can a woman who lives here and one from the rural area be the same? No. There is a difference. These women who sold chikokiyana or were prostitutes, would you say they were educated, or uneducated or what? They were just women as we are. Isn't it, some are educated, some are not. That's how it was. Yes. Most of them had no husbands, especially those in bars, who used to fight. A few had husbands. Do you think they were bad women? I wouldn't say it was bad. It was part of the times. The prostitutes saw it as a very good thine for them. If one found a husband to look after her, she would stop... The man would support her. If she 'sneaked' she would 'sneak' from her house. But they would live well. * * Some town women lived with their husbands. But some women went to farm at home. So the husband would take whoever he had taken and live with her meanwhile. So if the wife heard about it, she would come and find that prostitute and a fight would break out. It happened often. That's why some women would say, "I am not going home any more. We will stay together here. I have been going home to grow food for us to eat, because your pay is little. But when I go home you take girls and put them in the house?" That's why some women refused to go home. They were made clever by the men. Ah-a-a. We [women from Epworth] didn't know about running away to towns and prostitution. They started and those from Mutare. Here? Even now I don't think there is [an Epworth] child who is in town who is a prostitute... those who are working are working there [properly]. Prostitution? If you were the parent you would be thrown out [of Epworth]. Ah. You would be thrown out, by the ministers we were living with." , Were there prostitutes in Mutare? Very few. People in Harare say women from Mutare engaged in prostitution! 125

They didn't do it at all. Yes. Even to be touched like this? There would be much screaming! ******** [Prostitution] ah, it's very bad! That is, me, I am blessed because I have tried to teach my children not to do that. But while they were still with me, they didn't do it to me. It's not nice, my dear. Not nice. Was it something a lot of women have done? Yes! Urn. They die from that, they die from that. You see so-and-so has been killed because the two boyfriends, they met together, and then they started to fight. Except some of the boys they don't fight, they hit you to death. If it's a bad way of living, why do you think it happened? Really it's because ... I don't know. Let me tell you.., at the church we try to preach about this. And the young girls that come to church, we call them the youth, we try to teach them to have only one boyfriend, not two. Because it's not a good living... But as you know, the children when they grow up, they won't listen. And once we preach they think, "Ah, the grannies, why do they preach? They have been doing it." Because they never follow what the grannies say. They tell us to do the old things. All right. We can't prevent it. But it is not nice. Besides working in shops and mayadhi, what else did women of your generation do, at that time? Um-m. Nothing. They only just lived in town and enjoyed themselves in town [laughter]. * The women who lived in town were prostitutes. Those were the women in prostitution and mapoto who lived here and didn't go home. [Men] would live with such women. One who didn't go home would have a mapoto wife. That's what was difficult. I Wenela stood for the Witwatersrand Native Labour Association, a company which uses to recruit men to work in South Africa. There was a camp for Wenela workers on their way to South Africa in Masasa, on the site where Danhiko Secondary School is now, on the Mutare Road. 2 In independent Zimbabwe, the police have on several occasions (1982, 1983, 1986, and 1990 swooped down on hundreds of women in Harare, and arrested them with accusations of prostitution. 3The beerhalls were built by the City Council and in theory the profits that accrued from them went into improving amenities in the townships. 126

Chapter 11 Tinobika Mapoto1 "Even young boys from schools wear nice clothes and lie to us." Another way that a woman could survive in town was to become a man's mapoto wife. This involved doing his domestic work and providing sexual services, in the same way that a wife would. There were two important differences between mapoto relationships and marriage, however. The first was that a mapoto relationship did not involve the payment of lobola [bridewealthl from the man to the woman's family. The second was that mapoto was always temporary - the woman could leave the man whenever she wanted to. This particular kind of relationship became popular after the Second World War, when women could no longer get houses in town for themselves. This was because the colonial system only allowed men to register for housing. Single women, therefore, had to rely on being involved in a relationship with men who were living in town without their married wives. Mapoto is also a bit of a controversial topic, so once again the names of the interviewees have not been included with their comments. * Mapoto, as I tell you, mapoto was started by married men; because their wives were at home. Those who lived in town with a girl like this one or like you, they agreed to go and live with you and, bika mapoto [engage in mapoto]; and then, they were called 'mapoto'. Because in African tradition you are not allowed to live with a man before he has paid [lobola] and [he] is known by your parents. Our children started to engage in mapoto with these other men. Or even those who came from the reserve to look for work. They start bika mapoto with this man, when the wife is at home. That is when trouble starts. When I find trouble in my house. Mapoto was started that way ... . Most of these girls who came and did mapoto - they had nowhere to live. It forced you to live in someone's house; and then a man... will take you because... when you came to look for work, there was nowhere to go and live. 127

African Weekly 4th April 1945 What is mapoto? Sir, I Julia, am surprised when I hear people saying that there are women called 'vakadzi vemapoto" in the locations. Listen to me, I say all of us women are mapoto women. Those who had church weddings, N.C. weddings [marriage ceremonies conducted by the native commissioner], and also those, like me, who just live with a man without being married. So, when the love is finished, they will quickly move on without spending time burning in the sun waiting for their marriage to be annulled [by the NC]. We are all women of 'mapoto' because we all use pots. (Not signed) ******** She can come [to town] ... and she is walking along and a man stops her and says, "I love you," then he can say, "Today I want us to go [home] together." They go to his house. When she gets there and finds what they have agreed on, she can stay for a long time. Then she leaves again. Unless she was staying for a long time and eating sadza and cooking without going behind that man's back to look for other men. If he troubles you, leave him and go and think afresh and say, "I am having problems in my life, what can I do?" Then you start afresh. ********We did mapoto, there in Mbare. Yes. You were told [by a man] "You, can you leave this place swept?" You want mapoto. So you sweep and sweep. You go and fetch water. Then he says, "I have left you some money. Go to the butchery... and buy your meat." Then you go and buy that meat. Then you come and cook your sadza. You make your tea. You drink. Then you sit there at the door. He comes back from work, he finds you there. And he says, "She is my wife." 128

Were prostitution and mapoto different? Yes. [In prostitution] today, you sleep here and wake up, tomorrow you sleep here and wake up. If you do that you are inviting being beaten up by your colleagues, you are inviting being called, "useless". Because you are doing wrong. You are inviting trouble. But if you stay in one place, that man will give you that shilling. You buy relish, you cook, you eat and you are satisfied. Going here and there was a problem. African Weekly 5th July 1944 The Cause of Mapoto Sir, I think the cause ofmapoto is the way we pay lobola. One has to pay £15 or £10 plus nine or ten cattle, while he [the suitor] earns only £1 a month. A young man is therefore left with nothing. When the wife comes now she finds the husband with nothing. Then she goes to the Native Commissioner to complain that she is not well looked after. So the N.C. asks them to return the lobola. The parents then say to the girl, "Marry somebody else so we can return his money." She fails to find a husband quickly, until she thinks of going to work, because her father is in trouble. When she get to town, she fails to find a place to stay and so engages in mapoto. So I think lobola must be decreased so that when a woman leaves her husband, his lobola will be quickly repaid. So it won't matter if it takes five years for a woman to remarry. Yours, J. C. Pasimpindu Were you, the married women,friendly to these mapoto women? ********No. We were not friends .because they hated us for leaving our homes to come and live with our husbands. Yes. We wouldn't be friends with them ... 129

So what would happen when these mapoto women thought such things? We would just sit quietly at our doors because long back we were afraid of being cut with knives. By these mapoto women. Did they cut people with knives? Yes. We just heard about it but I never saw it. African Weekly 20th June 1945 House full of women's property Sir, Why is it that when we take 'mukadzi wemapoto', we allow her to bring her tables, chairs and beds? At first a man will be in possession of all such things, but later they get rid of them because the women have better things than the men. They sell everything and replace it with the woman's property. When the man's bicycle breaks down he uses the woman's, then later his is sold and woman's will be used. When the monthends, the woman is given all the money to go and buy what she wants. The man is left with absolutely nothing. When they separate the woman takes everything, including the bicycle, and other things that she bought with the man's money. The house is left empty. I am not saying that we mustn't have 'mapoto wives' but we must not dispose of our property. I see a lot of men having problems with their wives because of this. :R A. Mahwata, Salisbury How did it start, that somebody would do mapoto? ********* It would just start by them [the two people] seeing each other and then living together. Some would end up marrying each other. Was it true that if a mapoto woman quarrelled with the man, she could take all the property in the house and go away? 130

Ha-a. That happens. Sterek! [a great deal]. Why would she do this and even take property which was not hers? [She would reason] He has rejected me, of course. He rejected me when I still loved him and it's better to take utensils, of course, pots and pans, they are a woman's. Could the man chase after her? He would: yes. And quarrel: yes. But she wouldn't let go [of the property]. [She would say], "Yes, they are mine. I cooked and I washed for you, and slept with you. So what I have taken is mine." But the man could use force; but some would say, "I still have my strength, I can work and buy some more. Let her go." We have heard that a mapoto wife would carry everything from the house, and take the things, when she left. ********Yes. She took them... even clothes, when she knew she wanted to go. Who would he go and report to? Saying, I was living with who? Even if you make a report, do you get the things back? [She would say], "He was living with me, refusing to give me money. That's why I have taken the things." Yes. Were there many men who were doing mapoto in those days [1940s]? ******** That was - those were the days of mapoto. Is it true that if the man and the woman had an argument she could take all the property away? Of course. She is busy with this mapoto business. She had to take everything she bought in that house. Even if it's the things he bought? Of course. She could collect everything. What did he do? Nothing. 131

African Weekly 28th June 1944 Men cause mapoto Sir, I hear a lot of men blaming us women for causing mapoto. This is not true! Men are the ones who cause this, because they are the ones who leave their wives at home, when they come to work in towns. When they are in towns, they realize that they get very little wages. So they cannot hire workers to cook for them. Because of this, they come to us, working women, lying that they want to marry us; and they don't tell us they have wives at home. They tell us all this while we are working for whites and living there. Thus they entice us to go and live with them, in the locations, while they [say they) are trying to earn enough money to pay for our lobola. This is what has destroyed the morality of girls who work in towns. It is the men who leave their wives at home who are wrong. They are the ones who lie to women so that they can engage in mapoto... [saying] they will marry them when they have enough money. Even young boys from schools wear nice clothes and lie to us. Miriam L. Chiota Why? I don't know what they believed in. You know the thing is, when she [the woman] is doing mapoto, you don't pay her every night. She is just like your wife, and she is buying pots and all this and that for you. As a man and wife together. So when she takes those things she includes that work for those days - cooking for you, washing for you. So I think that was the belief, that, "Oh, she can take those things." What did the men say about women who did those things? Well, they used to say ... in the beerhall, "You know what happened to me? .... That woman ran away from me." They say, "Oh, that's the results of keeping a 'bitch'. You knew 132 your children and your wife were suffering at home. You were not caring and you were feeding a 'bitch' - This is the result!" We used to laugh at each other at the beerhalls. But many men used to do this? Yah. Some. Some. Yah. Many of them. You know when you used to be married at home you stay here - you know life needs a man. Life needs a woman. So you find it's better to have somebody to kiss you. That's all. I This phrase literally means 'we cook with pots' in other words: we are mapoto wives. 133

A I I Highfield Village Board 134 9

Chapter 12 Laws and Passes "Where do you run away to when you were born here? There is nowhere for you to go." In this chapter the interviewees discuss some of the laws used by the colonial regime to try and control African people in town. The most important way that the regime tried to control men, was to force them to carry a chitupa [identity document or card, IDI or registration certificate wherever they went. Women did not have to carry these certificates or 'passes'. But other laws were used to try and control the mobility of women. Sometimes they had to carry a marriage certificate to show police men on req uest; sometimes, like the men, they had to have a town pass, to show that they were legally employed in the 'white town'. These laws and restrictions operated most severely on poor women. Most of those who were educated or were the wives of educated men, were known to the police and were, therefore, not bothered by demands to show their passes. One restriction which operated against everyone was called 'inspection'. It was illegal to stay overnight in a township house unless you were a registered tenant. In the effort to keep Africans out of the city unless they were useful to whites, the police often raided the homes of township residents. They were looking for visitors. In the urban areas of Rhodesia, there was no such thing as an innocent African 'visitor' - such people were treated simply as trespassers on city property. Until the 1970s, any overnight visitor who was not reported to the authorities was in danger of being arrested and fined for being in a house without official permission. Mr W. Saidi: He [katsekera, the white location superintendent whose real name was Stodart] was always represented by [African] policemen.... There was always a sergeant... who supervised the township on behalf of katsekera. You know Chatima Road - it's named 135 after Sergeant Chatima... and [Sergeant] Vito. I mean Vito is related to my father. We looked upon him highly because he was not [cruel]. But there were some who were, even to us kids. If you were found somewhere, they whipped you. They had large sticks. And, katsekera himself, he had a terrible reputation... . We were told by the people who worked near him that all you had to say was, "If you do that, I will report you to katsekera." And, as soon as you said this, most people would say, Okay, Okay. So if the police reported you, you were kicked out of your house? Invariably you would be kicked out of your house. That was the worst thing. Because you could not go back to your village. Most people did not want to go... . We used to play in the space between [katsekera's office] and the location and we could see him as he came out of his office with big cigarettes, looking around, you know... ? Very pompous. I really hated that man. Stodart was his name. I still don't understand why they keep calling that place [the big community hall in Mbare] Stodart Hall. Mr L. Gutsa: [In the 1930s] it was a must to carry your chitupa. Let me tell you, that time was very difficult. Each time you moved in the street, when you met a policeman he would ask you for it - ten times a day. If you met ten policemen a day, you would produce it ten times. They [registration certificates] were of a higher quality [paper] then. One would last for two years - not like now, when they are finished in six months. One day I went to see someone kumayhadi, a relative. A policeman came and he arrested me for trespass. I went and paid two shillings and sixpence, that was twenty-five cents. It was not a deposit like these days. You would sleep in prison, tomorrow go to court and be charged twenty- five cents. In those days Europeans, when a European employed a worker, his relatives were not allowed at the place. A person could be very safe, if he called him into a central lane - that's not trespass - but in the yard was trespass. Or if you are known to the European, you could ask if you could see him [your relative] and if he said, "Go to his room," then, no trouble! I've never seen a very bad place like that one [the jail]. It was an open room like this. We were given very stiff blankets, and the toilet was right inside there, open. The number of men in the room varied. That day I found there were about ten men inside. It was very dirty. We were given food in that smelly room. One was bound to lose weight, of up to two pounds in one day because of the badness of the cell. During that time, cases didn't take very long. If you were arrested in early morning, you go to court the very same day. On trespassing there was nothing to answer and the fine was so much. They could handle a thousand men a day on trespass. It was very quick. 136

Mr N.D. Ngarande: Ah! Did you ever put your chitupa down? Even when it was raining the policeman would stand where it's not raining while you were lining up holding them in your hands. If you didn't have it - you go and sleep in jail. ... If you were coming from a certain direction, you find a policeman standing there, you can't pass. Town [only] started changing when we got our country [1980]. Yah. That's when town changed... . Nobody was allowed to leave here [Mbare] at seven o'clock in the evening to go to town. You had to have a letter or: "Where are you going?" If you were living in town you had to have a letter. We had to go and line up for town passes. If you didn't have it, you went to sleep in jail and paid five bob in the morning. Or, they could phone where you said you were working and they [your employers] say, "Yes, he's ours. Let him ouL" But you still pay fifty cents. African Weekly 27th December, 1944 Women and ID cards Sir, I am very happy to read what people of Mashonaland say, but I haven't seen any one man shedding tears about what our daughters do in this land of our forefathers. Most women want to be allowed to go around naked. They are only afraid of the government, otherwise they want to go around naked. I don't know what you fathers and chiefs think. Why don't you ask the government to give women IDs? That's all that would help. Just think, that even with us men, if we didn't have IDs, how would life be? There wouldn't be any rest here in Southern Rhodesia. Solomon Machowa Salisbury. Mai Rusike: Did you come to town to do some shopping? Of course we came to town to shop. Like for clothes, if baba [the husband] gave you five pounds you would say, "Ah, blessings, baba really loves me," and you come and buy your clothes and some little blankets which you want. Then... we go back to our home. 137

When you were in town were you required to carry some documents which showed whether you were working or were married? We were so free, we didn't know that a woman carried a document to travel with. A policeman would stop you and say, "Amai, give us your document?" No! We didn't do that. We just moved freely, because it was said, "A woman is a donkey - does she have a chitupa?" There was the saying that, "A woman is a donkey, she doesn't have a chitupa!" We were not even stopped by a policeman, no. We didn't know it. How could you carry a chitupa? What did you have? Nobody said, "Hey! Stop there! Give us a chitupa!" Ah. No. We could say, "How can you ask me for a chitupa, am I a man?" African Weekly 24th January 1945 Sir, One of your readers from Kingsway, Salisbury, suggested that if we want to curtail women's movements, they must be given IDs.l say if women get IDs, they will look down on us men, since government will have recognized them. So I say women must not have IDs. T. Tsikirayi Bindura Mai Ndhlela: It's these days when [a woman] has to have a chitupa. In those years there was nothing. A woman was not asked for a chitupa. She was not even allowed to take a chitupa. A chitupa was taken by a man, if he was grown up... the child had to go and get a... chitikinyani [identity document for juvenile workers]. Girls - no! We were not allowed a chitupa. Mai Bakasa: In my time we never met police who bothered us. Because most of the police went to the same church as we did. They knew us. Yes. They would know, "It's Mai Bakasa. It's so-and-so." Most of them knew us. It was only when I had gone back to teaching [in 1955] that I heard, "Ah! We are now being arrested! The police don't want to see us!" I never heard them ask whether you were married. Ha-a. I never heard it. Miss C. Renhas: [In the 1940s] we were arrested. We were arrested. We went to spend the day in a certain house, and we were locked in - clang! And we spent the day there and it was 138 said, "You will be tried tomorrow," and we wore red stickers ... . It was said, "You are going to court," and we said, "All right." And it was said, "You have been arrested for staying in the location, while you are not married. We are fining you five shillings." How many times were you arrested? Um-m-m... Many times? Yes. Many, many times! Yes. They sneaked up on us at dawn. You heard the police from Mbare, while you were sleeping in the little kitchen saying, "Open up!" Then you open up in fear, and they say, "What are you doing? Come on, come on!" It went according to the month. Sometimes we lived nicely. If you saw them passing, then you know that, "Today we are not going to sleep!" If you saw police walking around the location, peeping at you, then you say to yourself, "If you are stupid you will sleep there... and they [the police] will sneak up on you." When we got used to it, we dodged and looked for somewhere that the police could not find us... and you survived! [The police] said, "You! Why don't you get married? You make katsekera bother us! Get married! [Then] we won't arrest you." Then they said to my aunt, "Put her on the card!" Then she said, "No, she is somebody's child - how can I put her on the card? Her father won't agree... If she was mine, whom I bore, I can put her on the card." We would be taken like at this time [afternoon] and released the next day. So that we really felt it! We spent the day [in jail] and slept there. We were tried the following day. Where were you taken to for the day? Um-m. Do I remember it? When I am so old?... [It was a room] like this one. It didn't even have a light, it didn't have anything. They opened a very small window and you were given sadza through it. When the sun was there [pointing]. They called, "So and so!" and you are given sadza. Then [the window] closed and you sit in the dark. Ah! We were given one [blanket] each. Then you said, "Girls,"... because you were many... "Let's spread our blankets and sleep." You would be quite a number [of women], all of you who will have been taken from the location. How big was the room they put you in? It was small, but we did fit. And, on that side, there were little tins for urinating in. Those [tins] which were carried on the head, by people long back. 139

