Murambatsvina cost MaSibanda her mind

As the grey light slips through the cracks she forces her aching body
off the bed, breathing shallowly to minimise the constant pain she
feels under her breast. She does not know why it hurts and does not
expect it to get better. Padding barefoot on the cold earth floor she
slips into the adjoining kitchen. Careful not to step on the two
youngest children she starts a small fire to warm water so they can
wash for school and eat some carefully rationed porridge. She is
grateful for the twenty kilograms of maize meal she gets from the
church for the six of them each month. What would she do without it?
Walking ten kilometres to town each day to try and find some would be
unbearable, even if she had the money to buy it. She dreams of a
breakfast of bread and sweet tea.

As she stirs the porridge she thinks back to when she lived here
before, when she had a brick house with a tin roof and flowers all
around instead of a miserable shack of tin and plastic: boiling by day,
freezing at night and awash in the rain. Before, she sold fruit and
vegetables to feed and clothe her children, sending them to school on
the money she had earned. That was until Murambatsvina when the
government decided that she was trash and smashed her house, and her
life. Everything was destroyed: her house, her bed, her chickens and
guinea pigs, the children's shoes, her table shattered to pieces of
firewood.

A hacking cough brings her back to the present. The children have woken
and quietly dressed and are holding a plate for their breakfast. Last
week they both had dysentery. If only she could give them an egg, like
she used to, to put some weight on their skinny ribs. When they were
evacuated she managed to take a couple of chickens to the church that
put them up, but they were soon killed by dogs. Even so, she was glad
of that time in the churches before the next ordeal. Some, like
MaSibanda, ended up in tents. They were treated badly. MaSibanda lost
her mind.

MaMoyo's stay at the church ended when the police took her, and the
others, to a holding camp. After that she, and her family, was dumped
with an aunt who lived out of town. At first they were welcomed for the
food that followed them but when it ran out she found herself living in
a tiny room with four others, selling her clothes for food. Not knowing
what else to do she returned to where she came from, knowing that at
anytime the police could evict her again. At least here there is space
and better access to food.

MaMoyo finds herself alone. Her daughter and the two older
grandchildren have walked to town in the hope of finding something,
anything. The younger ones have slipped away to school. Again the
church has paid the fees. It seems that she can do nothing for herself
anymore. Some women are being trained to make soap she hears. She hopes
that she will be given a chance. If only she could feel useful again
instead of sitting here like a pumpkin. She sweeps her dwelling and
spreads the blankets on a thorn bush to air but again time is on her
hands. Other women who also drifted back here gather to chat.

They hear that some were chased away from an NGO distributing food. The
government- infiltrated NGO does not like them now, but just before
elections they will be back to woo them, one of the women jokes.
Another asks if mad MaSibanda is back. She went town with her sick
child the day before but has not returned. The older boy Timothy is
here. They agree that a home should be found for MaSibanda's boys. How
can she look after them when she is mad? On the days when she gets
maize meal she cooks some only to cook another pot straight after that
and another till all the meal is used up. They have to give her a
little at a time to make sure this does not happen. MaMoyo looks at
Timothy in dirty torn clothes shivering unhappily in a snotty silence.
Another woman remembers how thieves living nearby called MaSibanda over
to talk, pretending to be friendly, while others stole her clothes and
bedding. Something should be done but no one wants another child to
feed and clothe.

Why your grandchildren are back, someone says to MaMoyo. It is not
lunchtime. The teacher told them, You are dirty, go home. MaMoyo feels
deep shame and quickly hurries the children to the house and shuts the
door. This is so painful, she thinks. What can I do? There is nowhere I
can get soap from. The last time I had soap was a month ago and now
there is not even any in the shops. Shall I kill myself? People will
blame me and say I have a house of dirt. MaMoyo feels like a dirty
person and wants to hide in the house until she can wash again. The
children look sad and dejected. How she wishes things were different.
At lunchtime she cooks porridge for them but she will go without, to
make the maize meal last. For supper tonight it will be water and bed
for all of them.

As the afternoon wears on the children slip out of the room while
MaMoyo sits quite still, her eyes closed to combat a pounding headache.
Although she wants to hide she knows she has to fetch water for the
evening and the next day. She walks, looking only at her bony feet, to
the mine shaft. Lowering her bucket to draw the dirty water from deep
down she remembers her dream and wonders what would happen if she did
fall in. But that is not her way. Her simple but profound faith will
carry her through whatever lies ahead.