Bucketfuls of Resilience

By CLAUDIOUS CHIKOZHO

In his debut novel, Claudious Chikozho delivers a breathtaking tale of big dreams, love, loss, tenacity, and resilience. In the late 1990s, the Zimbabwean economy starts crumbling, but both the government and the citizens are convinced that it's merely a temporary set-back. By 2005, it's clear that they were all wrong, and indeed they are in for the long haul - the economy spirals out of control, while the political landscape is dominated by extreme polarization. Out of brutal necessity, three friends migrate out of Zimbabwe in search of greener pastures, something none of them ever dreamt of while growing up. The consequences for all of them are far-reaching. Bucketfuls of Resilience is an insider's interpretation of the Zimbabwean crisis, which is presented in a light-hearted manner. In it, we are invited to walk with the three friends as they work towards realizing their dreams. They learn some powerful but moving lessons about hardship, success, and love. It provides many telling anecdotes of what it takes to leave one's own country and move into the diaspora; the joys and pains of being home and away from home. It show-cases the resilience of individuals and families being tested beyond limits, forcing them to find ways of weathering adversity and re-calibrate their own destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CLAUDIOUS CHIKOZHO
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393331728

CLAUDIOUS CHIKOZHO

Born in Zimbabwe, 1972, Claudious Chikozho has more than two decades of experience in applied social science research and development in Africa. He holds a Doctor of Philosophy Degree in Social Studies from the University of Zimbabwe. Over the years, he acquired experience, knowledge and keen interest in sustainable development processes in sub-Saharan Africa. He has since published many scientific papers and book chapters based on research done on some of the key issues in African development. He spend extended periods of time for training and work-related assignments in Botswana, Ethiopia, Ghana, Kenya, Lesotho, South Africa, Tanzania, and the Netherlands. His works of fiction are mainly based on an understanding of the realities of the African socio-economic and political condition. Claudious is married and a father of three lovely boys. He has been an avid reader of works of fiction since his teenage years.

Book preview

1

As Jeff Madziva settled in his seat, he shifted from side to side to obtain as much comfort as he could in the South African Airways Boeing 787. He was visibly nervous, and beads of sweat oozed from his forehead and neck. The plane was just about to take-off and begin its estimated one and half hour flight from Harare International Airport to Johannesburg. The Flight Captain was relaying a message through the intercom.

Please fasten your seat-belts tightly until further notice. We anticipate lots of turbulence during take-off, the weather is pretty rough.

This announcement unnerved Jeff considerably. On its own, flying usually triggered fear and extreme discomfort in him that was difficult to explain. His stomach would churn as if about to flip inside out. The promise of a turbulent take-off in rough weather quadrupled the phobia; visions of the plane plummeting to the ground at nerve-racking speed already swirling in his mind.

As the plane slowly glided towards the beginning of the runway, he carefully buckled his seat belt up, and tightened it. This would keep him safely secured during the turbulence. He slowly scanned his surroundings for familiar faces among the passengers, but he could not recognize any.

Overhead, the plane’s ventilation system purred, just the way such a system was meant to, releasing cool air at a constant rate. The sweet aroma of a scented detergent used earlier on to clean the plane wafted towards Jeff’s nose. He stretched his tall frame and legs as far as they could go in the confined space that the economy cabin availed. Tall as he was, the space was plenty enough for him, to not only stretch, but also recline back in his seat comfortably when the need arose. He snatched up the inflight magazine and started perusing it, hoping that reading would take his mind off the phobia, and somehow calm his nerves.

In spite of the plane’s air conditioner working perfectly well, sweat continued trickling down Jeff’s face and neck. His nervousness had not subsided. He was leaving his country for the first time, in search of greener pastures. This flight was final confirmation that his journey into the unknown had become a reality. As the plane positioned itself on the runway, Jeff put the inflight magazine aside and started pondering both the past and the future.

The previous night, the weather had been exceedingly foul. Dark thick clouds had covered the sky in all directions, stretching as far as Jeff’s eye could see in the horizon. Throughout the night, heavy rain had relentlessly pounded the earth, accompanied by frequent episodes of petrifying thunder and lightning. Sometimes the rain would slacken a little bit, before picking up pace with more ferocity.

Around 6am in the morning, the rain slowed down considerably, but continued to drizzle. Around 11am it ceased altogether, for almost two hours. The sky even started clearing, albeit slowly. That two-hour respite is all that Jeff had needed, to take a bath, pick up his bags, and jump into the taxi that ferried him to the airport. But as he reached the check-in counters at the airport, the dark clouds regrouped, and rapidly gathered momentum once again. A ferocious wind also picked up in a north-southerly direction, threatening to sweep away everything on its path. Soon it would be raining again, and the Captain had just warned them to get ‘ready for a bumpy ride’.

