BY Bill Saidi
AT 21years of age, I was locked up in a police cell for the first time in my life. It all happened in 1958. The cause of my incarceration was journalism – indirectly, I suppose. But the chances are if I had not been a reporter on The African Daily News, riding a company motorcycle, I would never have ended up in the original Harare police station.
That place is now officially called Mbare police station. My journey to the police cell had been long and painful, in the end. But it had begun with the promise of achievement such as young people dream of at 21 years of age. I had been a reporter for a year or so. My major assignment at the time was the coverage of R.S. Garfield-Todd’s election campaign in Salisbury.
I had travelled to most of the venues of his meetings on the motorcycle. I could drive a motorcycle, even without a licence, because I had learnt to do so with my friend, Cecil John Matowe’s Norton Roadholder, a 600 cc monster on which I had also had an accident. So, T`he African Daily News, a 150 cc “baby”, was child’s play by comparison.
The election had ended. Garfield Todd had lost, in spite of The African Daily News’s spirited front page coverage of his speeches. This assignment should have been done by Albert Dumbutshena, the paper’s chief reporter and my mentor. Since he was indisposed, it fell to me to do the job. It was an enormous challenge for a 21-year-old cadet reporter who had only recently graduated to a junior reporter. The senior editors, including Nathan Shamuyarira, had placed so much faith in my ability to carry out this arduous task I felt honoured. I had picked up some gems of advice from the veteran. We all called him “Dumbs” or Sapa, after the South African Press Association. Another senior reporter named Moses Mwale was AP – for Associated Press. Many of the foreign copy we used was from Sapa-AP. Dumbutshena and Mwale were recognised as the “stars” of the newsroom, hence their nicknames.
I probably would have joined this distinguished league if I had not had the accident on the motorcycle. The cause of it was a moment of pure madness on my part. A great friend of mine, Willie Sondayi, ran a barbershop at Matapi hostels in what is now called Mbare, but was then Harare towmship.
We had been to school together, After school, we had formed a singing group, The Stargazers. We never went on stage.. But forming the group and doing rigorous rehearsals was great fun while it lasted. Willie was well-read. Every day, he would buy a copy of The Herald and The Sunday Mail. He knew a lot, as a result of the Suez Canal crisis – much more than I did, although I was the journalist. .her and been firm friends after school. With him at the time was another friend. The proposal was made that we celebrate the end of my assignment with a boozer-up at t a nightclub in the city. In our enthusiasm, we ignored the obvious and essential statistic relating to the motorcycle manufacturer's idea of how people could ride on it at a time.
But as I said, there was madness in the air. We had the accident before we had reached town. The three of us fell in a heap when, I believe, we hit a cyclist. He wasn’t seriously hurt. But when the police got to the scene and discovered how the accident had occurred, there was no escape for me.
Needless to say, by the time the police had succeeded in hauling me to the station, I had sobered up – more or less.
I might have had a nightmare or two while trying to sleep in the unfriendly circumstances of the cell. I don’t remember conversation with any of my fellow occupant s. They seemed as disinterested in me as I was disinterest in them. All I was praying for was for this waking nightmare to end.
It ended the next morning. I was all alone again, the company nowhere to be seen. The magistrate – a stern-faced white person – was unsparing. He fairly laid it on the line for me: here I was, supposedly a responsible citizen setting an example for probity and uprightness. But the truth? I was a drunk and drunken driver, to boot. I deserved the maximum, he said: Thirty Pounds fine.
The company paid the fine. I was lectured, but not fired – for which I was eternally grateful. Since then, over the years, I have pondered over the company’s code of…something. They knew I had no licence. They knew this was illegal. Had I been thrown to the wolves? Moreover, to cap it all, they demanded their money back. I chafed at the unfairness of it all. Bit Providence was on my side. They threw other challenges at me. What was clear top me was this: someone UP THERE (among the senior editor or in the back of the Beyond) had absolute faith in my capacity to endure all vicissitudes and still emerge unscathed.
I was appointed, during my four years at African Newspapers, assistant sports editor, during which I wrote a column, Generally Speaking. I covered soccer at the Number One Ground (before they turned it into Rufaro Stadium). My great lesson was to research everything, to sharpen my understanding of the English idiom, to read and read as much as I could – magazines, novels, classics and thrillers.
So, I had a great time as acting editor of The Bwalo la Nyasaland, The African Parade – during which I received an unexpected raise from the managing director himself.
|At some point, I wrote a short story for OUR AFRICA, a Catholic magazine published in South Africa Other short stories were published in our magazine, Parade. For one such short story, I received the invaluable expert advice of the late Angeline Mhlanga (nee Makwavarara). We worked on the magazine together, under the editorship of Kingsley Dinga Dube... .
There were a few challenges, but none insurmountable..It's exhilarating to discover you are in your element: I loved to be on the magazine. This love affair did not go unnoticed. It taught me a salutary lessons: once you invest love and dedication into your work, people are bound to notice it. It will be some time before I forget meeting the managing director, Mr Cedric Paver, on the stairs leading to the newsroom upstairs. He mentioned a piece I had done for the magazine. It had impressed him, he said. As if in an afterthought, he asked how much I was getting. I disclosed, almost in a whisper, the paltry rewards of my precious labour. He wasn't visibly aghast at the disclosure, but his reply spoke volumes “You'll go up to thirty pounds immediately,” he announced, with something like triumph in his voice. This amounted to a wage boost of seven pounds and ten shillings. I didn't exactly do a wild dance of joy. But Paver could see how excited and grateful I was.
At that time, during federation and its fake policy of “partnership” between black and white, it was tempting to see black people downgrading each other. For me, praise from a white chief executive was rare. But praise from a black editor, except Kelvin Mlenga, was even rarer.at African Newspapers. I enjoyed my time as acting editor of Parade, until I assigned myself to investigate the running of SA “house of ill repute” in home turn of Highfield.
The story had been broken by - who else? – Moses Mwale, the “UP” in the African The Daily News newsroom. My intention was daring:- to actually prove beyond any reasonable doubt that there was a former Johannesburg beauty queen offering her services to all who could afford them.
To this day, I have no idea how I intended to play the game – go for broke, as they say, or chicken out with apologies at the last moment. I had made sure I was well-prepared, sartorially, for the great occasion. I had passed through the famous Highfield Cocktail Bar at Machipisa.shopping centre. I had taken one or two to help build my self-confidence.
In the lounge, with its soft lights and lazy music, I sat down alone – until she came in: She was tall ands slim, dressed in an off-the-shoulder dress allowing me to study and admire her shoulders and deep cavity between her breasts. She sat down and lay back in my easy-chair, ready to engage her in conversations old as the hills.
I have always suspected The Madame was startled by the sound of my voice – whichever part of the house she was listening from. Our conversation had not developed into the languid, lazy but dreamy routine which always precedes the initiation of…something in these scenarios. She was screaming, obviously upon recognising me, and appreciating that I had recognised her – she worked in our canteen at African Newspapers.
I made a dash for the door. She made her own dash – for some place where her bodyguard or bouncer was to be located for emergencies. He emerged. I had only a flitting glance of him, a short,muscular man with determination writ large on his face..I was young, relatively strong, even with a few beers under my belly. I ran and he pursued me. His marksmanship as almost uncanny. He thew a rock at me and hit me smack on the back of the head. I went down, but got up immediately. He gave up the chase, convinced I had been neutralised..... . ..
No comments:
Post a Comment