State of Self-Sufficiency: Zimbabwe
As I was scrolling on Social Media, I came across this image shared by someone who was commenting on why one with clerestory windows would ruin their property’s aesthetics by installing a water storage at the front of the yard. The comments agreed. The collective verdict was: eyesore.
I looked at the same image and saw something else entirely.
I have no idea where this property is located, but for the purpose of this post, we are assuming it is what I will call a neo-suburban property. The kind of modest, aspirational home that the average Zimbabwean homeowner works years to build, one room at a time, painting the gate and walls before the inside is complete, because that’s what people see from the road. Neat, decent and trying very hard to look like everything is fine.
Chakafukidza dzimba matenga
A Shona Proverb
I upscaled the image and highlighted some of the infrastructural developments whose autobiographical implications might be lost on the casual observer, the tale of a household that has quietly, methodically, and at considerable expense, stopped waiting for service delivery.
This is not a home. It is a policy document, built with(out) self-sufficiency in mind.
The water storage tank, commonly known as a Jojo tank, is not a luxury but a confession about municipal water, which is unreliable. Think about how this homeowner sacrificed their precious front yard space and aesthetics to have this skeletal sentinel stand guard over their property, with the quiet promise of water when the taps run dry. One could take it a step further and assume they drilled a borehole on their property, cutting ties with the water utility company completely.
The solar panel array is not a eco-friendly testament of green energy but a declaration that their daily routine is no longer subject to the whims of the electricity schedule with its constant outages, blackouts, load shedding and scheduled maintenance that seems more like a euphemism for ZESA the Zimbabwe Electricity that is Sometimes Available.
The solar water geyser, which reinforces that the taps have hot running water courtesy of the sun and that bathtime is not a soap opera in a bucket under candlelight, a soak in the tub or a hot shower, depending on mood, enjoyed but never endured.
The satellite dish and the absence of a terrestrial aerial say something about the broadcasting authority of Zimbabwe, ZBC, which at my last watch was mostly propaganda and repeats of yesteryear programming. Very few people watch it by choice and instead prefer satellite broadcasting, which is usually from South Africa or subscribe to Multichoice’s DSTV, which is now owned by the French media giant Canal+.
Then there’s the Starlink kit mounted on the edge of the roof. In concept, Starlink is primarily designed for rural, remote, or underserved locations where traditional internet is unavailable, unreliable, or non-existent. Yet Zimbabwe has recorded one of the fastest growing adoption rates for satellite internet as if there’s no local reliable internet providers and without any particular provocation, people started buying their internet from space.
What are the city fathers doing? What exactly is the state providing?
The street lights don’t work, grass grows wild by the roadside and the potholes the size of little graves… You either fall through the gap between what’s promised and what’s delivered, or you quietly bridge it and keep it moving.
Surviving in Zimbabwe is self-sufficiency masquerading as middle-class aspirations for your own water, your own electricity, your own internet in your neatly secured house with a perimeter fence to keep the bad elements away, because no one is coming to save you.
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