Jeff recalled how he had hugged his wife and kid, and hurriedly waved them goodbye as he left for the airport. He traveled alone to the airport; the weather was too foul for his wife and kid to venture out. Even though he had a pretty busy schedule, Jeff had still managed to say goodbye to his close friends properly, two weeks earlier. He had texted them on their cell phones.

Let’s meet after work on Friday at the Beer-Engine in town. I have something to tell you, and it’s urgent.

When he arrived at the Beer-Engine, a bar at one of the hotels in downtown Harare, his friends were already there. They were occupying a table near the door. Pablo Chikanda was sitting directly facing the door; and Don Denhere was sitting on the chair directly across from Pablo, his back to the door.

After greeting them, Jeff went to the counter and ordered his favorite draft beer, a dark liquid called the ‘Navigator’. It was very popular with many patrons, most of whom said it was ‘soft on the tongue’. But there was nothing ‘soft’ about its after-effects. It still caused an enormous hangover the following day if consumed in large quantities,.

As he sat and started sipping his beer, his friends looked at him expectantly, wondering what it is he wanted to tell them face-to-face that he could not just text on the cell phone.

Guys, I know you are curious why I requested to meet you. Yes, I have some good news.

Always the impatient one, Pablo interjected, Please Bro, why don’t you just get to the point? This is not a gathering of old men in the village who go round and round in circles when they want to announce something important.

Ok, I hear you. I will be leaving the country soon. I got a PhD Fellowship in Pretoria. It’s been long in coming but as you know, my contract at the Centre for Rural and Urban Development is ending in two months’ time. Chances of contract renewal are negligible. Many international funding agencies are even withdrawing their support due to the uncertain political and economic environment in this country. Our Centre has been directly affected, so it is retrenching.

His friends remained quiet for a minute or two, each of them digesting the unexpected news.

Then Don said, This is fantastic news Jeff! Congratulations!

It’s great news indeed! All the best my friend! Said Pablo.

More draft beers were ordered and downed, one after the other, turning the evening into a spontaneous send-off party for Jeff. As they speculated about his new life in Pretoria, he expressed his reservations at venturing into the unknown.

Guys, I know that this is a very good and timely opportunity, but I am very worried. I cannot foretell what the future holds for me in South Africa, and uncertainty always makes me nervous.

Do not worry too much. Many others went out of the country before you. You can do it as well, Don pointed out.

These were strong words of encouragement from his friends. But they still could not completely banish his fear of the unknown. After receiving the offer from the International Institute for African Development (IIAD) in February 2003, he was happy and yet really troubled, wondering what it took to leave the country, and how he would settle at IIAD. He could be embarking on a futile mission. Would he manage the PhD program? What about his family? How would he support and protect them while away in Pretoria for at least four years? And the distance, how would things work out between him and his wife? Would his family join him? So many unanswered questions floated through his mind; he was swimming in too much uncertainty.

Some disturbing rumors were also rife, about the South African visa processing system being notorious for its delays. Many claimed work permit applications were rarely processed in good time; cases of outright rejections being quite common. Now he was wondering what would happen if he failed to get a work permit in good time. As he examined all these questions, his initial excitement turned into endless anxiety. But when he sat on the plane, ready to fly to Johannesburg, it dawned on him that he was finally confronting the unknown, head on.

2

At the Beer-Engine, Jeff and his colleagues spent almost the entire evening talking about the past, and how the Zimbabwean economy had taken a severe knock. Things had changed for the worse during the mid-1990s, triggering an unprecedented exodus of people into the diaspora.

Jeff said, I find it difficult to reconcile the hope that independence brought to the people and what the country has become.

I agree with you. When ZANU-PF won the elections in 1980, there was so much euphoria and hope. But now, I don’t know. The country is such a mess, Said Pablo.

Both ZANU-PF and ZAPU’s manifestos resonated with the desire for true liberation and freedom that our people had been yearning for. And the independence celebrations were a huge spectacle. So many cows were slaughtered! Said Don.

In the rural areas, many buses were hired by government to ferry people to various celebration centers. The youths dressed in appropriate revolutionary regalia, marching and singing songs of freedom; large quantities of food and drink were consumed, provided by the government, Jeff explained.

