The inconvenient truth about the private school project in Zimbabwe

The private school project (PSP) in Zimbabwe has failed many black children.

Without a doubt, beneficiaries come out of it with fantastic tones that sound ( when you are behind the door) like the Queen speaking and very little else. 

In today's Zim, heads of Ministries/govt, heads of parastatals, captains of industry and commerce and the technocrats in government are people who attended missionary schools. Even in the diaspora, the critical mass of those succeeding to phenomenal heights attended the Tegwani, Gokomere, Kutamas, Waddilove, Monte Casino etc. missionary schools of this world.

You see, the PSP is unconsciously hostile to the black child. It alienates them from self whilst giving them cold comfort that, this is the real deal : the only deal that will deliver sustainable milk and honey in the future. The PSP plants confusion in the hearts and minds of black children, leaves them unsure of their blackness, what it stands for, whether or not it should be embraced and celebrated in addition to failing to prepare them for an "African eventuality" which we have become. 

The African eventuality is where, the "boorangoma" rules! The boorangoma tends to be a rule new rules creator and old rules breaker. They create their own rules that are anti-establishment or anti-all-the-assumptions of life that the black beneficiaries of the PSP hold dear. 

The boorangoma comes in all shapes and sizes. They can wear suits and ties and also t-shirts, tattoos and earrings (by the way, there is nothing wrong with that). The essence is, the boorangoma is foreign to civility and gentleness, is prone to cut corners, defy all rules and does what they can, if allowed to, for the benefit of self. 

They are often uncouth, very unpolished and give you labels when you speak like the Queen. They boo you down and condemn you when you cannot speak vernacular. (But also, why be black and not speak your mother tongue?) 

If you find yourself in that situation, and hopefully you were brought up to be an all rounder, not a coconut only, you need to quickly make a survival assessment and be able to boldly and unashamefly tell them, "pfutseki bhuradhi furu", "ibva apa mhani" so that they know, as the child of the soil, you can operate at any level and you will not be taken advantage of.

Many, who were privileged to attend the PSP shy away from interacting with boorangoma who is now prevalent in the country and across the continent.

What this means is, many beneficiaries of the PSP will either remain unplugged in their country of birth, a country they grew up in and will not be able to carve out viable spaces for themselves to transact. They become completely alienated. The PSP also stunts their ability to be hungry enough. When you are not hungry enough to succeed beyond the level of your privilege, you just do not.

If you have failed to move a notch or more higher than what your parents achieved, you are not a success. In fact, you have taken the family down. This means the next generation will have to work harder to achieve your notch and theirs too. Otherwise, future generations can easily slide backwards to oblivion. The PSP project fails to prepare black children for this urgency.

Unfortunately, both the PSP beneficiary and boorangoma parents, aspire to send their black children to the PSP. We hear of black parents telling black nursery school owners that "we will only support you if you have white teachers." Even those parents, who went to predominantly black missionary schools, who are decision makers in Zim today, queue up to get their children into the PSP. Ideally, they should be mobilising the alumni of the missionary schools that built them up to be who they are today, to go back there and plough resources.

I attended both the missionary and PSP schools. I also queued up to send all my four children to attend the PSP. I once pulled out my son from St John's Prep School to Chishawasha. In just one term, the transformation was phenomenal. But I was overruled at family indabas. He went back to the PSP. 

Let us rethink the models that we follow. All the glitters is not gold.

When the familiar makes you weary

Mother, my head is spinning. I cannot paint today. I tried to do touch ups, by I just can't. Why? I ask. I gave the bus driver who goes to my village money to give my parents and he diverted it for personal use.

I enquire, but there is ecocash. Why did you not send it directly to them via ecocash?

Because, we have always sent groceries and money via this bus driver and he has never cheated. This is the first time.

I answer, but you know we are living in times of hunger, even, people who were trustworthy before are loosing their credibility because when they divert funds meant for others hoping to pay it back, they are failing to pay it back.

He answers, Mother, I need money. Have you got money to give me. Even the kids at home do not have anything to eat.

I reply, sorry I do not have any money today.

Mother, I am going to wait for the driver at the bus station, I have to go. Bye.

As Morgan leaves, I wonder why I continue to transact with him. I get irritated at myself, for always entertaining new and various stories from him every time we make contact. 

It is now official. I am a sucker for pain.

I have known Morgan for the last 13 years when we moved into this area. We commissioned him to paint all the buildings on the property. In later years we found work for him at other sites and family and friends. We parted ways with Morgan some 8 years ago, when he went raving mad after overdosing on marijuana. We had given him accommodation in our compound because there was a lot of work to do and he was coming from very far so it was uneconomic for him to travel to and from his place of residence everyday.

We worked relatively well together until one afternoon, women who were weeding the lawn ran up to the main residence shouting Mother! Mother! Please come and see, come now!  

I was busy in the study and had asked not to be interrupted unless someone was bleeding, broken, burning or beaten by a snake. So, when I heard the pandemonium, I called out to Sisi, the house help to go and check what it was and if it was a snake, ask her husband the gardener to kill and burn it.

Sisi went out to check and came back with a puzzled look shaking her head sideways and blurting, Mother! Mother! just come outside and see for yourself.

There, in broad daylight in the middle of the compound was Morgan, in his nakedness walking in all kinds of directions and speaking in tongues. Yes, it did sounded like those ones you hear in spirit filled churches, the tongues that no one is able to translate or interpret.

Morgan, I enquired, what is going on? Go back inside and cover yourself, I demanded. He started running towards the women, who started running towards me and we all ran away from him towards the main residence. We quickly got inside the garage and closed the doors.

I called Bernard the gardener on his mobile, to round up  two other men on the property to catch him, dress him up and physically detain him until the driver comes.

The long and short of it is he was detained for 5 days at the unit for the mentally challenged people at Parirenyatwa Hospital.

When he came out we paid him and asked him to take leave for sometime at his rural home in Murehwa. We were in contact for the first 6 months and thereafter, never heard from him for a while.

He started calling to give me updates on his health after 2 years. We were all just delighted that he was still alive because he loved weed and when he inhaled it, he went overboard. Over the years he would phone and say, Mother, I am now on medication so I need work. I would brush him off saying, when there is work, I would call him. He remained persistent until last year, he begged and advised that he had married sometime back and needed to work hard and feed his wife and 2 kids and pay rent in Chitungwiza. 

In August 2014, I commissioned him to do some maintenance painting. We agreed the work would take 3 months. In November he had not finished and 5 months later in March 2015, we are still discussing the same thing, the very slow pace and quality of his work.

Morgan is now on permanent medication. Apparently he stopped taking weed. My take is there was something in the weed that made him an exceptional painter because nowadays the love and passion for his work is gone. He was an artist painter. You could see a paint effect in a magazine and Morgan knew how to do it better. These days he gives many excuses and tells wide ranging stories on why things are not getting done. There was creativity and perfection in his madness. His sober demeanor does nothing for his work because we are forever arguing why he has not prepped for example, areas that were damaged by water before he started painting.

He is the sole breadwinner. Most importantly he is honest. Nowadays you cannot leave people painting the indoors without full time security. Morgan is trustworthy in that regard.

I feel I am stuck with him, like we are tied at the hip. He started working for us 13 years ago when he was hardly 18 years old. He had been taught painting by his uncle who later departed for greener pastures in South Africa. Morgan is like my child.

The sensibilities of my subconscious prefers that I rather deal with a problematic child that I have known for years than commission an unknown quantity who study the terrain of our compound and come back later to rip us off blind. 

When you stick with the familiar that makes you weary, you are indeed a sucker for pain.