How many people might be in that room at one time? Sometimes ten, sometimes twelve, sleeping there, until tomorrow when the car comes and you are all carried to court. Were you not frightened then? We just went in the cars. We were being saved from being run over. After you had been arrested with the others, how did you feel? Were you angry? No, because we were many and we said this was the way of the world. Yes. Aah... there was no anger. We were happy, not angry, knowing that the money [the fine] was little. Five shillings. Can Aunty refuse to it give to me? She will definitely give it to me. We [thought], this was how it was done. We didn't know anything. We just said, "Girls, why have we been arrested? What have we done?" Then it was said, "Why do you stay here without being married? If you get married we won't arrest you." So if you stay [in someone's house] without being put on the card - you bum! Mai Musengezi: Isn't it in those days they only wanted married women in town; they would say, "What are you looking for? You are prostituting?" They could see we were old women. There are some old women who don't behave. You can tell. Even when a policeman looks at you he can ask, "What's wrong with you Amai [mother]?" Yet others pass, because they behave. Mai Masamba: Let's say a girl [from EpworthJ just wanted to go and see Harare. Was she allowed to do this? No. A girl going on her own to Harare? No! She would go to the [church] to be given a letter, so that she could travel to town ... . A girl was not allowed to travel on her own. Mai Magwenzi: [In the 1950s] did you face any problems going back and forth from your home to town? Since in those days you had to have things like passes? Ah-h, the only problem was having a marriage [certificate]. If you were not married and you met the police, you could get arrested. So if you moved around with your certificate you had no problem? 140

They didn't really bother you. So what would you do if you had no marriage certificate? If you didn't, you had to find some way... . If you were lucky you could go back home safely. But if you were unlucky, you could be arrested. Miss S. Mazoe: Was it a problem, living in town without a marriage certificate? No. I didn't get trouble from the police. Any single day. Because I had my pass. My father gave me permission to work. They used to say, "If your father allows you to work, show us your pass." You show them it, then there is [no problem]. If you keep your town pass in your purse, then you show it. Some [women] they used to run [away from] home. Yes. With no passes. Without permission... . When you are married you run [away from] your husband and kids, "I am going to Harare." What would happen to such women? They used to be arrested. Some were sent [back] home. So were women very much troubled by all these things? Um-m. Could you just ignore the laws? Ignore the police? No. You can't. The police were very difficult at that time. Very very difficult ... . If you had no baby on your back, he will ask you, "Are you married? Produce your working pass." If you were Mrs Somebody they don't [mind] ... . You can go everywhere. But when they do inspection! You can't cross the road. Inspection? For these passes? For these passes. You can't get across. It was very difficult. If they get you, you sleep in the stocks [jail] and [they charge you] a fine. ... Everything was so nice for me because my father, he knew the law of the government. Everything. He used to get a pass for us. [If there was any trouble, the police] used to tell us, because my father was a policeman. "If you do this you [will be] arrested. If you don't do this you are not arrested." So we [were safe because of] my father telling us." When they find you in town, whether you were doing window shopping or whether you were just going about, the police they are asking you, "Come here. We want your marriage certificate! I want your town pass! Are you working?" No... then he has to take you to the stocks 141 and then you have to pay a fine. If you have got no money, you can go to jail! For a couple of days. Did that happen often? Not always. Sometimes they can do it twice a month. Sometimes what they used to do it, when we are riding our bicycles, when you hadn't paid your tax on your bicycle, they used to arrest you. We used to go and pay it [the fine] in town - twenty-five cents. When you have a town pass, you are a good girl. You work, no problem, because you are working. Every month you went to see a doctor. Yes, if you are working, every month. You pay a shilling (ten cents), ten cents every month. After year is gone, twelve shillings [have gone too]. Why did you go to see a doctor every month? They want to see maybe you got a bad disease.., if you look after children, when you do your housework, when you wash plates. Maybe you get the disease from men. When you have got a disease they send you to Nazareth [infectious diseases clinic] straight. When you went to the pass office in Market Square with your father, was it difficult to find a job? No. They didn't say anything. They ask my father, "Are you allowing your daughter to work?" My father said, "Yes, she's divorced her husband." So they don't take a long time to ask you. Then you get your form, fill it in, father signs [and you] just put it in your purse. When you find the police ... just show [them and say] they have given you permission. But if you didn't have permission from your father... ? Then they arrested you. Mai Kobe: [In the 1950s] at the very beginning, they wanted marriage certificates. Since we were young they didn't ask us for marriage certificates. When we started working, they introduced town passes. Then we took town passes. I took a town pass. I did take my pass with me so that if I was late, I produced [it]. It showed where I worked. If you didn't [have a pass], you were locked up. I was never locked up because I was never late ... . You were supposed to get home at eight o'clock. After nine o'clock a woman was not allowed to move. Life in the location was good for those who had muchato [a proper marriage]. For those who 142 had no muchato, it was a problem in the inspection. We found it very 'hot' here and we grew up and it was still 'hot'. Because those who were divorced by their husbands in the rural areas used to come here. They arrived in Old Bricks and National, at New Location and The Cottages [to stay with their relatives]. Then they would be taken by boyfriends to houses in Old Bricks - men's houses - and they would sleep there. If the inspection came, you, the woman, would be arrested. And you have to pay a fine. Mr L. Vambe: A married woman could be in the municipal area with a permit. She had to be authorized to live with her husband, in an urban area. She wouldn't get authorization unless the husband had accommodation in an urban area, right? A house big enough for him to live in with his wife. This was in the 1940s? Right. From the beginning, from the early days... right up to the 1940s. Because later, they built what they called 'married quarters' in the Harare African Township. And if you got one of those houses, you only got in on condition that you were married and you would raise your family there. But then the next thing was if [the wife] was living in Mbare, in the location, they would want to know if she had the right to live in a municipal area. A marriage certificate was one thing, but you also had to have a family, to say you had the right to live in that township. That's why they had this 'approved wife' [status] meaning, the municipality had to approve of that woman, whether she was the man's wife or mistress, she had to have municipal authority to say she could live in a municipal area. Mai Mutuma: You couldn't stay [in your husband's house in the location] without a marriage certificate! Ah-h. It was hard ... . You had to take it out if the police, who came [during inspection], didn't know you. But the regular ones knew, "She is the wife... (or) She is not the one." That's what they did. Do you think this inspection was a good thing? Ah-h. Good? How could it be good.., if your relatives came and the inspection came, they are taken away. Is that good? No, it was bad. But they said they were arresting prostitutes for you? Ah. Which ones? Everybody knew, "These are prostitutes," and they [the prostitutes] did whatever they were doing. But they even took old women. They would be grouped at the office there. 143

Was inspection still being done during the years of Federation? It was there. Mr T. Musonza: Were you ever bothered by the police when you came into town to sell your vegetables? Those from the reserves were never bothered. They didn't mind them. Town passes were required from those who wanted to stay in town. If you wanted to stay in town, you had to get a town pass ... . The police? If you had your chitupa, they would never bother you. Mai Guchu: When you came to town were you given a letter or a document by the Native Commissioner in Chivhu, allowing you to come? No. There was nothing like that. I just left my home coming to my brother who had said, "Come and work," and I just came. When did town passes come in? They came some time later. It was in... maybe 1953 or '54. That's when those who were working had to carry passes, so that if you knocked off [from work] and you met the police, they would know you were working and you had your letter. Miss A. Gasa: Isn't it that there was once a rule that.., there were lots of prostitutes. Those who used to be arrested. So they would be arrested and sent back to their homes... [and] those who were not with their fathers or parents, would be arrested. So we were asked, "Where do you live?" You say where you live. "Where are your mother and father?" You say where they are. We told the truth because we had our parents. We got documents from our employers, which you carried home after work. That's the one you showed, that you were working. You were asked, "Where do you live?" Then you said where you lived, then you go home. Um .... But these other women who were prostituting, they got arrested. There was once a law that if you went to town, to Harare, without a baby on your back you would be arrested. I think that's the year I was working, going there.., those who didn't have letters from their employers were asked where they were going without a child. "You don't have a child!" And you got arrested. "You are a prostitute!" 144

Prostitutes? They were [taken] for fingerprints... arrested and sent to their homes: Mutare, Bulawayo, everywhere. au~lv Paa00 9, N.14'1>&+'..,C.. CERTIrICTE o = REGISTRAT1ON Illm...... C ...... /. ..." a : ... .'" ...... , - .-...... , c,.. . ,...... _...... E6 - , ...... ,.,...... __...... ¢ ...... I _...... A registrat'on certifcate which,[ollowing the Pass laws and the Native Registration laws, had to be carried at all times. Miss M. Savanhu: We were given books [town passes] which had been stamped to show that you were doing such and such a job ...We had to move around with them. Your employers had to sign it. Could the police ask for it? Yes, when they felt like it, they would ask you, "What are you carrying?" You say, '1 am carrying laundry." They say, "Oh whites' laundry?" And you say, "Yes," and you show them your pass. But if they wanted to bother you, they could bother you. Some said "All right." Mai Sitambuli: We carried ..,. it was called a pass, a town pass. Yah. It was for, say you met the police who would ask you, "Where are you going? Do you work?" 145

What if you were not working? Ah. One who was cruel would arrest you.... You had to carry [the pass] in case you would be asked [for it]. As soon as you got a job you were required to go and get a town pass and keep it. You used to go around town with a pass, what about when you went to town to sell [crochet work]? Ha-a, we just went, with nothing. But the law said that if the police saw you, they could arrest you. I was never arrested. I met them but they didn't mind. I was never asked [for the pass]. But some who were unlucky, were asked, and they [the police] could arrest you. Because they didn't ask me, it doesn't mean they didn't have to. There was a law which required them to ask. ********: The inspection! Ah, yes! Because whenever you got a house, you had to register people who were going to live in that house. They must be known. If you were ten, you are ten [people]. The inspection: they wanted to see other people who were coming, because they would come and steal. And why should they come and stay there? They [the police] could come any time they wanted. Even twelve midnight, and you have to produce a card. You know, if they find someone who doesn't live in that house, they get arrested! They would come and knock and I would give them a card. They would call the names and you had to answer. If you are out, then you explain why you are out. They usually came, any time. Any time they felt like it. They would knock and tell you, "We are municipality policemen, we have come to search [your house]. So, was anyone arrested from your house? Yes. I remember my boyfriend was... Yes, I was caught... I must tell the truth. I had my boyfriend, he came to see me. And during the night he was arrested. I told them he was my boyfriend, but [they said], "He has to be registered to be in this house. He can [only] come and visit you. So, why should he be here at two o'clock in the morning. He must leave by ten or eleven o'clock." Two o'clock in the night! What would you say? We had our own separate area for unmarried women. That line, there were unmarried women, in Old Bricks. So that when it came to inspection and they found you with a man they said, "Where does he belong? These houses are meant for women. What are you doing here?" So, when the inspection comes, and finds a man, you will answer for it, the man will answer for it." 146

[But] there were very few [women] who were taken; that is how they did this mapoto. When the inspection came, if the owner of the house is in the reserve, [or] if he is caught with you, the man will say, "She is my wife," or, 'This is my daughter." There were very few [women] who were caught ... . It was only if I found her [another woman] in my [husband's house, then we would fight. Then the superintendent would know. So inspection was the worst thing about living in town? It was! You were disturbed at any hour. You would never finish a week without a knock at [midnight]. If a visitor came you had to go and report that visitor. And it was very difficult. You had to say, "I have a visitor, so-and-so. My relative has come from a reserve." They want to know the reason why that relative has moved from the reserve to come and stay with you. So you had to tell them everything? Everything. Is he going to stay there, all that. It was terrible, really. People didn't like to come; they [the police] were giving us a headache. Mai Guchu: In the 1950s, that's when the inspection really started. We would go and sleep there, on the Mukuvisi, running away from inspection. We were not married. How did you know that the inspection was coming? Ah ... you couldn't guess. The people in the area where they started would come running, saying, "You are sleeping! Trouble has come!" Then we come running outside now." Mai Kanogoiwa: There were many reasons why we women wanted to get together. There was what they called the inspection. Like: when you came here, somebody would have long since seen you - katsekera's spies. If they saw that at Mai Kanogiwa's there are two women who have come, they would want to see if you were going to sleep here. And if you slept here, you would be arrested. So, if your child had been away in Bulawayo or somewhere, you had to go to katsekera and say, "I am Mai Kanogoiwa, my daughter, called Everjoyce, has come [back]. She was at Saint Augustine's [a secondary school] or Old Mutare" So that they would know. So, I want to tell the truth because we fought against these things. Let's say somebody at katsekera's [offices] likes you. You know men like to play with girls. If she refuses him you would be in trouble! They would arrest you! 147

They even liked other people's wives? I don't want to go that far, but mainly [they wanted] girls. If they saw that there is a visitor at Mai So-and-so's, a girl, they would talk to her saying, "Where are you from, can we talk?" And she says, "I don't want ... eh-ch." Like girls do. You may see yourselves being arrested that night. Even your own mother who bore you, or your father- they could be arrested. One day when I was with my mother they said, "Why haven't you got a document?" And I said, "Taking a document for my mother?" It was in the seventies. And they said, "But you know the law." And I said, "The law says, honour your father and mother. I can't throw my mother out. What if she arrived at night? Do you want me to walk at night to katsekera? What if I get beaten up by tsotsis [hooligans]? She only slept at my house. What has she done?" My mother was so frightened and it was bad for her. As an old person. And I said, "Are you saying we must throw out our parents?" African Weekly 24th May 1944 Sir, Location police must do their job properly and respect their people. I know the problem is that the location police were not taught their job properly like the town police. Please respect your people. Yours, J. Mugariwemura Salisbury Location Mr L. Vambe: Since it wasn't possible for women to get accommodation in their own names, how did they get houses? 148

Mr W. S. Stodart By bribing the police, the police in the municipality. They would bribe them. Or if they had relatives, male relatives, who would go through the motions of getting accommodation... you know and so on and so forth. But usually she had to stay with a man? With a man. She couldn't have a room of her own, she couldn't legally [unless she could] bribe the police. Could they live with other women there? Ah - with relatives, yes, yes. But more often than not these were just passing people, relatives coming from outside for a few days. A room like this could be occupied by half a dozen people! You know those are highly congested areas, really. And the time came, in what we called the Old Bricks, people used to add on their accommodation, putting in extensions, or whatever, whatever they were allowed to do. Some people would sleep from relative to relative or friends to friends just in order to avoid being arrested. 149

How difficult was it to pay the fines in those days? It was really something that could be paid. You could pay through your own resources or a relative could pay for you. But what the authorities were interested in was to get you out of town. They would arrest these people, fine them a nominal sum of money, then say, "Get out. Next time we see you again we will make you pay a bigger amount," and so on. But of course it didn't work out, those people went back again, time after time. Time after time. And they paid the fine? They pay a fine, yes, by hook or by crook. That's right. If a woman had to do 'hard labour' where did she go to do it? That's the point, I don't know. They applied the legislation in such a way that they didn't find so many women in jail.., having to do hard labour. But they threatened them. But mostly they didn't have to do it? No. They didn't; and some women had children on their backs! And they would force them to leave town and go back wherever they came from. African Weekly 8th March 1945 Women must help the government Sir, I feel sorry for those women who do not want to go home and get married, and are proud of the fact that the government won't chase them out of towns. But when do they think they will produce children who will help the government in the war? Yours, Rathael Francis Mukakananga Salisbury Mai Ndhlela: We came [back to Harare] in 1965. We couldn't find a place to stay. It was said we could not go and take a white man's house, in town, although my husband had taken his position... . It was said, "You can't go and live there because this [black] skin is not allowed there. You are not allowed." And we really suffered! .... Because of Smith's laws we couldn't go to a whites' area. 150

