Extract - The Zimbabwean

An extract from The Zimbabwean, 8-14 July 2005, letter from a reader.....

About five years ago, I heard a strange sound echoing up the roadwhere I lived, accompanied by the furious barking of bored dogs. I looked out to see an ancient black woman trudging along, balancing a heavy load of grass-and-reed brooms on her head, carrying a basket with shorter ones. Her legs were stick thin, her feet poked out of worn shoes, and the clothes hanging on her frail body were threadbare.

It was October heat, 'suicide month'. I hailed her and bought a broom, and gave her some cold drink and a sandwich. As the weeks passed, whenever I heard her cries, I would buy a broom. In bitter winter, she was grateful for hot tea.

Never did she stop at the gate to get my attention - alerted by her cries, I would have to rush to her. Sometimes she gave me a broom as a gift, and I did not insult her by offering money, but some old clothes were accepted with much African dignity and hand-clapping.

She's black, I'm white. She spoke little English and I didn't knowher language, but that made no difference. We were women. We were friends.

I heard today that she is a grandmother who cares for eight grandchildren - their parents died of Aids.

I heard today that she gets up at three every morning to cook food for them, and then somehow gets into Bulawayo, 40km from where she returns each night, to sell the brooms she has made.

And I heard today that the police just took her brooms in this purge.

I feel like crying.
A MOTHER - Harare

Another fabulous day in Africa. :(