Pablo, now quite drunk said, "In the urban areas, the celebrations were equally spectacular, so much pomp and fanfare. At Rufaro Stadium, Mugabe the great orator, delivering his speech in style, and saying all the right things that the nation wanted to hear. He promised all of us heaven on earth, in bucketfuls for decades to come. And ‘never-ever-again, would Zimbabwe be a colony’!"

Even though I was quite young, probably just nine years old then, I was there at Rufaro Stadium. My Uncle took me there, Said Don.

Surprised, Jeff said, Really? It must have been quite an experience for you!

Oh yes, it was! I vividly remember Bob Marley playing at that grand event. An internationally acclaimed Jamaican reggae artist, celebrating together with the people of Zimbabwe. That was huge!

He was invited by the government; the message in his music resonated with our national aspirations - peace, love, harmony, and justice, Pablo elaborated.

I wish I were there. I am informed he drove hundreds of thousands of fans almost crazy that night, Said Jeff, wistfully.

"Yes, it was a historic moment, no doubt about that. Bob Marley had just composed a song entitled ‘Zimbabwe’, which he played that night, raising the crowd’s excitement to a fever pitch," said Don.

Then Jeff said, I just wish the country had sustained its industrial base, and stayed progressive. None of us would ever think of going into the diaspora. Why would we leave our country?

Pablo chirped in, You are right. Life was better back then. During the first decade of independence, just passing your form four exams was an automatic ticket to a good job.

Yaa, it was good indeed, but then things changed drastically, in the wrong direction. And so fast! Said Don.

Jeff and his friends continued their foray into the past, unravelling some of the significant things and events they had witnessed in the country over the years. It was a surprisingly sober assessment by people who were not sober any more, touching on many issues that directly affected the country’s future.

It was almost midnight when they left the Beer-Engine. But Jeff found it difficult to sleep that night, repeatedly turning and tossing. He continued ruminating about the past and the future. The decision to leave the country was not an easy one for him, and indeed for many others who had been in a similar position.

Growing up, Jeff had always dreamt of becoming a teacher, policeman, bank clerk, or driver. By the time he went to University, he started aiming higher of course - Senior Officer, Manager, Chief Executive, or even a Director in one of the government ministries. He had never dreamt of going to work and live in a foreign country.

When his contract with the Centre for Rural and Urban Development was coming to an end, Jeff started searching for international job opportunities. There was nothing readily available locally. The PhD fellowship that he secured in South Africa would cover tuition fees, research expenses, and a modest subsistence allowance. For him it was a great deal. And like many others before him, he packed his bags and left, to go and turn a new leaf in the diaspora, away from his motherland.

3

In college, the three of them had been very close. But the common denominator for them was their love for soccer. Jeff was tall and athletic, relatively quiet but outgoing in character. Among the three friends, he was considered the level-headed one, unassuming, and exceedingly patient. On the soccer pitch, he had been a deadly marksman who could use both feet with equal proficiency, a rare capability for most soccer players. He was versatile enough to play either as a central-striker or winger, on either sides of the field. And he scored many goals while playing in any of those positions.

Don was equally tall. But unlike Jeff, he was relatively muscular, almost like a body builder. Compared to the others, he was much more reserved. He was their Rock-of-Gibraltar, a dependable pillar of strength that rarely disappoints when his friends are in need. On the soccer pitch, he was equally dependable. He was a tough-as-teak central midfielder renowned for aggressively dispossessing opponents, before distributing the ball to his team-mates with incredible precision. His work-rate was legendary; most opponents dreaded being marked by him. He also often overlapped at an astonishing pace, creating many scoring chances for his team-mates. 

Pablo was the exact antithesis of his friends, actively seeking the spotlight that they shunned. He grew up in the suburb of Hatfield in Harare where his parents had bought a large sprawling house soon after his birth. He was of medium height, and stocky. He was also very talkative, daring, and impatient, which bordered on vanity and pomposity. For some strange reason, he considered himself a person of high sophistication. Among all the axioms used to describe him, humility was not one of them. Those who did not know Pablo very well found him disconcertingly opinionated. In some quarters, his choice of words was considered vulgar, offensive, and uncultured. But his friends tolerated his idiosyncrasies, sometimes admonishing him if he went overboard.

On the soccer pitch, Pablo was one of the most naturally gifted dribbling wizards to play for the University of Zimbabwe in a long time. Mostly playing as a left midfielder, he was the entertainer par-excellence, sometimes even scoring an odd goal here and there. Soccer pundits and fans alike enjoyed watching him.

