The Sunday News
On the Lighterside Mzana Mthimkhulu
SOMEONE at the Bulawayo City Council is a killjoy. Over the last few months, I acquired myself a rare skill that has earned me the title — Pot Hole Dodger (PHD). Yes, when I drive I never fall into the numerous potholes that infest our roads. Like all things worth having, this achievement did not come about without effort on my part.
I took the trouble to arm myself against the pothole menace. First, I developed my eyes to be sharper than those of an eagle in search of a prey. I then honed my reflexes to be so quick and appropriate that watching me manoeuvre a car would turn a top racing driver green with envy. Finally, I crammed into my head all my clan praise phrases. Today I view potholes as delightful daily challenges waiting to be conquered.
When on the wheel, my eyes can now pick out all major potholes that lie within a hundred metres upfront. Without reducing speed, I skirt round each pothole and drive on with the confidence of a top striker taking a penalty on a keeperless goal. If my tyres could speak, they would be boasting that they never suffer the pain of being rushed in and out of potholes.
To ensure that this skill of mine never falters, I encourage myself at every opportunity. For every dodge I make, I praise myself. If the dodge is just a singular skirt, I settle for a plain ‘‘yimi lowo’’ (That’s me!) and shake my head in self-admiration. Should I perform a double skirt, I celebrate by calling out my surname and a couple of my clan praise phrases.
Following a rapid succession of double skirts, I call out some of my ancestors’ names. “Why did you go early before you saw the miracles your offspring is performing?’’ I joke with them. I imagine the ancestors smile at me and say, ‘‘keep it up son’’.
Whenever I reach my destination after a difficult route, I recite the full range of my clan praises. Without fail, I hear my ancestors respond, ‘‘it is in the blood Mtshengu. We know you can achieve much more than just dodge potholes.’’ I smile, feeling ready to face all the challenges that await me.
As always last Monday morning, I looked forward to the drive to town. My eyes were alert and my reflexes were in top condition. A hundred metres down the road; I blinked, narrowed my eyes and scanned the road again. Behold, my eyes were not deceiving me. The potholes had been filled. The road was now as good as new.
I was furious. Here I was, all geared up to waltz my way past the potholes but some killjoy had decided to fill them up. All that I was now required to do was to drive straight. My pothole dodging skills were no longer needed.
I take my civic duties seriously. Straight away, I drove to my councillor. “Bring back our potholes,’’ I demanded. ‘‘Send out workmen to dig out those ugly patches.’’
‘‘Your complaint is unusual,’’ the councillor said, scratching his head.
‘‘I voted you in to act on my complaints, not comment on them,’’ I reminded him.
‘‘I will see what to do about it,’’ he said without conviction.
As I left his office, I recalled an interview I once watched on television. Richard Baker, a retired news reader admitted that there had been a time during his working days when he struggled to pronounce the name of the then Nigerian Prime Minister Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa. Thanks to his determination and practice, one day Baker found that he could pronounce the name. That day, the Prime Minister died and Baker was not on duty. How he rued the missed opportunity to show off his newly acquired skill to pronounce the long and tongue twisting name.
Thereafter, the late Balewa was no longer in the news. ‘‘What a waste learning to pronounce a name and then not getting a chance to do it!’’ Baker complained.
Have you ever spent time mastering a skill that you could not be put to use?
As a herdboy in Nkayi, my friend Zenzo was the best whistler of his age group. Before his age mates could whistle, Zenzo was performing the vokloklo — that low pitch, rising and falling whistle used to calm down cows and induce them to produce more milk. When his age mates finally could whistle, Zenzo had moved on to the high pitch, stylish whistle loved at exciting events like bullfights and chasing game.
Coming to town, Zenzo was disappointed to realise that his whistling skills were of no use. However, a visit to the Soweto stand at Barbourfields Stadium during a soccer match turned his disappointment to joy. Here, the high-pitch whistle was a much sought-after skill. Fans vied with one another to whistle the loudest and the most stylish. The high pitch was the highest form of urging on the team. Zenzo quickly established himself as one of, if not the best whistler.
Perhaps I need not despair about this irrelevance of my pothole dodging skills. As my people advice, ‘‘the eagle that travels far gets food.’’ I will travel far and look around. Like Zenzo’s whistling skills, my PHD skills will find a new home.
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