Mr L. Vambe: In this township, it's the black ghetto. Quite simply.., we were forced to live in that hardship... . We couldn't own anything. We had to pay rent and, if you didn't, then you were thrown out. If you misbehaved you were simply thrown out. If you had visitors coming in without written permission, they and you were arrested, the whole lot of you. The police would come late at night [or] early in the morning and so on. So really we had no freedom. No freedom. But living in that kind of environment, we built a certain resistance, you know, a self-protecting mechanism - learning which laws to avoid and how... . By and large we didn't respect these laws anyhow, because they were imposed on us... . But of course we didn't get into trouble unnecessarily. And we built a system of friendships and contact and so on. So that if there was trouble, we would know in advance that it was coming. Take these raids, for instance. We would be told by friends in the police force, "Now look here. There is going to be a raid tonight. Watch out." They would alert us and then we would know what to do. That's right. And then we were not allowed to drink. For instance, white or European liquor - you know, wine, bottled beer, whisky - anything like that. That was forbidden. And yet we drank it, in defiance of the system. But then again, all the time, you had to be on the look out. Because the police might just suddenly raid your place and arrest you. But we had friends in the police, friends all over the place, who would tell us to watch out and so on. For instance if we were drinking liquor or gin or whatever it was, we would use a teapot and cups of tea and put all the drink in there. As if you were having tea. So that if the police came nosing around, They would find a teapot and say, "Ah that's all right." and go out. So we became immune to the system. We built a community which was very aware of its underprivileged position and therefore tried to protect itself. And, of course, in the fullness of time, we formed political organizations because of these injustices, you know which were all around us. You know, bad housing, congested conditions, bad regulations brutal police and so on, water in the drains, all sorts of wrong things. But we survived - by sheer force of self-preservation and we lived as a community in what was really a hostile environment. 151

-4F A4 meeting of the Sakubva Homecraft Club. Mrs Bourne, The chairperson, is demonstrating how to make scones. The chairperson of the African Executive Committee is stnading on her right. 152

Chapter 13 Clubs, Churches and Political Organizations "People get together, after they feel pain." Urban women did not just work, of course. Even in the busiest week there was time to engage in other activities. Many women took advantage of this time and involved the mselves in a variety of organizations. Church organizations were probably the most common and popular for married women. The groups of women that we see in town today, proudly wearing their church uniforms have a long history. For example, the Ruwadzanol of the United Methodist Church was started in 1929. Church women developed their own organizations to help each other, in town and country, and to participate in a unique kind of Christian fellowship. All the major Christian churches have strong women's organizations. A variety of women's clubs also existed in the location from an early date. Their main aim was to help women become better wives and mothers. Here is a list of the official women's clubs in Harare in 1958 and their memberships: Runyararo Club ...... 40 members Helping Hand Club ...... 125 members Salisbury and District Club ...... 56 members Radio Homecraft Club ...... 58 members Women's Institute Club ...... 24 members Total ...... 303 m em bers This was at a time when there were about 4,000 women living in Harare Township. Since so few women belonged to these clubs, the domestic skills which were learnt and the ideas which were shared belonged to a small elite circle of the township's women. 153

A minority of women actively involved themselves in organized struggles for justice against the racist Rhodesian system. These struggles ranged from polite requests to the city authorities for changes, to support for the two parties fighting for the liberation of the country - ZAPU and ZANU. Some individuals were elected members of the township's 'advisory board', and took the grievances of the people to the city authorities. These representatives had no direct power to change any policies themselves. Other women worked for racial understanding through the church and women's club structures. Finally, some women joined the nationalist cause and demonstrated their support for the construction of a more just free society. Long Ago (Popular song from the 1950s) When will the day come For freedom? When will the day come For happiness? Black people are suffering Since long, long, long ago. The nations of this world Are in the front. But the black peoples Are behind. We want any kind of help Since long, long, long ago. Oh Lord above Answer our prayers. Help the black people's nation So that it will stop suffering. Mai Kanogoiwa: Men are never organized. Never. Men you find together are friends... I should say their friendship is found in pubs, in hotels. I am talking as a woman who observed a lot about men. Women's friendship is to help each other knit or cut a pattern or cook or bake; it's always something. 154

... clubs started, because getting together made us ask questions without fear. Those who couldn't speak English, would say, "I have such and such a problem," It was very helpful. That's how we started clubs. I started the Radio Homecraft Club2 in 1952 because of some things we didn't like. We said, "Let's get together." We started asking about things which were broadcast. We didn't have a transmitter here [in Salisbury]. The transmitter was in Lusaka. So we would tape things here, like what you are doing [with a tape recorder]. Then the tape would be sent to Lusaka and broadcast. Ah, clubs were quite helpful because we could air our grievances together. [Things like the inspection] are some of the things that made clubs grow. You know, you bring people together by your resolutions. People get together, after they feel pain. We said, "Ladies, if you don't come, [and then] if your father gets arrested, don't come to us." One woman's father was arrested. I think she was fined seven pounds. It was so high, as if they wanted them [visitors] never to retum. So we said, "Ah, we can't chase our brothers and sisters away. We will stay with them." Women really came together. Then we called Colonel Lombard. I think he represented the Governor. [This was after] I had made enquiries from some white women whom I used to talk to, they said, "If you have any problems, call those who are close to the Governor and talk to them." So after we had called him we got together in Stodart Hall. We told women not to say, "I am Mrs. So- and-so, but just stand up and ask your questions." Because women, as you know, were very scared. This was politics. So we told them not to say their names and just say, "Such and such was done to me." So we congregated. I was the interpreter. Women asked questions. And we told them that those who could cry must cry. Some would just stand up with tears running down their faces. I think this was around 1972. There was no space to sit in Stodart Hall. It was so full that there was no room to sit. We first of all explained that this was not politics. This was about the welfare of a person, for her body and soul - so don't say it's a crime for us to talk. Because if you are sitting and something bites you, you will say, "Yuwi! I've been bitten!" So if you say we mustn't speak, you are doing us wrong because we are women. So on that day we spoke so well that the inspection then became less and less. The inspection was so bad it helped the clubs to grow. We women worked so hard. When I hear people saying, "We fought the war," I always say to the women, "We were the first ones to fight. Even if we didn't hold guns. But we did our best." Mai Mutizira-Nondo: I never joined a club for crocheting. I was a member of the YWCA 155

[Young Women's Christian Association]. Whether it's a club [or not] - that's what I joined [in the late 1950s]. We talked about women's issues. We would say one day when we met, "Can so-and-so teach us how to cook - say - vegetables?" or on another day, "Can somebody teach us about the Bible?" On another day sewing ... mostly we met other women from all over Harare at the YWCA. What did you do when you met? Ha-a... we would say a prayer, and then an elderly woman or a minister's wife preaches to us about how to live in our homes and how to keep our homes. Then after that we have tea and disperse. Mai Chitumba: We had the sort of clubs where we mixed with nurses, like, to try and educate ourselves. I remember the first club we had was Sunganai Club with Mrs [Victoria] Chitepo (she was our treasurer), and Angelina Makwavarara, and Mrs Samuriwo... . We used to have nurses, and [some] women who were not educated. So we were taught to dress ourselves, look after our own homes - to see how to do things that can help us in our own life. Ours was here in town in '56 or '58 ... . We started on our own. So we used to have these clubs. I learned a lot from them, from those clubs. We used to invite people who used to come and teach us anything. There was cookery, sewing, looking after our own homes. Those were the sort of clubs we used to have. Mai Sitambuli: Why did you go to South Africa? To sell doilies. Did you go on your own? No, as a club. When did you join? 1978. What was your club called? Radio Homecraft Club. What was South Africa like? 156

It's nice. We went to Johannesburg and we went to Durban. Did you go by bus? Yes. We moved around with them [the doilies]. They were bought. We went into the houses, and you went knocking on doors. But if you were seen [by police] you would be arrested. Sometimes we went for three weeks, sometimes two weeks. We went many times. I stopped in 1982 when I started not to feel well... [but others] are still going. Mai Matondo: This crochet work is bought mainly in South Africa. That's why we run there, because we will be suffering. It's like we are 'misbehaving', but we have to carry our doilies to South Africa, and we really travel. When did you start going outside this country to sell? To South Africa, 1978... I don't go anywhere else. We don't know any other place. I came back with three sewing machines... . Here we are told not to visit it [South Africa]. But we go to help ourselves. We do hear what is said, but there is no other way we can help ourselves. So we keep on going. Do you think things are all right there? We just go to buy only and not for anything else. Mai Butao: Where did your club meet? We had it [our meetings] under a muzhanje tree [an indigenous fruit tree] when all that was still bush. It was cut down when they built some houses. Mr L. Vambe: The movement that made a lot of impact while the going was good, was the one headed by Mrs Helen Mangwende. I think you must have come across it. That had a lot of significance - that's right, the Women's Clubs. Of course they only flourished when Mrs Mangwende was alive because she was such a strong personality, so dedicated, that the movement went from strength to strength. But after she died - she died quite young - it gradually faded out3. I think [the Women's Clubs movement] was inspired by the work of the then Governor in this country - Kennedy... Lady Kennedy, she was a sort of moving spirit and sort of paired 157 together with Mrs Mangwende. They sort of had something in common. So around those two personalities, it got a lot of strength, you know. White women thought black women should be helped and they gave a lot of support and a lot of push and so on in a benevolent kind of way. But then it folded up once Mrs Mangwende was out of the picture. Rhodesia Herald 21 st June 1955 Death of Mrs Helen Mangwende 'The death occurred yesterday in Salisbury of Mrs Helen Mangwende after a short illness. The wife of Chief Mangwende, of the Mrewa district, she was prominent in the affairs of the Anglican Church, and was one of the first women ever to travel from Southern Rhodesia to England. Mrs Mangwende was one of the principal personalities behind the formation of African women's clubs in Rhodesia, said Canon Edward Chipunza, of St Michael's Church, Harari, yesterday. She was a member of the diocesan Council and of the Mothers' Union, and had many friends among members of all races throughout the territory. Born in the Seki Reserve, where was trained at the St Augustine's College, and later taught at St Mary's Mission, Hunyani, where she was married to Chief Mangwende. Queen Mother. During the Royal Tour in 1953, she was introduced to Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, and Princess Margaret laid the foundation stone of the club hall in Mrewa which she had been instrumental in obtaining for the locality. Last year she spent some months in England. It is thought that she was only the second African woman [Mrs Savanhu, wife of one the first African member of the Federal Parliament, being the first] ever to have visited that country flrom Rhodesia." 158

Mrs Helen Man gwende African Parade December 1954 Christmas greetings from Mrs Helen Mangwende, 1954 "1 feel happy to send this Christmxas message to reade~rs ofthe Pnrno('h4?t.& ------q4' t44* AAI LAA reminds us of a new birth. May I give my message to the women of Central Africa, that unlike our great -grandmothers, women of today have a great contribution to make towards the building of a great African race in Central Africa. You can do this by building up happy and ideal homes, help to improve the living conditions of the people around you, in the urban areas, in the reserves, in the mines, compounds and even on the farms, and so bring healthy families, prepared and educated to face the i nfuture under the British flag,$ 159 II

Mai Makoni: [Life in the location] was difficult. It was hard for us in living, in how we lived. Some had difficulties, some were free, living with their husbands. Yes. So we had women who started organizations, the one you hear being called, "musangano [meeting], musangano." It was started by a very few women. Which organization was this? The organization where they say, "There is a meeting," for living, for life. There were women who wanted us to be helped; so we could help each other... about how we can live in the location. Mai Musodzi, that's Mrs Frank. She was the head of our little meeting... . If we saw anything bad in this location, we talked about it with Mai Musodzi, and Mrs Gwatidzo, and the one I mentioned before, Mrs Sondayi, and we talked. Then we went to the office [of the location superintendent] and said, "In the location there is such and such which is bad," and they fixed it up. Were there many of you who attended this meeting with Mai Musodzi? Ha, we were few. Were these married women or single women who attended this meeting? Married ones. Mai Dzvairo: Where did you have your club? At what is called Mai Musodzi4. That's where women mostly went. At Mai Musodzi we were taught different things. Some couldn't even sew, not even a button. They were later able to. Mai Maripakwenda: What we did was, we gave each other money. You, me and this woman, and that one, sometimes... one of us... has a book to write our names in. So what we did, we had 'rounds'. We called it a round - we wanted to get into a round of so much money... . If we work, at sunset we give [money to] our treasurer... We collect it [all] and we give it to you [one member] today. Tomorrow we work, knowing we want to give [money to] that one [another member]. Then there was another round where you said, every Monday, every Monday, every Monday ... . Every Monday you give [it to someone], next Monday is yours. 160

So this system of saving was useful? This helped! We say it helped because many didn't have husbands who were working. Even if the husbands work, you know husbands are thoughtless in the family [laughter]. They don't care - with the exception of those who are gifted. Yes, some don't care. They say, "It's up to you and your children." But you are thirsty, you know that maybe a child whose parents don't have money is intelligent. Some others have money but the child's head is empty. Yes. So when it's like that you work. I can say we were helped [by rounds] in those days. All my children finished school because of the musika. Mai Ndhlela: What is the aim of Ruwadzano? It's a Christian movement, which builds women - so that they can be strong in their homes, in the church, in the group. Yes, it builds women up. There are certain rules - they have cards which they pay for, and things which they must follow. A card with rules - yes - it's called a constitution. Yes. So that they know it must be like this, like this. ... [women] are the backbone, especially in our church. They are the backbone of the church, the Ruwadzano women. Yah. They are very strong. It's said, "Where there is Ruwadzano, there is communion." You will see many women. They are the ones who strengthen the church. In Zimbabwe, in all churches, not just in our Methodist church. In other churches - Anglican, Roman Catholic, United Church of Christ, United Church of Methodist, all these. People are now maturing in life. In the old days, people just read the Bible... and just sang songs. But now we are maturing. We now teach many things ... . In those days it was just the Bible and to sing - we just read our Bible. Yah! And sitting in groups explaining what the Bible means. But things are now changing... because of the maturing of things. Mai Bakasa: What activities did you do at church besides singing and praying in the 1940s and 1950s? We would plan to invite - say, one week, we would have someone to teach us flower arranging. We would ask the white Methodists that, "Can we have Mrs. So-and-so to teach us flower arrangments?" or, "Can we have a white woman to come and teach us how to make tea?!" Real tea, and how to serve it. And we learnt that if you want to serve a crowd of 161 people, you look for the eldest man or woman and serve that one first. That's what those women taught us. Yes. It was nice. We did many things. One year we asked one white nurse to come and teach us how to tie a baby's umbilical cord. What do you do now? Ah. The chairwomen are as young as you are. We just sit. We think, they are young and educated. So we want to see what they are doing. In our time we did a lot. Now we are old. Mai Rusike: We go to Ruwadzano to pray. To teach each other church behaviour. How to love one another. How to love your neighbour. How to behave as a woman of Ruwadzano you must behave with dignity, knowing, "I am Mrs So- and-so. I must teach others to go back to God." That's why we go to church. Even your children whom you live with - you must teach them Christian ways, not heathen ways. If you have a girl [domestic worker] in the house, you must sit near her and teach her faith in Jesus Christ. So that your home knows Christ, with Christian dignity. So that we know, "This is Mai So-and-so's house, Mai Soand-so and her children behave like this." That's why we go to church, so that we can be dignified women ... we want to keep our good behaviour! Mai Dzvairo: The greatest thing, my child, if you live in town, [is] going to church. Ah! Nothing will trouble you. Yes. You will be happy. Because if you go to meet your friends, you have a good time. Hearing the yhangeri [the Gospel]. Being told nice stories from the Bible. Mai Kanogoiwa: I attended a meeting one year, I was invited. I didn't know what was going on. I attended so many meetings, I was invited from time to time. So I went to that meeting, and said, "What's going on?" I saw so many European women. I was the only African. They were going to introduce a law that all African men and women must stop going to Market Square Park (if I had time to look for some of these letters I could give them to you) and then to Meikles Park. They said, "No more Africans!" That's when they started working on this ground, near Matthew's Garage, at the kopje. You know the fly-over bridge [at the junction of Charter and Beatrice Roads]? There is a nice lawn and so on. That's when it was started. Meant for all Africans. If you want to sit and rest during lunch hour, from wherever you were working. So I was called. I prayed, "Oh God, help me! I am the only African here. Help me to open my mind, help me to say what will help my people tomorrow." 162

So they said, "We don't like to mix. Africans must have their own place to rest and so on and to eat." And the one who was in the Chair said, "Mrs. Kanogoiwa, have you got anything to say to this?" And I said, "Yes, I have." And then I said, "We learn from each other. If we don't see each other often, then how can you learn from me? Because you won't see what I do. If I don't see a European woman, how can I learn from her?'Then I said, "I am an example. Do you remember me saying on the radio, 'Our African women must stop breastfeeding [while] crossing the road."' This was something our African women did all over, crossing the road, breast- feeding babies. On the radio, I'm the one who repeated that, "Women, mothers, friends, stop that. It's not nice. Have you ever seen a European woman breast-feed her baby, crossing the street?" And I repeated it, I think, for a whole year. Even now, women say, "That lesson was well understood." When I see a woman breast- feeding her baby crossing the street I just don't like it. ' - '" , 7 A gne -n ogo iw Mrs Agnes Kanogoiwa 163