It was ironical that Pablo became close friends with Don and Jeff, given their opposite personalities. Jeff and Don came from villages adjacent to each other in Chirumanzu rural area, they were essentially born and bred there. They had come a long way, their destiny seemingly closely intertwined. They graduated from kicking plastic paper balls to more competitive soccer since fifth grade when they joined the reserve team at Makanya Primary School, in Chirumanzu.

While Jeff and Don’s families could not be categorized as outright poor, they were not well-off either. In fact their parents struggled to make ends-meet most of the time. Jeff’s father worked as a loss-control officer at African Distillers in Mt-Hampden, winning a long-service award after 30 years. He managed to send all of his nine children to school. He also managed to put food on the table and buy clothes for them. They were generally presentable in public. But that was all.

Jeff’s mother was hard-working; relentlessly knitting jerseys and other wool-based outfits that she sold on the local market to augment his father’s meagre salary. Combined, his father and mother’s income made it possible for the family to just get-by. They did not enjoy any outright luxuries, except on holidays such as Easter and Christmas when they were certain to eat some rice and chicken, and all sorts of sweet food-stuffs that brought paradise down to earth for most children in the rural areas during such occasions. But there were many times when things were really tough.

Sometimes Jeff’s family could not afford most of the basic goods they needed, particularly when school fees were due. Then his parents would focus on raising the required amounts and reduce spending on all other items, essential and non-essential. During such times, they would typically have porridge in the morning and forgo the tea with bread and margarine that they usually had when times were good. They would also have boiled maize and beans for lunch, and Sadza and dried vegetables in the evening. Life was that simple.

Don’s father worked as a driver for the District Development Fund (DDF) in Chirumanzu. As a government-funded institution, the DDF did not pay hefty salaries. But by rural area standards, his was a prestigious position – he had the privilege of picking up hitch-hikers along the Chaka to Charandura main road; he also had access to many cheap products such as cabbages and tomatoes that he found in different places when driving around on his many errands. Nevertheless, his family struggled financially most of the time, just like many other families in their rural area those days.

When they were in fourth grade, Jeff and Don became close friends soon after engaging in a bruising fist-fight that left Don’s left eye heavily swollen and Jeff’s nose bleeding. Jeff came to school wearing a pair of new sports shoes called ‘North-Star’ that his brother, a recently promoted policeman, had bought for him. These were Jeff’s very first pair of proper shoes in life. But the shoes were one size too big. Jeff stuffed them with pieces of cloth to obtain the correct fit. This was a common practice among many of his peers whose relatives would buy shoes for you in your absence, without knowing your proper size.

When Jeff turned up at school proudly donning his new shoes and prancing around like a peacock, he became the envy of all the other kids in his class. Most of them were either bare-footed or wearing cheap blue or black tennis-shoes that were produced en-mass by Bata-Shoe Company. These were the only ones the majority of the poor parents in Jeff’s neighborhood could afford.

During break-time, Jeff and some of his compatriots were sitting on top of a low-lying rock next to the school vegetable garden, most of the boys openly admiring his new shoes. Don came from behind and playfully pushed Jeff off the rock. Unfortunately Jeff fell to the ground face down. It was painful, and the other kids laughed. Even though Don’s intentions had not been malicious, Jeff was humiliated. He picked himself up from the ground and suddenly delivered a flying kick to Don’s stomach, imitating how he had seen it done in the movie - ‘The last Dragon’. Don retaliated with a vicious kick on Jeff’s shin. The mother of all fist-fights broke out. They thrashed each other with punches, kicks, and head-buts. The other boys excitedly cheered them on.

Hey you boys, what do you think you are doing!? Shouted Mr Matava, a teacher who was passing by. Most of the boys who had been cheering quickly scurried away, trying to look as invisible as possible, and avoid being caught up in the punishment that was surely likely to be meted out to Jeff and Don.

Mr Matava grabbed each of the two boys by hand and frog-matched them at a frenetic pace, all the way to the Headmaster’s Office, for reconciliation and punishment combined. As they entered the office, the Headmaster, Mr Mabhiza lifted up his head from a report that he was reading intently, and smiled at them.

Well, well, well, well! What do we have here? Mr Matava, what’s the story with these boys?

I found them punching and kicking each other just a few minutes ago.

Is it? Boys are you aware of the school rules about fighting?

They both mumbled a quick, ‘Yes Sir’. It was almost inaudible due to the fear coursing through their veins.

Ok then, what shall we do about your misbehavior? Should we call your parents?

