Author: Brighton Venge

About the author: I am a young man, husband and father to a sweet little girl. Writing helps me understand the world better and is the best hobby I have.

Story title: Clay Cows

About the story: This is a story about the life of the typical Zimbabwean youth and their struggle. It was inspired by the social and political events that occured in 2017 and early 2018 in Zimbabwe. (Alternatively; it was inspired by the socioeconomic and political events that the youth experience every year).

I grew up in a loving family, I was a loved baby and my memory can stretch down to the time I was 5 years old, in pre-school. Back then, we used to go to the veld at the back of the suburb to collect wet clay and mould it into funny shapes that we called clay toys. I would always make a tiny cow out of clay and give it a lustrous finishing, it was my favourite with curves and mighty horns. My second best was the flying plane, it was so much fun to play with but difficult to mould because of the long wings and tail that could break off easily. The clay plane was fun because you could make funny sounds and run as fast as you could when playing with it, until you got tired, sat down and started imagining yourself inside a real plane up in the sky. I was a little boy, and whenever we saw a plane in the sky we would shout “ndege!..ndege!” (plane!) as we ran following it until it went out of sight. Sometimes we would see helicopters, usually a white one with a blue line in the middle accompanied by two others in camouflage meaning the president was being escorted somewhere. Helicopters flew much lower and made a lot more noise that even adults would come out and watch quietly as they flew by. They were such majestic and terrifying machines, and we wanted to mould them from wet clay but it was impossible, the design was too complicated. On most days we were happy children, on the days we were sad it was because our mothers had slapped us.

My mother would slap me for being too liberal. I would take washing powder and mix with water then use an empty barrel of a pen to blow bubbles into the air. It was such fun, until a huge hand rang a slap across my head. She made me understand that I was wasting a scarce resource and it was intolerable. I learned from her that I have the freedom to do anything that makes me happy but I shall never derive happiness from gainfully wasting scarce resources-it was a taboo punishable by several slaps and possibly a thorough ass whipping as an added bonus. She was slow to anger but fast to slap, such was the woman who raised me.

In my hood, most of us were raised that way. We grew up as little boys and girls who loved our neighbourhood, our parents, our roads and our clay. Our parents told us to work hard in school so that we get better jobs and live better lives. School wasn’t easy, especially considering the grading system which fosters competitiveness, segregation based on merit and scapegoating. Even then, our parents believed in the education system because during their time it had proven to yield lucrative prospects. People with better grades ultimately led a much better life compared to their lower grade counterparts. As we grew up, that construct was slowly getting eroded. The internet kicked in, followed by smartphones. Some good jobs became obsolete (eg type writer, most factory labourers etc) and better paying jobs that relied less on your GP score and more on soft skills started emerging. We started to witness models, artists, actors, television personalities that made more money in a year than in a doctor’s lifetime. Our heroes are the Mark Zuckerbergs, Steve Jobs, Beyonces, Oprahs, Peter Ndlovus, Winky Ds etc. These people’s success stories have little to do with good grades but more to do with grit and believing in themselves. The system was changing, but in my neighbourhood, my country, it wasn’t. We are getting more people with good grades, thinking they are elite and deserve a job only to be very and utterly jobless. The few who get the job get it through someone they know and/or pay. Jobs are getting scarcer while the job market is increasingly getting flooded. Is it because we are churning out unwanted skills, or the job industry is not expanding or maybe we are just cursed?

For eighteen years, from pre-school to college, you work hard every day with the conviction that when you’re done, you can earn a living. Alas today, most of my age mates spend the day sitting at a corner talking, sometimes they sell airtime or clothes or anything that brings a profit. They have nothing to do after finishing school, there are no jobs and most cannot afford going to college. At home, the pressure to get a job keeps on mounting, whilst the cost of living gets higher and higher. Then there is the older generation, our parents, who keep holding on to their jobs because their kids can’t get new jobs, and their kids remain jobless partly because their parents won’t retire. So you’re left with an older generation that works hard for their overgrown children, “adult children” who won’t leave their parents’ homes because they can’t afford living by themselves. The younger generation, we, are trying every day to redefine our dreams and our goals because what our parents led us to dream is false. Our parents think we are incompetent, spoiled brats with smart phones. Which is partly true, we love our smartphones-where real money is made btw, but most of us have never stopped trying to make something out of our lives. Some have tried sole trading and a good number of them have failed because of poor business planning, a failing economy and poor economic policies among other things. Others have left the country, those with sought after skills and competencies or those with relatives abroad. Most of us remain at home, literally. Each day we are faced with the frustration of unemployment, unfulfilled dreams and unsatisfied parents. At times I sympathize with my friends who try to escape from this reality. A reality of worthlessness and hopelessness, of sad, pathetic lives. By far, the most popular drug among young people is cannabis and comes in different shapes, sizes and forms. It is preferred because it is cheaper, organic, available and easily accessible and has few known side effects. Second most popular would be bronCleer, an alcohol based cough syrup with codeine. The cough syrup has a very high amount of alcohol (a central nervous system depressant) coupled with codeine (another CNS depressant with a higher propensity for addiction), it has become more readily available and accessible. The demand for these drugs overtakes supply any day, it’whs a million dollar business. This, in itself, indicates the high level of chronic depression among the unemployed, and is as sure a sign as any for a pending social unrest. More than two thirds of the population is young people, young unemployed people. Within these conditions social discord is only a stone throw away and it takes a single entity to throw that stone. Thereafter, the drug addict, the jobless, the frustrated will all unleash their hate and self-loathing towards the object where the stone has been thrown at. Because for all their shortcomings, failures and frustrations; they are told and convinced that this here object where the stone has been projected, is the source of all their troubles. Who will blame them, us, we, for being gullible and finally finding the strength and resolve to retaliate, to vent, to cry. It happens, it will happen because a whole generation has been sold fake dreams and told to live in a castle of sand in the wind.

My childhood friend went over the border in search of a job. His parents died when we were in pre-school, he was terrible with books and he had a temper. Whilst outside the country, he got into a fight and sustained a head injury so he ran back home and a few weeks later he became mentally ill. He has now lost his mind and wanders the streets as a mad man. Children laugh at him and adults don’t want anything to do with him. He is alone, shamed and broken. We grew up together and we made little clay cows together.

That is my story, what’s yours?