MrsSo I mentioned that [at the meeting] because they [the white women] heard me on the radio. So I said, "You are all witnesses. You have all heard me repeating that. My lesson was based on the European mother who feeds her baby at home. So our women learned to do that and it is good." Then I went on to say, "We are good at throwing papers." I said "we" because I am an African. "We can throw litter anywhere. And because of talking to women, comparing [ourselves] to you, they have stopped." And I said, "We Africans are good at shouting, "MAsiKAT!"' and I said, "I've been talking to women [and telling them] not to do that. Cross the road, greet each other and talk quietly. You never hear a European women saying 'HELLO!"'... And I was brave to look at some of their faces and "Do you mean that you want Africans to continue doing what they should not do? You learn from us. We are a grateful nation. If you do give me something we say "Mazvita". Now you do not want to learn from us and us to learn from you. It's not going to be a nation." And I said, as if I was a prophet, "Mind you, things may change, and you will see that you are too late to cope up... we want to learn from you. You would like to learn from me. As I come to some of these big meetings, I learn from you. Even if I am not highly educated, but I can learn from you - by looking at what you do, I leam .... " At last I said, "I think what I have said is enough.. ." and I was quiet and I was almost in tears. Then when I had left that place in two, three days time I received a letter from the Chairman of that meeting saying, "Would you like to go and say all that to the mayor?" I think that was Ivor Peech, who was mayor. Luckily enough, I was very close to Mrs Peech the mayoress. We were good friends because she wanted to come to the women and see what we were doing. So I said, "Before I go and see the mayor, let me consult a good number of Africans on how to go about this." I went to my headmaster... I think I approached about three to four people. There were so many things to put right. But it needed courage and determination. So each time young ones like you say, "I fought for the country!" I look at you and say, "I fought for the country first." Uhm. We did it. Because we were never allowed to go to Park Lane Hotel. Do you remember, Park Lane was only for Europeans, but I managed to take a group there. All those years ago! Yes. Not an African was allowed there. So I wrote a letter applying for women to go and see the hotel. And the answer was, "Not at the present moment... further notice.., we will let you know." So I think I wrote a second letter saying, "We would like to see the hotel because it's a famous hotel. So we would like to see it too - being an African woman in this 164 country - we want to know where Park Lane Hotel is." And the answer was, "Okay, come with so-and-so," and we were taken around here and there. Miss J. Scott: I joined the ICU [Industrial and Commercial Workers' Union] - the organization called, 'I See You' - which had started, in the location. Yes! I joined ICU. [It] was fighting for the country. Yes. That's whywe said, "Isee you. I am seeing you, iwe murungu [you white man]". Were there any women in the ICU? So many! That was long back. Now, um... I haven't seen women [taking part as they did then.] We were told that the would go and we would remain with our country, not suffering the way we were... being paid a dollar a month.... the issue of passes [for women in the 1930s] was not talked about at the ICU. The ICU didn't like it. But the murungu liked it [the pass system].., if a black man or woman was seen moving in town without a pass, they would be arrested. Um. ... So when we were working, coming from Borrowdale by bicycle , you would be arrested if you didn't have a pass. The ICU was against passes but we were still given them by the varungu [white people]. They were not afraid. They thought, "What can a black man do?" Haa! Nothing! we were still given them. Who led the ICU at that time? Ha-a. They were many. But I heard that one died this last month [April 1989] - Patrick Pazarangu. Were there any issues which the ICU addressed which were especially for women? The ICU had not yet fully understood women's issues... Nkomo5 had specific women's issues, saying women must do this. [He said,] "Do not move around in groups, because if the murungu sees you, things will go bad. So move in twos or threes to wherever you want to go." That's what Nkomo said. Then after Nkomo was arrested... the people were now scared. They stopped moving around. What we did was if you and I planned, we would go out [to spread news, etc.]. Then later we heard people from the location say, "Leave this. There is another called Mugabe." "Where is he," we asked. And it was said, "He is there where he is." And we said, "Ho-o!" Then we started again." Black women are very clever when they go for meetings. They go, 'dodging about' because they know that if so-and- so knows about it, it will come out [into the open]. 165

... we joined Nkomo before all those shops in town were built, yah... long back. What did you do in ZAPU? We would just dodge around because it was not good to be known that you were in Nkomo's [party]. You would be killed. The whites didn't like it. You said you then joined ZANU? At first we didn't know it. It was later that some boys [domestic workers] would come and say, "Come here, and we will tell you about the party." They would cut holes through fences for us to go for meetings because the varungu didn't want to hear about it. We were afraid of being killed. Then we would go and tea would be made and some bread, to make it look as if we were having a party. Then they start to tell us about ZANU. In ZANU we were the people who invited people [to join] with words, saying, "Which is better, death or living in our country, eating well and fanning our lands and other things and ruling ourselves?" How did you go to the meetings from your [domestic worker's] job in Borrowdale? At night! Of course! We would lie to our varungu that we were going to Muzorewa's6. "Oh you are going to Muzorewa? Here .... "They would give us money because they liked Muzorewa. Because Muzorewa told them, "If I lead we will rule together. You will rule the whites and I will rule the blacks." That is why they liked him. We lied. God is not happy with lies. But we lied.., we would be given money to go and spend the day there [at a Muzorewa rally] ... while I went to Mugabe's. What would happen during your political demonstration? There is Rothmans - here, at that comer - [that's where] we would run going Hi- hi-hi and we find them [the soldiers]."Where are you going?" "I-i-i- ," we would turn back and go home. The soldiers would be right at the crossroads because people came from Mufakose and all over to demonstrate. Did you demonstrate often? As long as we [had been] to a meeting and decided, "Tomorrow let's go and demonstrate! Tomorrow, we want to show Smith!" Yes, the soldiers would hide in the comers and we would find [them], "Eh-h!" and we run back [laughter]! What [the demonstrators] did was ... [to] go behind the kopje and they get into town. Then they would be arrested and caught by dogs. And they would be dragged by the dogs. Were they taken to jail? 166

Of course they were taken to jail. Would women also be arrested? Ah. My friend was arrested and she went to Wha-Wha [prison] and she left seven children... She died there. But you were never arrested? No. Because I only came on my offs [days off] on Saturday and on Sunday. At around this time [afternoon] I would be going back [to Borrowdale]. But my sister in Highfield was once beaten up very badly. We would say, "We want our country. You varungu, give us our country." That's what was written on [placards] by those who could write. Yes. "Give us our country. It was left to us by our fathers and our forefathers. It's our country which we were given by God. You have your own countries, go to your countries. Not that we are chasing you [away]. We can stay together if you want. But leave racism." Because long back a murungu would say to you, "You smelling foofy!" Could you brush past a murungu? Could you get into the same store as a murungu? You lie! You couldn't! ... the murungu became afraid later on. I was now [working] in Borrowdale. I know that well - then the white women got together and went to Smith and said, "Give these people their country, our sons are finished. Give them their country." Mai Butao: In the 1950s and 1960s, politics was a problem in Highfield. Did you ever experience this? Ah. It was war. It bothered everyone. The whole country. You could not be the only one bothered, not just me alone. Everybody. The police didn't beat us up... maybe [they beat] others. We were never beaten. Only those who were troublesome were beaten up. But if you just obeyed the rules, nothing would bother you. Mr Rubaba: When we were buying paraffin, we weren't getting back the correct change. I lit one of the buckets of paraffin at Old Bricks, in a Chinese man's shop. This was 1948. I still remember that time. It took some days for them to put out the fire - three days. There were two of us. I was a youth leader at that time, protesting against the Chinese man. We wanted an African man to own the shop. That's why we lit the fire. The other man came from Mhondoro. We were not arrested - no one knew who lit the fire. The [general] strike [of 1948] happened before this fire. The strike was because people didn't want the government. People were fighting about relatives visiting them and being arrested. 167

Mr W. Saidi: ... we had this fear because you were told, you couldn't do this, you couldn't do that, and you were not supposed to go there, because you were black. These things can really get into your head. You see that if you are not careful when you grow up you think, "I can't do this, because I am black." But some of us felt to be black or not, you can just go ahead and do it - and in fact because you are black you ought to do it. And sometimes I think, for me anyway, I feel I want to vomit every time I see some things - still with Independence, we are not in charge. Whites are still in charge. But really it shouldn't be like that. I get mad ... a lot of things have not changed. 1 Ruwadzano means fellowship, peaceful association and later, by extension, a group of women meeting together. 2 The work of the Radio Homecraft Clubs 'has rendered a valuable service in providing a common ground for African women from all surroundings. It has taught them to be efficient housewives and how to take their proper place in the community as well as how to bring up and dress their children. The important matters of diet and nutrition have not been overlooked... Early programmes were produced in play form, the scene being set in a primitive home where the woman of the house was ignorant and primitive. Perhaps the success of 'Sipiwe' and 'Sekesai' as the Sindebele and Shona characters are called, can be attributed to the theme of the programme. At the beginning these two women were represented as being hopeless housewives who could not even thread a needle, and had to be taught. Then stage by stage new things were introduced until they had reached a standard where they could take part in needlework competitions'. (Taken from the Radio Post magazine, August 1959). 3 In fact the African Women's Clubs continued to grow in strength and the organization, now called the Association of Women's Clubs, has over 20 000 members today. 4 The first community hall built in Mbare was called Mai Musodzi Hall. 5 ZAPU, the Zimbabwe African People's Union, was the successor to a number of nationalist organizations of the 1950s. It was formed in 1961, and was led by Joshua Nkomo. Until the formation of ZANU, the Zimbabwe African National Union, in 1963, ZAPU was the premier nationalist organization in the country. 6 The African Nationalist Congress (ANC) of Rhodesia was led in the 1970s by Bishop Abel Muzorewa. In 1978 he joined a 'transitional government' with Rhodesian Prime Minister, Ian Smith, and was thereafter regarded as a sell-out by the nationalists. His party campaigned hard with government backing but was soundly beaten in the 1980 elections. 168

Chapter 14 Famous Ladies that woman was very kind. She would help." As in every community, there were some women in Mbare who were known by everyone. These ladies were famous for a variety of reasons. Some were flamboyant and successful businesswomen engaged in a variety of mostly illegal activities. Others were the nurses who delivered babies and treated the sick in the location clinic. Over the years they earned the gratitude of the people of the location for their care. There were also wellknown teachers and social workers who taught new skills to both women and their children. Perhaps the most famous woman in the location was Mai Musodzi. The first recreation hall in the location was named after her. Mai Musodzi was sometimes known as Mrs Frank. Born around 1890 in a village in the Mazoe Valley, she spent part of her childhood in Chishawasha Mission after both her parents were killed in the 1896 Chimurenga War. She had an active career as a rural farmer after her marriage in 1908, and came to liv e in Salisbury Location in the 1930s. There, she played a very important role as an organizer of the location's women. Among her other activities she organized what we would call today self-help projects through the 'Red Cross' movement. Mai Musodzi died in 1952. Miss J. Scott: Did you know Mai Musodzi? Ah! Of course! I [knew] her because here in Zimbabwe a hospital was started. It was used by Mai Musodzi. She wanted me and her daughter Lucia to go and work at the hospital. You know, long back, black people were afraid of staying in hospital: "Ah, I don't want, I will see dead people," I said. And she said, "No, I want to teach you to work." And I refused. 169

So you really knew her? Ah. Very well. She came from Chiweshe. I knew her well and all her children, I know them. We have heard that Mai Musodzi used to help people who had problems in the location or with katsekera. Is that true? That is true because that woman was very kind. She would help. If you told her, "I don't have this and that," she would help. She was the first to go and get women to help at the hospital, at the general hospital. If you had a bicycle and you went to work.., you came back and lent it to me, the bicycle, if I don't have one. She was the first person to make people to do that. She was the first person to come up with these ideas? She was the one I saw first. Mai Mfazi [Miss Edith Opperman] came later to do the clinics ... some houses were closed and turned into a clinic. Yes [I knew] Mai Mfazi . . . She said, "Joanna, don't you want to come to the hospital?" And I said, "Ah I am afraid." I think about it when I am seated ... . Let me tell you something: she thought just like the person who made these houses to be built. He sat down and said, "What if I build houses?" After she had seen women suffering, you know us women we suffer, if you are rejected by your husband, you just sit as if you are mad, "naked"... . That's why Mai Musodzi thought, "Let there be clinics," because there was nothing to carry the sick ones to hospital - to go and deliver. "So let there be clinics for them and let me talk to the Municipality to give us these things." So you think she just thought about it in her head? Yes. She thought about it, and she saw how people were living, because she used to move all over the location seeing how things were. You know long back a black person didn't bath. A person could go somewhere and come back without bathing ... . So VaMusodzi wanted all that to end ... because people didn't even sweep the yard. What were the other problems in the location at that time? I would say problems were few ... because food was cheap. I ate bread which cost sixpence per loaf. A dress - sixpence. There was little suffering because things were cheap. So there were no problems. The only problem was blankets; but still they were two bob or a shilling. But you could fail to get a shilling to buy a blanket. So VaMusodzi and the Catholic sisters and fathers talked about it, that things are so-so. That's when people were given blankets. If you went to the sister and said, "I don't have something to cover myself," you were given a blanket, there at Saint Peter. 170

So which problems did Mai Musodzi take to the varungu? Mai Musodzi went to ask for clothing for the people, from the convent there. She went to say, "People are suffering. They don't have clothes. They come to church not dressed properly and their children too. Can you help us?" So the fathers and sisters, you know, they could go around asking and [the people] were given clothes. Did Mai Musodzi have a job? She stayed there in the location, that was her job - saying, "You do this job - cooking, sewing... . "They did all that in the hall. Not the Stodart one. That one which was in the location proper. Teaching people - in the hall where they dance - knitting, sewing ... . We also did our dancing there. Mai Musodzi taught all that? Yes, she would go and find people who had knowledge because at that time, there were some people who had knowledge. They had come from different schools. She would look for those to come and teach those who didn't know ... Where was Mai Musodzifrom? I heard that she came from Chiweshe. It is now called Guruve. Mai Charlie: What were you doing as women in those days at Old Bricks? What else did you do besides looking after the children and sweeping the house? Some just stayed at home. We can't talk about the bad things that happened in this country. It was a time when women dressed up, looking for men [laughter]. They used to laugh at us married women. We were like dogs. They just dressed up and went to the bars. We really suffered, my dear child [laughter]. Were men difficult to get in those days? Why would he stick to you, instead of going to those smart ones? Just waiting for you? Oh no [laughter]! Don't write that down ... [laughter]. What were the married women doing? We just stayed at home. That's when Mai Musodzi started. So - Amai Musodzi, she was this woman who taught us Red Cross in that hall called 'Mai Musodzi'. Um. That's where we learnt Red Cross. Then we passed; some were given jobs, to work at the hospital. 171

Did you know Mai Musodzi? She was our mother who taught us. There were also some whites, some madams [who] used to come to help. But Mai Musodzi was in charge. She just used to come, since she was the leader. In as much as you have come here, if you ask me, I can round up others, and we become one. She taught us according to what she was told by the whites. She was called our leader. Where did Mai Musodzi live? On Fourth [Street]. That's where she lived. Mai Kanogoiwa: For a long time we expected something to come out of our talks [with the authorities], not great things, but something, as a first step.., women tried, worked hard. Some of them are still in Harare. Some are out in the rural areas. And some died. Like Mai Musodzi. She died. But she did a lot. Is it true that Mai Musodzi was not educated? She wasn't. She wasn't. You know what you are doing now - you are going back to what women wore. A skirt and a long blouse over the skirt, a skirt with elastic in the waistline, with a shawl. I do remember seeing her riding her bicycle - and she was big. Then she could cycle from.., we would look at her cycling and say, "What is she doing? Why is she doing that?" You know when things start, people wonder what's going on... Being uneducated, how did she come to be a leader of the community such as she was? I noticed that she was very brave. And she could go and say what she had to say. And she was not easily frightened. I think most of our people were afraid to say whatever they wanted to say. And yet inside... You mean they were afraid to talk to the authorities? Yes... and they were afraid that someone will go to your husband and say, "Tell your wife to behave. She is too forward." You see. Even now people can look at things and they can tell that something is wrong. But they are afraid to say, 'That's wrong." They will just keep it [to themselves] - but tomorrow when things get worse you say, "You knew about it... But what did you do?" [Mai Musodzi] had such courage, she had a clear mind. Although she was not educated. But if she saw a... knot [string] being tied and so on, she could do it. You know there are so many people who are not educated but they have very good brains. Just because chances 172 were against them - and there are some educated people who are so slow - uhm... Educated people who are too slow. In [1943] she was almost my age. The age you are now [671? Yes. And she was still riding a bicycle? Oh. Yah. She could ride a bicycle. Were there any clubs for women when you came to Mbare in 1943? I never saw them. I can say women heard some things in their churches.., we were still young women... [Mai Musodzi] would go all over, announcing what came from katsekera - saying, "It's been said, it's been said.. ." and it went on like that. We then understood. Did she go walking on the road? On a bicycle, I saw her. And you would come out and listen? Ah. No. She would come, say to this house, and the women with houses nearby would be called and they would come. She could send one to go and tell others that, "Come let's meet tomorrow or on such and such a day... . "So, if you had been sent, you would go and tell others, "We are wanted on such and such a day... "and you would go on like that. Then the women would get together. Mr W. Saidi: Was Mai Musodzi still alive when you lived in Mbare? Mai Musodzi, yes, yes, she was in my time, before the location was called Mbare. Mai Musodzi would go around - I was pretty young then, I can't remember exactly what she [did]. But we all heard of Mai Musodzi - and you had a picture of a woman who was so good. Like Mrs Sondai, the woman who died [recently]. I knew her ... Because as soon as you walked anywhere you knew Mrs Sondai. Mrs Sondai helped. We even got to know Mr Sondai because a lot of people don't know Mr Sondai. Mr Sondai also had some prestige in his own right. Oh yes - she was a very kind woman. They say that people like Mai Musodzi were able to go and speak with katsekera. How were they able to do that? 173