No Sir, please forgive us Sir. We will not do it again Sir, Jeff pleaded.

He was trying to pacify the Headmaster and avoid the involvement of his parents in this matter. If his Mother got wind of their little boxing match at school, he would be in serious trouble. She was a no-nonsense woman, and indiscipline at school was one of the things she did not tolerate at all.

Don immediately echoed Jeff’s plea, Sir, we will never do it again.

Don knew that his own parents also despised such misdemeanors. Averting their involvement in this case became a priority.

Alright then, you seem to be contrite enough, but why were you fighting in the first place? the Headmaster enquired.

The two boys took turns to narrate the story leading up to the fight, each of them painting a picture of himself as the victim of the other’s aggression.

Mr Matava said, What a silly thing to fight over! Don’t you have better things to do?

They could not answer, and Jeff suspected that Mr Matava was determined to make things worse for them. They continued pleading for mercy and leniency for quite some time while Mr Matava and the Headmaster countered.

Then the Headmaster said, We have heard your pleas, thanks. I honestly hope that you will never do this again. We don’t want the other children to think for even one second that we condone such behavior at this school. We don’t! Next time we will not hesitate to inform your parents! Each of you will receive ten strokes from my sjambock, then you will water the garden every lunch time for the next two weeks. We want to demonstrate to everyone else how we treat those who misbehave.

The Headmaster had spoken, Mr Matava vigorously nodding his head in agreement. Jeff and Don took turns to lie face-down on the floor and receive the prescribed strokes. Jeff was the first to lie down. Mr Mabhiza would lift the sjambock high up in the air, before letting go downwards with tremendous force. One could literally hear the sjambock whistling through the air before it hit its target, almost at the same spot on Jeff’s buttocks, over and over, inflicting unbearable pain. 

Those days corporal punishment in schools was not expressly forbidden by the government, even though it may not have been explicitly authorized either. Any wrong-doing by school children was dealt with decisively at the school level. Some teachers even regularly flogged the school kids gleefully and with unbelievable zeal. Fortunately or unfortunately, many parents openly encourage the flogging. They believed that children were naturally foolish, and without the assistance of a whip, they were bound to grow up into irresponsible adults. When Jeff was in grade two, his own Mother had voluntarily instructed his teacher, to ‘beat him up thoroughly if he ever misbehaved’.

By the time the Headmaster reached the eighth stroke, Jeff was writhing in agony, and could not take it anymore. He suddenly sprang up from the floor like a cat, just when the Headmaster was about to deliver the next stroke of the sjambock, with precision. As Jeff sprang up, he accidentally head-butted the Headmaster on the chin, almost knocking him to the ground. Of course the head-butting was not part of the plan, Jeff had just misjudged the distance between them. His intention was to sprint out of the room, but there was nowhere to run. Mr Matava was standing firmly against the closed door, strategically positioned to physically restrain any of the two boys if they tried to escape.

You have two more to go Jeff, back on the floor! Face down! Quick! Or else we will start counting from zero again! The Headmaster barked, now further enraged by the head-butting.

Jeff thought, ‘Oh my God! Now I am in deeper trouble! Can I really withstand the pain if he starts counting from zero again?’

But he had no choice. He slowly lowered himself back onto the floor, whimpering in pain, and tears streaming down his face. He received the two remaining strokes; they were as painful as the earlier ones.

When it was Don’s turn, he surprised everyone in the room by receiving the prescribed strokes in stoical silence. By the sixth stroke, Don’s lack of response had further infuriated the Headmaster. He had expected some kind of protestation and pleadings from Don, but none was forthcoming. Jeff cringed in horror as the Headmaster increased the force with which he administered the strokes, hoping to elicit some response from Don, but he received none. Nevertheless, even the stoical Don had tears streaming down his face soon after the painful whipping.

They were then instructed by Mr Matava to thank the Headmaster and vow to never misbehave at school again, especially fist-fights. As they watered the school garden over the next two weeks, they discussed their families in greater detail, and discovered that they had a lot in common. Thus, began an unshakable friendship that withstood the test of time.

4

In primary school, Jeff and Don walked about seven kilometres from home to school, one-way, for a good seven years. On most days, Jeff carried his green lunch box to school, usually containing boiled maize or beans. His mother scolded him severely if he brought home a school report that showed failure. One particularly unlucky end of year when he was in grade two, he obtained poor grades in almost all the subjects, and was ranked number 36 out of 42 pupils. On presenting the school report to his mother, she became livid with anger.

