Easy Sunday Read: A Beautiful Story
Opinion & Columnist

Easy Sunday Read: A Beautiful Story

BY Alex T Magaisa

This is my favourite painting. But it brings back painful memories. Its appeal lies not only in its beauty but also in the circumstances in which I acquired it. I bought it on 2 August 2013, at a place where I stayed during the 2013 general elections.

It was a hard time. Harare has never been so hard. It was election season. I did not stay at home. I moved from one place to another. All on account of the risk that comes with elections in Zimbabwe.

On this occasion, I stayed at this place where I thought it was safe. But 2 August was a hard day. It was just two days after July 31, the day of the seminal and controversial election. By 1 August, it was apparent that things had gone wrong and badly so.

I drove around Harare and the peri-urban areas. There was a deathly silence. The atmosphere was incredible. I saw sad faces. I saw pain in people’s eyes. The faces told stories of shock and disbelief. No one knew what had happened. No one could explain it, even the so-called victors. People asked questions, not because they expected answers but because they simply had to ask. But no one had answers. Robert Mugabe and ZANU PF had won again, against huge expectations of opposition supporters, our supporters. The margin was shocking and unbelievable. But it was done. In my heart I knew nothing more could be done. This was the end.

When I got back to my lodges, this painting stared me in the face. It was the first thing I saw. It had been there all along but I had never paid attention. I passed it as I walked in but a few moments later I returned and examined it again. I stood there for a long time. Yafa yakarodha, my mind said, remembering an old cliche describing a difficult situation whereby the vehicle breaks down while carrying a heavy load.

Then a voice came from behind. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”, voice said. I remained silent. I had no words.

“I’m so sorry,” the voice said again. I turned back and looked at its author. She was the girl who occupied the reception and she was just behind me. I knew her. “You have been standing here for 10 minutes”, she told me. “I’m sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t sure what I was sorry for. She saw that I was confused, lost in my own world. “Would you like some tea?” she asked and immediately signalled the help to bring some tea.

“We are all shocked,” she said. “You’ve been working hard, I know”. I shook my head. The tea came. We drank the tea and talked.
“I want that painting, how much is it?” I asked. “Wait a moment” she said. She went back to her desk and checked the price. She came back told me and I said I will take it.

The painting spoke to me. It told a story. A story of what had happened. The story of a broken nation. “This is where we are,” I said.

I didn’t have the money so I asked her to keep it for me. “You can take it now,” she said. “And you can bring the money later”.

She took it down and placed it in my room.

That was the day I became the owner of this beautiful painting. Bitter-sweet memories. Too much love for it.

Three years later, it still speaks to me in a way no words could ever capture. This is where we are. It’s priceless.

This article is published with the author’s express permission. You can read more on his blog at www.alexmagaisa.com

WaMagaisa

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