THE Diaspora, as foreign lands are commonly referred to in Zimbabwean parlance, can be a lonely place. There is something that, however long you search, no words can describe, that happens when you meet someone on foreign soil who is from your own country.

It cannot be described. Words simply fail to capture the emotion that connects one to the other; the bond that is intangible and yet so real; the warmth of feeling. You shake hands and you smile at each other – the connection is more than physical. No, it is not easy to describe but anyone who has had an encounter of this nature needs no words to describe the experience. 

I remember the first time when I met a Zimbabwean just a week after my arrival in England. There were very few of us, Zimbabweans at the time. It was before the explosion of the new Millennium, when the floodgates at Gatwick and Heathrow were wide open. That was before the barriers were installed. I had come on a mission to read books.

It was an unfriendly autumn of 1999 – the rain, the wind and the coldness to which an African boy’s body conditioned to the warmer climes of Southern Africa had severe challenges adjusting. I noticed the light rains that never stopped, day and night. It was like the rain that we call mubvumbi at home – the incessant, albeit light showers that go on from morning till evening.

We didn’t like that kind of rain when we were boys. We didn’t like it because the elders always insisted that we take the village livestock to the pastures notwithstanding the mubvumbi falling from morning till evening and throughout the night.The elders said it was not dangerous like the violent storms that normally come with the dark, menacing clouds, lightning bolts that light the sky better than man-made fireworks and clapping thunder that assaults the ears and makes the heart jump.

With mubvumbi, it was different. It was quiet but insistent. It never got tired. The storms were violent and short. We always used to think they were short because they spent their energy on being angry and violent.

So we would take the raincoats, if any were available, some shoes, again if any were available, and go to the fields, with the cattle. The cattle and goats would graze while we waited in the rain. They grazed without a care in the world. Sometimes the cows would occasionally stop and look at us. I am not sure that they were sympathetic. They must have been laughing because we looked so miserable and cold and they knew we did not have the energy to beat them with our sticks if they misbehaved.

But mubvumbi was good at night, especially the early hours of the day. Because when you sleep while mubvumbi is falling, you sleep really well. Mubvumbi in a house with a tin roof is quite an experience. When the mubvumbi rain hits the corrugated roof it does so softly, creating a rhythm that soothes the heart and mind. It’s as if the gods are singing a beautiful lullaby to the world and the world sleeps peacefully while mubvumbi falls.

But as if to say reality is not that sweet, it’s the most annoying feeling to be woken up whilst in this state of bliss to find that mubvumbi is still falling outside and that you must go to the fields again, because you see, mubvumbi is not dangerous like the storm. It’s at that time that you wish it were a storm. It comes and goes very quickly.

So when I was walking down the streets of Coventry in this mubvumbi rain of the English Autumn, I saw two African men on one side of the road. In those days it was not a common sight in Coventry, African people. As I got closer and caught sounds that hinted they were speaking in Ndebele, the heart jumped. It jumped because of excitement. It was the joy of hearing a familiar tongue spoken by other people for the first time in seven days.

It didn’t matter that I only knew little Ndebele. It was like I had met an old but much-loved friend that I had lost many years before. It was then that I realised how odd it was that in all my 24 years, not a single day had passed when I had not spoken or heard someone speak in the vernacular – all but seven days.

So there we were, three Zimbabweans feeling very happy to meet each other but failing to express ourselves fully in our mother tongues and having to find a convenient bridge in the English language. It was beautiful, though, to have someone with whom one could identify. We did not know each other before. We did not know anyone between us. We had grown up in different parts of the country.

How odd it is, I thought later that if we had met in Harare or Bulawayo, we might have passed each other as if neither of us existed. But thousands of miles away, enduring the mubvumbi rain of Coventry, we found a common bond and that tie was Zimbabwe – the land to which we were joined at birth, our home.

Eleven years later and more experienced as a member of the Diaspora, I found myself in Rosebank, from my observations probably not the most flamboyant but nevertheless a comfortable district of Johannesburg. And the emotions of eleven years before revisited when I met Joseph.

I do not know if it is right to say that you can tell by their looks or conduct that a person comes from a certain country. But I swear I have met a man or woman in the street and without even a single word spoken, I have said this is one of my own. I do not know what it is – perhaps there is a connection that no science has yet discovered.

So when I saw Joseph, immediately I thought uyu ndewezhira uyu to borrow a common saying from my Karanga ancestors. And for sure Joseph was from home. Not my village, no. Not even my neighbourhood – see, when you are out in the Diaspora, as it is called, home is Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe itself is a village and we are united by our Zimbabweanness. It doesn’t matter that our tongues clash and that we have to find the English bridge to converse, although I admit it is rather embarrassing. It doesn’t matter that we have not known each other before.

Joseph is a waiter at the hotel. Over the course of my stay, Joseph and I spoke at length and I discovered that not less than half of the staff were vangu (my own) from home. All hard-working men and women. Some in security, others waiting on the tables and others dressed in their smart uniforms at the front desk. Zimbabwe’s foot-soldiers. Always with a smile, always courteous.

We shared stories of the trials and burdens of living far away from home. We spoke about home and the challenges that had caused them to cross the Limpopo. Yet in all this I found one common factor – regardless of the challenges, regardless of the pain and suffering, the waiter of Rosebank and his mates all hope to return home one day. They ask for my opinion.

And I say, home is improving, my sister, slowly but things have been settling since the tough days of 2008, a year no Zimbabwean who went through it can ever forget.

“Toda kudzokera kumba mukoma, kuno hakuzi kumusha, kwakaoma!”, (We want to return home. It’s difficult here. It’s not home) she says, ending that statement with a laugh – a laugh of pain, you see, the one that tries but fails to hide the pain. Her tongue has learnt to command some Shona so we go on mixing Shona, Tonga, Ndebele and English – the latter, as always, providing a convenient bridge.

The security guard, another son of Zimbabwe, tells me a funny story that happened during the World Cup. Apparently, his supervisor is a black South African. The big boss, a white South African, wanted to give some instructions to the supervisor. They spoke through the radios. But the conversation between the two Rainbow men did not go far.

So the supervisor went to the guard and asked him to speak to the boss. The boss gave the instructions and the guard noted them down before relaying them to the supervisor. Later the boss asked the security guard why the supervisor is such an arrogant man that he can’t seem to take instructions. The guard then explains to the boss,

Apparently the supervisor’s command of English is less than satisfactory. He was not being arrogant. He simply didn’t get it in that language hence his resort to the humble security guard from Zimbabwe, who saved the day.

"But he remains my boss,” the security guard said, looking up to the sky where small clouds were gathering, “even though I have to communicate on his behalf. But this is his country, so I understand.”

“It will be raining soon,” he said, changing the subject before adding, “I must find some money to send home for seed and fertiliser. They are waiting. Guys at home think we have money, mukoma. But we’re also struggling …” A new guest interrupted us, as he had to go and help carry the bags. 

Later, that evening the rain came. It was not mubvumbi rain. It was a short and angry storm. But I was pleased because this was the first time I had experienced the smell of rain for many years. The smell of rain is beautiful but like meeting a countryman or woman on foreign soil, far away from home, it defies description.

The Zimbabwean Diaspora represents one of Zimbabwe’s greatest assets. I am glad to be part of an effort to harness this potential. We are a long way from doing much for the waiter of Rosebank and his mates but as my favourite film, The Shawshank Redemption, captures so well, “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things and no good thing ever dies”...