Jeff, is this your report? Really? How can you pass only two out of five subjects? Why do you wake up early in the morning and walk for so many kilometres every day? Why on earth? Tell me! I think you are spending most of the time playing and not listening to the teachers! Right? Do you want to waste your father’s money? We struggle to pay school fees, only for you to bring back a report like this, with utterly nothing to show? Do you want to embarrass our clan? I can’t believe this!

After this diatribe, she proceeded to beat him up thoroughly with a stick that she ripped off a Guava tree that was growing in the yard. The beating went on for quite some time, Jeff wailing at the top of his voice, until the neighbors rushed over and restrained his mother. The following year his school work improved significantly. From grade three onwards, he was always in the top five of the class.

During weekends and school holidays, it was taken for granted that Jeff and Don would look after their families’ livestock, the whole day. The boys did not mind. It gave them the chance to explore the country-side, until they knew it like the back of their hands. This included collecting wild mushrooms, Mopani worms, and fruits that grew abundantly in the nearby forests and mountains. Sometimes, they went fishing in the rivers that wound their way through the numerous valleys in the area. All this was fun for the boys, but it was also a way of life.

5

Once in a while when the heavens smiled upon him, Jeff visited his father in Harare during the school holidays, for a week or two, but always together with his mother. His father rented two rooms in Kambuzuma Section Four, at the same house for so many years that he had lost count. House number 1398 was etched in Jeff’s mind forever. Such visits helped to break Jeff’s monotonous cycle of looking after the livestock, and the back-breaking work he did in the crop fields.

Jeff and his mother usually boarded Tombs Bus services on such a trip. But the trip itself was almost invariably eventful. Once the bus picked up speed, Jeff often looked outside and marveled at how fast the trees were rushing backwards where the bus was coming from. He was very curious to know what made the trees move so fast. When he asked his mother, she just smiled knowingly, and remained quiet.

During those days, it was also common for people traveling on long-distance buses to bring some alcohol on board and drink along the way. Unfortunately, alcohol consumption and frequent urinating go hand-in-hand. The bus drivers were often forced to stop at any point along the way, for a passenger to rush out and urinate beside the bus, usually aiming at one of the rear wheels. Most of the culprits were men.

It was also common for the same culprits to try and braai some meat when the bus stopped at Chivhu, Rosaram or Pfugari shopping centre, along the Harare-Masvingo highway that Jeff and his mother used. Usually, the bus conductor would announce that the stopover would be for exactly 30 minutes. But surprisingly, some people would fancy that this was enough time for a braai. They would rush into the butchery, buy some meat quickly and throw it on the braai stands that were set up outside the shops, with fire constantly smoldering.

By the time the driver hooted for the passengers to get back on board and resume their journey, the meat would not yet be ready. The meat lovers would dilly-dally at the braai stand, trying to buy some more time, until the bus was just starting to take off. They would then sprint after the bus, shouting for the driver to stop so that they also board. Jeff always found this hilarious, especially when a man wearing a suit sprinted after the bus, his coat tails flailing in the wind behind him. On the contrary, Jeff’s mother and several other women in the bus were thoroughly annoyed by these antics, and often cursed loudly. Those were the good-old-days.

After spending some time in the city, Jeff would come back to school much more energized and full of stories that he proudly narrated to his compatriots, many of whom were not blessed enough to get the chance to travel to the city. He would captivate them with stories of the Bionic Woman, MacGyver, or the A-Team, that he had watched on the black and white television-set owned by one of his father’s neighbours. Mr Hodson was an easy-going and generous man of about sixty years of age. He stayed alone, and usually allowed Jeff and the other kids in the neighbourhood to watch his television through the large living room window of his house.

Most of the households in the neighbourhood did not have television-sets; their meagre financial resources were constantly allocated to other more urgent necessities. However, the kids were strictly forbidden from entering Mr Hodson’s house, in case they messed up the nice sofas and the floor that was always squeaky clean and shiny. As long as Mr Hodson left the curtains covering the large living room window open, the kids could watch the television from outside. They were generally satisfied with this arrangement.

If the kids got over-excited and noisy, perhaps cheering on MacGyver, the Bionic Woman or the A-Team, for some act of cleverness or bravery, Mr Hodson would threaten to close the curtains. As a result, the kids remained at their best behavior during television time. None of them wanted to go back to their houses before the favourite television show of the day was over. They enjoyed the television shows so much that they considered it a catastrophe if Mr Hodson was not home in the evening for any reason, to switch on the television and open wide