I think one of the reasons is that they could speak English. They could speak good English. I mean katsekera could speak to them in chilapalapa 1... But there were very few such people? Very few people. Even if you could speak English, if you were not assertive enough then you needed an interpreter to speak for you. Even if you could speak English, you would need somebody to tell you what katsekera is saying. However people like Mrs Sondayi and Mai Musodzi insisted on speaking directly [to him], and I think that had an effect. And I think also most of the programmes which they talked about were not programmes which you could say would change the power structure. They were not problems like that, like saying, "We would like to appoint a sergeant for the township." [Instead they said], "We would like to build a boy's club." Which, by the way, ran very successfully. I think as soon as you showed you could talk to katsekera in his language, you knew something would happen. But most of the township guys, the ordinary people, no they couldn't. Who else do you remember as one of the famous women in the town? There was a woman called Mrs Rakgajani. She was also very active. She had a reputation in the whole of Harare, for doing things, for helping and setting up orphanages, organizing things. Mr L. Gutsa: There were quite a lot of women in the location in the 1930s. I saw some from home who came to visit their husbands. One with her own house. She was a very ... she was an Ndebele woman, very fat. She was rich. I don't know how. I don't know what she did. The house was in her name. She had a car and a driver! She was the only person in the location who had these! Miss J. Scott: Did you know Magumede? Ah-h. I even played with her daughter. What was Magumede famous for? This Magumede, before I knew her, she was famous for brewing beer called kabanga [a popular beer]. She brewed beer called kabanga, which was put in bottles. So she had girls who would go around at about three o'clock saying, "Doro [beer]! Doro! Makabanga!" and the people would come to drink beer there. That's what Magumede was known for. Then 174 she lived here and people would say, "She is the [famous, popular] one!" and her friends also came from Bulawayo and there were now many of them brewing beer. Where did Magumede come from? She came from Bulawayo. Was kabanga the same as hobhiya? Yes, it's the same ... . Yes, I played with her daughter Winnie. Was Winnie your age? No, I was older... I was friends with Winnie... . I played with her. We were two. Me and Lena and Winnie - we were three now. So when the sun went like this [down] I would run away and go home. ... They had a store. Why would you run away? Home, to my husband ... . They would remain 'moving around'. Because my husband didn't want to hear that I had left that house to go and play with pfakapfakas [laughter]. What is pfakapfaka, Ambuya? That's a huu [prostitute]. Huu. That's all you say. It's swearing. You just say huu. How did Magumede come to have a store? The store was the son-in-law's. He is the one who had an eating house. In Majubheki? No. Right here near the municipality. Near the bar. I don't know what it's called now. He is the one who had an eating house where dances were held during the day - the one people called 'KwaDavid'. After that David had a store in Majubheki. She [Magumede] would also come there. Then David died and it remained with the mother and the daughter. Then Magumede died and Winnie remained with it. Then Winnie died. Did Magumede have money? She had a lot of money. Where did it come from? Ah. From the chihuu that she did and beer. That man who married her, married her for her money. Then she bought him buses and he also built his home. After he had built his home, he then chased her away. 175

Ai? Were there many women who earned money through brewing beer like that? Yes. There were many women, but they were arrested. If you were found with that hobhiya you were arrested. But they kept on brewing because they wanted money. Was Magumede ever arrested? No. Let's say you are the owner of the business. Me and her are doing the selling. We are the ones who get arrested - we who are doing the selling. We have been found holding it. Because the Zezuru say, "A thief is the one who is caught in the act." You have been caught - the ones who are doing the selling. Yah, and the ones who are doing the drinking. You all go. And the owner of the house? She doesn't go. She wasn't there [drinking]. Why would she be arrested? She was just seated over there. So she had people working for her? Yes. Even when she went to the lavatory she went with some girls. Because she was fat. Yah! ... Because she couldn't do anything. [She went with the girls] so that she could sit properly. They would help her to sit. Yes. Because she used to walk like this [laughter] ... She would go through a door like this... Sideways? Yes [laughter]. Could a person like Magumede have a house [in the 1930s]? Aika! She even had two houses. Yes, of course! Next door to each other. This one for brewing beer in and that one for living in. She had a big chair like this. She would sit [here] with her tummy over there! So even though the house in which beer was brewed was hers they still didn't arrest her? No. Ah. She is not arrested. Because she doesn't go into where the beer is. Even when it's being brewed or distilled, she didn't go. But before they sold, she went to count the bottles now. When the bottles have been lined up she goes and counts and sees how much money will be raised - and she goes into her house. Was Magumede's name Emma? I don't know, we just hear - oh! You mean her real name? She was called Emma. Was she a nice person? 176

Facially? No, I mean her heart. When we say a person is nice, we don't mean the face. If she was good-hearted she would have told the young ones, "Don't do chihuu, don't do this." But she didn't teach anything. I didn't see it. She didn't go to church. Would you say there were other women at that time who were as successful as Magumede? Yes. There were some like her. VaMusodzi and Lucia Matiwanzira. They had money and we would hear, "I-i-i, these are fierce [rich]." And it was true, when Matiwanzira died the tins [of money] came out. Truly. Ha-a. There were many who had money. Emilia Mupoto went to buy [a house]. She had money. They [the rich ones] used to brew beer. Mai Murhombe: Did you know Mai Emma Magumede? I knew her very well. Because her husband Imbwadzawo was my father's friend. Did she have a car? She was rich. She got money from brewing hobhiya. She was a rich lady. She was taken by this man thinking she was going to stay [with him]. This man had six wives. She was the sixth. Yet the man wanted her money. Ha-a, he finished it. Imbwadzawo? Yes! He has a bus ... He is still alive... Magumede is the one who died. Even my son Percy who is in London, he used to drive Imbwadzawo's bus. My son went to London in 1964. I went there two times. Was Magumede allowed to brew beer [i.e. home-brew]? I don't think long back you were arrested for it. Because they sold it. What you could be arrested for was beer. European [clear] beer? Ali. They didn't allow a black person to ,ouch it. And skokiyana? Yes! ... Magumede was well known because she had money. 177

Where did she go in her car? Into town, of course. Miss A. Gasa: Do you remember Magumede? Magumede was a resident of this place [Mbare] ... I knew the mother. Magumede was fat like so... [laughter]. Did she have a car? I never saw her riding in one. She went to the Presbyterian Church. I saw her going on foot. She never missed church. Was she a very successful woman? Magumede? I-i-i. Her house. She was successful. That's the mother. The daughter is the one who married David who had a hotel at the bar. It is said Magumede is the one who helped my mother when I was sick during the influenza [epidemic in 1918]. She cooked soup for me to eat. My mother didn't know anything. Yes. VaMagumede. I heard my mother saying, "I was helped by Magumede." Our mothers didn't know anything. Were you very young? Yes, I didn't even know a thing. I just heard. Hobhiya was also brewed at Magumede's house. Yes. We just heard." Mai Charlie: Do you remember a woman who was called Magumede? Yes. I knew the mother and the daughter. I knew Magumede very well. She lived in Old Bricks. Was this Magumede very fat? Sterek! Did she have a car? It was said she was the first to buy a car in the location. Her husband's name was Imbwadzawo. She didn't have a car unless it was her husband's. She was the first woman to have a business; yah, then came myself. She was the first in Majubheki ... . Are you asking about Winnie Magumede or the real Magumede, because both mother and daughter were fat. 178

Is Winnie the one who had a car? Winnie is the one who was running the mother's grocer at Majubheki. She was also very fat [laughter]. Which years were these when Magumede had a shop? Was it after the war? Which war? Hitler's War [the Second World War]. By then they were already there. Mr Rubaba: I remember VaMagumede. Her work was brewing beer. She was the first woman to introduce some things which were not done by blacks but by whites, like washing, cooking, using pots and spoons. Her workers brewed the beer while she managed the business. She was also a chef at that time, so she remained involved in brewing. She was the most popular, well-known black woman [in the location]. At first people would buy beer at her place and then drink it at their homes. Later when this was discovered, it was banned and then they had to drink elsewhere. Brewing beer then became illegal and they were brewing it somewhere else, like in the fields. She stayed in the business and died late; she stayed in the business until she was very old, like the age I am now [77]. She stayed in the location. She didn't teach us to do things, people just watched and did what she did. I didn't know where she had learnt these things. I don't know where she was from. Mai Mutuma: [When Magumede died] she left businesses, and buses in Mhondoro with Imbwadzawo. Her shop [in Majubheki] was bought by Chikoore. Mai Bakasa: Did you know Magumede in Mbare? I saw her. That fat one [laughter]! She was fat. She couldn't get in through that door - she wouldn't fit. She would sit there [on a two-seater couch]. Ah. That woman! Do you know [about] her? I-i-i. I have never seen such a fat person. If you met her, you had to turn your head saying, "How was she created, this woman?" 179

What was she famous for besides her weight? Nothing! Besides that she brewed hobhiya. It was brewed at her house. Yes. It wasn't intoxicating. It was like an ordinary drink ... . Yes. That's what Magumede was famous for, from what I heard. She brewed and sold beer. Like a shebeen? Yes, like a shebeen. Did Magumede have a car? [She] had a car and a driver, to ferry her. Ah. That woman... her daughter Magumede Winnie - she was also fat. She was tall and huge. But the mother was short and fat. Mai Tsiga: Was Magumede a successful woman? Yes. She was quite successful. Is it true she had a car? She once had it. She tried to get married in Nyamweda and they had a bus business with her husband. But when the man saw they were doing well, he divorced her... . From Nyamweda she came back after they were divorced and lived in these houses in Majubheki. Um. When she couldn't find a place to live. Mr L. Vambe: [Winnie Magumede] was very large. She was absolutely massive. She was married to David [Chirwa] - a very well known character. He was a first class cook; [and] when he came here he formed a musical band, he was the leader. [This was in the] 1930s, you know, very early on. He was a very talented man. Very good-looking chap. Very popular with women - a heart-throb... Then he was employed by Meikles or Pocket's, one of the biggest establishments in town as a chef. Very good at it. So obviously he had a good income, good salary, and invested part of his money in a shop - a grocery shop, owned by his wife. Did he own the shop? The municipality built the stands and then gave them licenses to trade. It was like that throughout... Black people were not allowed to own property. Well, I remember that [Winnie] was an outstanding woman. Businesslike. Definitely. She ran that shop.., and made a success of it. She was - certainly she was charming, very 180 charming, very amusing. But of course a very strong personality, very strong personality... if she had any political opinions, they would have been very, pretty strong. But she never took any sort of leading position, not in politics. No. Mai Manhenga: Did you know a Mrs Agnes Munjai? VaMunjai, I knew her very well. Very well. What did she do? I don't remember, was she a policewoman, a cleaner, I don't remember. Ha-a. I knew VaMunjai very well. Someone told us that if a woman had a problem with housing or with inspection, she could go to VaMunjai for help. Is that true? It's true, yes. That's it. Because she was near the mambo's [the location superintendent's] mouth. How did she help you? I don't know what she went and said, because she went on her own. Nobody followed her. Were there other women, like VaMunjai, who could help women in the location with their problems? They were there. But we didn't look and see who they were. When they died they left others. So we saw them. We heard, "Today there is a committee for such and such. And we [would see] some women there. But we were far from it. Yes. Very far. We didn't know what this was. No. Mr L. Vambe: [Agnes Munjai and her daughter, Margaret] both of them - mother and daughter - they were really extraordinary people. They were so intelligent. Absolutely so intelligent. Within their own sphere men had to bow to them... I am telling you. They were extraordinary people born before their time. Honest,I could write a book on those two. You know, but they were born before their time. That's right. You know the mother- Agnes Munjai, she had a house in Mbare and then she sort of started a kind of gambling den to earn income, you know. Very famous gambling house. Anybody who was interested in playing cards for money - they went there. And they had to obey her rules or else she would throw them out. Then it came to certain matters, political matters. She didn't take part in street politics. But her view counted as very important. 181

People would go and ask her opinion? Certainly. They would say, "We want to do this, we want to do that," and then she would say, "All right do this, do that, but don't do anything stupid." Very influential person - she really was. In many areas she brought influence to bear so that the laws were not brought so brutally to bear on the women who lived in the township. How did she do that? Well, because of her influence, it came to a time when even the white superintendent used to ask her advice; "What do you think?" And she will say, "No, no. No, no. Don't do this." So he kept a blind eye on some things because of what she had said. That's right. She looked after the general welfare of the women, particularly the women who had been displaced in the rural areas and came to live in the town where they had no legal right to be. But because of her influence and the respect that she commanded among the blacks, and the white administrators, those women could stay in the township... against the law. Because you know the administration, the local superintendent and his police would bend the rules a little ... and say, "Look here, leave them alone!" [There was] also the fear that - by the authorities - that if they interfered too much, went too far, with the freedom of the black women, obviously, you know, they would - you know, create problems with the men... . Yes, yes. It was a sort of sociological interpretation of the thing, that if there were too many men without their women- folk; the white women would be quite unsafe. That's what they thought? That's right. There is no doubt that women like Munjai and also the other one - Mai Musodzi, and so on, they had a lot of influence. They played a very important role which unfortunately is not recognized by most Zimbabweans - you know - in shaping our society, certainly in the urban areas. They had a lot of influence. Tremendous... because they were so highly respected, you see, for their wisdom. Mai Murhombe: Did you know Mai Munjai? I knew her very well. She was my father's [relative]. She lived in New Line. She also had money. 182

Where did VaMunjai get money? Ah. They just got it. As top people ... . They were top people with VaMusodzi. Do you know her? She was the first to do Red Cross here. Houses could be closed, [but] as long as she stood for you it would not be closed. Mai Chitumba: So you remember a woman called Agnes Munjai? VaMunjai - I knew her very well. She lived there on Third [Street]. Amai Munjai. I know her well and her children. Yes. I do. Why she was famous was because she started all these clubs. With women, doing social [work]. I do remember her running clubs, [for women] to educate one another. That's what she did at Mai Musodzi Hall here. What did the women who joined the clubs do? They became better off, better off women definitely. Because they used to do something for themselves. Like knitting and sewing, and cooking. And she would lecture on how to look after your husband. They were better off. Did she organize these groups by herself or did she have help? I think she had help, from other women... I never joined these clubs. I was not there. I was young. It was mostly married women - I was still young at that time. Mai Bakasa: Do you know Nurse Opperman? Of course. I found her there - and up till now she is still there [in Mbare]. We know each other. Yes. She used to do the scales [weighing in] for our children. My second child went to Nurse Opperman's scale - the boy. Nurse Opperman is ours and the late Nurse Cele. Ah. We lived with them for a long time. Her maternity [clinic] is called, 'Edith Opperman Maternity [Home]'. It's there in [Mbare]. We were there when it opened. Miss S. Mazoe: I gave birth at the location - yes, [at] that Edith clinic, near to the Paget House... . It was beautiful, because they had started with some South African nurses, not from Mashonaland. Mrs Wilson, Mrs Mahlangu, and Mrs Kohlo, and Mrs Malanga, those were good ladies. Very [good] ... . So if you said, "I want to go to the clinic, to Edith clinic," they would show you. They say [she was the] first nurse here in Mbare. From South Africa - she was Mrs Mfazi. 183

...... % ...... o W°°o . ', ...... : .. : .... . ' .. ,Y: .:. :: -./::»:::. :::. . , ,, 1 ,~~ ~~...... *...... *.. :'. '- ::.:::.-::....."':Z o .» » ".. . .- F ...... -: :...... i.-.. :. : ...... '.'.'.'." " .F'''':'''....°.-. :''F o..** ...... ,* *.o,. -. .. °*. .. .% °°°% ,.% ...... °°. °,°* oo«...* ...... o...... , iiiiii)i:iiiiiiiiii:i:.i:iiiii...... :...... °..-. %.. o o. o" ;. ;o ..o.'oo,°.o°...... *~~~~~~~~ ...... -»,.«:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: o.O.....°o...... *, ...... --..-..-...--.;.;..:.:..:.:;2::::::::: .;'.:F:::: .....: .,:::. ::'::...... o...... o.... o * : ,. . - '...... : :...... :::::::...... :::::::...... :::::::::::::: ...... -...... : ::: :: :: ::. :: :: :: :: ::::.:: :: ::: :: :: :: .o...... ". .. ' ' ' " - ."...... :..... :...... F ...... b : . :. . . : ...... °°% - % . . . . . Å o - - o - % . . .. ' .. . * . - - ...... F...... b...... % ...... ,oo...... ,..%,,.o.....o .°o* Oo* o., * *...... i .. .°.O o.°.°. ..% .... « S...... o...... O ..... ° °.°.° .-. %... .. ,...... ° .....o° . O°. o...... ooo... «°«...... -: ...... ' :) ":::::. ',...... °o° .o. -:'-::''.''.... '::':. ''¢ - F .o..°.°.. .. . '. °o°°°.. Lady Kennedy, President of the Red Cross presenting a Red Cross badge to Mrs Franks, Commandant of the African detachment, Salisbury Location, 1948. 184

Notice in the African Weekly, 26th April 1944 Nurse Opperman-Mfazi enjoys the rare privilege of being the only African lady after whom a street in an African township is named in Southern Rhodesia, Mai Sondayi: We were fortunate to be able to interview Mrs Stella Mae Sondayi in April 1989, a few months before her death. She was an outstanding personality in the history of Harare. In tribute to her life and work, an extended section of her interview is presented here. Mai Stella Mae Sondayi 185

Mrs Sondayi was born in Nyanga in 1918, and came to Harare as a very young child after the death of her father. She was educated at Old Mutare Mission, and completed her formal education as a teacher there in 1936. She was married in 1938 and spent the next nine years at Murewa Mission. She came back to Harare when her husband who was a clerk in a government department, was transferred in 1947. Can you explain to us how the Red Cross work was started? Ah it started in Mbare. We were the first people who understood English a bit. I can't say we were very educated. I was taken as an interpreter. There was a very big Red Cross in Mbare. It was led by an uneducated woman who had not gone to school to be able to read and write. She was called Ambuya Musodzi. So I was taken as a social worker when we came from Murewa. I was working with women. I told you I had a machine, I sewed and taught others how to knit. So I did that. When we came from Murewa I didn't teach - I was taken by Welfare [the Department of Social Welfare - an office of the municipality of Salisbury] and worked with them. That's what I did. While I was working I was taken as an interpreter for many women's organizations. I also helped with the teaching because I could read. When did you start to enjoy working with women? I didn't start by liking it, no. I started by looking for a job. There were many women's clubs, which were started by Mbuya Musodzi and ... . they were in their early stages. As a person who had a bit of knowledge, they took me as a person who could help. And the whites who taught found it easy to teach through me, because I understood their language and I could write, what needed to be written, down. .*. when I first started I was taking the girls for games. When I had been taken as a teacher, to teach the children netball and teaching them creative activities after school. Then from there I was moved to working with women, because I was a bit young. But now I was a bit older. Then I worked with women. [The girls were] children coming straight from school. They went to school in the morning. They were about 15 or 16 years old... . They didn't have anything to do in the afternoons. Their parents wanted them to have something to do. So I would take them to the grounds for netball and I taught them to sew; to make them do something. Rather than spending the day doing improper things ... . You know young girls. They were not behaving well. They had nothing to do and you know if a person has nothing to do, she won't think properly. Did all the girls in the location go to school? Aah. Most children in the location went to school. All those who had parents went to school. What about those who didn't have parents? 186

