This and that with Maluphosa:- Death of a gangster

Reading one of the late William Phiri's articles about gangsters emalokshini reminded me of the death of one of the members of the notorious Star Force. The boy stayed a few houses from my house in Nkulumane. I didn't know him very well, nor did I know his parents well too. But I knew his spine chilling deeds. His group struck fear in the hearts of even the bravest residents. I only attended the wake because of Qoki Makhelwane.                                                                                           Apparently, the young imp had illegally crossed the border to South Africa to skip bail for many of his crimes. And like many directionless and purpose-less delinquents, he continued his life of crime, this time at a higher level. He and two of his new 'mpintshis' were shot dead while attempting to rob emakishini. Those who were close to the mishap say the boy carried a toy-gun, unknowingly!  It took about two weeks for the body to be smuggled into Zimbabwe.                            As the body lay there and the mfundisi orated about there being time for everything, whispers and sighs of relief could be heard from among the mourners. He spoke about the reward of sin which, in this instance, was a perfect fit. Not that he was being judgmental. But I'm sure everyone who knew the short history of the boy agreed with him.                                                                                                                                Then came omalume, obabomncane, okhansila, abangane akade ephila labo eGoli, and a representative of izakhamizi zeNkulumane. They were all unanimous in their monotonous speeches;                                                                                                      'Mina ngimele izakhamuzi zenkulumane. Sibuhlungu ngokutshiywa ngumntanethu u... he grew up in our midst, and we all admired the way he conducted himself. He was a good example to our own children - at school, in sports, at home and even eGoli. We would urge our children to copy all the good work that this young man showed us in his short but fruitful life. Bako Nyoni, sikhala lani.'                                                                                And then there was the representative of the boy's friends in South Africa. He was another border-jumper, obviously.                                                              'BakoNyoni benizele indoda, neh? Mara silahlekelwe sonke, neh? Lalani ngenxeba. Le yitshomi yethu ebigrendi blind blind. Ithe izo bhora nga camtha layo about ijob okumele nga siyenzile ngomso. Manje uthe eyalungisa le contract ikara yavele yalahla, waseyashona umfethu. Washona sham. Umfethu usishiyele isizungu. Mara mara mara' and further such nonsense.                                                                                          To be honest, I was not buhlungu about the death of this scoundrel. It was good riddance. He had dropped out of school at grade 4. He and his gang terrorized both learners and teachers with annoying impunity. He and his cohorts had declared an illegal a no-go zone and curfew within a radius of two kilometers. The police had opened, closed and re-opened case after case for Star Force.
There was actually a queue at the station, everyone with a complaint or two about this exemplary group. They abducted, raped and tortured as their lust would last. 
Little Mr. Nyoni never took part in any sporting event. If he did, it was simply to provoke the teachers so he could ambush them after school. For instance, he would go into a race simply to trip the genuine runners and then guffaw about his antics. In soccer, it would be to kick the ball wherever he wanted as long as it was not on the field of play. With his gang cheering, they would 'capture' the ball, strut away with it, stab it with their knives and toss it back to the petrified sports-master.
At home he made and broke rules as he wished. His dazed parents had to adjust their timetables and toe the line or else! He came home in the morning, slept until 2pm, went out to terrorize izakhamizi, and come home in the morning. He brought electrical appliances which he never accounted for. He demanded pocket money, expensive clothes, cigarettes and good food from his poor mother. He treated his parents like virtual prisoners of war!                                                                                                                                  So, this is life other children were urged to emulate; a haphazard life of villainous existence. Looking for any good from this chaotic mischief they called 'fruitful life' would be like searching for a needle in the proverbial giant hay stack.                                           I don't blame these speakers anywhere; esintwini we are discouraged from talking badly about the departed, no matter how bad we may think they were. We have to find ways to turn the Idi Aminis into Madibas. That is the spirit of ubuntu.                                     But in other places, the tune is different. An acquaintance tells me he attended the funeral of a notorious thief in Plumtree some-where.                                                   After the preachers, zakhamizi, family and friends had related their sweet-nothings about the good works of the late, an isizwe from Malawi limped forward.                                'Manga! Manga wodwa niwakhulumile lapha. Le ndoda sela. Mbuzi zami nankukhu ziphelile nale ndoda. Ende niyazi kuthi niyazi kuthi nikhuluma manga. Phtt !!' he spat and limped away, far from the lying crowd.                                                                            But then an isizwe knows nothing about ubuntu; or does he? We usually called them amadoda abo anti. They aren't scared to speak their minds.                                                But then, people come to a funeral for different reasons; some, like in the instance of this gangster, to prove beyond reasonable doubt that trouble is gone; others to moan genuinely; others to ask for what is owed to them by the late; yet others for the salads.               In our village a sizwe came to the funeral of his friend. Just when the coffin was about to be lowered, he interrupted the proceedings. The dead friend owed him 20 Zim dollars, which at the time could only buy a mgqala of tototo! The MC pleaded with him to hold his horses until the dead had been buried peacefully. He argued that the debt was older than the corpse, and therefore he had to be paid first.
People thought he had no respect for the dead. He quietly jumped into the grave and declared that he better be buried with the friend. The mourners made donations, and the debt was paid. The trouble-maker walked away even before his friend had been buried!                                             On second thoughts he was right. After the funeral, usually no one owns up to pay the dead person's debts. There is so much red-tape it would just disarm and discourage you.                  Have you ever noticed how friends and relatives scramble for the photos of their dead? At times even someone they barely knew or spoke to. Some even take the pains to enlarge the pictures and hang them where everyone can see them. We are like vultures; we like the dead.