ALTHOUGH famed for its navigability, the Humber River is generally quiet today. Save for the Optimist, for that is what our boat is called, only two other vessels are visible, one here by our side and another one over there — far behind us.
Mthulisi Mathuthu
Perhaps it is too hot for the people here to enjoy a cruise. The sun, standing right above us and glinting on the water of the river, pours down with the viciousness of a jilted lover. Seldom does Yorkshire get this kind of weather: Eight straight days of blazing sun.
Whatever the reason for this quietness, it is threatening to turn out to be just another mundane day. The air still and warm; it will not cause anything to move much, not even the water.
The only waves one can see are those cut by the prow of the boat. Steadily and quietly they drift either forwards or sideways; or just dance about.
Suddenly and from the depth of my mind emerge thoughts as though they have been rescued from drowning. In everybody’s life, I think to myself, is a river; either a metaphorical river one that one must cross or has crossed to reach some goal, some destiny as one must do in Jimmy Cliff’s song. Or a real river that one crosses daily to school, to the city, to work.
For the people of Yorkshire, that river is the Humber estuary, this very one in whose waters we are floating with my mates — one from Egypt and the two others from China and Congo (DRC).
Into the silence I drop a question: “Does it occur to you guys that just as this river defines much about the people of this place in each one of us’ lives there is a river of some sort?” “What do you mean?” they ask simultaneously amid giggles and stares of confusion suggesting I and my mates have suddenly lost each other.
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Explanation proffered, they all agree and once again we are in the same boat.
For the Chinese man, so he says, it is the Yangtze — probably the most important river in the history, economy and culture of China.
The river, chips in the Egyptian, must be what the Nile is to Egypt — the heart and nerve of the nation then? Yes, the Chinese man agrees.
Its importance, just like the Nile, adds the Egyptian, is epitomised by the fact that the country’s history, economy and everything about the country cannot be explained without touching on the river itself.
In fact, says the Congolese, nothing would function in the country if that river wasn’t there for, the Congo River, is also that important to his country. The deepest in the world, the Congo River is a lifeline for both the DRC and Congo Brazzaville.
It seems I have not only started a discussion, but livened up a cruise that stood to bore us all. In my case, it dawns on me, there is a river, but not the kind of river my friends are referring to. Being from Matabeleland South — the driest region in the country — my river, our river flows only for a couple of months after the rainy season and dries up around August.
Draining almost the entire Mawabeni area in a dendritic pattern, the river cuts through the Esigodini district meandering through the interlocking spurs before it passes through our village where it separates the Insiza and Gwanda districts.
From this river I not only drank, but went on to receive most of my boyhood thrills and victories. It is here that I got my first sense of victory. At some well, dug in the dry river bed, the cattle jostled to drink.
In the commotion two bulls, one mine and the other my nemesis Nkonzo’s, charged at each other. Kressman — for that was my bull’s name — had long horns. So massive was he that even though castrated he regularly emerged a victor in his fights.
Horns locked and we whistled as they squared it out — pushing and circling about. When the horns unlocked, with the other bull drifting backwards, Kressman gained an advantage and gored his opponent in the neck below the ear.
As he sped away, Kressman scored yet another blow on the ribs. That easily and that fast, Kressman had supplied me with my first sense of victory.
Yet another sense of worthiness — that of cleanliness — was supplied from this very river. Despite having learnt to bath on my own I, at eight, still needed an elder to scrub my back.
At Mzingwane River some boy taught me the trick: bend over, slide a soapy orange sack against your back and pick it with both hands and on both ends — one over the shoulder and the other below the lower end of the rib cage. This worked wonders for me.
There were other thrills. Cascading down the slopes of the river under the trees headed to the well I heard the cooing of the birds. I noticed three birds and whipped out my sling attached to a Y-shaped twig, fixed some stone and took aim.
That became my first hit and source of pride too. All these thoughts go through my head as my mates discuss their rivers.
Finally, it is over and we step out of the boat and walk into the Minerva — a local pub by the river and there I settle for my Carlsberg. We drink to the music as we discuss.
My mind is still on the river Mzingwane. I recall one sunset when, during the school holidays and as a grown-up boy attending a boarding school, I went to the river to bath.
There I fixed my People’s Radio to tree branch, twirled the aerial around the adjoining branch to improve the reception and listen to a sunset musical show.
The show was Selimathunzi with dee jay Tilda Moyo on Radio 2. As I was bathing she churned tune after another. I remember mostly Michael Lanas and the Talking Drum’s The River.
It went in part: “There was once a time when the river flowed right by my door/ Now the river doesn’t flow here anymore/ There was once a time when you called out my name/ now when you call me it doesn’t sound the same/ Take me to the river/ Woza ungithole mina . . .
