My Zimbabwean Childhood

As children growing up we played many games, and ‘Amina’ was one of them. Bonds were formed as we clapped hands and sang along in unison. I recall games like 'an egg.... is rotten' or 'nyama yembolongo…khetho’mthandayo'. At times we were even quick to rush into adulthood, suddenly playing ‘house’- with every child dying to play his or her mother and father.

Without realizing it we took what we saw in society and fashioned it to suite our childish minds. We looked up to our parents as they woke up before the break of dawn to go to work. Coming home, tired they would sit with us and watch over our homework and squeeze in a bit of quality time just before the news – for those of us who were fortunate enough that is.

Some children grew up as orphans; quickly taking on the responsibility of adulthood, and some had parents who argued a lot or a corporate dad who spent late nights in the office. Then you had your cross border mother who was always on a trip to South Africa or Botswana to stock up on products for resale. The others were those we saw on the street corner selling sweets – robbed of their childhood.

Yet, with all these different backgrounds, we all shared one common thread – the games we played.

How these games were birthed is an age-old question that will forever plague my mind. I imagine children before our time, possibly our parents, with no TV for entertainment; they searched for clever ways to keep themselves entertained. Using their environment they came up with ingenious ways to make it to the end of the day.

The games were closely linked to friendship and society in general. Like 'Tomato sauce' for instance a game that required you to choose a person that you like in a circle of friends. Ketch-up is what us Zimbabweans affectionately refer to as Tomato sauce and I believe it can be found on many household dinner tables, especially for the rice and chicken meals we had over the weekend.

Days were spent outside on the streets playing ‘umamtshayana’ or ‘cops and robbers’ with the boys. We could never jump rope using two instead of one as the Americans did but with that one rope, young girls would be jumping and screaming 'fish fish spell your name!’ Exercising our multi -tasking skills, we would jump rope and touch the ground, or point to the sky!

Being a part of a team was very significant. As children it was our way of trying to make it in the kingdom. You had to be good at something, or else you would be the last person selected and that would obviously mean you were the weakest link. On a positive note, it created comradeship, loyalty as you jumped your life away, praying you would make it to the end so that your team would triumphantly have a second round.


I do not recall precisely the emotions felt, but I would like to believe that at the end of it all, our 7 year old selves walked away in the euphoria of accomplishment, the spirit of togetherness – with your mother screaming your name for that 5pm bath.

What games will our children play I wonder? Like us, will they sit in circles chanting ‘Amina’ or ‘Sorry my dear friend?’ Will they blindfold themselves and walk around the house screaming ‘Jim Bas?’ I do not know. Will I as a mother try to drag them onto our backyard and attempt to relieve all my ritualistic childhood memories?

My parents loved singing, and I have memories of us - after supper gathered around the dinner table. Listening intently, my father would tell us stories about his Father – the Choirmaster. He would sing to us the songs they were taught by their parents. Sharing with us the rituals they engaged in while growing up.

Today, far away from home I silently hum the tunes that lie buried within my heart. I treasure the lessons learnt and relive the games I played with my grandmother. In an instant I am drawn back to those holidays I spent in the rural areas, hunting for grasshoppers, catching them and pulling off their hind legs so that they cannot escape.

Like the black Hebrew in Israel, the tiniest part of our history needs to be preserved and passed onto the next generations to come. The black Hebrews of Israel consider themselves Jewish, one of 10 lost tribes of Israel. According to their legends, they immigrated to West Africa, where they were caught up in the slave trade and sold to the United States.

The only cultural expression they had was song and the songs were not of West Africa, but of places in Israel – the River Jordan, Jerusalem, and Jericho. And even after arriving in Israel, and being persecuted for their skin, the musical history that has been passed onto them has given them the courage to have an identity and a belief in something.

The gift we can give our children in its simplicity is the memories of the childhood we had. The games we played, the songs we sang and the trials and tribulations we went through – all these create the intricate tapestry of Zimbabwe. Today we are scattered all over the world, some children will never know Zimbabwe as a home – but, with the memories of their parents, they can retrace their steps. Recounting stories of the ‘Nyaminyami,’ the smoke that surrounds the ‘Nyanga Mountains’ – mimicking the games we played, thereby ensuring the Zimbabwean legacy never dies.

Thanks to Bkay and Kazz for inspiring this article.