Two days ahead of the Morgan shindig, word was already out within certain circles of the diaspora community that next to the official programmme for the visit of the prime minister of Zimbabwe to our shores, an offline session would take place.
On the eve, I received a text message inviting all Zimbos and friends of Zimbabwe to a public meeting scheduled for 18:00hrs at Boipuso Hall the next day. As compassionate individual who employs three Zimbos, it was obligatory that I go hear what this man they simply call Morgan had to say.
Nowadays Morgan is not that fugitive, holed up at government guest house in my neighbourhood every time things went pear shaped back home. In 2008, following the disputed election, he was our neighbour for some weeks. We were happy because the heavy security in the area ensured we slept undisturbed with nary a worry about nocturnal crime. Even after the political settlement, which ensconced him as prime minister, Morgan has been a regular visitor to this country owing to what is evidently a cosy relationship between the government here and his part of the government back home.
Back in the lonely days of isolation, when the power matrix in this part of the world was in disfavor of the MDC, the new president of Botswana waged his bet on the Morgan. Going against the grain, when conventional political ideology was that the MDC should be treated as a pariah, Ian Khama opted for Tsvangirai. Since then, the MDC, which is no longer an opposition party, but a rather much abused partner in a tenuous government of national unity, enjoys the backing of Botswana to a degree unequalled by any other country. The text invite urged us to forward it to other friends of Zimbabwe.
There was something furtive about its tone. Nonetheless on the day, I, as a friend of Zimbabwe, arrived at Boipuso Hall to hear Morgan Tsvangirai.
I have been a friend of Zimbabwe since the days of Gramma Records and Shed Studios. I recall the 45rpm vinyl records which listed Bothwell Nyamhondera as the producer who churned out hit after hit of happy music in the immediate afterglow of liberation. Locally, the wildly popular genre, at least for those commoners who danced to it, was known as ‘mezambique’. I have been loyal to the sounds of Jonah Moyo and Devera Ngwenya Jazz Band for many moons, so much so that my then flame at varsity would be embarrassed when on a night of revelry, my music system would blast out strange guitar driven sounds to bemused colleagues who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to this backward music. To them varsity meant sounds from America to affirm they had indeed arrived in the city. I didn’t give a damn; Shed Studios and Gramma Records were perfectly fine. As we all know in this country, as festive season approaches, RB 1 will once again be bombarding us with golden oldies from Zimboland, and Paul Matavire will be celebrating krisimas with both commoners and villagers glued to the station at the heart of the nation.
In fact playing in my car, on heavy rotation on my way to the meeting are the Green Arrows playing hits from way back in the 70’s. And so I arrive to a long queue of Zimbos going through the most rigorous security check since the cowboy from Texas, George Bush, rode into our little town back in ‘03 . There is an airport type x-ray scanner and every person going into the hall hands over their personal possessions to the hawk eyed operatives at the entrance. It is apparent the local security establishment is on full alert, frisking everyone, and in the hall they are positioned at strategic corners. I muse to myself, if there are any Zimbo criminals on the run from the law, now would be the time for the police to make one fell swoop.
I opt to sit in the middle row.
There is nervous anticipation and people glance at those next to them and scrutinize those moving between the rows looking for free chairs. The Zimbos are excited but tense. It’s somewhat eerie and quite a few look unsettled. Thirty minutes after schedule, Morgan is nowhere in the hall. But his black state vehicles have been parked outside, and it is whispered he is in a holding room within the complex meeting important diasporans. Zimbos being Africans, they are coming late, in dribs and drabs. The organizers are waiting for the hall to fill up.
Then without announcement or fanfare, he strolls in, accompanied by some bustling men who are trying their best to look important. For every African big man, there are aides, retainers and hangers-on. Here they are. I thought the Zimbos would rise in respect and ovation, but they remain rooted to their seats as if unsure what to do. Here they could have done with a cheerleader to whip them into some frenzy. They are cowed, and seem not to know how to react to the appearance of the man.
The hall is dimly lit, and when he strides to his chair, a security aide with the kind of ear-piece we see on television respectfully places him. The director of ceremonies does not introduce himself. But he informs us that cabinet minister James Timba will be speaking next. In a bout of jest, he says Timba must not be mistaken for President Goodluck Jonathan, in reference to the bowler hat nicely perched on the minister’s cranium.
The audience giggles; with the ice broken, they get more relaxed. Minister Timba in his bowler hat greets us and thanks the government of Botswana for hosting them. Then he presents Morgan to the audience. Upon taking his seat, he had taken off the grey jacket, and ambling up to the podium he is in a white shirt with black trim.
