The Market of Memories

Tucked away in one of Harare’s shaded northern suburbs, you’d be quite surprised to come across a quaint little farmer’s market that springs up twice a week on Wednesday and Saturday mornings. With crafts, jams, vegetables, and fresh food, it’s like a little slice of Brooklyn or Seattle on a summer’s day, though with conspicuously fewer bearded hipsters.

The market has been running for three years, according to Beverly (whose name has been changed because I can’t properly remember it). A teacher for forty years, now retired, Beverly looks like the battleax you remember from tenth grade English – short, grey hair, sharp eyes, and a posture that dares you to try anything funny.

“I have no use for any more stuff around my house. I got rid of all my bras. I got rid of my silver. I’m in the process of getting rid of things I don’t need!” Her deep voice reminds you of a smoker’s rasp but is crystal clear and dripping with sarcasm. I’d been told she was one of the founding members of the market, which has been running for three years now. I had to wait a bit to ask any questions as she gave a tongue lashing to someone she obviously didn't think was very intelligent.

“Why do you think I started this market? It was 2008, and our pensions were wiped out after they switched to the dollar. Mine as a teacher, gone. My husband’s as a civil servant, gone. We were wiped out and had to start over again. This is my business now.”

Beverly sold bee products – honey, beeswax candles, lip balm, and propolis. “You don’t know propolis? Why not? The Egyptians used it to embalm their mummies. The bees get it from tree sap. If a beetle or a something large gets into the hive and they can’t get it out, they cover it with the propolis and mummify it in the hive to keep the rot out.”

It seemed that Beverly was talking about more than bees.

The woman next to her, Maggie, wasn't reliant on the stall as a source of income like Beverly was. She, like Beverly, had been a teacher, her husband a mining consultant. He still works occasionally, though it’s hard going in Zimbabwe, even for a country awash in minerals.

Had she ever thought of moving? “Where to? This is my home. I’m fourth generation Zimbabwean. I have as much right to be here as anyone, even if some don’t agree.”

Maggie lived in town now, but her and her husband used to own forty hectares of land outside Harare. Now they rent, their land sold off and pillaged. “The plan was to subdivide it, make it a conservancy. Allocate plots to several families who would help in the conservation.”

It wasn't a farm? “Oh no. It was far too hilly for that. You couldn't grow anything there. No, a man came. He was junior manager at a hotel. He wanted the land for himself. It was just greed, really. He came with a bunch of war veterans. They would camp at the end of our drive and harass us every time we went by.”

I assumed that this was in 2005 or 2006, during the worst of the land invasions. “Oh no, this was 2009. This was after the new government took over. It’s still happening. People should know about it so that it doesn't happen again.”

Maggie told me about several months of harassment at the hands of the war veterans. Her husband eventually went to the owner of the hotel and demanded that he rein in his employee. “He went right to him and said, ‘I’ll tell everyone I know. I’ll tell everyone that your employee is doing this to us.’” Afraid that such a story would ruin his company’s reputation, the owner reprimanded his junior manager. Told him to lay off. He wasn't backing down that easily, however. One day, he came to Maggie’s house with a paper from the Harare provincial government claiming he was the property’s ‘caretaker.’ “Well it was ridiculous. We didn't even live in Harare province. It was a complete fraud.” Her husband took the junior manager to a lawyer. They settled. “We paid $1000, so that was that.” They’d paid him off and saved their house.

Wait, so why did you move then, if everything worked out? “Well, the war veterans lost face. They had been told they’d get this land, and then it was over. He told them to go back to whatever other property they were squatting.”

“If it was just them, it would have been fine, but there was another. I don’t know his real name, but they called him Comrade Charles. He was the only one our staff were afraid of. The other war veterans, we knew them, they were fine, but when Comrade Charles came around, our staff would hide.”

One afternoon, three men came to the house with thick poles the size of police truncheons, typically used to knock the fruit from msasa trees. “There were three of them. My husband went out to talk to them. They attacked him. They beat him. They hit him on the head, across the bridge of the nose. He has no sense of smell now because of it. They nearly killed him.”

“They beat me. One stabbed me right through my hand.” She shows me her gnarled palm. She couldn’t properly flex her right hand between her third and fourth fingers. “I still can’t move this hand very well.” One of them threatened to rape her. Maggie is 72, “going on 73 next month,” she says with a laugh. She looks like the sweet granny everyone wishes they had. The one who would always sneak you cookies with a wink and a look that says, “don’t tell your mother.”

“I was glad they didn't do that,” she says, referring to the rape. An ambulance rushed her husband to the trauma center, where he received twenty-six stitches in his head. She was admitted to hospital, the doctors worried that she had suffered grievous bodily harm. They gave statements to the police. They never heard back.

