Ever felt the frustration of being hooked by a headline only to discover what is contained has little or no resemblance? Well you have to tough it because this one is just one of those. I wanted to catch your attention using what is called a “hook.”

A hook, in our profession is a word or words that will stop you in your tracks. It will then force you to explore further and that’s it, you are gone, line and sinker. Which is why you are still reading this.

The hooks here are “hard times” and “kill”, as if you didn’t notice this already. Hard times are well represented by the January disease that is traumatising the nation. Killing is something we are so fascinated with for some sadistic reason. So here you are, still reading.

Now for the rest of the column. (And I know you are still hooked.)

Do you who know what a “Ndebele” bicycle looks like? Its a work of art, decorated elaborately, with the intention to hook a pretty damsel. Hopefully. The National Gallery in Bulawayo once had an exhibition titled Thatha Bhayisikili celebrating these works of artistic ingenuity.

The contraptions would be endowed with some of the creature comforts found in a car, such as a radio, rear view mirrors and a horn (hooter) and other things that went ting-a-ling!

There was also the mandatory itshoba (made from the tail of some poor creature) added to ward off bad spirits perhaps as well as a plethora of reflective disks and other paraphernalia. Only a photograph would do justice to my attempts at painting a more accurate illustration. (This is a hint to the editor, by the way.)

Mbulawa Siziba from Luveve was owner of such a work of art. Siziba, a worker with a clothing firm in Donnington Industrial Sites, now part of history. Every morning on his way to work, he would jump onto his machine, a 3 speed Humber, and race the ZUPCO buses to work.

It was such a spectacle, with Siziba, a cap firmly perched on his head, riding as if pursued by 10 devils. The cat-whistles of appreciation from passengers and pedestrians alike was all the motivation he needed to step on the pedals so to speak.

Every few months, Siziba would make the Great Trek to Manxeleni, his rural home about 40 kilometres away on, you guessed it, his bike! This mobile art form had to be “blessed” so that he would not be involved in an accident.

The trip was also an opportunity to show off his prized possession. Those were the days when all we could afford in terms of transportation was a bicycle. Each time he undertook this spiritual journey to the sticks, Siziba would come back having added another item of interest.

This one time, after one such memorable journey, a sign attached to Siziba’s rear mud-guard caught our attention. I am not sure whether he understood the meaning of the words emblazoned thereon. It read, you guessed right, “Hard times never kill.”

Hard times seem to haunt our beloved Bulawayo. We have had water challenges for as long as I can remember. In light of the reality of global warming, I’m sad to say, here we go again!

There is no need for us to overemphasise the importance of the precious resource in our lives. We require water for drinking, cooking, doing the laundry and of course, bathing. However, if we do not exercise due diligence, people will find themselves having to forgo one or the other of those crucial functions.

During the worst drought, some of us stopped bathing. Now this suspension of a very hygienic activity presented a lot of problems in terms of socialisation. Let me go back in history to fix our bearings. When we were at boarding school all those years ago when dinosaurs used to roam the earth, bathing was optional especially in winter.

It was the rule rather than the exception that most of us would be pursued by an incredible pong. A volatile mix of sweaty armpits, smelly socks and other undignified parts of the human anatomy.

We used to wear the smell like a red flag. Classrooms were a cacophony of all the tropical odours you can imagine. And for some reason we always forgot to open the windows! I salute our teachers for their bravery. I would have worn a gas mask if I was in their shoes.

Admittedly, some of my colleagues would reek more than a skunk on heat. The stench would assault the nasal orifice with wave upon wave of smells, particularly from the socks. One was convinced their feet were actually breathing!

Fittingly, we labelled such smells umsindo meaning noise. The socks would eventually harden like concrete to the extent that if one took them off and place them on the floor, they would stand on their own.

Fast-forward a couple of a hundred years and we will surely be a waterless Bulawayo, faced with a potentially devastating noxious pollution of Bhopalic proportions (after the Bhopal Disaster in India). It’s an environmental disaster in the making so critical that it should be added to the Tokyo Protocol on toxic emissions that would sure threaten the ozone layer.

If you think I am crazy, then take a ride in a commuter omnibus. I had such an experience the other day when a smartly dressed gentleman got into the kombi and in no time everyone was gasping for air.

We tried cracking the windows open but all was in vain. The offending party, for lack of a better way to call him, saw nothing wrong with the discomfort for which he was clearly the source.

A lady, summoned all her courage and pointed this fact to the gentleman, who calmly replied: “Madam, when you poofed (broke wind) I did not say a thing, but because I have not had any water supply for five whole days, which in itself is a violation of my human rights, you complain!”

That shut her and the rest of us up for the rest of the tortuous journey. Hard times never kill indeed.

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