For a 60-year-old, he looks fairly fit, and well, well fed. For close to forty minutes, with barely any reference to notes, Morgan is on top of his game. He explains the unity government and how in his opinion it was working and had stabilized the country. From an inflation rate of a zillion percent, his party as a component of the government, had brought inflation down to single digits. Social and public services, such as hospitals, schools and others started functioning after the coalition government came into office and, therefore, on a balance of scale, notwithstanding the bedroom problems liable to arise in a difficult marriage, Zimbabwe was much better off. To this, the blue collars, missing home, reasonably educated, but here treated like illiterates consigned to menial jobs, roar in appreciation. They start imagining their return home. It must be said that the majority of those who have come to listen to Morgan are the wretched of the earth. Tired, homesick, hungry and only looking decent because of the Chinese clothing which has restored dignity to many a poor African they lap up every word. With each sentence delivered and gesture made, the blue collars are more animated and enjoying the show. If you weren’t aware of the class divide in the diaspora community, it was evident at Boipuso Hall. There are political refugees comprising youthful militants who speak about how they fled the 2008 violence and wanted the party to help them because they are hungry in Botswana. You also had the professional expatriates, urbane and well fed, asking questions about the economy and civil rights such as how women will be treated in the new dispensation.
Most conspicuous are the really big hitters, the bankers, property developers and others who are really minting it here. In the meeting room are multiple versions of Zimbabwe. We have the starving and the eaters. They are all exiles in a foreign country on account of poor governance and the entitlement impulse of Africans who fought for liberation not to relinquish power even when the time is up.
After Morgan’s presentation comes question and commentary time. Hesitantly the first hands go up. Some are just excited to be here and want to parade themselves before the man.
The entrepreneurial minded enquire about the financial lifeline Botswana has extended to Zim, to which Morgan is hazy and says the details are being worked out but everyone will eat when things are in order. Then we get more run of the mill of questions, as the audience gets more confident, wanting Morgan to see them. Some seek clarity about the upcoming elections to which Morgan tells them no date is set as only him and President Mugabe will jointly agree on the date. It will not be Mugabe’s decision. Cue more applause.
Things are moving along nicely. Then one of the speakers in a slip of the tongue refers to the MDC as an opposition party, to which Morgan reels off figures showing that, in actual fact, he won the first round of the presidential election and his party won the majority of seats in 2008.
Throughout, the theme of his message is hope and transformation. To much laughter, the man tells them they must reclaim their dignity instead of being so ashamed of their country they pass themselves off as Zambians. Morgan is here to rally the diaspora to accept the unity government, without which the country would be finished by now. He is also on the campaign trail. Though billed as an address by the prime minister, it becomes clear during the course of proceedings that, at least to the majority in the audience, especially the blue collars, this is an MDC affair.
Then comes the moment of the evening. A chap wearing a Zimbabwe track top takes the microphone and informs all and sundry that he is non partisan and doesn’t support any party. However, he is concerned by the behavior of the prime minister who has been reported in the press as having negotiated an out of court settlement with a certain woman to the tune of astronomical amounts. His beef is that Morgan paid half a million dollars to the woman in question. Given the prime minister’s behaviour, would the MDC government be any different from the lot they want to oust? The man’s query ignites the militants. Simbarashe, wearing a wide grin since taking up duties as roving microphone attendant, is not amused and his body language says it loudly. How dare this man confront dear leader about his sex-capades?
The blue collars howl for the microphone to be taken away. The middle classes remain quiet, embarrassed at the behavior of those who weed our gardens and take care of our children. The man holding the floor remains calm, seeking protection. Rising to his role as a leader, Morgan asks for the mike and lectures the howlers on the imperative of tolerance and how everyone must be allowed to have their say. He reminds them that they have been accusing ZANU PF of intolerance, and here they are exhibiting similar tendencies. Chastised, the howlers behave.
Responding to the issue, Morgan declares that he has no intention of settling out of court, because, according to my interpreter, he did not rape the woman; they were adults involved in a consensual relationship. The howlers are happy their man has fobbed off the question and for this they give him another round of applause.
The meeting is carried out in a mixture of Shona and English. After some more mundane questions, the road show is over.
James Timba thanks the audience and exhorts them to return home for the elections because there will be no external balloting. Enveloped in a bubble of security, minders and hangers-on, Morgan strolls out of the hall. He doesn’t blow kisses, press flesh, do hugs or kiss any babies. I surmise he has been through so many such meetings in the diaspora, and today’s is not much different, except perhaps for the guy who had the guts to ask about the money paid to the woman.