I didn't know anyone who didn't. How would you come to town without your parents? You came with [them]. But those who were myana [women of loose morals] - they came to do their own 'jobs' and we wouldn't aim to teach these. They had their jobs. Those who were moving about? Um. They held their dances and other things. I know they had dances. We also took those who were just married to come to the women's clubs.., it was the clubs which put in a request for Harare Hospital to be built. The old hospital which used to be on Moffat Street, near [what is now called] Parirenyatwa [Hospital]. Why didn't you like the hospital? It wasn't bad, but we wanted people [nurses] of our own race. Some girls had come from South Africa to work - they were Zulu, Xhosa. So we wanted our own people. So we asked that Harare Hospital be built, so that our own children could also train there. Nobody used to train here. After Standard Six those who wanted to go further had to go to South Africa... I remember one of the first girls to go was Grace Machingura. She went to South Africa to train as a nurse. And many more went all at once. What did you teach at the women's clubs? We had learnt domestic sciences like knitting and sewing at school, while our fellow women didn't know anything. So we taught them what we knew and what we didn't know, we got from the whites and passed it on to them. What sort of things did the whites teach you that you didn't know? You know in education there is primary education and secondary schooling. Some of this was not there [for blacks] so some of the activities were taught by whites - like housecraft, to enable women to have nice houses and to live nicely. Everything about the home. My child, do you think we knew everything, trying to improve to how it is today? We were not like you today. You went to the university. We had to learn in the clubs like that. Those people like Mai Ndhlela who did Standard Six were considered as highly educated. She belongs to my era - she went to Waddilove and I went to Old Mutare. It wasn't like today where everybody gets equal education. I was lucky. I came to teach in town and stay with my husband, because people knew I was so-and-so's child. I did everything that was started, like Red Cross. There was nothing I wasn't involved in. And the clubs - they did such a great job. I was there at the very beginning. But I can't remember everything. People in town knew me. I grew up here and I came back to live here with my husband. So I was known and this made me get so many jobs quickly. Not that I had more knowledge than everybody else, no. 187

What would you say was the aim in teaching the women and the girls all those things? That's a difficult question. But what is the aim behind education today? I know one question doesn't answer another. But, the aim for us, [and] we came from families where our parents didn't know a thing, was for us to know, so that we would understand each other with other people. r A* Red Cross workers receiving instruction Would you say it was because the living conditions of blacks were quite low at that time? Ah-h. We were really low down! Yes, as you know, we used communal lavatories. If I recall the way we used to live I get shocked now. Our living standards were low. We wanted to go up to the same level as other people, like those who had come from South Africa. They lived a better life, a cleaner and better life, can I say. It was because of education or civilization or 188 I -ftwowuma I 73ML911- --- I-OA - whatever- which we didn't have. When I bought this stand [in Highfield] to build a house I was one of the first. Nobody used to buy houses. There never was a woman who could just live in her own house like this - no! Were you trying to improve on the knowledge the women had, or were you teaching them new things? Some didn't have the knowledge at all. With some we were improving [on what they knew] and improving one another. But some knew absolutely nothing. You mean there were some who could not cook? There is no race which doesn't eat sadza [mealie meal porridge i.e.food], my child. So I am not saying there were some people who couldn't cook sadza, or our own food. This was cookery - which would enable us to share with other people of other races, like whites. Like now I would like to offer you some tea - we didn't have things like that. We had our black culture. Like I said we used to polish our floors with mud. But you couldn't make tea for your visitor. I make tea, but my mother didn't do that. We taught people who were like my mother. So did you also teach them traditional things? Ah, no. They could do the traditional [things]. They were even better than us! So we black women used to make our own mealie-meal - so, isn't that education? I grew up knowing that. But now in creches I see children who don't know that mealie-meal comes from maize. I started creches and some children there say, "I don't [drink] milk which comes from something that looks like a dog." They mean a cow. But at our home, we could milk cows, we could do many things. This is what's now called education. So I mean they were educated in our own culture of our time. We taught each other Western things. We would learn something and come and teach others. But our traditional things, today some know them and others don't. So, in cookery - what sort of things did you teach them to cook? I could say things like cakes, stews and others which we had learned, making life more modem. Would you say then, that women's lives have changed? [They] changed because our elders used to wear skins, until we wore clothes. That's an improvement. Even wearing bras and petticoats, it was through learning. We used to walk around almost naked - even though now - [younger ones] are going back to it as a fashion. 189

But, with us, we didn't have anything. We learnt about dressing and bathing our bodies. As you know, that's education, that. We learnt hygiene and decorating houses and eating besides eating our sadza and munya [cold sadza] and mahewu [drink made from munya, sorghum or millet] we learnt to eat other foods. Was it difficult to teach women who were living under such bad conditions? A-a-a. The women liked [learning]. They joined clubs everywhere. It was done by people who wanted to learn. We did everything, including [teaching about] living conditions. We did hygiene and housecraft so that people would know that things must be like this. It wasn't difficult because people wanted to come to classes. So you are saying they came to see that life could be better, despite the conditions? Yes. It was like that. We didn't only teach them. We also pointed out, that it was bad for people to live in one room, and to say, "How can I sleep in the same room with the children - in one room?" We also spoke saying that we didn't like it. We went to the municipality to tell them. It wasn't like what you do now [living well]. The whites, coloured and the educated like Nurse Opperman - they just came and got better houses straight off. So they led lives which were a bit [high]. So those who wanted to learn saw that, "The way Nurse Opperman lives is good." So they wanted to improve themselves to be like that. Some wanted to improve themselves. Even today, we want to. We want our children and grandchildren to go to university so we can be equal to other people. How did you go about trying to improve the housing situation? That's why some of us were members of the Advisory Board. We worked with the municipality - the City Council. I was one [of the women on the Board] and the late Mrs Nhari and others ... . We were asked by women to go and represent them about housing. For the locations to be built like this, my child, it was us, the women who stood up and the men also did. We would comment on the way they were building ... . 'This is all right, this is not." It was not only us older women on the Advisory Board. Some young ones came after me and [went on] until Independence came. That's why our children went to join the struggle. But we were the first women. When women asked you to go and complain to the municipality, it was usually about housing? Yes it was usually about housing and administration. What was wrong with the administration? 190

Life, if your husband died they would say, "Your house has been closed." And, when your husband was alive, you were also not allowed to leave your house for a long time. If you went to visit your home, they would say, "There is no wife," and close the house. So many things used to happen. If your daughter was made pregnant by someone, her child was not registered as a tenant of that house. They would say, the child does not belong here [and so would be evicted]. So it was easy for women to come and tell you their problems? I never stayed in my house, my child. The women would come and fetch me to go to the superintendent with their problems. I was saddened by what they used to do at municipal creches. They would refuse to take the illegitimate children because they were not the children of house owners... I was also saddened by this law that children must go for primary education at seven years and finish by the time they are fourteen. So if you hadn't finished at fourteen, whether you were bright or dull you had to stop... . [This] caused so many illegitimate children to be born, because they had to stop schooling at fourteen years. And at that age you could not get a chitupa and you can't work. So that was a problem. ... because you were not born by the right tenant, your father was not a tenant ... . We really fought for schools. What would happen when you went to the superintendent with people's problems? Sometimes they responded quite nicely and changed many of their laws. Very dreadful laws - like after your husband died, you would have nowhere to go. And that a woman could not get herself a house, like you coming from the university saying, "I want a house." You wouldn't be given [one]. I am one of the first women to be given a stand on which to build [in Highfield, a government scheme] after my husband died. They could see I was working and I had money. I could build a house to live in. But they didn't want - even with Harare municipal houses, they didn't give [them] to women. Even if you had money. You were not even allowed to have a bank account. Your brother's name had to be written there. On a bank book? Yes! Wasn't it possible for a woman to have an account at the Post Office Savings Bank? No. It wasn't. You had to put a man's name. "Where would a woman get money from?" [they said]. It had to be in your brother's name. Brothers were [important; laughter]. Your father's or brother's name. A man's name. Not a woman's. If your husband died and you 191 didn't have a son, you had problems. "A woman doesn't own anything," and they took it. Everything you had worked for was taken, and you were left like this! And your children [girls] would be married off. Everything! And then the municipality would extend to the house you lived in. They would take the house? Yes! Ah. We suffered. Even the children would chase you from the house. If it was your son, now married, and he chases his mother and the other children, the girls. Because his wife would also say, "I don't want to stay with such a big family." And the mother-in-law had nowhere to go. She could not go to the reserve where she had no property or a house. If she had money, it was better in the municipality where there were houses which had already been built. But in the reserve you had to build, and you had to have a plough - but you didn't [have such things] because you had been in town. So you lived for 40 years in Mbare. What would you say was the most difficult thing for women? It was hard to lead a clean life with the children. Because you couldn't give them enough unless you were blessed to be educated like we were. There was nothing you could do to help your children if you were not working. 1 Chilapalapa is a 'bastardized, spoken language that combines simplified forms of Zulu, English and Afrikaans' as well as some Ndebele. It evolved from the unwillingness of settlers to learn local languages. The manner in which it was used by whites when talking with blacks (even if they could speak good English) was seen as insulting and demeaning. 192

Chapter 15 Having Fun "I used to jive." This chapter describes some of the entertainment that was available to the people of the town. Some entertainment was sponsored by the colonial officials. They ran clubs for women and children, showed films and organized dances and boxing and football matches. It was hoped that these activities would make the people happy and contented, and therefore easier to control. But there was not enough official entertainment and recreation for most of the people of the townships to participate in. Some people were not interested in activities which were just meant to 'amuse the natives'. Therefore, there were certain kinds of fun which people just made for themselves. Miss S. Mazoe: We [children] used to play some games. We used to go to play some netball, because we had - what you call - Mr Codell, used to conduct the children, at No. 1 Harare Ground. And they built so many things for our games. Luna Park, it was there. Swimming... netball. Myself I used to favour netball. It was my favourite. How did you spend your time on the weekends once you started working? So many things to do. Sometimes I used to do my sewing, sometimes I used to play with my friends. Sometimes we used to go for a picnic when we were young. Yah. I don't want to tell lies [laughter]. We used to dance in the evenings. They had dances at the location in those days? Of course! I used to be a winner of dance [competitions]. I used to jive. I used to win. 193

'Lindi' (Popular song of the 1950s) Lindi, Lindi Lindi, the very beautiful child Lindi, Lindi, Lindi, the love of my heart If you are not around I am not happy My heart is in pain Lindi, Lindi, Lindi, the love of my heart. Lindi, Lindi Lindi, the very beautiful child Lindi, Lindi, Lindi, the love of my heart I like seeing you, Lindi There is no peace in my soul When you are not around I am not happy My heart is in so much pain You are an endless light. Mr W. Saidi: If you go to Mbare today, would you say the life of children in the hostels today is equivalent to the kind of childhood you had? Ours was better. Much better. Those kids are pathetic. Only yesterday I was at Rufaro Stadium for a [football] match and some of those kids were saying, "Can I look after your car," and so on. We never did anything like that. There was dignity. No one had a car! I suppose so, but we never really lowered ourselves that low ... . I remember one adventure which we had, my friends and I, during the rainy season. People used to grow maize all over the show; even now they plant maize on the stream [bank]. Now this time they used to plant it somewhere near the fuel tank, somewhere near BP and we went there and we climbed over the fence. Because we wanted the maize. We wanted to sell it to get money to go to the 194 cinema. That's all we wanted. We got in, we got the maize, a lot of it. But there was a river a stream. I think it was over-flooded. We couldn't cross so we thought we should leave this maize and just swim. It was quite a struggle... I was sort of the leader of the group and I said, "Let's pray." Because. . . my family was very religious. So we sat down and prayed we knelt and prayed - and we crossed [the river]! We went and sold our maize, got our money and went to the cinema. But we never crossed the line - we had dignity. Nobody would be seen begging. No! Nobody did that. Nobody went begging or anything like that. We had dignity. And if we didn't have money to go to the cinema, we made our own cinema.l remember, because we used to have some candles and paper cardboard. The guys would be sitting there and I would be telling them a story... yah ... . We used to have some fun. Jiving in full swing Miss K. Savanhu: Before you started working, what did you spend the day doing in the location? Just sitting. Just walking around - drinking beer - as a person who drinks beer. Just enjoying 195 ourselves. I didn't even want to work, saying, "I can't speak English," until I went to work, and it was said, "No, you will learn the English there." Then I went to work... I got used to it. Where did you drink this beer? In the bars. We went together with my sister who I live with and others whom I played with... who also lived here in the location. When the inspection was being done and you were not married, were you not troubled? I was in my mother and father's house so I wasn't arrested. What about during the day, when you went to the bar as women only, wasn't this a problem? It was a problem. But if it was known that you were local children, you wouldn't be arrested. Yes. But if you went to sleep kumayard, if the inspection is done there you were arrested. You went to the 'stocks' and you pay a fine. So when you went into a bar, how did people look at you? Ah - I don't know. We just drank beer and they just drank beer. Who bought the beer for you? We went with our money and you bought for yourself. If there were boys who knew you, they would buy for you. Did your parents give you the money? When we were drinking, I was grown up then. We would be given by boys - until we started working. We then had our own money. Would you say life in the location was nice at the time when you were not working? I really enjoyed it. There was no problem. There were no tsotsis who beat up people. If you walked at any time - you could walk at night from here to the musika and come back nicely. There were not many tsotsis who beat people and took their money. When we got here in 1952, if it was hot you could sleep on the verandah, where we built the spare [bedroom] outside. You could sleep, and dawn would break nicely. There were not many tsotsis like there are [now]. So it was very nice. How many were you in the group of women you moved around with? Girls? We would meet. I-i-i, sometimes in the bar. We were many and we would be friendly to one another. From there we could walk as four or five, going to where we will have thought of - to drink beer. 196

What did the married women say about you girls who went to drink beer? Ah. Did we go with them? No. You know people, they do talk.... They would talk if somebody was seeing her husband, if she found her with her husband. But if there was none, there was nothing. We didn't have anything to do with them. Not at all. 'Beer' (Popular song of the 1950s) I am going to stop drinking beer. I am not going to drink it ever. Beer gets me into endless problems. I escaped from all those problems. I also lost money Through fighting with others. Let's stop drinking beer. It pulls us into trouble. Mai Kobe: They had concerts in the locations. Like at Mai Musodzi [Hall], dances were held on Fridays and Sundays. On Wednesdays they practiced. But we were not allowed by my brother-in-law. He just didn't like it. We lived with Dorothy. Who is Dorothy? Dorothy Masuka. 1 We lived with her. So she was told, "If you are going, leave the children here," and she goes. Dorothy Masuka was a relative of yours? Yes. "Go and leave the children," [he said] and truly, she went for her practice on her own and we would only go for the concert after she had booked the hall. Some played mbira 2, some ungo - u - what is it called? Ngororombe? 3 Ngororombe. There's another one they do in Harare. What is it called? 197 Zvigure?4 No. Zvigure are there. There's something else played by those from Murehwa, with drums. Yes. They played that. But we never stepped in there. Did Dorothy have to ask for permission to go out from your brother-in-law? She asked. But they knew she had to practice - she was a singer. [But] if she came from Bulawayo with some boys they were told, "Look for a place to stay. I don't want you here." African Daily News 8th March 1958 Women set the ball of jazz rolling: Faith ('Shot Gun Boggie') Dauti In the dark townships of Harare during the course of the jazz-revolution, a little girl emerged almost from nowhere and took her place among the already well- known cluster of dames who had revolutionized the jazz-O African townships. She was short, shy and vivacious. ... Faith's deep and sophisticated mezzo-soprano has made lovers curdle into each other's arms. When she croons and sways on stage an atmosphere of peace and longing transcends among members of the audience. Mr L. Gutsa: The location itself was a very good place for Africans although there were the inspections - if you were found in someone's house it was trespassing again. On the whole, except for the toilets, it was a very good place. Those who drank went to beerhalls, those who danced - in the dancing and dressing competitions - went to Stodart [Hall]. There were football and boxing grounds - where people used to punch each other for nothing! I used to dance. I was not quite a good dancer, I was second to Leon Marumisa. He was a very good dancer, and used to go to Bulawayo and Johannesburg for dancing. I had a girl partner, Biebiti. She stayed in the location as well, maybe with her parents. In those days some of the things were bad but life was easier at that time than today. A loaf of bread cost sixpence, for a very big loaf. Two kilograms of sugar was sixpence at that time. A person earning seven shillings and sixpence used to have good money right through the month, he could buy clothes! 198

'Everybody Dance' Popular song of the 1950s Dance, dance, everyone Strengthen your body. Do boxing too And stay fit. Play soccer and dance too The drum, too and boxing, too It makes our bodies and bones strong. Miss A. Gasa: What did you do during weekends? What weekends? Did you have dances and concerts? Concerts were held at church. For schoolchildren. What about dances? They held dances. Don't they hold them even today [laughs]? Were they exciting? What excitement? It excited those who did it. If you didn't do it, it wasn't exciting. We knew our 'dances' of taking your Bible and going to church. I Dorothy Masuka is a well-known popular singer. 2 A mbira, sometimes called a thumb piano, consists of a number of metal tongues mounted on a wooden soundboard and plucked with the thumb of forefinger. 3 A ngororombe is a set of two to five end-blown pipes made of reed or bamboo; or a dance of the Murewa, Mutoko or Masvingo areas which are accompanied by the ngororombe. 4 Zvigure, the plural of chigure, high part in part singing. 199

A view of Old Bricks which in 1958 housed a quarter of Harare's (Salisbury's) population 200

