Being a White Zimbabwean 2

As the last story told, Lois and I had the privilege of becoming part of a Zimbabwean family living here in Manitoba, helping with the process of bringing together the Moyo and Penner families (names changed). More recently I became part of another Zimbabwean family.

It was Saturday morning when the call came: friends of ours, a Zimbabwean couple named John and Mary (again, no real names used). John asked me for a favour. Their daughter, living in another province wanted to bring her boyfriend (also a Zimbabwean) home. But there was a complication—under the circumstances he should not just arrive at the house and ask to marry her. That might work for Canada, but not for Zimbabwe. The favour then was this: Would I go to the airport with his daughter (we’ll use the name Noma again—it’s a good Zimbabwean name) to pick up the boyfriend (we’ll call him Musa, another good Zimbabwean name) and bring him to meet Noma’s parents. John told me, “Noma will explain to you what you need to do.” I agreed, and entered on a valuable experience.

On the way in we engaged in small talk. Then we picked up Musa and started driving back. At first we talked generally, getting to know each other, but soon we got down to business. I was to act as Musa’s friend who would open the way for the young man to meet his girlfriend’s parents. Noma herself would disappear as soon as we arrived at the house (and disappear she did!). We would go in and greet those assembled, and then sit down on the floor. I would make a payment to open the conversation, and then a statement saying why we were there, and then a further payment for bringing the daughter home in such a way. (Musa brought the money that we used. The amount he brought is irrelevant and not mentioned here.)

That is more or less what happened. We knocked at the door and were admitted. John was sitting in the living room with some neighbour friends he had asked to come and serve as witnesses. Mary was working in the kitchen preparing supper. We greeted all the people assembled, then Musa and I sat on the floor in front of John.

I handed John the first payment to open the conversation, and he called Mary from the kitchen to stop her work and join us in the living room. Everyone gathered (except Noma, who had disappeared into her room), and I proceeded. I said something like this, based on our conversation in the car, “I am bringing you this young man. His name is Musa from [name of town]. He is coming to acknowledge his responsibility for your daughter and to apologize for bringing her to you in this way. You do not need to go looking for her, because he has brought her here.” Then I placed a further payment in a bowl that John had set on the table.

John is a friendly person who is normally a delight to be with, but that evening he was the father whose daughter had been brought home expecting a child. His face was stern—I think. My eyes were downcast as I did my best to ignore my mother’s voice in my head saying, “Look at me when you talk to me!” He counted the money slowly and carefully, an amount that had been worked out between the parties before the actual event. Then he handed it to his wife and asked a further question.

“Does he have anything else to say?” I remember my lines: “He says they would like to return in two a half months to talk more with you.” John made sure of the date, since, as he explained, they had to gather the family together for that meeting. Musa confirmed to me that the date was firm, and I repeated that to John.

Another question remained. “What is his clan?” Fortunately I had asked that question on the way from the airport. “Ncube”, I said. John looked grave. “We are also Ncube.” Is he Ncube from Murewa or from Kameni or from somewhere else?” (I may not have the clan names right, but that is what I remember.) I decided I thought he was from Murewa. John was pleased, “We are from Kameni, so that is all right.”

Then he was his cheerful self again. The young people were sent to the basement to enjoy each other’s company, and the neighbours joined us in another wonderful meal. I can tell you that Zimbabwean cooking is excellent!

So now I have been the friend who goes between to begin a relationship leading to marriage. A privilege beyond asking. As we were getting ready to leave, Musa came over and thanked me and then asked if I would be one of his party for the next round of negotiations referred to above (he would like me to come back in two and half months). Those of his family in Canada will come, but the extended family is in Zimbabwe. So I may learn something more about setting the dowry.

You can read about many things in books, but you learn more when people are gracious and include you in their lives. So thanks to our Zimbabwean friends who have included us in their lives. Lois and I say (in Shona and Ndebele), “Tinotenda. Siyabonga kakhulu.”

Being a White Zimbabwean 1

Over the past couple of years Lois and I have experienced the joy of our connections to Zimbabwe in ways that we never experienced. Here are two stories, with names changed since they are other people’s stories too. The first story is in this blog, and the second follows.

A couple of years ago we were approached by a friend (let’s call her Nomathemba), the daughter of a Zimbabwean couple (we’ll call them Simba and Dorcas—not their real names) who live here in Manitoba. She wanted to get engaged to her Mennonite boyfriend (think the usual names here, like Penner, Plett, Giesbrecht, and so on, and you’ll have the idea). They wanted to honour her culture as a Zimbabwean in the process, so they came over for supper and we had a talk about what to do.

Noma’s extended family is back in Zimbabwe, so they asked Lois if she would be Simba’s sister, and if Lois and I would approach her parents to introduce her boyfriend and ask if they may become engaged. We agreed, and then we found that means we had to bless their desire to marry first, so plied friend Penner (not his real name either) with questions about his background and their relationship. We were happy to give them our blessing.

So we called Simba and asked if we could come over for supper and bring the young couple with us. (I’m not used to inviting myself for a meal, but it worked well.) A few nights later we sat in Simba and Dorcas’ living room, talking with them and the young couple, who had shown up earlier than they were supposed to. Penner just wasn’t used to waiting until told he could come in now! A delightful meal followed. (I should invite myself over more often!)

Then the moment came. Penner and Noma asked us if we could ask their parents if they could get married. Everyone in the room could hear the question. So we called Noma’s young brother, Simbarashe over, and asked him to ask his parents if his sister and Penner could get married. He crossed the two yards between us and them and asked them the question they had now heard twice already. Simba and Dorcas huddled together speaking in Shona, then told young Simbarashe the answer, which the couple could hear plainly. He stepped back to us and gave us the answer, which all again could hear. Finally we turned to Penner and Noma and gave them the good news that her parents had agreed.

After the drama was over, and we had all played our parts, Simba and Dorcas started reminiscing about the process when they had first gone to her family. We found out how much dowry (1) he had paid for her, and ways in which they had negotiated behind the scenes before anything was done in public. We learned also that usually there would have been all the members of the family present, and the question would have gone from youngest to oldest through a chain of all the father’s brothers. Then Simba added, “All of these people are witnesses of the commitment the couple has made. If they have trouble later, these are the people they turn to for help.” I was impressed with the sense that marriage is a real exercise in community.

Simba also told us that the first thing he did when he learned of their interest was check ancestry.com to make sure that the Penners and the Moyos are not related. We laughed—Russian Mennonites and the Shona people of Zimbabwe come from two different worlds, but behind the laughter lies the awareness that the totem, the clan is important. If one marries inside the clan, there are further steps one must take to make everything right.

So we are White Americans, who have become White Canadians, and now thanks to our Zimbabwean friends we are also White Zimbabweans. Tatenda, Shamwari Simba.

(1) Dowry or Lobola (Ndebele) or Roora (Shona). Not a part of our Canadian customs, but very much part of Zimbabwe.