By Ruvarashe Manhombo

What does it mean to be Zimbabwean in this place? To be a Shona Zimbabwean in this place? To be a Ndebele Zimbabwean in this place?

My name is Ruvarashe, which translates to “God’s Flower” in Shona. I’m currently a student living and working on the small island of Mauritius. It’s been such an interesting experience for me; a true tale of acceptance and rejection and what it means to be a Zimbabwean living in the diaspora. One of the first things a Zimbabwean will ask another Zimbabwean upon meeting is ‘what school did you attend?’ Or ‘which city or suburb did you grow up in?’ And well, regardless of how you answer that question, judgement inevitably awaits you.

This happened to me. I met two male Shona Zimbabwean students from the capital city, Harare, while in Mauritius. The moment I answered these two questions, the judgement in their gazes pierced straight through me, one look after the other, followed by a silence that was pregnant with utter distaste for me.

Why you may be wondering?

I grew up in Mount Pleasant, a historically White residential suburb in Harare, located in the northern part of the city. I also attended a private boarding school named Peterhouse Girls School (PHG) for three years, followed by the Dominican Convent School for the remaining years. If you attended PHG you had the reputation of being a ‘House Queen’, while Dominican Convent Girls were referred to as ‘DC Girls’. Simply put, stating the area that I grew up in and the private schools that I attended in my youth alerted these students to my privilege and in response their eyes met mine with a look that I was all too familiar with.

Back home, people like me are commonly referred to as the ‘nose brigade’ (‘nozi/manozi’ in Shona) because of our tendency to speak English with a very nasal accent; owing to the fact that we attended majority White private schools.

My male counterparts on the other hand, both attended majority Black public government schools. Namely Church Hill Boys High School, which is also one of the oldest schools in Harare. One grew up in Glen Norah, a high-density suburb in the city, and the other in South-Side Samora, Harare. Back home, they would be commonly referred to as ‘ghetto’. Though, none of this has ever mattered to me. However, it clearly did matter to them, because in our society I was deemed superior to them.

In their introduction to The Post-National Self: Belonging and Identity, Ulf Hedetoft and Mette Hjort speak of a foundational, existential, “thick” notion of home that is interdependent with belonging:

“Our home is where we belong, territorially, existentially, and culturally, where our own community is, where our family and loved ones reside, where we can identify our roots, and where we return to when we are elsewhere in the world.”

Out of this mental screenshot of home we derive our sense of identity and national belonging. Unfortunately, ‘home’ is always doubly coded in society as there are those who belong there and those who do not.

I heard the term ‘polished Blacks’ the other day, which is similar to ‘musalad’, a term a lot of the kids used to call my cousins and I back in the day and probably still to date. A polished Black refers to Zimbabweans that grew up in relatively stable family situations, i.e. in a White suburban neighborhood with a nice garden and swimming pool (the garden and swimming pool is me being dramatic really, but I hope you catch my drift). Those Zimbabweans who went to good private majority White schools, were yet to master their mother tongue, however, spoke excellent English and well, I guess it’s fair to say, were privileged.

Then, there are the ‘Blacks without the shine’, which refers to Zimbabweans that are less affluent. ‘Without the shine’ insinuates that you most likely attended a public majority Black government school, you didn’t live in a suburban neighborhood with a nice garden and swimming pool and your English, regardless of proficiency, was coated in a thick Shona accent. Although, you had mastered your mother tongue. Some may argue that the ‘Blacks without the shine’ were more secure in their Blackness, while the polished ones struggled with feeling Black or like they belonged.

Forget about Ubuntu, which means “I am, because you are” or the Zulu phrase “Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu”, which means that a person is a person through other people. In Zimbabwe, you either belong or you don’t, which is mind boggling because I do not belong anywhere else. And yet, when I am met with that look a part of me feels lost, but it shouldn’t be that way.

It all boils down to a nasty pile of classism. Oh, the stench of it! This, my dear friends, is a short summary of my experience as a Zimbabwean diaspora here. I guess being a ‘musalad’ means that I cannot speak our mother tongue with great finesse like others do, but does this make me any less of a Zimbabwean? Is it fair that we ostracize one another based off class?

As a ‘polished Black’, by societal standards you are constantly forced to downplay your background out of fear of being attacked. It’s uncomfortable having to be apologetic for having gone to certain private schools or for having parents that worked hard to give you a great education and upbringing.

We may have grown up on different parts of town, but both those students and I heard the local salesmen chanting ‘mustvairooo’ announcing that he/she was selling (home-made brooms) every morning. Or the ‘ding, ding, ding’ bell of the local ice-cream man passing by every afternoon. Our different upbringings may have given us different experiences, but both were a version of the Zimbabwean experience.

My question is…

Am I any less Zimbabwean if my Shona accent isn’t up to par socially or if I speak broken Shona? Am I any less Zimbabwean if I know where Borrowdale Brooke or Sam Levi Village is (majority White suburban neighborhoods in Harare)? Am I any less Zimbabwean if I grew up privileged? Or is it that I grew up in close proximity to Whiteness? A complicated question, given that in certain contexts, a fluent Shona speaking White Zimbabwean is more accepted than a polished Black like me; a whole other conversation for another day.

With regards to the Black on Black Zimbabwean dialogue, it’s difficult to unpack and I’m still exploring this topic, but as Zimbabweans, we are divided and not only Zimbabweans, Black people are divided. The stench of classism is alive and well in the diaspora and I do not mean to look down upon anyone’s struggles, because we all face different hardships on different levels. I am simply trying my best to tackle an uncomfortable issue. Class should not divide Black communities. We all came from and belong to the village. Yes, Western culture has been packaged to look superior, but how long can we continue to be divided?

People of privilege do need to educate themselves and use their privilege for the benefit of others. In the same breath, the less privileged beautiful ‘ghetto’ butterflies trying to make it out of the jungle that is poverty, need to recognize that class should rather motivate us to come together. I don’t have all the answers, but there’s definitely a lot to unpack here. I’m simply a girl who is TIRED of the narrative that there are those who belong and those who do not belong in Zimbabwe.

Are you not tired?

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