Merit Rumema’s blog on the definition of fatherhood reminded me of a recent conversation with a friend.

She and her two teenaged children are South Africa citizens. They live in Zimbabwe with her husband, their father, who is not a South African citizen. She needs to get passports for her children, and for various reasons the embassy here will not process them. Instead, she’s been told to go to Pretoria to have them processed – and she’s been informed that the children’s father must be present. It is not enough even for him to write a letter, or to give her his ID to take with her – he must physically be present when they go to apply for their passports. She explains is as if they fear she might abscond with the children without the father’s permission. This is South Africa – with allegedly the most progressive Constitution in Africa (if not the world) and with a supposed respect for human rights and basic issues like gender equality. Why then is the mother’s presence sufficient “adult authority” to process these children’s passports? Why does the father (who isn’t even South African) count for more than the mother in this instance?

Merit Rumema ponders what really makes a father in this moving piece:

I had a wonderful father when growing up, in fact, he was the first man I fell in love with and I realize I have been looking for a part of him in every man who shows an interest in me, and sadly I cannot find another Onesimo Luckson Rumema. He was indeed one of a kind.

Over the years I have seen father who dote on their little girls and have appreciated the term, “Daddies little girl” but the older I grow, the more I see and hear, the more I have questioned the meaning of the word father. As an Information Officer for Zimbabwe Women Lawyers Association (ZWLA), I have seen countless women walk through our doors, seeking help so that an errant father can pay maintenance for his children’s upkeep. I have heard of fathers denying paternity, and other pretending they earn very little so as to avoid the responsibility of taking care of their children.

What has driven me to write this article and question what it is really that makes one a father is the case that is now in the supreme Court, of a 22 year old female student at the National University of Science and Technology (NUST), whose father is refusing to pay fees, arguing that she is no longer a minor and therefore not his responsibility. He further states that when he divorced the mother, he only agreed to maintain one child who is still a minor. What then really boggles my mind is the fact that he can afford to take the case back and forth in court and pay lawyers in private practice. I do not know this man’s income, but to me, if he can afford lawyers, he can afford to pay school fees.

Out of curiosity, I posed a question on the ZWLA website and on the organisation´s Face book page, just to find out from people what they thought about this particular case and got really interesting responses. All of the participants in the poll agreed that a parent should pay school fees regardless of the child’s age as long as it is a first degree, as this has become a necessity and no longer a luxury. A young man shared how he went through a similar situation with his father who had sour grapes with his mother and to fix the mother, refused to pay fees.

Still, my question was not answered. Who or what really is a father. Is it someone who merely through an act of nature makes a woman pregnant and shares some DNA with the child, or is that man who is there for the child, looks after them, teaches them to ride a bike, helps with the homework and plays peek-a-boo? I then thought of my own little girl, who has never seen her biological father but still loves him, who has never had the pleasure of pulling his beard. It got me thinking, when she gets married in 20 years time, who will claim lobola and for what reasons? I know in my culture, when the groom pays lobola, there is something called matekenya ndebvu (beard tickling) and I have seen little girls do that in fascination to their father. But my angel never did that, well at least not to her “father”. Will he have the right to claim the lobola, or should the stepfather claim it? After all, he was there more than her “father” was, and is helping shape and mould her into a woman of integrity.

Back to the case that prompted me to write this article, seeking learned opinions, does the problem lie within the legal framework or the cultural ideologies? Currently, the law defines a minor as anyone below the age of 18, and I remember at 18 I was in Lower Six and still in boarding school. Was my father supposed to stop paying school fees for me then because I was a major? I am not a lawyer but surely there is a serious error under the sun? So all those “fathers” who have been compelled by the law to be responsible towards their children will stop when the children turn 18, regardless of whether they are still in school or not, self sufficient or not? Is that when one stops being a father? I am almost 30 years old now, but everyday, I miss my late father and am confident if he were alive today I would still be his little girl. He may not have been able to solve every problem but he would have stood by me.

So please tell me, what defines a father, is it a blood issue, a responsibility issue or a relationship issue?