Chapter 16 What was the worst thing about living in town? the houses were small and the money was little." Mai Charlie: Women were bothered by their husbands. The husbands harassed their wives. Today it's better. I would say that... maybe it's because now they [husbands] do 'it' in the city. So you don't see them? No, you don't. Miss A. Gasa: The problem was some [women] who didn't want to get married. You wouldn't know what they were thinking. What about money, education, and jobs. Were these a problem? They were not a problem. What would be the problem? If you worked for yourself you would get your twenty cents and you buy what you want and eat it. That's it. Those who were not doing it knew what else they could do. I don't know what they did. Mrs Rubaba: As a lady staying in the location my biggest problem was - it was no problem living with other people - but the housing in Old Bricks, everyone stayed there, married or unmarried. We were looking for a house to stay in with our children. I had to go again and again to Market Square and maybe wait for the whole day, to be given.., a house for married people. In Old Bricks most people had one-room houses; there could be three couples sharing that room; maybe there were four married people in that one room... We got a five-roomed house in Mabvuku in 1954. That was much better. 201

Mr M. D. Ngarande: What was the biggest problem about living in town? Eating bought food. At home we eat what is grown... you know a cucumber? [Here] I buy a cucumber for a shilling. A cucumber which is eaten by a baboon at home! Ah no. The wife stays at home with the children and after school they go and take cucumbers from the fields. They take sweet reeds from the field, and maize. [But here] you put a bought thing in your mouth! A chicken's egg is bought for twenty cents! Two bob! An egg! So that's a hard life. You buy firewood. Are trees bought? No. You go and break it in the bush. No... they are selling my tree to me. That is what was hard about living in town. Mai Matondo: Some of us had a good life. But the houses were small and the money was little. Mai Ruswa: What was difficult was, there was nowhere to farm [in town and earn money that way]. If you were just seated, you didn't have a good life. Even if you were living with your husband, yes, you can live with your husband; but the money was very little. And if you had a family, the family would not be highly educated because you don't have money. The money was very little. You could have many children and fail to support them. Some would go out - to be proposed to - you are now selling yourself because your money is very little! The child is not educated - she can't get a paying job. . . . I think that's what caused [prostitution]. Mai Rusike: [The greatest problem in womens' lives was] the way we were oppressed by men. They are the ones who put rules which made us go down and not go to work. Not being allowed to work. Many [wives] were left at home in the reserves. They didn't know Harare, they were not allowed to come here to Harare. Isn't it? We were not allowed to work, if you were so-and-so's wife. It was not allowed. What did they say you would do? I don't know. Some men thought women would reject their husbands if they saw what was there [outside]. That's all I can see [laughter]. Isn't that so? Mai Manhenga: If you went around you would see a woman with many children ouside, at the musika. If the wind came it would just come while they are like [that], with nowhere to stay. 202

Why? Because of the inspections in the houses. Yes. The inspection came and they would be arrested. When they are arrested, they can't get [the money to pay] the fine anywhere. They don't have money, that's why they are like this. That place [Mbare] was a problem, even up to now. Miss M. Savanhu: I would say life was a problem [back then] to those who just went about picking [men]. Today you are with this one, tomorrow you are with that one. Sometimes they had nowhere to sleep. That's what I saw as a problem. Like I said, it was done purposely [by women] not wanting to go to work. But how could a person not want to work, when life was so difficult? Ah! Failing to go and have fun and dance with boyfriends? Yes. Many didn't want to go to work. Mai Chideya: When we began to stay here, what was hard was if you were just seated. [Then] Harare would be difficult for you. But since we were now doing things for ourselves, nothing was difficult. You got money and got everything you wanted. It's hard if you are just seated. Harare is hard. Mai Murhombe: I would say the money was little, the one our husbands gave us. So for us to educate the children we had problems, and you think of going home. When you go home, the husband doesn't bring money any more. It's spent by [others]. The money doesn't come home. But you worked so hard! Fanning! It was bad. Mai Butao: What was hard for us women in our homes was the men. They were a problem. He wouldn't come nicely when he got paid and say, "My wife, here is my pay." Sometimes you would only see a pound or three dollars or four dollars. Where would they go with it? Ah. The world is a large place. He would go and spend it, there where he would be happy. If you ask him - maiwe [oh dear]! You have started him [off]! Mai Guchu: At that time when the inspection came, that's when I can say women's lives became difficult. Because if you had a visitor and you didn't report to the police, it would be hard when the police came. So all along things were still easy. There were no big problems. If one just used her hands, whether it was to sell her vegetables or whatever, she would eat 203 and be satisfied, because things were cheap. It wasn't so difficult. There was nothing that troubled us [so] that you would say, "I am suffering [from] this and that." No. Because you could sell your things, whatever they were, and get money to buy your food. Those who were so old that they had no time to walk to go and see - those are the ones I am telling you that they brewed beer and sold it and got money to buy something to help herself in her home. Mai Chitumba: At that time when we had no choice [in what] to do, we wanted to work. [But] there was no place to stay. You had to obey the situation. Mr W. Saidi: [People today] don't have a sense of, ah, what it meant to live under the old white regime and why people had to go out and fight for what they deserve. I think we take too many things for granted. Mr L. Gono: [The biggest problem was] money and houses. You know the people were piling up. Mai Chirisa: I didn't see anything hard [in town] if you were working to help yourself. But if you were just seated it would be difficult. Town wasn't nice. It's just poverty that brought me to town. Mai Mutizira-Nondo: Most difficult? Up to now? I could say lack of money. We were [teachers] working and being given very little money; and then at the time of politics, when war came. We had to sleep with our windows barred. At that time when people threw bombs at each other, life was so difficult for us in Mufakose. Because most people said - I can say [from] '65 to '66, schools were closed for a year, when it [politics] was so bad. We once went to school just to sit, with no children. But we, the teachers had to go and sit, if we wanted our pay. So you had to find a way to get there. I can say between '64 and '65 - that was a difficult time for us... . You had to dress.shabbily, because I would pass through Mbare Musika and most women [I met] would know I was a mistress [school-teacher]. So they said, "When you get paid, you must also give us money." So we had to use some ways to get to school. Then when we got to school we would sit together. Our inspector, Mr Tilly, would come and check if we were there, so we could get our pay at the end of the month. Uhm. Otherwise, that was the only problem. There was nothing [else]. We are still struggling and making our living. Miss J. Scott: The murungu is the one who was bad. Because he could swear at his worker, 204

"Pfutseki, bob-janu [get lost, baboon]. You African! Dirty! Shut up! You kaffir!" That was the problem. If you worked for a murungu you were a slave. They treated us like slaves - as if they captured us to come and work. That was the only bad thing. You would work while saying, "Ah! What he did to me!" A black person was not given tea; the murungu would finish drinking his tea and then give the black man the leftover tea-leaves for him to pour water and drink as tea. That was bad. If the murungu had not done that, we would never have fought. They would say, "Stupid!" over and over again. That was the bad thing about varungu. We can't [even] talk of racial discrimination. Ha-a. You had to drink tea over there, from a tin, an [empty] tin of jam. You would be given dog's meat which they bought for dogs. That's what was bad with the murungu. Specifically with women, what was the worst problem? You know how we women live. This one has her house and that one hers; they don't tell you their problems. I never suffered. I was given everything. I didn't know where bread, butter, meat or jam came from. I never suffered, but others did. You would ask, "Amai, you seem to be... "and they would say, "Ah-h. We have no problem." You know, long back the black man never wanted to reveal his household's problems. [But] we saw a lot of things. [A woman] would roast peanuts and go around selling them. Her maize - she would sell, and her clay pots for sale. So we would see - surely our fellow women are suffering. Um. But the five of us [as young children] never suffered because our mother was a fierce farmer... She grew maize, rice. We never went hungry even for one day. Mai Sondayi: Ah. Back at our homes, as you know it's nice if you have your home and your cattle. Yes. But [in town] if you don't have enough [resources] your lifestyle is low. You couldn't just sell maize and have a good life. Life was hard. You could even have problems of food - not getting some things. In town there are always shortages;.., if you are not working, where do you get things from? Mr L. Vambe: The African woman in the past was grossly underprivileged. No doubt about that. She had very few rights. Outside her tribal environment she had very few rights... and she accepted that position - and the man didn't question that position, by and large. And so she was deprived socially, economically and, well, politically. [She was] right at the bottom of the ladder. 205

The woman today - she is in a different environment. Society as a whole has become much more educated, much more sophisticated and women themselves, aware of their rights... they are not inferior. They don't accept their position, as their parents did. Okay - although they are still underprivileged, but not to the same extent as they were thirty to forty years ago. Today we have women in practically all walks of life... something I can tell you was inconceivable thirty years ago. It was just inconceivable. Absolutely. So women have come a long way; [still they] have got a long way to go. [But] there is no doubt that in the context of our history they have made tremendous progress. A lot... [and] ninety per cent [of that progress] is through their own efforts. Because they have refused to be oppressed. They have applied themselves. 206

Chapter 17 What was the best thing about living in town? "It's nice. You use your hands and your brain." As we have seen in other chapters, most of the African people in Rhodesia lived in the rural areas. Although the minority who lived in towns has many problems, they also had certain opportunities which did not exist in the rural areas. Urban women often had more chances to learn about new things and participate in new kinds of activities. Living in town was difficult for all the interviewees, but most of them discovered that there were some things about urban life which they enjoyed. Mai Makoni: Would you say life was difficult in those days when you started living in Harare? It was difficult. But it wasn't like nowadays when you struggle to get something to eat. You struggle to get vegetables.., to buy meat. If you pay two dollars, [and] we cook it here. The two of us, with my child, it won't be enough. [Then] you would buy your meat, for fifty cents. It was enough. If you buy for one dollar it will be enough for two days. Miss J. Scott: Town was nice to live [in] if you had a husband. A man and his wife. Mr L. Gono: [The] best thing in town was changing life from uncivilized to civilized. You know those days most of us were not educated, not civilized. When you came into town you get a little bit civilized and [learn] a few words of English - and a bit of 'lapa-lapa' [chilapalapal. It was a little bit [of] civilization to a person. Uhm. You could wash a trousers, and iron it. Some were born in those places - those things were not there. 207

Which places? The reserves. There was completely nothing. No mbudzi [goat], no chicken, nothing. You were better where there was something. If you were at a mission you could know how to cultivate and what is fruits. The difference of the fruits. A person who is eating a diet of fruits - you could tell. We were really primitive. Mr L. Vambe: I think - certainly for the African woman at that time in the township, although she was still under the weight of African traditional outlook on women, she was subservient to the man - as you know, this is a male- dominated society - and yet at the same time, within certain areas she was a very liberated woman. She could work, for instance. She could work, she could find a job and work in town. Okay. Which she couldn't do in the villages. You know, she could work, earn her own salary, buy her own dresses [with] her own money. Buy her own bicycle if needs be. She had an income, which made her independent. Right. She could go out without having to ask to her father or husband, "I am going out for an evening, I am going out for a dance." She was free. Okay. And she could even raise a family without her husband. If she had her children, right, and the husband didn't own [up] responsibility for the children - she kept them with her income, you know. And later on she went into business, selling vegetables, you know and this and that. She developed a business acumen through it... we had a lot of women like that who eventually became very important figures in our community. Mr W. Saidi: I think [living in town] makes you broad-minded. That's one thing. And also [it] toughens you up, if you can stand a lot of tough situations without buckling... . I think you can also be sort of very principled about certain things, such as the right to what everybody has. You can have an opportunity - you should be given the opportunity to do what your brain can achieve. Mai Chitumba: There was no enjoying [life in town]. Life was just as usual. Mai Guchu: Ah. Harare is nice, even now it's nice [laughter]. Isn't it we are now so old and we are still here! How can we say, "We are suffering," when we are all right? It's nice. You use your hands and your brain. Mai Sitambuli: What I saw was that in town there was the advantage that as a woman you could do something to help yourself and help in the home. But if my husband had been teaching in the reserves, I would have just sat and waited for his money. So the money he got 208 would not have been enough to uplift the big family I had, for them to get enough education and getting enough things. Mai Chideya: If you live well, it will be nice [in town]. But if you are not living well, it can't be nice. If you live well and get along with your neighbours and get enough [things], you don't have a problem. Mai Murhombe: We were happy. Because you found time to bath and dress well. At home, he doesn't give you soap! Never! You had to use ruredzo [leaves of a plant used to make soap]! Miss M. Savanhu: Ah. We just said, 'This [town] is where mother and father live." It was just living. Miss K. Savanhu: All along, long back, everything was good for us. We enjoyed - we got those little wages and we bought everything we wanted and it was enough. You ate until you were satisfied, and you bought clothes with very little money. Ha-a. It was enough for everything you wanted. We were so happy! ... [But] when money became dollars, that's when everybody's poverty came. It [money now] isn't enough for anything. That's when we saw we didn't have enough to eat and dress. Mai Rusike: What made us women live in town was this thing about men. One man would put his wife in the reserve and spend two months, not going home. And she would have no clothes, no food for the children, no soap, no what. So we said it was better if both of you lived here and if he gave you a dollar to buy soap and food for the children. That was the nice thing. Being together, eating our money together with my huband and my children. Even if he leaves the house and goes wherever he wants, after giving me a dollar, I can buy mealie-meal for the children and tea-leaves and sugar to give the children, and porridge. And if he comes back and we quarrel it doesn't matter as long as my children eat! Mai Manhenga: We are black. If a person at home hears about town she will say, "I also want to go to town for chirungu." Yet you don't understand this chirungu. So some did that and said, "I am going to town." But they failed to live well because they didn't know how to .... So if you are not working, town is not nice. It will be bad. But if you are working! Haa. Town will be nice, because you go and get your money on a set day even if it's a little. Light had not dawned on us. We just said, "We are going [to Harare] too. We are going too!" Ah, no! Harare was nice just to sed the varungu's chirungu, not that it would be nice for you. 209

Mai Matondo: [Life is] better here because here I can sew and I can sell, but in the reserve there is no money. You may need a person to plough for you and you need a plough too. So you have a problem. [Here] if I see I am suffering too much, I can go to town, buy eggs and then sell them. So it helps me, and I won't suffer too much. Mai Dzvairo: I was happy to live here ... it got into my blood. [An] unmarried woman could have a problem of accomodation [in town]. But the married one has no problem. She lives with her husband, they have their house. Yes. The greatest thing, my child, if you live in town [is] going to church. Ah! Nothing will trouble you. Yes. You will be happy because if you go to meet your friends, you have a good time. Hearing thevhangeri, [the Gospel] being told nice stories from the Bible. You are happy now." Mai Ndhlela: Even with us [church ministers' families] things were hard. We couldn't get nice houses. Yah. Life was hard - but we didn't see any sadness. 210

Chapter 18 Getting Old "The years are too many." This book has been put together from the memories of people who are in their 60s, 70s and even 80s. As old people, they now face a different set of challenges and problems than they did in their younger days. This chapter, which ends the book, looks at some of the ideas which the interviewees have about their lives today as old people in independent Zimbabwe and in a swiftly changing world. Mai Manhenga: Some [old women] are chased away by their relatives. Yes. Like if you live at your son's house, the daughter-in-law will say, "Get away! Go away!" - and you go and live outside. Even at your daughter's! She will reject you. I remember [something that happened to a friend] ... isn't it when a person is about to die [she says], "Gr-r-gr-r." So they took [my friend] to the hospital and [her children] used to say, "Shut up! You are making noise!" - [to] her mother, from whose womb she came! Mai Tsiga: My husband is no more. He died on the 10th January, 1977. I still go [to my rural area]. My home is looked after by a boy. [My husband] built a very big home. Here I am short of rooms but there he built an eight-roomed house. Yes. Now that school is closed I am going to harvest. With the children? Now I go with my grandchildren [laughter]. Mai Butao: I am just seated. Just seated [laughter]. Where can I get a job? I am not educated. Work nowadays is for the educated. If you are not educated, what are you going to do? 211

What would you say has changed in Highfield since you came in 1956? What has changed? Nothing. We are living here. Nothing has changed. Mai Mwayera: Long back I didn't want to move from [Highfield]. I wanted to live with others and be happy with them. I was very sad when I left [to live in Marimba Park]. Ah. There is no seeing each other any more. Now when I leave here, I get home late. And I sit. Tomorrow I come to work again. Sunday is the only day I rest. I go to church. After that I go for choir practice. That's when I meet others ... . But in Highfield you could shout to each other if you were neighbours. But there [Marimba Park], you can't. Mai Hlabangana: Is there anything you wish you had been able to do in your time? Ah. I would wish - if I had money I would wish to have a business, I think... a little shop, being mine and put things to sell. If I had money I would buy a little shop. And now there are knitting machines, I would be having two or three machines to knit. Mr L. Gono: In those days we had the belief, it's still there, that belief- that you must have a home at home. You know why? You used to be chased, when you are an old man like this. Yah. By the government, because we didn't own a house in town. Yes. So you have to keep your home. When you retire you have to go to your home area. Now we are seeing there is a little bit of difference, with our government. Today? It's only when you have to sell, you sell your house. When you are in that house, it's your own... Mai Matondo: I could say since baba does not work any more, so life seems difficult. But our family is supporting us. But we don't know where it will end; because baba is ill, the boy I mentioned is ill. The other two boys' girls eloped - the one who works and the one who doesn't, they eloped.... I would say in the past life was better because now things are expensive. It's not easy to compare. Now things keep going up, and Baba is not working. So you can't compare. Long back the money was little but the prices were low. Was there anything you wanted to do, but were not able to? Like I told you, I once sold things. [Then] we were chased out of the musika. I don't do anything now. If you go on the roads you will be arrested. So you just stay. We have no means of helping ourselves. 212