“We filed a complaint, but nothing came of it. They just forgot about us. After that, it was too dangerous to go back. We sold the land for less than it was worth, and we haven’t been back.”

I couldn't fully wrap my head around the reason for the attacks on her and her property. Was she involved in politics? “Oh no, never. I think I went to one political meeting in my life, and I was bored to death. No, politics just bores me. I've never had an interest in it.” Then why? “Oh, just greed. I think it was just pure greed and the thought that he could get away with it.”

Maggie relates the story like she’s talking about the weather. She’s sunny and sweet. She never seems to reflect on darker days; she just takes the memory in stride. Her mood only changes when I ask if she wanted to go back.

Her and her husband left some things behind. There are some personal belongings that she wouldn't mind collecting, but she doesn't know if she’ll ever get them. “I’m not brave enough to go back.” She laughs a bit, but not out of humor. She laughs that sad, quiet laugh, the one that’s attempting to stave off something dark, some memory better left alone. “I talk about it, but I’m not brave enough. Even if we had the title deeds now, I wouldn't go back.”

Maggie handles her loss better than Paul. He left his farm in 2006. “I left and went to South Africa. My wife’s a trained chef. We tried to make a go of it there, but they didn't want us. If there’s ever a book about it, it will be called ‘Living Next Door to Malice.’” Paul made jams, chutneys, spicy marinades. His wife baked meat pies, biscuits, and brewed ginger beer. On the surface, it appears that he has a successful business. That he’s doing alright now.

“No. It’s hard. We live hand to mouth. Week to week. We’re on the edge.” He says it with an edge to his voice, a bitterness that verges on tears.

Paul’s father bought his farm near Plumtree in 1948. It was marginal land, used for cattle, market gardens, and game. His father still lives in the farmhouse, the only piece of the property they still own. “They came for us in 1999,” he tells me. I thought the land invasions didn't start until after the constitution was rejected. “They didn't, but they were pressuring us. They wanted us out. I don’t know why they targeted us so early, but they did. They wanted that land.”

A stylish, middle-aged black Zimbabwean woman walked by and called out, “Paul’s! I used to buy these all the time.” She gently handled the various chutneys and hot sauces, examining each one with the care of a product long-forgotten. “What happened? I never see anything in stores anymore.”

“Well, my dear, it’s a simple thing called land redistribution.” He bites the words. They come out mean and appear to be directed at the well-heeled woman. “They took the farm that had the canning equipment on it,” he says, softening a bit, perhaps noticing that he’s put the woman on the defensive, fearful that he’ll lose a customer over a policy she had nothing to do with. “We’re a much smaller operation now. I do everything out of my mother-in-law’s kitchen. It’s a bit more expensive now after Zimglass shut down. All the jars come from South Africa. The lids too.”

The woman’s friend tries to bring the conversation back around. “It’s much better to buy it here. Look how much more selection there is.” A sale is made; the tension in the air subsides. I can tell how much the sale means to Paul. A few more dollars to get him through the week. I buy some ginger beer, sipping it while he tells me about his father’s property. “We had 200 sable on the land. At the time, they were worth $5000, so that’s a million right there. American-made fences for the game reserve. They've all been torn down. There’s no more game, no sable, no antelope. They ate everything. All the animals, gone. Poached out. The trees have all been cut down.”

Maggie had mentioned that the trees were the first casualty of the new owners on her property. They’d been cut down for firewood or sold off as timber. They hadn't been managed, they were just gone. “We had beautiful trees,” Paul tells me. “One hundred years of conservation gone. They've raped that land.” His face softens and for a second, it looks like he might cry. He moves to greet another customer and our conversation ends.

I've often heard, in my time here, that land redistribution was necessary, but that it was just poorly done. There is no doubt some truth to that. The indigenous population, oppressed for over a century deserved social justice. They deserved a greater share of their home land.

But in Zimbabwe, violence begets violence. Land is more than just property. It is memory. It is livelihood. It is identity. As I wandered the farmer’s market, I realized that this space was much more than a morning diversion for ex-pat aid workers and embassy staff looking to find bargain-priced produce. It was a refugee camp, a place for those who no longer had a home, who’d come to Harare for relief, to share their stories, their experiences, and their lives. It was a place of loss and rebirth, even on the margins. Tucked away in a secluded Harare suburb, I was surprised to come across a quaint little farmer’s market. What I couldn't have known, nor ever expected, was that among the baubles and the beetroot, there were stories, tales told of the past, of the present, and of uncertain futures.