On Thursday 26 May 2011 I was really shocked to read an article in the Daily News entitled  “Anti-piracy board resigns“.

I really want to commend the Anti-Piracy Organisation of Zimbabwe (APOZ) board for taking such a brave move to show their discontent over the letter, which was written by the board director Innocent Matsengarwodzi to the police commissioner-general pleading to allow the sale of pirate movies. Such kind of action deserves to be applauded and it shows that the board was made up of professional people.

In trying to justify his actions APOZ director said,  “There are no original works of such films in our country and that 100% films can be downloaded from the internet showing that the creators of such films have already benefited from the sales and also prohibitive costs to acquire the exclusive rights by local companies to reproduce the works from the right holders who are mostly Western countries who gave us illegal sanctions,”

I believe when the Anti-Piracy Organisation of Zimbabwe was formed it had the mandate to protect artists from piracy regardless of origin of the artist or his/her work. It’s very unfortunate that we still have people who want to watch western films for free and promote piracy in the name of sanctions. Imagine how it feels if Macheso walks in the streets of London and sees some guy selling pirated copies of his latest album. Lets learn to respect other people’s work and give back what’s due to them.

Fungai Tichawangana is widely admired and respected in Zimbabwe. At Kubatana we’ve been a fan of his for a long time. Why? He’s creative, energetic, community spirited and a real contributor to Zimbabwe’s cultural and artistic life.

Earlier this year, his equally talented, and lovely wife, Shingie was killed in a car accident in Harare. I hesitate in using the word accident. Fungai’s wife was killed by a drunk driver. A man who was fined US$400 and had his license suspended for 6 months. Fungai pointed out to us that people who steal a cow go to jail. But not this drunk driver.

The driving on our roads is generally criminal. Of course our country’s failing infrastructure doesn’t help matters. Nor does the selective policing of our roads help. Take the semi-permanent “roadblock” outside Borrowdale Junior School as an example. My last encounter with the police at this roadblock boiled down to a waiting game. They wanted to fine me for not having a light illuminating my number plate. When I asked for a ticket they couldn’t produce one but they did want $20. To pocket no doubt. The stand-off lasted several minutes until they got bored.

Instead of Bribe Roadblocks the Zimbabwean police would do well to protect road users from people in various states of drunkenness leaving night clubs, restaurants, taverns, beerhalls, office parties and discos. In a blog awhile ago I mentioned a banner I saw in Avondale. The banner was publicising a night club in Strathaven. Their slogan was Don’t Think, Drink. Absolutely disgusting.

In a poem entitled I Am Angry, written in 2008, Shingie wrote passionately about wisdom gone rotten.

Below is a poem from Fungai, entitled I Am Angry Too, about the loss of the love of his life.

I Am Angry Too

I am angry that I took so long to get to this anger
That we let it get so bad-
Not speaking, not asking
Not daring to breathe even
When evil came walking in our direction

That we sighted a wrong
Looked the other way
Heard an injustice
Put heads down in shame

And did not speak
And did not speak
Except in gasps of disbelief
And in muted whispers
As if we it were gossip
When we should have been yelling it to the skies.

I am angry too my love
That they won’t tell drunk drivers to get off the roads
That they fine them paltry sums for taking a life
That people die every day
And we let them go this way

I am angry for your loss of life
So I speak up now and tell the world
And know that you would have done the same
My friend, my love, to death, my wife.

- Fungai Tichawangana

Once upon a time there was an African princess named Zimbaly.  She was beautiful, rich and admired by everyone.

Oneday Unaz, the old, evil wizard kidnapped Zimbaly and made her his slave.  First Una looted and plundered Zimbaly’s wealth so that virtually nothing remained of her former affluence.  Next he put the poor maiden to work under despicable conditions.  For many years, Unaz controlled, manipulated and brainwashed Zimbaly, depleting her completely.

Then it happened that some bad luck befell Unaz himself.  His enemies from across the sea cast a spell on him.  Unaz’s movement became confined to a small part of all the land.  He was unable to travel about freely as he had done before.  The situation was too much for Unaz to bear so he came up with an idea to once again use Zimbaly to remove his enemies unjustified spell from him.

