John Eppel amuses with reflections on Cheeky White Madams (CWMs) and their approach to life in the suburbs of Bulawayo . . .

Somalia has its warlords, Zimbabwe has its CWMs or cheeky white madams. When governance breaks down, anarchy looms, and nations revert to tribes, some dominant, many subordinate. In Zimbabwe one dominant tribe happens to be elderly white women who, since that cruciferous plant, woad, with which the ancient Britons stained their bodies, is unavailable in Zimbabwe, use a preparation known as blue rinse. Because they cover themselves from head to food in a crease resistant synthetic fabric called crimplene, it is not possible to determine the extent to which they stain their bodies in the manner of their warlike ancestors, but they certainly stain their naturally grey, silver or white topknots – to the approximate shade of methylated spirit.

Our neighbourhood had been, over the past ten years, declining not unpleasantly into anarchy. We all had at least one illegal rooster on our premises; dogs had metamorphosed from recognizable breeds like labradors and German shepherds to skinny, whippet-like creatures that could survive on grass, known, euphemistically (and anachronistically), as Grey Street terriers; cats had become feral, and lived in storm drains or on the roofs of houses; quacking Aylesburys had been exterminated by hissing Muscovies; nuclear families of four or five had been squeezed out by extended families and their lodgers of twelve or twenty.

Nobody complained when we had noisy parties, which went on all night and well into the next day; or when we built huge, threatening bonfires; or when we felled trees; or when we extended our houses using building materials, which even the most tolerant of city councils would condemn. Nobody complained when our roosters began issuing challenges at one another, continually, from midnight onwards; or when our dogs yapped for hours at the moon; or when our children communicated over crumbling walls at the tops of their pre-pubertal voices. Then Mrs MacSnatch moved in, and all changed, changed utterly.

To continue in the words of the immortal bard, a terrible beauty was born (or, should I say, re-born?), the terrible beauty of civilised behaviour according to the predilections of half a dozen cheeky white madams. Our properties are large, mostly over an acre in extent, and one of these properties was converted into a cluster of upmarket houses, six in all, occupied by influential members of the CWM tribe. We watched the complex grow over a period of about six months, not that we could see much once the two metre brick wall topped with razor wire and an electrified fence had gone up. The occupants we learned, via the reliable domestic worker circuit, were widows of commercial farmers, businessmen, and white collar criminals who had died of unrequited rugby. The youngest was 70, the oldest, 93; all wore crimplene slacks or frocks ranging in colour from mustard to chilli pepper; all had blow-waved blue hair with matching ramified blood vessels. Mrs MacSnatch was their acknowledged legislator.

She began with the roosters (she called them cocks). Each one of us got the dreaded phone call: “Hullo, my name is Valery MacSnatch. I live just down the road from you, and your cock is driving me crazy. I’m not a well person, you know, and I require a good night’s sleep. No sooner have I shut my eyes of a night, than your cock starts its nonsense. I have informed the City Council, and if you don’t do something about that creature immediately, they will be paying you a visit. I have also informed the police. Please, I expect good neighbourliness from you people.” I had been keeping chickens for more than 20 years. This was the first time anyone had ever complained. She had moved into the cluster complex from her palatial Burnside residence a fortnight before.

Then it was the cats (she called them pussies). “Can’t you keep your pussies where they belong, instead of letting them roam the gutters and the roof tops? Yowling like banshees! Pussies like to be stroked, to be rubbed, to be scratched, in short, to be pampered. They do not deserve this neglect. Well, I tell you, and I tell you straight, my friend, the S.P.C.A. will know about this. Mrs Ridgeback is a close friend of mine, and she does not tolerate, I repeat, not tolerate, pet neglect. Honestly, you people!”

Then it was the dogs (bow-wows), and then the children (brats), and then the music (noise), and so on, until our neighbourhood became as quiet as a mausoleum, and as sombre. When the cheeky white madam glides by in her 1956 Humber Super Snipe, on her way to sip tea and nibble ginger snaps with another of her tribe, I breathe relief and turn up the volume – a little – on my new Chiwoniso CD.

This entry was posted on August 18th, 2008 at 8:58 am by Bev Clark and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.