I had a musika - you know our African life - things come through ignorance. We got the musika during Muzorewa's time ... . When this government came, they said, "You were not in ZANU. We want to put our special ZANU people." So we were chased and up to now we have never gone back. Mr L. Gutsa: I brought up my children through building. I am not a lower class man, one can call me middle class. It was all through building... A two-litre tin of milk used to be two cents. [Life is] hand-to-mouth now, I don't know how the children have clothes. Everything is sold now. In olden days, things were just given [away]. When one had ten shillings, they used to live a week with that, while not even being employed. I'm having difficulties; I'm paying my workers the government salary but I know it's from hand-to-mouth for them; there's nothing they can save. A three-ton lorry used to cost three hundred pounds, brand- new. A second-hand car was fifteen pounds, so people could afford things. They bought cows, bicycles. A person working for me today now can't afford a bicycle or a wireless set. Mai Ruswa: You can't just sit. Sitting? Like so? Isn't it you came here? At what time? Ten o'clock. Ten? And I just [sit]? No... I am old now. When my employer went, I said, "Now where am I going to get a job?" Some of my friends went to the hospital and I said, "I may not manage the shifts." So I thought of the tuckshop outside. I get a cent, a cent. Isn't it? Sometimes I go to Botswana, or I go to Bulawayo and I buy something. I go home, I get somebody to plough for me. I get eight or ten bags [of maize] and I get my little cheque [from the Grain Marketing Board]. My house is not beautiful. But I have people living at the back and they give me money. So, can I wait for my child to give me money? No. Because the money just goes every day - so you need something to help yourself. Miss J. Scott: Ah! If a person was born in 1910, how old is she today - seventy- nine? But I am still alive! But it's said a person doesn't get to be that old?... You will find me dead one day. The years are too many. 213

Conclusion Since beginning this project, two of the women we interviewed for this book and one of our own grandmothers have died. An immeasurable amount of experience and knowledge died away with them. An early reader of our manuscript wrote that it reminded her of a poem by Bertholt Brecht. One part of it goes, Every page a victory. Who cooked the feast for the victors? Every ten years a great man. Who paid the bills? Mai Sondayi, Mai Maripakwenda and Mrs Phyllis Williams had their own particular answers to these questions. We hope that the wisdom and knowledge that their sisters, cousins, friends and acquaintances still have, will not also be lost to history. We need to know what they know. There is still much work to be done. 214

Glossary amai - mother ambuya - old woman; grandmother baba - father, husband benzi - mad person or a fool bika mapoto - literally 'cooking with a pot'; a casual marriage bob - a shilling; ten cents bob-jan - baboon chigare - enjoyment chihuu - prostitution chijoki - prostitution chikokiyana - see skokiaan *chilapalapa - rudimentary language of mixed Africans, English and southern African languages chirimo - the warm part of the dry season *chirungu - English language; Western ways chitupa - compulsory registration certificate for African men chitikinyani - registration certificate for working boys dagga - marijuana doilies - crocheted cloths egaroronzi - ignorant person Federation - the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland; a central African country made up of Zambia, Zimbabwe and Malawi which existed from 1953-63 215 gogoi - literally 'knock knock', a courtesy used before or on on entering someone's house hobhiya - hop-beer hure - prostitute ICU- Industrial and Commercial Workers' Union, active in Rhodesia in the late 1920s and early 1930s iskokiyana - see skokiaan iwe - you imba yemahure - brothel Joni - Johannesburg kabanga - home brewed hop-beer kachasu - very potent home brewed alcohol katsekera - literally one who locks the door or the tap i.e. one who closes down houses i.e the superintendent of a location kopje - hill kugambirwa - be claimed as a wife when one is still a young girl kumayard - in/to the white suburbs kuruka - to knit lapalapa - see chilapalapa lazaretto - infectious diseases hospital; venereal diseases clinic lobola - money or goods given to family of the bride by the groom; bridewealth; roora 216 mahewu - non-alcoholic, sweet beer mahure - prostitutes mahuu - prostitutes maiwe - exclamation of sorrow or regret mambo- king; God maNyasaland- people from Malawi (Nyasaland) Manyika - native speakers of the Manyika dialect of Shona which is spoken in the eastern region of the country mapoto - literally 'cooking pots'; an informal marriage masikati - afternoon; good afternoon (greeting) matapiri - potatoes mayadhi - white or wealthy suburbs of the city mayard - see mayadhi mazai - Literally 'eggs' but used as a euphemism to mean 'toilet' or 'faeces' in order to avoid impolite language Mazezuru - native speakers of the Zezuru dialect of Shona which is spoken in the Harare. Murewa region of the country mazvita - thank you *mbira - small musical instrument sometimes called a thumb piano mbuya also ambuya - grandmother misika - markets mizhanje - indigneous trees which bear small, round, brown fruit muchato - wedding; marriage certificate mudhadhadha - long object (long, low building) munya - left-over sadza murungu - white person 217 musangano - meeting musika - market muzhanje - singular form of mizhanje (see above) NC - Native Commissioner; a locally powerful colonial official Nazareth - name of a venereal disease clinic in Harari Township nkosi - lord; a Native Commissioner pfakapfaka - prostitute pfutseki - see vootsek ruredzo - soap made from lye of ashes *Ruwadzano - Mothers' Union; church organization for women sadza - staple food, a thickly cooked porridge of maize meal sekuru - grandfather shamwari - friend shebeen - small, illegal local bar siki - venereal disease skavha - scarf skokiaan - potent home brewed alcohol skokiyana - see skokiaan sterek - very much, a great deal stocks - prison stoep - verandah, porch Tangwena - a shanty tinobika mapoto - we are mapoto wives literally 'we cook with pots' tsenza - edible tuber tsotsis - hooligans 218 umcombothi (Zulu) - African brewed beer Va - honorific prefix used before a surname vakadzi - women vamissisi - married white women vamukwindi - angry ones vana rukatsi - prostitutes varume - men varungu - white people vhangerz - the Gospel vootsek - get lost! Zezuru - native speaker of the Zezuru dialect of Shona zvitupa - registration certificates zvigure - plural of chigure, high part in part singing 219

Oral History Projects The kind of activity which led to this book can be very enjoyable, interesting and exciting. We would like to suggest some ideas for any readers who might be interested in starting their own oral history projects. I. Who can be interviewed? - any elderly person in your community who remembers people and events of the past fairly clearly; - younger women who crotchet and sell doilies in Zimbabwe or who travel to South Africa to sell them (compare their stories with those in chapter 8); - an older relative who can tell you about their parents and grandparents; - anyone who has been politically active in your community. These are just some suggestions. Remember that every ordinary person has wisdom and memories that are worth sharing, and history should take their experiences into accourt. An oral historian has a responsibility to bring such treasures to light. II. How to interview people? We used a small tape recorder and cassette tapes to record interviews. Then we translated them into English and wrote them out. Then we typed them into the first draft of this book. Although this process gave us very accurate quotations from the interviews (accuracy was one of our priorities), having to depend on mechanical equipment in this way can be expensive. There are other ways to record people's answers in oral history interviews. Perhaps the easiest way is to write down as many detailed notes as possible while people are actually answering your questions. Take lots of paper - people can sometimes give very long answers. If you use this method, it may be easier to have one person asking questions and another taking notes. III. What kinds of questions should be asked? Even if you know the person you are interviewing well, be sure to start every interview by asking for their full name, date and place of birth, and current address. Family details might include such questions as where their parents came from, when and if they were married, how many children they have. 220

The questions we have asked in this book can serve as a guide to the more complicated things you might then ask. The questions depend on what you want to know about people's lives and experiences. Remember, though, that if you are asking about personal issues, you must be sensitive and not offend your interviewee. Try to ask clear questions which are simply phrased. It is better to ask several simple questions than one complicated one. IV. What to do with the information gathered? We thought that it was important to try to give something back to our interviewees, so we gave people copies of the pictures we took after the interviews (some of which appear in the book). At the very least you must remember to thank the interviewee for talking with you and tell them what you intend to do with information they have given you. Here are some suggestions: - as a classroom project, dramatize one important incident in someone's life. The person who told you the story can be invited to attend a performance. - write your interview notes up into a story and read them to your class or club. - Ask your interviewees to teach you some songs they used to sing as children, or as they grew up, or popular songs they remember from the past, and give a performance of these songs to a class or club. Be sure to handle photographs carefully and return them to the owner in good condition. - If you live, study or work in a place where you can use a photocopier or a duplicating machine, your interview notes can be put together into a small booklet. -The National Archives of Zimbabwe collects historical information of all types, and the oral history staff would be pleased to receive copies of any documents you may put together from your interviews. Their address is: National Archives of Zimbabwe, Bag 7729, Causeway, Harare. - There are other ways to share oral history information outside a school situation; ask the organizers of community meetings and publications if the people they serve would be interested in hearing about your work. 221

Questions Chapter 1: Why did you come to Harare? 1. List five different reasons why people came to live in Harare. 2. Do you think it is correct to say that before the 1950s, 'no women lived in town?' 3. Would a woman come from the rural areas to live in town forthe same reasons as a man? What evidence do you have to support your answer? 4. Would an unmarried woman come to live in town for the same reasons as a married woman? How can you support your answer? 5. Which comments in the chapter are supported by these statistics on the national origin of the location's residents in 1930? Were there more women from Southern Rhodesia or from neighbouring countries living in the location? Men Women Location Residents from: Southern Rhodesia 1 026 426 Northern Rhodesia 146 58 Nyasaland 750 72 Portuguese Territory 432 119 South Africa 0 4 Chapter 2: Old Bricks 1. From the photographs of the MaTanks on pages 32 and 200, would you say the huts had windows? Were they provided with electricity? 2. What method of transport can you see in the photographs? 3. According to the different speakers, how many people were likely to live in each brick house? 4. What problems do you think such overcrowding might cause? 222

5. In 1930 there was only one 'shower bathroom' provided for the 700 women residents of Mbare, yet the colonial, location superintendent said that he thought that facilities were adequate. Why would he make such a statement? 6. What evidence do you find in this chapter for Mr Saidi's description in his book, Old Bricks Lives as a, 'bottomless black hole... where the earth lies down to die...? Chapter 3: What did town look like? 1. Do the photographs on pages 44 and 45 support the comments of Mr Ngarande and Mai Bakasa? 2. What were two methods mentioned that were used to keep blacks separate from whites in town? 3. Does this kind of segregation still exist in our towns? Why? 4. From your reading of the last two chapters, describe what you think were the most important features of urban life for African residents in the 1930s and 1940s. Chapter 4: Life in other parts of town 1. List these townships in the order in which they were built: Mabvuku, Mbare, Mufakose, Highfield. 2. How was life different for those people who lived outside the main town in settlements like 'Taylor's farm' compared to life in Mbare? 3. In Harare today there is a crisis of accommodation: more people than there are houses. What evidence do you see in this chapter that this is a problem which has existed for many years? Chapter 5: Girls and Education 1. What reasons are given for keeping girls uneducated? Do you think such reasons are fair? 223

2. How might a woman in 1946 have answered the question in the article on pages 64 and 65 'Why can't you women learn to be teachers?' 3. Do you think the article was written by a woman or a man? Explain your answer with reference to the text. 4. Do you think girls and boys should be educated to the same level? 5. Do you think that 'traditional' ideas about educating girls have changed? Chapter 6: Marriage 1. Do you agree with the idea that a young girl's 'human rights' are violated when her family agrees to marry her to an older man? On what occasions does this still happen? 2. What are the advantages and the disadvantages of monogamy and polygamy? 3. Based on the photographs and statements in this chapter, could we say the practice of 'white weddings' is 'traditional'? 4. Is a wife the property of her husband? If not, why not? 5. What are the main differences between a traditional marriage and a Christian marriage? Are there any important similarities? 6. What were some of the difficulties faced by wives who stayed in the rural areas while their husbands went to work in town? 7. Which speakers disagree with the ideas in Mr Ndhlovu's letter about divorce? 8. Would you say that attitudes have changed about whether it is proper for wives to work, and/ or sell their handiwork? Chapter 7: Hard at Work 1. According to most of the comments, what were the first jobs done by paid women workers in the country? 224

2. Does the writer of the letter of page 82 agree with the African Weekly article on pages 84 and 85 about whether women should work or not? Do they have the same view? 3. Today in Zimbabwe there are many women who work as, office workers, drivers, nurses, doctors, etc. Women now work throughout government and the private sector. Do you think this has helped to end poverty, illiteracy, superstition and ignorance as the African Weekly article predicted? 4. 'Men and women should be paid the same wages for doing the same job.' Discuss, using ideas from this chapter. 5. Do you think it is fair for a domestic worker to leave her job if she finds another job with a higher wage somewhere else? Chapter 8: Earning money in other ways 1. Compare Miss Gasa's comments on page 96 to the following list of early location superintendents in Mbare, taken from the records of the city council. 1911-13 H.S. Winter 1914-18 G.B. Reilly 1919-23 R. Mason 1914-27 D. McDougall How do these two sources contradict each other? Can you explain this difference? Which source do you think is the more reliable one? 2. Give two reasons why most beer-brewers in town were women. 3. 'Poor people should be allowed to drink things like skokiaan and kachasu in order to help them forget their problems'. Discuss. 4. Women have been arrested for selling their crochet work in town. What reasons might the police give for arresting them? What reasons would the women give to defend their selling their wares? Who do you agree with, the police or the sellers? 225

5. As the city grew larger and larger, people started to live on land where people had been growing vegetables and other crops. What did the vegetable sellers do then? Chapter 9: Living in Epworth 1. What main advantage did vendors from Epworth have over people from other areas? 2. Give two reasons mentioned why women in Epworth decided to grow vegetables and sell them in town. 3. What are two important differences between the way vegetables are sold today and the way they were sold in the past? Chapter 10: Prostitution 1. From what people remember, would you say that women became prostitutes because they needed the money, or because they liked the life of prostitution? Justify your answer with excerpts from the text. 2. Give two ways, mentioned in the text, in which the colonial system encouraged prostitution. Can you think of any other ways in which it was encouraged? 3. Was there less prostitution when more men could live with their wives in town instead of leaving them in the rural areas? 4. What sort of activities were enough to have a woman called a prostitute in the past? Has this changed? 5. 'Prostitution would nothave survived unless men supported it.' Discuss, using ideas from this chapter. Chapter 11: Tinobika mapoto 1. What were the main differences between mapoto and prostitution? 2. When did mapoto become a widespread choice of urban women? Why? 226

3. Did a mapoto wife have more freedom than a married woman? 4. What were the main advantages for a man to have a mapoto wife? What were the main disadvantages? 5. What were the main advantages for a woman who was involved in a mapoto relationship? What were the main disadvantages? 6. 'Male workers could not have survived in town without women to help them.' Discuss, using ideas from this chapter. 7. If you had been in authority what laws would you have made, or changed, if you had wanted to put a stop to mapoto relationships? Discuss your ideas with the rest of your class. Chapter 12: Laws and passes 1. Why was the location superintendent called katsekera? 2. Do you agree with the idea that one can tell a 'good' woman from a 'bad' woman just by looking? 3. Why did the authorities do 'inspections' of the locations? 4. How did the colonial authorities use marriage certificates to try and control urban women? 5. What were the differences between the 'marriage certificate system' for women and the chitupa system for men? 6. Briefly describe the relationship between the African police and these different groups of people in the location: working men, relatives of the police, working women, educated men and women. 7. Do you think that the African police were correct in trying to enforce colonial laws? 8. If you know a man or a woman who was sent to jail for a short time, compare their experiences with the ones described in this chapter. 227

Chapter 13: Clubs, churches and politics 1. Do you agree with Mr Saidi's opinion page 168 that some things have not changed in this country since Independence? Can you exemplify your answer with illustrations from the text? 2. List three reasons why women joined clubs. 3. 'Women's clubs supported the colonial system because they taught African women how to imitate white women.' Do you agree or disagree with this statement? Why? 4. What was the nickname of the ICU? What do the initials stand for? Does the organization still exist? 5. List the three political organizations mentioned in this chapter. 6. According to some of the speakers, women's church groups such as Ruwadzano changed over the years. Can you explain what these changes were? 7. In what ways did the women's organizations fight against the colonial system 'without using guns'? 8. Would being a memberof a women's organization help a woman to 'live a better life'? How? 9. Do you agree with the idea that women organize themselves better than men do? Chapter 14: Famous ladies 1. Find out the names of each woman described below: (a) the first woman who was a political and cultural leader in the location; (b) a dedicated teacher, (c) a very successful brewer of beer and businesswoman who came to Harare from Bulawayo; (d) the first South African nurse in the location. 2. What benefits did Mai Musodzi's Red Cross movement bring to the location women? 3. According to many of the speakers, why were women like Mai Musodzi and Mai Munjai able to negotiate with the location authorities? 228

4. Write a short essay entitled 'Two important women in the history of Harare.' You will, of course, have to explain why and how they were important. 5. What did Mai Sondayi mean when she said, 'There was nothing you could do to help your children if you were not working.' Is this statement true for women today? Chapter 15: Having fun 1. Why do you think the city authorities supported entertainment like films and boxing for township people? 2. The song, 'Long Ago' page 194 was banned after the colonial authorities realized that it had become very popular. Why do you think this was done? 3. Name one group of location residents who probably did not participate in weekend dances and concerts. Chapter 16: The worst thing about living in town 1. What do most of the speakers feel was the worst thing about living in town? 2. Name three other problems they faced. 3. If a family needed money, do you think it was right for a man to forbid his wife to work? 4. 'Women were oppressed just as much by men as by the colonial system.' Do you agree or disagree? Why? You must give reasons for your answer. 5. 'The actions of urban men protected their wives from exploitation.'Do you agree ordisagree? Why? Chapter 17: The best thing about living in town 1. Do most of the speakers feel that it was easier to live in town than in the rural areas? 2. Do you agree that women could do more to help themselves and their families in town than they could in the rural areas? 229

Chapter 18: Getting old 1. What are some of the problems faced by old people living in the city? What could be done to make their lives easier? 2. Do you know any old people? Ask them about any of the topics raised in this chapter or in the book. 230

TO LIVE A.BTE vetina hitrclrsac , rvd o lif in th to nhp fHrrSic h 190s as re ebee by th wome of Se townhip. The tal s iml yet profoundly abu thi hoe an hadhis thi feas and felig abou thi ne urba exisenc. frsns n fankness.5 The~~~~ bo is arwrigeprec napo ple' ' s hitr whc wil ap ea to general *Sa w~i i ISBN 0-0313ado,