Unaz called Zimbaly to his chamber to give her the task.  She was to go throughout the country, accompanied by armed guards, collecting as many signatures as she could from everyone she met.  Unaz promised her that if she did this satisfactorily, he would release her and all her suffering would stop.  The end of the spell would bring freedom and happiness to both Unaz and Zimbaly.

Motivated, Zimbaly set about her task.  She went from door to door, obtaining signatures from many.  She organised large gatherings where the masses in attendance signed the petition.  Although Zimbaly did some advertising and in other cases used charm to persuade people to sign, her intimidating escorts had a lot to do with the great number of signatures eventually gathered.  Zimbaly actually got well over the target initially set at the start of the campaign.  She was pleased with her achievement and more than that, she was excited that at last she would be free to chart her own destiny.

Zimbaly met Unaz at the appointed time and place, and proudly presented him with the signatures she had gathered.  Unaz was suitably impressed. “There’s just one more thing you must do to complete this task”, he said. Unaz presented Zimbaly with a frog and told her to kiss it.

Zimbaly did not hesitate because she was well aware of what happened when a princess kissed a frog.  She closed her eyes.  Carefully, Zimbaly planted a kiss on the top of the frog’s head.  But alas!  When she opened her eyes, she quickly realised that it had all been a lie.

Unaz’s enemies were not impressed by the lengthy list of signatures and they took no notice of the petition when it was presented to them.  Unaz continued to live under the sanctions imposed by his enemies.  He did not acknowledge Zimbaly’s  efforts in obtaining the signatures but kept her under his cruel governance.  So, Zimbaly remained his prisoner, suffering abuse of human rights, hardships and poverty.  Her dreams of returning to her prosperous and peaceful life had all been a silly fairytale.

Our first grandchild arrived at last on the 24th of May . . . 10 days late, but when he came, he came with a rush. Kate went into labour at midnight and this new little being entered the world as the first rays of sun began to slant through the trees.

He was born at the Iliffs house, in the room Kate and Fiona played as children. In the house where Pete left us just these few months ago.  There is a feeling of balance slipping into place. (A new owl has started perching in the rafters on the verandah) Ginny was there to tend the birthing, and Gudrun, a wonderful midwife, and of course Rory – Kates companion on this journey – and Jane, Rorys mother – who held the process.

And he arrived in true Zimbabwean tradition – no water in the house for 2 days – bottles and buckets of water stored in corners were heated on the stove (and later on the gas as the electricity blinked out)  for Kate to have a small bath.

Jane sent a SMS at 6.08 am: your grandson has arrived
We fumbled down the path in the first light of a crystal morning to welcome this new being (our new grandson) into world.
And of course – he is a complete wonder!

All went well – they are all well– no hospitals or bright lights or forms. A gentle welcome into a early winter morning surrounded by voices he already knew.   They are settled comfortably in their cottage while Kate recovers her strength  and Rory recovers his lost sleep and the baby adjusts to being here, and they all learn what this new experience is. Friends and family are cooking and shopping for them.

And now he finally has been given a name, Elijah Bo, and  my computer and I have managed to get together with the simultaneous occurrence of electricity and internet. I have had some time to let it all sink in:

We have been blessed. I am filled with awe  and gratitude – and this huge question

‘who is this new being?
why has he chosen to join us on the planet at this time?
what is his journey going to be?’

There is something else I have been becoming aware of as our children have begun to have children: the difference of their welcome into the world.

A generation ago, the children were born into a smaller world – linked by letters and telegrams and ‘long distance phone calls’ – and the generation before that was celebrated in even smaller circles.

These children arrive, and the news has traveled to the far corners of the planet within 10 minutes.  Their parents, who have kept connected through this extraordinary new web of internet,  hold one another in such a powerful way.  How many hundreds of voices and thoughts welcomed Eli Bo into the world through Face Book and Skype and SMSs?

And what does this mean?  For if the energy of a loving web of support counts for anything – as surely it must – and their journey is in this changing time of transition – which surely it is – these new children are connected to a global web which holds another potential.

I am filled with questions without answers.