One day you’re a middle-class professional working for an international aid agency. Next day, you’re searching for bread in the shops and feeding your family one day at a time. And you know you’re one of the lucky ones.
Here one woman offers her personal account of Zimbabwe’s plunge into economic disaster. Genuine fears of recrimination mean she must remain anonymous.
It’s 4.30am and I am awoken by the sudden pitch darkness into which my room is plunged. It’s the beginning of yet another power cut. Another long, hard day begins.
I scramble out of bed and fumble around looking for matches and a candle. Together with my live in helper, to whom I am forever grateful, I go outside to start a fire. It’s the middle of winter and of late we have been affected by a cold spell from South Africa. It’s stone cold.
It doesn’t take long to start a fire, we have become methodical and mechanical about it. In the process, I’ve decimated the msasa trees in my garden that I was once so proud of, but do I have a choice?
No bread, no eggs
We put the big 25-litre can of water on the fire; it’s bath water for the family. I have a big family, three boys of my own and two girls from my brother who succumbed to HIV in 2003. I switch on the battery-operated receiver and I hear on the local news that Hwange power station is down: no coal supplies. It does not make sense to me. Zimbabwe has one of the largest coal reserves in Africa - at least that’s what I learnt in geography class.
Somehow everybody manages to get a warm bath in a bucket, and have some porridge. There are no bread and eggs anywhere, my young son Farai does not understand why. I try to explain about price controls, but it’s all too much for an eight-year old. He resigns himself to his fate and eats the porridge quietly; he no longer complains as he once did. Perhaps even at eight, he can see that things are not alright. It’s 7am and finally the ‘show’ is on the road, kids are going to school and Jonathan and I are on our way to work.
‘What about tomorrow?’
We pass through our local shopping centre where a huge crowd has gathered outside one of the supermarkets. Word has leaked out that price controllers will be raiding the supermarket to demand the slashing of prices; they are members of Mugabe’s Joint Operation Command, all members of the police, military and youth militia, with unilateral powers to order mark downs of up to 80%. The restless crowd is surging forward in apprehension. We later learn that the price controllers did, in fact, descend, slashing prices. Some shop workers were injured in the melee that ensued.
By afternoon, the same goods reappear in the street alleys, even more expensive than the shop price. It’s incomprehensible to me. What about tomorrow? What will we eat tomorrow as the shelves are emptying every day? I am no economist, but there is something not right here.
Our offices are in a no-power-cut zone near the offices of the president and Zimbabwe House, Mugabe’s official residence. Because we have electricity, I can finally have a cup of coffee!
In the car park, people who work in our office building are trying to sell something to everyone else, there is sugar, cooking oil, South African soap and rice, there’s lots of haggling and negotiating. Most are professional people, supplementing their salaries. Those who can’t pay immediately have their names written down, but they will have to pay in South African rand (the currency of choice for many) as no one wants Zimbabwe dollars as credit anymore.
A meal a day
And we are the lucky ones. We have a steady income, at least. For the poor, unemployed and elderly, life in Zimbabwe is extremely difficult. Those involved in the informal sector are involved in daily cat-and-mouse games with the police. Most families now have one meal a day.
Remittances from family members working outside the country are keeping most families afloat, mine included. My two brothers working and living illegally in South Africa send money every month to help with our old parents expenses.
On our way home we pass through the supermarket to see if we can get some bread. There is nothing, not even a roll. The shelves are half empty; there is an eerie atmosphere.
We notice that the butchers next door has closed, the workers sent home - another statistic in Zimbabwe’s unprecedented unemployment rate.
We arrive home and still no electricity; it’s now 5.30pm. We prepare dinner over the fire: sadza and vegetables. It’s dull; Zimbabweans are beef eaters by tradition. The electricity finally comes back on at 8pm. Against my advice, my husband insists on watching the news; he swears steadily as the propaganda machine engages top gear (as I expected!). I take my son to bed, to protect him from the swearing. He has had enough stress for the day!